Kill 'Em with Cayenne (35 page)

Wally must have felt me staring at him. “Anything wrong?” he asked, his tone mild.

“N-no, nothing.”

“Good, good,” he muttered, and turned his attention back to the dancers. “I heard shag dancing described as the jitterbug on phenobarb. Did you know it originated during the Big Band Era back in the nineteen-thirties and forties?”

“Er, no,” I said, my mind still trying to reconcile the smooth-talking snappy dresser with a Chicago criminal. Pretending to concentrate on Doug and Reba Mae's gliding and pivoting, I observed Wally out of the corner of my eye. The photo I'd seen of Louie Coccetti showed a man with a wiry build and bushy hair. If Wally and Louie were one and the same, he'd packed on the pounds, bulked up over the years, shaved his head. And attempted to conceal the port-wine stain. Not all that difficult as transformations go. Maybe I was way off base. Maybe Wally Porter was the person he purported to be. I decided to test my theory.

“How about those Sox?” I said, referring to the Chicago White Sox.

“I'm a Cubs fan,” he replied, his gaze on the dance floor.

So far so good,
I thought. “Chicago's a great town. When it comes to pizza, nothing beats Chicago-style deep-dish.”

Wally jerked his head around. “Why all the talk about Chicago? You planning a trip?”

I took a half step back, stunned by the barely controlled fury I'd unleashed. “I-I thought Reba Mae mentioned you were from the Midwest.”

“What business is it of yours?”

I shrugged. “Just making small talk.”

He stared down at me, his eyes hard as agates. Before I could guess his intent, he caught my elbow. “Let's go,” he whispered. “Someplace quiet where we won't be disturbed.”

“If we leave now, we'll miss the fireworks.”

“Screw the fireworks,” he hissed. “Get a move on.”

I opened my mouth to scream but felt something hard jab between the ribs. A gun? I gulped down a surge of fear.

“Don't try anything stupid unless you want something bad to happen to that daughter of yours. I'd hate to see that pretty face of hers scarred.”

Wally's threat caused the blood to drain from my head. It was one thing to threaten me, another to threaten my child. Frantic, I looked around for McBride. His advice about being safe in plain sight just plain sucked. Just then the crowd surged forward in an attempt to see the winners of the shag contest crowned. No one paid the least bit of attention to a bald barbecue judge and his frightened red-haired companion—
moi
.

I tried to wrench my arm free from a grasp as strong as a bear trap. Tightening his grip, Wally dragged me away from the noise, the lights, and safety. As I struggled to break free, one of my bangle bracelets slipped off my wrist. He propelled me around a corner down a side street. When he was sure no one was around, he pulled me between two buildings and slammed me against the brick wall.

“What's your game, spice girl?” he snarled. “If it's the same as your friend's, you might want to rethink it. We both know how that ended.”

“You killed Becca.” Even to my own ears, my voice sounded flat, lifeless. In the dim glow of a distant streetlamp, I saw a toy-size pistol in his hand. How much damage could such a little gun inflict? I knew the answer without being told. Lots.

Wally moved so close our bodies were only a hair's breadth apart. “Damn right I killed that stupid broad. Did she think she'd get away blackmailing Vino Coccetti? The crazy woman demanded a small fortune to keep her trap shut.”

“Becca recognized you from the television show.”

“That ridiculous show picked the worst possible time to rehash the past. Just couldn't let sleeping dogs lie. I've spent years creating a new identity after leaving WitSec. Went as far as having laser surgery to remove that damn port-wine stain on my face. Trouble is they tend to reappear.”

“I don't want your money.” I squeezed the words past vocal cords that felt paralyzed.

“Good.” He chuckled. “I wasn't planning on giving you any.”

“Then let me go.” Like a bolt of lightning, the actor's name I'd been trying to remember dawned on me. It wasn't Yul Brynner whom Wally reminded me of but Michael Chiklis, the star of a defunct TV show,
The Shield
. Chiklis could instill fear with a single glance. So could Wally.

“'Fraid I can't do that, doll. Can't take a chance you might blab that Vino Coccetti is alive and well. My former associates have long memories. I'd be an easy target for some punk looking to make his bones. Word hits the street, I'd be dead within a week.”

