Delicious and Suspicious Page 4

  “We’ve all had our little escapades, you know. Love affairs, scandals.” Peggy Sue wiggled her eyebrows in an attempt to look devilish. It looked more as if she’d developed a debilitating tic.

  Rebecca was disappointed. “Well, love affairs kind of go with the territory, don’t they?”

  “And,” added Peggy Sue, holding her hand up to stop Rebecca. “One of us is an ex-con.” Here she looked directly, but unsteadily, at Flo. A hiccupping giggle escaped her, which she soon swallowed when she heard the deafening silence from her friends and saw the satisfied smile on Rebecca’s face.

  “Ex-con?” asked Rebecca in a sweetly surprised voice. “I never would have guessed. What were you locked up for, Flo?” When she got no response, she said, “I see. Banding together with your vow of silence, right? That’s okay. Peggy Sue helped me supply the tad bit of seasoning I needed for my quirky Memphis barbeque story.”

  Flo’s face splotched with red as she bent to get her pocketbook off the floor and wordlessly rushed from the hotel bar. Like four anxious ladies in waiting, the other Graces dashed after her. “Hey,” called Tony, “do you need a ride home?”

  Evelyn turned around. “I’m all right to drive, so I’ll take everybody.”

  “Actually,” said Cherry, “I’m going to walk home. It’s only a few blocks to Harbortown. Thanks, though.” She strapped on her helmet, figuring there was a high probability of a head-injuring stumble on her walk home.

  Flo remembered Derrick fifteen minutes after returning home. And when she did remember, she gasped. In their hurry to escape the clutches of the wicked Rebecca Adrian, the Graces forgot they’d left Sara’s nephew Derrick behind. He was visiting the men’s room when they rushed out, a fact no one remembered as they scampered out through the glass doors of the Peabody, hollering at Flo to wait up. Flo cussed, picked up her cell phone (which had a very handsome Elvis skin covering it), and called Lulu. She decided she wouldn’t bother calling Sara—that filly had a temper on her like you wouldn’t believe. Lulu should best be able to break the news to Sara, anyway. Since she was Lulu’s daughter-in-law and all.

  When Lulu picked up the phone, Flo cut right to the chase. “I forgot him.”

  “Who?”

  “Derrick. It was my fault entirely. Rebecca Adrian got me mad, and I stormed out and left Derrick behind with that woman. Want to string me up by my toenails?”

  Lulu considered this proposal. “Maybe. What was he still doing there? He promised me he’d just hang out for a few minutes with y’all and then he’d head over to Youth Group.”

  “Well, he didn’t make it to church, Lulu, and I am so sorry. Want me to run by there and make him drive home? And I’ll pinkie-swear not to take seventeen-year-olds again?”

  Lulu softened at her anxious tone. “Don’t worry about it. I can see how Miss Adrian could get anybody steamed. That girl likes looking for trouble, I’m sure of it. She’d better keep an eye on her back, though. Trouble has a way of catching up with you.”

  Sara Taylor was thinking about throwing some trouble in Rebecca Adrian’s direction. Sara had a heckuva temper, which most people fortunately witnessed only short flashes of. Wisely, nobody made mention of the red hair and temper connection.

  Sara stormed into the Peabody after getting Lulu’s phone call. She realized after several minutes in the quiet lobby that Derrick and Rebecca Adrian weren’t there. And, considering the bright lights of Beale Street just around the corner, Sara had a great idea where they might be. And it wasn’t going to be at church.

  Sara had just stridden around the barricades on Beale when she was nearly run down by her errant nephew. If she hadn’t nearly been plowed over by him, she’d never have seen him at all—he was dressed in black as usual.

  “Youth Group, huh?” Sara bellowed. “You will need to find God once I’m done with you.” But a closer look at Derrick stopped her in her tracks. Instead of his usual sullenly sardonic face, he looked completely devastated. And . . . were those tears glinting in his eyes?

  Sara threw an arm around him (difficult, since he was taller than her) and redirected her fury toward Rebecca Adrian. “Where is that harpy? What did she do to you?”

  “Nothing! Let’s go, okay? I’m getting really tired.”

