Twice Layered Murder

by Daphne DeWitt

  10

  I moved back out through the common area, trying to keep as low a profile as possible. It was insane, the way these people were acting as if nothing was wrong. Here they were, flanked in thousand dollar dresses and three-piece suits, drinking and laughing as though the bride-to-be was up in her room preparing for the ceremony.

  Scanning the room, I noticed that there were twice as many people here as there were before. That meant that not only was there a good chance that at least half of these people had no idea what was going on, but that- if Darrin had found his way into the surveillance room, he was going to have his work cut out for him.

  I thought about texting him, about telling him that parts of my search pointed to Priscilla, but I held off. It may have been silly, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that, threatening letters and secret meetings with the groom aside, she wasn’t responsible for this.

  A quick search on my phone revealed that her feud with Chloe was pretty well documented. It graced the covers of most of those trashy magazines from the checkout line at the grocery store and even scored her a few late night talk show appearances.

  Priscilla might have hated Chloe, but there was little doubt that doing so was a profitable venture for her. And a hairdresser who married all the way up to an ex-Braves outfielder didn’t strike me as the type to cutting off her cash cow, regardless of how poorly they got along.

  “You again?” The droll voice of Niles rattled around like a nuisance through my eardrums. “Are there not cupcake emergencies or the like to keep you busy?”

  I turned to find him standing at attention. Unlike the other servants, he was free of the drink and cheese platters that looked to be circulating in lieu of actual food, but he did have a handkerchief sticking out of his jacket pocket and a scowl on his face.

  “If you’re finding your workload light enough to be able to prance about the grounds of the Covington family estate with blatant disregard for both rules and etiquette, then I trust that fact will be well represented in your bill,” he groaned.

  “Leave her alone, Niles. She’s just curious as to how the other half lives.” A short woman with black hair styled into a pixie cut and dark rimmed glasses said, sidling up beside me. She had a glass of champagne in her hand and wore a black dress that, when compared to the clothing of her peers, looked downright simple. Not that I could have afforded it or anything.

  “Can’t say I blame her. It’s sort of a spectacle.”

  “Ms. Debra,” Niles said, obviously stifled. “I have worked for this family for well over thirty years ma’am, and I assure you Mr. Covington has no interest in allowing the help to mingle alongside his most prestigious guests, especially on his own daughter’s wedding day.”

  “Come on, Niles,” Debra answered. “If that were true, then neither of us would be here either, now would we?” She handed her champagne glass to him. “Get rid of that, would you? I’m going to show our guest around.”

  Niles eyes almost bugged out of his head but, instead of countering the woman and risking a scene, he turned on his heels and stormed off, glass in hand.

  “That was impressive,” I answered, turning to the short haired woman.

  “That was nothing,” she grinned. “You should see when I drink tea without a coaster. Drives him crazy.”

  I chuckled way too loudly. “I’m Rita,” I said, extending my hand. “And I appreciate you standing up for me. Can I grab you a champagne to replace the one you made your point with?” I shook my head.

  “Nice to meet you,” she chirped, shaking my hand vigorously. “And don’t bother. I don’t actually drink. It just helps me blend in.” She side eyed the crowd. “If these people see you without a drink in your hand they assume you’re either twelve years old or on the clock.” She shrugged. “Neither of which is true at the moment.”

  “But you do work for the family?” I asked, keeping pace with Debra as she meandered through the room.

  “Is it obvious?” she asked.

  “You sort of mentioned it in an offhanded way,” I answered, quirking my mouth to the side.

  “Oh, right,” she answered. “I thought it was my unmistakably laid back attitude.”

  “That, too,” I grinned. “So, what is it that you do?”

  “Just a minute,” she said, leading me through the common area and into a nearby hallway.

  Paintings stretched down on either side of the hallway as far as the eye could see. She walked down the empty space wordlessly, and I had no choice but to follow her.

