The last sentence was directed toward the dog with the affectionately indulgent tone Jazzy had heard some parents use with their children. Oh, no. He was one of those kinds of dog owners.
The dog had seen Derrick. An unbelievably long tongue lolled out of its mouth and its tail scraped back and forth across the concrete, but as Derrick said, it didn’t move. He strode through the door toward the animal, and Jazzy followed hesitantly. Derrick stood straight in front of the dog and looked down at it. The tongue disappeared, and Old Sue’s posture became crisp and unmoving.
“O-kay!” The moment Derrick said the word, the statue came to life and Old Sue rushed forward to receive an enthusiastic head-rubbing from her owner.
Jazzy hoped Derrick didn’t expect her to touch the animal. The barbecue pits were all outside, so she might not have a chance to wash her hands before they ate. She shoved them into the back pockets of her jeans as Old Sue came forward to give her legs an enthusiastic sniffing. Actually, when the dog extended its neck, the disturbingly moist nose came up to belly-button level. Jazzy stood still and let the animal smell her.
Derrick watched, his expression amused. “You really aren’t used to being around dogs, are you?”
“Caitlin has one. But it’s much smaller.” She didn’t touch that one any more than necessary, either.
He started toward the parking lot, and Old Sue fell in beside him. Jazzy kept to the other side. She noticed the loops of a leash sticking out of Derrick’s back pocket.
“You don’t have to keep her on the leash?”
Derrick shrugged. “If anybody says anything I’ll put it on. But she’ll be okay without it.”
When they stepped over the concrete barrier that outlined the hotel parking lot, the festival route stretched before them. Booths lined both sides of the street for several blocks, with wide gaps spaced intermittently on either side. Smoke billowed into the air from at least a dozen fire pits. The aromatic smell of burning wood and flavorful barbecue sauce blended to form the perfect appetite enhancer, and Jazzy’s stomach gave a loud growl.
Derrick laughed. “Let’s get some lunch in you. The only thing is, you have to try several different kinds of barbecue to get a true appreciation for Waynesboro’s festival.”
“Bring it on,” she said. “I could eat a whole cow.”
“You won’t find much beef. The specialty hereabouts is mutton, but we do a lot of pork and chicken, too. Look.”
They’d just come to the first of the giant fire pits. A row of enormous metal barrels cut in half stretched at least fifty feet long. They had been welded together, filled with wood and covered with yards of heavy grating. Row after row of huge chunks of meat lay atop the makeshift grills. Jazzy couldn’t tell the pork from the mutton, but on the far side she saw what must be a hundred whole chickens. Heat miraged in visible waves as three men wearing bright green aprons basted the meat with sauce using long-handled mops. How could they stand that close? Even from her vantage point ten feet away, the heat was almost unbearable. Meat sizzled as one man used a giant fork to flip a roast-sized chunk over, and the succulent odor that filled the air made Jazzy almost light-headed with hunger.
She grinned up at Derrick. “I’ll try one of each. And burgoo, too.”
“Oh, there’s plenty of that. Did you see over there?”
Jazzy looked where he pointed. At the far end of the grill, two humongous metal cauldrons rested atop more blazing firewood.
“Wow.” Jazzy hurried down the street to get a closer look. She had never seen pots that huge. She and Derrick could easily have stood inside along with Liz and Caitlin. Both containers were full almost to the brim with bubbling burgoo. A man stood beside one of them and stirred the simmering stew with an L-shaped wooden paddle. He smiled at Jazzy when he saw her watching.
“The best burgoo in the festival right here,” he told her. “We’ve taken first place three years running.”
“It smells wonderful.” She looked up at Derrick. “Can we try some?”
“You bet.”
He led her to an awning a few feet away. A man and a woman wearing green aprons identical to those of the cooks stood behind a long table. A big, shining trophy proclaiming “First Place Winner, Burgoo Competition” was proudly displayed on one end. Beneath it, a hand-lettered sign had been taped to the front of the table listing the prices for a cup of burgoo, or sandwiches of mutton, pork or chicken.
