Kill 'Em with Cayenne (11 page)

“Yes, but glue is only a temporary fix. Therefore, the break must have been recent. Did your men find a fingernail at the scene of the crime?”

“No, but—”

“Because”—I aimed my index finger at his chest—“if my theory is correct, it was broken during a struggle right here in her very own kitchen.”

“Aren't you at least going to check it out?” Reba Mae asked.

“Listen, ladies,” he said with exaggerated patience. “I know y'all consider yourselves junior-grade detectives, but you need to leave the investigation to the pros.”

I wasn't about to be dismissed this easily—or this condescendingly. “There's more.” Marching over to the refrigerator, I flung open the freezer. “Ta-da!”

McBride stuck his head inside to see why the fuss. “Call me dense, but what's so noteworthy about a carton of ice cream and box of peas?”

“Look again,” I ordered. “Those are briskets—frozen hard as cement. Five to be exact. If you don't believe me count them.”

He took another peek. “So, that's what brisket looks like before it's served up on a plate in a diner along with fries and a side of slaw.”

Reba Mae tugged my arm. “Tell 'im about the bleach.”

McBride's gaze sharpened. “What about bleach?”

“Can't you smell it?” I asked in disbelief. “The room reeks of chlorine. I've seen enough
CSI
s to know that bleach is used to destroy evidence. What if the killer took time to clean the place up after he did the evil deed?”

McBride didn't answer but instead walked over to the laundry room/pantry. Reba Mae and I trailed on his heels, close enough to be his shadow. A gallon container of Clorox sat on the floor next to the washing machine. When he gave it a nudge with his foot the jug toppled over and rolled across the linoleum.

“Empty,” I said, making no attempt to keep the satisfaction from my voice. “Why keep an empty bleach bottle instead of tossing it in the trash?”

McBride turned to study us, his handsome face impassive. “Tell me again what you two are doing here. And make your explanation simple enough for a dumb cop to understand.”

“African violets…?” Reba Mae offered.

“We were worried about them,” I added.

“I see,” he said slowly. “Are y'all members of the garden club? Or maybe some cult that goes around rescuing flowering plants?”

He was doing it again—being condescending. And it made me want to swat him. “For your information, McBride, African violets are extremely temperamental. Knowing they were Becca's favorites, we took it upon ourselves to see to their care.”

“We plan to make sure each and every one finds a lovin' home,” Reba Mae added self-righteously. “You heard of Adopt-a-Pet? Well, we're gonna have Adopt-a-Plant.”

“It's comforting to know Ms. Dapkins has such devoted friends.”

I could feel my temper rise higher. “Do I detect sarcasm, Chief?”

“Who, me?” he replied poker-faced.

Reba Mae opted for a preemptive strike. “We didn't do anythin' illegal like breakin' or enterin' if that's what you're thinkin'.”

“Gerilee Barker gave us Becca's spare key.” I dangled the key in front of him to make my point. “The question is, what are you going to do? On TV, the lead detective on the case usually calls in the crime techs to check for blood.”

“Yeah, they use spray bottles and a special light.” Reba Mae's gold hoop earrings bobbed up and down as she spoke.

“Times like this, I long for the pre-
CSI
days,” he said with a grimace. “Now everyone thinks they know more than the cops.”

“So are you, or aren't you, going to check for evidence?” I demanded.

“I'll request experts from the GBI to process the scene. See if they can find any blood traces, fingerprints, or anything of that nature. Satisfied?”

I nodded my head. “What if it turns out we're right? That Becca was killed right here in her kitchen?”

“The investigation will take another direction. In the meantime, I'll continue to ask around, try to find out who might have held a grudge against her. Check out their alibis.”

McBride ushered us out the door and locked it. It wouldn't take long for him to find out Maybelle resented Becca stealing her beau. But just because Maybelle didn't like to share didn't make her a murderer. Even so, the woman was hiding something, as evidenced by her odd behavior the night Reba Mae and I paid her a surprise visit. Thank goodness, she had an alibi for the night of Becca's murder.

*   *   *

The following evening, I convinced Reba Mae to join Casey and me for a leisurely stroll. I hadn't jogged since discovering Becca's body. Habits, I'd noted, are much easier to break than they are to acquire.

