Bad Neighbors
Page 27
“You’re embarrassing yourself, Agnes,” Delilah said softly.
“She’s the murderer!” I shouted. “She’s a money-hungry gambler who killed Mikey Brown and Clifford Prentiss for cash, and I can prove it!”
A ripple of gasps and murmurs. The float kept on rolling along, but all eyes were on me. Someone was weaving quickly through the sidewalk crowd toward us. Otis. And from the other direction I saw Aunt Effie’s big round lemur sunglasses bobbling our way.
With shaking fingers, I unsnapped the purse. I opened it and looked inside.
The was nothing but a lone tube of lip gloss inside.
“Like I said,” Delilah snarled in an undertone, “you’re embarrassing yourself.” She stood up shakily and snatched at the purse.
I swooped it out of her grasp.
“Give it to me!” she shrieked. She grabbed my hair extensions and yanked.
With a scalp-searing rip, the extensions were gone—
The crowd sucked in a collective breath.
—and Delilah held them up like some dead animal, giggling wildly.
“Be careful, Agnes!” This was Otis, only a few yards off. “Agnes, get away from her!”
“You’re nuts!” I shouted at Delilah, rubbing my burning scalp.
“I’m nuts? You’re the one going around accusing everyone of murder, Agnes Blythe. You need to be on meds.”
The pumpkin float stopped hard.
I lurched toward Delilah, arms outstretched.
Delilah whipped out a pistol from somewhere—her puffy sleeve? Her pageant-sized hair?—and aimed it at me.
I recoiled.
“Agnes!” Otis shouted, really close by.
I teetered in my tube dress.
Delilah crashed into me and—CRACK!—the gun went off. A hole popped open in the papier-mâché pumpkin coach ceiling above us.
Screams from the crowd. Someone cried, “Police! Help! Police!”
Delilah and I both thumped to the floor of the float in a tangle of polyester satin.
A billow of cash poofed out of Delilah’s bodice.
People in the crowd screamed some more, now with a mixture of fear and excitement. Kids darted forward, hands outstretched to the fluttering, twirling green money. Parents rushed frantically forward, trying to grab their kids. And there was Otis, his face drained of color, his eyes huge, vaulting up onto the float, curling a protective arm around me as I peeled myself upright.
Delilah sat up, too, pink lip gloss streaked across her cheek and her tiara askew.
I snatched her pistol and passed it to Otis. “Huh,” I said, panting. “I guess you win some and you lose some, Delilah.”
Chapter 30
The rest of that day was a blur.
What happened to Delilah? Well, the parade stopped in its tracks, but the video cameras and camera phones whirred away. A couple of the cops on parade detail hurried forward and broke up the kids who were grabbing the fluttering cash, and while they were doing that, Delilah hitched up her skirts and tried to make a break for it. One of the cops stopped her and said she was going to have to make a statement about the cash and the gun. Then he told me I was going to have to make a statement, too. Otis offered to go with me; I said no thanks, but I’d call him later. This was all really awkward and rushed, and we didn’t look each other straight in the eye.
Apparently, this wasn’t a feel-good movie where everything gets magically resolved.
At the police station, feeling stressed out and itchy in my Gourd Queen gown, I spilled everything I knew about Delilah, the murders, and the blackmail. On tape.
Detective Albright listened, his face growing more and more serious.
“Hugh Simonian will have my phone,” I said. “And if you look on Delilah’s smartphone or computer, I’ll bet you’ll find more copies of the audio file I made last night. I’ll bet if you look in Delilah’s apartment, you’ll find a Headless Horseman mask. She’s probably up to her ears in debt, too. Wherever she came from—she said it was somewhere in Indiana—there might be blackmails, thefts, and even unsolved murders in her wake.”
Once Albright had finally stopped the digital recorder, he said to me, “Off the record, Agnes … does all this mean that you only went out to the movies with me to further your investigation?”
“No,” I said. “That was because you won a date with me fair and square at the bachelorette auction.”
His face fell.
