by Tegan Maher
He waved them off. "It wasn't my main recipe. I don't have that wrote down anywhere. It's all up here." He knocked on his noggin. "But it was one of my sauce recipes."
"Of course it was a sauce recipe," Earl muttered.
The girl in the Porky Pig for President shirt asked, "How'd he get his hands on it?"
Pappy shook his head. "The only thing he coulda done was bribed one of my staff. We didn't know which one, but we're stingy with who has access."
"But you're not sure," said a bald guy wearing nothing but jean shorts, an apron, and cowboy boots.
For those of you who know Bobbie Sue, you know she's sharp as a tack, and she'd picked up on the one thing nobody else had. "You said one of 'em was yours. Who else?"
Pappy shook his head. "I don't know everybody. My granddaughter, who's in line to inherit The Pit, found it in some forum. Didn't list it by name, but she recognized the ingredients list, right down to the quarter-teaspoon."
"Well did she get a list of the other ingredients? I reckon if yours was there might be some of the rest of us there, too."
Justin had slipped back into camp while we weren't paying attention, and stepped forward. "I don't know any of you yet, but I will. I'm Earl's boy, so I got a stake in this, too." Earl beamed with pride and put his hand on Justin's bony little shoulder.
Justin turned to Pappy. "Do you know the name of the site? If you do, I can find that list faster than you can spit."
Pappy nodded, and gave it to him. Justin whipped out his cell and started tapping so fast his thumbs were almost a blur. While he was searching, I reached into the cooler. It was five o'clock somewhere, and I was ready for a beer.
"I got somethin'," he said after just a few minutes. He scrolled through and his eyes got wide. He glanced toward us. "Earl, didn't you say we won the rib competition at the Fourth of July cook-off in Keyhole last year?"
Earl nodded and Justin frowned. "Then if this is right, they got our Georgia Gold recipe."
Earl leapt forward to look at the phone. Justin scrolled back up, re-reading it. "They're listed in order of the competitions over the last year. Top three recipes for each division. Some's missin', but there are still a lot." He continued to read, then touched the screen, and turned the phone around so everybody could see it. "I touched the link for ours, and here's where it directed me."
There was a pay page, asking for credit card information, with instructions that access to the recipe would be granted as soon as payment was made.
"Unless you wanna pay a hundred bucks, there ain't no way of knowin' whether it's actually ours or not." He glanced up at Earl, who waved him off.
"I ain't payin' to see my own recipes." His expression was thunderous. "'Sides, only way he coulda got my recipes was to get in my kitchen, and ain't no way that happened."
"There are more than twenty listed here," Justin said, handing his phone to the nearest person. "All sauces. Y'all look and see if any of 'em are yours."
Porky for President spoke again. "Wait. There are comments underneath. Spoilers, so to speak. Somebody's postin' ’em so folks can see without payin'." She passed the phone on.
When somebody growled a couple minutes later, I assumed another of the recipes was claimed. "That's my Cajun sauce down in the comments. The whole thing's listed, scripture and verse," said a man with a Mississippi accent.
Two others were identified as the phone was passed around, and Earl was the only one who held back his outrage, which was terrifying in and of itself.
"Okay, so now we know a bunch of us have been had," Pappy said. "I bring my recipe books with me to the competitions in case somethin' happens and the team needs them, but what about the rest of you?"
Bobbie Sue puckered her lips, and I tried to figure out a rational explanation. As far as I knew, our recipes weren't written down anywhere except at the store. Even then, they were in the safe. Earl was serious about that; the only reason they were written down at all was in case something happened to him, Bobbie Sue could carry on.
Mr. Cajun Sauce spoke up. "How many of you were at the Pitmasters and Pets benefit last fall? Earl, Pappy, I know y'all was there. I remember." He turned to the other two who had recognized their recipes, and they both nodded.
"If you remember, there were break-ins reported, but nothin' stolen. What do you reckon the odds are they stole our recipes then?"
