Roxy Reinhardt Mysteries Box Set

by Alison Golden

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  JOHNSON’S EXPRESSION WAS impassive, but as he tore his eyes away from Ada, he noticed that Roxy was still there. He gave a little jump, and his face turned an even deeper shade of purple. “What is it now?” he barked.

  Roxy gulped but gathered herself to speak. She wanted to sound confident. She still didn’t find confrontation easy, but she was getting braver at dealing with it. “I wanted to let you know we’re in the middle of an Instagram campaign.”

  “A what?” he said.

  “It’s a marketing thing,” Roxy explained.

  “And what makes you think that interests me in the slightest?” he said. “Move. Go away. I need to enter this room, and I don’t want you contaminating evidence.”

  “I need to let you know that,” said Roxy, taking her cue from Ada and holding firm—just, “well, it’s that my guests might photograph or video things. The people here are famous to their Instagram tribes. Between them, they have hundreds of thousands of followers. They make their living by producing videos and beautiful images. People watch them online. I wondered if it might interfere with the investigation.” Roxy kept her voice even, but it was quivering a little.

  Johnson looked incredulous. “Right,” he said. “So the crazy modern world has finally infiltrated New Orleans, has it?” He sighed. “Today is a sad day, Ms. Reinhardt.” He looked at Roxy disapprovingly as if she were personally responsible for this invasion. “I know nothing of this, and I don't wish to know anything of this. Just make sure to tell them that until I say so, there is to be no more photography or video. If they don’t comply, they will be charged, and I will slap the handcuffs on them myself.”

  Roxy felt a shiver go through her. There was something about this man that got under her skin and made her want to run away as fast as possible in the other direction.

  “Okay,” she said. She managed to manufacture a smile. “I'll go and tell them now.”

  When she got downstairs, everyone except Michael was nibbling on beignets and sipping the brandy milk punch that Evangeline had made “for the shock.”

  “I can't believe that guy!” Nat said when she saw Roxy. “Who does he think he is? Why does he have to be so rude?”

  “Will you pipe down, cher?” said Evangeline. “He’s just doin’ his job.”

  “No, I will not pipe down,” Nat shot back. “Anyway, I don't see why you're defending him. He’s not exactly your greatest fan, is he?”

  Evangeline sipped her punch and let out a deep long sigh.

  “Johnson says that nobody is to record. No pictures, no video,” said Roxy to the room.

  Michael looked up from where he sat curled silently in an armchair. “How dare he,” he said, quiet and deadly. “He can’t tell us what we can and can’t do in the wake of a tragedy. In any case, it's too late. I was recording an Instagram video when I went into Dash’s room. The whole world knows about it already.”

  Roxy took a second to register Michael’s comment before the full implications of what he was saying hit her. She put her hands to her head. “No, no, no,” she whispered. If it weren't for the guests on every side of her, she would have crawled into a fetal position and rocked back and forth at this news. When she had considered the wisdom of the influencer campaign, the worst she imagined was a few bad reviews. She never considered the possibility that an unexplained death would be beamed from her hotel live across the whole planet.

  Just then, there was a series of knocks at the door that turned into a rain of hammer blows. Roxy practically jumped out of her skin. She flinched so hard that she elbowed Evangeline, who was standing next to her causing her to spill her punch on the floor.

  “Oh sorry, sorry,” Roxy said. “Who could that be?”

  “It’s probably the forensic team,” said Lily. She looked coolly at Roxy. “Would you like me to answer?”

  “No, no,” said Roxy. “It’s my responsibility.” She felt like she was living a nightmare: an influencer dying in her hotel that was full of other influencers recording everything as a testimony. And she’d thought the Versace dress incident was bad enough.

  Roxy walked into the hallway and with a sharp exhale opened the door. She expected to see people in white suits standing on the step with bags full of investigating equipment. Instead, the scene that greeted her when she swung open the heavy wooden door was far worse than that.

  “Arghh!” She was blinded by a flash. Then another flash, then another. Flash, flash, flash!

