by Gail Oust
“Hmph!” Becca snorted. “Buzz is a grown man. He needs a real woman in his life—not a mother.”
Maybelle’s scrawny hands bunched into fists. “So help me, Becca Dapkins, I’ve half a mind to slap you upside the head.”
“Lay one finger on me, Maybelle Humphries, and I’ll have you arrested so fast it’ll make your head spin.”
Rounding the counter, I wedged myself between the two women. Sheesh! I felt I’d blundered into a taping of The Real Housewives of Brandywine Creek, albeit neither Becca nor Maybelle was a housewife. I handed Maybelle her purchases. “Here,” I said. “Go deliver those flyers you brought along.”
Maybelle snatched the sack from my hand, then grabbed the brochures from the counter. “I meant every word I said,” she flung at Becca as she stormed out.
An excruciating loud silence followed her departure. At last, Tex cleared his throat. “I’ll see if I can find Miss Maybelle and calm her down,” he said, and headed out the door after her.
Unperturbed, Becca glanced at her watch with its pink leather wristband. “My break’s nearly over. Unless I hurry, I’ll be late getting back to work. I’ll come another time, Piper, to pick up the things I need.”
“Sure thing,” I said. Next time she came, I’d take great pains to make sure Maybelle was occupied elsewhere.
Becca shot Wally a coy smile and pivoted on her pink high heel—and stopped dead in her tracks.
Curious, Wally and I glanced over to see a late-model white Cadillac Escalade cruise to a stop in front of Spice It Up! A drop-dead gorgeous woman with platinum-blond hair emerged. As the three of us gawked, the woman shoved a pair of movie star–size sunglasses to the top of her head.
Becca exhaled a long sigh. “As I live and breathe. My day just keeps getting better and better.”
“Who is she?” I inched forward straining for a better look.
“Barbara Bunker,” Becca said, never taking her eyes off the blonde. “I never thought I’d live to see the day she’d show her face again.”
Giving her long hair a careless toss, the blonde hoisted a designer tote over her shoulder and strode across the sidewalk toward us. With the self-assurance of a diva, Barbara Bunker sailed into Spice It Up!
CHAPTER 3
WAS THE CURTAIN going up on Act Two of The Real Housewives? I wondered. Next to me, I sensed Wally Porter’s avid interest in the statuesque blonde. I could practically see the man’s antennae twitch. Once again I witnessed the gut sucking and posture straightening. If Wally had hair, he’d have run a comb through it.
Becca deliberately stepped into the woman’s path. “What brings you here?”
The bombshell’s shoulders rose and fell in a nonchalant shrug. “Let’s just say I felt nostalgic for the old hometown and leave it at that.”
Becca’s eyes, dark as burnt toast, glittered with malice. “What have you been doing all these years? Working as a stripper?”
“Becca,” I gasped. “I’ve about had it with you. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
No one budged. No one even blinked. I might as well have been invisible.
“Some folks never change,” Barbara said coolly, addressing her comments to Becca. “You’re still the same vicious person I remember. And Becca—I think I’m entitled to call you that since we’re both adults—I’m Barbara Quinlan now. Most people refer to me as Barbie Q.”
I watched, puzzled, as Wally smacked himself in the forehead with the heel of his hand. “Duh!” he exclaimed. “So you’re Barbie Q!”
Totally out of the loop, I glanced from Barbie to Wally, then back at Barbie. “Will one of you kindly fill me in?”
“Barbara Bunker Quinlan.” Wally gave me a look as if to ask what planet I was from. “Barb-B-Q. She’s the gal set to host Some Like It Hot, the new show on the Cooking Network.”
Barbie graciously inclined her head, pleased there was one less moron in the group. She held out a manicured hand to Wally, and the two shook. I couldn’t help but notice the rock on the third finger of her right hand. The stone was so large I questioned whether it was real or cubic zirconium.
Wally seemed oddly reluctant to release her hand. “I’m Wally Porter, master barbecue judge, here in Brandywine Creek for the festival.”
“And I’m here to film it,” Barbie drawled. A trace of pure Georgia lingered in her low, sultry voice.