Bobbie Sue nodded. "Somebody got into our trailer. I had to run the show the first day because Earl was at his mama's for her birthday." She sighed and looked down. "I had the recipes with me."
Pappy nodded. "That explains it then. Moore was a judge. Looks like he robbed us of more than some trophies and braggin' rights that time around."
"Maybe so," Porky-Pig girl said, "but this is an anonymous forum. Thinkin' it—even knowin' it—is one thing, but provin' it is another."
"Kiddo," the man from Mississippi said, "that may be the point. Whoever killed him couldn't prove it, but they shore did stop him from doin' it again!"
CHAPTER SIX
IT WAS ASTOUNDING TO me that somebody would kill over a recipe, but seeing the visceral reactions of those guys when they found theirs had been put out there for all the world to use left no doubt in my mind it was possible. Still, stabbing him in the back with a barbecue fork in broad daylight? Ballsy. And stupid.
Since the fairgrounds was also used for 4-H camp and fair week, there was a pavilion and a huge fire pit, so the guys built a campfire and just hung out after they put their briskets on to smoke in preparation for the first contest the next morning.
There was a Great Hall, where other food contests would take place the next day, and many of those folks joined in, too. That meant there was a ton of bread, pies, cakes, jams, and just about any other food you could imagine.
The competitors had all thrown something toward a giant kick-off meal, and the longer the night went on, the more I realized just how serious they were. They ribbed each other over meat that was too salty or tough. I heard a dozen different ways to cook a brisket, all of which were the only "right" way, depending on who was doing the telling.
For a while, the talk turned to Mac Moore and the murder, and it didn't take me long to realize just how many suspects they were actually dealing with. I didn't hear a single kind word said about the man; in fact, Hunter cringed a few times because folks flat-out stated they were glad he was dead, or that he got what he had comin' to him. A few even said they thought he got off easy.
He leaned into me at one point. "I've heard at least twenty statements that a judge would consider suspicious enough to issue a warrant, but this is as bad as the Hank debacle. Half the people here have motive, and all of 'em have the means. You can't arrest them all. Lordy, better him than me."
"Well, I guess the best-case scenario is that it wraps itself up as neatly as Hank's did. Except, without somebody trying to blow me up."
A pang of guilt shot through me as soon as the words left my mouth because Cheri Lynn had died during that investigation. Though she swore her post-life was much better than her life, I was sorry she'd been collateral damage, killed before she even had a chance to turn things around.
Matt and Anna Mae got there just in time to eat, and we spent the evening around the campfire. The kids did what kids used to do before video games turned them into couch potatoes—played tag, hide-and-seek, and made s'mores—and we adults kicked up our heels a little, too.
Somebody broke out a guitar, and there were half a dozen variations of shine and homemade wine going around, along with beer. What started out as dinner turned into a shindig.
One of the best parts was that most of the women were down-to-earth chicks who enjoyed playing as hard as they worked. The only time a manicure was mentioned was when somebody joked about throwing away a whole vat of coleslaw because she'd lopped off the tip of an acrylic into it.
I answered a ton of questions about riding a motorcycle, and was surprised to learn that many of them rode too, either their own or wi
th their men. I was the only one who rode a sport bike, but that was a minor detail.
Talk turned to the competition and the smack-talk began. It was all in good fun, but there was no doubt these folks were serious about it. All fun then, but the next day, the gloves would be off.
"So who here has kids competing on Monday?" Bobbie Sue asked. Justin had been honing his skills for months and was excited when he'd learned that the judges' meat of choice for the kids was steak. That boy might have only been ten, but he cooked a mean ribeye.
I was surprised by how many people held up their hands. The boasting began. Oddly enough, there wasn't a single worry or weakness expressed. At rodeos, it was standard to hear, "Oh, Mary loves the new horse, but she has problems getting her in the gate." Not with those girls, though. To hear them talk, each of their kids was the next Bobby Flay.
