Kill 'Em with Cayenne

by Gail Oust

  “McBride?”

  “Yep.” He downed the milk, then refilled his glass. “I’ve seen how women look at him all smiley-like. He could have his pick, but he pretends not to notice. Drives the gals crazy.”

  Hmm, I thought to myself. I hope I didn’t fall in the same category all “smiley-like” and calf-eyed. If Barbie Q wanted him, she could have him. I intended to play it safe and stick with Doug. He might not be tall, dark, and hunky, but he was a gold medalist when it came to kissing. His kisses made me weak in the knees. Besides that, he was sweet, thoughtful. And he listened, really listened, whenever I talked. What could be sexier than a man who hung on to your every word?

  Reba Mae got up and cleared the dishes. “Clay, you still haven’t mentioned who won tonight’s game.”

  “We did. Cloune Motor Cougars beat the Bugs-B-Gone Braves four to two.” He placed his glass in the dishwasher. “Say,” he said as a new thought occurred to him, “either of you know why the Chamber of Commerce was closed today? Is it some sort of holiday?”

  “That’s odd.” I looked to Reba Mae for confirmation, but she shrugged. “The Chamber’s usually open nine to five Monday through Friday and till noon on Saturdays.”

  “I stopped by to pick up some flyers like my boss asked, but the place was locked up tighter ’n a drum.”

  Reba Mae began loading the dishwasher. “Perhaps Maybelle came down with the flu, though I’ve never known her to be sickly.”

  Frowning, I tapped my nails on the tabletop. “I’m pretty sure I saw her this morning on the sidewalk near the square.”

  “Did she look like she was ailin’?”

  I closed my eyes briefly, trying to picture Maybelle the last time I’d seen her. “Now that you mention it, her complexion seemed even more pasty than usual. And she seemed distant … distracted. I don’t think she even noticed me.”

  “Probably upset about Becca.”

  “I’ll try the Chamber again tomorrow,” Clay said. “Right now, I’m headin’ for the shower.”

  Grabbing a dishrag, Reba Mae wiped down the counters. “It’s not like Maybelle to close up shop.”

  I stared into the dregs at the bottom of my wineglass. “Someone—I think it might’ve been Dottie Hemmings—made a comment that Maybelle wasn’t the type who liked to share what was hers.”

  Reba Mae stopped wiping. “Such as Buzz…?”

  “You don’t suppose…?”

  Reba Mae instantly read my mind. “No, of course not,” she replied. “Maybelle wouldn’t step on a spider.”

  “Good point,” I said. I felt guilty as sin that such a thought even crossed my mind. “If Buzz has a solid alibi for the time of the murder, suspicion will shift to Maybelle in a heartbeat. Mark my words, she’ll be the next one lined up in McBride’s sights—and in the court of public opinion. Maybelle’s a friend. I’d hate like heck to see that happen. I know what it’s like to be wrongly accused.”

  “I’m worried about her,” Reba Mae admitted. “You said she didn’t look well when you saw her earlier.”

  I jumped up and grabbed my purse. “Let’s go.”

  Reba Mae tossed the dishrag into the sink. “Where we goin’?”

  “We’re off to visit a sick friend.”

  CHAPTER 9

  MAYBELLE HUMPHRIES LIVED in a brick ranch-style home with black shutters and neatly trimmed shrubs. Her wide front porch held two white wicker rockers—rockers are a requisite for Southern homes—and several clay pots filled with bright red geraniums.

  I rang the bell while Reba Mae opted for the less subtle approach, which consisted of pounding on the door. Between the two of us, the din was loud enough to wake the dead.

  No response.

  Disappointed, we stared at each other in the gathering darkness, trying to decide on a course of action. “Maybe she’s not home,” Reba Mae suggested.

  I pointed toward the side of the house. “Then how do you account for her Honda in the carport?”

  “Oh, yeah, right. S’pose she’s sleepin’?”

  “Not with the racket we’ve been making.” I jabbed the doorbell again.

  “Could be she went for a little exercise,” Reba Mae offered. “It’s a nice night for a walk.”

  I stood on tiptoe and peered through the small diamond-shaped pane of glass set into the wood door. “Looks like the TV’s still on.”

  “Might be Maybelle’s in the little girl’s room.”

