Read Still Life in Brunswick Stew Online
Authors: Larissa Reinhart
Tags: #Mystery, #humor, #cozy, #Humour, #Romance, #cozy mystery, #southern mystery, #humorous mystery, #mystery series
“My pleasure, ma’am. I do the same thing at home. The batteries are almost done. Best find a channel you like now before they cut off again. Or better yet...” I stepped out the door and returned with the remote from the empty room next door. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
Her face puckered into a smile. “My hero. I was hoping they’d let me go home today, but everyone got flustered earlier and now I have to have more tests. My poor husband is very ill. I should be at his bedside instead of cooped up in here.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, wondering if I had the correct woman. If Lewis Maynard was my two-timing husband I don’t think I’d be sitting by his bedside. “What’s wrong?”
“We ate something which disagreed with us.”
“Must have been pretty terrible cooking to lay you up like this.” I gave her my best customer service smile and eased into the chair by her bed.
Marion looked the type who was not shy about sharing her illnesses. Although she took a minute to wilt back into the pillows she had just plumped, her face bore an expectant look. Like a child starved for attention.
“If it was a restaurant that made you sick,” I hinted, “I would love to know which one so I can avoid it in the future.”
“Much worse than that.” She picked up a magazine and began fanning herself. “It was at the Brunswick Stew Cook-Off. I’m from Sidewinder, you see.”
“I was at the festival myself. I had an art booth.”
“Did you now? I didn’t get a chance to see the craft fair. We were busy preparing the stew for the cook-off. Lewis, my husband, is very competitive. He just runs us ragged, but I like to do my best. Always give one hundred and ten percent my daddy used to say. Every year we try to win that contest. Our neighbors, the Gables, encourage Lewis’s competitiveness which makes it all the worse.”
“Do they also have a cook-off team?” I said, knowing the answer, but Marion was enjoying herself.
“They call themselves High Cotton, but I’m afraid they got that idea from my estate. Cotton Pickin’ Good, we’re called. The Gables are crass, I’m afraid.”
“Sounds like it. Did they also get sick?”
“No.” She frowned. “I’m a little worried someone might have tampered with our batch.”
“Did the police confiscate the stew then?”
“By the time they arrived, we had sold out and I had cleaned the pot.” She dusted her hands. “My daddy always said don’t let the work pile up. Besides we needed the pot to make another batch for Sunday. Of course, by Sunday they had closed down all the booths. According to Miss Adams.”
“Miss Adams? Janine Adams?”
“Do you know Janine?” Marion sniffed. “She’s our office manager. Well, I guess we say marketing manager now. Daddy’s little cotton farm has become quite popular.”
“So I’ve heard. Don’t you have an educational center? And sell Cotton Pickin’ goods?”
“Yes.” She shifted, tilting up her chin, “they call it agri-tourism these days.”
“Did you try a drink called Genuine Juice at the festival?”
“That green stuff sold by Griffin Ward? I had a sip. He was passing out Dixie Cups, and it was so darned hot.”
“Did your husband have one, too?”
“Just about everybody tried it. We humored the poor boy. He is entirely entrenched in fitness and health. Preaches worse than a Presbyterian. I told him it’s not worth adding an extra year on my life if I had to drink that stuff.”
I chuckled. Marion Maynard might turn a blind eye to her husband’s obvious dalliances, but I liked her grit. “I wish I could have seen Griffin’s face. I suppose you talked to the police already?”
She nodded.
“Did you tell him you tried the green stuff? I’m sure they’d want to know.”
“You think it’s important?”
“Well, yes, ma’am. If they don’t yet know what poisoned everyone, Griffin’s Genuine Juice needs to be accounted for.”
“I didn’t think about that.” She tapped a manicured nail on her chin. “But I’m fairly certain it was our stew. I reckoned the Gables did it. On purpose or by accident, I’m not sure, but they were seen messing around in our cook-off area and have every reason to try and ruin our prize winning recipe.”
