Lucky and the Banged-up Ballerina

by Emmy Grace

I think I speak for the entire room when I want to say DUH.

  “I mean, do you know who did this to her? When did it happen? How did it happen?”

  He does a good job of playing dumb.

  That or it’s not an act.

  Maybe he’s all brawn and zilch in the brain department. Tall, beautiful, and boneheaded.

  “We’ve just started looking into this. Who are you and what was your relationship to the victim?”

  I haven’t seen Liam in full law enforcer mode before. It’s impressive. I feel like I’m on the set of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit.

  In my head, I hear that distinctive music play, like punctuation to his question.

  Dun-dun.

  “I…I’m Cruz DiSpirito. I’m S— I was Serena’s boyfriend. We were lovers.”

  He rolls his R when he says “lovers” and puts undue emphasis on the word. It’s so cheesy I have to wonder if he thinks there’s a hidden camera somewhere. If not, and this is how Cruz DiSpirito behaves all the time, I feel even sorrier for Serena.

  “I just flew in and came straight here. And saw…this.”

  His chin trembles.

  “Do you know anyone who would want to hurt her?” I ask.

  Cruz is staring over at Serena’s body as he shrugs and starts to shake his head. It’s Trenton who actually speaks up with our first helpful piece of information.

  “She had a stalker.”

  “A stalker?” Liam and Clive ask at the same time.

  Trenton nods.

  I say nothing. I’m sifting through my memory for the details of the stalker. I remember reading something about it, and seeing more of Serena in the tabloids after it started, but the specifics are escaping me.

  All eyes swing toward Cruz. If anyone would know of a stalker, it would be her boyfriend.

  “Yes. She did have a stalker at one time.”

  “At one time?”

  “Yes, she hasn’t received anything from him in a few weeks.”

  “What had she received in the past?”

  “In the beginning there were photos, like he was watching her from different places where she would perform. At first, she was on stage, but then he started sending pictures of her coming out of her apartment early in the morning, and a few of her being dropped off late at night, after being out with me or with friends.”

  “But that changed over time?”

  “Yes. The pictures stopped when the letters started. The letters and the glass figurines.”

  We all look at the floor surrounding Serena. The glass shards everywhere. A hundred bucks says those came from a figurine.

  “What kinds of figurines?”

  “Ballerinas. Always ballerinas.”

  Not very imaginative, but whatever. Stalkers are probably too crazy to think straight. If they could, they wouldn’t be stalking at all.

  “What did she do with the letters and the figurines?” I ask. I’d love to get my hands on one or two of them. Real, actual, hard evidence.

  That’s enough to make an amateur sleuth drool.

  “She gave them to the police. She filed a complaint with the police back in New York once, and they were supposed to investigate, but they never found anything. I think they didn’t believe the threat was real.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Since the figurines were ballerinas, they made it seem like he was just a super fan, not a stalker.”

  “Isn’t that how most stalkers start out?” Again, I think DUH.

  “They were wrong. Clearly.” He nods at Serena. “Look what happened. They could’ve prevented this.”

  “Did she turn all the letters and figurines over to the police?”

  “No, she was insulted that they didn’t take it seriously. After that, when one would come, she’d take pictures of it and then throw it away. She couldn’t stand to have them in the house.”

  “That’s understandable.” No one would want to see a constant reminder of a threat like that. It would be enough to drive a girl crazy. “Did she take the pictures with a camera, or…?”

  “No, her phone.”

  “Hopefully her phone will turn up when the scene is processed.”

  “She always had it with her. Always.”

  “Can you think of anyone else who would want to hurt her?”

  Cruz looks to Trenton. “Serena wasn’t exactly well-liked.”

  “Why not?”

  “The ballet is a cutthroat business. Serena was at the top of her game. She had a lot of enemies.”

  “Anyone in particular stand out?”

  “Not anyone who could do something like this.”

  “Let us be the judge of that.”

  “Look, if you’re finished asking me questions, can I go? I’d like to clean up. I’ve got her…her…” Cruz raises his hands and looks at the fronts and the backs.

