Kill 'Em with Cayenne (19 page)

“Yeah,” Reba Mae concurred. Only the top of her bright scarf was visible above the directory. “I was just about to say the same thing.”

“Think she's meeting someone?”

“Her accomplice…?”

“Accomplice…” The directory slipped from my hands and flew underneath the table. I scrambled to pick it up without drawing undue attention. “Surely you don't think Maybelle had anything to do with Becca's murder?” I hissed once I'd righted myself.

Reba Mae shrugged. “Just sayin'.”

We lapsed into silence. Watch and wait seemed key when it came to stakeouts. Lesson number one at the Piper Prescott School of Detectivology.

“Think we'll be here long?” Reba Mae asked. “I'm thinking of getting one of those giant chocolate-chip cookies. Want one?”

“Sure,” I said. “While you're at it, see if that Chinese place over there has a menu. We can use it as a screen in case people wonder why we're so engrossed in a mall map.”

“Good idea.”

When Reba Mae nonchalantly sauntered off in search of sustenance, I studied Maybelle. The woman did appear different in a subtle sort of way. Then it dawned on me. She was wearing makeup—lipstick and a little blush. She'd exchanged her plain blouse—usually white—for one of light blue. I saw her sneak peeks at her watch, her expression alternately hopeful and anxious.

“I think she's meeting a man,” I told Reba Mae the instant she returned, cookies in one hand, egg rolls in the other. “She's actually wearing makeup.”

“Well, I'll be.” Reba Mae tipped down her shades for a better look. “Never expected to find Maybelle waitin' on a man.”

I'd just popped the last bit of egg roll into my mouth when a middle-aged man in a striped golf shirt approached the food court. Hands in the pockets of pressed khakis, he took up a post near our table. His eyes narrowed, expression thoughtful, he scanned each of the tables in turn, his gaze resting on Maybelle. After a long hesitation, he turned and left.

“Did you see what I saw?” I asked in hushed tones. “I think Maybelle's just been stood up.”

Reba Mae clucked her tongue. “Poor woman. She sure has rotten luck when it comes to men.”

I took a bite of my chocolate-chip cookie, wanting to test Reba Mae's theory that chocolate helped one think more clearly. I didn't want to embarrass Maybelle by letting on we'd witnessed her rotten luck with the opposite sex from a ringside seat. Being stood up on what appeared to be a blind date was downright humiliating.

 

C
HAPTER
20

“H
OW LONG DO
you think she'll wait before she gives up and goes home?”

I let out a sigh. “Maybelle strikes me as the patient sort. We could be here for a spell.”

“Why don't I round out our diet and get us a frozen yogurt?”

“How do you figure that's rounding out our diet?”

“Yogurt's dairy. The egg roll was protein.”

“And the chocolate-chip cookie?”

“Dessert.” She waggled a finger at me. “An often-neglected—but, nevertheless, essential—food group.”

While Reba Mae trotted to the yogurt stand, I surreptitiously watched Maybelle. The woman's expression became increasingly glum as the minutes ticked away. I worried she might burst into tears any moment.

“I ordered the fat-free version. Had the kid pile on extra berries,” Reba Mae said when she returned carrying two waxed cups filled with yogurt topped with strawberries. “Experts recommend lots of fruits and vegetables.”

“Since when are you the poster child for a well-balanced diet?” I asked, dipping my plastic spoon into the frozen concoction.

“A gal's gotta watch her figure if she wants a man to watch hers,” Reba Mae retorted.

Maybelle maintained her vigil long after mine and Reba Mae's sundaes were demolished. Finally admitting defeat, Maybelle rose from the table, tossed her empty soda container in the trash, and started to exit the food court. Head down, preoccupied, she approached the area where we were seated.

“Showtime,” I said. Reaching out, I lightly tapped Maybelle's arm as she was about to pass our table.

Before she could shriek, Reba Mae whisked off her scarf and dark glasses. “Don't scream, Maybelle.”

“It's us.” I removed my sun hat and glasses.

Maybelle's face registered shock at seeing us. “Piper, Reba Mae. What are you ladies doing here?”

Reba Mae gave her a feeble smile. “Would you believe Dillard's summer clearance?”

