“Speaking of special effects”—Juni hitches her thumb back to the set—“Kiki has a vat of blood she’s working on. It looks as if they really plan on destroying that dress Camila is wearing.”
My curiosity piques. “Sounds as if a good time will be had by all today. I’d better go check it out. Have fun on set, ladies. I’ll be watching you.”
I take off near the shoreline where the production team is buzzing around like a busy hive and run into Jane Olsen first. Her dark hair is slicked back as if she just took a swim and she’s wearing a thin blue sundress.
“Jane,” I say. “Did you enjoy a quick dip in the Atlantic?”
“I sure did.” Her eyes pick up a sparkle I haven’t seen in them before. “I got Peter to agree to arbitration this afternoon. That means no messy court battle. I’m not in this to ruin either of our lives. I just want to hurt the man where it counts.” She leans in. “Below the financial belt.”
A nervous laugh expels from me. “Well, I hope you get exactly what you want.”
“Oh, I will. That will be the easy part. The hard part for me will be moving on. I really did care for him.” She wrinkles her nose as she glances over her shoulder, and I follow her gaze to find Camila ranting to Peter. “Rumor has it, she landed the part by way of the casting couch. What do you think he sees in that woman that he doesn’t see in me?”
“An easy target,” I say without missing a beat, and Jane belts out a laugh.
“No truer words have ever been spoken.” She pats me on the arm. “I knew I liked you, Bizzy.” She starts to take off then backtracks. “And word to the wise, there’s a cleaver on set today. I’d watch your back if I were you.” She gives a little wink before taking off.
Fish yowls, and I bend over to pick her up.
Did you hear that, Bizzy? The killer is still on the loose and the production team is essentially weaponized once again.
Sherlock winds himself around my legs and whimpers. Don’t worry, Bizzy. I’m not leaving your side. But just in case, we should probably call Jasper.
“Not a bad idea,” I mutter. But Jasper texted about an hour ago and said he was running surveillance videos from local hardware shops to see if he could find the culprit who’s been planting cleavers around the inn. He already ran the security footage from the inn itself, but with the influx of bodies, it was impossible to tell who was doing what. We’ve discovered six more cleavers, each not so discreetly hidden around the property. Jordy found three, and guests found the rest.
Whoever is trying to jangle my nerves is doing a great job. I’m just grateful most guests aren’t particularly aware of the cleaver-based drama.
I’m about to text Jasper when Peter storms in my direction. His brows are narrowed, his expression as angry as the ocean behind him, and he’s walking at a quickened clip.
“Peter,” I say, unsure of what’s about to pop out of my mouth next. “Um, we’ve made an extra batch of those delicious s’mores bars you and your team seem to love so much. They’re on the refreshment table. Be sure to help yourself.”
He grunts in lieu of a response. If only Heather had lived to finish out the scene, I wouldn’t have to deal with this nonsense the new lead is dishing out. Who the hell cares if the dress makes her look hippy? I guarantee no one is going to notice once the blood starts to flow.
“S’more’s bars? Thank you,” he says as he glances back to the refreshment table. “That sounds like just what I need.”
“Oh, I just had a thought,” I say and I pull Fish in close to my chest. “You might want to keep an extra eye on the cleaver this time—just in case.”
Those serious eyes of his laser right through mine. “Just in case.” He tips his head curiously. Did this girl just threaten me? Why not. Join the club. Jane and Camila didn’t mind doing it. I don’t see why this seemingly sweet thing should miss out. “There are two cleavers. A clean one for the beginning of the take and one in makeup for the final result.”
My eyes widen at the thought. “Peter, were there two cleavers the day Heather was killed?”
“Yes.” He gives a circular nod as if he were confused as to why I’d ask. “Thank you for the treats.” He barrels past me like a man on a culinary mission.
“Two cleavers?” I whisper to myself and Sherlock barks.
I don’t like that look in your eye, Bizzy.
Fish buries her head in my chest. I don’t either. Tell me when it’s over.