  It’s Clive who addresses his question. “Petey here will follow you to the Spring Water Inn. Paul will set you and Mr. Gibb up with a room. You won’t be able to leave town for a few days.”

  “That’s out of the question,” Trenton is the first to say.

  “I can’t stay here. I have previous engagements,” Cruz adds.

  “Sorry, fellas, but this is a murder investigation. Look at it as a little break to enjoy the fresh country air. Good for the soul. Even the dark ones.” Clive gives a dry chuckle. Apparently, he isn’t very impressed with these celebrity types.

  Cel-eb-ri-ties.

  Clive hollers for Petey, who appears in the doorway a few seconds later. His beady eyes dart from face to face until they settle on Clive’s. “What?”

  Such respect. Beebee woulda busted my butt if she’d hollered for me and I’d have shown up and said “what” like that. That’s just another mark against Petey, the Ginger Creep.

  “Take these gentlemen over to the inn, get ’em a room. Take their statements, then collect their clothes in a bag. Bring ’em back to the station when you’re done.”

  “K.”

  “Our clothes? That’s ridiculous,” Trenton complains. “You can see that there’s no blood on me.” He looks pointedly at Cruz.

  “You know that I just got this blood on me. Just now. You were here.” The actor doesn’t look angry or defensive, just exasperated.

  It’s Clive who answers. “If you’re both innocent, then you have nothing to fear. This is just procedure. A way we can rule you out right off the bat. The sooner we do that, the sooner you’ll be able to leave.”

  “Fine. Take my whole suitcase,” is Trenton’s suddenly agreeable reply.

  Petey looks from Trenton to Cruz and back again. “Come on. This way.”

  We’re all silent until the interlopers are gone. When it’s just Liam and me with Clive and the mayor, things get serious.

  “Tread very carefully, Ms. Boucher. This could blow up in our faces if we’re not careful.”

  Just like a politician to worry about appearances rather than bringing a killer to justice.

  “Sir, my bite is so gentle, they won’t even know I have fangs until they’re out of Salty Springs and on their way back to where they came from.”

  I don’t add what I’m thinking—that if the mayor isn’t careful, he’ll get to experience that firsthand.

  “See that it is.” He turns to Liam. “Keep her in check.”

  He spins on his heel and disappears from the room before I can take exception to that degrading comment.

  “He’s such a charmer,” I say dryly.

  “They don’t call him Slick Willie for nothin’.” Clive chortles.

  Liam just gives a low growl.

  “Got ourselves a killer ’round here, young’uns. What’s say we get the son of a gun and nail ’im?”

  I smile. I couldn’t agree more.

  6

  When everyone has cleared out and the theater is quiet on the other side of Serena Flowers’ dressing room door, we get to work.

  “Let me get my kit. I’ll be right back,” Cl
ive says.

  I nod, watching him exit the room. I figure he’ll be gone at least twenty minutes just getting out to the curb and back. The man walks slow. Of course, he is coming up on his ninth decade of life. I guess my gait might be a bit turtle-like by that point, too. It’s probably a miracle he hasn’t turned to dust and blown away by now.

  “I guess it’s okay if we take some pictures?” I ask Liam, who’s squatting at the edge of the dark, sticky pool at the foot of the chair.

  “Knock yourself out,” he replies distractedly.

  I take out my phone and start snapping photos from all angles. My phone isn’t exactly the quality of a real crime scene camera, but it’ll do in a pinch. It might at least jog a memory or prove…something if we need it to.

  I bend to take some shots of the glass scattered around. That’s when Clive returns with his kit, and by kit he meant an old doctor’s bag looking thing. I half expect him to pull out the first instruments ever made to help in the detection of crime. When he opens it, I think a puff of dust and mold come out.

  At least he has some gloves in it, which he’s kind of enough to spread around to Liam and me. He has some evidence bags and a few other handy, twentieth century inventions, too.

  “Got any tweezers in there, Clive?”

