Kill 'Em with Cayenne

by Gail Oust

  Reba Mae handed her credit card to Nacho, who patiently waited for us to finish our conversation. “We offered to water the plants of a recently deceased friend,” she confided. “And we’re gonna take a look around while we’re at it. See if the police missed anythin’.”

  “Is this ‘deceased friend’ the woman who was murdered in the town square?” Wally asked.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.” I handed some bills to Nacho and told him to keep the change.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Wally said, his expression grave.

  “Can we have a rain check on the drink offer?” Reba Mae gave him an arch smile.

  I elbowed her in the rib cage. What was she thinking? She’d just met the man.

  Wally turned his charm on Reba Mae, his gaze lingering a fraction too long on the endowments Mother Nature had generously bestowed. “Better yet, perhaps I can persuade you to dine with me one evening.”

  “No coaxin’ necessary.” Reba Mae dug a business card out of her purse, then, using the pen she’d signed her credit card with, scribbled her cell phone number on the back. “Here,” she said, handing it to Wally. “Call me.”

  * * *

  Reba Mae pouted all the way to Becca’s. “It’s been a long time since a nice-lookin’ man invited me for a drink. I don’t see why we couldn’t have stayed and had another margarita.”

  “Because, to paraphrase a popular song, tequila makes your clothes fall off. That’s why. Besides, those plants of Becca’s need watering.”

  By this time we’d reached Becca’s tidy little bungalow. A gable roof, supported by twin columns, covered a charming little front porch. Its entrance was flanked on either side by trailing Boston ferns. Pink petunias filled window boxes. The house itself, however, was showing signs of wear, as evidenced by the peeling paint and crumbling concrete steps.

  I picked up several newspapers lying scattered on the porch. “I’d better notify The Statesman and tell them to cancel her subscription.”

  Reba Mae lifted the flap of a mailbox mounted near the door and drew out a handful of mail. “Better remind the post office, too.”

  We found the key under the mat as promised and let ourselves in. The door opened directly into what was Becca’s living room. We stood for a moment in silence, getting the lay of the land so to speak.

  “If I’m not mistaken,” I said, “this is one of those Sears and Roebuck catalog homes from the nineteen twenties. There was an article about them in the paper a while back.”

  “No kiddin’? Folks ordered homes from a catalog?”

  “They were sold as a kit. Lumber, shingles, floors, ceilings, siding, hardware, and paint. The whole shebang. Only extras were cement, brick, and plaster.”

  Becca’s furniture consisted mostly of outdated pieces that to my unpracticed eye appeared more flea market than antique. A chintz-slipcovered sofa held a half-dozen throw pillows embroidered with Bible verses. A pink-and-blue crocheted afghan more suitable for a nursery than a living room was flung over its back. The décor consisted of blue wall-to-wall carpet, threadbare in spots, a large flat-screen television, and lots of lace doilies.

  And dozens of African violets.

  Darkness was rapidly settling in, swaddling the interior in shadow. “This place creeps me out,” Reba Mae complained, edging closer. “Think Becca’s ghost will haunt her grannie’s house?”

  “Don’t be such a fraidy cat. We won’t be long.”

  Reba Mae gestured toward a coffee table and tea cart. “Becca might not be thrivin’, but her houseplants sure are.”

  “I doubt they’ll fare as well under my care. My plants have to survive long periods of drought followed by flash floods,” I said, and then inspiration struck. “If her kids don’t want them, maybe we can give them away. You know, free to good homes. Like puppies or kittens.”

  “Whatever.” Frowning, Reba Mae placed her hands on her hips and looked around. “Where do we start?”

  “Why don’t you take a peek into the bedrooms? See if you can spot anything out of the ordinary. I’ll check the dining room.”

  After flicking on a table lamp, Reba Mae reluctantly left to do as I asked. Meanwhile, I entered the adjoining dining room. I made quick work of searching through the drawers of a mahogany buffet but didn’t find anything more interesting than musty yellow linen tablecloths.

  I shoved a swinging door aside and entered the kitchen. Black and white speckled linoleum on the floor, red Formica countertops, and aging appliances. Another flat-screen television, this one smaller, sat on the counter next to a toaster oven. The room itself was immaculate. I sniffed the air, then sniffed again. What did I smell?