After a while, we drifted apart and I found my way back to Hunter. We sat by the fire and talked about everything and nothing, and just mingled with whoever happened to be standing next to us at the time.
We spent some time people-watching, trying to decide if anybody looked guilty, but nobody wore their I killed Mac Daddy Moore t-shirt, and I was left to wonder which person I'd talked to that night had murdered a man earlier in the day.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ANNA MAE AND I WERE smart enough to stick to wine, but Hunter and Matt were not. Max had quite a bit of scotch, but to be fair, he was a daily drinker so what would put me under the table was less than what he had as an after-dinner aperitif.
That was why, at seven the next morning when Anna and I were up getting the booth ready to go and Max had already had breakfast and was deep into his first nap of the day, the guys were still sleeping it off.
Aunt Addy—my living-impaired aunt who'd served as a surrogate mother to me—showed up to help. She'd always been a stickler for how things should be done, but since she'd lost her human form, she'd taken bossiness to a whole new level.
"Those skirts need to be hung up on that peg board so's people can see 'em, and those clocks need batteries in 'em," she said. "Ain't nobody gonna buy a clock without seein' it work."
During one of my buying expeditions, I'd come across a barn full of treasures, including old signs. Many of 'em weren't worth more than ten or twenty bucks a piece, if that, and I'd had a hard time finding buyers for them as they were. So, I did what I do; I'd taken something old and put a new spin on it. I turned a few of them into clocks just for kicks, and before I realized it, I was getting orders for them from everyone from garages to private collectors.
Anna Mae and I stood back and considered her suggestion about the dresses. She was, as usual, right, so we made the adjustments. Thankfully, I'd picked up a box of batteries at one of my most recent flea market expeditions and had plenty.
By the time Matt staggered out of the trailer wearing dark sunglasses and carrying a huge bottle of orange juice, we had everything ready to go. I slipped on my server apron and handed Anna Mae my extra one. I figured it would be easy enough for somebody to walk off with a cash box, but another thing entirely if they tried to reach a hand into my apron pocket.
Folks started trickling through and we had a few nibbles, but no bites. I'd done a few craft fairs before, and knew a lot of people went through on the first day to find items they liked, then came back on the last day to try to get a bargain. Sure enough, I had a couple interested in a set of four barstools I'd reupholstered and painted with apples.
She made a ridiculous offer, and when I countered with something more realistic, he reached for his wallet, but her eyebrows had about flown off the top of her forehead. She held a hand over his wallet and shook her head.
"We'll just walk around a bit and think about it."
I was a haggler way before I was a business owner. That was my cue to either offer a lower price or let her walk. I considered for a moment.
"Okay. I'll be here. Enjoy the fair." It was early, and the price she offered was way too low.
Anna Mae elbowed me as she walked away. "Way to go, girl! Maybe I should let you bargain for me!"
I smiled; Anna Mae had plenty of money, but she worked hard on her projects. She was also a bit of a people-pleaser, so that kind of hamstrung her when it came to haggling. It wasn't for the faint of heart.
Something shiny caught my eye in front of her display and I moved closer to see what it was. A pretty, heart-shaped purple crystal on a silver chain was lying on the ground. I picked it up and handed it to her. It was unique, with a tiger’s eye in the middle off it. It looked almost like a heart-shaped marble.
"Thanks,” she said. “Some lady was just lookin' at it and a few other pieces," she said. "I musta dropped it when I was puttin' them back."
Within another half hour, the weather had gone from pleasant to almost too warm, and I was glad we'd opted to use a tent rather than just set up in the open like many others had done. Hunter finally stepped out of the living quarters looking like death warmed over.
I gave him a kiss on the cheek and almost caught a buzz off the smell of alcohol emanating from his breath. "I don't have any hooch, but there's some leftover wine you can have for breakfast," I said, smiling when he turned green.
I took pity on him and dug through the cooler for a bottle of vitamin water, then dug four Advil out of my bag and handed them to him.
"Thanks," he muttered, squinting against the sun. "I'm gonna grab a shower. You okay out here?"