  Sara gave Derrick’s arm a squeeze as they wordlessly walked to the parking deck and got into their separate cars. She couldn’t imagine what could have caused such a transformation.

  Back at the Peabody Hotel, Rebecca Adrian extinguished a cigarette against a “No Smoking” sign and picked up her cell phone. “Information? I need the number for Sebastian Taylor in Memphis, Tennessee.”

  Chapter 2

  Seb Taylor was putting his feet up at home and still celebrating the fact that the restaurant had a back-door exit. He’d really needed to get home for that drink and cigarette this afternoon, and he wouldn’t have stepped foot into that dining room again for all the money in the world.

  What the hell was she doing in Memphis? Was it really a coincidence that she happened to be the Cooking Channel scout scoping out Aunt Pat’s? Of all the barbeque joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.

  The phone rang and Seb reached over to pick it up.

  Derrick Knight’s hurt turned into a pulsing fury, and his face returned to its regularly scheduled sullenness. Who did Rebecca Adrian think she was? He’d gone out with lots of girls—girls—not women a breath away from middle age. And they were much hotter than she’d ever been.

  Just wait, he thought. Rebecca Adrian had better watch her back.

  Sara tried tempering her fury at Rebecca Adrian. Whatever she’d done to Derrick (and he was not going to let on what that had been) was over. Sara at least needed to keep on good enough terms with her to get the art world contacts she needed and for Lulu to get a great review for the restaurant.

  She’d waited a long time to show her art. And now she allowed herself to dream a little.

  Graceland would kick her out. Kick her out and keep her out. Bar the big, beautiful doors. No more mirrored dining room. No more canary yellow TV room. No more jungle room.

  And . . . she shivered. If Elvis knew, what would he think? Oh, she knew that he was dead and gone, of course. (Although she’d swear she’d seen him, in disguise and a bit older—and wearing that unfortunate white sequined jump-suit. There was that funny business over his misspelled name on his gravestone.) What on earth would Elvis say?

  Not to mention everybody else in the town. Or the far reaches of the entire United States of America, if Miss Rebecca Smarty-Pants had her way. Having the Graces know was one thing. They swore they’d keep it a secret. A secret until Peggy Sue got tipsy, then good luck with your secrets. You’d just pray to God your private life wasn’t splashed across the front page of the Memphis paper.

  But if Rebecca oh so jauntily put her ex-con background in her story to add a smidge of local color, the whole town of Memphis would know. Not to mention her no-good ex-husband who still looked for her in the wilds of Mississippi. Flo needed to convince Rebecca, and convince her good.

  Southern Accents’s transformation was astonishing, thought Susan Meredith, eyeing the large room through her round spectacles. She’d hastily removed the black-and-white photography exhibit. Now Sara’s art covered the walls, pedestals, and shelves with a startling infusion of vibrant color.

  Sara wasn’t pacing, exactly, but jiggling a lot. She couldn’t stand still; instead, she shifted from side to side, crossed and uncrossed her arms, and twisted her curly hair around a finger. And looked a little green around the gills.

  “You should relax a little, Sara. Hers is not the be-all, end-all, final-authority opinion. Rebecca Adrian is very well connected with her ego. Other than that . . .” Susan shrugged her thin shoulders expressively.

  Sara impatiently shook her head. “I think you’re wrong, Susan. She told the Graces last night about all the people she knows in New York.” She wove her fingers together, then pulled them apart. S
ara had actually allowed herself some little daydreams involving hanging up her apron for good and spending all her days in the studio, squishing clay and slapping paint on canvases.

  “Don’t put all your eggs in Miss Adrian’s basket, that’s all. There are many avenues for developing a name for yourself and finding patrons for your art. None of them involve Rebecca Adrian.”

  Sara’s rejoinder was cut short by the tinkling bell indicating Rebecca’s arrival at Southern Accents. Unfortunately, from all appearances, Rebecca was in what could be described only as a peevish mood.

  “Can we get a move on?” she asked, taking off her huge designer sunglasses. “I’ve got to get over to Aunt Pat’s”— she checked what looked to be a Rolex watch—“two minutes ago.”

  Hating that Rebecca Adrian succeeded in making her feel flustered, Sara wordlessly waved her hand to include the entire gallery. “Well,” she started, “here it is.”

