by Lila Dare
“Is this about Miss Faye’s murder?” Rachel asked, still admiring her new ’do out of the corners of her eyes.
“How did you know about that, Rachel?” Mom asked.
The St. Elizabeth Gazette only came out once a week—on Thursdays—so news of the death hadn’t been publicized in the newspaper.
Rachel gave her the kind of “how can you be so out of it?” look that only a teenager could perfect. “A tweet from my friend Shannon whose mom works in a funeral home. And Tabitha’s blog. And an e-mail from Miss Keen this morning, saying the pageant would continue as scheduled. But we can’t use the theater today. Everything’s down at the yacht club.”
I hadn’t even stopped to think that the pageant might get cancelled.
“Goodness,” Mom said faintly. “What’s a tweet? I thought it was part of a stereo.”
Stella and I left Rachel explaining the intricacies of twenty-first-century communications to Mom.
My cell phone rang before I got off Mom’s veranda.
“How come I have to hear about you finding dead bodies secondhand?” Marty greeted me.
Martin Shears, political reporter for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution , was plugged into so many news sources, including the GBI and coroners’ offices around the state, that I didn’t even bother asking how he’d heard.
“It’s good to hear from you,” I said. Something in my voice made Stella smile and she continued to the car to give me some privacy. “I was going to call you later today. It’s been hectic.”
“Are you all right? Do you need me to come down there?”
His concern warmed me and I smiled into the phone. “I’m okay. It was gruesome, but I didn’t know the victim very well. I want you to come down, if that counts.”
He chuckled. “Maybe this weekend. I’ve got a new lead on the Lansky story—a developer who says he’ll talk on the record about kickbacks—and I’ve got to chase that down.”
Marty had a real bee in his bonnet about our governor, Beau Lansky, who had originally come from St. Elizabeth. We were convinced he was involved in the disappearance and murder of Althea’s husband William twenty-someodd years ago—whose body had only been found this last spring—but he was slippery and we hadn’t been able to prove it.
“You can come down and cover the ‘Beauty Pageant Murder,’ ”I said, investing the words with headline caps.
“Was Lansky sleeping with one of the contestants?”
“Not as far as I know.” I laughed.
“Then I probably can’t justify the trip. That would make a great angle, though,” he said.
I heard clicking in the background and knew he was typing on his keyboard. “Look, you’re probably on deadline so I’ll let you go. If you come down this weekend, I’ll get you a ticket to the pageant final.”
“And if you think of a way to give the story a political spin, let me know. I’ll drive right on down.”
“Deal,” I said.
Chapter Nine
STELLA SAT SILENTLY IN THE PASSENGER SEAT OF my Ford Fiesta as I headed out of St. Elizabeth on SR 42 toward Kingsland, a small town about twenty miles southwest. St. Elizabeth inhabits a point on Georgia’s southeast coast bounded by the Satilla River to the north and the Atlantic Ocean to the east, so you pretty much have to go west to get anywhere unless you go by boat. A couple miles out of town, I-95 connects us to Jacksonville, Florida, forty-five minutes south, and Savannah to the north. When I lived in Atlanta, I was only four hours from home, but it felt like another universe.
Stella still hadn’t said a word by the time I parked in the lot fronting the Georgia Bureau of Investigation Region Fourteen headquarters. Someone with a penchant for precision had clipped the hedges fronting the building into rigid rectangles. Narrow windows reminiscent of arrow slits scored the tan brick of the building. By the look Stella cast at the plain façade, you’d’ve thought she was entering the Bastille for an appointment with a guillotine. I gave her shoulders a squeeze. “It’ll be okay,” I told her. “Just a few questions and then we’re off to work our magic on the contestants. What kind of swimsuit do you think Rachel will have?”
“Black,” we said together. Stella gave a weak laugh and pushed open the door.
Special Agent Dillon didn’t keep us waiting. We hadn’t even sat down in one of the molded plastic chairs before the inner door opened and he motioned to Stella. “Thank you for coming in, Mrs. Michaelson,” he said. He looked approachable in an open-necked shirt and navy slacks. I wondered if his lack of jacket and tie was a conscious attempt to set Stella at ease.
