Bone Appétit (16 page)

“I didn’t say a word,” Marcus huffed. “You can’t name me in a slander suit when I didn’t speak.”

“Yes,” I said into the phone. “I think three million is a little low. The damages here are Ms. Blackledge’s ability to make a living. I’m thinking more along the lines of ten million, which are potential earnings for a good spokesperson. Yes, we’ll be at your office tomorrow morning. Have the paperwork ready.”

The crowd sucked in an audible breath. Whispers snaked around the gathering.

“You can’t sue me, I didn’t say anything about Hedy,” Marcus insisted. He reached for the telephone in my hand, but I eluded him.

“She’s bluffing.” Karrie pulled at his jacket. “Ignore her.”

“When this is said and done”—I was still playing to the crowd—“Hedy may or may not have the title, but she will have a nice chunk of the Wellington inheritance. I can’t wait to talk to Gilliard about this. Does your daddy know what you’re up to, Marcus? Somehow I think he’ll be very disappointed in you.” I checked my watch. “I do believe I can make it to Panther Holler before the cocktail hour ends.”

Marcus blanched. His father’s wrath would be swift and brutal. We both knew that. The only sin unforgivable in the Wellington family was to do something stupid enough to lose money.

Marcus leaned close to my ear. “If Hedy pursues this, she’ll never see Vivian again.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hedy approach. She’d heard the hubbub and come over. She stood not ten feet away, her fists clenched at her sides, her pale eyes boring a hole into Marcus’s back. He turned away, unsettled by her malevolence.

“What else is new?” I countered. “It’s not like Hedy’s
being treated fairly now. But that will change, Marcus. One way or the other. Hedy has rights, and not even the Wellingtons can take them away.”

Hedy started forward, but Tinkie caught her arm, restraining her. Hedy tried to shake Tink off, but my partner prevailed. I’d played a dangerous hand, but I’d forestalled Karrie’s attempt to ruin Hedy via the public rumor mill. Neither Marcus nor Karrie would reveal Hedy’s maternity, because to do so in such a public way would give Hedy legal traction in trying to regain partial custody of her baby. My position—for this round of the battle, at least—was pretty damn good.

“This isn’t over,” Marcus said. “Hedy is going to pay, and so are you.”

“I’ve already paid, Marcus,” Hedy said. “For being naïve and for being young. But I’m done paying. Now it’s your turn, and you will suffer for the things you’ve done.”

“I will have you in court so fast—”

“Try it,” I dared him. “You’d better have a really long reach, Marcus. Neither Hedy nor I have anything you want. You can’t get blood from a turnip, as my aunt Loulane used to say. But that’s about to change. If you keep mistreating Hedy and trying to damage her, you’ll lose a lot. You have my word on that.”

“You have no idea who you’re dealing with,” he said.

“Oh, I do, Marcus. You’re a powerful, wealthy man accustomed to his way in every situation. You’re a man with no morals or ethics, whose answer to everything is to take what he wants and to hell with the consequences. And much to my horror, I’ve broken one of my dear aunt Loulane’s ten commandments—I’ve just gotten into a mud-flinging contest with an ass,” I said. “My only concern is that your stink might rub off on me.”

Pissing off rich and powerful people is one of my truest
talents. Marcus Wellington’s aquiline features contorted. Murder shone in his eyes. I held my ground, even though I had the uncomfortable sensation that someone was walking across my grave. Marcus was a caricature of a spoiled, rich brat, but he was more than that. He was smart, too. And judging by his recent conduct, he was dangerous when he was angry. It didn’t seem so far-fetched that he’d kill bystanders to have his way.

He spun around and strode off. Karrie raced after him, abandoning the pot of pulled pork she’d been cooking for her entrée.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Evangeline Phelps said into a microphone, unaware of my personal little drama, “the judging is about to begin. Our panel of esteemed judges will head up a line. Once they’ve been served by our contestants they’ll withdraw to the dining room of the main house to eat and discuss the dishes. Our guest judges, who have been confined in the main house, will be served blind. Everyone else will sample the fabulous barbecue cuisine prepared by our beautiful contestants. And as a special delight, Miss Amanda Payne will sing some of her original songs for us while we dine.”

As the crowd applauded, Dawn, Clive, Harley, and Belinda Buck stepped front and center. They stopped and chatted with each of the eight contestants as they lifted pot lids, sniffed dishes, and served their plates. My mouth watered as I watched. I’m a sucker for good barbecue, and the aromas wafting through the air told me this competition was going to be close, but Jitty’s warning still echoed in my brain.