  Chlorine?

  “Becca was a TV addict.”

  I jumped, startled by Reba Mae’s voice directly behind me. “Did you find anything of interest in Becca’s room?” I asked once I’d recovered from my fright.

  “Jewelry, mostly costume stuff, and a bunch of perfume bottles. Only thing of value is a television set that looks fairly new.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “What’s with the bleach smell? Becca’s whites need an extra boost?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” I said absently as I started opening and closing cupboards. I pulled out a drawer next to the cookstove and stared at the contents in surprise. “Reba Mae, what do you make of this?”

  Reba Mae peered over my shoulder. “Well, I’ll be darned. Flavor injectors. Every shape and size they make ’em. No wonder Becca was so all-fired sure of winnin’ herself a trophy. She planned to cheat.”

  “According to the festival rules, contestants are disqualified for injecting marinade or tenderizer into their meat.”

  “Only if they’re caught.”

  Flavor injectors and meat went hand in hand. This in mind, I walked over to the refrigerator and opened the freezer. “Well, well, well,” I said. “Look what I found.”

  There, stacked like cordwood, were five frozen beef briskets. Except for the briskets, a quart of strawberry ice cream, and a bag of frozen peas, the freezer was empty.

  “Findin’ a brisket in a freezer right before a barbecue festival isn’t kin to discoverin’ a stash of Confederate gold buried in a rose garden,” Reba Mae pointed out. “I bet Meat on Main and Piggly Wiggly can’t keep up with orders.”

  “Don’t you think it strange Becca’s murder weapon might be something she kept in her very own freezer?”

  “Coincidence.” Reba Mae drifted over to examine a deep-purple African violet with double blossoms on the kitchen table. “I’m thinkin’ we should give Becca’s plants a nice drink of water before we go.”

  I continued to rummage through drawers and cupboards. “I’ve heard African violets are fussy. Too much water and they contract weird diseases with names you can’t pronounce.”

  “My mama used to have a way with ’em. She always felt the soil before waterin’.” Reba Mae poked her finger into the pot, then came away with a small, shiny object. “Look what I found. What do you s’pose it is? A shell of some sort?”

  I took it from her hand and placed it in my palm. “Neither,” I murmured, nudging it gently. “It’s a broken fingernail. A tip torn from a manicure-polished Pucker Up Pink.”

  “Becca would never venture out in public unless her nails were perfect.”

  “No,” I echoed. “Becca was much too vain. Unless…”

  Closing my eyes, I tried to imagine Becca as I’d last seen her, sprawled on her side, one arm outstretched as if to break her fall. I willed myself to visualize that arm.

  And that hand.

  McBride always preached that memory was a funny thing. “Funny” isn’t exactly the term I’d use. In this instance, it was downright weird. Becca Dapkins’s perennially perfect manicure had been less than perfect. The nail on her middle finger had been broken down to the quick.

  “I think Becca was killed right here—in her own kitchen,” I told a wide-eyed Reba Mae. “Time to call McBride.”

  CHAPTER 12

>   “LET ME SEE if I got this straight.” McBride’s brows drew together in irritation. “You insisted I drop everything and hurry over—all because you found a broken fingernail?”

  I had to admit at hearing it come from McBride’s mouth my theory sounded pretty lame. Judging from the fact he was in civvies rather than in uniform, I assumed I’d interrupted his plans for the evening. He didn’t look any too pleased at the prospect.

  “Becca would never go out in public with a broken fingernail,” Reba Mae, bless her heart, rushed to my defense. “It wasn’t in the woman’s DNA.”

  I flung my hand out in an expansive gesture. “See for yourself, McBride. The house is spotless. Not a single thing out of place.”

  “Not even a single water spot on a leaf of an African violet,” Reba Mae added helpfully.

  “If anything, the place is almost too neat. It doesn’t even look lived-in.”

  He shook his head, obviously not following my logic. “Exactly what does that prove?”

  “Do I have to spell it out for you?” I asked in exasperation. “It proves that Becca was meticulous. Would a woman that fussy take off to visit her estranged boyfriend with a broken fingernail? No, I don’t think so.”

