by Rachel Woods
Abruptly, Vivian faced him, halting their progress down the hallway.
“Babe, what is it?” asked Leo, worried by his wife’s pained expression.
Vivian said, “I think we should prove that Winnie is innocent.”
“I think we should let the cops handle it,” said Leo. “Or, better yet, let the Quasebarth legal department deal with Winnie’s crazy confession.”
“But, it’s my fault that she confessed,” Vivian blurted out, averting her gaze.
Leo asked, “How is it your fault?”
“You remember I told you about my conversation with Detective François?” asked Vivian. “He told me the cops found a torn piece of peach-colored fabric in the trees heading up toward the bluff.”
Leo nodded. “That’s why the police are going to check all the bridesmaids’ dresses. They need to rule out you, Melanie, and Kelsea as suspects.”
“What I didn’t tell you is that I told Baxter François that Winnie got kicked out of the wedding,” said Vivian. “When she left the house and headed to the Queen Palm hotel, I think she took everything with her—including her bridesmaid dress.”
Confused, Leo asked, “You think Winnie put on her bridesmaid dress to hide in the trees and shoot Besi?”
“What I mean is,” said Vivian, taking a deep breath. “Detective François probably wouldn’t have questioned Winnie if I hadn’t told him that she was kicked out of the wedding for arguing with Besi.”
“You don’t know that François wouldn’t have questioned Winnie,” said Leo, pulling his wife into his arms and kissing her forehead. “And just because the cops questioned Winnie didn’t mean she had to confess to something she probably didn’t do.”
“You’re probably right,” said Vivian, standing on her toes to kiss him. “But, I would feel better if we tried to help Winnie.”
Leo sighed and smiled at the love of his life. “How do you suggest we start this informal investigation into Besi’s murder?”
“We should talk to the wedding party,” said Vivian. “Remember my friend, Octavia Constant?”
“The defense attorney?”
“She told me once that the key to her success is that she looks for a better suspect,” said Vivian. “She finds the person who had a better motive to kill the victim than her client. That’s what we need to do. We have to find out if someone—besides Winnie—wanted Besi dead.”
17
“Kelsea?” Vivian knocked on the half-opened door before she entered Kelsea Gates’ guest room. “Do you have a minute to—”
“Actually, no, I don’t have a minute,” said Kelsea, throwing clothes into the Vuitton suitcase on the bed. “I have a plane to catch in an hour.”
“You’re leaving?” asked Vivian, glad she’d opted for a quick breakfast. If she’d lingered over goat cheese scones and coffee, Kelsea might have left the mansion before she had a chance to question her.
“Getting the hell off ‘murder island’ before I get shot in the head by some random wacko.”
“You think some random stranger killed Besi?” asked Vivian, walking toward the bed table. “You don’t think Besi was killed by someone who knew her or specifically targeted her?”
“For all I know, we might all be fucking targets.” Kelsea stomped to the large wardrobe in the corner where she yanked several dresses from their silk-covered padded hangers. Stomping across the room back to the bed, she dropped the dresses into the suitcase.
“Who might be targets?”
“Everybody in that whacked out wedding party,” said Kelsea, making another trip to the wardrobe. “Some psycho might be trying to kill all of us!”
“For what reason?” asked Vivian, wondering if Kelsea’s speculation was a valid concern or unfounded paranoia.
Glaring at Vivian, Kelsea rolled her eyes. “How the hell should I know?”
Vivian took a deep breath. “I know you’re busy, and I don’t want to take up too much of your time, but …”
Kelsea stalked to the dresser, yanked it open and scooped out a pile of lacy underwear.
Clearing her throat, Vivian said, ”If it turns out that Besi wasn’t killed by a random person, then do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill her?”
Stopping in the middle of the bedroom, her arms loaded with designer duds, Kelsea stared at Vivian, eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking me that?”
