A Taste of Murder

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

EPILOGUE

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

Acknowledgments

I’m so grateful to the people who helped me take this story from idea to finished product. Thanks to:

My incredible husband, Ted, for taking me to the Owensboro Bar-B-Q Festival, and for telling me about hunting dogs.

My father, Myron Patrick, for taking me hunting and fishing when I was a kid, and for Old Sue.

The faculty and students of Franklin County High School, for allowing me the honor of judging their Miss FCHS pageant, and for inviting me to speak to their English classes. (Go Flyers!)

Jill Elizabeth Nelson and Tracy Ruckman for expert critiques and advice that made this story better.

The CWFI Critique Group, for helping me work out the plot: Amy Barkman, Dr. Richard Leonard, Ann Knowles, Vicki Tiede, Sherry Kyle, Tracy Ruckman and Amy Smith. They’re talented writers themselves, and I’m privileged to know them.

My agent and friend, Wendy Lawton, for her unfailing support and encouragement.

All the folks at Steeple Hill, especially Krista Stroever and Louise Rozett, for being so good at what they do.

And finally, thanks to my Lord Jesus, for everything. Absolutely everything.

PROLOGUE

The fire door closed behind him with a thud. Silence pressed against Josh Kirkland’s eardrums in the hotel’s back stairwell, ringing inside his head after the hubbub of the lobby. He started to climb, the echo of his footsteps an oddly welcome disruption of the noiseless space that surrounded him.

At the landing on the third floor, he paused to catch his breath. His heart pounded against his ribs, a sure sign that he needed to spend more time on the treadmill at the gym. He was panting like an old dog in the summertime after just a couple flights of stairs.

A sound reverberated from above. The click of a door being quietly shut. Josh smiled. She was probably checking on him, making sure he was on his way. He fished the magnetic card out of his pocket, a yellow sticky note still clinging to the side of it.

Can we talk about your vote? Meet me in room 4057 during your lunch break. Come up the back stairs so nobody sees. I’ll make it worth your while.

No signature, but that didn’t much matter to him. He’d thought about it all morning, and finally decided that it must have been written by one of the pageant contestants. His pulse accelerated as he remembered a few of the beautiful young women last year parading past the judges’ table in their evening gowns.

Or maybe it was one of the mothers of the younger contestants. Some of those women were among the most overbearing human beings on the planet. After last year’s pageant he’d gotten some pretty nasty e-mails from mothers of girls who didn’t win. On the other hand, a few of those women would go to amazing lengths to ensure their daughters took home the title of Little Princess. Including emptying their checking accounts for a little “title insurance.”

He bounded up the stairs to the fourth floor. At the top he opened the fire door slowly and peeked through. The hallway was deserted. He slipped across the thick carpet to the room with the numbers 4057 on the door.

Inside, he leaned against the closed door and looked around. Doubt tickled at his mind. Something wasn’t right.

“Hello?”

No answer. He stepped forward, glancing into the dark bathroom as he passed. Empty.

The room looked as though it had just been cleaned. Beds made. Carpet swept. Fresh notepad and pen beside the phone on the desk.

Only one thing looked out of place. A white grocery sack on the dresser. He moved closer. It was full, like somebody had been shopping. He peered inside.

Uh-oh. Maybe he was wrong. There were at least half a dozen bottles of—

A movement in the mirror above the dresser caught his eye. Every muscle in his body tensed as the door to the adjoining room swung open.

Tension fled, replaced by irritation as he recognized the person who stepped into view.

“What’s going on here?” He gestured toward the bag. “Is this your idea of a joke?”

His gaze dropped to watch in the mirror as the gloved hands, holding a thick rope, rose. Uncomprehending, he locked gazes with the reflection.

The rope was around his neck before he could move.

ONE

“What in the world have you gotten us into, Jasmine Delaney?”

Jazzy bit back a groan as she stared into the wide-eyed face of her friend. Liz clutched her cello case to her chest. A girl around ten years old—one of the horde that filled the hotel lobby—brushed past her in hot pursuit of a giggling friend.

Shaking her head, Jazzy followed the girls’ progress as they threaded through the line of hotel guests waiting to check in. A room-service waiter with a tray of covered dishes balanced over his head barely avoided disaster when they dashed by him. They narrowly missed a repairman before disappearing behind the elevators.

With an apologetic grimace, Jazzy faced her friend. “When the bride gave me the reservation number she did mention that I was getting one of the few remaining rooms.” A shriek of high-pitched laughter from a group of girls seated on nearby sofas pierced the din. Jazzy winced. “I assumed the rooms were taken by people attending the Bar-B-Q Festival. I had no idea there would be so many children.”

“Smile!” The third member of their trio pointed a digital camera in their faces for the fifth time in as many minutes. A confirmed scrapbooker, Caitlin was forever snapping pictures of their part-time ensemble during rehearsals and performances. It drove Jazzy crazy.

Nevertheless, she put her head close to Liz’s and pasted on a cheesy grin. The urge to hold bunny fingers above her grouchy friend’s head was strong, but she resisted.

Caitlin lowered the camera, frowning. “Darn. I think the batteries just died.”

“Here, let me.” Jazzy whipped out her cell phone, pointed and caught a shot of Caitlin scowling at her camera.

Liz glared as another group of giggling girls brushed by them a little too close. “What’s with all these kids?”

The line moved forward. A tall woman pushed by Jazzy and marched to the front of the line. Jazzy exchanged a glance with Caitlin, who shrugged and bent to drag her gigantic duffel bag into place behind her.

Straightening, Caitlin gestured with her flute case to a point behind Jazzy’s head. “That’s why. Look what’s going on in this hotel tomorrow.”

Jazzy turned her head in the direction Caitlin indicated. A poster on a marquee near the edge of the reception desk detailed Waynesboro Barbecue Festival Events. She scanned the entries until she spotted the one to which Caitlin referred. A baby pageant would be held in the International Ballroom tomorrow morning, followed by the Toddler Pageant, the Youth Pageant, the Little Princess Pageant and the Miss Bar-B-Q Teen Pageant. The biggest event, the crowning of Miss Bar-B-Q Festival, would be held at eight-thirty tomorrow night.

Jazzy groaned out loud this time. They’d reserved a room smack-dab in the middle of beauty pageant central.

Liz clutched the cello case tighter. “Do you suppose we could find another hotel?” Strands of her dark hair took on a life of their own as she whipped her head to watch a harried mother herd a brood of towheaded children toward the lobby restaurant.