He takes a breath as he examines the cover. “Smuggler’s Cove High. Home of the Pirates.”
“Smuggler’s Cove?” I look up at Jasper in disbelief. “Jasper, this falls in line with what I found in Heather’s bedroom.”
Camila leans in. “You were in Heather’s bedroom?” Her mouth falls open. “You broke in, didn’t you?”
I shoot her a look. “None of your business. Come on, Jasper.” I pull him along until we’re in his office and Camila trots in right after us.
She feigns a brief smile. “If I go, my yearbook goes. I had to pay thirty bucks for that relic.”
“Fine,” I say, taking it from Jasper and heading straight for the senior section.
Onyx pages are brightened with young men and women clad in royal blue caps and gowns, each one looking their very best as they smile into the camera.
My finger slides down the page as I scan alphabetically for my target.
Camila grunts, “You’re off by a few pages. Heather’s last name is Kent, and Rachel’s last name is Hatterman. You’re still at the beginning of the alphabet.”
“I’m not looking for Heather or Rachel.” I land my finger just under the picture of a pretty brunette with clear green eyes. There’s something trusting about her, innocent, and I instantly feel sorry for the poor girl. Little did she know this would be the last year of her life. “I’m looking for this girl, Aileen Bradley.”
Camila huffs, “Who?”
“Jasper.” I look his way. “Heather had a bright red folder in her vanity. It was chock-full of newspaper clippings about Rachel’s death, the drowning at the cove. But there was only one clipping that told a different story.” I pull the article from the pocket of my jeans and unfold it carefully.
Jasper groans, “Tell me you didn’t swipe that from Heather’s bedroom.”
I glance to Camila momentarily.
“Maybe,” I say. “But I think we need to look this girl up.”
Jasper and Camila lean over my shoulders as we quickly read the article to ourselves.
“My God,” I whisper. “The article says they found her body in the water, but that Aileen died of asphyxiation, not drowning. It also states there were no signs of strangulation.”
Jasper closes his eyes briefly. “She was most likely smothered.”
I blow out a breath. “And whoever killed her tried to cover their tracks by tossing her into the water—just like Rachel.” I sag at the thought. “How I wish I could rewind time and save all three girls.” I look to Jasper. “I think Heather knew Aileen. I mean, obviously she did, right? Why else would she have saved this article? And that’s not the strangest part.” I bear hard into Jasper’s clear gray eyes. “Bates and Jane both told me that Heather thought she was being haunted. Faith mentioned something similar. Bates said pictures were falling off the walls and things were moving around on their own. Today on Heather’s vanity I found three candles that looked as if they were pretty well used, and on the four corners of the vanity were bundles of sage as if she was doing some sort of ritualistic cleansing.”
Camila nods furtively. “She was trying to keep the spirits away. I know all about it, Jasper.”
Only a true witch would, I want to say but decide to keep the commentary to myself.
“I think so, too,” I whisper. “Anyway, let’s see if we can glean anything from this yearbook.”
I take a seat and Camila sits beside me as Jasper leans over my shoulder. I turn to the back and look up Aileen’s name in the index and quickly turn to the pages she’s referenced to be on. The first is her senior picture with her kinky brown hair, her freckled face, and glowing green eyes. The second is her big win for best eyes, and in the final picture she’s hugging a young Heather and a young Rachel Hatterman. The caption reads best friends forever.
“There you have it.” I take an unsteady breath. “They were best friends.”
Jasper nods. “Which makes what Kendra told us about Heather denying any kind of relationship with Rachel even more interesting.”
I nod. “Heather had something to hide.”
Camila snatches the yearbook from me and pulls it to herself. “You think she killed these girls, don’t you?”
A million thoughts run through my mind at once.
“We can’t be sure.” My eyes meet with Jasper’s. “But she wasn’t just morbidly interested in their deaths. Heather Kent believed they were haunting her. Bates told me a story of being in her bedroom when a blade flew off from the ceiling fan, narrowly missing her neck. He said she shouted, ‘I hate you, Rachel. I hate you, Leeny.’” I shake my head. “Heather felt they were tormenting her. If they were best friends, why would she feel they were haunting her from the great beyond?”