Maybelle might not be a good judge of men, but she was no fool. Her eyes darted about searching for telltale shopping bags. “You're spying on me,” she said, shock changing to anger.

I patted the empty chair next to me. “Sit down, Maybelle. We need to talk.” She opened her mouth to protest, but I cut her off. “You need to be honest with us. No more lies.”

The wind seemed to go out of her sails. She dropped down on the chair, her purse clutched to her meager bosom like a life vest in a storm. “I was supposed to meet someone,” she admitted, her tone subdued.

“I know,” I said.

Reba Mae nodded vigorously. “We saw what happened.”

Maybelle's eyes pooled with tears. “Then you know my secret.”

Oh, Lordy, were we about to be privy to a confession?
Reba Mae and I exchanged nervous glances. “I … um…” I cleared my throat. “You'll feel better once you talk about it. Get it all out.”

“How will I ever be able to look anyone in the eyes again once folks know the despicable thing I've done?” Maybelle wailed.

Despicable thing? As in murder…?
Shouldn't Maybelle be at a nice cozy police station where a hunky police chief could read her rights?

Maybelle placed her purse on the table and put her head in her hands. “I'm so ashamed,” she moaned. “I swear, I don't know what made me do it.”

Was this the time to call CJ? I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. Reba Mae fiddled with an earring.

“Where did I go wrong?” Maybelle sniffed. She plucked a napkin off the table and dabbed her eyes. “I'm so embarrassed I liketa die. Thousands of women do it every day. I shouldn't have to feel ashamed for giving Internet dating a whirl.”

“Maybelle, you have to—” I paused midsentence. “Did I just hear you mention Internet dating?”

Maybelle nodded, her head bowed. Reba Mae shoved another napkin at her, and she blew her nose. “Some women even find husbands on the Internet,” she said, sniffling some more. “What's wrong with me? I can't even find a man who wants to meet for coffee Tuesday nights.”

“Maybelle,” I said, my tone sharper than usual, “are you saying what I think you're saying? That all the time you had us believing you were home alone, you were trying to hook up with men you meet on the Internet?”

“How mortifying!” She wiped her eyes. “A spinster has to resort to drastic measures to catch a man's attention. Unlike Becca, who was pretty and flirty, I blend into the woodwork.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “Would you rather have people think you killed Becca?”

“No, of course not, but I don't want to become a laughingstock either. A woman has her pride, you know.”

Reba Mae tucked her sunglasses into their case. “When McBride finds out you lied—and, trust me, the man's smart as a whip—it won't sit well.”

I nodded agreement. “You're going to look guilty as sin.”

“How did the two of you figure out I wasn't home alone?”

“Buzz let it slip when he came to exterminate for spiders,” I explained.

“Buzz?” Maybelle frowned. “How would he know how I spend my nights?”

“He admitted that he drives by your place every night. Checks to make sure you're all right. He worries about you.”

“Ask me, his conscience is botherin' him for jiltin' you,” Reba Mae offered.

“It's that darn man's fault I'm in this predicament.” Maybelle tore her wadded-up napkin into shreds. “If not for him, I wouldn't have to get all dolled up and meet strange men.”

I nudged Reba Mae with the toe of my sandal, a signal to keep it zipped. If this was Maybelle's notion of being “dolled up,” no wonder she had trouble attracting the opposite sex. She was expecting a payback of tsunami proportions from a little lipstick and blush.

“I signed up with a site called Mature Minglers.” Maybelle tucked a salt-and-pepper strand behind her ear.

“How's it goin'?” Reba Mae folded her arms on the table and leaned forward. “I've seen their ads and thought about joinin' myself.”

I looked at her in surprise. “That's news to me. You never mentioned this before.”

Reba Mae shrugged. “What's to mention? My love life is nonexistent.”

“Looks to me, it's picked up some with Wally Porter in town.”

“Hmph!” she snorted. “Wally will be leavin' soon, and I'll be right back to spendin' Saturday nights watchin' the Lifetime Movie Network on TV.”

Maybelle perked up at hearing this. Reaching across the table, she squeezed Reba Mae's hand. “Maybe we can get together some Saturday. Be nice to have company for a change.”

“Sure thing.” Reba Mae squeezed back. “I'll make us a nice big bowl of buttered popcorn.”