  “Roxy Reinhardt?” a woman shouted. A microphone was shoved into Roxy’s face. A crowd of other men and women—all waving phones, cameras, notepads, pens, or microphones—pushed and jostled in front of her.

  “Uh… yes?” she said, blinking. Roxy turned her head to protect her eyes from a flash only to be assailed by another. She was so stunned she couldn't move. She stood on the doorstep of the Funky Cat Inn protecting her eyes with her hand and noiselessly opening and closing her mouth like a goldfish as the frenzy in front of her refused to abate.

  Suddenly, Roxy was grabbed from behind and pulled back into the hallway. Nat slammed the door shut and pressed her back against it for good measure. Only then did Elijah loosen his tight grip on Roxy’s shoulders.

  “Reporters!” Roxy cried. A couple of angry tears streamed down her face. She wiped them away furiously. “This is too much!”

  Evangeline joined them. She shook her head. “No time for tears and shoutin’, cher,” she said. “We've got to make sure those reporters don't start puttin’ cameras at the windows. You know they're goin’ to be lookin’ in from every angle.

  “She’s right, Roxy,” Elijah said. “This is the hottest story out there right now, and I guarantee it’s only going to get worse. My brother worked for a politician caught in a scandal and what those reporters will do for a story would make your short li’l blonde locks curl.”

  “But how can that be?” said Roxy. “We found him dead barely ten minutes ago.”

  “It was live on Instagram,” said Nat. “This is a huge story.”

  “One that's only goin’ to get bigger,” said Evangeline. “A virus, isn’t that what you called it? The news will spread like wildfire. He was a celebrity of sorts, right? This isn't gonna go away, cher. You need to face it.”

  Roxy felt trapped. She could hear the clamor of reporters outside. “But what about when we want to go out?” she said. “What if they push their way in?”

  “For now we’re stuck inside unless the police decide to help us out on that score.” Evangeline threw her eyes up to the ceiling. “And I doubt that very much.”

  Roxy felt sick to her stomach.

  Evangeline was not generally a hugging type of person, but now she put her arm around Roxy and patted her shoulder. “None of this is your fault, cher,” she said kindly. “Don't be too hard on yourself, and don't get caught up in too many emotions, y’hear? You need to stay strong for the guests and make sure that everyone is okay. The world is watchin’. We can turn this around. Guests remember what you do when there is a problem much more than when everythin’ goes well. Lemons to lemonade, cher.”

  “She’s right, Roxy. Give the world an excellent impression of the hotel, despite being at the center of a crisis. You can do it. We’ve all worked too hard to give up now.” Elijah snapped his fingers and sashayed in a tight circle around the lobby, his head rocking from side to side.

  As she watched him, Roxy instantly felt better. Evangeline was right. Roxy had read in The Hotelier, the #1 industry magazine, that the level of service a hotel provided when a guest had a problem and was upset created the strongest impression. Well, the Funky Cat certainly had a problem now and her guests were certainly upset.

  Summoning the strength from somewhere, Roxy clapped her hands together with a burst of energy. She was being looked to for leadership. “Let’s show them that we can handle a crisis, the worst kind of crisis. Come on, people!” She didn’t feel quite as confident as she sounded, but she was determined to
take another crack at turning the situation around. She was going to take charge. She was going to do this.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  WHILE DETECTIVE JOHNSON questioned the guests and staff, the forensics team were let in to the hotel and got to work. Johnson gave the press a stern warning not to come inside, and almost blocked Sage too, but eventually let her in. She, together with Nat and Elijah, worked to cover up the windows with trash bags secured with white strips of tape. This made Roxy feel sad.

  “My gorgeous boutique hotel looks like it’s in the middle of a war zone or in the path of a hurricane that’s about to pass through,” she said.

  “Yeah, it looks and feels completely and utterly wrong, but it’s necessary,” Elijah said. When the chips were down, Elijah, for all his flouncing, custom cupcakes, and proclivity for partying could be pretty practical. “It won’t be for long. We’ll all be here to tear it down when this is over, and those horrible reporters have gone away.”