Guilt punched me. “And … well, even though I’m mad that you were so obsessed with pinning the murders on Otis, I still think you’re … you’re a good guy.”
“You mean that?”
“Sure.”
“So … want to go bowling?”
Mental face plant.
*
Dad was waiting for me at the police station.
He gave me a big bear hug. “Honey,” he said, “how do you get into these situations?”
“No idea, Dad. No idea.”
He gave me a ride to the Stagecoach Inn, and although he was going to stick around to see Aunt Effie, I desperately needed a shower. I was exhausted, too, but napping was out of the question. I was too amped up.
I went up to Aunt Effie’s bathroom and took a long shower, washing away layers of makeup, hairspray, and stress. I brushed my teeth, moisturized, bundled myself in my bathrobe, and, thinking about calling Otis, climbed the stairs to my attic room.
Otis was waiting for me, sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, hands clasped.
He straightened when he saw me. “Hi,” he said, sounding a little shy.
“Hi.” I stopped in the doorway.
“Things have been happening to your bathroom floor.”
“Yeah.”
“Looks great.”
“Thanks.”
“But I see you still haven’t moved your boxes.”
“That storage pod down in the yard isn’t for my stuff,” I said. “It’s for Aunt Effie’s antiques.”
Otis’s face clouded with confusion. “Okay…”
“You’re thinking about the grad school applications you saw, and yeah, I was thinking about applying. Why shouldn’t I? Nothing is holding me here in Naneda. You wanted a break—whatever that means—and this inn isn’t even mine—”
“You have your family here.”
I threw my arms wide. “So I’ll come and visit on Thanksgiving and Christmas! I need a life—my own life—with a—a deliberate foundation. Not just a series of accidents and coincidences that keep me in my hometown by default. And I sure as heck can’t stand sort of dating the man I love. I want something real. Something solid.”
“Agnes. Calm down.” Otis was in front of me, placing his hands gently on my shoulders.
“Why should I calm down? You let yourself be seduced by a psycho cupcake hussy.”
Otis flinched. “What? No, I didn’t.”
“But Delilah said—”
“Haven’t you realized what a monster she is, Agnes? She stirs up trouble and manipulates people wherever she goes. I saw it from a mile away—”
“No, you didn’t. You ate her German chocolate cupcakes. Gross!”
“Okay, okay, I admit that I didn’t catch on immediately. Blame the baked goods. But the minute she started saying nasty little things about you, I steered clear. I could tell she was jealous. Didn’t bank on her being a murderer, though.”
Delilah? Jealous of me?
“Anyway, she had nothing to do with why I wanted to take a break. I just needed to deal with being accused of murder privately. It was embarrassing and, well, painful, and I didn’t want to make you have to go through all that.” Otis swallowed. “Especially since I still haven’t figured out if you’re planning on … sticking around.”
“I didn’t know my long-term plans even mattered,” I said, “because I wasn’t sure if we were, you know, dating or … dating.”
“You mean, were we a couple?”
“Right.” A pause. “So. Were we?”
“I guess not.”
“And … should we be?” I tried to sound rational and detached. Too bad my voice wobbled.
“I don’t know.”
“Okay, gotta go!” I wriggled under his hands.
Otis held my shoulders firmly. He edged closer so that our hearts were touching. “Stop,” he whispered. “Listen.”
I fell still. I felt his heartbeat pumping through my robe and his T-shirt, smelled his laundry detergent and his warm skin.
“I thought I was reading too much into it,” Otis said. “Into us … hanging out. I mean, it was less than two months ago that you broke up with the guy you’d been with for several years. The guy you were going to marry. I wanted to take things slowly. To give you space.”
A laugh bubbled up inside my chest, because at that moment in time there was no space whatsoever between us.
“You coming back to town, us getting back together…” Otis gently smoothed a wet strand of hair from my eyes. “It was kind of freaking me out, to be honest—”
“What?”