Karrie returned, face flushed, just as the judges arrived at her station. Dawn held out her plate, and Karrie hefted a heaping spoonful of her shredded pork. A large round object came up with the spoon, tottered on the edge for a moment, then splatted on the floor.

“What the he . . . ck?” Karrie grabbed a paper towel and picked it up.

“That isn’t pulled pork,” Belinda Buck said. “That’s a . . . oh, my goodness. It’s a road apple!”

Several members of the audience started to laugh. Others uttered sounds of horror and disgust.

Karrie’s eyes blazed, and she pointed a finger at me. “You put a horse turd in my barbecue.”

At the word “turd,” the area erupted into gales of laughter and pandemonium broke out. Several people gave me the evil eye, but my gaze followed Tinkie across the room. She was short and moved through the crowd unnoticed, but her petticoats demanded at least a three-foot-wide clearance.

I yelled her name, but she kept walking. When I turned around, Karrie stood in front of me. She drew back her fist, but self-preservation kicked in. I ducked. She swung, lost her balance, and fell.

“I’m going to get you,” she said, struggling to hold back tears I thought for one foolish moment were sincere.

“I didn’t touch your barbecue,” I told her. “I couldn’t have, you nitwit. I was talking to you the whole time.” Not waiting for her reply, I stepped over her and went after my partner, who might as well have been wearing a sign that said, “I’m a turd roller.”

Tinkie would never admit it. Not even to me. Ladies didn’t traffic in such pranks. And if they did, they never, ever said so. For a Daddy’s Girl, discretion was the word to live by. Yet again, I found myself admiring a set of rules that I could never obey but on occasion had reason to appreciate.

It took me fifteen minutes to track Tinkie to her lair, which happened to be a big camellia bush outside the open window
of the Rocking River Ranch dining room. Snuggled in the bushes, Tinkie eavesdropped on the judges’ conversation. When I pushed my way through thick limbs and leaves to stand beside her, she gave me a wide grin and a “shush.”

“I think Karrie Kompton should be disqualified,” Dawn Gonzalez said. “I mean, I’m not going to taste her barbecue, so I can’t judge it. Do you agree?”

A rumble of negative comments came from the other judges. “But it wasn’t her fault,” Belinda Buck pointed out. “She certainly didn’t put the road apple in her pulled pork. That would be stupid.”

“Or very, very clever,” Harley said. “What if she knew her barbecue wasn’t up to par with the others’, so she did something to get hers disqualified?”

I could have kissed Harley. The best thing for Hedy would be if Karrie were tossed out of the contest and left town. Hedy wouldn’t have a clear road to the winner’s circle, but it would make the remainder of the race a lot more pleasant.

“I don’t believe that,” Clive said. “Karrie wants this title. She’s worked too hard to risk a move like that. I believe we have to assume someone else put the . . . objectionable object into her dish. I don’t think we can throw her out. We have to give her another chance.”

It figured Clive would support Marcus’s newest girlfriend, because ultimately it was a show of support for Marcus’s interests.

“If Karrie were running a restaurant and someone found a . . . disgusting item in his food, what do you think would happen?” Dawn asked. “In the restaurant business, there isn’t a second chance to recover from contaminated food. Where was Karrie when the turd was put in her food? Part of her job is to make sure she serves healthy and safe dishes. I say we boot her out and be done with it.”

Yes! Tinkie and I silently high-fived each other.

“I object,” Clive said in his resounding baritone.

“Maybe we should vote?” Belinda suggested.

Tinkie and I grasped the window ledge. If it was a show of hands, we wanted to see the result. As I peeped over the sill, I felt cold fingers dig into my neck. Tinkie let out a tiny squeak. Before I could say Jack Sprat, I found myself flying backward through the camellia bush, the thick leaves sawing at my arms.

When I finally hit the ground, I looked up into the angry gaze of Police Chief Franz Jansen. “What, exactly, do you and Mrs. Richmond think you’re doing?” he asked.

“Eavesdropping on the judges.” Tinkie smoothed down the hundreds of layers of petticoat. While I was bleeding from a few scratches, she didn’t suffer a single injury. The petticoat had acted like chain mail. No shrub worth its salt would take on that paragon of starch.

“That’s illeg—” He faded to a stop.