“I’ll get a cup of coffee at the Perk-Up and meet you back here in half an hour,” I said, emphasizing the time so Agent Dillon would know we were on a schedule.
Stella grabbed my arm, her ring snagging on the loose knit of my moss-colored cotton sweater. “No! I want you with me.”
“I’d prefer to chat with you one-on-one,” Agent Dillon told her with a smile, giving me a “get lost” look.
“No.” Stella set her mouth in a mulish line. “This is hard for me. If Grace can’t sit in then I want a lawyer.”
“There’s no need to get a lawyer involved,” Agent Dillon said, his eyes narrowing.
From the look he gave me, I knew he thought I’d put Stella up to this. “I’ll stay if you want me to, Stella.”
Sighing, Agent Dillon held the door wider and escorted us both to his office. I’d been there once before, in May, when he first questioned me about Constance DuBois’s death. It looked the same, with the large window admitting lots of light and a trio of photos on one wall showing Dillon’s horse going over a series of jumps. Agent Dillon crossed to his desk and gestured at the two blue-padded chairs in front of it.
“I don’t want to hear a peep out of you,” he warned me as we sat. I settled into my chair, but Stella perched on the edge of hers like a finch ready to fly off at the first hint of danger. She clutched her purse on her lap, opening and closing the clasp. Snick-snick.
Dillon pulled a Baggie from his desk drawer and slid it across the polished surface. “Do you recognize this?” he asked, watching Stella’s face.
Inside the bag was a nail file, six inches of rigid metal coming to a wicked point. Coated with diamond dust, it had a wooden handle stamped with the initials “SM.” Darryl had given it to Stella when she graduated from cosmetology school. He’d had it specially made, she said, still impressed with his thoughtfulness years later. I couldn’t count the number of times I’d heard her tell customers about the file as she used it to shape their nails. Even though she used a powered file for most of her nail work, she still finished customers’ nails with her special file.
“It’s my nail file,” she said. She reached for the Baggie but Dillon pulled it out of reach.
“We have to hang on to this, I’m afraid,” he said. “Can you tell me about your relationship with Audrey Faye?”
“I didn’t know her,” Stella said. “She hired Grace and me to do hair and nails for the girls in the pageant. I’d never met her before we arrived at the theater.”
I waited for her to mention Darryl’s relationship with Audrey, but she didn’t. I tensed, thinking she’d be better off coming clean. Dillon had a way of ferreting things out.
“When did you last see her alive?”
Stella thought for a moment. “About half an hour before the talent show started, maybe? She walked past my room with one of the girls and her mother. They seemed to be arguing.”
“Mrs. Metzger, I’ll bet,” I said.
The look Dillon gave me said he didn’t want my input. “Any idea how your nail file ended up in Ms. Faye’s neck?” he asked.
Stella gasped and a hand went to her own neck. “No! I mean, I left all my stuff in the room before I went out to watch the show. I didn’t lock the door or anything—it’s not like we had keys—so anyone could have …”
“Any idea who did?”
“No!” Stella seemed appalled at the thought.
&
nbsp; “You went out to watch the talent show … then what?”
The snick-snick of the purse clasp opening and closing came faster. “My husband … I met up with my husband, Darryl, and we went for a drive. Just around, you know, talking.”
Dillon nodded. “And later? Where were you when my officers came to your house about ten thirty?”
“At my mom’s,” Stella whispered.
“You spent the night there?” Dillon kept his voice neutral.
“Yes. Jessica—my daughter—and I have been staying there for a couple of weeks.”
“And your husband?”
“He was at the house.”
Dillon shook his head. “No one’s been at the house.”
“Then where’s Darryl?” Stella asked, leaning forward. Her purse tumbled off her lap, spilling its contents. “Oh, no!” She bent and began trying to shovel wallet, lipsticks, coins, and other purse detritus into the bag.