“With arsenic? Isn’t that a bit extreme?”
“How did you know it was arsenic?”
“I heard the nurse talking,” I gestured to the door.
“The Gables are low-down, no-account backstabbing trash, my dear.” She drew her nose up and stared down the length of it. “They swill beer, wear tacky clothing, and gossip terribly. I wouldn’t put it past them.”
Considering I also swill beer, wear tacky clothing, and gossip terribly, visiting the Gables sounded like my glass of tea. I wondered if the sheriff’s office checked into the teams’ rivalry.
Nurse Jess stuck her head in the door. “Sorry, ma’am, but Cherry needs to leave. Visiting hours are over and someone heard y’all talking.”
I rose and shook her strong, thin hand. “It was a pleasure, Miss Marion. I might visit this High Cotton farm just to get a gander at this Gable couple.”
“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. You come see me at Cotton Pickin’ when I get out of here. I enjoyed our conversation.”
“I’ll do just that.” I gave her a smile and sauntered out the door. I pretended not to notice the disapproving glare of the nurse at the station and strolled to the elevator. Possible poisoners seemed to be crawling out of the woodwork. I suspected Griffin. Hunter tried to pin it on Lewis Maynard. Marion Maynard thought the Gables had done it. I hoped Dot had more luck finding out what actually contained the arsenic.
The elevator doors glided open, and I stared at Deputy Wellington. He raised his brows and ran his eyes over my fringy dress. I shot him a fierce look, crossed my arms, and turned my back to stare at the floor numbers blinking over the door.
I had a feeling the sheriff’s department wouldn’t be too forthcoming with information. I’d have to dig around a bit myself.
The next morning I ate Luke’s chicken-fried steak and thought about my options for the day. Hunter expected me to show up at the Viper Bar with Todd later that night. But now that the medical examiner concluded Eloise’s death as a poisoning, a duty call to the Parkers was in order. Eloise had attended the University of Georgia, so in her memory, I donned my Georgia Bulldogs tank embellished with tiny bulldog buttons, fixed a couple buttons onto my flip-flops for continuity, and headed out the door.
My Datsun heartily protested the trip back to Sidewinder. Her dash lights flashed and she cried at the crank, but the heat made me impatient to hurry our departure.
The morning sun beat through my windshield, turning my cab into an Easy Bake Oven. By the time I arrived in Sidewinder, I was a sopping mess. With my tank plastered to my scrawny form, the little bulldog buttons jiggled in wild abandon like they’d been set free in the dog park.
Eloise’s parents lived in the center of Sidewinder in an early twentieth century Georgia bungalow like mine. The low-pitched roof needed new shingles and the pink clapboard siding could have used fresh paint.
A clutter of small statues and an overabundance of windmills populated the weedy lawn, evidence of a reckless love of home. Next to the front door, I recognized Eloise’s work in three austere pots. Unfortunately, their simple elegance had been crammed with impatiens and an assortment of plastic pinwheels. At my knock, June Parker appeared and ushered me inside.
“Cherry, honey, how are you holding up?” She crushed me into her soft body.
As she was half a foot taller than me, I got a face full of chest. She released me and I tottered back. A wet imprint of my form remained on her cotton shift.
“I’m doing okay. How are you and Mr. Parker?”
“You know they determined she was poisoned?”
I nodded.
“Oh, mercy me. I guess everyone knows by now.”
“Bad news always travels fast. But this puts the sheriff on the case quicker and we can figure out what happened. I’d say he’s doing a good job. You have nothing to worry about.”
“I guess.” Her gaze stopped on the large clay pots glazed in a pretty cracked ultramarine blue. “Did Eloise sell many pots at the festival?”
It took me a second to catch up to her change of subject. “A few. Between the heat and the food poisoning, we weren’t getting a lot of business.” I thought for a second and remembered Todd had packed up our festival paraphernalia. “I’ll get the ones she didn’t sell to you, ma’am.”