  He roots around in the bag and hands me some long, long, long handled grasping thing. Like tweezers and scissors had a shiny baby boy. I think they could be forceps that are used in surgery. I don’t even want to know why he’d have them or what else he might have in that bag. If he has a bone saw, I’ll have nightmares forever. My imagination is far too fertile for information like that.

  He hands me an evidence bag, too, which I take before returning to the spray of glass. I snip up a shard or two, turning them this way and that before dumping them into the bag. “These pieces look sort of iridescent. Maybe that will help us figure out where it came from.”

  “Sure. That ought to narrow it down to half or even a third of the glass manufacturers in the world.” Liam’s voice is rife with sarcasm.

  “You’re extra grouchy today. Someone tinkle in your cereal?”

  He’s moved up to the head of the corpse now, and turns around to glare down at me. “Tinkle?”

  I shrug. “I didn’t want to say ‘pee’ in front of Clive.”

  “You just did.”

  “You made me do it. I blame you.” I turn to look at Clive who is just standing by the door, holding his gloved hands aloft, watching us work. “It was his fault, Clive.”

  Clive’s eyes crinkle up with his grin, but he says nothing.

  I see a larger piece of glass that made its way up under Serena’s foot, so I grab it with my snippers, too. When I hold it up to the light, I can read the small sticker stuck to the shard.

  “Oh my gosh!” I exclaim, rising to a stand.

  “What is it?” Liam turns toward me, and Clive actually takes a couple steps farther into the room. He probably still can’t see what I’m talking about, though. I’m only a few feet away, but he might still need binoculars.

  “The sticker says this was made in Salty Springs.”

  Liam’s brows draw down into an even deeper frown. I’m not sure I’d really know what to think of him if he weren’t frowning.

  I’m holding the fragment between us as he comes over to take a closer look. I’m staring at him, lost in thought that has nothing to do with the glass or the murder scene.

  “What?” he asks grumpily, like he can feel my eyes on him.

  “I was just wondering if you were frowning in all your baby pictures.”

  “Why are you so obsessed with my mood?”

  “Because I’ve never met someone who is so utterly discontent.”

  “I’m not discontent. I’m—”

  “You’re…?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Oh, no. You’re not getting off that easily. What were you going to say?”

  Liam’s chest rises and falls with his deep sigh. I figure he’s going to tell me to mind my own business, but he surprises me. “Keeping you out of danger is becoming a full-time job.”

  That makes me frown. “I never asked you to keep me out of danger. My name is Lucky, for Pete’s sake. I should probably be worrying about you.”

  “I can’t just turn a blind eye to what you’re doing.”

  “Then don’t get involved in what I’m doing. Then you’ll just be blind in both eyes.”

  That made more sense in my head.

  “I can’t do that.”

  “And why on earth not?”

  “I can’t just abandon you.” After a short pause, he adds softly, “I won’t.”

  My heart melts. Whatever he’s been through, it’s left him wounded, but not heartless. “You don’t have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, Liam. It’s not yours to carry.”

  Liam says nothing, just stares into my eyes. Several seconds later, Clive clears his throat. “I’m sure you two lovebirds have a lot to say, but mightn’t it wait ’til another time? I’d like to get back home sometime before dawn.”

  My defense of the lovebird comment dies on my lips when I glance back at Chief Sheriff. Now that he mentions it, I can see that he looks really tired.

  I smile sheepishly. “Sorry, Clive. We’ll hurry.”

  When I bring my eyes back to Liam, he’s just watching me. Quietly. Thoughtfully. I’d ask him what he’s thinking, but now’s not the time.

  “Later, you can tell me who makes glass in Salty Springs.”

  “That’s easy. There’s only one person that I know of.”

  “Good. Then we’ll go check it out.”

  “Tonight?” Clive’s tone is one of outrage. You’d think I just suggested a ritual sacrifice.

  I almost laugh. “Heck no, Clive. I need my beauty sleep. Maybe we can get out there tomorrow.”

