Virginia Smith - A Taste of Murder

“Look at that.” Caitlin dipped her head toward one of the front cubicles. “There’s a radio station right here in the lobby.”

Jazzy read a sign above an empty desk loaded with all kinds of fancy equipment. “WKBR Country Radio.” Her lips twisted. “I’ll bet they never heard of Haydn.”

Liz laughed as they rounded a corner. “Don’t be such a music snob, Jazzy.”

They wound away from the atrium, turned at another corridor and walked down the long hallway. Theirs was the second room from the end. Jazzy dropped her suitcase as she pulled a key card out of its paper sleeve.

“I hope these walls are soundproof.” Liz leveled a glare at the closed door next to theirs. “With my luck we’ll have a ton of those pint-sized beauty pageant contestants right next door.

“It’ll be okay,” Caitlin said. “It’s only for a couple of nights.” She shifted her glance to Jazzy. “How did you find out about this wedding gig, anyway? And how come they had to bring us all the way from Lexington? Couldn’t they get a local ensemble to play?”

Jazzy shook her head as she swiped the card through the reader on the door. “I guess the Bar-B-Q Festival takes priority with the local groups. The bride’s brother read about our ensemble on my ShoutLife profile. He sent a note asking if we’d be willing to make the drive down to Waynesboro. I figured since they’re willing to pay us and cover our hotel bill, it would be worth the trip.”

The light on the door turned green, and Jazzy pushed down on the handle. She didn’t see any need to mention the fact that Derrick Rogers’s profile picture on the online community ShoutLife identified him as a drop-dead gorgeous guy just about her age. And proclaimed that he was a Christian. The combination had been too good to pass up.

“I can’t imagine why someone would plan a wedding on a weekend when their town is going to be overflowing with out-of-town barbecue lovers.” Liz’s lips pursed. “That’s poor planning, if you ask me.”

“Oh, come on, Liz.” Caitlin pushed past Jazzy into the room. “Quit acting like you’re going to a funeral. We’re gonna have fun. I searched the Internet on this festival thing and read up on it. It’s a big deal, with a bunch of different contests for barbecue and burgoo. All kinds of people come to it, and the barbecue teams cook for days in advance. Apparently the food is awesome.” She inhaled deeply. “Wow, I can already smell the barbecue sauce.”

Liz wrinkled her nose as she, too, pushed into the room. “What is burgoo?”

Jazzy grinned at her. “Your Oregon roots are showing. Every good Kentuckian knows what burgoo is.”

“It’s sort of a stew,” Caitlin explained. “It’s made with several different kinds of meat and vegetables and spices. People in Kentucky, especially in mountains and small towns like Waynesboro, are as proud of their secret burgoo recipes as Texans are of their chili recipes.”

“I like chili.” Liz tossed her suitcase on a bed. “What kind of meat’s in burgoo?”

Jazzy followed them inside, past the closed bathroom door. “Well, here’s what an old guy from eastern Kentucky told me when I asked that question.” She affected a hillbilly drawl. “Hit’s got whatever roadkill we pick up ’at day. Coon. Squirrel. Possum burgoo makes good eatin’, long as it ain’t bin layin’ there more’n a day or two.”

Liz’s mouth twisted. “That is disgusting.”

Jazzy laughed and bumped Liz with her violin case. “I’m kidding, girl. Don’t be so gullible. It’s made from lamb, chicken and pork.”

Liz could be a bit on the sour side, but she was an excellent cellist, and a good friend. Jazzy swiveled to survey the room. Decent-sized, with two double beds, an armoire with a television set and a writing desk near the window. She lifted the floral bedspread and inspected the sheets. They smelled a little stale, but looked clean.

Caitlin was watching with an amused expression. “Well, Miss Clean Freak?”

“Acceptable,” she said as she dropped her violin case onto the mattress. Liz had claimed the other bed, which was okay with her. She liked being nearest the bathroom.

“Not bad.” Liz opened a drawer in the nightstand and peered inside. “The Gideons have been here.”

Caitlin collapsed onto the bed. She looked up at Jazzy. “Are there enough towels? I wouldn’t mind grabbing a shower before the rehearsal.”

“I’ll check.”

Jazzy hefted her suitcase up on the mattress beside her violin and turned toward the bathroom.

“And see if there are three soaps,” Liz added. “No offense, girls, but I want my own.”

Jazzy opened the bathroom door and stepped inside. Caitlin was right about the smell of barbecue sauce. It was even stronger in here. Odd. Maybe the bathroom was vented to draw air from outside, where the contestants would be cooking their festival entries.

The room was small, with a bathtub instead of a shower stall, and a thick white curtain pulled closed. The white fixtures sparkled, thank goodness. She counted four towels and four washcloths, but only one small cake of soap. There might be another in the bathtub soap dish, though.

She grasped the top of the shower curtain and jerked it open. Rings slid across the rod with a metallic scrape.

The strong odor of barbecue sauce slapped her in the face. At the same time, her heart skidded to a stop. Blood drained from her face, leaving her cheeks clammy.

Now would be a good time to scream. One gathered in her diaphragm, but her throat seemed frozen. Instead of a scream, she barely managed to produce a whimper.

A man lay in the bathtub. Fully clothed. Mouth open. Eyes fixed on the ceiling. Tongue hanging grotesquely out.

Dead.

Her stomach lurched as she scanned the sticky red stuff covering his body. Blood?

She placed a hand over her mouth and swallowed back a sudden surge of acid.

Not blood. Barbecue sauce. The man’s body was covered in barbecue sauce.

Derrick pulled his pickup beneath the covered entryway to the Executive Inn. Though today was only Thursday, the parking lot was already full. If the ensemble ladies had been lucky enough to find a parking space in the hotel’s lot, they’d better ride to the church with him. That way they could leave their car parked until they were ready to go home. Since the Executive Inn marked the western end of the festival route, finding an empty parking space within miles of the place before Sunday afternoon would be nearly impossible.

Of course, they could have easily walked the three blocks to the church. But he figured they’d be lugging instrument cases and music stands and what-have-you. Plus, he wanted an opportunity to welcome them to town before they got swept into the wedding chaos.

He stopped the pickup and peered through the glass doors for three musicians who, hopefully, were watching for him. When nobody emerged, he pulled the pickup forward and over to the yellow-painted curb behind three deputy sheriff vehicles.

“Hey, you can’t park there.” The teenage parking attendant removed an earbud from his ear and punched a button on his iPod when Derrick got out and slammed the door. “That’s a tow zone.”

Derrick kept walking toward the door. “Yeah, well I wouldn’t call the tow truck if I was you. I’m here to pick up the musicians who’ll be playing at the sheriff’s son’s wedding tomorrow. We don’t want them to be late for the rehearsal, now, do we?” He winked at the kid to take the sting out of his words.

The guy blanched. “Uh, no, sir, we sure don’t.” Apparently he was familiar with Sheriff Maguire.

Derrick grinned. The sheriff was well known among the local teenagers. And they all sincerely hoped they were not well known to Sheriff Maguire.