  I stepped off the porch and wedged myself between the boxwoods under the picture window. Cupping my hands around my eyes, I tried to peek through a narrow slit in the drawn blinds. “What if Maybelle’s fallen and can’t get up? Like in those television commercials.”

  Reba Mae edged closer. “You mean the one with the lady layin’ on the floor all old and helpless? Then she’s all happy again after buyin’ herself one of those gadgets to wear around her neck?”

  “That’s the one.” I straightened and stood, hands on hips, staring at a nearby crepe myrtle ready to burst into bloom. “You stay here while I go around back.”

  “You don’t think Maybelle is avoidin’ us on purpose?”

  “Nonsense,” I replied, although privately that’s exactly what I thought. Still … “What if Maybelle is hurt and needs help? What kind of persons would we be if we turned our backs on a friend? We need to make sure she’s safe. We owe it to her.”

  “You’re right,” Reba Mae agreed. “Maybelle could’ve sprained an ankle. Or broken her hip. Do you think we should call nine-one-one? Ask McBride to send one of his men over to check on things?”

  “Umm … Let’s wait,” I said as she started to reach into her pocket for her cell phone. I knew Maybelle to be a private person—a very private person. She’d never speak to us again if we called the police to break down her door. “Why don’t we check this out more thoroughly before calling for reinforcements?”

  “Piper…?” Reba Mae raced over to me and clutched my arm, her eyes wide. “I just thought of something. What if the same psycho who killed Becca came after Maybelle? After all, the two of them are single women, livin’ alone, and approximately the same age.”

  “Are you nuts?” I hissed. “Surely you’re not suggesting there’s a serial killer on the prowl in Brandywine Creek? A killer who bludgeons his victims with a brisket?”

  “Stranger things have happened,” she retorted, her tone defensive. “You read about serial killers all the time in the newspapers. Or see stories about them on TV. I even saw a show once about vampire serial killers.”

  I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “Next you’ll try to convince me Buzz Oliver flipped out and is systematically knocking off all the women in his life.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m talkin’ about. Just think of it as a possible movie of the week on the Lifetime channel.”

  “Stay here,” I instructed. “Keep ringing the bell and pounding on the door while I check around the back.” I didn’t know what I expected to find but thought it worth a shot. Maybe the kitchen curtains would be open and give me a better hint of what was going on inside. Could be Maybelle was playing possum. Could be she really was injured or ill and needed help.

  I’d no sooner gone a half-dozen steps when the front porch light flicked on, bathing us in its jaundiced glare. A lock snicked and a door opened, revealing a haggard-appearing Maybelle Humphries clutching a fleecy robe tightly around her throat.

  “What in heaven’s name!” she exclaimed at seeing us. “You two are making enough noise to disturb the neighbors.”

  “Hey, Maybelle,” I said, taking in the woman’s drawn face, the dark circles under her eyes. “Reba Mae and I were worried about you. Thought we’d stop by and make sure you’re all right.”

  Reba Mae stepped forward, motioning for me to return to the porch. “My boy Clay said he came by the Chamber this afternoon to pick up some flyers, but the office was closed. In all the years I lived in this town, I’ve never known the Chamber to be closed in the middle of the week.”<
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  “Do you mind if we come in for a minute?” I asked. “I promise we won’t overstay our welcome.”

  Much too genteel to slam the door in our faces, Maybelle stood aside grudgingly and allowed us to enter. Her neat-as-a-pin living room with its green-and-gold plaid sofa, matching love seat, and walnut end tables was as plain and simple as the woman herself. I recognized the smiling faces of Rachael Ray and Bobby Flay on the covers of cooking magazines fanned across the polished surface of a coffee table.

  Reba Mae and I plunked ourselves down on the sofa, leaving the love seat to Maybelle. She lowered herself primly, lapping the robe more securely around her thin frame. Picking up the remote, she clicked off the television. “It’s nice of you girls to worry about me, but as you can see, I’m fit as a fiddle.”

  Maybelle didn’t meet my criteria of looking “fit as a fiddle.” Her complexion was the color of bread dough, her eyes bloodshot. “You sure you’re okay? You’re awfully pale.”

  “Is there anything we can get you?” Reba Mae asked. “Chicken soup, ginger ale, aspirin, cold pills?”