I spot Bates Barlow digging through his pockets until he comes up with a cigarette and I land in front of him before he has a chance to light up.
“Bates,” I pant through a smile. “Can I ask you a question?” My heart drums inside my chest because what I really want to ask feels overtly brazen. But I never said I was above being just that. “The day that Heather died—you had the cleaver last, right?”
He tosses his hands in the air as if I were holding him at gunpoint.
“Not me. I was told to put it on the counter and I did just that.”
“Told by whom?”
“Faith.” He hitches his head to the left. “She’s the boss. I’m just the worker bee.” He wiggles his cigarette in my direction. “Excuse me. I got to sneak in a quick smoke. This scene is making me antsy.” Let’s hope the new girl doesn’t end up with a cleaver in the back. Regardless, I think this is the last thriller for me. I hear there’s good money in comedies—and less casualties.
He takes off and I head over in Faith’s direction where she’s busy pointing the small crowd around her toward the waterline and they quickly scuttle in that direction without her.
“Faith,” I say as I head onto the sand and my feet feel the intense heat emanating off of it right through my shoes. The sand can get blistering on triple digit days like this and the heat can last straight through evening. “Hey, I just have to know something.” I wince because I can feel a flood of words ready to vomit from me.
Sherlock sniffs around her ankles and she quickly pats him on the back.
“Anything,” she says. “Shoot.”
Fish twists in my arms as if to get a better look at the woman.
“Peter says that you use two cleavers when you film. A clean one for the opening shot and one that gets sent to makeup.” I give a little shrug. “I guess I just wanted to make sure both were accounted for. I’m a bit nervous.”
“No need to be nervous, hon. I’ve got one right here.” She holds up a blue canvas bag in her hand. “And the other is with Kiki. I promise you, we’re not letting them out of our sight. The entire production team feels bad about that lunatic running around planting cleavers willy-nilly. I hope they catch them soon. And when they do, they hang them by their toes. It’s sickening, trying to frighten people like that. Especially after what happened.” I won’t tell her my theory. The last thing this poor girl needs to hear is that I think her inn is haunted with Heather’s leftover ghosts. I wasn’t always a believer in the afterlife, but this whole shoot has me rethinking my stance on a lot of things—like, say, my career choices.
I nod her way. “Well, I appreciate you looking after them.” I glance to the blue bag where the cleaver sits snug. “So the night of the murder, were both cleavers accounted for?”
“One. The other, well”—she leans in—“it was the murder weapon.”
“Oh, right. So did you have one of them that night?”
She makes a face. “Bates was trying to give it to me, but my hands were full, so I asked him to put it on the counter in the café. Of course, after I heard what had happened, I made a beeline to the café and was relieved to find the cleaver still there. I didn’t put two and two together until later that the other cleaver was used to do the dirty work.”
“So you took the cleaver?”
She nods. “Oh yeah. I’m all about being responsible.” She grimaces. “Except for when I’m not and one of our actresses gets murdered.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t your fault,” I say as I do my best to pry into her thoughts for
what might come next.
“No, it’s not. But that won’t stop me from feeling like it was.”
“All on set!” a voice booms from behind, and just as I turn that way, Peter trips right over Sherlock and bumps into me, sending the tote bag hanging from my shoulder to the sand and the yearbook slides out. Thankfully, I don’t drop Fish, but Peter keeps stumbling until he regains his footing. “Watch where you’re going,” he grunts as he takes off toward the action down the beach a ways.
I bend over to scoop the yearbook up, but Faith beats me to it.
“Smuggler’s Cove.” She makes a face. “Heather’s I’m guessing.”
“Heather’s?” I take it from her and bury it back in my tote bag.
“That’s where she was from.” Faith shrugs it off. “Did you find it in her trailer?”
“Oh, um, I guess it must be hers. It was lying around.”