I attempted to swallow, but my mouth was too dry. “What do you intend to do?”

“In case you haven't noticed, that's my Lincoln parked at the curb. As soon as the fireworks start you're going to take a little nap—a permanent one—in the trunk of my car. With all the racket, I won't even need to use a silencer.”

Round and round I nervously twisted the bracelets on my wrist. Another one slipped off and wobbled down the sidewalk like a drunken sailor on shore leave. Wally didn't seem to notice, didn't seem to care.

“Tomorrow, after breakfast,” he continued, “I'll dump your body on the way out of town. Disposing of the bodies used to be one of my specialties when I worked for the Mob.”

I nearly jumped out of my skin when a loud bang signaled the beginning of the fireworks display. The night sky exploded with brilliant colors. Red, blue, and green stars shot into the heavens, then slowly drifted back to earth. Wally casually reached into his pants pocket and, using a fob, popped the trunk of a Lincoln parked at the curb. He stepped away and motioned with the barrel of his gun for me to move toward the car.

For an instant I thought I saw a shadow creep along the building's brick wall. I dismissed the notion as a trick played by a desperate mind. It was foolish to hope a white knight would ride to my rescue. But hope springs. “Tell me,” I said, stalling for time. “Did you kill Becca in her home, then try to make it look like a mugging?”

“Get in the trunk,” he ordered. “I'd shoot you first, but I'd rather not get blood all over my clothes.”

I hesitated, trying to delay the inevitable, wanting to find an escape. I could run only to be shot in the back. I could scream, but no one would hear it over the noise of the fireworks. That depleted my short list of options. A whistling and hissing sound directly overhead was followed by a cascade of yellow pinpricks. In the afterglow I glimpsed a figure flattened against a doorframe. My white knight, in the guise of Wyatt McBride, had arrived on the scene.

Emboldened by his presence, I said, “I'm not budging an inch until you answer my question, Vino. Once and for all, did you, or did you not, murder Becca in her own kitchen?”

Vino blew out a breath. “Guess there's no harm granting a dying woman one last wish. The Dapkins bitch phoned, insisted I come over, claiming it was urgent. I didn't go to her house intending to kill her. I wasn't even packing that night. Don't ask me how, but she recognized me after watching that stupid program on TV. She demanded money to keep quiet. I couldn't let that happen. I used the only means at hand—a frozen beef brisket on the kitchen counter—to silence the broad. Call it a crime of opportunity if you will.” He shrugged. “Necessity is the mother of invention, or so they say.”

I moistened dry lips with the tip of my tongue. “How did you get Becca to the square without being seen?”

“I waited till the middle of the night, when I was sure everyone was sound asleep. Then I used a suitcase I found stashed in the attic to move the body. Let me tell you, I got quite a start when I glanced up and saw a figure in the upstairs window of your shop.”

“Hormones,” I muttered. “I have trouble sleeping some nights.”

“I was tempted to pop you the night I went back to check the Dapkins woman's house and found you there instead. Hadn't been for that neighbor showing up with her dog…”

“Why did you go back?” I ventured. What the heck was taking McBride so long? Wasn't it time for him to make his move? If he didn't do something, and do it soon, it would be time for my “nap.”

“It's been years since I retired from the family. I wanted to double-check. Make sure I didn't leave behind anything incriminating.”

“Drop the gun, Coccetti,” McBride's voice cut through the darkness.

Wally spun toward the sound, his gun leveled at McBride's chest. “How about you drop yours, McBride?” he said. “You won't be the first lawman I iced. Your disappearance will coincide nicely with Ms. Busybody here. Guaranteed to set tongues wagging until I've cleared the state.”

My gaze darted from one man to another. I felt like I was witnessing a standoff in an old-time Western. Neither man looked willing to back down. Overhead, a rocket zoomed skyward and rained down a shower of yellow and green. In that instant I glimpsed Wally Porter's expression as his finger tightened on the trigger.

More by instinct than design, I lashed out. My foot connected solidly with Porter's kneecap. His gun fired as he crumpled to the ground clutching his leg and yowling in pain.