“Let me,” I said, gently nudging Stella upright. I dropped to my knees and patted the carpet in search of stray coins.
“You haven’t been in touch with your husband?” Dillon asked. I couldn’t see his face, but I heard the skepticism in his voice.
“I tried to call his cell,” Stella said, “but he hasn’t answered. Where could he be?”
She looked at me as I straightened, her face tight with worry. I put the purse back in her lap and squeezed her hand before reseating myself.
“That would be the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, wouldn’t it?” Dillon said. “Especially since I understand he had a relationship with Ms. Faye. A sexual relationship.”
Stella jumped two inches, dumping the purse off her lap again. She started to cry and I glared at Dillon. He didn’t have to hit Stella with it out of the blue like that. I stood to put my arms around Stella, hugging her and the chair awkwardly. Something from the purse made a crunching sound under my foot and I saw I’d pulverized a plastic container of breath mints. Drat.
“You don’t have to answer any more questions,” I told Stella. I’d learned a thing or two about legal procedure while married to Hank. “C’mon. Let’s go.”
Stella lifted her tear-blotched face to look at Dillon, who sat calmly behind his desk. I wondered how many years it took to become insulated to the violent human emotions—fear, anger, grief—that cops encounter almost daily. And what cost did that deliberate damping of sensitivity carry? A crow flew past the window, casting a shadow that obscured Dillon’s eyes for a moment.
“H-how did you know?” Stella asked.
She sniffed and I hunted on the floor for the packet of tissues that had spilled from the purse. She took it and blew her nose on a tissue, her gaze never leaving Dillon’s face.
“A witness mentioned it,” Dillon said. “When and how did you find out about the affair?”
I gave him credit for effective interviewing technique; startled by the way he divulged his knowledge of the affair, Stella had lost her opportunity to play dumb and say, “What affair?”
Stella squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. “Ten days ago.” She told him about Darryl’s confession and said he’d been planning to break up with Audrey. I didn’t detect even a hint of doubt in her voice.
“But he didn’t?” Dillon pushed.
“No. It was too chaotic last night. He was going to tell her today. Then, well, we were going to talk again.” Stella’s lips tightened and I could see the hurt in her eyes, but she had control of herself again. “I don’t know where we stand right now.” Her pain and confusion were almost palpable.
I thought I caught a hint of sympathy in Dillon’s eyes before he jotted some notes. A lawn mower coughed to a start outside the window and I watched as a shirtless man began pushing it across the square of lawn behind the GBI building. I cleared my throat and looked ostentatiously at my watch.
Dillon arched one brow but didn’t look up from his notes for a full thirty seconds. When he did, he addressed Stella. “We might have more questions later, Mrs. Michaelson, but I think we can wrap it up for the morning. If you hear from your husband, tell him to contact us immediately. It’s important that we talk to him.”
“Okay,” Stella said, standing. “Oh, my stuff.” A lipstick rolled across the floor.
“I’ll get it,” I said, nudging her toward the door. “You might want to splash some water on your face.”
“Thanks, Grace.”
As soon as Stella was out the door, I turned back to Dillon, who had moved around to the front of his desk and was leaning back against it, arms folded over his chest. “She didn’t do it, you know.”
Dillon picked up Stella’s purse and held it open as I retrieved items and plopped them in. “It’s early days yet,” he said.
“I hope you know we’ll be talking to people,” I said, stuffing a hairbrush into the purse with unnecessary force.
“We?”
“Mom, Althea, and I.”
“Great. Violetta’s Vigilantes on the prowl again. Just what I need.”
I stopped in mid-bend, a Kathleen Woodiwiss paperback in my hand. “What did you call us? Violetta’s Vigilantes? It has a nice ring. But we’re not vigilantes … We just ask a few questions, keep our ears open.”
“Yeah. And it almost got all three of you killed just a couple months ago. Stay out of it, Grace.”
I waved away his grim tone with a flick of my hand, picking up a metal container of paprika. Why in the world did Stella carry paprika in her purse? “All I’m saying is don’t waste time and effort investigating Stella. She didn’t do it.”