  Halfway down the hallway, she turned on her heels and glared at me.

  “I’m Debra Knox, Chloe’s personal assistant. Who are you?!” Her jaw was set, and her eyes were wide and fiery.

  “I’m Rita Cl- Redoux. I’m the caterer,” I stammered.

  “Sure you are,” she quipped. “But who are you really? And where is Chloe Covington?”

  “What?” I stammered, almost stumbling backward. “Why on earth would you think I knew that?”

  “Oh let me think, you slam headfirst into her fiancé’s SUV, destroy all the desserts for the wedding, and just so happen to be exactly the right person to able to help him out. Seems like a very convenient to weasel your way in.” She pointed a finger right at my chest. “And, given recent events, I’m more than a little weary of weasels.”

  “Wait a second. You think I caused that accident on purpose? Daniel swerved over in front of me! I didn’t have anything to do with this!” I protested. “If anything, I’m trying to figure out who did.”

  “Oh right,” she rolled her eyes. “You and your small town sheriff boyfriend. Anyone with a working brainstem could see through that.”

  “Well, first of all, he isn’t my boyfriend. And secondly, we’re not lying. As we speak, Sheriff Dash is overlooking your security footage, trying to find clues to Chloe’s kidnapper.”

  “As we speak, Sheriff Dash is being held by Ms. Covington’s bodyguards while I decide whether or not to turn him over to Sheriff Black,” Debra answered.

  My heart dropped. Darrin had been found out, and who knew what they were doing to him right now?

  “Where is he?!” I asked, forgetting about Chloe Covington, her kidnapper, Charlie’s vague directions, my mission, and all the rest of it. I couldn’t let Darrin suffer for my hubris. Even if that suffering was limited to personal and professional embarrassment. I took a deep breath. “You know holding an officer of the law against his will is a federal offense.”

  “And breaking and entering is a crime,” Debra answered, raising her hand out to slow me down. “But you don’t need to worry about that, Rita Redoux. Your sheriff is just fine. He’s in the utility room on the far side of the pool, and no one is keeping him there against his will.”

  “What?” I stuttered. “But you said-”

  “I know what I said,” she answered. “But I didn’t mean it. When we caught Sheriff Dash going through security footage, I could tell he was on the up and up. But I had never spoken to you before. I needed to gauge your reaction.” She looked at the floor. “And judging by what I just saw, the two of you are definitely in this together. And hopefully for the right reasons.”

  “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?” I asked, tensing up.

  “He told me you’d say that,” Debra quipped. “He said to tell you there was no way the best detective in Washington D.C. was going to get taken down by some starlet’s two-bit security team.” She shrugged. “I reminded him that that same security team had just caught him red-handed, but he didn’t seem fazed.”

  “He usually isn’t,” I answered, trying to hide a smile. But no. There was no reason I should be relieved. I had just been lied to badly. “So you just decided to scare the bejesus out of me?” I asked, my teeth grinding together.

  “I did what I had to,” she answered unapologetically. “You have no idea what it’s like to be Ms. Covington. The sheer number of people who want to use her for their own gain would knock your socks off. Eve
n her father.” She shook her head.

  “What does that mean?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

  “Look around,” Debra said, splaying her hands out around her. “No one here even cares about the fact that Chloe is gone. They’re just going about their day as if nothing was wrong, and that’s on Mr. Covington.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “This country club is Covington property. It has been since before the Civil War. As such, it sets the tone for the rest of the county, if not the state. If that old man told them it was snowing in July, they’d have their barbecues with wool sweaters on. And right now, he wants them to believe Chloe hasn’t been taken.”

  “Why would he want that?” I asked.

  “You got me,” she answered. “Maybe he doesn’t want to believe it himself. He’s not wrong when he said Chloe’s done that sort of thing before.”

  “Really?” I mused.

  “She left a couple of times in her teens and then once again a year and a half ago, right after the start of the show,” Debra answered.