“I was just wondering because—“
“Because you’re a reporter,” said Kelsea, as though the word, ‘reporter’ was something sour in her mouth. “You work for Mr. Bronson’s newspaper. Are you trying to get a quote from me on the sly? I don’t have a fucking thing to say to the media, and that includes the Palmchat Gazette, and you aren’t supposed to be interviewing me because Leo’s father said—”
“No, no, Kelsea, I’m not trying to interview you,” said Vivian, hoping to put the irate heiress at ease. “I’m not asking as a reporter.”
“Then why are you asking?” asked Kelsea, frowning. “I already talked to the police.”
“I’m asking on behalf of Leo’s father,” said Vivian, realizing she had to bring out the big guns, and leverage Burt’s influence. “He wants me and Leo to find out who might have wanted Besi dead.”
“I heard Winnie confessed,” said Kelsea, resuming her frantic packing.
“No one believes that Winnie killed Kelsea.”
Shrugging, Kelsea said, “Maybe they should.”
“Why do you say that?” Vivian asked. “Do you suspect Winnie?”
“She’s batshit bonkers,” Kelsea said, rolling her eyes. “She’s probably capable of anything—even killing Besi.”
“Did you tell the police that?” asked Vivian.
“Winnie’s a psycho, but she’s still my friend,” Kelsea said, sinking onto the settee at the foot of the bed. “I don’t want to get her in trouble.”
“What do you mean?” Vivian questioned, joining Kelsea on the settee. “How could you get Winnie in trouble?”
Kelsea sighed, shaking her head. “Winnie sent me a text. I thought it was crazy, but … ”
“What did the text say?”
“I’ll show you.” Kelsea rose from the settee and walked to the sitting nook in the corner, where a pink Birkin bag sat on the small table positioned between two chairs. Fishing in the purse, Kelsea pulled out a cell phone. After rejoining Vivian on the settee, Kelsea handed her the phone.
Taking the phone, Vivian read: That bitch doesn’t deserve Derek! I’ll kill her before I let her have him!
Glancing at Kelsea, Vivian asked, “When did she send this to you?”
“Saturday morning,” Kelsea said. “The day of Derek’s and Besi’s wedding.”
18
“Dead guy found at the Flamingo Inn motel was named Aaron Jones,” said Sophie, reading notes from her smartphone.
Following the conversation with Kelsea Gates earlier that morning, Vivian had left the mansion in her Range Rover and headed to the Palmchat Gazette offices. During the drive, Sophie had texted Vivian concerning a story.
Dead body found @ motel n Little Turkey. Cops think homicide. Want me 2 cover it since Beanie’s on a story in Handweg.
Vivian had dispatched Sophie to the scene to get details and was now being debriefed.
Grabbing a red editing pen from the mug she used as a pencil holder, Vivian focused on Sophie, sitting in one of the chairs in front of the desk.
The junior reporter, who’d graduated from college with a journalism degree two years ago, was ambitious and tenacious, but Sophie had an attention span problem. Sometimes, she didn’t ask the right questions or get the most pertinent information to ensure that she told the best story, one that was both interesting and contained all the facts known at the time. As a result, Vivian often had to instruct her to go back to the scene of the crime, so to speak, for more details. With the proper guidance, however, Vivian was certain she could mold Sophie into a top-notch investigative reporter.
“Cops thi
nk he was a tourist,” said Sophie. “They found his passport in the motel room. That’s how they identified him.”
“How was he killed?” Vivian asked, though her mind wandered back to the text Kelsea had shown her. Winnie had threatened to kill Besi to stop her from marrying Derek. The message, sent before the doomed wedding, was disturbing, but could it be taken seriously? Should it be?
Sophie said, “He was shot to death. Cops are doing ballistics on the bullet, but Officer Fields said they think it was a small caliber handgun. Maybe a .22 or a .38. That’s not all they found.”
As Sophie continued, Vivian wondered if Winnie was capable of putting a bullet in Besi’s head. The last time she’d seen Winnie, the mining heiress had been spitting mad, cursing and fighting, drunk and belligerent. But, had that violent behavior become homicidal rage?
“That’s why the police think he was leaving the island,” said Sophie.
Realizing she hadn’t been listening, Vivian stared at Sophie. “What? Say that again, please?”