“No, no. In a good way. I guess. All these old feelings I had for you that I thought were just, you know, in the past, in a box on a shelf, were suddenly back, and real. I fell in love with you back in high school, and I guess the love maybe went dormant for a bunch of years, but it turns out it never died. You know?”
“Yeah,” I whispered. “I know.”
Otis cupped the side of my head. “Does this mean we can go away to the Adirondacks?”
“No,” I whispered.
He pulled back. “What?”
“I have to finish that bathroom floor first.”
Otis laughed. “Okay. Then, if you’ll let me, I’ll help you finish building that floor.” He leaned down and touched his lips to mine.
*
“Hello, darlings, don’t you look all glowy,” Aunt Effie said when Otis and I walked into the kitchen a while later. She was smoking at the open window over the sink.
“I don’t know what you’re hinting at,” I said, “but we’ve been laying down crack-suppressing floor membrane. Hi, Dad.”
“Hi, honey.” Dad was at the kitchen table, nursing a mug of coffee. A small plate with nothing but crumbs on it sat beside the mug.
“Sit down, darlings,” Effie said to Otis and me. “Could I make you a drink? Nibbles? Oh—and I have some wonderful news. I’ve hired Lally Douglass, and she starts tomorrow.”
“Really?” I said. “That’s great.”
“Who’s Lally Douglass?” Otis asked, walking to the refrigerator. “Agnes, want a sandwich?”
“Sure.” I sank into a chair at the table, kitty-corner to Dad.
“Wonderful job, by the way, exposing Delilah like that,” Effie said. “Everyone is thrilled that you landed that horrid creature in jail. Avi also wanted me to tell you thank you, because those cupcakes were of course diabolical sugar bombs that were giving the entire town cavities.”
“Our Agnes is very brave,” Dad said. “She’s a town hero. Mark my words, she’ll be mayor someday. Effie, when are you going to quit those filthy cigarettes? They’ll kill you.”
“All in good time.” Effie turned to me. “Why don’t you take a peek in that folder on the counter.”
“What?” I looked over my shoulder to see a beige file folder sitting on the counter.
“Go on.”
I went to the counter. I opened the folder.
Inside was a packet of legal-looking documents. I frowned. “What is this?”
“Mr. Solomon drew up the documents to provide you and Chester with shares in the general partnership of Stagecoach Inn Enterprises, LLC,” Effie said.
I could only blink.
“If you choose to sign those documents—and of course think it over first—you, Chester, and I will be equal partners, each holding one-third of the shares, which, of course, since I registered an LLC, includes ownership of the property as well as the business.”
I wanted to say thank you. Instead, I burst into tears.
Otis poked his head around the refrigerator door. “Whoa. Babe. What’s—?”
“Aunt Effie?” Dad said. “She’s crying.”
“Oh, dear,” Effie said. She ripped a bundle of paper towels from a roll, hurried over, and passed them to me.
“This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me!” I blubbered.
“Does that mean you’re in?” Effie asked.
“Yeah,” I said. I smeared my nose with the paper towels. “All in.”
Also available by Maia Chance
Agnes and Effie Mysteries
Bad Housekeeping
Discreet Retrieval Agency Mysteries
Gin and Panic
Teetotaled
Come Hell or Highball
Fairy Tale Fatal Mysteries
Beauty, Beast, and Belladonna
Cinderella Six Feet Under
Snow White Red-Handed
Author Biography
Maia Chance, national bestselling author, writes mystery novels that are rife with absurd predicaments and romantic adventure. She was born in rural Washington State, grew up in the small-town of Moscow, Idaho, and after living in upstate New York and Boston for a decade, she returned to the Seattle area. She now makes her home with her family on magical Bainbridge Island. This is her second Agnes and Effie mystery.
This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Maia Chance.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.
ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-68331-541-4
ISBN (ePub): 978-1-68331-542-1
ISBN (ePDF): 978-1-68331-543-8
Cover illustration by Teresa Fasolino
Book design by Jennifer Canzone
Printed in the United States.
www.crookedlanebooks.com
Crooked Lane Books
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First Edition: April 2018
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