Jazzy opened the bathroom door and stepped inside.
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.
VIRGINIA SMITH
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.
A Taste of Murder
Virginia Smith
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.
CONTENTS
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
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
