by Darci Hannah
If the painter was still alive, this would undoubtedly be true. Giff was a handsome young man, charming and easily impressed by celebrity. We talked at least a couple times a week, and it was part of the reason I had delayed his visit. Moving in all the right circles of Chicago’s artistic elite, Giff had known of Silvia Lumiere and her work. He would have just poured more grease on that already out-of-control fire. Silvia, being a soul-sucking vampire, would have eaten the poor man alive.
“Well, I’m afraid you’re too late,” I said. “She’s the one who’s been murdered.”
A loud gasp rang out, followed by, “NO! Not Silvia Lumiere! Whitney, she’s a celebrity.” His tone was as horror-stricken as it was admonishing—as if I had something to do with her murder.
Why did everybody jump to that conclusion, including myself?
Stifling the scandal before it consumed him, I quickly filled Giff in on all the events of the morning, including my own unsettling thoughts regarding sleepwalking and murder.
The phone fell silent on his end as he contemplated my question. “Interesting,” he mused. “She really got under your skin, didn’t she, the nasty old girl. Well, it doesn’t help that everyone knew how you felt about her. Makes you the most likely suspect. But have you considered that you’re the easy target? Also, you being the murderer doesn’t make sense.”
“I know, right?”
“Look, even if I thought you were capable of murder I absolutely know for a fact that you’d never sabotage your own business for revenge. Your weird obsession with trying to prove yourself would absolutely forbid it. And even if you were a habitual sleepwalker and abusing Ambien, I feel that your deep-seated need for approval would kick in and supersede all your carnal sleepwalking desires. In a nutshell, darling, I don’t think you have anything to worry about there. But just in case, I’ll ring an old friend of mine, a neurologist who spends a lot of time at the sleep clinic conducting studies. Truth be told, it’s what put me off him. Highly unsettling waking up next to someone who’s staring at you and taking notes. Creeeeepy. But if sleep-murder is possible, Brad’ll know.”
“Thanks. Also, could you do a little poking around for me regarding Silvia Lumiere? It’s odd, but for all the trouble she caused I know very little about her. See if you can find out if she was ever married, has children, any affiliations, police records or enemies we’re unaware of. Also, did she have any strange behaviors, like soliciting young men or drinking blood?”
“Jesus,” he admonished. “She’s dead. No need to keep dragging the old girl thought the mud.”
“Look, her assistant thinks she was a vampire. I’m just covering all the bases.”
“How disturbing, and yet I’m intrigued. I’ll see what I can do.”
Tay lived in the same Victorian building as her shop, inhabiting a charming and utterly chic apartment above the retail space. Since Cherry Pickers wasn’t open on Sundays, and Tay was most likely already at the Renaissance fair with Lance, I was hoping her mom was poking around inside the building. Char liked unpacking new stock. She also liked rearranging all the lovely pieces her daughter had already displayed to perfection. It drove Tay nuts, but she loved the fact that her mom took an interest in her business. I went to the back door and knocked, hoping that if Char was around she’d hear me.
A moment later the door flew open, but instead of Char, Tay was the one who stood in the doorway. We were both puzzled and a little confused by the sight of one another.
“Sorry,” we both blurted at the same time.
“I should have called,” Tay continued, looking upset. “I’m … I’m not going to the Renaissance fair today.”
“No problem,” I replied. “I should have called you as well to let you know that I’m not going either.”
She frowned. “Because of your Jack-Tate love triangle?”
“No. I mean, there is that. But the real reason is that there’s been another murder.”
We sat in Tay’s airy living room, ensconced in puffy cream chairs and sipping black coffee. I insisted she tell me about Lance first, he being the source of her anxieties. Murder, however much it intrigued her, could wait.
