Murder in D Minor Boxed Set

by Virginia Smith

  Jumping on her hesitation, Derrick plowed forward. “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it was someone else, even Irene Baldwin. But one thing’s certain. The killer has access to this hotel. And he thinks you ladies—” he let his gaze sweep all three of them “—have something that can identify him. Or her. Don’t turn down an offer for a little added protection.”

  Derrick watched as Jazzy exchanged a glance first with Liz and then Caitlin. The expression she turned his way held resignation. His taut muscles loosened when she gave a single nod.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Liz mumbled as she stomped down the hallway between Jazzy and Caitlin. “First you guys drag me down here to do a wedding gig in Deliverance country, and then I end up spending my Friday afternoon watching a bunch of miniature Miss Americas prance around in swimsuits and high heels.”

  Jazzy didn’t bother to hide her amusement at her friend’s trademark grumpiness. “I highly doubt they’ll have a swimsuit competition in the Little Princess pageant.”

  Actually, Jazzy didn’t blame Liz for her foul temper this afternoon. She had mentally kicked herself a dozen times in the past hour for insisting that they follow through with their commitment to judge these contests. Her second big mistake in as many days. If she hadn’t, they could hang around the suite until the wedding, play the music they’d agreed to play and then go home. Forget the idea of the murderer following them. He—or she—seemed content to center his activity around this hotel. Now that Sheriff Maguire had Caitlin’s camera and Jazzy’s cell phone, Jazzy was becoming more and more certain that when Waynesboro receded in their rearview mirror, they’d leave the killer and the danger behind. The thought made her long for the solitude and safety of her apartment.

  Derrick’s crazy idea refused to quit bugging her. Bradley did have access to every single element needed to pull off the crime. And Jazzy had to admit that he didn’t seem to like anyone associated with the festival very much. The specter of the shadowy figure in the picture haunted her, too. Was it a person or a potted plant? It might be a person. But surely Bradley wouldn’t care about being caught on camera. Nobody would question his presence in the lobby of his own hotel.

  Her heel caught the hem of her silken black slacks, and she hitched up the flared legs. They’d all dressed in their formal wear for the wedding, since the pageant would end just moments before they needed to leave. A barrage of voices and laughter grew louder as they neared the end of the hallway. Matt, the deputy assigned to accompany them, scooted a little closer when they turned the corner into the lobby.

  “Wow.” Caitlin’s eyes rounded as she took in the horde of people crowding the spacious lobby. “Where did they all come from?”

  A long line wound its way from the front desk around the bank of elevators. Another cluster of people hovered at the entrance to the gift shop. Every chair had been claimed as people loitered about, chatting. Were they waiting for the start of the Little Princess pageant? Jazzy gulped. Or maybe they were out-of-towners, just arrived for a weekend of barbecue and burgoo.

  Jazzy remembered what Derrick had told her earlier. “I guess the Bar-B-Q Festival draws a pretty big crowd.”

  “Thousands.” Matt’s voice came from comfortingly close behind Jazzy’s ear. “And since the Executive Inn is right here at the end of the festival route, everybody wants to stay here. But this is nothing. Just wait till you see Main Street tonight.” His uniformed arm extended between Jazzy and Liz as he pointed toward the far end of the lobby. “Let’s make our way around the edge past the lounge. I don’t want to lose you in the crowd.”

  They marched in the direction he indicated. The noise from dozens of conversations assailed Jazzy’s ears. Was one of the people in this lobby a murderer? Paranoia pressed in on her like a tightly coiled rope. The flesh on her bare arms crept. She had that feeling again—was she being watched? She scanned the faces of the people they passed.

  Suddenly her gaze snagged on a pair of eyes staring directly at her.

  Shock interrupted her heartbeat as she caught the menacing glare of Irene Baldwin. Jazzy grabbed Liz’s arm in both of hers and hissed, “There she is! Irene. She’s staring at me.”

  “Where?” Liz placed a comforting hand over Jazzy’s. When she caught sight of the woman Jazzy pointed out with a nod, she sucked in a breath. “She’s one scary-looking woman.”

