It was impossible to turn away, but my protesting stomach told me I should consider it. “He’s . . he’s dead, isn’t he?” I whispered.
Sylvie took her last bite of cobbler. “This is really gonna jack up their plot.”
Beau appeared from a side entrance, glanced toward the stage, then did a double take, pausing long enough to witness the crowd that had now formed a protective circle around the king’s throne. His eyes connected with mine and he advanced toward us. “What’s going on?”
I had no words.
“Hon.” Frannie wrapped her arm around Beau. “I think your uncle’s gone on to the big coronation in the sky.”
Turning his attention back to the mayhem on the stage, Beau watched the commotion, his disbelief mirroring ours.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later most of the audience had cleared out, the ambulance had arrived, and one police officer stretched crime scene tape across the stage while others questioned members of the cast.
“Drink this.” Beau handed me my tankard of water from his seat beside me. “You’re still pale.”
“Thank you.” I took three sips while my brain ran on overdrive. “Do you think I’m cursed? Is everything I touch just cursed?”
“You’re not cursed, Paisley.” His warm hand squeezed my shoulder.
“People die at my events.”
Henry drummed his fingers on the table. “Remind me to put that on our next set of business cards.”
“At least the police won’t accuse you of murder this time,” Sylvie said. “They won’t even consider you.”
“Paisley Sutton?”
I turned to find Chief Mark O’Hara standing behind me.
The Chief and I went way back. Like back as far as the previous murder in which he thought I got in his way.
“Were you with the cast during intermission?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m going to need you to come with me.”
* * *
“Let me get this straight. You’re at the scene of a dead body. Again.” Chief O’Hara paced the rough floor of the cast tent, while I sat at a makeshift vanity, trying to think of happier things to get the image of a dead Trace Hudson out of my brain. Baby sheep. Kitties. Ice cream with homemade hot fudge. A shirtless Chris Hemsworth . . .
It was no use. I still saw Trace, head lolled to the side, a gleaming dagger handle protruding from his body.
“I didn’t find this victim,” I said. “We all saw him at the same time.”
“Am I supposed to believe that Sugar Creek, one of the safest towns in the country, has been the setting of not one, but two murders in a single summer?”
It really did sound terrible. “You and your guys should probably ask for raises.”
“Miss Sutton, before you rolled into town, we hadn’t had a homicide here in over a century, so what are the odds that you’ve lived back here a matter of months and been in the presence of two dead bodies?”
Math was not my strong suit, but I thought the odds might be staggeringly impossible. “I did not kill Trace Hudson any more than I killed the previous victim.” A few months ago I’d found a dead bride in the cake-tasting parlor at Enchanted Events, and everyone thought I was the murderer. It was worse than the summer I lost most of my hair to a stage light malfunction.
“Why don’t you tell me about the last time you saw the deceased,” O’Hara commanded.
“I went backstage during intermission to check on the cast.”
“And Trace was with the other actors?”
“Yes.”
Chief O’Hara scribbled something on his trusty notepad. “Was he upset?”
“A little snippy perhaps.” But I thought that might be his usual demeanor. “Everyone seemed on edge.”
O’Hara jotted more notes. He’d brought a notebook similar to what he’d used not too long ago to record details of the murder he’d tried to pin on me. Good things did not go on those pages. “Did anyone act particularly angry at Trace? Any arguments?”
I closed my eyes and put myself back to that moment, describing in vivid detail everything I saw and heard.
“You think there was some tension between Mr. Hudson and this Cameron guy?”
“No, I think Cam just annoyed Trace.”
“And you think there might’ve been a bad vibe between Trace’s wife and this Angela Simpson?”
I rubbed a hand over my face. “I think everyone was keyed up and stressed. And probably overheated.”
“Have you seen anything suspicious or unusual around here lately?”
“I’ve spent the last day with hundreds of men and women dressed in tights and corsets talking like they’re straight out of a British history book. It’s all been a little abnormal to me.”