She nods. “Peter had her things boxed up so the new girl could have the space.” She rolls her eyes. “And what a piece of work that new girl is. Do you know she threatened to sue once she saw that wedding dress? Don’t worry, Bizzy. I made it crystal clear she’s not getting another one. The big scene is almost here. I think everyone on set is a little bit jittery after what happened to Heather.” She blows out a breath. “I’d better get out there. Oh, and if you want to offload that yearbook, you can give it to Kiki. She’s from Breckinridge. It’s essentially Smuggler’s Cove.” She takes off, and I glance toward the tent near the refreshment table where I saw Kiki earlier working her magic on the cast of that gaping wound.
“Breckinridge,” I say as I pull out my phone.
Fish swipes her paw gently at my phone. What is it, Bizzy?
“I don’t know,” I whisper as I input the town’s name, and sure enough, Breckinridge sits right next to Smuggler’s Cove. I look up Breckinridge High, but it diverts me to Smuggler’s Cove High instead.
How about that?
Both towns look as if they’re blips on the map. There aren’t a lot of secrets in small towns. Typically, gossip rules the roost. And if that’s true, I bet Kiki might know something more about Heather’s past—about Rachel, and Aileen.
An article near the bottom catches my eye.
Woodley Heights Girl Dies in Smuggler’s Cove
I click into it. Woodley Heights? Isn’t that where Aileen was from?
I scan through the article quickly to determine the fact.
Bizzy, look. Fish mewls as her paw lands shy of the bottom of the screen.
My gaze drifts down, and what I see sets my teeth on edge.
I think the killer is in our midst.
And I think she always has been.
Chapter 17
“Bizzy!” Kiki gives an enthusiastic smile as I enter her makeshift studio in the tent at the edge of the cove. A few lamps illuminate the small space, accompanied by a table laden with cosmetics. “I’m so glad you brought Fish.”
Kiki comes over and gives my cute cat a quick scratch above the nose.
Sherlock runs a circle around her, and she bleats out a cheerful laugh.
“I see you, too, Sherlock.” She catches him and gives him a hearty scratch on his neck. And judging by his thumping hind leg, he seems to enjoy it.
Kiki’s hair is pulled back into a ponytail and her cheeks look ruddy as if she’s just spent some serious time in the sun this afternoon. I wouldn’t blame her if she did. The production team is due to clean up and leave in the morning. It was essentially her last chance.
“Did you go for a swim today?” My voice pitches without meaning to, giving away the fact my nerves are frazzled.
“I didn’t. I ended up taking a walk along the beach and doing my best to forget all my worries. I haven’t worked out since we started this production. I used to lift weights and I have the upper body strength to prove it. But I took a walk late last night, too, and it was heavenly. It was darn right cold if you can believe it. My father always said, ‘Midnight knows no seasons.’”
“Sounds as if he was a wise man.”
“Oh, he was brilliant.” She gently extracts Fish from my arms. “Guess what, you precious little bundle of joy?”
Bizzy? Fish belts out a hearty meow. A little help, please. I’ll claw her eyes out if I have to. I’d hate for this to get messy.
Sherlock barks and yanks Fish by the tail, plucking her right out of Kiki’s arms in the process.
Kiki bucks with a laugh as the two of them give chase right here in the tent.
“Well, that escalated quickly.” She looks my way. “You’re never going to guess what happened this afternoon.” She takes a step in and I fight the urge to take an equal step away from her. “I convinced Peter to use Fish in the film! That is, if it’s all right with you. I thought what kind of a movie named Cat Scratch Fever doesn’t have a cat in it? I mean, I get it, Heather—and now Camila is the sex kitten in question, but still. Peter said he loved the idea. He’s going to do a few still shots of her and place them artistically throughout the film. She’s a doll and she’s going to be the star of the show.”
Sherlock stops short in front of us and lets out a whiny groan. And what am I? Chopped bacon? Actually, chopped bacon is my favorite. Hey? Now that I think about it, I bet Jasper really likes liver. That’s one of his favorite sayings.
Kiki’s entire torso vibrates with a laugh. “Okay, Sherlock Bones. I’ll talk Peter into letting you in on the film, too. Maybe you can chase Fish away during the final shot. I bet it’s something the two of you rehearse just about every day.”
