by Gail Oust
“Sorry,” I apologized, taking his hand and squeezing it. “Guess I’m distracted by all the goings-on.”
“Apology accepted,” he said, then brightened. “Say, better yet, why don’t I take you dancing? I heard about a club not far from here that has a live band every Saturday night.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“That’s more like it.” He drew me in for a kiss, and for blissful seconds my mind emptied of everything else.
“Guess I’ll see you tomorrow night then for the street dance,” Doug said when we broke apart. He started for the door, then turned and grinned at me over his shoulder. “Hopefully, you’ll be able to spot me behind the big trophy I’ll be carrying.”
“Good luck!” I called after him.
As I slowly walked back toward the storeroom, I was unable to escape the niggling feeling that the window of opportunity for finding Becca’s killer was about to slam shut. The barbecue festival would soon be over. Would the chance to find the murderer be over as well?
CHAPTER 33
IT WASN’T EVERY day I was invited to dine at a home dating back to the 1820s. I was looking forward to the occasion. It would be the perfect opportunity to learn more about Tex and Wally, too. I dressed with care in a black and white floral jacquard skirt, sleeveless black top, and peep-toe patent-leather pumps. The Turner-Driscoll House had been the talk of the town as the once-neglected grande dame had flourished from tired into fabulous.
I alighted from my carriage—er, make that my VW Beetle—beneath the boughs of a stately magnolia and sashayed up the front steps to the portico. I had no sooner rung the bell when the door was opened by a young black girl.
“Mrs. Driscoll is expecting you, Mrs. Prescott,” the girl informed me. “She said you were to join the others in the parlor. If you’ll follow me…”
The girl looked vaguely familiar, yet I couldn’t quite place her. She was slender and quite pretty, with skin the warm brown of an acorn. I guessed her to be in her late teens. “Excuse me, but have we met?”
“I graduated from high school with your son, Chad.” She flashed a smile over her shoulder. “I’m Lakeisha Blessing.”
“Then you must be related to Precious.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Lakeisha acknowledged. “Precious is my auntie.”
“Ahh, yes,” I said. “Chad, I recall, was quite upset when you beat him out for class valedictorian.”
Lakeisha simply smiled and, upon reaching the parlor, excused herself.
“Piper!” Felicity rose from the settee and hurried over to greet me. Her other guests had already assembled and were enjoying cocktails in stemmed glasses. Tex and Wally, gentlemen that they were, rose when they spotted me. Reba Mae waggled her fingers and grinned.
Linking her arm through mine, Felicity drew me into the room where I’d been only the day before. “Wally is making martinis. Care to join us, or would you prefer a nice Chardonnay?”
“I’ll have a martini,” I heard myself reply. I resisted the urge to go all James Bond on her and add shaken, not stirred. Luckily I caught myself in time. I have to confess I’ve never tasted a martini. The drink—or maybe it was the fancy glasses—always seemed glamorous and sophisticated, so I put any misgivings aside.
“Excellent choice.” Wally nodded his approval. “One olive or two?”
What was with the quiz? Was there a right or wrong answer? What if I didn’t like olives? With these questions zipping through my brain, I contemplated my options. Reba Mae cleared her throat. I darted a glance in her direction and, much to my relief, saw her hold up her index and middle fingers.
“Two,” I replied. “I prefer martinis with two olives.”
While Wally measured gin and vermouth into a silver shaker, Tex indicated a chair across from Reba Mae. “Have a seat, little lady.”
I cautiously lowered myself onto a chair that looked to be museum quality. The kind usually seen behind a velvet rope and inaccessible to humble tourists. Felicity offered me hors d’oeuvres prettily arranged on a silver tray.
“Try ’em, Piper,” Reba Mae urged. “They’re to die for.”
“Those little triangles are a variation of cheese straws,” Felicity explained, looking pleased at Reba Mae’s ringing endorsement.
“Cheese straws and deviled eggs are part of every Southern cook’s repertoire,” Reba added, helping herself to another golden triangle.
“You’re absolutely right, Reba Mae.” Felicity passed the tray to Tex. “As you can see, Piper, I used both the black and white sesame seeds I purchased in your shop.”
