Murder in the Mix Box Set

by Addison Moore

  Carlotta leans toward my mother. “He’ll kill you.”

  “Oh, he will not.” My mother wrinkles her nose at the idea. But deep down, she has to think it might be a little bit true. That man practically has the words homicidal psychopath carved into his forehead.

  “Although it does beg the question”—I start—“when do you actually dump him?”

  My mother twists her lips as she considers this. “It should be done in a public setting, of course. That kind boarder of mine invited the two of us to her divorce party re-do down at the art center. It’s going to be a masquerade ball.” Her shoulders do the shimmy. My mother’s shoulders seem to do the shimmy quite often. “So, of course, we said yes. And Carlotta is invited, too, because Landon said I could bring whomever I wished.”

  “Good,” I say. “Because you’re bringing me. And Everett and Noah and possibly all of Noah’s harem, and that includes his partner.”

  Meg nods. “Count me in. I like free food and making fun of things that look like a three-year-old painted them with their toes.” She points down to the lone croissant left on her plate. “Can I get this to go, Lot? I’m teaching a yoga class soon, and I can’t be late.”

  “I didn’t know you were teaching yoga now,” I say as I place two into a bag for her. No matter what my sisters ask for, I’ll always double their order. I love them that much.

  Meg shrugs. “It’s just a side gig. It’s all the way out in Fallbrook at their fancy country club.” She makes a face because Meg is pretty much allergic to fancy.

  “Fallbrook?” My investigative antennae go up. “I was about to head that way at some point today. Next up on my suspect list is a girl by the name of Vivian Wood. She’s outrageously gorgeous with a white blonde bob and eyes that look like a clear blue sky. She has that aura of the golden age of Hollywood.”

  Carlotta snorts. “You mean before it became porn star central and basically a dumpster fire? It was the first place I went after I dumped you at the fire department.”

  “Why do I get the feeling I don’t want to know about your dicey Hollywood connections?”

  “Ooh.” Meg’s ice blue eyes enlarge. She’s ringed them in with dark kohl, but it looks less raccoon and more coveted smokey eye. “Hey, if Carlotta shot some dicey movies, people are going to think it’s you, Lottie. You’re practically twins.”

  I cringe at the thought. “Now I really don’t want to know.”

  Carlotta looks pensively to the ceiling. “Vivian Wood. Why does that sound familiar?”

  “She was at the scene of the crime,” I volunteer, but Carlotta shakes her head.

  “Oh, I remember. She was in the society section of the paper. That fiancé of hers and his law firm partner just officially announced a new charity they’re starting up—something about affordable housing projects.”

  “It makes sense. Clayton and Ryan are about to launch their political careers.”

  Mom moans through a bite of the croissant she stole from Meg’s bag, so I plate up some more for her and Carlotta.

  “They call that seeding.” Mom nods. “I bet they picked just the right wives to propel their political careers, too. Chrissy says her proposal was nothing more than a calculated move to land Mayor Nash at the helm of the Honey Hollow’s political scene.”

  “I know that chick you’re talking about—Viv.” Meg nods my way before talk of Mayor Nash begins to derail the conversation once again. “She’s in my yoga class.”

  I suck in a quick breath. “What time did you say class began?”

  * * *

  It’s at ten. Which almost gave me zero time to rally up Keelie and get us down to Fallbrook. Poor Noah went through all the trouble of getting my car home last night, and here I am again, right back in Fallbrook with it.

  Keelie and I saunter into Meg’s fancy yoga class with the lavender mats she lent us that smell of burnt rubber and feet. They also happen to be shedding long rubber strands, but we’ve chosen to ignore the hairy predicament for now. She says they use the mats down at Red Satin when she’s teaching the girls their sexy moves.

  Keelie bumps her shoulder to mine as we inspect the rest of the girls in the class, most of which are already stretching like well-seasoned acrobats.

  “I hope we don’t catch a disease because of these molting mats.”

  I can’t stop myself from rolling my eyes. “You think this is a hygiene issue? You would have really hated prison. I hear they make you tie sanitary napkins to your feet when you take a shower so your toes don’t fall off. See what you almost got us into?”