  Reba Mae nodded vigorous agreement. “She’d at least try to glue it back on until she could get to her nail tech.”

  McBride scratched his head. “Women do those sorts of things?”

  “Yes, but glue is only a temporary fix. Therefore, the break must have been recent. Did your men find a fingernail at the scene of the crime?”

  “No, but—”

  “Because”—I aimed my index finger at his chest—“if my theory is correct, it was broken during a struggle right here in her very own kitchen.”

  “Aren’t you at least going to check it out?” Reba Mae asked.

  “Listen, ladies,” he said with exaggerated patience. “I know y’all consider yourselves junior-grade detectives, but you need to leave the investigation to the pros.”

  I wasn’t about to be dismissed this easily—or this condescendingly. “There’s more.” Marching over to the refrigerator, I flung open the freezer. “Ta-da!”

  McBride stuck his head inside to see why the fuss. “Call me dense, but what’s so noteworthy about a carton of ice cream and box of peas?”

  “Look again,” I ordered. “Those are briskets—frozen hard as cement. Five to be exact. If you don’t believe me count them.”

  He took another peek. “So, that’s what brisket looks like before it’s served up on a plate in a diner along with fries and a side of slaw.”

  Reba Mae tugged my arm. “Tell ’im about the bleach.”

  McBride’s gaze sharpened. “What about bleach?”

  “Can’t you smell it?” I asked in disbelief. “The room reeks of chlorine. I’ve seen enough CSIs to know that bleach is used to destroy evidence. What if the killer took time to clean the place up after he did the evil deed?”

  McBride didn’t answer but instead walked over to the laundry room/pantry. Reba Mae and I trailed on his heels, close enough to be his shadow. A gallon container of Clorox sat on the floor next to the washing machine. When he gave it a nudge with his foot the jug toppled over and rolled across the linoleum.

  “Empty,” I said, making no attempt to keep the satisfaction from my voice. “Why keep an empty bleach bottle instead of tossing it in the trash?”

  McBride turned to study us, his handsome face impassive. “Tell me again what you two are doing here. And make your explanation simple enough for a dumb cop to understand.”

  “African violets…?” Reba Mae offered.

  “We were worried about them,” I added.

  “I see,” he said slowly. “Are y’all members of the garden club? Or maybe some cult that goes around rescuing flowering plants?”

  He was doing it again—being condescending. And it made me want to swat him. “For your information, McBride, African violets are extremely temperamental. Knowing they were Becca’s favorites, we took it upon ourselves to see to their care.”

  “We plan to make sure each and every one finds a lovin’ home,” Reba Mae added self-righteously. “You heard of Adopt-a-Pet? Well, we’re gonna have Adopt-a-Plant.”

  “It’s comforting to know Ms. Dapkins has such devoted friends.”

  I could feel my temper rise higher. “Do I detect sarcasm, Chief?”

  “Who, me?” he replied poker-faced.

  Reba Mae opted for a preemptive strike. “We didn’t do anythin’ illegal like breakin’ or enterin’ if that’s what you’re thinkin’.”

  “Gerilee Barker gave us Becca’s spare key.” I dangled the key in front of him to make my point. “The question is, what are you going to do? On TV, the lead detective on the case usually calls in the crime techs to check for blood.”

  “Yeah, they use spray bottles and a special light.” Reba Mae’s gold hoop earrings bobbed up and down as she spoke.

  “Times like this, I long for the pre-CSI days,” he said with a grimace. “Now everyone thinks they know more than the cops.”

  “So are you, or aren’t you, going to check for evidence?” I demanded.

  “I’ll request experts from the GBI to process the scene. See if they can find any blood traces, fingerprints, or anything of that nature. Satisfied?”

  I nodded my head. “What if it turns out we’re right? That Becca was killed right here in her kitchen?”

  “The investigation will take another direction. In the meantime, I’ll continue to ask around, try to find out who might have held a grudge against her. Check out their alibis.”

  McBride ushered us out the door and locked it. It wouldn’t take long for him to find out Maybelle resented Becca stealing her beau. But just because Maybelle didn’t like to share didn’t make her a murderer. Even so, the woman was hiding something, as evidenced by her odd behavior the night Reba Mae and I paid her a surprise visit. Thank goodness, she had an alibi for the night of Becca’s murder.