  “Then how do you know Mr. Covington isn’t right?” I asked. “Maybe Chloe decided she wanted to run again.” I didn’t believe it. There was too much evidence pointing me in the other direction. Still, I was curious as to why Debra didn’t believe it.

  “It’s different this time,” she answered flatly. “I’m not just her assistant, Rita. I’m also her best friend. I have been since we were young. I was right there every time she ran off, and every time, I knew about it. She told me.” Debra shook her head. “She didn’t tell me about it this time.”

  “Darrin and I are going to find out what’s going on,” I answered. “If we can bring her back to you, we will.” I swallowed hard. “I need to ask you about a note I found.”

  I usually wasn’t a big fan of sharing evidence. Dad taught me that. Better to let a suspect tell you about it organically. It helps to keep an upper hand.

  But I was pitted against a running clock and, for all I knew, time was running out.

  “What kind of note?” she asked. “I don’t remember any note.”

  “A threatening note sent to Chloe a few days ago by Priscilla.”

  Her eyes went wide.

  “You can’t listen to anything that vile woman has to say!” Debra yelled. “She hates Chloe! She wants nothing more than to see her suffer. And she’ll say anything she has to in order to see that happen!”

  “Then I need to talk to her,” I answered, my voice even trying to calm Debra down.

  “No!” she yelled. “Don’t you understand, she lies! You can’t trust anything she says, and nothing scribbled on some purple piece of paper is going to change that.”

  “Debra, I’m just-”

  “Listen to me,” Debra said, setting her jaw. “You can’t dig around places like this. These people, they all have secrets. And I promise you that they won’t take it kindly if they think you’ve about to reveal one. Just promise me,” she said, backing away. “Just promise me you won’t talk to Priscilla. No good will come of it!” She shook her head again and rushed away from me.

  “How?” I muttered, watching her simple black dress fade out in the distance. “If she didn’t remember any note, then how did she know it was purple?”

  11

  As I turned around in the hallway, my mind raced as it tried to piece things together in my mind, I couldn’t help but notice the pictures and paintings that dotted the area.

  They were all very similar; a bunch of stuffy old men surrounding an equally stuffy looking couch and standing stoically posed for either an artist or a photographer to capture their images. As I made my way back to the common area, the linear nature of the paintings and photos dawned on me. This was a story of this club, of the people who frequented it right from its inception (sometime in the mid-1800s) right up to today.

  If more self-congratulatory nonsense existed, I couldn’t think of it.

  As I passed by one particular portrait though, I couldn’t help but stop.

  A group of men stood there, just like in all the others. But, unlike the others, they weren’t surrounding a couch. In fact, they weren’t in the same room as the rest of the images. The colors were faded a bit, and the particular artist’s style was more abstract than I would have liked. Still, I could tell that the background was a bricked up room with a concrete floor, very utilitarian. And, behind the tallest man’s left shoulder, looked like an old-fashioned water heater.

  “The boiler room,” I muttered, remembering the mystery woman on the stairs, the one Charlie was so intent on me hearing.

  Before I could pull myself away from the portrait, my eye caught a particularly curious name on the identification plate at the bottom.

  ‘The Esteemed Mayor Colin McConnell’

  Looking up to the corresponding placement, I saw a tall man with red hair and a very familiar aloof look on his face.

  “Mayor McConnell?” I stammered, balking at just how much my Irish setter looked like the stuffy guy in the painting.

  “Well, that’s just great,” I muttered. “No wonder he showed up here. He knows the place.”

  Quirking my mouth to the side, I wondered what else my Irish setter knew about what was going on, about that boiler room. I needed to see him, but first, I needed some guidance.

  * * *

  Pulling out my phone, my eyes still trained on the exceptionally ‘dog looking’ guy in the painting, I did the only thing I knew to do.

  Back when I was Rita Clarke, there was one person in my life who was always there for me, no questions asked.