“He’s been very upset lately,” she said, nervously wringing her hands. “Something happened, but he wouldn’t discuss it with me. I mean, we’ve been dating for nearly a year! I tell him everything! The fact that he wouldn’t even give me a hint as to what was bothering him was extremely upsetting. Anyhow, when I noticed that his mood wasn’t improving, I kept pressing. All he would tell me was that it was a private matter and that he would handle it. Then, Friday night, he finally broke down and told me. That’s the day two men came to his tent at the fair and repossessed his beautiful new suit of armor—in front of a crowd of onlookers! It’s not his jousting armor, mind you. That armor he makes himself, but this was special, Whit. It’s his parading armor; it’s for the pageantry of the fair. It hadn’t helped any that his greatest rival, the Green Knight, was laughing at him as the men hauled it away, mocking him for a fool and telling the crowd that such things happen when a knight falls out of favor with his wealthy patron. I tell you, Whit, that destroyed him.”
“Holy cobbler,” I breathed. “The poor man. What the heck happened?”
“Apparently, the money owed him by an old client he’d been after bounced. It was quite a hefty check, and poor Lance, a very trusting soul, just assumed it would be good. Unfortunately, he’d ordered the armor in anticipation of the funds, then paid for it shortly after depositing the bad check.” She shook her head. “He’s positively horrible with personal finance. He thought if I knew I’d be upset. Ha! I’ll tell you what’s upsetting me. I’m upset by the fact he’s let that idiot Green Knight into his head. The jousting and tournament battling are mostly all staged. It’s little more than playacting, kind of like a medieval version of WWE. However, last night when he came home I saw that his entire body was covered in bruises, and I think he has a couple of broken ribs as well. He refused to go to the doctor. Said it was just punishment for being stupid enough to trust this particular client.” She picked up her coffee and took a meditative sip.
“He’s off his game, Whitney, really badly this time. In the state he’s in he’s little more than a pin cushion for the other knights to impale during the tournament. I begged him not to go today, but he just ignored me and stormed out the door. He’s so down on himself that I fear he’s going to get himself killed. And I absolutely refuse to watch him sacrifice that gorgeous body for such a stupid cause.”
“I agree,” I said, giving a silent nod to Lance’s stunning physique. “Such a terrible waste. So, who’s this shoddy client and why does he owe Lance so much money?”
“That’s the upsetting part. He won’t say. It’s all part of this mysterious past of his that he absolutely forbids anyone to dredge up, including me. I used to find it hot. Now it’s just annoying. Anyhow, those are my demons at the moment.”
“Pretty big demons. I’m sorry I’m not at the fair today offering moral support. I really was planning on going until Grandma Jenn found Silvia Lumiere lying dead at the bottom of the stairs in the foyer.”
It was Tay’s turn to be aghast. I quickly filled her in on all I knew, including the fact that Jack regarded me as a prime suspect.
“Really?” she quipped. “Just because she was found with a scone in her mouth? Every time I saw that woman she had a scone in her mouth … or a sour cherry martini. Who’s to say she didn’t trip?”
“One can only hope, but I doubt that’s the case. According to Jack, the scone was shoved pretty far down her throat. It was enough to choke her. Jack believes the tumble down the stairs finished her off by causing a broken neck. Anybody could have done the deed, but what really grinds my gears is the fact that Jack immediately assumed I’m the one who killed her.”
“Right,” she mused. “Because of the scone and the fact that she made your
life a living hell.”
“But anyone who knew me would know that I didn’t do it. As much as the woman drove me crazy, I could never harm her let alone commit murder—if for no other reason than it would compromise the Cherry Orchard Inn brand. And Lord knows how hard I’m working to rebuild it since the debacle this spring.”
Tay agreed. “So, was Jack serious?”
“Serious enough to pull me into the station and interrogate me.”
“NO!”
“It’s true. He didn’t even offer me coffee or water. He just jumped right in with the insulting questions.”
“The peckerhead!”
“Yep, but that’s not the half of it. He actually asked me if anyone was in bed with me last night who could verify that I didn’t get up and kill Silvia. Part of me believes the only reason he asked the question was because he thinks I’m back with Tate. And, for the record”—I added, noting the curiosity dripping from her eyes—“no, to both those questions.”
“Damn,” Tay remarked. “What are you going to do?”