“Thank you, honey. Come have some coffee. I made a crumble cake. We’ve also got biscuits and I can whip you up some eggs.”
We worked our way down the tight hallway to the kitchen in the back of the house. Bright paintings of flowers covered the walls. Cluttered but clean, the well-loved room smelled of coffee and bacon. Mary Jane and Mr. Parker sat at the kitchen table, leafing through a booklet. Miss June handed me a cup of coffee. I leaned between Mary Jane and her dad and remembered past meals spent with Eloise and her family at the same table.
Mr. Parker pointed at the booklet.
“We have to choose a casket.”
Tears brightened my eyes. I nodded and patted his rough-knuckled hand.
“Food poisoning my ass,” he exploded. “I told those fool doctors her Crohn’s disease wouldn’t have made her that sick. They wasted time. The police called it a ‘tragic accident.’ I’ve had it up to here with all of them.”
“Sheriff Thompson did get her autopsy pushed to the head of the line,” I said gently. “Has the report from the medical examiner come in yet?”
“Not that I know of. If you ask me, they’re more concerned with covering behinds than investigating.”
“Now, now,” said Miss June. “They’re doing their best.”
“I want to know what happened. Arsenic doesn’t accidentally wind up in your food. They want to look at her pottery stuff. Said there could be metals in the clay or glazes. I said it’s called lead and she didn’t die from lead poisoning.”
“Do they think it was done on accident?” I asked. I knew Uncle Will wouldn’t lay his cards out on the table for the victim’s family. However, Mr. Parker made some grand accusations. “I thought it was a murder investigation.”
“They’re officially calling Eloise’s death suspicious, however they think the poisoning was an accident. Someone’s even testing the water. We’ve been drinking Sidewinder water for years and no one’s died!”
“I talked to one deputy yesterday,” said Mary Jane. “He said it could even be some kind of nutjob who poisoned the festival food for kicks. Get his name in the news, that sort of thing.”
“And you think...”
“Someone killed my child and I want justice. She suffered too much with her disease to die like this.” Mr. Parker’s stony face crumpled. The beefy man dropped his elbows to the wooden table and covered his face in his hands.
My heart just about broke seeing this giant of a man crying like a baby. “I’ll help you, sir,” I said, rubbing his back. “I’m looking into Eloise’s death.”
Mary Jane leaned over her father’s back and hugged him. “Cherry will help you. She’s on personal terms with the sheriff.”
“Unfortunately, Uncle Will isn’t going to share with me any more than you,” I said. “I’m just going to ask around and see what I can find out. The police have to follow certain steps in investigating which slows them down.”
“Cherry, you be careful,” said Miss June. “What if the police are right about nutjobs enjoying the notoriety of mass poisonings?”
“Thing is, I’m with Mr. Parker here. I don’t think this is a psychopath case. There was too much strange behavior going on at that cook-off. I think this was a deliberate poisoning, and I’ll be damned if I let that person get away with it, particularly if Eloise was the intended victim.”
“At least one person understands.” Mr. Parker straightened, his eyes red. “Excuse me.” He pushed out of his chair and stalked from the room.
“He’s embarrassed. I’ll go see to him,” Miss June said and hurried after him.
When we heard their bedroom door close, Mary Jane flicked me a sharp look. “Who do you think did it?”
“I don’t know for sure. I’ve got several people on my list,” I hemmed, unsure how the Parkers viewed Eloise’s boyfriend. “Problem is there’s only one suspect I can relate to Eloise. Can you think of anybody who would do her harm?”
“You mean like that sonofabitch Griffin Ward? I’ve always hated that douchebag.”
“Exactly,” I said and the doorbell rang.
“Hold that thought,” said Mary Jane, rushing to the door. She reentered the kitchen with Shawna Branson.
I could not rid myself of this woman.