“The affair gives her a strong motive,” he pointed out.
“It gives Audrey’s husband a motive, too,” I said. “Have you talked to him?”
“He’s the one who told us about the affair,” Dillon said. He plucked the paprika from my hand and stowed it in the purse. “I really do know how to do my job, you know.”
He looked at me from under his brows, his usually navy-colored eyes a tantalizing marine blue. His fingers grazed mine as he handed over the restocked purse and I felt a tingle all the way to my shoulder. From the sudden rigidity of his expression, I thought he felt it, too.
“I don’t doubt that,” I said a little breathlessly, “but your job is catching the killer and ours is taking care of Stella. So, you do your thing and we’ll do ours.”
“Just make sure your ‘thing’ doesn’t interfere with my investigation,” Dillon said. His manner wasn’t threatening, but I sensed the steel beneath the words. “And make sure Mrs. Michaelson knows that lying to protect her husband would be a very bad idea.”
Stella appeared in the doorway before I could answer. “Ready?” she asked.
I tore my gaze away from Dillon’s and handed Stella her purse. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
Chapter Ten
I HAD TO BREAK A FEW SPEED LIMITS TO GET BACK to St. Elizabeth in time. Stella said little during the ride, but she seemed more composed, less tense, than on the way to Kingsland. We stopped by her house to pick up replacement manicure supplies since the gear she had at the Oglethorpe was trapped behind crime scene tape or stuck in a police evidence locker. She sat up straighter, peering through the windshield as we approached the small brick house, but her shoulders slumped by the time she returned to the car, manicure kit in hand.
“He’s not there,” she said. “I’m worried about him.”
I wanted to ask if she thought Darryl could know something about Audrey’s death but decided Stella would take such a question as a vote of no confidence.
The St. Elizabeth Marina sits just inside the Satilla River before it empties into the St. Andrew Sound. A variety of boats—from deep-sea vessels and ferries decked out with numerous radars and antennas to smaller pleasure and fishing craft that traveled up the river to sleek sailboats—rocked gently against the tire bumpers padding each slot at the dock. A park with greenery, fountains, and a gazebo popular for weddings stretches in front of the marina and runs for a couple of blo
cks on either side of it. In the summer, food vendors park their vans along the sidewalk so tourists can enjoy a hot dog or ice cream as they stroll along the water. The scents of briny water and baking mud told me it was low tide.
I found a place to park at the back of a dirt lot across the street from the marina. We arrived at the waterfront to find unusual crowds and an air of anticipation. Throngs of people—tourists with sunburned shoulders and cameras looped around their necks, and locals with folding chairs and dogs on leashes—jammed the street, sidewalk, and decks of restaurants overlooking the water. Clearly, the swimsuit contest was more popular with the general public than the talent contest. Either that, or word had gotten around about the protestors’ invasion and Audrey’s death and the crowds had turned out hoping for another disaster.
As if my thoughts had conjured them up, I saw the protestors setting up their chairs, coolers, and signs within easy viewing distance of the gazebo where the swimsuit contest judging would take place. Althea was helping Dr. Yarrow unload placards from a tan van. I waved but she didn’t see me. The sunburned girl who had accosted me yesterday—Daphne—and her gangly, goateed cohort Seth were tag-teaming Tabitha when Stella and I walked by.
“Don’t you see what you’re doing to yourself?” Seth asked earnestly. His goatee waggled as he talked. “You’re sacrificing your self-esteem to conform to an arbitrary standard of beauty that is meaningless.”
Tabitha raised a supercilious eyebrow. “Meaningless? When I win the Miss American Blossom contest, I’ll be making six figures in appearance money. That might not mean much to you, but it does to me. And my self-esteem is just fine, thank you.” Wearing tight white jeans and a nautically themed tee shirt, she had a pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses pushed back on her head. Her green eyes glittered angrily as she tried to pass the twosome.
Daphne blocked the path with her body. “But you’re too thin,” Daphne said. “You probably have an eating disorder. This isn’t worth it!”