“Oh, I’m gonna get him good. I’m going to find Silvia Lumiere’s real murderer before Jack does and rub it in his face.”
“Yes!” she cried, and set down her empty coffee mug. “Yes, my friend. You go girl!”
“Darn right,” I affirmed, filling with self-righteousness. “I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again. In fact, that’s why I’m here. I came to retrieve my suspect board and my dry-erase markers. Do you still have them?”
“I do. They’re in my office, right where we left them last time.”
“Excellent. And I’m going to need a ride. Can you give me a lift back to the inn?”
“I’ll do even better than that. I’m coming with you. I never thought I’d say this, but murder’s just the thing to keep my mind off that stubborn knight of mine.”
Twenty minutes later Tay emerged from her garage with two oversized helmets and her Vespa scooter. “Where’s your car?” I asked, eyeing the scooter with suspicion.
“Lance took it this morning. He’s afraid they might repo his car next, so we’re leaving it in the garage just in case. All right, you know the drill. Put that on, and hop aboard.”
A moment later, heralded by a loud PUT-PUT-PUT, we pulled into church-going traffic slightly above walking speed while trailing a cloud of thick black smoke. Motorists didn’t love us, but it was a public road, and we were on a mission. I felt there was a good deal of honking for what was normally a polite crowd, yet even this couldn’t shake Tay from her course. Sitting behind her with my giant whiteboard under my arm, I felt like a rage target. I pulled a marker from my pocket and scribbled a large SORRY, which I turned to the queue of cars stacking up behind us.
“I’ve got a plan,” Tay cried over the noise of the scooter. “Nobody interrogates my friend! Get ready, Whit. We’re about to rile up some roof-goats.”
“I don’t think that’s such a—”
With a jerk of the handle bars, Tay veered off the road and into the police station parking lot. Someone clapped, but the sound was soon drowned out by the revving of the scooter’s overtaxed motor. Thing One and Thing Two, frolicking on the thick turf roof, loved it. They bounded across the grass with screams of pure goat-joy. Inside the building MacDuff started barking. A moment later Jack flew out the door, red-faced and angry.
Rubbing salt into the wound, I flashed him my newly revised whiteboard as Tay threw the Vespa into gear. Defiantly I held it up. SORRY, NOT A MURDERER!
“Nice,” Jack cried over the racket of the goats, dog and scooter. “But it’s going to take more than a declaration on a whiteboard to prove your innocence. And I forgot to tell you, in case you were wondering. You’re not to leave town, not until you’re off the suspect list.”
Tay gave Jack the back of her hand, then kicked the Vespa into gear.
It would have been awesome if we could have sped away, leaving Jack in the dust. Unfortunately, all our anticlimactic exit produced was more joyous goat-screams and some not so nice comments from the other motorists trying to navigate the bayside road.
Fifteen
The moment we pulled up to the Cherry Orchard Inn, Greta Stone, the statuesque reporter from Baywatch News (and Jack’s former girlfriend) abandoned her current interview and ran down the wide steps of the front porch toward the sputtering scooter. The poor cameraman assigned to her had no choice but to run after her. The last thing I needed was to be questioned by Greta Stone, but this time there was no Jack to protect me from the press, and the scooter couldn’t be relied upon to outrun the leggy blonde on stilettos, although Tay was willing to give it a try.
“Damn,” she breathed when Greta jumped in front of the old Vespa, waving frantically.
“Whitney!” Greta cried as Tay hit the brakes. “Whitney Bloom!” she said again, reminding me that not only did she know me but, thanks to recent troubles at the orchard, we were on a first name basis. It was like bad déjà vu all over again, being accosted on the front steps of the inn by Greta. Grrrretah!
Truthfully, aside from the ditzy blonde act and the sensational angle she used to pump up her ratings, Greta wasn’t all that bad. My issue with her stemmed more from the fact that she and Jack had a history together, and really, I knew very little about it. Jack never wanted to discuss it, and anyhow, what did I care about that now? She could have him back for all I cared. So why were the fingers of jealousy creeping up my spine? I shook them off and had to applaud the reporter’s tenacity. The woman jumped right in with cameras rolling.