Old Sue sat patiently to one side, watching as Derrick placed their order. He balanced the three paper-wrapped sandwiches and two foam coffee cups filled with burgoo, and said to Jazzy, “You want to grab the drinks and some napkins?”
“Sure.”
Beside the paper napkins was a basketful of Wet-Naps. With a smile at the woman, Jazzy pocketed four and followed Derrick across the street. They dodged through a stream of festival-goers and slipped around the side of a big trailer that advertised funnel cakes for sale.
Waynesboro’s Main Street ran alongside the river that Jazzy’s hotel suite overlooked. A long stretch of deep green grass extended from the edge of the road down to the riverbank, with established old trees casting pleasant pools of shade. Stone picnic tables dotted the grass at intermittent positions, and Derrick headed for the first vacant one. Old Sue, apparently released from sticking close to Derrick’s heels when her paws touched the grass, bounded ahead.
“How’s this?” he asked when he reached his target.
Jazzy inspected the stone surface. “It’ll be fine.” Taking a paper napkin from the stack she carried, she brushed away an assortment of sticks and leaves, then unfolded two more napkins to act as place mats. She set a bottle of water on the corner of each, then positioned a plastic spoon on another folded napkin for each of them. She looked up from her work to find Derrick watching her with an amused grin.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head and set a sandwich and a cup of burgoo on the napkin in front of her. “Just admiring the way you set a table.”
Jazzy’s cheeks warmed at his teasing tone, but she slid onto the bench without further comment. Instead of sitting down across from her, Derrick slid his makeshift place mat across the table and sat beside her.
At her questioning glance, he said, “That’s a much better view.” He nodded toward the river.
Jazzy had to agree, though she was surprised to feel a touch of disappointment that he didn’t admit wanting to sit beside her.
Old Sue, apparently having inspected the river to her satisfaction, loped across the grass toward them and skidded to a stop beside Derrick.
“Yes, pest, I got you one, too.”
“You did?” Jazzy raised an eyebrow. She’d assumed the third sandwich was for him.
“Old Sue loves mutton.” He looked at the dog and commanded, “Sit.”
Eyes fixed on the sandwich in Derrick’s hand, Old Sue let her hindquarters drop to the grass.
“Watch this.” He tore off a chunk of sandwich and set it on the bench beside him. “Wait for it,” he told the dog. Old Sue froze, the only movement a twitching nose that hovered mere inches from the food. To Jazzy’s amazement, the dog maintained its statuelike stance for much longer than she thought an animal’s self-control would tolerate.
Not until Derrick said, “O-kay!” did Old Sue go for the food. Even then, she didn’t wolf it down as Caitlin’s dog would have done, but picked it up daintily and chewed before she swallowed.
“Why do you call her Old Sue? She doesn’t look very old.”
“I don’t know. It just seemed to fit. But you’re right, she’s only three.” Derrick tore off another chunk and extended it toward Jazzy. “You want to give it to her?”
Jazzy hesitated. She didn’t really want to, but she hated to make a big deal out of her discomfort around dogs, especially when Derrick was obviously so fond of this one.
“I guess.”
She took the piece of sandwich and held it between her fingers. Old Sue saw the transfer and shifted h
er position sideways, still sitting, to stop directly in front of Jazzy. She looked so funny Jazzy couldn’t help laughing.
“She’s very patient, isn’t she?”
Derrick nodded. “She will sit there all day long if you make her.”
Jazzy didn’t want to torture the poor animal. She extended the food and said, “It’s okay. You can have it.”
Old Sue stretched her neck forward and gently took the bite. Jazzy felt no more than a brush of lips against her fingers.
“I’ve never seen a dog with such good manners,” she told Derrick. “Let me give her some more.”
Derrick handed her the sandwich and she fed it, a bite at a time, to the dog. When the sandwich was gone, Jazzy hesitantly lifted her hand to Old Sue’s head and rubbed.
“Oh!” She looked at Derrick in surprise. “She’s so soft. I thought her fur would be rough.”
“I have a confession.” Derrick ducked his head. “She got a bath this morning. I wanted her to make a good impression on you.”