“Where’d you go after you left the cast?”
“I got a call from one of our food vendors, then returned to my table.” Was it wrong that even though my brain and body still trembled in shock at the scene I’d witnessed, I was also strangely relieved that this murder couldn’t be pinned on me?
“Had you witnessed anyone getting into an altercation with Trace prior to this evening? Anyone seem mad at him this week or have terse words?”
My heart forgot how to beat for the span of three seconds.
“Miss Sutton?”
I thought of sea glass blue eyes, a smile that lit my pulse, and the man who’d helped me clear my own good name. “I’ve been very busy working. I haven’t had a chance to do much mingling with anyone on the faire committee.”
The chief lowered his notebook, and his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “That’s not what I asked.”
I inspected my fingernails, then peeled the label off my cup. I made a mental note that I needed to get a cooler with waters for the cast for tomorrow night and—
“Paisley—”
“Beau, okay?” The admission sounded traitorous to my ears. “Beau . . . had some words with Trace.”
“Is that right?” The promise of a hot lead clearly pleased Chief O’Hara. “What did they fight about?”
“I didn’t say they fought. I did not say that.”
“Fine. They had a discussion. Was it loud?”
“There was a bit of volume.”
“And what were the two men loudly discussing?”
I explained what little I knew, softening the edges of my every regrettable word. Beau didn’t kill his uncle, and I certainly didn’t want anyone thinking he did.
“So Beau’s still sore at his uncle.” Chief thought about this for a moment before penciling some more thoughts on paper. “That’s an old wound.”
“But it’s definitely not anything that would drive someone to kill. Right?”
“Trace Hudson double crossed Beau in a big way,” O’Hara said. “I still remember it. Everyone in town knew about it. Lots of folks had warned an eighteen-year old Beau not to trust his uncle.”
“I seem to have forgotten this story. Can you remind me?”
He apparently didn’t feel so inclined. Officer O’Hara stuffed his notebook into the pocket of his navy uniform. “I assume you’ll be around if I need to talk to you further?”
“Yes.” I tugged at the beads dangling from my necklace. “Chief O’Hara?”
“Yeah?”
“You know Beau Hudson. A military hero. Salt of the earth. Integrity coming out his pores. He’d never hurt anyone.”
O’Hara looked away and sighed, as if an unwelcome weight rested on his broad shoulders. “Lock your doors tonight and don’t be anywhere alone. Because once again, Ms. Sutton—we have a killer on the loose in Sugar Creek.”
7
The mosquitoes barely buzzed, as if they, too, were afraid to be out on this ominous Sugar Creek night.
Sylvie, Frannie, and I sat on my porch, watching the driveway for the glow of Beau’s headlights.
“Maybe he’s not coming home tonight.” I rocked in a vintage metal glider with Sylvie beside me, the back and forth
rhythm normally a lulling comfort. “Maybe the police charged Beau with murder based on my information alone.” I knew it was unlikely, but still regret tangled with logic. “Or he’s run to the arms of Haley Jo, the super model with the big boobs and even bigger IQ.”
“Murders really bring out the tacky in you,” Sylvie said. “I like it.”
“I’m worried for Beau, Sylvie,” I said. “Chief O’Hara asked me if anyone had gotten into a disagreement with Trace since his arrival, and I had to be honest—I told him about Trace’s argument with Beau.” Guilt slid into my every syllable. “I feel terrible.”
My grandmother patted my hand. “Shug, you haven’t thrown him to the wolves. I’m sure everyone got that same question and answered accordingly. Beau and his uncle had a giant fight in front of lots of witnesses, so it was bound to come out. And it certainly doesn’t implicate Beau.”
“It didn’t take much to implicate me,” I said.
Sylvie rested her palm against my cheek, her hand cool on my flushed skin. “Look, my little sweet potato, your Beau’s going to be all right.”
“He’s not my Beau.”