  “You two quit it,” Caitlin scolded. “She’s not scary at all.” She paused, staring. “Though she does look strong, doesn’t she?”

  “Exactly. Look at the size of her hands.” Jazzy’s words came out in a hiss, and Liz’s fingers rose with an absent gesture to hover around her throat.

  Matt placed a warm hand on Jazzy’s shoulder and another on Caitlin’s to steer them toward the wall. “Just keep on going. There’s nothing to be worried about. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  Jazzy walked in the direction he indicated, but Irene seemed intent on speaking with her. The woman cut diagonally across the lobby to intercept them, each long stride loaded with purpose.

  As she neared, Jazzy remembered the cell phone. When Irene discovered that Jazzy no longer had possession of the cell phone with the incriminating picture, the threat would be removed. She would be safe. She straightened her shoulders and stopped to wait for the woman to cover the last few feet between them.

  “What are you doing?” Liz grabbed her arm and tugged, but Jazzy shook her off and held her ground.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Baldwin.” Jazzy was proud of her steady voice. At least the loose legs of her slacks hid the trembling in her knees.

  “Afternoon.” Irene nodded toward Liz and Caitlin. Her gaze halted for a moment on Matt before returning to Jazzy. “I heard you’uns had some trouble last night.”

  Jazzy hesitated. Why would Irene admit knowing about the attack? She glanced at the deputy before nodding.

  “It’s like I said.” Irene’s head shook side to side. “People in this town don’t like outsiders coming in and messing up their plans.”

  Matt stepped forward, and Jazzy fought against the urge to edge behind his strong form. “Ma’am, if you know something about the attack that occurred here last night, you need to tell me about it. Whatever information you have might be important to an ongoing murder investigation.”

  Irene reared back, shock apparent on her face. “Murder?” She spat the word as though she couldn’t stand the taste of it in her mouth. “I don’t know nothing about that. But I told this gal this morning how much stock some people put in these here pageants. Pride is a terrible sin, makes people do terrible things.”

  “Well, just so you know, the police took my cell phone.” Jazzy lobbed the news with all the finesse of a brick through a windshield. “They think there might be a picture stored in memory that will help them identify the person who killed Mr. Kirkland.”

  Her hopes for an incriminating reaction were disappointed. Irene’s face remained stonelike. “Be that as it may, you just make sure you give a honest judging today.”

  The accusation stung. Was the woman actually accusing her of dishonest practices? Jazzy drew herself upright. “I am always honest.”

  They stared at one another, Jazzy unwilling to tear her gaze away until Irene did first. The woman’s eyes slitted, and she gave a nod. “Long as we understand each other.”

  She started to turn away when Jazzy stopped her. Now would be a good time to verify their theory about the timing of the key cards. “Did you happen to come here, to this hotel, last Friday? At night, maybe?”

  Irene’s eyes jerked as her gaze darted sideways toward Matt and back again. “Ain’t nothing wrong with that. It’s allowed.”

  The noisy gasp Jazzy drew was echoed by Liz. Beside her, Matt’s spine stiffened. “Mrs. Baldwin, if you were in this hotel last Friday night, that makes you a person of interest in this investigation. I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you some questions.”

  Fear flashed in her eyes. “I didn’t do nothing wrong. My gi
rl, she gets nervous is all. She wanted to see the place. Get a feel for it.” The gaze she turned back on Jazzy held a hint of pleading. “You understand how it is.”

  Jazzy understood, all too well. She felt Caitlin’s and Liz’s eyes on her. They’d both accompanied her on advance trips to scout out a venue and get her bearings before the actual performance. It took the edge off of her stage fright if she was at least familiar with the place.

  Probably reacting to the fear in the woman’s voice, Matt softened visibly. “You’re not being accused of anything, Mrs. Baldwin. But you may have seen something Friday night that will help us with our investigation. Sheriff Maguire is going to want to talk to you.”

  Irene’s throat convulsed as she stared at the deputy. Jazzy felt her certainty crumble like a clump of dry dirt. If this woman was guilty of murder, wouldn’t she have denied being here last week?