  Maybelle managed a wan smile. “That’s sweet of you, Reba Mae, but as you can see, I’m fine. No need to fret. Probably just allergies kicking up. You can tell your son it’ll be business as usual tomorrow at the Chamber.”

  “That’s not why we’re here. We’re your friends and thought you might be sick.”

  “Or hurt,” I added for good measure.

  “Well, it was a wasted trip,” Maybelle snapped. “I’m neither.”

  Reba Mae and I gaped at hearing the sharp rebuke. It wasn’t like Maybelle to be irritable and out of sorts. And it certainly was out of character for her to bite our heads off. I couldn’t help but wonder if Becca’s death had a more profound impact on Maybelle than she cared to admit.

  “Sorry for how that must’ve sounded,” Maybelle apologized, her hands tightly clasped in her lap. “It’s been a … difficult … day.”

  “No apology necessary, hon.” Reba Mae popped off the sofa. “I gotta pee. Pushin’ out two future football players three minutes apart wrecked my bladder somethin’ fierce. Mind if I use your bathroom?”

  “Go right ahead. Down the hall, first room on the left.”

  As we had exhausted the subject of Maybelle’s health, it was time to tackle a different subject. “I caught a glimpse of you at the square this morning,” I ventured. “Learning Becca had been killed must have come as a quite a shock.”

  Maybelle wrapped her arms around her waist and shivered. “Yes, quite a shock.”

  Following her admission, she lapsed into silence. I could hear the tick-tock of a clock from another room of the house. I was relieved when Reba Mae finally returned. She smiled and, when she was certain Maybelle wasn’t watching, gave me a thumbs-up.

  Puzzled, I returned my attention to Maybelle. “Who do you suppose killed Becca?” I asked, trying to keep my tone conversational rather than confrontational.

  “How should I know?” Maybelle moistened dry lips with the tip of her tongue. “A lot of folks disliked Becca.”

  “Do you know anyone who ‘disliked’ her enough to want her dead?”

  Maybelle stood abruptly and began pacing back and forth. “Don’t think I don’t know what people are going to be thinking? Everyone will be looking at me sideways and wondering if I’d finally had enough of Becca’s thieving ways.”

  “You know how folks are, Maybelle,” I said, soothingly. “Once you prove you have an alibi, they’ll turn their attention elsewhere. You do have an alibi for last night don’t you?” At least I assumed that’s when the murder occurred. Aren’t most crimes committed under cover of darkness?

  “Of course I do,” she said a shade too quickly. “I volunteer at the food bank down in Augusta the second Tuesday of every month with Gerilee Barker.”

  “That’s great,” I told her. “Then you have nothing to fear if McBride questions you.”

  Maybelle ceased pacing, her eyes wide with alarm. If possible, her pale face became even paler. She looked as if I’d just given voice to her worst nightmare.

  Reba Mae, seemingly oblivious to Maybelle’s distress, abruptly changed the subject. “Speakin’ of food and such, my boys rave about your Hummingbird Cake no end. I was wonderin’ if you’d be kind enough to share your recipe.”

  Maybelle’s lips pursed. “Forgive me, Reba Mae. I’m truly sorry, but I never divulge recipes that have been in the family for generations. I hope you understand.”

  Reba Mae reached over and patted Maybelle’s arm. “Don’t think twice about it, sugar. I guard Meemaw’s recipe for Hungarian goulash with my life.”

  “Now if you ladies don’t mind, I’ve had a rather trying day and would like to get some rest.”

  I rose and signaled Reba Mae to follow suit. Maybelle escorted us to the door and shut it firmly behind us. The snick of a dead bolt sounded overly loud in the sudden stillness.

  A huge golden moon hung from a star-spangled sky. Cicadas buzzed and tree frogs chirped in a discordant symphony. After the heat and humidity of a summer day in Georgia, the evenings were often bliss. “Well, that was odd,” I commented as Reba Mae and I headed toward our respective homes.

  “I thought the entire visit was weird,” Reba Mae agreed. “Did you happen to notice that when Maybelle’s robe separated she was still wearin’ her street clothes?”

  I nodded. “The same ones she wore this morning at the crime scene.”

  “That’s what gave me my first brainstorm.”

