Kill 'Em with Cayenne

by Gail Oust

  Using the back of her hand, Reba Mae shoved her spiky black bangs aside. “Wanna join us? I made plenty.”

  “You know what they say about two’s company, three’s a crowd.”

  “I just asked to be polite. I was hopin’ you’d refuse.”

  “Well, at least you get an A-plus for honesty,” I said. “It’s another hot one today. Any Diet Coke?”

  “Does a cat have whiskers? While you’re at it, I just made a pitcher of sweet tea.” She pointed toward the fridge with her spoon. “Pour me some, will you?”

  I filled a glass with ice cubes, added tea, and set it on the counter within reach. Now, I have nothing against sweet tea. It’s quite delicious but loaded with calories. I heard a story once that as an April Fool’s joke some years back the Georgia House introduced a bill making it a “misdemeanor of a high and aggravated nature” to sell iced tea in a restaurant that did not also offer sweet tea. As far as I know, the bill never went to a vote.

  Popping the tab on my Coke, I took a seat at the kitchen table. “I’m expecting Lindsey home soon. I can’t wait to hear about her time at the lake.”

  “The girl will probably come back with a fabulous tan.”

  “Probably,” I agreed. “Take me, for instance. All I ever have to show for time at the beach is more freckles.”

  “The curse of bein’ a redhead. Me, I come back brown as a berry.” She turned the dial on the stove to simmer and began gathering the ingredients for her delicious poppyseed dressing. “You fixin’ somethin’ special to celebrate your baby’s homecomin’?”

  “Her favorite.” I crossed one leg over the other, swung a sandaled foot back and forth. “Shrimp and grits.”

  Reba Mae grated an onion. “I thought about makin’ that, but Wally spends a lot of time in the low country—Savannah, Charleston, Hilton Head. Shrimp and grits are practically on every menu.”

  “How was your date last night?” I finally asked the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.

  “Fantastic.” Reba Mae shot me a grin over her shoulder. “Wally took me to this fancy seafood place. You know the kind. White tablecloths, candlelight, soft music, efficient waitstaff. Lucky for us, Wally had phoned ahead for reservations. Lot of folks had to wait outside on benches.”

  I took a swallow of Coke. “I didn’t know you were fond of seafood—shrimp and grits notwithstanding.”

  “I’m not, so I let Wally do the ordering. I had Chilean sea bass served with a fruity salsa. Delicious!”

  “Sounds delicious.”

  “It was.” She measured sugar, vinegar, salt, and ground dry mustard—from Canada, no less—into a mini-prep food processor and added the onion she’d grated. “How was Antonio’s? My clients rave about their specials.”

  I traced the condensate on my can of soda. “According to Marcy Magruder, who happens to be their waitress, they were out of both the osso buco and eggplant parmigiana. When she finally checked to find out what they did have, the only thing left was spaghetti.”

  Reba Mae turned on the food processor and gradually added a slow stream of olive oil. “So how was the spaghetti?”

  I raised my voice to be heard over the din. “Doug and I decided they didn’t want our business, so we left. I glanced back in time to see Tony peek out of the kitchen. You should have seen his smirk.”

  “I think he’s part Sicilian.”

  “That’s not all.…” I proceeded to tell her about the confrontation between Barbie and CJ. “That marks the second time I heard someone remark on how much Barbie’s changed since high school. The first was Becca Dapkins. Now CJ.”

  Reba Mae paused to look at me. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. I still have Butch’s high school yearbooks in the attic. He must’ve been a year or two ahead of Barbie, but it’d be interestin’ to see what she looked like compared to now. Sort of before and after shots.”

  I finished the last of my diet soda. “Why don’t you see if you can rustle them up? I don’t mean today, when you’re expecting to impress a guest with goulash, but soon.”

  “I’ll do just that.” Reba Mae stirred pretty blue Dutch poppy seeds—also courtesy of moi—into her dressing. “You never did tell me what you had for dinner after leaving Antonio’s in a huff.”

  “Doug came over to my place, and I made omelets.”

  Reba Mae waggled her eyebrows suggestively. “I’m more interested in what happened after the omelets.”

  “Doug was called away on an emergency. A schnauzer ate his owner’s car keys.”