Frannie fanned herself with a dinner program. “Well, he would be if you’d let us handle Haley Jo.”
“We wouldn’t ship her very far,” Sylvie said.
“The Ecuadorian rain forest could be a lovely place to have amnesia,” Frannie offered.
Sylvie batted away a moth. “Tomorrow we’ll start investigating Trace’s murder.”
“I think that’s a really awful idea,” I said. “We’re done with the murder solving business.”
My grandmother wasn’t on board with that. “I’ll be as discreet as the panty lines on my thong bikini.”
A familiar red truck pulled into the empty half of the driveway.
“Beau needs you now.” Frannie watched him step out of his Ford. “You be a friend to that young man and give him your shoulder to lean on. Your hand to hold. Your lips to squash to his.”
“There will be no squashing,” I said.
Beau stepped onto the porch, his posture sagging and his steps slowed. “I’m afraid to even ask what this meeting’s about.”
“You come sit down here by me, baby.” Frannie whacked the chair next to her. “We’ve been waiting on you to make sure you’re okay.”
He lowered his tall body into the seat, reclining slightly, one square-toed work boot resting over the other. “You were waiting on me?”
“We’ve been worried about you,” I said.
Beau considered this for a moment, while his gaze rested on my face.
“That’s what friends do,” Sylvie said. “Though, really you’re more like family, so of course we waited up.”
“Exactly. Family,” Frannie said. “Though not so close you couldn’t date someone in this family. Preferably someone in your age bracket, as I’m too old to keep up with you. Though I sometimes daydream about trying . . .” Her voice trailed away. “Anyhoo! The detective talked to you?”
These women had about as much tact as a charging bull.
“I spoke to Detective Ballantine.”
“We’ve all had a chit-chat with the authorities,” Sylvie said. “I volunteered to be frisked, but they refused. What kind of shoddy investigation are they running?”
“How long were you with Ballantine?” I asked.
“About two hours.” Beau took off his ball cap and ran his hand over wavy, caramel hair in need of a trim. “I was around the cast tent at the time leading up to Trace’s death, and I would imagine the police think I have motive.”
“Except you don’t.” The thought of him killing anyone was ridiculous. “You’d never hurt anyone.”
Beau rubbed the back of his neck. “There were a few others who had lengthy conversations with the police.”
“Like who?” Frannie asked.
“Everyone in the cast. Cameron Paxton. Even Rex Alderson. We were all in the general area during intermission.”
“But you show no signs of struggle, no blood on your person,” Sylvie said. “Surely the detective saw that immediately.”
“I’m not sure it matters,” Beau said. “I overheard one of the cops say they thought the dagger had been thrown—not stabbed. The killer probably never laid a hand on Trace.”
“Someone would have to have an excellent aim.” Surely that narrowed the suspect list. “Especially for a dagger.”
“This fiasco will be cleared up in no time,” Frannie declared. “This town can’t keep a secret for nothin’.”
“We’ll make sure of that.” My grandmother yawned. “I better get Frannie back home before she turns into a pumpkin.”
She was as obvious as a skirt tucked into pantyhose. “Is that code for trolling the internet for information on possible murder suspects?” I asked.
Frannie pulled her purse over her shoulder. “And don’t forget hacking into city video cameras and downloading hours of footage.”
But of course. “Good night, girls.” I kissed my grandmother’s cheek before hugging my aunt.
“You watch out for my granddaughter here.” Sylvie took her turn hugging Beau after Frannie. “She’s a solitary maiden without a strong man to protect her.” She jangled her car keys as she walked by. “She could use a tall, dark, and handsome body guard.”
Beau watched the two women step off the porch and make their way to Sylvie’s car. “You’re not going to argue with that?” he asked. “Are you purposely trying to take away her fun?”
“I’m too keyed up to be properly embarrassed.”