“The cops think the dead tourist, Aaron Jones, was leaving the island in a few days,” said Sophie.
“How do they know that?”
“They found an airline eTicket in his duffle bag,” said Sophie. “Did I forget to mention that?”
“Sorry, Sophie,” said Vivian, feeling sheepish. “I was half-listening. I tuned out when you were telling me about the other things the police found in Aaron Jones’ motel room.”
“You okay?” asked Sophie. “You want to talk about this later?”
“No, I want to hear about it now,” said Vivian, resolved to move on from her contemplation of Winnie’s homicidal tendencies. “Seems like it’ll be a good story for you and you’ve gotten some good details.”
Smiling, Sophie said, “Okay, so the cops also found money stuffed in an expensive Hermes leather briefcase.”
“How much money?” asked Vivian, her interest in the story growing.
Eyes alive with excitement, Sophie said, “A hundred thousand dollars.”
Vivian tapped her editing pen against her cheek. “Do the cops have any suspects?”
Sophie’s face fell. “I forgot to ask about suspects.”
Vivian suppressed her frustration.
“I’ll call Detective François and ask him,” said Sophie.
“Baxter François likes to keep his thoughts to himself unless you have something to give him,” said Vivian, her tone a bit more curt than she intended. “Even when he tells you something, he never wants to be quoted.”
Sighing, Sophie nodded. “Everything’s always off the record with him.”
“Call Officer Fields instead,” said Vivian, who’d been working on developing a good rapport with St. Killian cops who seemed more amenable to sharing information. “And ask him about a motive, too.”
After Sophie left her office, Vivian thought about Aaron Jones’ murder. Robbery wasn’t the motive. His killer hadn’t taken the Hermes briefcase, which was easily worth ten thousand dollars, or the money. Why not? Maybe the killer hadn’t known there was money in the duffle bag? Or, maybe the killer didn’t care. Maybe the killer just wanted Aaron Jones dead.
19
Leo walked toward the pool, where Tom, dressed in rumpled slacks and a wrinkled dress shirt and wearing sunglasses, slouched on a chaise beside the pool.
Reluctant, Leo approached Tom, not sure what state of mind he might be in.
An hour ago, Leo had spoken with Zeke and Jacob. Neither of them had much more to say other than they were still reeling from the tragic events at the wedding. Not surprisingly, they had no idea who might have killed Besi and couldn’t imagine that she had any enemies.
Now, faced with asking Tom those same questions, Leo felt irate and irritated.
Tom’s unadulterated grief after Besi’s murder bothered Leo. What the hell was Tom’s problem? Why the unabashed public display of devastation? Maybe Tom did have feelings for Besi, but he shouldn’t have allowed those feelings to influence his behavior. He shouldn’t have given people a reason to question and doubt Besi’s relationship with Derek—which was now happening. The internet was buzzing with the video, taken by one of the guests, of Tom screaming as he rocked Besi in his arms. There was rumor, innuendo, and rampant speculation that Tom and Besi might have been fooling around behind Derek’s back.
Figuring he wouldn’t get much more from Tom than he’d learned from Zeke and Jacob, Leo strode toward Tom, deciding to ask him a few questions and then get on with more important things.
“Hey, Tom,” said Leo, easing down onto the chaise next to Tom.
Turning his head toward Leo, Tom mumbled an unintelligible response.
“How you holding up?” asked Leo, his gaze dropping to the four empty Felipe beer bottles beneath Tom’s chaise.
Saying nothing, Tom stared straight ahead, his jaw clenched.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Leo tried to ignore the annoyance rising in his chest. Focused on his task, and getting it over and done with as quickly as possible, he said, “Seems like it’s been pretty rough on you.”
Tom shrugged.
Leo tried another tactic. “I didn’t know you and Besi were so close.”
“We were more than close,” said Tom, a defensive edge to his tone.
“What does that mean?” asked Leo, hoping to get some clarity on Tom’s and Besi’s relationship. “Just how close were you and Besi?”
“How close do you think we were?” Tom snarled. “You saw us together.”
“I heard you saying some threatening things to her,” said Leo. “And I heard her trying to get away from you.”