Wally handed me a martini. “Here you go.”
“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with black sesame seeds,” Tex confessed.
“Americans are more familiar with white sesame seeds,” I explained. “The black variety is used more commonly in Chinese and Japanese cooking.”
“Hmm, interesting.” Wally eyed me over the rim of his martini glass. “In my experience, black sesame seeds tend to be bitter.”
“True, but not if the dry roasting is done lightly.”
“I bow to your expertise.”
Wally’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. I got the impression he wasn’t pleased I’d contradicted his opinion. I took a tiny sip of my martini and tried not to make a face when I discovered the drink stronger than anticipated.
When thirty minutes later Lakeisha Blessing announced dinner was ready, I was amazed to find my glass empty. I felt grateful for Tex’s steadying arm as he escorted me into the dining room. Martinis, it seemed, packed a punch. I made a mental note to steer clear of them in the future.
Seated at an antique dining room table, I experienced once again the sensation of stepping back in time. Felicity had pulled out all the stops to make dinner a memorable occasion. Bone china, crystal, and silver sparkled against the white damask tablecloth. I doubted the room looked much different than it had when news arrived that General Sherman and his troops were marching across Georgia. The only things absent were hoop skirts and frock coats.
Felicity sat enthroned at the head of the table and requested that Tex and Wally sit on either side of her. I was seated beside Tex while Reba Mae sat across from me next to Wally. At a signal from Felicity, Lakeisha served a salad of field greens, toasted pecans, and mandarin oranges drizzled with raspberry vinaigrette.
Wally, assuming the role of sommelier, circled the table and poured wine. “I selected a full-bodied cabernet sauvignon to pair with the beef bourguignon. My specialty is really Italian, but tonight I decided to serve French instead.”
“Wally’s spinach and eggplant lasagna with sun-dried tomatoes was superb,” Felicity said.
Leaning over, Tex whispered, “Me, on the other hand, a burger, a brew, and I’m happy.”
Felicity passed a basket of flaky dinner rolls. “I consider myself fortunate at having Lakeisha help when I entertain. I’ll miss her when she returns to Georgia Southern in Statesboro. Her father, Bubba Blessing, is an entrant in the amateur division.”
Tex stopped slathering butter on his roll. “What’s your father’s specialty, Lakeisha?”
“Ribs, sir,” she said, pride in her voice. “Daddy’s are the best. They melt in your mouth.”
“You’re not trying to influence one of the judges, are you, Lakeisha?” Wally asked, quick to remind us of his esteemed position lest we had lapsed into dementia.
Lakeisha’s dark eyes rounded. “No, sir. I didn’t mean…”
Felicity clucked her tongue. “I’m certain Mr. Porter was merely teasing, dear.”
Wally gave the girl a stern look. “Now would be a good time, Lakeisha, to plate the entrée. Remember to do it exactly as I instructed.”
“Yes, sir.” Lakeisha hurried out.
“Speaking of specialties,” Felicity continued, “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted better brisket than the one Tex made for us.”
Brisket…? I paused in the act of reaching for my wine. As in bludgeoned with a brisket?
; From across the table, Reba Mae shot me a look. “I heard Pete Barker at Meat on Main had a run on brisket,” she said, picking up the conversational thread. “Could hardly keep up with orders.”
“Dottie Hemmings told me Becca Dapkins bought his entire stock,” I said, improvising like mad.
“You know what they say about timing.” Tex raised his wineglass and winked. “Lucky for me Pete found one lonely brisket, froze hard as a brick, hiding in the back of his meat locker.”
“Don’t suppose you’re of a mind to share your recipe?” Reba Mae all but batted her eyelashes.
“Sorry, ma’am, but wild horses couldn’t drag it out of me. It’s been in the family for years. Family secrets are hard to part with–even to a lady as pretty as yourself.”
Reba Mae speared a slice of mandarin orange. “Can’t blame a girl for tryin’.”
“I tried to persuade Reba Mae to divulge her secrets for Hungarian goulash, but with no success,” Wally grumbled. “I even tried bribing her with an excellent Bordeaux.”