Dressed in a dark tank dress with sunglasses parked in her thick hair, Shawna carried a foil covered pan. Behind Mary Jane’s back, her lip had curled, probably in disgust at the disorder of the Parkers and their home. People like Shawna found it a crime when folks didn’t try to fit the ideal of gracious southern living.
Shawna stopped her saunter at the sight of me. “What are you doing here?”
“Visiting my friend’s family. What are you doing here?”
“I am here to pay my condolences.” She shoved the pan at Mary Jane. “I bet you’re stirring up trouble.”
Mary Jane slid the pan on the kitchen counter and turned to face Shawna. “Why would Cherry cause trouble?”
“Because that’s what Cherry does. She’s likely putting ideas in your head that Eloise sickened from eating at the cook-off. Which can’t be true.”
Mary Jane stuck her hand on her hip. “Why can’t that be true? And who exactly are you?”
“Shawna Branson. You’re probably too young to know me, although I’m sure my name rings a bell. And you’re from Sidewinder. I live in Line Creek,” she said, as if Line Creek wasn’t twenty minutes away. “However, I am co-chair for the Sidewinder Arts Festival this year.”
“You mean the Brunswick Stew Cook-Off,” said Mary Jane.
I remained silent, enjoying the showdown. Mary Jane might not know Shawna, but she knew of Shawna’s type and wouldn’t put up with her bull. I liked this girl.
“It used to be just a Brunswick Stew competition, but I’m trying to elevate the little festival into something more worthy of Forks County. I’m also on the Forks County Arts Council. I thought we could use the fame of the cook-off to bring notice to local artists.”
“Funny, nobody contacted me,” I said.
“Important artists,” said Shawna.
“Did you have a Paintograph exhibit at the festival?” I asked. Shawna thought blowing up a snapshot and coloring it in with glitter paint counted as high art. And would make her rich and famous. As my Grandpa Ed says, rich doesn’t buy class. However, rich can make you greedy. And lazy.
“As a matter of fact, I did.” Shawna turned to Mary Jane. “It’s the latest technology in art. Just in case you want a final portrait of Eloise, I brought you my card.”
Mary Jane took the card with a grimace. “Why on earth would we want a final portrait of Eloise?”
“All the families are doing it now,” Shawna said, edging in front of me.
“One family did it,” I said. “And I don’t recommend it. Didn’t turn out so well.”
Shawna pivoted on her wedge slingback to face me. “Stop trying to steal all my potential clients.”
“Is that why you think I’m here, to drum up art business?”
“Well, yes, and trying to defame my festival. Aren’t you?”
“I’ll defame the festival if it means the stew was poisoned.”
“You better not.” She fixed me in a narrowed, blue-green gaze. “Or I’ll make you wish you hadn’t.”
“What are you going to do? Paintograph a crappy picture of me?” I turned to Mary Jane. “Are you ready for Shawna to leave?”
Mary Jane folded her arms and nodded.
I grabbed Shawna by the arm and pulled her down the hallway. “Leave these poor folks alone. Just because the Branson’s wanted a portrait of their dead son, doesn’t mean anyone else is crazy enough to do it. I don’t encourage that kind of thinking.”
“Don’t think you can corner that market.”
“You are a piece of work, Shawna. Your mind goes places a sane person wouldn’t dream of.”
“It’s called creativity.” She stalked off the porch toward her convertible.
I watched her tear down the street and wondered how badly Shawna wanted notoriety for her Paintograph business. Maybe she was exactly the kind of nutjob mentioned by the deputy. Did she want to “elevate” the local art scene—and thereby herself—enough to sicken folks, bring attention to the festival, and accidentally kill somebody in the process? Hurrying back to the kitchen, I snatched the foil pan off the counter. A pink, polka-dotted card with “Homemade by Shawna B” written in curlicue letters floated to the floor. I sniffed the familiar looking food in the pan.
“I do believe this fried chicken is from Chikn-D-Lite,” I looked up at Mary Jane. “But you might not want to eat this. With a psychotic poisoner on the loose, you can’t be too careful.”