“Guilt.” Camila doesn’t hesitate with the answer.
I turn her way. “As much as I hate to agree with you, I think you’re right.” I lean toward Jasper. “Aileen was smothered. Rachel had a gash on the back of her head. The authorities assumed that Rachel hit her head against a rock. What are the odds that two of Heather’s best friends both end up dead in the water?”
“Apparently very good,” Camila spouts off. “And let’s not forget that Heather herself died by the water.”
I nod. “Bludgeoned with a cleaver. A far more violent crime.”
Jasper pinches his lips. “It was personal.”
“It sounds like revenge,” I counter.
“All right.” Jasper heads over to the expansive dry-erase board hanging on the wall and picks up a red marker. “Suspects. Let’s see what we’ve got.” He draws a large circle on the board and writes Heather Kent in the middle of it before drawing a few spokes around the outside of it. “Who’s up first?”
I glance to Camila.
“Peter Olsen.” She gives a quick nod as if she was sure of his guilt. “He was doing it with her, and he didn’t want his wife to find out about it.”
I wave the idea off. “His wife knew all about it. In fact, they were arguing about it that night. Peter liked the attention Heather was giving him. But the night she was murdered, she broke it off with him. She was already into Bates at that point.”
“Okay.” Jasper jots down Peter’s name and cites the breakup as a motive. “Who’s next?”
“Jane,” Camila shouts as if it were the right answer in a pop quiz. “I bet she grabbed the nearest cleaver and hacked away at the other woman.”
I shrug over at Jasper. “Why not? Plus, there were the fresh footprints in the damp sand near Heather’s body and I did see wet sand on Jane’s feet. She admitted to going to the edge of the cove. She said she heard Heather arguing with someone. She assumed it was Peter. She heard something being said about the past, the words haunting me. And then she said she heard what sounded like the splitting of a melon and she took off. She also mentioned something strange. She said Heather once told Faith and Kiki not to mess with anything that had to do with the afterlife. She mentioned that she felt like she was being haunted.”
Jasper pauses to look at me an inordinate amount of time. And when were you going to tell me all this?
“Now?” A nervous laugh titers from me and he quickly writes it down. “Next suspect.” I clear my throat. “There’s Bates Barlow. Kiki, the makeup artist, said she heard Bates and Heather arguing just before Heather was killed. And, right after we found the body, I heard”—I make wild eyes at Jasper to alert him to the fact I heard what comes next as an internal dialogue—“Bates say the word perfect. Then the witch is dead. Now if I can just get the others off my back, I might actually get my life on track again.”
Jasper scans the floor a moment before writing it down on the whiteboard.
“Anyone else, ladies?”
Camila giggles as she elbows me in the arm. “Hear that, Bizzy? Jasper is already likening us in the same regard.”
I make a face at her. “He may be milking you for information now, but he’ll be milking me for kisses later.” I give a wink his way. “No one else I can th
ink of, sweetie.”
Sweetie? His brows dip down, and he looks equally amused and vexed by my spontaneous nickname.
I shrug over at him. “I can work on it. But back to the case—I’ve got nothing. In fact, the only other people I know on set are Faith, the production assistant, and Kiki Woodley.”
Jasper quickly adds their names. “We don’t discount anyone at this phase.”
“You know”—I lift a finger in the air—“there was something strange about Faith that night. I caught her wiping down the counter where the cleaver was last seen, almost as if she was wiping down any sign of prints.”
“Okay.” Jasper makes a note of it. “I’ll have to ask her about that.” He glances over his shoulder. “I as in me. I can handle the case once we leave this room. I don’t want either of you pursuing this any further.”
Camila raises her hand as if she were in class. And how she longs to be the teacher’s pet. To quote one of Georgie’s favorite sayings, “Too bad, Toots.”
Jasper nods her way and Camila straightens.
