Miranda’s dark hair was cut into a chic bob. Since every hair was always in place, I once wondered if she wore a wig made of some space-age technology that appeared natural but always bounced into shape. But no, she was just the kind of person who is naturally all put together. Her hair, her jewelry, her clothing, her makeup, were all flawless. All the time.
This day, she wore a tailored navy suit with a demure gold and blue sapphire necklace and earrings, which caught every ray of light and brought out the color in her cool blue eyes, so similar to Derek’s. Matching blue pumps looked like they never stepped outside, much less managed Ellen Whitney’s stone driveway. As we approached her, she glanced at her watch, probably thinking we were early for a delivery.
Liv offered her hand. “We’re so sorry about Derek.”
Miranda grasped it. “Thank you, my dear. That’s so nice of you to say.”
Of course, Liv stole my line, and I refused to remark on how good or natural Derek looked. So I just stood there and nodded. So much for being the intrepid investigator. But how did one, in polite company, ask someone’s mother about who might have killed her son? Or about what kinds of secrets he was keeping that could have led to his death? Grandma Mae hadn’t covered that in any of our etiquette lessons.
Or maybe she had. One might ask like any Southern lady did. The indirect way, of course.
“It’s hard to imagine anyone doing something so vicious to someone so young and with so much promise as Derek.” That was a start.
Instead of meeting my statement with a squeeze of the hand and a “thank you for coming,” as she had all expressions of sympathy since we’d arrived, Miranda Rawling swallowed hard and blinked back tears. Her response was barely audible. “I tried to warn him.”
“Excuse me?”
“I did. I tried to talk Derek out of the wedding, warned him not to trust that girl. But he and his father were so taken by that sweet little act of hers.”
“Act?” Repeat what they say as a question. Somehow I mixed my Southern lady methods with Psychology 101. A potent combination. If anyone ever truly rules the whole world, a soft-spoken Southern woman with a degree in psychology would be the most likely candidate. And nobody will even know they’re being ruled. In fact, maybe it’s already happening.
“When you get older you’ll realize people aren’t always what they seem.” She lowered her voice again, drawing us closer. “Looked all wholesome and innocent, that one. Jonathan assured me that she would be a good influence on Derek.” Miranda’s features turned hard and her eyes flashed. “He talked like my boy was some hoodie-wearing, tattoo-covered delinquent and that girl was some kind of angel, rather than the conniving, manipulating gold digger she turned into.”
“Jenny?”
“Who else?” Miranda looked up, but she spoke to the air just to my right. “I know she’s a friend of yours, Audrey.” She turned her gaze back to me and pressed my hand. “But I won’t hold that against you. She fooled so many.”
That was big of her. But then I kicked myself for my snarky thought. If she believed Jenny guilty, it was big of her. “Thank you,” I stammered. “I must admit, though, I’m still not convinced. I mean, I know what it looks like, but all the evidence seems so circumstantial. I don’t understand how. Or why.”
“I do. And it’s far from just circumstantial. When the chief saw what I’d found . . .”
When she trailed off and looked around, I waited. While I didn’t think Miranda would respond to nosy questions from her florist, she struck me as a woman who’d get her points across in her own time.
She remained silent as Worthington picked up some discarded dishware set on a nearby table. When he passed out of earshot, she continued. “I was looking for Derek’s tie—the one his father picked for him had a snag, so I made the funeral director change it. I found her so-called love letters hidden in his closet. In a bag hanging under one of his suit jackets. It’s where he used to hide all those mag . . . well, let’s just say boys will be boys.”
“Why would he hide letters from his fiancée? Are you sure they were from Jenny?”
“Well, they weren’t signed with her name—just some nickname. Bunny. What grown woman in her right mind calls herself Bunny? Maybe she fancied herself some kind of sex kitten. The letters were rather . . . explicit.”
“But how does that tie Jenny in to Derek’s murder?” Liv asked, while I wondered when I last heard someone use the term “sex kitten.”
Miranda wiped an imaginary crumb from her lapel. “I couldn’t bring myself to read all the letters, you understand. But I did skim them. And what started out all lovey-dovey quickly turned demanding. Demanding that he come see her. Demanding that he spend all his time with her. Threatening him if he didn’t . . . Threatening herself.”
