Free Kill 'Em with Cayenne by Gail Oust

pane of glass set into the wood door. “Looks like the TV’s still on.”
    â€œMight be Maybelle’s in the little girl’s room.”
    I stepped off the porch and wedged myself between the boxwoods under the picture window. Cupping my hands around my eyes, I tried to peek through a narrow slit in the drawn blinds. “What if Maybelle’s fallen and can’t get up? Like in those television commercials.”
    Reba Mae edged closer. “You mean the one with the lady layin’ on the floor all old and helpless? Then she’s all happy again after buyin’ herself one of those gadgets to wear around her neck?”
    â€œThat’s the one.” I straightened and stood, hands on hips, staring at a nearby crepe myrtle ready to burst into bloom. “You stay here while I go around back.”
    â€œYou don’t think Maybelle is avoidin’ us on purpose?”
    â€œNonsense,” I replied, although privately that’s exactly what I thought. Still … “What if Maybelle is hurt and needs help? What kind of persons would we be if we turned our backs on a friend? We need to make sure she’s safe. We owe it to her.”
    â€œYou’re right,” Reba Mae agreed. “Maybelle could’ve sprained an ankle. Or broken her hip. Do you think we should call nine-one-one? Ask McBride to send one of his men over to check on things?”
    â€œUmm … Let’s wait,” I said as she started to reach into her pocket for her cell phone. I knew Maybelle to be a private person—a very private person. She’d never speak to us again if we called the police to break down her door. “Why don’t we check this out more thoroughly before calling for reinforcements?”
    â€œPiper…?” Reba Mae raced over to me and clutched my arm, her eyes wide. “I just thought of something. What if the same psycho who killed Becca came after Maybelle? After all, the two of them are single women, livin’ alone, and approximately the same age.”
    â€œAre you nuts?” I hissed. “Surely you’re not suggesting there’s a serial killer on the prowl in Brandywine Creek? A killer who bludgeons his victims with a brisket?”
    â€œStranger things have happened,” she retorted, her tone defensive. “You read about serial killers all the time in the newspapers. Or see stories about them on TV. I even saw a show once about vampire serial killers.”
    I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “Next you’ll try to convince me Buzz Oliver flipped out and is systematically knocking off all the women in his life.”
    â€œThat’s exactly what I’m talkin’ about. Just think of it as a possible movie of the week on the Lifetime channel.”
    â€œStay here,” I instructed. “Keep ringing the bell and pounding on the door while I check around the back.” I didn’t know what I expected to find but thought it worth a shot. Maybe the kitchen curtains would be open and give me a better hint of what was going on inside. Could be Maybelle was playing possum. Could be she really was injured or ill and needed help.
    I’d no sooner gone a half-dozen steps when the front porch light flicked on, bathing us in its jaundiced glare. A lock snicked and a door opened, revealing a haggard-appearing Maybelle Humphries clutching a fleecy robe tightly around her throat.
    â€œWhat in heaven’s name!” she exclaimed at seeing us. “You two are making enough noise to disturb the neighbors.”
    â€œHey, Maybelle,” I said, taking in the woman’s drawn face, the dark circles under her eyes. “Reba Mae and I were worried about you. Thought we’d stop by and make sure you’re all right.”
    Reba Mae stepped forward, motioning for me to return to the porch. “My boy Clay said he came by the Chamber this afternoon to pick up some flyers, but the office was closed.