  “Can it wait till tonight?” Irene’s voice took on a tone of pleading. “The pageant’s fixing to start, and my Heidi …” She paused, her gaze dropping to her feet. “She can’t do her best without her mama there to cheer her on.”

  Jazzy knew how that was, too. A vivid memory flashed into her mind. Her mother seated on the second row of folding chairs in the school gymnasium, nodding encouragement to a terrified Jazzy, who did her best to make it to the end of “When You Wish Upon a Star” without throwing up. Even though Mom had forced her to enroll in the stupid talent show to begin with, her proud smile had given Jazzy the encouragement she needed to plow through to the end.

  Matt glanced at his wristwatch. “Will you be around later, ma’am? Sheriff Maguire has a wedding to go to.”

  Irene nodded and gave him her room number to pass on to the sheriff. Her manner as she left was that of a woman who had been granted a reprieve.

  “I don’t think it was her,” Caitlin announced as they continued on their way.

  Liz shook her head. “I don’t know. Her being here the night the first missing security disk was recorded is a pretty big coincidence.”

  Jazzy remained silent as she followed her friends to the International Ballroom to receive her briefing as a pageant judge. So many conflicting emotions sparred in her mind she didn’t know what she thought anymore. About Irene or Bradley.

  EIGHTEEN

  “And another reason I want to be a doctor is because I think it would be good to go to places where the people are poor, like France. I’d like to go to France.” The beribboned girl on the stage dimpled first at the three judges and then at the audience. Her smile wilted, and she stammered, “Uh, I mean like Africa. Or, or, uh, Kansas City.”

  Fighting hard to school her smile, Jazzy glanced into the audience in time to see a stern-faced woman in the second row give a slight nod of approval. The girl’s dimples returned, and she executed a Shirley Temple curtsy before parading back down the runway to the rear of the stage.

  Jazzy paused in her writing to clap a few times, then scribbled a final number on the bottom of the score sheet. Beside her, judge number two, whose name she had forgotten within seconds of hearing it, wrote a laborious paragraph at the bottom of her contestant feedback form. When the woman had been introduced to the audience, Kate—the pageant organizer and emcee—identified her as the owner of the local tanning salon. Jazzy would have guessed her occupation without being told by the deep bronze color of the woman’s leathery skin. Jazzy considered putting on the sweater that hung over the back of her chair, just to hide the white of her arms, which surely looked sickly in comparison.

  Beyond Tan Woman, the third judge sat with her folded hands resting on her rather large stomach, staring toward the gap in the curtain through which the next contestant would waltz when her name was called. Judge number three’s claim to fame was a close family tie to Kate. She shared many qualities with her sister, including build and, unfortunately, fashion sense. The 2XL Hawaiian-print shirt put Jazzy in mind of vast floral fields pictured in tulip catalogues from Holland.

  Jazzy’s entire body tensed as her gaze slid toward the audience. If she’d known that she would be sitting at a table situated parallel to the runway in full sight of every person in the packed ballroom, she would certainly have refused this assignment. She’d figured the judges would be seated in the front row facing the contestants, not sharing the stage with them. The weight of hundreds of pairs of eyes was heavy on her. She’d been caught in many hopeful glances by a pageant mother, and more than a few meaningful glares. Thank goodness for Liz and Caitlin seated beside Matt in the front row, near enough to encourage Jazzy with smiles and nods. Though judging by the way the deputy slouched in his folding chair, he’d rather be anywhere than at a beauty pageant.

  Yeah. Join the club.

  Jazzy’s gaze slid to Irene. Easily noticeable because of her hulking height, she sat four rows back on the end closest to the judges. Several times in the hour since the beginning of the pageant, Jazzy had looked up to find Irene’s glower fixed on her.

  Like now.

  Jazzy turned her attention back to the stage as Kate introduced the next contestant.

  “And next we have Miss Heidi Baldwin.”

  The girl edged between the curtains and turned toward the audience. Her brown hair cascaded over her shoulders in too many unnatural ringlets that spoke of hot rollers and tons of styling gel. The stage lights sparkled on a bright red bow at the back of the poor girl’s skull that looked more like a Fourth of July centerpiece than head-wear. Unfortunately, it matched her dress. For a long moment, Heidi froze. Her overround eyes screamed her terror as she stared toward the hundred or so faces turned her way. Jazzy’s stomach roiled in an agony of sympathy.