  Thankfully, Susan Meredith took over from there. “As you can see, Sara’s art is a remarkable example of Southern folk art. She uses a whimsical approach to . . .”

  But Rebecca cut her off with a dismissive slash of her hand. “Never mind all that. This wouldn’t fly in a New York gallery. Never. It looks like someone tripping on acid made those teapots.”

  Sara prickled. “Some of us like coloring outside the lines, you know.”

  Rebecca squinted at the wall of paintings and made a move. “Plus the fact that the subject matter is completely parochial and clearly limited to local appeal.”

  Sara, God help her, did actually try to control herself. It was a powerful struggle between Good Sara and Bad Sara, and for a second or two, it looked as if Good Sara might win. She successfully slipped out the door of Southern Accents before she could say anything hateful to Rebecca Adrian.

  But the devil got into Rebecca and wasn’t going to have anything to do with Good Sara. Rebecca popped out the door behind Sara, followed quickly by Susan, and said, “What about this portrait here?” asked Rebecca, referring to a painting in the window of Big Ben. Sara was particularly proud of it, and Susan had begged her to show it for ages. “Did one of your daughters paint this one?” Rebecca snorted.

  Sara wondered later if it was the snide reference or the way she implied that Coco or Ella Beth would produce poor artwork that made her blow her top. She never could decide. But whatever it was made her blow her top in a way she’d struggled to control for years. “At least I have somebody who gives a flip about me. Thanks for the pep talk. I’m just sorry I ever respected your opinion enough to go asking for it. People like you get off on putting everybody down to make yourself feel good. Have it your way. But when you’re lying on your deathbed alone, look back and remember how you got there.”

  Susan’s mouth flapped open and closed like a fish, which was such a departure for the always-composed Susan that it stopped Sara’s tirade. Rebecca clearly wasn’t waiting around to see if she was done yelling or not—her heels clicked as she stormed off down the sidewalk. People who had stopped to stare at the confrontation finally continued on their way.

  Susan found her voice. “She doesn’t know her Picasso from her Rembrandt, Sara. Rebecca Adrian wouldn’t recognize great art if it bit her in the behind.”

  Somewhere under the cloud of misery, hurt, and anger, Sara appreciated Susan’s attempt to make her feel better. She smiled reassuringly at Susan. But Susan was alarmed that the light had gone out of Sara’s green eyes.

  “She doesn’t understand Southern folk art. Your work is beautiful,” Susan added.

  Sara looked around the gallery with an even more critical eye than usual. She saw her collection of oddly shaped ceramic livestock, the brightly colored canvases with misshapen figures in rural settings, the bloated, fantastically colored tea set. Where she once felt pride and hope, she now felt overwhelming fury and desperation. Damn Rebecca Adrian for taking her art away from her.

  The day had been clearly destined for calamity in every way. Lulu reflected later that she should have picked up on the signs. There were certainly enough of them to indicate that the day would go to hell in a handbasket. But Lulu didn’t put much stock in signs. So she didn’t really pay attention when her car kicked the bucket on the way to the restaurant that morning.

  She wasn’t even on her usual route to Aunt Pat’s, where friends and family would be sure to see her and would transport her the rest of the way. No, she was way off the beaten path.

  “Shoot!” said Lulu as she steered to the side of the road.

  “Shoot!” said Lulu when she realized she’d left her cell phone at home.

  So there was Lulu Taylor, marooned motorist, walking down the road as her restaurant prepared for a possible Cooking Channel debut without her. Lulu had given up hope of ever making it to the restaurant when there was a honking behind her . . . the volume of which was so loud that she nearly fell into the street in surprise.

  It was the red and green painted “Jesus Saves” bus from the Promised Land Church of Our Blessed Savior. “Hallelujah!” muttered Lulu.

  The bus, which looked like it had escaped from The Partridge Family lot, pulled to the side of the road. “Lulu? You okay? What are you doing walking alone down the road?” It was Johnson Jones, his face puckered up with concern. Probably thought she’d gone ga-ga.

  “Hi, J.J. My car broke down a little ways back. Is there any way you could give me a lift to Aunt Pat’s or call Ben for me?”

