Still Life in Brunswick Stew by Larissa Reinhart Page B

either.
    I wondered if anyone else from the festival had died. I made a mental note to check the Halo Herald when it came out the following week. Or better yet, I could visit the newspaper office tomorrow and ask.
    And while I was at it, I might as well inquire about this new bingo meeting. It couldn’t hurt to check on the Bear’s newest service. Maybe he had turned a new leaf and enjoyed providing cookies and coffee to the Ladies Auxiliary. Judging by his popularity at church, he was benefitting in baked goods. Strange he would allow himself to be mobbed. Unless he was encouraging these women for some other nefarious purpose.
    A smile uncurled my tight lips. It felt good to have a plan.

     

TWELVE

    The Halo Herald newspaper office needed a coat of paint following a massive attack against clutter, debris, and dirt. Grime on the plate glass window kept the inside mess hidden from passersby. But those who entered the office soon realized the twenty-four seven world of newspaper work didn’t include much cleaning. Dust mites crawled in my nose, drawing out a giant sneeze that sprayed the piled folders, fliers, and newspapers on the yellowing Formica counter.
    “Goodness me,” replied a voice behind a stack of binders. “Bless you.”
    A woman popped up from a desk and approached the counter. Her short, russet hair, khaki pants, and fawn top gave her the appearance of a bright-eyed wren. Which I guess would make me a parrot in my chartreuse and violet tank with royal blue shorts.
    “Can I help you?” Her voice had a pleasant lilt, like she’d been in Georgia some but had lived north of the sweet tea line as well.
    “Yes, ma’am. I’m Cherry Tucker,” I began.
    “You’re the artist who painted Dustin Branson’s coffin portrait?” She hopped closer to where I stood.
    “Yes, ma’am. I guess that probably caught the paper’s attention.”
    “Anything related to a murder case catches my attention,” she replied. “I’m Dorothy Cooper. August Cooper’s daughter,” she added as part of a small town member’s automatic clarification system. August Cooper owned Cooper’s Funeral Home. “You can call me Dot.”
    “Thanks, Dot. I’m inquiring about two things.” Before she started a spiel about ad or editorial pieces, I continued. “Both are concerning investigations you might be looking into.”
    “Investigations?”
    I guessed that word wasn’t used much at the Halo Herald.
    “One is the Sidewinder Brunswick Stew Cook-Off,” I said.
    “Sure. The food poisoning scare?”
    “Yes, ma’am. My friend from Sidewinder, Eloise Parker, died after eating Brunswick Stew at the festival.”
    “What?” Dot’s brown eyes gleamed. “The stew killed her?”
    “I’m not sure. That might need investigating.”
    “Sidewinder doesn’t have a police department. Is the sheriff’s office checking into it?”
    “Her father wants an autopsy.” I drew a circle in the dust on the counter. “She had Crohn’s disease, but I was with her all day and she didn’t appear sick until she ate about six cups of stew.”
    Dot grabbed a notebook from her desk and began scribbling. “I’ll check to see if anyone else got that sick.”
    “Check into one of the teams, Cotton Pickin’ Good. The cook, Lewis Maynard, and his wife, Marion, also fell sick pretty bad. According to Lewis’s girlfriend’s son. And that’s where Eloise got all her stew.”
    “Really? According to Lewis’s girlfriend’s son?” Dot’s eyebrows drew together, and she cocked her head. “It’s likely a coincidence, but I’ll check into it. Lewis Maynard should be easy to track down.”
    “One more thing. Eloise had a boyfriend, Griffin Ward, who hassled her some. I don’t know if it’s related to the food poisoning, but it can’t hurt to add him into the mix. He was selling his health food smoothie, Genuine Juice, at the festival.”
    “Okay.” Her voice sounded doubtful, but she added his name to the list.
    “Thanks. If you need