“Whoo-hoo!” Reba Mae pumped her fist in the air, then pocketed her cell phone. “I've got a date for Saturday night. An honest-to-goodness, bona fide, genuine, gentleman-pays-all date.”

“Whoo-hoo,” I repeated, but with far less enthusiasm. “Who's the lucky fellow?”

Catching Reba Mae's high spirits, Casey gave an excited
woof
and danced at the end of his leash.

“Wally Porter, esteemed and certified senior barbecue judge, invited me out for dinner Saturday night. He wants to take me to a seafood place in Augusta. What do you think I should wear?”

Our walk had taken us full circle, ending at the town square where we'd begun. I sank down on a park bench not far from the supposed crime scene. Yellow crime scene tape still festooned the area around the azalea bushes. Casey settled at my feet, his head resting on his front paws, his eyes alert. I could tell from the expression on his cute doggy face that he wasn't keen on the idea of a career as a cadaver dog.

“Wally sure is a snappy dresser. I like all those little horsey logos on his shirts.” Reba Mae was too excited to sit still. Instead, she walked back and forth in front of the bench, talking nonstop. “His watch looks expensive. I bet it's a Rolex. And did you see his shoes? They're probably Italian. Italian leather, they say, is the best. I have a hunch the Lincoln Town Car parked outside North of the Border last night belonged to him. It looked like the sort of car he'd drive. I think he's rich.”

“Um-hum,” I murmured, stifling a yawn. My mind wandered as Reba Mae chattered on. My gaze drifted to Spice It Up! across the square. From my vantage point, I had a clear view of my living room window above the shop. I remembered waking in the wee small hours the night Becca was murdered and staring out that very window.

And all the while, her lifeless body waited for me to discover.

Reba Mae stopped pacing and planted her hands on her hips. “Have you heard a single word I've said?”

“Sure, sort of,” I said hastily. “You talked about horses, and Italy, and Lincoln Center.”

“Lincoln Center?”

Oops! My bad. Lincoln Center, Lincoln Town Car, close but no cigar. “Sorry, Reba Mae. It's just that memories of this place are still fresh in my mind.”

Instantly remorseful, Reba Mae sat next to me and put her arm around my shoulders. “I wasn't thinkin', honeybun. I'm just so thrilled about havin' a dinner date with an attractive man, everythin' else just flew outta my head. Want to talk about Becca?”

I shook my head. “No, maybe another time. “I didn't want to prick my BFF's happy bubble. Let her bask in the moment. I couldn't fault Wally Porter's judgment when it came to women. He couldn't have picked a better dinner date than Reba Mae Johnson.

“Pour yourself a nice glass of wine when you get home, then draw a bubble bath. That always puts me in a better frame of mind. Now,” she said, glancing at her watch, “I've gotta thousand and one things to do. Besides decidin' what I'm wearin' tomorrow night, I need to shave my legs, give myself a facial, a manicure. a pedi.”

Reba Mae had a bounce in her step as she walked off. But not even the prospect of a glass of wine and a bubble bath was enough to lure me back to an empty apartment just yet. I continued to sit on the bench, Casey content at my feet.

A soft breeze stirred the branches of the willow oaks, fanning my upturned face. The heat of the day was gradually subsiding, though much of the humidity remained. Summers in Georgia are like living in a sauna. I console myself with the theory—totally unfounded—that the excess moisture in the air keeps skin dewy soft and youthful looking. Another theory—also totally unfounded—is that's the reason why so many Southern girls win national beauty pageants.

My peaceful interlude ended when a police cruiser eased to the curb. McBride slid out from behind the wheel and sauntered toward me. “Mind if I join you?” Not waiting for an answer, he lowered himself next to me.

“It's public property,” I replied. Why did I always find his closeness unnerving? I immediately switched into denial mode. Surely it had nothing to do with the fact he was almost overwhelmingly masculine. I blamed it instead on the shiny gold badge pinned to his chest and big bad gun strapped to his waist. And then there was the matter of the uniform. I wouldn't be the first girl—or grown woman—to get butterflies for a man in a uniform.