  “I can take you over there, Lulu. I’ve got to gas up the bus anyway. I’m taking the Promised Land’s Sassy Seniors group over to Gatlinburg for a couple of nights.”

  “Well now, that does sound like a nice trip.” Lulu beamed. Her day was back on track again. Or so she thought.

  Everything was fine and dandy for a while after that. After the “Jesus Saves” bus dropped her right off near the barricaded entrance to Beale Street, she hurried to Aunt Pat’s and discovered that the Graces had brought in bunches of red and white balloons and all wore “Aunt Pat’s Is Where It’s At” tee shirts in matching colors. Peggy Sue gestured to her shirt with a plump hand and said, “Not grammatical, I know. But our other tee shirt ideas were horrid. ‘Aunt Pat’s Won’t Make You Fat,’ ‘Aunt Pat Was One Cool Cat’ . . .”

  Lulu hugged as many of the Graces as she could pull into her arms. “Y’all are the best. Thanks so much. It looks like we’re having a party in here.”

  What everybody remembered afterward was what a gorgeous day it started out as. There was never a clearer sky of a brighter blue. The barbeque and sauce that day seemed blessed by the Lord Jesus himself. Even Ben, the most critical man you’ve ever come across, proclaimed it the best barbeque on the earth.

  All the Aunt Pat’s folks had an extra spring in their step. Lulu and Ben were sure the restaurant would be the blue-ribbon winner for Memphis barbeque. Big Ben, Morty, and Buddy had brought a couple of instruments and were giving an impromptu concert on the roomy front porch. The Graces were in rare form and cackling at everything anybody said. Ben was concocting the finest barbeque anywhere in the world. Lulu sailed around, chitchatting with everybody.

  But when Sara slipped in the door, Lulu felt a smattering of drizzle on her parade. She looked completely wilted, like a flower blossom that some clod had crushed under the sole of her Manolos. Sara shook her head at Lulu’s questioning look then hurried to the back office. Lulu’s heart sank.

  Now that her mind had opened to the possibility that the day might not go according to script, Lulu noticed other problems. “Where did that Seb get to?” demanded Lulu, striding into the kitchen and putting her hands on her hips.

  “Am I my brother’s keeper?” asked Ben.

  Lulu clucked. “He knew he was supposed to help us out today! He was going to win over Miss Adrian with his charm, and you were going to win her over with your sauce. Where could he have gotten to?”

  Ben flipped over some ribs. “Have you noticed anything different about Seb, Mother? Since he returned from New
York, I mean?”

  Lulu watched as he halfheartedly swiped at some meat with the dry rub. “Ben,” she said a little louder as she gently bumped him out of the way. “Move out of the way, baby—I’m stepping in for a few minutes. Whatever poor soul gets this meat . . . and I hope to high heaven it isn’t Rebecca Adrian . . . isn’t going to get the full flavor of the spices. We can’t be afraid of the paprika, it makes the ribs.” She gave her son a sharp, concerned look. “Why don’t you take a break? Pull up a stool and relax and tell me what’s on your mind. You know that always made you feel better when you were a little guy.”

  Ben pushed the stool over to the center bar and, chin propped in his hands, watched his mother scrub up, then expertly mix the brown sugar, dry mustard, garlic powder, salt, and paprika, and busily rub it onto the pork. She also managed to whip up a fresh pot of coffee for them. Ordinarily, he’d have been transported right back to his happy childhood while watching Lulu move around the kitchen. But today he had a problem weighing on his mind.

  Lulu picked up the conversation again. “You were talking about Seb. I know what you were going to say, Ben. But I already had a word with Seb about it.”

  Ben looked relieved. “Well I am glad to hear that, Mother. So he didn’t mind talking about it? His problem, I mean. Is there something we can do to help him out?”

  Lulu waved dismissively. “It’s not all that much of a problem. I told him no more loud shirts with patterns on them. Especially the herringbone one. It makes Big Ben want to upchuck.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Mother! I’m not talking about Seb’s fashion sense.”

  Lulu knit her brows. “You mean his flirting with the Graces? I did tell him to cool it a little bit. But I think they kind of like it. At least, Cherry does. She fluttered those eyelashes a mile a minute. Although I saw Jeanne roll her eyes the other day—”