  Kate continued reading her introduction, oblivious to the girl’s petrified state, though she stood behind a podium on the opposite end of the stage and could see perfectly well that Heidi was gripped by an iron fist of panic. But just as Jazzy thought the girl would collapse under the strain, she snapped out of her frozen fear and realized the introduction was her cue to walk the runway. She did, in small, mincing steps that bore evidence to the fact that she was unaccustomed to high heels.

  Poor kid. Who would put high heels on a twelve-year-old anyway? Especially those hideous red ones that looked as if they ought to be tromping down the yellow-brick road?

  Jazzy found herself whispering a mental prayer for the poor girl, and when the petrified gaze slid her way, Jazzy smiled broadly. Heidi, obviously terror-blind, didn’t seem to notice.

  Kate’s introduction ended fifteen seconds before Heidi reached the microphone at the front of the stage. Those fifteen seconds were some of the longest of a very long afternoon as Jazzy listened to the sounds of the girl’s shoes shuffling along the platform. The mic stood directly in front of Jazzy’s seat, so she easily saw the stage lights glinting off tears that glistened on the gentle curve of the cheek closest to her. Jazzy shut her eyes in remembered agony.

  The girl took a deep breath. “Hi—I’m—Heidi—Lynn—Baldwin—and—I—want—to—be—an—actress—like—Angelina—Jolie—when—I—grow—up—so—I—can—make—a—lot—of—money—and—help—people—who—need—help—thank—you.”

  After a graceless but relieved turn, the girl practically flew down the long runway and escaped behind the curtain.

  Jazzy hid her disappointment behind a schooled expression. She’d so hoped Heidi would earn a high score, and not just because of her mother’s domineering insistence. But in good conscience, Jazzy couldn’t award that performance more than a few points for having the courage to complete it. She could, at least, write an encouraging note on her feedback form applauding the girl’s bravery. Maybe Heidi would do better in the talent component.

  As she bent over her score sheet, Jazzy felt the curious burning sensation of a pair of eyes fixed on her. She couldn’t help herself. She turned her head and locked gazes with Irene Baldwin.

  If she were awarding points for poisonous glares, Irene would get a hundred.

  Derrick hovered in the
kitchen, the only place in Mom’s house that wasn’t overrun with giggling females. A couple of girls from the local beauty school had set up shop in the living room, and Chelsea’s bridesmaids were taking turns having their hair turned into a mass of ringlets. How they could sit still while someone twisted chunks of their hair around a hot poker was beyond him. It stank of burning hairspray in there.

  But that was better than the stench of nail polish that permeated the family room. A woman with sketched-on eyebrows had taken over the place, and was in the process of smearing gunk on Chelsea’s face. When he stepped in there, the makeup woman had the nerve to suggest that a touch of powder would tone down his “ruddy complexion,” whatever that meant. When he saw Chelsea studying his face with a thoughtful expression, he beat a quick retreat. There were limits to what he’d do for his sister on her wedding day.

  Aunt Myrtle had established herself in the dining room, where an array of snacks covered the table. Keeping a prudent distance between himself and that cane was a lifelong habit.

  He leaned against the sink. Mom could use a small television in here. A peal of laughter rang through the house. Not that I could hear it over the ruckus those girls were making.

  Mom stepped into the room carrying an empty bowl. “There you are, Derrick. Could you hand me the rest of the pretzels? They’re in the cabinet behind you.”

  “Sure.” He took down the half-full bag and emptied it into the bowl she held.

  “Thanks, honey.” She started to leave.

  “Anything else you need me to do?”

  She turned a half smile on him. “You’re bored, aren’t you?”

  “Of course not. Why would you say that?”

  Mom arched her brows and looked at him over the top of her glasses. He grinned. Mom always knew when he was lying.

  “Well, there doesn’t seem to be much for me to do here,” he admitted. “Are there any errands Chelsea needs me to run? Any last-minute things to pick up?”