“So, you have a TV show. Big deal,” Becca sneered. “You’ve certainly come a long way since your trailer trash days.”
Becca Dapkins was a vindictive woman. Mean as a wild hog. “Becca,” I said, my voice sharper than usual, “don’t you have to get back to the water department?”
Becca darted a look at her watch and frowned. “Now I’m really late,” she said as she hurried off, leaving a trail of overly sweet perfume in her wake.
“I’m sorry Becca was so rude,” I said to Barbie. “I hope that won’t prevent you from visiting my shop in the future.”
Barbie turned and studied me for flaws. All her inspection lacked was a jeweler’s loupe. As long as she was taking my measure, I felt free to take hers. The blonde was Reba Mae’s height, maybe an inch taller, and equally well endowed. While Reba Mae’s cleavage was part of the original package, I had the sneaky suspicion Barbie’s was an after-market addition. Eyes a clear blue-green aquamarine were the most outstanding feature in a face just shy of being beautiful. Her ivory slacks and lightweight ivory cardigan worn over an aquamarine silk blouse were obviously expensive. She’d come a long way, baby, from a “trailer trash” background.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” I said, breaking the stalemate. “I’m Piper Prescott.”
“Prescott…?” Barbie’s penciled brows drew together. “I recall a CJ Prescott from high school. I heard he’s a hotshot lawyer now. I’ve seen his face plastered on billboards up and down the interstate. He your husband?”
I’m not in the habit of discussing my marital status with strangers. In a town the size of Brandywine Creek, however, all anyone had to do was ask the butcher, baker, or undertaker and they’d tell you. “CJ’s my ex,” I said on a sigh.
“Hmm.”
Hmm? Maybe I’m persnickety, but I prefer words with vowels. “Hmm” can be hard to interpret. It can run the gamut from “that’s mighty interesting” to “that’s the most boring drivel I’ve ever heard.”
Wally took the pause in our conversation as his cue to exit. “I’ll leave you ladies to get better acquainted.”
After he’d gone, I reverted to shopkeeper mode. “Are you looking for anything special?”
“I just want to take a look around. If I like what I see, I might decide to shoot a segment here. Use it as a focal point, since the name of your shop segues nicely with the title of my show.”
The prospect of free publicity made me want to flip cartwheels. Instead, I tried to act as though an offer like this came my way every day. “Go right ahead,” I said. “If you have any questions just ask.”
I busied myself behind the counter but watched Barbie out of the corner of my eye. She seemed to wander aimlessly among the shelves, pausing here or there to pick up a jar of this or that. I saw her open a jar of ancho chili powder, sniff, then set it back on the shelf. Moving on, she repeated the smell test with coarsely ground chipotle peppers. When she disappeared behind a row of shelves, I forced myself to concentrate on placing an order with a supplier in the Southwest.
My finger hovered over the send icon when the front door opened. I glanced up and all thoughts of chili peppers vanished. When it came to heat, Police Chief Wyatt McBride topped the chart of Scoville units. “Hot, hotter, and hottest,” in his case, translated into “tall, dark, and handsome.” Brandywine Creek’s native son McBride had recently returned home after a stint as a Miami-Dade homicide detective.
“Hey, McBride. If you’re looking for handouts in the form of cookies or muffins, you’re out of luck.”
“Hey yourself.” He flashed a smile that showed off the cute dim
ple in his cheek, which always made me weak in the knees. “Cookies and muffins might constitute bribing an officer of the law. There might be consequences.”
“Hmm…” Now it was my turn to resort to a vowel-less vocabulary. I opened my mouth to make a snappy comeback but was interrupted by a loud shriek.
“Wyatt!”
I watched in amazement as Barb-B-Q, no longer cool, calm, and collected, hurled herself into the arms of Wyatt McBride. My mouth hung open as he laughingly lifted her off her feet and swung her around.
Finally, McBride set Barbie down. “You look fabulous.”
“So do you,” the bombshell purred.
Giving myself a sound scolding, I went back to ordering chili peppers. I happened to be dating a pretty terrific man by the name of Doug Winters. I had no call to feel the least bit irritated at watching old friends reunite.