  “Bummer.” Reba Mae gave the goulash another stir.

  “What about you?”

  Reba Mae gave me a wink. “I’m not one to kiss and tell.” As I left her to finish preparations for “date” number two, I gave her a thumbs-up.

  * * *

  Home in my own kitchen, I kept glancing at the clock on the wall. I debated whether or not to take Casey for a romp but decided to let Lindsey have the honors. Becca’s funeral was tomorrow, and the reception afterward would be sure to draw a crowd. This in mind, I pulled out my mother’s recipe for an old standby—pineapple upside-down cake.

  I hauled out cake flour, white and brown sugar, eggs, butter, pineapple rings, maraschino cherries, and the best doggone pure vanilla I stocked. I preferred beans grown in Madagascar rather than darker-flavored ones from Mexico, but to each his own. I wondered if Doug, who always teased me about pricey saffron, knew that vanilla is the second most expensive spice in the world. Like saffron, its production is labor-intensive. Even pollination is done by hand. I made a mental note to inform him of this fact next time we met. Though Doug might be impressed with my knowing this, McBride would deposit my spice trivia into his bank of useless information. All the more reason Doug and I were well suited for each other.

  While I went about mixing and measuring, my thoughts strayed to Barbie Bunker Quinlan. It would be interesting to flip through Butch’s old yearbooks. See the changes the years had wrought. Neither Becca nor CJ had had recognized Barbie initially. Her eyes, though, should have been a dead giveaway. Their pale aquamarine was a color not usually seen without the advantage of contact lenses.

  I suspected the changes that had taken place in the woman were more than superficial. Though I really didn’t know much about her, I could tell she was smart, savvy, driven. I was curious about her marital status. And not because of her obvious interest in Wyatt McBride. Barbie flashed a huge diamond—on her right hand, not her left. If she was married, Mr. Quinlan was nowhere in sight. A divorcée? A successful career woman? From the clothes she wore and car she drove, she wasn’t hurting for money.

  I mentally reviewed what little I did know about her. She’d left town suddenly and under questionable circumstances. And she wasn’t averse to showing her hometown in a negative light. The notion that a “prank” CJ had pulled in high school still rankled attested to her tendency to carry a chip on her shoulder. While she and McBride behaved like long-lost pals, she and Becca Dapkins had snapped and snarled at each other like tomcats.

  Had Barbie returned to Brandywine Creek with a vendetta? Had she hoped to settle an old score with Becca? How deep did Barbie’s animosity run?

  A car door slammed just then. Minutes later, I heard Lindsey’s footsteps running up the stairs.

  “Mom, you home?”

  The sound of my daughter’s voice erased all thoughts of Barbie Q. “In the kitchen, sweetie!” I called, sliding my cake into the oven.

  The instant the door opened, Casey went wild. His shaggy little body quivered with excitement at the return of his favorite playmate. His happy barking even drowned out the whirr of the air conditioner.

  Lindsey flung her duffel to the floor and scooped Casey up in her arms. Laughing at his wiggling and squirming, she managed to give me a one-arm hug. “Hey, Mom. Miss me?”

  I hugged her back. “You betcha.”

  Lindsey dropped down on the floor to play Casey’s favorite game of tug-of-war with an old gym sock. This gave me an opportunity
to study my daughter anew. Sixteen but wavering between twelve and twenty. She favored the Prescott side of the family, with blond hair and blue-gray eyes like those of CJ and Melly.

  “Have fun?” I asked, giving Lindsey’s sun-streaked ponytail a gentle tug.

  “Loads. Taylor’s father has a brand-new Jet Ski and let us take it out whenever we wanted. We went tubing and wakeboarding. And…” She paused for dramatic effect. “I met this really cute guy. His name is Devon. He’s already texted me twice since I left Taylor’s.”

  “Not when driving, I hope.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Mom, we’re not idiots. I know texting while driving is dangerous. We hear that lecture all the time at school. I don’t need one from you.”

  “And I don’t need that tone of voice from you, young lady,” I reprimanded.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled.

  I decided a change of subject might be wise. “I’m making your favorite dinner tonight—shrimp and grits.”