“We should write down Kiki’s name, too,” she insists.
“Kiki Woodley,” Jasper says as he writes her name. “Any thoughts?”
Camila purses her lips. “She was making up the fake blood the day of the murder. I bet she wanted to mix in the real thing as she went for the authentic look.”
“Nope.” I don’t mind knocking down Camila’s veil of a theory. “Kiki.” I close my eyes, trying to remember anything that could have been incriminating. “Come to think of it, she did confirm to me that Bates was drinking the night of the murder and that he told both her and Faith that he wanted to play a prank on the crew.” Some of the private thoughts she was having during that conversation come back to me. “She also said that she couldn’t wait until Bates was locked up for good, and that the way things were going, she didn’t think it would be long at all.”
Jasper gives a wistful tick of the head. “Another strike for Bates.”
We wrap up the suspect scrutiny, and I somehow convince Camila into letting us keep the yearbook overnight. I promise to return it to her on set tomorrow as the cast and crew shoot the final scene.
A part of me can’t wait to see Camila get hacked to pieces in a wedding dress. In fact, I might just insist that Jasper stick around for that piece of cinematic entertainment himself.
Once she leaves the office, Jasper turns the lock on his door and a throaty laugh escapes me.
“Why, Detective Wilder, whatever are your intentions?” I sling my arms around his neck and bite down seductively on my lip.
“I think I interrogated you enough.”
“Oh?” A laugh stifles in my chest. “Is it time for my punishment?”
He ticks his head back a notch. “I was thinking something more along the lines of pleasure.”
“Pleasure? I’m not sure an ornery detective like yourself knows the meaning of the word. I think you need to prove it.”
A wicked gleam crops up in his eyes and Jasper is quick to do just that.
Chapter 16
The Country Cottage Café is somewhat quiet, considering the fact the final scene of Cat Scratch Fever is about to commence just outside its doors. The café has been cordoned off to regular guests and Emmie and the rest of the staff are serving the guests in the grand dining room instead.
Fish and Sherlock sit next to me as I leaf through that old yearbook Heather and her friends were in. I’ve got my tote bag with me in the event anyone comes my way so I can bury it in there. God forbid the killer sees me hunting for information. But I can’t help it. I want to wade through this while I watch them set up for Camila’s big death scene.
What do you see now, Bizzy? Sherlock barks from the floor.
Fish hisses his way. She’s perched up on my lap and seemingly perusing the text right along with me.
Would you give her some peace? Fish growls. You’ve been asking that all night and all morning.
It’s true. I scoured this yearbook from cover to cover last night and didn’t find a thing. Poor Sherlock seems about as hopeful as I do that I’ll spot something new.
A breeze picks up and blows the pages over until I’m in another section entirely.
“Huh.” I give a quick glance around the café, but the doors are still shut and the air conditioner doesn’t seem to be malfunctioning. “Did you feel that? There was a breeze out of nowhere.”
Sherlock whimpers. It was the ghost, wasn’t it?
I shake my head at him. “I don’t think it was a ghost.”
The salt shaker next to me knocks onto its side, and I gasp as a sea of white granules spills over the bottom corner of the book.
“Fish,” I quickly pick it up. “Be careful.”
It wasn’t me, Bizzy. She gives a weak mewl. As much as I hate to admit it, I think that furry carpet of Jasper’s might be onto something.
“No, it couldn’t be,” I whisper it low as if I wasn’t sure at all and wipe the salt off the glossy page where it landed. Just below my fingers, I see a small picture of Heather, Rachel, and Aileen. The caption reads friends for eternity.
A chill rides through me. I saw this picture last night and had the same spine-tingling reaction.
The three of them sit huddled beneath a maple tree with its leaves curled and dried.
Must have been fall.
Heather is in the middle with her golden curls falling over her shoulder. The two brunettes are flanking her on either side. Aileen looks as if she were caught laughing, and there’s an innocent exuberance about her. Rachel is squinting a bit, and there’s a tough girl vibe she’s giving off. I glance to their sweatshirts, all of them dark, all of them with something embroidered in bright yellow across their chests. I lean forward to get a better look. “Leeny, Hezzy, and Roxy. Huh,” I muse. “Those must have been their nicknames for one another. Cute at best, cliquey at worst.”