  She huffs at the thought. “You mean what I clearly got us out of. Once I explained to Daddy this was all a big mistake, he had them drop all pending charges. You’re welcome, by the way.”

  My lips part as I try my best to make sense of her words. “How exactly was the fact that you pulled the fire alarm an accident?”

  “I slipped and fell. I was trying to tiptoe along the wall and my foot caught on the carpeting. Nobody carpets anything anymore, Lottie, and you know it. The blame falls on that crappy interior designer’s shoulders. Anyway, I told Daddy I had to grip the first thing I saw to keep from tumbling to the floor, and, of course, he was relieved I didn’t break an ankle. He says the firm has excellent insurance, and we won’t incur any charges regarding the damages.”

  My mouth is still wide open. “Wow. I guess it’s great to have a daddy in high places.”

  She ticks her head to the side as if she were sorry for me. “Have you ever asked Carlotta who your—um, birth daddy might be?”

  I offer Keelie a hug for not dismissing Joseph Lemon as some con artist who stepped in to take his place. Joseph Lemon was in fact my real daddy. “No, Keels, I’m not really interested in who he is.”

  A svelte blonde walks into the room, and both Keelie and I gasp. Her silvery locks are pulled back into a bun, and she’s chosen to eschew the makeup and let her day-glow peepers steal the show. Viv really is stunning.

  “That’s our girl,” I whisper. “Let’s set up shop wherever she lands.”

  We trot off to the left side of the room where she lays her mat just a few rows back from where my sister will be barking out orders at us.

  Viv lies on her mat, and both Keelie and I follow suit as she does a double take in my direction.

  “Oh, hey! I remember you.” She winces. “I heard they shut down your bakery because you poisoned Nessa.”

  “What?” I honk so loud Meg gives me a dirty look as she stands at the front of the room. “No such thing happened,” I hiss. “They’re still looking for the killer.” I shrug, trying desperately to look indifferent about it. “I had a friend like Nessa once.” I scoff as if this wasn’t a good thing. “She almost killed us with all those crazy antics of hers.” Okay, so I didn’t quite think through how I was going to segue into this conversation, but then I didn’t think Viv would throw the bakery under the homicidal bus either.

  Meg starts in on what appears to be innocent slow stretches, and both Keelie and I fearlessly partake in the muscular mayhem.

  “You’re right.” Vivian lunges forward and grasps her toes in an effort to mimic Meg’s new move, and my hands only get about as far as my knees. I’ll have to work on this. Everett really does require an elastic element to his lady friends. A silly smile swims over my face as I think back upon last night. I can’t believe I mustered up the nerve to tell him I love him.

  Keelie knocks her foot to mine. “What exactly is she right about? I’m sorry, I’ve known this girl for years, and she’s rarely right about anything.” She gives my foot another tap in attempt to let me know she’s teasing.

  Viv gets up on her knees per my sister’s orders, and we do the same.

  “The friend thing.” Viv blows a slow breath from her mouth. “Nessa was toxic. She polluted the entire inner circle with her antics. She wasn’t really going to kill anyone, but I suppose everyone had their own self-worth to lose.” She shrugs. “But you and I both know those kinds o
f people write their own rules, and if you don’t like them, they gladly show you the door.”

  I glance to Keelie. Vivian just offered up rather vague information. But I’m not entirely sure I’ll get too much more out of her.

  Meg turns around and folds her arms unnaturally behind her back. “Reverse prayer position!” She commands, and women all around us begin plucking their joints from their sockets in an effort to fold their extremities like an origami project.

  “Oh my God.” Keelie gasps as she does her best to slap her shoulder blades. “I think this actually might explain why every traffic accident I’ve been in has involved reverse in some capacity. I have no concept of the idea.”

  Viv hops up, lithe as a gazelle. “Like this.” She carefully takes Keelie’s arms, and before we know it, Keels is shooting up a backward prayer with the best of them.

  She comes my way.

  “I’m good,” I say, clasping my hands together in front of my chest. “I like hitting up the Big Guy the traditional way.”