Lakeisha returned to clear the salad plates. I would’ve liked to find out more about Tex and his magic way with a brisket that was “hard as a brick,” but talk drifted to other topics. I promised myself I’d corner Felicity later in an effort to learn more.
The beef bourguignon lived up to the hype. Wally’s chest swelled like a pufferfish in the Georgia Aquarium at all the praise. He celebrated his resounding culinary success by opening a second bottle of red wine. He failed to notice I’d barely touched the first glass he’d poured me.
My chance to speak privately to Felicity came when she announced it was time for dessert. “I’ll help,” I said, hopping up from my chair before she could refuse. I raced after her as rapidly as my high heels and pencil-slim skirt allowed.
I caught up with her as she was about to enter a kitchen that seemed surprisingly modern in a house nearly two hundred years old. “That’s very thoughtful of you to offer help but unnecessary,” she said. “Lakeisha and I can manage quite nicely.”
“I wanted to ask you a question,” I told her, glancing down the hall to make sure no one was within earshot. “I wondered if you recalled exactly when Tex cooked his brisket.”
“Well now, let me think.” Felicity’s brow furrowed; then her expression cleared. “Oh yes, I remember. It was shortly after he arrived in Brandywine Creek. Matter of fact, it was the very day Becca’s body was discovered. I remember thinking how considerate of him to distract us from the terrible tragedy that had just transpired.”
“Oh…” Coincidence? Or just plain creepy?
Felicity studied me worriedly. “You look a bit pale, dear. Are you feeling all right?”
“I just need a breath of fresh air is all.”
“I should have warned you that Wally’s martinis are potent. Not to mention all the wine.” She patted my arm. “Why don’t you sit a spell while I check on the peach cobbler?”
My head was reeling—and it had nothing to do with alcohol. Tex Mahoney had just zoomed to the top spot on my persons-of-interest list. By his own admission, he hated cheaters. And judging from the drawer of flavor injectors, Becca had intended to cheat her way to success. Had Tex discovered her plan? Did a mean temper lurk under the lazy drawl and good ol’ boy charisma? Was the out-of-this-world brisket he’d prepared the day I’d found her body a clever attempt to destroy the murder weapon?
For Felicity’s benefit, I fabricated a tipsy smile and wobbled unsteadily down the hall. Pausing outside the dining room, I waved my arms to flag down Reba Mae’s attention. She glanced up, about to speak, but I held my finger to my lips and beckoned her.
Muttering an excuse about needing to visit the little girls’ room, she joined me in the hallway. I caught her arm and pulled her toward the curving stairway that led to the upper level. “I need to search Tex’s room.”
She regarded me suspiciously. “Girl, how many martinis did you drink?”
“I think Tex murdered Becca.”
“Let me smell your breath,” Reba Mae ordered. “You never could tolerate hard liquor.”
“I don’t have time to explain,” I whispered. “All I’m asking is that you keep everyone occupied downstairs while I look for clues.”
Reba Mae stared at me as if I’d taken leave of my senses. “Honeybun, you’re crazy as a loon.”
“We can debate that later, but right now I need you to watch my back.”
“Well,” she said at last, “if you’re gonna sneak around you’d better do it barefoot. High heels make one heck of a racket on these hardwood floors.”
If I had time, I would have hugged her. Instead, I slipped off my shoes and hid them behind a plant stand with a trailing Boston fern. Giving my BFF a thumbs-up, I hiked up my skirt and darted up the stairs.
I found myself in a wide center hallway, its heart pine floor cushioned with a runner in subdued colors. Doors with bronze nameplates bearing names of various military leaders opened off either side. Names such as those of Brigadier Generals William T. Wofford, George T. Anderson, and Henry Benning. If I had to venture a guess, these officers served in the Confederate army.
From below I could hear the soft murmur of voices and I knew I didn’t have much time. My heart hammered in my ears as I pushed open the door on my right. Women’s clothing was strewn across a chaise lounge. The antique dresser was cluttered with jewelry, cosmetics, and expensive perfume bottles, telling me the room belonged to the barbecue princess.
I left quietly and moved on. I struck pay dirt when I entered a room labeled: BRIGADIER GENERAL MATHEW D. ECTOR. Unlike Barbie’s, it was neat as a pin. Distinctly masculine. Who was the neatnik? I wondered. Wally or Tex?