  She stopped tossing the sock to Casey and looked up at me. “I wish you would’ve told me sooner. I promised Daddy I’d have dinner with him and Amber when I got home. He’s experimenting with a new grill.”

  I swallowed my disappointment. How could I compete with a brand-new grill? “Well. I wouldn’t want you to break your promise to your father. But I’ll need you here at Spice It Up! for a couple hours tomorrow while I attend a memorial service and reception.”

  “Okay,” she said, climbing to her feet. “Who died? Anyone I know?”

  “Becca Dapkins.” I unfastened the beaters from the mixer and dropped them into the sink. “Did you know her?”

  Before I could whisk it away, Lindsey grabbed a spatula and licked off the cake batter. “Yeah, she’s the lady always dressed in pink. I didn’t think she was old enough to die.”

  “She wasn’t.” I squirted dish detergent into the mixing bowl and let it soak.

  Lindsey pried the lid from a can of doggy treats and tossed one to Casey. “Then what happened?”

  “Someone struck her over the head hard enough to kill her.” I grabbed a dishcloth and wiped flecks of batter from the counter. “Since her purse and jewelry were missing, Chief McBride thinks it might’ve been a robbery gone awry.”

  Lindsey leaned against the sink, fiddled with her ponytail. “Wow! Who found her body?”

  “Casey did.”

  Lindsey stared at me wide-eyed. “All by himself…?”

  “Not exactly. I happened to be accompanying him at the time.” I rubbed harder than necessary at a stubborn stain.

  “Jeez, Mom. Wasn’t finding one dead body enough? No one finds two! People are going to think you’re some sort of a … a … dead body magnet.”

  I faced her, dishrag in hand, expression solemn. “I give you my word, Lindsey, it won’t happen again. I’ve joined a twelve-step program.”

  “That’s not funny!”

  “Let’s look on the bright side,” I said. “Doug thinks Casey has the instincts of a great cadaver dog.”

  Lindsey studied me, lips pursed. Her expression reminded me of Melly’s close-lipped disapproval whenever I failed to live up to her expectations—which occurred with regularity. “Where did all this take place?”

  “In the square.” I waved the dishrag in the general direction. “Under the azaleas.”

  “You’re telling me a woman was killed right across the street?” Lindsey stalked into the living room and peered out the window. She shivered dramatically. “Imagine! A murder practically under your nose.”

  I joined her. I opened my mouth to offer motherly words of infinite wisdom when a white Cadillac Escalade pulled up in front of the square and parked. Barbie exited the driver’s seat. Next, a young man climbed out the passenger side, went around the back, and hauled out a video camera the size of a Confederate cannon. Barbie headed toward a cluster of azaleas and motioned the young man with the camera to follow.

  “Who’s that?” Lindsey pressed her nose against the glass.

  “That’s Barbara Bunker Quinlan, known to her admirers as Barbie Q. She’s here to film the barbecue festival for her TV show.”

  “No. Not her.” Lindsey shook her head impatiently. “I meant the guy. He’s hot!”

  Hot? Squinting, I leaned forward, trying to figure out exactly what comprised “hot” in the eyes of a teenage girl. Lean and lanky? A mop of messy brown hair? Or was it jeans faded and strategically ripped at the knees? The guy didn’t do a thing for my libido. Must be a sign of old age. Note to self: get hormone levels checked.

  Lindsey turned abruptly and snatched the leash from a hook by the door. “I think Casey needs to go for a walk.”

  CHAPTER 15

  THE VFW WAS wall-to-wall people. Half the town, it seemed, had turned out for Becca Dapkins’s send-off. I spotted CJ and Amber chatting with Matt and Mary Beth Wainwright, his law partner and wife. In one corner, Joe Johnson, former police chief, huddled with the mayor and several city council members. In another, Jolene Tucker gossiped with a group of ladies from her bunco group. I recognized Lindsey’s language arts teacher along with several others on the faculty at Brandywine High.

  Reba Mae gazed in amazement at the array of casseroles that adorned a buffet table. “Who knew there are so many ways to use cream of mushroom soup?”

  “Who knew?” I echoed, truly in awe at the spectacle. In contrast, my pineapple upside-down cake and Reba Mae’s pecan tassies huddled like castaways on a small table at the far end.