* * *
Unable to sleep, I woke around 3:00 A.M. Except for an occasional gentle snore from my pup, the apartment over Spice It Up!—where I’d lived since my divorce—was quiet. Now that summer school was behind her, my sixteen-year-old daughter, Lindsey, was spending the week at a friend’s lake house. My son, Chad, a pre-med student at University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, had opted to spend his summer working as a lifeguard. I missed the noise and chaos of family life. What I didn’t miss was trying to please a man impossible to please. I’d tried hard to make our marriage work, I really did, but in the end I’d been upgraded for a twenty-four-year-old former beauty queen in a miniskirt.
I shook off my nostalgia. No sense dwelling on the past.
Yawning, I got out of bed and padded into the living room to stare out the window at the square across the street. A statue of a Confederate soldier, rifle at the ready, stood sentry atop a stone pedestal. The square’s grassy expanse was the heart and soul of Brandywine Creek’s downtown. A tidy row of shops and businesses lined both sides. Like stately bookends, a pillared courthouse presided over one end, the renovated opera house the other. Willow oaks provided shade; flowering shrubs added color. The scene was peaceful, serene. Small-town America at its finest.
Stifling another yawn, I trudged back to bed and promptly fell asleep.
When the alarm sounded later, my first impulse was to slap it silly. I’d planned to take my snazzy new sneakers out for a spin. Jogging was a recently acquired habit of mine. It’s something I’m trying on for size to balance my pizza addiction. So far the verdict is still out. Before I could talk myself out of crawling back under the covers, I climbed out of bed.
Ten minutes later, garbed in a faded UNC T-shirt, old gym shorts, and a ridiculously expensive pair of neon-green running shoes, I was good to go. I snapped on Casey’s leash and designated him my jogging partner.
After a few simple warm-ups, I started down Main Street with Casey trotting obediently at my heels. It was a glorious morning. Billowy clouds drifted across a bright blue sky. Birds chirped in the willow oaks. I jogged past the opera house, then turned onto a residential street. I passed my ex-mother-in-law’s house and kept going. The soles of my shoes rhythmically slapped concrete, and I hit my stride. I felt I could run forever.
No sooner had the thought crossed my mind when a throbbing, burning pain shot down my shins. Shin splints. I’d apparently overestimated my athletic prowess. Slowing from a jog to a walk, I decided on a shortcut through the town square.
Casey seemed happier with the slower pace, too. Tugging on his leash, he pulled me toward a clump of azaleas. I gave him more leeway, thinking he wanted to do his business. Instead, Casey began to bark and strain on the leash.
“What is it, boy?”
Casey answered with another series of barks, punctuated by growls.
I edged closer. When I saw what Casey saw, bile rose in my throat. I thought for a moment I was going to be sick. Beneath the greenery and what at first glance appeared to be a bundle of rags lay a body.
Becca Dapkins, no longer pretty in pink, was deader ’n’ roadkill.
CHAPTER 4
“I FOUND A dead body,” I blurted the instant my 911 call was answered.
“Piper, hon, that you?”
“Precious…?” Relief flooded over me at hearing Precious Blessing’s familiar drawl. Precious manned the front desk at the police department with the aplomb of a concierge at a five-star hotel. “I thought you worked afternoons.”
I inwardly berated myself for the inane comment. How stupid was that? Guess it goes to show the state I was in.
“Dorinda’s daughter went into labor. I’m fillin’ in. What’s this about a body?”
I clutched my cell so tight my knuckles ached. “It’s … she’s … under an azalea bush in the square.”
“Sugar”—Precious clucked her tongue—“I’d sure hate to see you in a heap of trouble. Makin’ a false nine-one-one call is a serious offense. If you want to talk to the chief, dial his cell. I’d be more’n happy to give you the number.”
I huffed out a breath. “Precious, this isn’t a joke. Call McBride and tell him to get his butt over here on the double.”
“Ain’t findin’ one dead body enough for you, girl?” she asked, referring to my recent track record. “Sit tight. Cavalry’s comin’.”