  Unable to leave, the guests and staff played board games and charades, and Evangeline kept everyone’s spirits up with a never-ending supply of punch and café au lait. She rustled up po’boys and salad for lunch. Eventually, they all dispersed for an early afternoon nap, leaving Roxy alone in the lounge.

  She sat down in a squishy armchair, her chin propped on her fist. There was a little squeak, and she looked down to see that Nefertiti had decided to join her. The fluffy white cat wound her body between Roxy’s legs, the softness of her fur soothing her owner like a blanket. Roxy bent over to pick her cat up and plop her in her lap.

  “Nef-nef, I’m trying to be brave. I’m trying to keep my spirits up. But it’s hard, you know?” She stuck her nose into Nefertiti’s fur and lay her cheek on the cat’s back. It was like lying on the softest of soft white pillows.

  “Come on, girl. Let’s tidy this place up.” Roxy stood and, with a mewl of protest, Nefertiti was dropped to the wooden floor.

  As Roxy was picking up the used plates, Detective Johnson appeared. He looked grumpy and was chewing on a pen.

  “Would you like something to eat, Detective?”

  “Uh, no,” Johnson said. As an afterthought, he added, “Thanks.”

  Roxy waited for him to say something, but when Johnson continued to chew on his pen, she asked, “Are you done here now? Can we get on with things?”

  The detective sighed. “Yeah, seems no one saw or heard anything. According to them, they were all in their beds until morning. We’ll see what they have to say down at the morgue about the cause of death, but you can go about your day. Just don’t let anyone leave town until we know more about what happened here.” Johnson appeared distracted. He made to leave, before turning back to face Roxy. “Tell me,” he said wagging his pen at her. “There was a half-eaten cupcake on a plate beside the deceased’s bed. And a thermos with the dregs of something milky inside it. There was a faint whiff of liquor. What was that?”

  “We gave the influencers personalized cupcakes and brandy milk punch as a nightcap last night.”

  “And was that the last thing the deceased would have eaten?”

  “I guess.”

  “Who was involved in preparing it?”

  “Elijah made the cupcakes and N–Nat…” It suddenly dawned on Roxy where this line of questioning was going. She cleared her throat, “Nat made the punch and delivered it along with the cakes to the guests’ rooms.”

  Johnson eyebrows shot up, and he tapped his pen against his lips, a small smile forming.

  “Surely you aren’t suggesting that the nightcap had something to do with Dash’s death?” Roxy asked in a here-we-go-again voice. “Or that Nat or Elijah were involved in some way?”

  “Let’s wait for the post mortem results before speculating, shall we, Ms. Reinhardt?” Johnson wagged his pen at her again, but his skeptical expression told Roxy that he clearly wasn’t following his own advice.

  By the time Johnson and his forensic team had left and Dash’s body had been removed, it was evening. After checking that everyone was all right, Roxy decided to go for an evening jog. She thought it might clear her head. The press corps was still on her doorstep, but those who had hung around the back seemed to have given up. Roxy slipped out of the back door. When she set out, the sunlight was just beginning to fade, leaving a purply haze that felt a little eerie. As she ran, her feet rhythmically pounded the sidewalk while her mind wandered.

  Roxy had grown up with a mother who put her down, who had never believed that Roxy was destined for any kind of happiness or success. In her head, Roxy could hear her mother’s voice.

  Why did you believe that you could have a good life, that things would get better, that you could be successful? Can’t you see that everything you touch turns to dust?

  Roxy knew that if her mom was with her right now, she’d get a knowing look followed by, “Roxy, why did you even try to do that? You never finish anything you start. You should have played it safe.”

  But Roxy had not wanted to play it safe, not any longer. She had wanted to break with the past. She had tried her best to turn the Funky Cat Inn into a thriving business, tried to create, tried to succeed. And it had gone well for a while. But now look what had happened. Things were turning out worse than she could ever have imagined. Would she have been better to play it safe in the first place, like her mother would have said?

