Lethal Lifestyles (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery Book 6)

by LynDee Walker

  Damnation. That easy answer I’d been wishing for all day had fallen flat into my lap. Trouble was, it’d get Parker twenty to life if I couldn’t figure out why the easy answer wasn’t the only one.

  I knew I was right. How the hell could I convince everyone else?

  Very carefully wording the hardest story of my career could be a start.

  I scrubbed my hands over my face, blowing out a deep breath. “When do you want to run it, and how much of our hand are we tipping?” I asked.

  “That’s my girl.” Bob patted my knee. “I called the office this afternoon—the obit will go live Tuesday morning. We’ll post the story Monday night, print on Tuesday.” I nodded, and he squeezed my hand. “You’re sure? It won’t be easy.”

  “The really good ones never are.”

  “Ain’t that the truth?” He stood, offering me the papers. “You want to hang onto these? I suppose we should go back to the party.”

  I shook my head, handing his jacket back. “I’m not likely to forget that mess. And while I’m suddenly not in the mood to party, the maid of honor can’t bail on the rehearsal celebration. Besides, I could use another glass of wine. Or four.” I fetched the keys and opened the door, frowning when the knob turned ahead of the key. “Just let me grab my sweater.”

  Flipping the light on, my eyes fell on the coffee table. And my laptop, slightly angled in the center of it. I paused.

  Bob, from the doorway behind me, asked, “What’s wrong?”

  I took in the rest of the little cottage. Neat as a pin. But—“My laptop. I left it on the sofa when I took off this afternoon.”

  He stepped up beside me, scanning the small living area. “You’re sure?”

  “I have a stupidly specific memory of shutting it and putting it on that cushion.” I pointed, taking a step that way and pausing. I didn’t have time to get into that, and it was probably still safer in here with the door locked than it would be out in my car. “It didn’t feel like the door was locked just now.”

  Bob’s lips disappeared into a thin line. “It seems unlike you to leave it open.”

  I snatched a white cable-kit cardigan off the back of a chair and turned for the door. “Unlike regular me? Sure. Unlike overstressed wedding maestro me? Maybe not as much. I wonder if there’s a maid?”

  “Maybe.” Bob’s tone said he was thinking the same thing I was: Possible. But not likely.

  The rest of the party passed in a blur of forced laughter, too-cheerful conversation, and too much wine.

  By the time I walked Parker and Melanie back to their room at midnight, I was doing good to stay upright, and the wine was a close second to exhaustion on the list of reasons.

  I let myself into my cabin and reached into my bag for the mace Kyle had forced on me last year when I refused to take the handgun class.

  Walking through the charming little structure, I flipped on every light, checked every closet, and looked in both kitchen cabinets, under the bed, and behind the shower curtain.

  Satisfied that I was alone, I slid the chain on the door into place and turned for the bed, pausing as I passed the table where my laptop lay. I knew good and well I’d left it on the sofa.

  And while a better reporter would probably open it and check it out, maybe even do a little more research on the main players in this nightmare my perfect wedding was rapidly deteriorating into, I physically could not. I didn’t even have the energy to take my makeup off, pulling back the covers and falling asleep almost before my head hit the pillow.

  Seven hours of fitful dreams about Mitch Burke and trophies and wine barrels later, I took the world’s fastest shower, glad I hadn’t felt up to checking my computer the night before. What if the answer to all my problems was sitting right on that table?

  Yanking my hair into a ponytail, I pulled on a soft white lace skirt and a lavender sweater and shoved my feet into my new jewel-toed Jimmy Choo sandals. I found a plastic grocery sack in the bitty pantry and used it to pick up my computer.

  A fifteen-minute drive, and I stared through the sheriff’s department safety glass at Ella Jane. Pasting on a smile, I asked if the sheriff was in.

  “He’s rarely anywhere else,” she said with an eye roll, deepening her voice to imitate her father. “‘Price of being the law in a small town.’”

  I nodded. “Folks don’t often get up to no good between eight and five on weekdays.”

  That got me a smile. “What can we do for you?”

