Virginia Smith - A Taste of Murder

Caitlin was right about the smell of barbeque sauce. It was even stronger in here. Odd.

The room was small, with a bathtub instead of a shower stall, and a thick white curtain pulled closed. She grasped the top of the shower curtain and jerked it open.

The persistent odor of barbeque sauce struck her again. Then her heart skidded to a stop. Blood drained from her face.

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.

Dead.

Her stomach lurched as she scanned the sticky red stuff covering his body. Not blood. Barbeque sauce. The man’s body was covered in barbeque sauce.

A lifelong lover of books, Virginia Smith has always enjoyed immersing herself in fiction. In her midtwenties she wrote her first story and discovered that writing well is harder than it looks; it took many years to produce a book worthy of publication. During the daylight hours she steadily climbed the corporate ladder and stole time late at night after the kids were in bed to write. With the publication of her first novel, she left her twenty-year corporate profession to devote her energy to her passion—writing stories that honor God and bring a smile to the faces of her readers. When she isn’t writing, Ginny and her husband, Ted, enjoy exploring the extremes of nature—snow skiing in the mountains of Utah, motorcycle riding on the curvy roads of central Kentucky, and scuba diving in the warm waters of the Caribbean. Visit www.VirginiaSmith.org.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

It is good to praise the Lord and make music

to your name, O Most High.

—Psalms 92:1

In memory of Larry Kirk, and my dear friend Trudy Kirk.

You were both with me for my first Bar-B-Q Festival, so

every word of this book was written with you in mind.

Larry, I hope you and Jesus are enjoying the story in heaven.

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

EPILOGUE

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

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.

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.

“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.