Jazzy turned her head toward the dog to hide the smile that curled her lips. She spent a moment stroking Old Sue’s ears and marveling at the baby-soft fur. Then, with a final pat, she swiveled around on the bench. Fishing two Wet-Naps out of her pocket, she handed one to Derrick. “I’m sure she’s clean, but still.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
They washed their hands, and then bowed their heads for a blessing. As Derrick started to pray, Jazzy realized she was enjoying herself far more than she would have thought possible a few hours ago. Why, she hadn’t thought about the murderer for at least thirty minutes!
THIRTEEN
They spent the next hour sauntering through the festival, Jazzy stopping to check out a display of crafts beneath a colorful tent, or to watch one of the dozen or so competing teams cook their contest entries. She tried so many samplings of mutton, pork and chicken that her overfed belly strained at the waistband of her jeans. She had no problem conceding Derrick’s claim that the barbecue at the Waynesboro festival was, indeed, the best she had ever eaten. Derrick bought hand-squeezed lemonade from one of the vendors who had set up booths along the street, and Jazzy sipped the sweet and tart liquid with relish.
The last of the displays lay at the elbow of a sharp right turn of Main Street, with a narrow alley running between tall brick buildings that marked the end of the festival route. Jazzy turned and looked back toward the Executive Inn at the far side. The street between the two end points was full of festival-goers following the path she and Derrick had just traveled.
“Let’s walk back through the grass,” Derrick suggested. “Give Old Sue a chance to stretch her legs.”
Jazzy followed him to the parklike stretch of grass running alongside the river, laughing when the ecstatic dog bounded forward and back between the riverbank and Derrick. He set a slow pace, which Jazzy was happy to follow. She was not in any hurry to get back to the hotel. The closer they got, the more vividly the realization of the dangerous situation returned.
Derrick glanced at his watch. “What time do you need to be back for the pageant?”
Jazzy heaved a sigh. “Ten ’till three.”
“You don’t seem as eager to judge as you did yesterday.”
“I’m not,” she said truthfully. “I thought I’d get to judge the barbecue competition, or maybe the burgoo contest. But Caitlin and Liz volunteered for those, so I got stuck with this stupid pageant.”
“And you’re not as fond of pageants as you are of barbecue.” He watched her, his gaze shrewd. “Do you have some reason for disliking pageants? A bad experience, maybe?”
Jazzy walked a few steps before she answered. “Actually, yes. But not with a beauty pageant.” She looked up at him, suddenly shy. Oddly, she felt willing to trust him with a confession of something only her closest friends knew. “I have terrible stage fright.”
Surprise widened his eyes. “But you perform music in front of people all the time.”
She nodded. “I know. I’ve trained myself to keep the panicky feelings under control by losing myself in the music. And really, we don’t perform so much as accompany. At a wedding, for instance, everyone is looking at the bride, not at me.”
They took a few steps in silence.
“So did you always have stage fright, or did something happen to cause it?”
“I’ve had it as long as I can remember, to my mother’s great disappointment. I’m an only child, so I guess she didn’t have anyone else to pin her hopes on. She wanted me to be a performer, and whenever her friends or family came over she made me stand up in front of them and sing.” Discomfort churned in Jazzy’s middle as a handful of agonizing memories collided in her mind’s eye. “I hated it. I even threw up once. But Mom insisted that the only way to conquer my fear was to confront it, so she kept pushing me to audition for plays at church or talent shows at school. I took up the violin because I figured playing an instrument in front of people would be a lot less scary than singing.”
“And was it?” Derrick spoke gently.
Jazzy nodded, unwilling to look at him. She’d hate to see pity in his expression. “I guess it helped that I fell in love with the violin the first time I picked one up. And it turns out Mom was right. I still get nervous, but I haven’t come close to throwing up in years.”
“I’m really glad to hear that.” His voice held a touch of amusement. “Chelsea wants a memorable wedding, but not in that way.”