“Whitney Bloom, the current manager of the Cherry Orchard Inn, has just pulled up on a scooter with gal-pal Taylor Robinson, owner of the trendy boutique Cheery Pickers. Ms. Bloom, what is the meaning of that sign you’re carrying?” Before I could register what she was saying, her cameraman moved in for a close-up of the whiteboard. Tay uttered a profanity and then ripped the sign from my hands, vigorously employing her shirtsleeve on the round letters. Unfortunately, Greta, her cameraman, and the greater Green Bay viewing area had seen it.
“‘Sorry, not a murderer?’” she quoted with a probing look. “On the morning of yet another murder at the Cherry Orchard Inn, don’t you find that a strange message to be toting around town? Or are you in fact proclaiming your innocence before a proper investigation can take place?”
I stared at her a moment. Then, urged by a sharp elbow in my ribs, flipped into damage control mode, something I had a good deal of experience with lately. The first and most important tactic was to deflect suspicion. “Greta, so glad you’re here,” I said, projecting a confidence I didn’t feel. “As you can imagine, it’s been a difficult morning. Everyone here at the Cherry Orchard Inn is saddened and traumatized by the loss of Silvia Lumiere. Today the art world has lost a huge talent.”
“Is it true you’re the head baker of this establishment?”
“It is.”
“And is it true that Ms. Lumiere was found at the bottom of the main staircase with a cherry scone stuffed into her mouth—a cherry scone baked by you?”
“That is also true. But before we jump to conclusions I believe it’s important to note that the authorities are still trying to determine whether Ms. Lumiere’s death was accidental. Anyone who knew her could tell you that she wasn’t very steady on her feet.”
“Actually, Ms. Bloom, the coroner has determined cause of death. We just got word a few minutes ago. According to the coroner’s office in Door County General, the famed portrait painter, Silvia Lumiere, died from a broken neck suffered from a fall down the stairs. Crumbs from the cherry scone stuffed down her throat were also found in her lungs, indicating aspiration as well as suffocation. Now do you see why that sign you’re carrying is so suspicious?”
I didn’t much care for her smirk, or the way her Barbie-blonde hair tumbled over her shoulder with the tilt of her head.
Tay jumped to the r
escue. “We hadn’t heard,” she said, kicking the Vespa into gear. “And Ms. Bloom has nothing more to say to you on the matter.”
I pulled Tay into the inn’s kitchen with me and shut the door behind us.
“What are we doing in here?” she asked as I flipped on the lights.
“Brainstorming,” I told her. “I’m a murder suspect. We need to think, and I always think better when my hands are covered in dough.”
“Gotcha,” she said and set the suspect board on the prep counter, propping it up against the open shelving. While Tay picked up a marker, I took down two glasses and proceeded to fill them with sour cherry juice topped with a measure of good old-fashioned ginger ale. I handed a sour cherry fizz to Tay and took a sip of my own.
“Whatcha making?” she asked, turning to the whiteboard.
As I rattled around the kitchen, pulling down mixing bowls, rubber scrapers, a pastry cutter, and a sack of flour, I replied, “I feel like I need to work with a really complex yeast dough, but I don’t have time for that. Instead I’m afraid it’s scones again.”
“Fitting,” she quipped with a slight grin. “Besides, I’m starving. There’s nothing like a fresh scone out of the oven.”
Scones were relatively simple to make, and that was fine with me. As I thought about the murder of Silvia Lumiere I measured out the flour, the baking powder, the sugar and salt, and gave it a good stir. Next I added the cold butter and cut it in to the dough with my pastry cutter until it was the size of small, crumbly peas. As I worked on the scones, Tay began scribbling names on the board as fast as I could say them.
“Fred Beauchamp,” I said, adding the dried cherries and toasted pecans. “Silvia’s romantic interest. I saw him leave the inn around midnight, but he could have come back.”
Whisking the sour cream into the half-and-half, I added, “I suppose we should add Bob Bonaire as well.”