  “Ah.” Viv bounces back to her mat by my side. “So, you’re a traditional girl. I say good for you. That judge you’re seeing? Before Nessa bit the big one that day at the party, she already singled him out.”

  “Singled him out for what?” A twinge of jealousy burns through my insides at the thought of Nessa singling out Everett. Which is totally silly, by the way, for a number of reasons. One, Everett is hot, therefore, free game to be singled out forever. And two, Nessa is dead. If Everett were the last man she laid eyes on, I’d say it was quite a send-off.

  “You know.” She twitches her upper lip my way as if whatever it was disgusted her. “Sunday brunch.”

  “Sunday brunch?” I look to Keelie in hopes she can decode whatever preppy slang Viv just flung my way, but she, too, comes up empty.

  We assume the next limb numbing position my sister wrangles us into.

  Why do I get the feeling Meg has a strong disdain for the fine people at the Snobsdale Country Club? One more torque of my shoulder and it’s going to wind itself right off my body.

  I glance back to Viv. “Oh, that Sunday brunch.” I roll my eyes as if it were obvious, but, dear God, I’m clueless.

  Viv shudders. “Disgusting, right? I mean, when I first met the group, Clayton already had Sunday brunch with Nessa so, thank God, I didn’t have to go through with that. But poor Blythe. As Landon likes to point out, she was really Blythe-sided.” She makes a face at Landon’s immature analogy. “She’s from a prim and proper family. And, of course, before it happened, Clay and Ryan were still undergraduates. They had no clue they’d eventually venture into political careers. But Nessa was real good about keeping quiet regarding it anyway. And my God, if she wasn’t, Clay would have killed her himself to keep her mouth shut.” She pants as she stretches her arm behind her back as if she were a human windmill. “Kidding, sort of.” She grunts into the next body warping position. “Nessa’s father is a very powerful man. He owns a majority of shares in just about every Fortune 500, oil fields, a diamond mine in Canada—you name it. You’ve heard of the Wolf of Wall Street? He’s the piranha. Anyway, as fate and misfortune would have it, all of our fathers are somehow tied to Nessa’s. It would be impossible not to be. She could land any one of them in the unemployment line. And she liked to wield that power.”

  “That’s terrible. Has anyone ever said no to Sunday brunch?”

  “Two people. Grace Navarro would rather gouge her own eyes out than pimp out her boyfriend Roger. Both Grace and Roger’s fathers were canned the next week mysteriously. We’re not talking from janitorial positions either. Grace’s dad was the CEO of a major corporation. Even Grace thought he was untouchable. And Roger’s dad not only lost his senior standing at a prominent law firm, but he was forced to sell off commercial property he owned in Arkansas. Who knows what lies Nessa told her father. And then there was Joselyn Montclair. Joselyn took her boyfriend and hightailed it out of Nessa’s cult in style.” She leans in with her lips pressed with a feverish grin as if she were about to let the juiciest morsel fly. “She set a torch to Nessa’s walk-in closet.”

  My lids fly back like roller shades. “I’m almost afraid to find out what happened to her.”

  “In one week, her father lost his license to practice medicine, her mother was disbarred, her brother was arrested for grand larceny, her big sister mysteriously had her invitation to attend Aimsley revoked, and she, herself, ended up on a locked psychiatric ward for six months. When she was released, the entire family moved to Europe. They didn’t even feel safe on the same continent as Nessa and her all too real threats.”

  “That paints Nessa out to be the worst kind of monster. She’s basically the Don of the preppy mob.”

  “Basically. So you can see where Blythe’s pretty little hands were tied. And she didn’t like it one bit.”

  My mind whirls and twirls in every direction at once as Meg has us stand feet apart and touch one hand to the ground, the other to the ceiling.

  I grunt to Vivian without meaning to. “So what exactly was Blythe’s role in the Sunday brunch?” I bet that will clear things right up.

  “More like non-role. Landon and I had to Blythe sit. We took her to Echelon the night before to get her good and snockered, but Blythe doesn’t drink so there was no way to chemically numb the pain for her. She was livid. We took her to my place because it was furthest from the nest.” She waves it off. “Nessa liked to rent a bungalow outside of the Bismarck.”