Their laughter lightened the memories of those fearful first years, and she turned a smile up toward Derrick. Old Sue loped toward them and shoved a nose into Jazzy’s hand. Jazzy rejected the temptation to think about the number of germs that lurked in the wetness on a dog’s nose, and obliged by rubbing Old Sue’s ears as she walked. The dog enjoyed the caress for a moment and then dashed ahead.
“Anyway,” Jazzy said in a lighter tone as she wiped her palm on her jeans, “I don’t have anything against pageants in general, if the contestants are there because they want to be. But that mother this morning …” She gave a shudder. “You know, I’ve even wondered if maybe the sheriff should investigate the people associated with the pageant. I can totally see Irene Baldwin doing whatever it takes to make sure her daughter wins the Little Princess crown. She admitted as much to me.”
Derrick screwed up his face. “I can’t see that. I don’t know the Baldwins, but I just can’t imagine a beauty pageant would be so important to anyone that they’d commit murder.”
Remembering Irene’s determined glare, Jazzy wasn’t so sure. But she shrugged and turned a sheepish grin on Derrick. “I guess I’ve got baggage.”
“We all have baggage,” Derrick said.
Jazzy shot him a playful look. “Yeah? What’s yours?”
He was silent for a few steps, his gaze fixed on a spot in the distance. “My baggage is full of stuff about my father’s death, I guess. He got cancer when I was twelve and died three years later.”
Jazzy sobered. Her mom and dad could be a bit overbearing and hard to take at times, but at least they were both still alive. “I’m so sorry, Derrick. That must have been tough for a teenager to handle.”
“It was,” he admitted. “But I have to say, he made sure those three years counted. He took me hunting or fishing every Saturday until he got so bad he couldn’t get out of bed. And that last summer he insisted on watching every baseball game on television with me.”
He fell silent as a loudspeaker intruded on their conversation, announcing the time of the horseshoe competition later in the afternoon. So his dad taught him to hunt and fish. No wonder he liked to do those things now.
Jazzy had wondered why Chelsea had asked her brother to give her away at her wedding. With the death of their father, Derrick had probably become the man of the house.
She stole a glance at his profile. No wonder he automatically assumed the role of protector when he sensed that Liz, Caitlin and she were in danger. He’d grown accustomed to taking care of the women in his life o
ver the years.
Their path took them to a wide spot in the parklike strip of grass where a temporary stage had been erected. A lone man in denim overalls worked setting up folding chairs in neat rows facing the stage. Old Sue ran up to investigate the man, who stopped in his labor long enough to pat her on the head. Then he trudged toward a pickup truck that had been parked on the grass, its bed loaded with more chairs. Something about the man’s slumped shoulders and shuffling gait tugged at Jazzy’s heart.
“What in the world is he doing here?” Derrick asked.
She looked up to find Derrick staring at the guy. “Do you know him?”
He nodded. “That’s Lester Kirkland.”
Kirkland. Jazzy’s eyes widened as the name registered. The brother of the man who was murdered. He must need money. She couldn’t imagine any other reason someone would be working the day after his brother’s violent death. “Is he very poor?”
Derrick lifted a shoulder. “No more than many around here.” They drew close enough for a greeting, and Derrick called one out. “Hey, Les. How’s it going?”
Mr. Kirkland’s movements were slow as he turned toward them. He stood still, waiting as they crossed the few remaining steps. Jazzy searched the poor man’s face. Heavy pouches of skin drooped beneath his eyes. The corners of his mouth pointed downward, though he didn’t frown so much as his skin seemed to sag with sorrow. She recognized him from the church yesterday. The memory of his anguished cry when he learned of his brother’s fate rang again in her ears, and she found it hard to look at him without letting her pity show.
“’Lo Derrick. Going good as can be expected, I guess.” He shook Derrick’s hand, but when his gaze slid to Jazzy he ducked his head to stare at his shoes.
“I’m Jasmine Delaney, Mr. Kirkland.” She extended her hand. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Delaney.” He glanced up once, then back down again. “You’re the girl who found him.”
She nodded. He released her hand after a quick shake and scuffed a toe in the grass.
“What are you doing out here, Les?” Derrick’s gesture swept the even rows of chairs.
Murder in D Minor Boxed Set Page 9