  “It seems I have a police matter of my own this morning.” I held up the bag containing my computer. “I think someone might’ve broken into my room last night.”

  She furrowed her brow. “A deputy can take a report. The sheriff is pretty busy right now.”

  “Of course.” I nodded. “I just have some information I want to pass along to him too, and I didn’t get the chance to talk with him yesterday.”

  “Information about Mitch?” Her voice caught, her eyes going shiny. “Just a minute.”

  I smiled, studying the variegated colors of the brown brick wall while she buzzed Rutledge. When I heard the phone clatter back into its cradle, I turned back to her.

  “He says he’ll be with you as soon as he can.”

  Ella Jane started to look back at her computer and then shot me another glance. “This has been the craziest weekend.”

  I nodded. “You can say that again.”

  She blinked hard and I noticed the red outlining her blue eyes for the first time. She was pretty handy with a concealer brush—it was scarcely visible even under close scrutiny.

  “It’s rare for this place to see so much action in just a few days, huh?” I dropped my gaze, trailing one finger through the fine layer of dust on the counter in front of me. It was a practiced tone, one that often came in handy: not really interested, just making conversation.

  “Now it’s your turn to say that again. Most of the calls we get are either for the EMTs or people bitching about one of three things: gunfire after bedtime, kids busting mailboxes with bats, or grapes.”

  Grapes? Her first two things were standard-issue rural law enforcement staples. But that last one could be interesting.

  “Did you say grapes?” Still carefully half-interested.

  She nodded, an annoyed sigh heaving her generous chest. “Old man Fulton has rung this phone off the hook since the wine expo. I guess at least now he’s in a cell. I have to feed him three times a day, but he can’t call me from in there.”

  I smiled and nodded, puzzle pieces flying together in my head.

  Fulton.

  He’d been calling the PD. About grapes. And was pissed at Sammons for stealing from him.

  Hulk’s voice floated through my head: “Why that barrel?”

  I’d thought he meant it like “why us?” when he found Burke. But what if he didn’t?

  What if whoever put Mitch Burke in the wine set to take the big Governor’s honor picked that one on purpose?

  Celia, yesterday: “He should’ve left old man Fulton alone.”

  Just exactly how far had Sammons pushed Fulton? Moreover, did Burke have anything to do with it?

  Jiminy Choos.

  The answer to this mess might already be back in their lockup.

  “Why would anyone call the police about grapes?” I tried for the same careful tone, but my thoughts were zipping in so many directions at once that I wasn’t sure I hit it.

  She didn’t seem to notice, picking up a Sharpie and popping the cap off and on as she talked.

  “Mr. Fulton is a science whiz. Does everything himself, including breeding his own fruit hybrids. He’s convinced Mr. Sammons swiped the seeds for a new varietal he’s been trying to perfect for years. The sheriff told him, I told him, we all told him: He needed a lawyer, not the police. But he kept calling. Until yesterday.”

  Hot damn. My fingers itched for a pen.

  The door buzzed next to me and she smiled. “I guess he’s ready for you. Nice talking to you.”

&nbs
p; I met her smile with a bigger one of my own. “You too, Ella Jane.”

  Maybe nicer than I ever could’ve hoped.

  The sheriff looked annoyed.

  “In case you missed the nuances yesterday, I’m a little busy this weekend,” he said, one eyebrow popping up as he eyed the grocery bag I’d set on his desk.

  “I understand, and I’m grateful for your time,” I said, words tripping through my lips so fast they nearly tumbled over each other. “I’m helping with an event at Calais Vineyards, and I’ve heard a couple things I think you might like to know about.”

  “Is that a fact? You know, we’re not as backward out here as folks from Richmond and DC always seem to think. I know who you are.” He flipped open a manila folder on his desk, glancing at the contents and then back up at me. “Miss Nichelle Clarke, cops and courts reporter for the Richmond Telegraph.”

  I nodded, not surprised. They ran my name because the 911 call came from my cell.

  “Nice to meet you, sir.” I put out a hand.