Fish belts out a gargling yowl as she dips her nose close to the page. What’s it say beneath their names?
I squint hard down at the page. “It looks like a line or a squiggle.”
Sherlock whimpers and growls. I would have beat Fish to the squiggle if I could have seen the page myself.
Fish snorts. Dream on, fuzzy.
“Maybe if I take a picture of it with my phone I can enlarge it.” I do just that, and it takes less than five seconds for me to magnify it. “Post Vitam?” The letters look uniform across each of their sweatshirts.
Sherlock gently lands his front paws over the table, trying to get a better look.
He gives a soft bark. Is that English?
“I don’t think so.” I quickly look up the words and my phone spits out a slew of links for the Latin language. “It’s Latin,” I say, clicking into a site that promises to translate it. “It says afterlife.”
No sooner do the words leave my mouth than a strong breeze blows every granule of salt right off the table.
“Oh my God.” Fish flies off my lap as I snap the book shut and bury it in my tote bag while Sherlock enters into a barking spree that doesn’t seem to have an end.
The three of us speed out of the café and into the humid afternoon as the day quickly melts to evening. The left side of the beach has been roped off for the production crew, and the tourists are all standing at the boundary line snapping pictures of all of the paraphernalia that goes into moviemaking magic.
Georgie and Juni run up, dressed in blush pink dresses with white carnation corsages, and I’m not sure what’s stunning me more—the fact I just had another bona fide ghostly encounter or the fact these two look as if they’ve just escaped their senior proms, emphasis on the senior.
“Let me guess,” I say. “You got a two-for-one deal at the Sew Lovely Bridal Boutique?”
Juni belts out a hacking laugh. “Nope, no deal for me at the dress shop, but it turns out, Faith and Kiki got a good one. They picked up these numbers for us and we’re being featured in the movie’s big finish.”
Th
e sound of a woman pitching a verbal fit cascades over the cove and the three of us turn to the right to see Camila in that—well, humiliating, for lack of a better term— wedding gown. Her upper torso is an ode to the eighties, and from the waist down she’s got the girth of a runway that can easily accommodate a 747.
Georgie snickers. “Someone isn’t happy with their wedding dress.”
Juni grunts, “More like wedding mess. With that train wreck on, the killer will practically be doing her a favor when they take a cleaver to her back.”
Sherlock brays with what sounds like a laugh. I wish Jasper were here to see how she’s carrying on. Is it wrong that I’m thrilled she’s no longer in our lives?
Fish meows. She’s not gone yet. I don’t know why, but I sense trouble. I’d watch my back if I were you, Bizzy.
Sherlock gives a caustic bark. Don’t you worry, Bizzy. I’ll watch your back for you.
“Thank you,” I mouth his way.
Georgie leans in. “Any more freaky encounters with the other side?”
I told Georgie and Juni about my ghostly meet and greet yesterday in Heather’s bedroom with the self-lighting wicks.
I give a little nod and spill the salt myself on what just went down in the café.
The two of them gasp at what they hear.
“We better make this quick.” Juni cranes her neck in the direction of the set as the production team scurries to and fro as they ready the scene.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Is all this talk about ghosts giving you the willies?”
“Nope.” Juni lifts her bosom with her hands. “It’s giving me the hots. I need to hunt down my ex and see if he’s up for a wild night of hot ghost-inspired lovin’.”
Georgie grunts, “How about sharing some of the ghostly affection?” She needles me with an accusing look. “I’ve got a room in my cottage for a poltergeist or two. Once you solve the case, you tell those girls to head over to my place. We can play strip poker until the wee hours, and I’ll even let them cheat. I’ve got a backlog of horror movies on my DVR and we can laugh at all the lousy special effects. We’ll have a haunted ball.”
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