"Yeah, we're good."
Matt, who had already showered and made bacon and eggs on our camp stove, looked like he felt much more human. Clapping Hunter on the back, he said, "Mornin' man. I saved you some bacon and fried potatoes. I'll have eggs waiting for you when you're done."
Despite the fact that he no doubt felt like hammered crap, Hunter's stomach growled. "That sounds amazing. I'll be out in a few."
I'd had more than my share of moonshine mornings, and knew exactly how he felt. In fact, that's why I'd skipped out on that part of the revelry the night before.
He disappeared back into the trailer just as the barstool guy meandered back to our tent, looking over his shoulder as he went.
"Glad to see you again!" I told him.
He glanced into the tent and smiled when he saw the chairs were still there, then checked over his shoulder again. I assumed he was looking for his wife, because she was nowhere to be seen.
"Martha's a bit of a spendthrift,” he said in a low voice, “but she really liked those chairs. And she was admiring that table over there, and the butterfly broach in the case, too. Can you cut me a deal on all of them? Better than what she offered, obviously."
Anna Mae'd stepped up to listen, and named a price for the jewelry that was fair considering it was both antique and made with real stones, and I came down some on the chairs, too. He peeled the money off a small roll he had in his pocket, and we shook on it.
"We brought her car, and there's no way they'll fit. Can I come back tomorrow evening and get them?"
"Sure thing. We'll mark them as sold. I'll be here through Monday."
"Oh, that's perfect, then. If I can't make it tomorrow, it'll be Monday for sure," he said, glancing over his shoulder again. "It's a surprise, so if she comes back through asking about them again, can you just tell her they're sold?"
I smiled. "Sure thing."
Anna Mae put the broach in a little jewelry case and bagged it, then handed it to him.
He gave a little salute, thanked us again, and left in the direction he'd come.
I divvied up the money with Anna, and we bumped hips. It was the first sale of the day for either of us, and we'd covered the cost of the tent right out of the gate.
He was already gone by the time I realized I hadn't even gotten his name.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AFTER WOLFING DOWN his breakfast and drinking a couple more bottles of water, Hunter was almost back to himself.
Rumors had started trickling through about the murder, and the pretty, midd
le-aged woman running the tent next to us asked if we'd heard anything about it. I didn't want to admit to her that we'd been there, so I just told her that we'd heard about it because we had friends who were in the barbecue competition, but didn't know anything about it.
"Isn't it just awful?" she said, fluttering a hand to her chest. "Do you think the murderer's still here? Are we in danger?" She looked over her shoulder like somebody was going to jump from behind one of my bookcases with a lethal grilling tool at any moment.
"I think we're fine. From what I understand, it was probably a crime of passion rather than a random murder. By all accounts, he wasn't a nice man. Though they have a million possible suspects, I'm not worried about it a bit, and you shouldn't either," I told her. She didn't look convinced.
Hunter'd overheard the conversation and stepped up beside me. "I'm a police officer, ma'am, and I was there when it happened. I worked homicide in Indianapolis before I moved here, and trust me—whoever did that had a specific target, and unless you're a danger to them, you're good."
He gave her a smile that was both compassionate and confident, and I could tell she'd fallen victim to it just like I had.
She blushed and batted her eyes a little, then handed him a business card from her pocket. "Well, I have to say I feel better now that I've heard from an officer with knowledge of the event. If you need any information about the venue, I'm Nancy Ward, and I'm on the board of directors. I made a peach pie, and would be glad to help in any way you need me to."
I bit my lip and smiled as her gaze focused on his dimple. I bet she would.
"Glad to be of service," he said, putting his arm around my waist and applying a little pressure to turn. "Honey, I think you have somebody interested in your shelving."
Though I thought he was just escaping, it turned out there really was somebody looking at the shelving units I'd made out of a couple old curio cabinets I'd found. I elbowed Hunter and grinned. "Methinks you have a fan."