Rushing over, McBride kicked the pistol out of reach while keeping his weapon trained on the writhing man. “Piper,” McBride said quietly. “I need a favor. Would you dig my cell phone out of my jeans and dial nine-one-one?”

It was then I noticed he was bleeding.

 

C
HAPTER
37

H
UMMING TO MYSELF
the next morning, I peeked into the oven and was pleased to find my quiche browning nicely. A chilled pitcher of Bloody Marys waited in the fridge. Reba Mae had called earlier to tell me she'd be late. Even though she never worked on Sundays, she was making a rare exception for this particular client.

“Come in!” I called when I heard footsteps on the stairs. I assumed they belonged to my BFF, so I didn't turn around . “You must've finished sooner than you thought. Brunch won't be ready for another twenty minutes.”

A familiar-looking stranger with flaming red hair burst into my kitchen. “Hey, Piper. It's me, Maybelle.”

“Maybelle Humphries.” I laughed. “Why, I almost didn't recognize you. You look amazing!” I stared in disbelief at the slender figure dressed in dark denim jeans and a Western-style shirt. A pair of Reba Mae's chandelier earrings dangled nearly to her shoulders.

“I feel like a new woman.” She pivoted so I could get a better look at the total package. Carefully applied makeup made her skin glow and her eyes sparkle.

Reba Mae, beaming ear-to-ear, stuck her head in the door. “What do you think of our Miss Maybelle now? Isn't she a knockout?”

I nodded in agreement. “The transformation is remarkable. From church mouse to va-va-voom.”

Maybelle fiddled with a pearl button on her shirt. “I've given the matter a lot of thought, Piper. I'm tired of the old me. I decided if the day ever came and I was no longer a murder suspect, I was going to make some changes.”

“Wait till you hear the rest,” Reba Mae said, nearly busting with excitement.

“I quit my job at the Chamber,” Maybelle said in a rush.

“And…,” Reba Mae prompted.

“And”—Maybelle blushed—“Tex asked me to come with him on the barbecue circuit. He thinks we'd make a good team, seeing how we're both good cooks. He swears we'll win more trophies than we know what to do with.”

My jaw dropped at hearing this. “Maybelle, are you sure this is what you want to do? Have you thought this through? It's a big change.”

“Change is what I'm looking for, honey.” She reached over and squeezed my arm. “Today is all we got, Piper. The past is dead and gone. There's no guarantee about tomorrow. I'm grabbing today with both hands and making the most of it.”

Reba Mae and I exchanged glances, then smiled.

“I owe it all to you, Piper,” Maybelle confessed. “I'm ever so grateful for all your help. You risked your life trying to save mine. If I live to be a hundred, I'll never be able to thank you enough.”

I blinked moisture from my eyes. I saw Reba Mae do the same. “Just be happy.”

The three of us looked up when a horn beeped.

“That's Tex,” Maybelle said. “He's waitin' on me downstairs.”

After promising to stay in touch, Maybelle gave each of us a bone-breaking hug and disappeared.

“Well, well, well,” Reba Mae sighed. “Who would've thunk it?”

“Who would've thunk it?” I echoed.

Over spinach quiche and Bloody Marys, Reba Mae grilled me for all the gory details of what happened the previous night. By the time we'd finished, the King Ranch chicken casserole that I'd made earlier was ready to come out of the oven and the lasagna ready to pop in.

“How's McBride doin', by the way?”

“It took a dozen stitches to close the wound in his arm. The ER doc said the bullet tore through muscle, so it'll take time to heal. Last I saw of him, McBride was grumbling because he had to wear a sling.”

“Scared it'll ruin his macho image?”

I shrugged. “He claims things would've been worse if I hadn't kicked Wally in the knee.”

“It would've been worse, honeybun, if McBride hadn't of shown up when he did.” She gave a dramatic shiver. “How
did
he find you anyway?”

I held up my wrist and pointed to the bangle bracelets. “He came looking for me. When I was nowhere to be found, he spotted my bracelet where it had fallen and followed the trail.”

“Who needs bread crumbs when a girl's got jewelry?”

I poured the rest of the Bloody Marys into Reba Mae's glass. No more for me, because I had a little road trip planned for later on. “When it comes to injuries, Wally got the worst of it,” I said. “He's going to need surgery to repair his ACL.”