  “Sunday. Won’t be open,” Liam says with a shake of his head.

  “Oh, right. I forgot what day it was. Maybe Monday.”

  I was born and raised in the South. Sunday means church, even if you own a business. And there are very few exceptions. Death might be one, but it would have to be the death of someone close. A famous ballerina definitely doesn’t count. And Beebee would skin me alive if I tried to say otherwise.

  When I was younger, I tried dozens of excuses to lay out of church, but Beebee foiled every one. I feigned an upset stomach, she’d tell me nothing but crackers and water all day. I complained of a migraine, she’d tell me I’d be confined to the cool, darkness of my room all day. I’d heat the thermometer with the lamp on my nightstand, she’d threaten me with alcohol baths to bring down my fever.

  There wasn’t a single lie that Beebee couldn’t see straight through. And outmaneuver. She knew exactly which counterbutton to push. And she pushed them ruthlessly. There are few things Beebee believes in more than hot sauce and keeping family first, but one of them is church on Sunday. Jesus has always had the top spot in her heart and she raised me to give Him the same place.

  Even when there’s been a murder. Evidence can wait, she’d say. It ain’t goin’ nowhere.

  I just hope she’s right.

  “We can go to the hotel tomorrow. Talk to those two.”

  I don’t have to ask who “those two” are. The derision is clear in his voice. He has zero respect for Cruz DiSpirito and Trenton Gibb. I’m not sure he’s wrong.

  “Sounds good.” I glance around at the gruesome scene. “You know, we still haven’t found her phone, have we?”

  Liam shakes his head.

  Clive does, too, but I think he’s just mimicking Liam.

  “Serena Flowers was very active on social media. Not to mention her social life, which was always plastered in tabloids and society pages. I can’t believe she’d be very far from her phone.”

  “Maybe Clive can use his pull and get the phone company to ping it.”

  We both glance toward Clive. He just smiles and nods.

  Yeah, it’s a good th
ing we’re here.

  Considering that Liam and I didn’t get in until well after one the night before, and that I spent two hours on the computer researching Serena’s stalker after I got back home, I’m dragging by the time I haul myself out of bed to shower before church. I consider sleeping in, but after a night like last night, I think my soul could use a good cleansing. Murder is fascinating, no question, but it does leave a dark footprint sometimes. Going to church each week is like getting a mini-exorcism. Without the split-pea-soup puke and levitation, Exorcist style.

  I counter my sluggishness with exactly six cups of coffee, so by the time Regina shows up at my door, I’m darting around like a caged chinchilla.

  She stands in the doorway, purse swinging from both hands, which are clasped in front of her. A smug smile spreads across her face. “Late night?”

  “Don’t look so pleased. I spent it with a dead body.”

  She nods. “A dead body, yep. And hot farmer, former FBI agent, and general Tasty Cakes.”

  “Not exactly as romantic as you’re making it sound.”

  Her eyes widen. “Does that mean that you want it to be romantic?”

  “A crime scene? Of course not.”

  “No, dummy. The thing with Liam.”

  “There is no ‘thing’ with Liam. How many times do I have to tell you that?” I spin in a circle, checking every surface. “Help me look for my purse. I think I left it on the floor last night.”

  “You don’t think the pig ate it, do you?”

  “Lord, no. He’s not a goat. He just likes to rustle around in it.” I get down on my hands and knees to look under the bed. I spot it a couple of feet from the edge. “Found it!”

  “That pig is a menace,” she says with a roll of her eyes.

  “What is it with you people and my animals? Beebee hated my cat, now you with my pig. I don’t get it.”

  “You live in a tiny circus. Believe me, we don’t get it either.”

  “Animal hater,” I mutter.

  “Ring leader,” she retorts.

  As if he knows he’s being talked about, Gumbo trots over to me and nudges my leg with his damp snout. I bend down to scratch around his floppy pink ears. “They just don’t know you like I do, buddy.”

  He leans his head into my hand and presses. If he were a dog, he’d be kicking his leg right about now I’d say.