  “I don’t have much use for reporters.” His tone had a wary edge. “You’re only sitting there because I appreciate your quick thinking yesterday—calling the emergency line and leaving your phone on was smart. And I’ll be polite about telling you I’m not giving interviews about Mitch Burke.”

  “I’m not asking for one.” Yet, anyway.

  He nodded, then angled his head toward the sack.

  “So what’s in the bag?”

  “My laptop. I’m staying in one of the guest houses at Calais, and I know I set it on the sofa when I left the building yesterday afternoon. I could swear I locked the door. When I came back last night, the door gave pretty easily when I went to unlock it, and my computer was sitting in the middle of the coffee table. Normally, I wouldn’t be rattled by something so small, but this weekend has been at least two realms outside normal, and experience poking around a handful of murders has taught me ‘better safe than sorry’ is a cliché for a reason.”

  “Anything else out of place?”

  “No, but anyone who knows what I do for a living…” I let the words trail.

  “Would know whatever you know is in the computer.” He pinched the edge of the bag with two fingers and lifted it. “You didn’t touch it?”

  “Not even the edges.”

  “I can dust it, but it’ll take a week for us to run them. Maybe more. And that’s if there’s a match.”

  Huh. I bit my lip. “I may know someone who can expedite that.”

  He shrugged and opened a drawer, pulling a little plastic box from it. “Good for you. At least this is easy. I’ll take easy today.”

  “I’m sorry to give you more work, and it might be nothing, I know.”

  “No, you’re right to wonder. Something’s definitely off out there.”

  He slipped on latex gloves and opened the box, taking out a tiny brush and a jar. Shaking the jar, he unscrewed the lid and rolled the brush in the fine powder that had collected there, then spun it across the surface of my laptop.

  I leaned forward and watched the prints appear like magic, a silvery sheen clinging to the ridges and whorls.

  “Lots of prints.” He pulled a piece of tape from a roll inside the fingerprint kit and touched it to the edge of the computer, using a thick card to smooth it down. “Probably mostly yours, but let’s see if we get lucky.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff. I appreciate it.”

  “Any idea who might want to know what you’ve been working on?” He lifted the print from the computer and stuck it carefully to a glossy card he pulled from the box, then started over with the tape on another one.

  Many ideas. But should I share them? Small-town politics could be a bitch, and with his daughter possibly tangled up with the murder victim and him appearing to know (maybe even like) Sammons, this thing was complicated on all sides.

  I twisted a strand of my hair into a knot. “What about Mr. Fulton? Is there any chance Mitch Burke was caught up in whatever grievance he has with Mr. Sammons?”

  Rutledge stuck another piece of tape to another card. “You’d make a decent detective, young lady,” he said. “I asked that question myself. But five hundred people can put Fulton at a conference in Napa Valley all week, and his flight didn’t land in Charlottesville until almost midnight Friday. So unless he can be in two places at once, he’s only on the hook for yesterday.”

  He put the brush back in the box and picked up his phone, snapping photos of the fingerprint cards. “Speaking of yesterday, we took a statement from Grant Parker at the emergency room. Getting married next week, I understand. Seems like I remember him and Mitch Burke playing at the same time, years ago.” His voice was light, but I caught the probing undertone.

  “I understand they did.” Light. Breezy. Nothing to hide.

  “You’re friends with Mr. Parker, aren’t you? They still talk to one another?”

  “Not from what I hear.” Every word true. I met his eyes with a smile when he looked up.

  “Uh-huh.” He held my gaze for a long minute before he handed the laptop back to me. “Damn shame, having something like this happen in the middle of your wedding.”

  I kept silent.

  He picked up the cards. “You want a copy of these to take with you?”

  I nodded, watching him print photos and slide them into an envelope. “Thank you.”

  “Anything else I can do for you?”

  “Not at the moment, but there might be something I can do for you.”

  He leaned back in his chair as I told him about Celia’s conversation with chef Alexei.

  “She also told me she and Burke were once engaged,” I finished.