  Funerals were always a popular social occasion here in the South, but even more so when murder was involved. Pink balloons floated above tables covered in pink plastic. Bouquets of carnations—pink of course—were scattered here and there. The Thursday night bingo ladies had done themselves proud. If she could’ve seen the to-do, Becca would’ve been thrilled.

  “Becca’s son and daughter,” Reba Mae said, pointing to a man and a woman in their late twenties or early thirties, who stood somewhat apart, and lowered her voice. “They didn’t seem any too heartbroken about their mother’s passin’. I watched the daughter while the minister gave a eulogy. Didn’t shed a tear.”

  “The son kept glancing at his watch the whole time,” I whispered back. “Acted like he was late for a kickoff.”

  “Felicity told me the two are packed and ready to leave the second the reception’s over.”

  “Hey, y’all.” Dottie Hemmings bustled over. In keeping with the funeral’s theme, she wore a pink flowered polyester dress that strained at the seams. Her blond helmet looked newly sprayed and teased. Reba Mae and I were drab in comparison, a black wrap dress for her, a navy sheath for me. “Did you ever see so many casseroles?” Dottie gushed. “Too bad we didn’t think of doing a recipe exchange.”

  Reba Mae smiled, but I recognized the devilish glint in her eyes. “Maybe it’s not too late to ask folks for recipes. Maybe put them in a cookbook. Dedicate it in Becca’s honor.”

  Dottie clapped her chubby hands together. “What a marvelous idea, Reba Mae. I can’t think of a more fitting tribute to Becca than a collection of cream of mushroom soup recipes from all her friends and neighbors.”

  “Perhaps you could sell them at the Chamber of Commerce,” I suggested, tongue in cheek.

  “Why didn’t I think of that?” Dottie beamed, obviously delighted at the notion. “I’ll speak with Maybelle and ask her to help.”

  What had we started? I could envision a no-holds-barred battle between the mayor and Maybelle Humphries if that came to fruition. The thought of Maybelle hawking cookbooks dedicated to her archrival almost made me smile. She’d probably use them for a dart board.

  Dottie, oblivious of the irony, rattled on, “For the life of me, I don’t understand why folks are so eager to jump on the cremation bandwagon. What about you, Reba Mae, cremation or burial?”

  Reba Mae glanced my way, but I gave her my keep-me-out-of-this look in return. “Um, burial?” she said, more question than answer.

  “This isn’t a pop
quiz,” I hissed in her ear.

  “You had a lovely service at First Baptist when Butch passed. Everyone crying and carrying on. Lots of flowers. Brenda Nash at the organ. Pinky Alexander brought the house down when she sang ‘Amazing Grace.’” Dottie dabbed at her eyes with a tissue she extracted from her ample cleavage. “Pinky got a standing ovation.”

  I didn’t have the heart to remind Dottie the congregation was already on their feet at that point.

  Dottie smiled fondly in her husband’s direction. Harvey Hemmings, busy extolling the virtues of small-town life to anyone within earshot, ignored his wife. I wished Reba Mae and I could do the same. “No carnations or gladiolus for me,” Dottie continued. “As for hymns, my favorite is ‘Abide with Me.’ A good rule of thumb is no hymn composed after 1940. My husband the mayor has clear instructions what to do if I should pass first.”

  “Pass” was a euphemism for dying—or, in Becca’s case, being murdered. I’d never heard the term as a child growing up in Detroit, but it seemed a much gentler phrase than “kicked the bucket,” “bought the farm,” “cashed in her chips,” or just plain “croaked.” Since moving to Georgia, I’d adopted the word. “Passed” was now part of my vocabulary right along with “bless her heart.”

  Melly approached our little conclave. “Pardon the interruption, ladies, but have any of you seen Maybelle?”

  I was overcome by a fierce desire to hug my ex-mother-in-law. I don’t think I’ve ever been so grateful for an “interruption” as I was after listening to Dottie prattle on—and on and on.

  “Maybelle, the poor dear”—Melly fingered her pearls—“has been feeling under the weather ever since Becca passed.”

  “Maybelle and Becca weren’t exactly on the best of terms—” Reba Mae started to say.