It was nice to witness girl bonding in action, but the time had come to get down to brass tacks. “All right, Maybelle,” I said, using my stern, no-nonsense tone, “since you weren't home alone the night Becca was killed, where were you?”

“Right here.” She blinked back fresh tears. “And I was stood up that night, too.”

“I don't suppose you know the man's name?” I asked.

“No.” Maybelle shook her head sorrowfully. “He said his first name was Don. He never gave me a last name. Like a ninny, I waited around until the mall was ready to close hoping he'd show, but he never did. By that time, I was real upset and knew I wouldn't be able to sleep. Instead of heading straight home, I took in a late movie.”

Ignoring my philosophy that if you don't want the answer don't ask the question, I forged ahead. “Can you prove it?”

Maybelle placed her hand on her purse. “Course I can. The ticket stub's here in my wallet.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Did you see anyone you know? Someone who can verify your whereabouts?”

“Not that I recall.” Maybelle's frown returned; then she brightened. “I remember stopping for gas before leaving Augusta. Didn't want to drive all the way home on a half-empty tank. I put it on my credit card and kept the receipt.”

“Well, that's that.” Reba Mae jumped up and collected our trash. “Still time to check out shoes before the stores close.”

“Hold your horses, Reba Mae,” I said, then turned to Maybelle. “First thing tomorrow, Maybelle, you need to see Chief McBride. Admit you lied about your alibi. Show him the receipts so he can see for himself you weren't anywhere near Brandywine Creek at the time Becca was murdered.”

“Whatever you think best, Piper,” Maybelle promised.

“One thing I don't understand,” I said, climbing to my feet. “Why didn't you tell the chief the truth at the outset? Why lie?”

“Foolish me.” Maybelle gave a self-deprecating smile. “I thought if I waited Chief McBride would find the real killer and the fact that I'm a failure at Internet dating would never come to light.”

The three of us started the trek toward Dillard's. “You positive you saved those receipts?” I asked Maybelle when Reba Mae paused to window-shop.

Maybelle patted her imitation leather purse. “All safe and sound.”

*   *   *

Finding Becca's body had taken the shine off jogging. However, the next morning it was time for me to get back into the saddle—make that sneakers. The day was still in its infancy, with heat and humidity waiting in the wings. During summers in Georgia, the best time for strenuous exercise is early in the day. Before the mercury climbed and energy plummeted. Ideally, afternoons were spent lounging in the shade with a good book and a cool drink.

I donned gym shorts, sports bra, and a faded University of Georgia T-shirt with
GO DAWGS
scrawled across the front. If the barbecue festival brought in swarms of customers as I hoped, I had planned to reward my hard work with moisture-wicking running shorts and a snazzy racerback tank top. My dream shorts went by the wayside when I wrote a check to the exterminator. I still hadn't given up on the racerback top.

Casey, ready and waiting, thumped his tail on the floor, urging me to hurry.

“Okay, buddy, let's go,” I said, clipping on his leash. “Cadaver dog or not, no more dead bodies. Deal?”

I started off at a brisk walk, breathing deeply and swinging my arms, to warm up my muscles. After five minutes of breathing and swinging, I picked up the pace. Casey trotted obediently alongside. Birds chorused from the thick foliage of trees and shrubs. I waved to a man on the porch of a brick colonial as he sipped coffee and read the morning paper. I called out a greeting to Wanda Needmore, CJ's paralegal, who was deadheading petunias, and narrowly avoided being sprayed by water spouting from her neighbor's irrigation system. The tangy, mouthwatering aroma of roasting meat wafted through the air. Dress rehearsal, I surmised, for the festival's rapidly approaching judgment day.

I elected a circuitous route, one that would bypass the town square with its reminder of Becca Dapkins planted among the azaleas. As I rounded the corner of the street behind my shop, I slowed to catch my breath.

“Ready for some kibble?” I asked Casey. I interpreted his
woof
to mean “yes.”

Together we angled through the vacant lot toward my rear door. Judging from the amount of debris that had accumulated since the last cleanup, I realized it was time for litter patrol. Maybe I should ask McBride to deputize me so I could write citations. The coffers of Brandywine Creek would soon overflow. They might even dedicate a park in my honor. Better yet, the Piper Prescott Recycling Center.