Lightning bugs flitted in the yard, playing a luminary game of chase, oblivious to any of life’s drama. A faint breeze lightly shook the tree limbs, and they rustled quietly in the dark, as if whispering about the night’s secrets.
“You’ve had a rough evening. You doing okay?” Beau got up, taking Sylvie’s abandoned spot, his shoulder brushing against mine as he settled in.
“I’m fine.” I had a powerful urge to rest my head on that strong shoulder. “I’m fairly certain I won’t be a suspect in this homicide.” But Beau could be.
His head angled toward mine, and his voice was a low rumble. “Couldn’t have been easy seeing that sight when the curtain opened. I, at least, missed that part.”
After a career in the Army special forces, Beau knew a thing or two about unsavory sights. “I’m okay. Still a little shaken. You’re the one who’s suffered a loss. How are you holding up?”
“Trace was a stranger to me.” His tone held little expression. “It might hit later, but right now I’m more concerned with this situation scaring folks away from Fox Falls or someone else getting hurt.”
This situation. When it came to being in touch with his feelings, Beau was more of a hands-off type of guy. Basically, he and his feelings were in a long-distance relationship with rare visitations. “The police think you have a motive?”
“It seems that way.”
“Want to tell me why you’ve been so angry at your uncle?”
Beau gave a frustrated huff, then stretched out an arm along the back of the glider. “We could make out instead.”
Of course I would get that offer under these circumstances. “You’d do anything to deflect this topic, wouldn’t you?”
“I’ll even let you brag to the girls at work.”
I laughed quietly as I tucked a leg beneath me, leaning toward him until I could get a good look at that face in the porch light. “Spit out your story, Beauregard.” I was not going to be kissing on a guy who was spoken for, and I knew his offer was just a flippant jest. I bent my unexpected disappointment into intricate folds like a junior high note and tucked it in my back pocket.
Beau’s fingers found the fringe on my sleeve, and he flicked at a few tassels. I was pretty proud of the bored look on my face, considering his hand kept brushing against my arm, inciting dormant nerve endings to crackle and flare.
I was just calculating the minuscule space between us and reminding myself that I cou
ldn’t afford another romantic rejection when Beau finally spoke. “I was a little protective of my sister back in the day.”
I dragged my wayward, floozy thoughts back to the conversation. “Ridiculously so.”
He gave me the eyebrow of shame. “With good reason.”
“You wouldn’t let her hang out with me after I joined the Electric Femmes.” His sister Anna was now married, a mother, and living the minivan life in Missouri. And yes, on occasion, I might have given her an all-access pass to the indulgent, anything-goes world of the teen rock star, but I always returned her alive, in one piece, and only marginally debauched.
Beau continued his exploration of my sleeve’s trim. “Need I remind you of the time she got trashed at an after-show party?”
“I’m struggling to remember this one.”
“Or the time I caught you two smoking in your fancy new sports car?”
“I was just showing her what not to do.”
His lips curved into a small grin before dimming once more as he settled into his story. “Anna was my responsibility—always. By the spring of my junior year, I knew I was headed for the Army after graduation. My dad was too drunk to be counted on, so I had to get someone to look out for her.” His sister had been my best friend growing up. When we hit our teen years and I found fame, Beau hadn’t let her hang out with me much due to his spot-on conviction that I was a bad influence. It had been one of many things that had soured my opinion of him back in the day, but now I appreciated his fierce protectiveness and yen for moral high ground. “Trace still lived here in Sugar Creek. He wasn’t very reliable, but he was safe. Swore if I gave him some cash to help out, he’d take care of Anna.”
I didn’t like where this tale was going.
“I saved for an entire year. Gave him two thousand dollars the day I graduated.”
That was a huge amount of money for an eighteen-year-old.
“He promised he’d see after Anna, make sure she had everything she needed and didn’t get into trouble. I left for boot camp in June. My uncle left for Oklahoma a week later—with the cash. He never called, never emailed.” Beau shook his dark head.
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