  He snorted, tipping the chair upright as he leaned forward. “I don’t doubt it. Boy made his rounds. Hell, my daughter thinks she was in love with him too.” A shadow crossed his face for a second so split I might’ve imagined it. “Good thing he wasn’t the marrying kind. I’d have had to ship Ella Jane off to my sister in Texas or some such nonsense.”

  I kept quiet, hoping he’d say more, but he shook his head and stood.

  “I’ll let the lab know I want an expanded tox panel on Mitch. Right after I get some more coffee.” Rutledge snagged a Virginia is for Lovers mug off his desk and led me to the door, shaking his head as he opened it. “I never would’ve seen Celia as capable. Her momma was the gentlest soul you’d ever meet. Dale’s older sister, Jolene. Lovely woman.”

  “Was?” I stepped into the hall.

  “She passed on just days before her daddy. I still say he plain gave up when she died.” Rutledge’s voice dropped an octave as he walked to the tiny break room. “Poor little thing struggled with demons most of her life. Ended up taking her own.”

  “How…” I paused and shook my head. “Tragic.”

  “I hope I don’t have cause to worry that I’ll regret this conversation.” Rutledge’s eyes said he meant that in more than one way.

  Me too, Sheriff.

  I shook my head. “Unless you’d care to comment on the record…” I let the sentence trail and he smiled.

  “Open investigation. You understand.”

  I sure hoped so.

  “I appreciate the tip. If you think of anything else I should know, give me a call,” he said when I smiled and thanked him for his time.

  I walked back to my car in a daze, his words looping in my head.

  Celia’s mother struggled with mental illness, which can be hereditary.

  She also died right before her father—leaving her estranged brother to inherit a fortune.

  Convenient time for a suicide.

  Did Celia’s mother really kill herself? Because Sammons…well. People who got away with murder once were more likely to try it again.

  16.

  Kings and fools

  Hooves thundered over the lush emerald lawn, the thoroughbreds kicking up divots in every direction as their riders navigated sharp turnabouts, waving mallets and shouting.

  I di
dn’t enjoy the polo match nearly as much as I wanted to, mostly because I couldn’t bring myself to pay attention to it for more than thirty-seven seconds at a time.

  I’d looked everywhere I could think to look for Jinkerson when I returned from the sheriff’s office and found bupkis. No one had seen him since Saturday morning. I went to the kitchen hoping to chat up the Russian chef who was (possibly) supposed to have made Mitch Burke sick, but found only trays of muffins and a really good cup of coffee.

  Questions spun through my head faster than I could consider them, trying as I was to be covert about watching the folks around me. Most everyone’s eyes were on the horses: magnificent, well-muscled and expertly cared-for animals that would’ve been just as at home carting royalty on a fox hunt as they were in the Virginia countryside.

  The matches appeared to be an all-hands event. Though Sammons and some of his friends were on the field, I caught several familiar faces in the crowd. Chef Alexei, for one. His thick arms folded across his barrel chest, he kept his eyes on the riders as Celia hid behind her sunglasses and tried to be unobtrusive about talking to him. She leaned closer, gesturing to the field and getting a nod from him, but was she really talking about the action?

  I followed her pointer finger to a massive stallion carrying a tall broad-shouldered man with silver hair and an elegant seat that spoke of a lifetime of riding. He knocked the ball easily from Sammons’s reach, pulling the horse up sharply to turn him the other direction. I studied his profile. Familiar, I thought, but couldn’t tell from where. Most of these people were probably regulars in our business pages.

  My eyes strayed back to Celia. Her conversation with Alexei looked like it had grown more serious.

  I didn’t have a prayer of deciphering actual words, so I settled for watching their body language, thankful for my oversized Kate Spade shades.

  Their exchange from yesterday was certainly the most damning thing I had, but it also wasn’t the only off-base thing at Calais, and my gut said there was more to this story. Old man Fulton, the sheriff, Sammons, even Hulk, to a lesser degree: I knew just enough to be suspicious of nearly everyone, but not enough to prove anything. And the sheriff’s bit about Celia’s mother had me itching to learn more.