“It’s unethical, but it isn’t illegal,” Tinkie corrected him.

“Hedy Blackledge put you up to it?” he asked.

“You jump to conclusions like a frog on a rolling log,” I told him. “Hedy doesn’t know anything about what we’re doing.”

Jansen waved a hand, tired of the conversation. “You’d better hope nothing untoward happens here today or your client will go to lockup and stay there until this competition is over. No matter what Russell Dean says, I think Ms. Blackledge played a role in the murders of both those young women.” He straightened his posture. “And you should re-think the lawsuit I heard you were filing against Marcus Wellington.”

“Why should a civil suit concern you?” Tinkie did a masterful job of hiding her surprise at how fast the news of
my feigned phone call to Russell Dean traveled around the county and came back to the place where I’d woven it out of thin air. I was equally surprised. But I wasn’t about to admit that to Jansen.

“I’m not worried about a proposed slander suit, Mrs. Richmond. Far from it. The Wellingtons are targets for all kinds of grifters, thieves, con artists, and lawsuit-happy women. Miss Blackledge is one in a long line of Marcus’s conquests who thinks she can barter a bit of pleasure into a permanent stipend. I know all about her blackmail schemes to get Marcus to support her.”

“Are you the police chief or Marcus Wellington’s attack dog?” Tinkie asked.

Red moved from Jansen’s neck into his face. “I don’t answer to the Wellington family, but I’ve seen this action plenty of times. Just because the Wellingtons are wealthy doesn’t mean they deserve less protection from grifters and crooks.”

“Hedy deserves protection, too. She may not be a resident of Greenwood, but technically, neither is Marcus Wellington.” Hedy deserved the same protection offered to the son of a rich man. “Marcus is setting Hedy up to take the fall for Janet’s murder. I’m not saying he killed Janet, but he’s capable of it. He’ll do whatever is necessary to have his way.”

“A mighty interesting theory, Miss Delaney. Trouble is, your client doesn’t need any help in looking guilty.” He turned toward the gazebo where folks were chowing down on barbecue. “Smells delicious,” he said as he strolled away.

“There’s more to that police chief than meets the eye,” I said.

“What angle is he playing?” Tinkie asked.

“I wish I knew.”

The front door opened and the judges came out. Dawn
exited first while the other three hung back. We didn’t need to eavesdrop to read the body language. Karrie was still in the running. Clive had prevailed.

The twang of an electric slide vibrated, and Amanda Payne’s clear voice swung over the chatter. “You can’t get no lovin’ if your grits are cold.” She sang the first line a cappella, then broke into a raucous, rockin’ song. Feet began to stomp, and several folks jumped up to dance. Even Tinkie was tapping her tiny little slipper-clad feet. True to her responsibilities, she went to work with her camera, documenting all that transpired.

Everyone was having a good time, and I had to hand it to Amanda. She knew how to throw down at a barbecue. Her voice was spectacular, and her songs were original and complex, a blend of 70s folk, rock, and country narrative. While she was mousey in one-on-one situations, when she took the stage she was a high-wattage show.

I noticed Voncil moving around behind the scenes, adjusting wires and doing the work of a roadie. She was a typical manipulative stage mother, but in some ways Amanda was lucky. None of the other girls had such support—unconditional love that comes only from a parent.

“Is that the coroner?” I pointed across the crowd to a young man deep in conversation with Chief Jansen.

“He looks like he’s twelve,” Tinkie said.

I’d forgotten she hadn’t met Marlboro. He did look young. “Let’s go see what the powwow is about.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Tinkie used her petticoats like the blade of a road grader to clear a path for me.

Marlboro saw us coming. His expression made Jansen turn around to confront us. “You two skedaddle,” he drawled, wiping his impressive mustache with a napkin. “I’ve got business here with the coroner.”

“I promised Ms. Delaney I’d give her the state autopsy report,” Marlboro said. He didn’t squirm, but he came close.

“You did what?” Jansen wasn’t really outraged, but he was good at acting the part. In fact, I was getting the sense Jansen was very good at playing a certain role, one that folks around town expected of him. The problem was that I wasn’t certain who or what the real Franz Jansen might be.

“Ms. Delaney and her client have a right to know what the state lab found,” Marlboro said. He reached into his coat and brought out several sheets of paper. “I made copies for her.” He held them just out of reach. “But first you have to promise to keep this strictly to yourselves,” he said to us. “This is not for the newspaper.”