  The Bismarck Hotel is Vermont’s version of Chateau Marmont. About a million years ago, Hollywood’s elite would escape the big city lights and hang out among the maples while catching a little respite. So, they built a fancy hotel right here in Fallbrook.

  What would she do with these men in a hotel?

  “Oh my God,” I belt it out just as Meg announces that class is over. Nessa was far beyond power-hungry—she was boyfriend hungry, too. She wasn’t taking them to Sunday brunch—they were Sunday brunch! I’ve never said this before, but Nessa really had it coming.

  Viv jumps to an upright position and rolls up her mat like a seasoned pro. “I guess I’ll see you both at the masquerade ball.”

  “For sure,” I say as a panic brews in me at the thought of losing Vivian so soon. “Can I ask if Blythe and Nessa ever got along?”

  Her thin lips curl at the tips. “Let’s just say that Blythe was the only one in our circle who was an exception to the rule.”

  “Exception to what rule?”

  “She didn’t have to pretend to like Nessa. Ryan would have ditched our circle, but Clay wouldn’t have it. Blythe hated her with a passion.” Her expression grows sour. “And now Nessa is dead.” She gives a fluttery-fingered wave. “Ta-ta for now!”

  Vivian takes off, and Meg comes over wiping her face down with a hand towel.

  “How’d it go? Is Viv your killer?”

  I glance to Keelie as she struggles with our shedding mats.

  “I don’t know, but I think I have to talk to Blythe.”

  “Blythe? Sounds like the name of a mental institution where they ship you off and throw away the key,” my sister quips back.

  “It does not. Blythe is totally sane, by the way. She’s the only one who hated Sunday brunch. I have a feeling she’ll be my favorite inmate of the Nessa St. James asylum.”

  My phone chirps, and I pull it out.

  “It’s a text from Everett.”

  Both Meg and Keelie hover over the screen.

  I think it’s time we talk.

  Keelie inches back as if my phone morphed into a viper. “That sounds ominous.”

  Meg is quick to blow it off. “Knowing that hot freak, it’s code for something sexual.”

  But I agree with Keelie, and my stomach bottoms out at what this might mean.

  Chapter 51

  Jenson Becker stopped by the bakery while I was away on my mind and body-bending excursion and dropped off a paper bag full of Nessa’s sketches. Once I closed the shop t
hat evening, I took my loot and headed straight home.

  I texted Everett as soon as I received that ominous message this afternoon, and he said he would meet me back at the proverbial ranch. The sun has just set, and there’s still an ethereal glow over all of Country Cottage Lane. The spring air is warm, pulling the perfume right out of the night-blooming jasmine that lines the houses along the street, and the sweet, heady scent intoxicates me.

  The first thing I noticed when I pulled up to my country chic home with its wraparound porch was the peachy glow emanating from inside and the fact the lights seemed to be flickering. I head up the walkway and note a familiar looking specter reclining in the rocker just outside my door.

  “It’s about time you got here.” Max slaps his knee and jumps to his ghostly feet.

  I’m about to say something when a female voice garbles out something from inside the house, and just as my curiosity hits its zenith, Greer Giles steps right through the wall and lands on the porch between Max and me.

  “Oh, Lottie, just wait until you see what’s going on inside!” She’s got her slick dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, and she’s donned the familiar white ruched dress she was shot in, complete with a crimson stain over her chest and I’m assuming over her back as well.

  “What is going on inside?” I let myself in to find the room lit warmly with candles on every free surface, pink rose petals are strewn around the floor, the fireplace is going, and there are at least two dozen long-stem blood red roses sitting on the dining room table in a gorgeous cut crystal vase. But the most staggering visual of all is what I find on the sofa—Everett and Noah seated at opposite ends of it, each with a beer in their hands. They hop to their feet as soon as they spot me.

  Everett is still wearing his suit—most of it. His jacket is off, his sleeves are rolled up, and his tie is hastily loosened and it gives off that deconstructed prom vibe that all women seem to be such suckers for, me included. Noah’s gun is still strapped to his back, no jacket to hide it, and he, too, looks as if he stepped out of the station and into my living room.