“I wasn’t threatening her,” said Tom. “I was reminding her how much we mean to each other.”
“Maybe the two of you didn’t mean as much as you thought,” said Leo.
Tom sat up and turned his head toward Leo. “Besi and I loved each other.”
“And yet she was going to marry Derek,” said Leo, wishing Tom would lose the dark sunglasses. A low cloud deck had moved over the island, threatening rain and obscuring the sun, so there was no need for the shades.
“What do you want, Leo?” Tom asked. “I doubt you give a shit about how I’m doing.”
Bristling, Leo bit back an angry retort and instead said, “I’m not trying to upset you, Tom. I want to ask you some questions about Besi’s murder. You have any idea who might have wanted to kill her?”
“Winnie,” said Tom.
Confused, Leo asked, “You think Winnie killed Besi?”
“She confessed, didn’t she?”
“But why did you accuse Derek?” Leo asked. “That’s why the two of you were fighting. You said Derek was responsible for Besi’s murder.”
Tom swung his legs off the chaise, yanked the sunglasses from his eyes, and glared at Leo. “Derek’s relationship with Besi made Winnie snap. Derek is the reason why Besi is dead.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Leo.
“It’s like I told those island cops, not that they believed me,” said Tom, “but Derek was only marrying Besi for her money.”
“Derek has money,” Leo reminded him. “His family is just as wealthy as Besi’s.”
Tom snorted. “Just because Derek’s family has money doesn’t mean that Derek has money.”
Leo shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“Derek got fired from Hennessy Capital,” said Tom.
“I thought he left his dad’s company,” Leo said.
Tom scoffed. “He was told to leave.”
“Why?”
Shrugging, Tom said, “Not sure. Derek was evasive, trying to make it seem as though parting ways was a mutual decision. My guess? David Hennessy was sick of Derek doing more gambling than working.”
Leo glanced toward the pool. Could the conversation he’d overheard between Derek and Skip Taylor been about a gambling debt? Maybe Skip had to fix a problem with a bookie who insisted that Derek settle his accounts.
Letting
out a long breath, Tom said, “Derek wasn’t in love with Besi. He wasn’t faithful to Besi, and he didn’t give a shit about Besi. Wacko Winnie lost her mind when she found out Derek had proposed to Besi instead of her.”
Jarred by Tom’s jump to another subject, Leo asked, “Derek had something going on with Winnie?”
Tom ran his hands down the back of his head. “No, but the way Winnie figured it, if Derek wanted to marry a rich girl that he didn’t love, then he should have chosen her. Instead, Derek chose Besi and Winnie freaked out. You saw yourself, at the rehearsal dinner, how jealous Winnie was of Besi. She couldn’t stand the thought of Derek marrying Besi.”
Unconvinced by Tom’s theory, Leo said, “You think Winnie killed Besi in a jealous rage?”
“I don’t think it, I know it,” said Tom. “And you know what else I know? Derek had his choice between Besi and Winnie. If he had chosen Winnie, then Besi would still be alive.”
20
Sitting on the pool level of Burt’s mansion, under the shaded portion of the terrace, Vivian stared at the screen of her laptop.
Minutes ago, Sophie had texted Vivian, asking if she was coming into the office. Vivian responded that she planned to head to the Palmchat Gazette after lunch. Sophie wanted to speak with her about a potential story, so Vivian had decided to facilitate a Skype video call. She didn’t want to dampen Sophie’s enthusiasm, especially if the story was worthy of prominent placement in the newspaper.
“What’s your story idea?” asked Vivian, refocusing the conversation to the reason for the video call.
“Stevie was manning the police scanner last night,” began Sophie, referring to Stevie Bishop, another junior reporter at the paper. “There was a call about a guy lying in a ditch, and at first the police thought he’d had a heart attack, but he’d been shot.”
Slightly interested, Vivian said, “You have any other details?”
“The victim is in the hospital, but he’s not available to give a statement because he’s in a coma,” said Sophie. “The motorist who accidentally hit the man stopped to render aid, so the cops probably won’t be charging him.”