“Nice evening, isn't it?” he said.

“Um-hum.”

“Peaceful and quiet.” He reached down and scratched Casey behind the ears—the pup's sweet spot. “That's what I remembered most about Brandywine Creek during the time I was away. It's the reason I came back.”

“Do you ever regret your decision?” I asked, curious. “Miami has a lot more to offer in the way of excitement than a hick town like Brandywine Creek.”

The corners of his mouth curved. “Oh, I wouldn't say that. You seem determined to keep me from being bored.”

“What made you leave Miami?”

He stretched an arm along the back of the bench. “Lots of reasons. Guess you could say I OD'd on all the violence. I was ready for a simpler lifestyle. A change of pace. Thought I might find time for a little hunting and fishing. An occasional camping trip in the mountains.”

He took a lock of my hair and wound it around a finger. The butterflies in my tummy turned into a swarm of bees. I sneaked a peek at his expression but couldn't tell if the hair twirling was a conscious act or not. “Do you still have family in the area?” I asked, my voice husky sounding.

“Not anymore. My dad died while I was still in the army. I came home long enough to bury him, then headed straight back to my unit. I have a younger sister, Claudia. She lives in California.”

“Do you keep in touch?”

“Mostly by e-mail. Phone calls on Christmas and birthdays. We haven't seen each other since Dad's funeral.”

“How about you?” He gave my hair a gentle tug. “Any siblings?”

“None. I'm an only child. After my dad retired from an auto plant in Detroit, my parents moved to a mobile home park for ‘active' adults in Florida. They're so active, it's hard to find them home.”

“Sounds like a good life.”

“I've heard rumors that the mayor is making noise about you finding Becca's killer”—I made a slicing gesture across my throat—“or else.”

“Hemmings is all hot air and bluster. He pretends to be upset that a murder reflects poorly on the town. On the other hand, he loves the publicity it's bringing the festival.”

McBride quit toying with my hair and got to his feet. “As pleasant as this has been, I need to get back to work.”

I rose, too, and self-consciously smoothed my curls. “By any chance, did the GBI find anything when they examined Becca's kitchen?”

“A couple blood droplets, but not enough to raise any red flags. For the time being, we're going to continue to treat the case as a homicide committed during an attempted robbery.”

“What about the broken fingernail? You don't think it's significant?”

“There's no sure way of determining when or how it happened. Forget about it, Piper. Keep your pretty nose out of police business. I wouldn't want to see you hurt.”

My thoughts in turmoil, I watched him walk away.

 

C
HAPTER
13

A
S IT TURNED
out, Reba Mae wasn't the only one with a date for Saturday night. After I'd returned from my unsettling encounter with Wyatt McBride, I saw the red light on the answering machine flashing. To my surprise, I heard Doug's voice asking me to return his call. Amid profuse apologies for the late notice, he'd invited me to join him for dinner at Gina and Tony Deltorro's brand-new restaurant, formerly Trattoria Milano. Tony had rechristened it Antonio's.

A new name. New owners. New menu. Time to give the place a try.

Casey watched me fasten a pair of dangly earrings I'd borrowed from Reba Mae. His tail thumped against the floor in wordless reproach. He'd developed a sixth sense of when he was about to be abandoned and was letting me know he wasn't happy at the prospect.

“Sorry, pal,” I told him. “Nothing personal. This is a fancy place. No dogs allowed.”

For my big night out, I'd selected slim-leg white crop pants, a shimmery lime-green top, a cabochon pendant, and strappy high-heeled sandals. Thanks to the humid Georgia weather, my curls were in their usual state of disarray, but little I could do about that. Promptly at six thirty, I heard a knock on the door downstairs. A swipe of lip gloss, a final glance in the mirror, I was good to go.

Doug had dressed for the occasion, too, in khakis and pale-pink dress shirt open at the throat, the cuffs folded back. He let out a wolf whistle when he saw me. “How do you manage to look cool as a cucumber and hot as a firecracker all at the same time?”

I laughed, pleased by the compliment. “Aren't you a silver-tongued devil?”

“That's me all right.” He grinned. “I could give Prince Charming a tutorial. Ready?”