  But it was too late to be second-guessing herself now. Evangeline had handed management and partial ownership of the Funky Cat over. Roxy had staff and suppliers who were relying on her. The Instagram campaign was underway. There was no way out but through. She needed to step up.

  Back at the Funky Cat, after a shower, Roxy fell into a fitful sleep, waking up several times in the night, horrible thoughts riding around her head and trampling all over her soul. Images of Ada wagging her finger and Johnson arguing swam in front of her eyes while the sound of Michael crying for help rang in her ears. It felt like someone had reached into her chest, grabbed her heart, and squeezed. But amid the chaos, she saw her friends—Sam, Nat, Elijah, Sage, and Evangeline—urging her on, telling her not to give up. Even Nefertiti made an appearance.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE NEXT MORNING, there was no time to be dragged down by the trauma of the previous day. Roxy knew that it was her responsibility to make sure at the very least that the influencers were all right and that no further negative impressions of her hotel were going out into the world. She planned to make sure the reputation of the Funky Cat wouldn’t be torn to shreds on her watch if she could possibly help it.

  She got up, washed her face, and smiled at herself in the mirror. “I can do this,” she said to herself. “I can, I can, I will, I must.” She felt a little blip of depression catch her heart, a little reminder of the obstacles facing her, but she decided not to pay it any attention. She needed to be strong now, and strong she was going to be.

  First things first, Roxy checked on Michael. He didn't come down for breakfast, and as Roxy went upstairs with a coffee and a plate of beignets, she had horrible visions of finding him in the same condition he had found Dash the previous day. Fortunately, that did not turn out to be the case. When she found him, Michael was sitting at the window in his room, staring out at the city. It was a gray morning, which obviously wasn’t helping his mood.

  “How are you doing?” asked Roxy, not knowing what else to say. She knew it was a dumb question, but it was hard to know what to say to someone whose best friend had just been murdered.

  Michael said, “Oh fine, fine,” in a dreamy, distracted voice. He seemed worlds away.

  “Did you sleep all right?” she asked, setting the beignets and coffee next to him on the table.

  “Terribly,” he said. “All I could see was Dash’s dead face looking back at me. I can't sleep here again.”

  Roxy nodded. “I understand. Why don’t we get you to another hotel?” she said. “Maybe you'd be better staying at somewhere larger, more anonymous, and with more people around.”
/>
  Michael looked at her for the first time since she entered the room. “That makes sense,” he said flatly.

  “If it weren’t for Detective Johnson’s orders you could go back home. You probably don't feel like being in New Orleans right now.”

  Michael shot back, “Do you want me out of the way? Do you want me to leave so as not to inconvenience you anymore?”

  “No, no!” Roxy said, horrified. “I was just thinking about your well-being.

  Michael shook his head. His shoulders slumped. He leaned against the window. “You see? I just can’t stay here. I keep wondering who would have done that to Dash and why.” He got out his smartphone and showed it to Roxy. “That horrible detective released a statement to the news. Dash was poisoned. The police are treating his death as suspicious. Why would someone poison him? And how? We all drank and ate the same things at dinner, didn’t we? It just doesn't make any sense.”

  Roxy cringed inwardly on hearing this news and felt an ice-cold hand clutch at her heart. Was her food responsible? Was it the nightcap? Was there a murderer staying in her hotel? Would suspicion fall on her and her friends, again? She shook her head. “You’re right. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Michael looked at her with a disbelief that he did not even care to veil. Roxy looked back at him, bewildered. “You don’t think I…?”

  “Sorry,” he said. “No, I’m not sorry. I don't know if I'm sorry! It’s just…anyone could have killed him. How am I supposed to know? How am I supposed to tell who’s innocent and who’s guilty?” He burst into tears. Great big sobs. “I’m so sorry, buddy!” he said through his wailing cries as he looked out of the window. “I’m so sorry!”

  Roxy felt her heart might break listening to him. She rushed to kneel down in front of him and put her hands on his knees. It was an intimate gesture as if they were very good friends, but his cries reached deep into her heart and brought out all her compassion. “I am so, so sorry,” she said. “But there was nothing you could have done. None of this is your fault.”