  I adored Peggy. She was the best friend I would ever have. And Aiden was more than a friend. But neither of them was my rock. Neither of them made me who I was. If I was going to solve this, I needed to be me, not just Rita Clarke, not just Rita Redoux. I had to be Sheriff Clarke’s daughter.

  “Hi there,” I said as my father’s phone graced the other end of the line. It was all I could do not to tear up when he answered. I had spent my time well since I returned, visiting my father in the home we used to share, and even bringing him some of his favorite pies (with a few losers thrown in to keep him from getting curious as to how I knew his taste so well).

  We were close now. Not as close as we’d been before, of course, but it was a start.

  “How’s it going, kid?”

  “It could be better,” I answered honestly.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said and, though I couldn’t see him, I could tell by the distance in his voice and the clanging in the background that he was likely in the garage working on that car of his.

  We were meant to fix that up together. He never came out and said it, but I always got the idea that it was going to be his wedding present to me.

  Now, I suppose he’d have to keep it for himself.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “Is the wedding not going well? Those snooty types know a thing or two about giving you grief.”

  “Tell me about it,” I answered. Shuffling, I said, “Look, I know that you’re not the sheriff anymore or anything, and I understand that you don’t have any obligation to help me or anything-”

  “That’s your problem right there, kid,” he answered, cutting me off. “If you’re around the sort of people who have to be obliged in order to help, then that’s the wrong sort. Now, tell me what’s going on.”

  I smiled on the other side of the phone.

  My dad, ladies and gentlemen. I couldn’t be prouder to save my life. Although, I was a little late for that.

  “I have a hypothetical situation,” I started. Telling Dad the truth about what was going on-even the non-reincarnation version of the truth- was more than I was willing to risk. Having just been given a warning about how dangerous and deadly this place and these people were, I wasn’t about to throw anyone else in harm’s way. Least of all, my own father. “It’s a pretty serious one.”

  “I hate it when hypothetical situations get serious,” he answered. “Te
ll me about it.”

  “If something happened, a crime,” I said, swallowing hard. “But the local police department and even the victim’s own father refused to believe that it happened, what would you do?”

  He was silent for a second. The clanging stopped and, when he responded, the distance in his voice was gone too.

  “My daughter was pushed down a flight of stairs, Rita,” he said, and my heart sputtered. “Half the people in this town, most of them the officials, spent the last two years trying to convince me that she tripped and fell. But I know better. When everyone told me differently, I knew better.” The conviction in his voice rang loudly with the next question. “Do you know better, Rita?”

  “I do,” I answered, gripping the phone tightly in my hand.

  “In that case, I’ll tell you what I always told her when these got tough. You have to keep going,” he answered. “You have to believe in yourself, believe in the basics, and do what I haven’t been able to yet. You have to make it right.”

  “Make it right,” I answered, unable to keep the tears out of my eyes this time.

  “Or that’s what I would do if this very serious situation wasn’t hypothetical,” he added.

  “Of course,” I grinned through the tears.

  “Do you need help, Rita? Say the word and I’ll-”

  “No!” I answered. “Please, just stay where you are. Finish working on that Mustang.”

  “Who told you about my Mustang?” he asked, a smile in his voice.

  Oops. Here I go again.

  “Everybody knows about your Mustang, Old Man,” I answered.

  “That’s what my daughter used to call me,” he said, breaking my heart all over again. “Just be safe, Rita. And promise me, if this hypothetical situation of yours gets too real-”

  “I’ve got you on speed dial,” I assured him.

  “Good enough,” he said.

  Pushing back out into the common area, I felt revitalized. Just hearing my father’s voice was enough to put the spring back in my step and the fire back in my eyes. Hearing his words of encouragement to me one more time; that was enough to ensure that I’d sooner die again than not finish this. This was my work, like it or not. No matter what it took, I’d do what my father said—I’d make it right.