  * * *

  The following evening, I convinced Reba Mae to join Casey and me for a leisurely stroll. I hadn’t jogged since discovering Becca’s body. Habits, I’d noted, are much easier to break than they are to acquire.

  “Whoo-hoo!” Reba Mae pumped her fist in the air, then pocketed her cell phone. “I’ve got a date for Saturday night. An honest-to-goodness, bona fide, genuine, gentleman-pays-all date.”

  “Whoo-hoo,” I repeated, but with far less enthusiasm. “Who’s the lucky fellow?”

  Catching Reba Mae’s high spirits, Casey gave an excited woof and danced at the end of his leash.

  “Wally Porter, esteemed and certified senior barbecue judge, invited me out for dinner Saturday night. He wants to take me to a seafood place in Augusta. What do you think I should wear?”

  Our walk had taken us full circle, ending at the town square where we’d begun. I sank down on a park bench not far from the supposed crime scene. Yellow crime scene tape still festooned the area around the azalea bushes. Casey settled at my feet, his head resting on his front paws, his eyes alert. I could tell from the expression on his cute doggy face that he wasn’t keen on the idea of a career as a cadaver dog.

  “Wally sure is a snappy dresser. I like all those little horsey logos on his shirts.” Reba Mae was too excited to sit still. Instead, she walked back and forth in front of the bench, talking nonstop. “His watch looks expensive. I bet it’s a Rolex. And did you see his shoes? They’re probably Italian. Italian leather, they say, is the best. I have a hunch the Lincoln Town Car parked outside North of the Border last night belonged to him. It looked like the sort of car he’d drive. I think he’s rich.”

  “Um-hum,” I murmured, stifling a yawn. My mind wandered as Reba Mae chattered on. My gaze drifted to Spice It Up! across the square. From my vantage point, I had a clear view of my living room window above the shop. I remembered waking in the wee small hours the night Becca was murdered and staring out that very window.

  And all the
while, her lifeless body waited for me to discover.

  Reba Mae stopped pacing and planted her hands on her hips. “Have you heard a single word I’ve said?”

  “Sure, sort of,” I said hastily. “You talked about horses, and Italy, and Lincoln Center.”

  “Lincoln Center?”

  Oops! My bad. Lincoln Center, Lincoln Town Car, close but no cigar. “Sorry, Reba Mae. It’s just that memories of this place are still fresh in my mind.”

  Instantly remorseful, Reba Mae sat next to me and put her arm around my shoulders. “I wasn’t thinkin’, honeybun. I’m just so thrilled about havin’ a dinner date with an attractive man, everythin’ else just flew outta my head. Want to talk about Becca?”

  I shook my head. “No, maybe another time. “I didn’t want to prick my BFF’s happy bubble. Let her bask in the moment. I couldn’t fault Wally Porter’s judgment when it came to women. He couldn’t have picked a better dinner date than Reba Mae Johnson.

  “Pour yourself a nice glass of wine when you get home, then draw a bubble bath. That always puts me in a better frame of mind. Now,” she said, glancing at her watch, “I’ve gotta thousand and one things to do. Besides decidin’ what I’m wearin’ tomorrow night, I need to shave my legs, give myself a facial, a manicure. a pedi.”

  Reba Mae had a bounce in her step as she walked off. But not even the prospect of a glass of wine and a bubble bath was enough to lure me back to an empty apartment just yet. I continued to sit on the bench, Casey content at my feet.

  A soft breeze stirred the branches of the willow oaks, fanning my upturned face. The heat of the day was gradually subsiding, though much of the humidity remained. Summers in Georgia are like living in a sauna. I console myself with the theory—totally unfounded—that the excess moisture in the air keeps skin dewy soft and youthful looking. Another theory—also totally unfounded—is that’s the reason why so many Southern girls win national beauty pageants.

  My peaceful interlude ended when a police cruiser eased to the curb. McBride slid out from behind the wheel and sauntered toward me. “Mind if I join you?” Not waiting for an answer, he lowered himself next to me.