No sooner had I disconnected when the wail of sirens split the air. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the flash of red and blue lights. The rapid response didn’t come as a surprise, since the police department was located on Lincoln Street two blocks away. Seconds later, two squad cars screeched to a halt at the curb.
Wyatt McBride leaped out of the lead car. His long strides ate up the space that separated us. “What’s this about a body?”
Even under ordinary circumstances, McBride at six foot one and probably two hundred pounds tends to be intimidating, but when in full cop mode he’s a force to be reckoned with. I resisted the urge to take a step backward. I pointed. “Over there.”
I watched as McBride shoved branches aside and glimpsed the crumpled form of Becca Dapkins. Bending down, he felt for a pulse. I could’ve told him it was useless, seeing how Becca’s skin was the color of day-old mashed potatoes, but kept my own counsel.
“Recognize the vic?”
The vic? I shivered at the clinical term. “Becca Dapkins. She works at the water department. Better make that ‘worked,’” I amended.
Running an impatient hand through his military-short black hair, he scowled at me. “How is it that in the brief time I’ve known you, you’ve managed to find more bodies than most cadaver dogs?”
“For your information, I didn’t find the body. Casey did.”
At hearing his name, the pup’s ears perked up and he gave McBride his best doggy smile.
“Casey might not be a cadaver dog, but he’s every bit as smart,” I said.
“Please tell me neither you nor your four-legged friend touched anything?”
“I know the drill, McBride,” I replied heatedly. “I’m not exactly a newbie in the dead body department.” I thought I heard teeth grind, but I could’ve been mistaken.
“Did you happen to see or hear anything suspicious?”
“I didn’t notice anyone hanging around if that’s what you mean. There aren’t many people out and about this early in the morning.”
McBride turned to the officers who hovered nearby, awaiting orders. “Tucker, cordon off the area,” he barked. “Moyer, get the camera. Start taking photos.”
The light sweat I’d worked up while jogging was beginning to evaporate on my skin, leaving me chilled. I rubbed my arms. “Am I free to leave?”
“Not so fast.” McBride swung his attention back to me and zapped me into obedience with his laser-blue eyes. “In concise terms, tell me how you—of all people—happened upon the vic?”
My teeth started to chatter as a delayed reaction at finding Becca finally set in. While Becca and I were more acquaintances than friends, I felt terrible about what happened to her.
“Piper…”
I realized McBr
ide was still waiting for an answer to his question. “Sh-shin splints,” I managed to stammer.
His gaze narrowed. “You okay? You’re white as a ghost.”
“I’m f-fine,” I muttered. “Or at least I will be once I warm up.”
I thought he muttered something that sounded like “danged skimpy clothes,” but I wouldn’t swear to it on a stack of Bibles.
“Have a seat in the patrol car and wait for me. I still need to ask you a few questions.”
“B-but—”
He held up a hand to forestall a protest he saw forming. “No argument. Right now, I have to make sure the crime scene is secure.”
“Crime scene…?” I echoed, but I doubt that he heard me. He was already hurrying away.
Shoulders hunched and Casey trotting alongside me, I slowly made my way to the cop car and slid into the driver’s seat. No way was I going to sit behind a mesh screen in a spot reserved for miscreants and felons. I wrapped Casey’s leash around the door handle, and the little dog settled down to regard the goings-on with watchful eyes.
The interior of the car felt warm. I detected a faint, lingering citrusy scent. McBride’s aftershave? I wondered. Or air freshener? Eager to take my mind off Becca—and McBride—I concentrated on my surroundings. With its myriad of dials and gadgets, I likened it to a landlubber’s version of an airplane cockpit. A police radio crackled and hummed. A radar gun rested in a special holster on the dash. The stainless-steel arm of a hand-operated spotlight jutted out left of the windshield. The console boasted a state-of-the-art computer. McBride had Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube at his fingertips.
I was about to look away when I noticed an item of even greater interest—a stainless-steel coffee mug—sitting in a cup holder. I plucked it out and held it to my nose. The smell of fresh-brewed coffee tantalized my taste buds. I couldn’t help myself. I took a sip, then another. Hot and strong, it warmed my innards. Surely McBride wouldn’t notice if the mug wasn’t quite as full as he’d left it.