“You got that right.” Any tension I may have brought into the tent with me suddenly dissipates. Kiki is so friendly, I feel like I can talk to her about anything, and lucky for me, because I’m about to do just that.
“Kiki?” My eyes drift to a table set up just a few feet away with a bowl full of red liquid and a board lying next to it with that familiar looking prefabbed flesh wound Kiki constructed out of glorified slime the night Heather was killed. I remember being fascinated by it. I take a step in that direction and note a thin silver blade embedded in it from the side and a shiver runs through me.
“Whatcha lookin’ at?” She walks over and gives the red liquid in the bowl a stir. “This? I’ll admit, it can be a bit unnerving.”
“Yes.” It strums from me numbly. “It can.”
Kiki had the second cleaver that night and neither Jasper nor I realized it.
My eyes meet with hers.
The sun has settled, dusk has turned to flat black, and the whites of her eyes glint from the lamplight.
“Kiki, you knew Heather, didn’t you? From before? Outside of this movie?”
The pleasant expression on her face quickly melts away as she glances to the sand.
“Yes, actually.” She blinks up at me. “She got me this job. I feel terrible admitting it. But she’s always been so nice to me. Did she mention it? I mean, it’s okay if she did. But she was always telling me to keep it low. She didn’t want people to know she was kicking a job to someone she knew from way back when.”
“Well, you are definitely good enough to be here,” I say, glancing back at the blade covered with sticky goo. “I don’t think anyone would argue that. I’m sure Heather thought so, too. I don’t think she’d hire just anyone, no matter how long she’d known them.”
“I’d like to think so.” But I happen to know better. I could have been making her look like a clown and she still would have hired me. The guilt was eating her up inside.
A breath hitches in my throat.
“Kiki.” Her name sinks from me with a touch of disappointment without meaning to. “Is your last name Bradley or Hatterman?”
“Brad—” She stops cold and her eyes widen with fright. Did I hear her right? I swear a little time in the sun and my head is thumping. I’d better get out of here and get some rest. Better yet, head home back to Breckenridge for good.
“It’s Bradley.” I nod. “You chose Woodley as an ode to Woodley Heights. Y
ou were related to Aileen Bradley, weren’t you?”
Something just shy of a groan evicts from her.
“How did you…?” She shakes her head my way, her mouth agape, unable to finish her sentence.
“Kiki, your sister was smothered to death. She didn’t drown. She was murdered, but you know that.”
Her cheek flinches as if I struck her.
“Bizzy”—she takes a staggering step back—“who told you this? Did Heather say something? It’s not a big deal.” She shakes her head as she continues to move away from me.
“But it is a big deal, isn’t it? You knew Rachel Hatterman, didn’t you?”
Kiki butts up to the table and that fake blood runs around the lip of the bowl. She freezes solid with her eyes locked over mine.
Fish lets out a hair-raising screech. I don’t like this, Bizzy. Why are you asking her about her poor sister? She looks crazed.
Sherlock barks. I’d run if I were you.
But I can’t.
It’s as if my feet are stuck in the sand.
I need to know the answers to the burning questions running through my mind.
Rachel. Kiki closes her eyes a moment. So beautiful. She looked glorious in that yellow dress.
Yellow dress.
Why does that sound familiar?
That picture of Rachel in her bridesmaid’s dress comes back to me. And then a flash of something Kiki was thinking that first day I met her flits through my mind. Georgie had asked if she was available for weddings and she thought to herself, I haven’t done makeup for a wedding since that horrible night.
“You were there,” I say, breathless. “You were there the night Rachel died.”
Her features harden and the anger emanating from her is palpable.
“Oh my God.” I shake my head. “You did it. Heather didn’t kill Rachel, did she?”
A hint of a laugh drums through her chest.
“Heather didn’t care for Rachel.” Her nostrils flare as she says the words. “But I hated her.”
“You hit her over the head with a rock. You killed Rachel just like you killed Heather. This was all some twisted form of revenge.”
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