I ventured farther inside, cautiously shutting the door behind me. There were no closets to sift through, since homes of that period favored bulky armoires rather than spacious walk-ins. My question as to the room’s occupant was answered when I eased the armoire open and found it crammed with Tex’s Western-style shirts and jeans.
Any lingering doubt vanished at spying a silver belt buckle inlaid with turquoise on the dressing table. I eased open a drawer of the nightstand, but the only thing it contained was a Gideon Bible. I was about to close it when something caught my eye. Several scraps of paper protruded between the pages. Had someone used them to mark a favorite passage? My curiosity piqued, I picked the Bible up for a better look, and two small pieces of paper floated to the floor. Even before I scooped them up, I sensed I’d just found Maybelle’s missing alibi.
I stared down at them. What to do? What to do? I gnawed my lower lip and pondered my options. I needed to show McBride my find. I’d worry later about explaining how I found proof of Maybelle’s innocence. I knew from past experience he’d be a hard sell. There were dozens, maybe even hundreds, of movie tickets sold any given night. Everyone has gas station receipts. This particular station was located at a busy intersection. Tex could have filled his tank there as easily as Maybelle. But what about fingerprints? What if Maybelle’s—and now mine—were on the credit card receipt? Wouldn’t that be significant? I slipped both of them into my skirt pocket.
Nervously I glanced over my shoulder. I’d dawdled long enough. It was time to skedaddle. I replaced the Bible and hurried out of the bedroom. I was congratulating myself on a clean getaway when Tex met me halfway down the stairs.
“These yours, little lady?” he asked, holding up my peep-toe stilettos.
Forcing a smile, I reached for my shoes, but he held them just out of reach.
“Any reason why you’re parading around upstairs in your bare feet while the rest of us are corralled below?”
I thought I detected an underlying hardness in the soft drawl. “I wasn’t feeling well,” I fibbed. “I thought Felicity might have some aspirin in her medicine cabinet.”
Snatching my shoes out of his hands, I squeezed past him on the staircase. I felt his eyes bore into my back as I fled.
CHAPTER 34
I DRUMMED MY fingers on the
steering wheel. The click, click sound made by my nails seemed the equivalent of Chinese water torture on my frayed nerves. The two receipts I’d retrieved, confiscated, appropriated—or blatantly robbed—from Tex Mahoney’s room were burning a hole in my pocket. To my way of thinking, they were tantamount to proof positive that Tex murdered Becca and had tried to frame Maybelle. Problem number one was how to convince McBride. Problem number two was how to explain why I was in possession of two incriminating pieces of evidence. I wasn’t a fashion maven, but neither was I fond of orange jumpsuits.
Put on your big-girl panties and stop being a wuss. Problem number three was to locate the lawman. Would I find him behind his desk at the police department? Or had he already left for the day? Deciding to swing by the station, I shifted into Drive. If I didn’t see his truck in its usual parking spot, I’d drive by his house. I’d smile nicely while asking him to check the receipts for fingerprints. Next, I’d suggest he haul Tex down to the station and grill him like a rack of ribs.
I cruised down Lincoln Street, bypassing the stage set up for Zeke Blessing and his blues band and slowing when I reached the Brandywine Creek Police Department. There was no sign of McBride’s vehicle in the adjacent lot, so I continued on my merry way. I was contemplating confronting McBride on his home turf when I recognized his big black Ford F-150 parked down the block from North of the Border. Who was I to argue with fate?
Lights blazed in the windows of the Mexican restaurant. Cars lined both sides of the street. People waiting for tables congregated in the doorway. Tomorrow barbecue would reign supreme, but tonight was meant for mariachi music and margaritas. As if from a stroke of a magic wand, a SUV pulled out of a parking space, and I pulled in. I still hadn’t devised a tactful way of confessing I’d committed a felony, or at least a misdemeanor, but I refused to let that deter me. I hurried from my car and pushed my way through the crowd.
Waiters bustled back and forth with trays of burritos and fajitas. Nacho greeted me with a harried smile. “Señora, we have no empty tables, but if you’d care to wait…”