  “Girlfriend, the notion of you having brainstorms gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

  “I’m more than just a pretty face,” Reba Mae reminded me with a jab to the ribs. “Anyhow, as I was about to tell you, seein’ her fully dressed made me want to take a gander at her bedroom. See if her bed looked slept in or if the spread was wrinkled. That’s why I made up the story about needin’ a bathroom.”

  “Was her bed mussed?”

  “Nope,” Reba Mae said smugly. “Smooth as a baby’s bottom. I got the impression she threw on her robe and pretended she’d been sleepin’ when we refused to go away. Probably afraid we’d break her door down—or call the cops—if she didn’t answer.”

  “What was all that stuff about Hummingbird Cake?” I asked as we continued on our way.

  “Hummingbird Cake is Maybelle’s specialty. She insists it’s a family recipe, but I overheard my customers talkin’. According to them, Maybelle found the original version in an out-of-print cookbook she picked up at Second Hand Prose. It makes me wonder, is all.”

  “Wonder what?”

  “Makes me wonder if it’s true what folks say about Maybelle not sharin’.”

  We paused under the glow of a streetlamp where our paths diverged. “Take pity on me, girl. I’ve had a long day, too. What are you getting at?”

  “If Maybelle doesn’t like sharin’ recipes, I’m thinkin’ about the lengths she might go to not share a fiancé with Becca Dapkins?”

  “Reba Mae Johnson!” I scolded. “Shame on you! Maybelle wouldn’t swat a mosquito.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Reba Mae said with a shrug. “It’s no secret there were hard feelin’s between the two. I’m just sayin’…”

  “I remember all too well what it’s like to be number one on McBride’s hit parade of suspects. To be honest, Reba Mae, I’d rest easier knowing Maybelle was truthful about her alibi.”

  Reba Mae and I said our good nights and started off in the direction of our respective homes. The entire time, I couldn’t rid myself of the thought that Maybelle’s actions had been evasive. The woman was clearly hiding something.

  But what…?

  “Be prepared” might be the Scout motto, but it was also good advice when it came to dealing with a wily police chief who happened to be a stickler for such things as alibis. Maybelle might not be ready to admit it, but she needed our help.

  CHAPTER 10

  I WAS ON the floor restocking spices the following afternoon w
hen Casey’s frenzied barking startled me so much I bumped my head on one of the shelves. “Dang!” I said, getting to my feet.

  “Want me to kiss and make it better?” a familiar voice asked.

  I turned to find Doug Winters, veterinarian extraordinaire, behind me. The brown eyes behind rimless glasses twinkled with good humor. A youthful face belied the premature gray hair that I found quite attractive. Instead of his usual golf shirt and chinos, he wore a lightweight linen sport coat in a muted gray-and-cream glen plaid, white dress shirt open at the throat, and gray slacks. Before I could scold him for making light of my injury, he moved in for a kiss that made my toes tingle.

  “Hey,” I said, slightly breathless when we broke apart. “I thought it was the bump on my head that needed attention.”

  He grinned boyishly. “Head, lips, I always get the two confused.”

  “Fine doctor you are,” I teased. “You better pray word doesn’t get around town that you flunked Anatomy.”

  “I’ll take my chances. Miss me?”

  I opened my mouth to reply, but Casey, tired of being ignored by his favorite vet, hurled his small body against the baby gate I’d fastened across the stairs leading to my apartment. “Enough, Casey,” I admonished. “Settle down.”

  “Sure wish I had that kind of effect on everyone.” Doug laughed.

  Since I knew Doug wouldn’t mind, I unlatched the gate. Casey scampered over to enthusiastically greet our guest. “Everyone doesn’t spoil him rotten with doggy treats.”

  “Hey there, fella.” Doug bent down and rubbed the little dog behind the ears, sending him into a fit of puppy ecstasy. Casey demonstrated his affection by lathering the vet’s hand with his raspy pink tongue.

  “You’re Casey’s knight in shining armor,” I said, smiling. I’d first discovered the little mutt at death’s door after he’d been stabbed and rushed him to the vet at breakneck speed. Doug saved his life.

  “Casey loves anyone who brings him treats.” Doug modestly shrugged off his role of savior. Reaching into the pocket of his sport coat, he tossed Casey a handful of nuggets resembling Tootsie Rolls.