“But Jenny planned to break up with him,” I said.
“Oh, Audrey.” Miranda shook her head. “Oldest ploys in the book. Make yourself unavailable, and the men come running. Make yourself pathetic, and they run to protect you.”
I guess Miranda and I learned from different books. Maybe that was my problem. I came off as too available and men stayed away. And maybe not pathetic enough, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to go there.
“If only Derek had come to me, trusted me with the letters earlier. Maybe I could have helped him. Women can see through other women much more clearly, don’t you agree?”
Possibly. But if Jenny was a domineering killer, my feminine intuition needed a tune-up. Still, I reasoned that if I could take a peek at those letters, I could get a better idea where Jenny’s head was at the time. Or maybe understand more about their relationship—or even what else Derek was involved in. “Where are these letters now?”
“Why, with Chief Bixby, of course.”
Of course.
• • •
Before our visit ended, I managed to score a scone. It was as good as Ellen Whitney claimed. Still warm. Dense, but not hard. Slightly crumbly, slightly chewy, with a to-die-for citrus glaze giving it just the right amount of sweetness.
Soon visitors cleared out. The caterers cleaned up the refreshments for the afternoon and began to lay out the refreshments for the evening. Liv, Darnell, and I toted in even more flowers. Liv brought along a pail of assorted blooms so we could fix anything damaged in transport or wilted from sitting in the room for a while. But little of that was needed.
When we’d arranged everything to our satisfaction, which even got a nod from the reticent Worthington, we packed up and headed out. Darnell drove the van back to the store, and Liv and I followed. As we approached the turnoff to Old Hill Road, I flipped my turn signal on.
“Where are we going?” Liv asked. “Listen, kiddo. Don’t tell me you want to moon over that cottage again. And when there’s so much to do.”
“No, you were there when Miranda told us about the letters she found.”
“Yes, and why all the questions?”
“I hardly asked any questions, if you recall.”
Liv crossed her arms in front of her. “You and I both know that you didn’t have to. But I could see you were digging for something. But what has that got to do with Grandma Mae’s cottage?”
“We’re not going to Grandma Mae’s cottage. We’re going to Mrs. June’s house.”
“Mrs. June? Oh, Audrey. Tell me you’re not planning to pump that old woman for information.”
“Better not let her hear you call her an old woman. And I doubt pumping will be necessary. I talked to her this morning, and she’s as concerned about Jenny as I am—and just as convinced that Bixby’s barking up the wrong tree.”
“But should we get involved? Surely the police . . .”
I sent her a withering glance—possibly the worst look you can give a florist.
“Okay, maybe not the police. But there’s got to be someone else. Maybe Jenny’s lawyer could
hire a private investigator or something.”
“Jenny’s lawyer is a public defender who hasn’t even been able to manage bail. Even if they did hire a PI, it would be someone who didn’t know Jenny, didn’t know Derek, and didn’t know Ramble.” And Ramble wouldn’t know him—which would slow down the process even more. Small towns work that way.
“Still . . .” Liv hesitated as I negotiated Mrs. June’s gravel driveway. “What makes you think you can clear Jenny? Or are you trying to play detective and figure out who killed Derek?”
I turned off the engine and looked at her. “Liv, I don’t know that I can. And I assure you that I’m not playing. I only know I need to try.”
Liv and I stared at each other. In another time or place, our staring contest would have melted into childish giggles. But not this time. She reached into the backseat and gathered flowers from the bucket.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Well, we might not have to pump information from Mrs. June, but it never hurts to prime a little.”
I hadn’t the heart to tell Liv that I’d already given Mrs. June flowers earlier. But those were for her office. I doubted she’d complain about flowers for her home.
Seconds later, we were knocking on Mrs. June’s back door.
When she swung it open, Mrs. June looked just like I always remembered her at home. Relaxed, wearing a cozy flowered housecoat and fuzzy pink slippers.
“Why, Audrey, what a pleasure to see you again so soon.” She stepped back so we could enter. “And Liv, it’s great to see you.”
Liv leaned in to kiss Mrs. June on the cheek, then handed her the impromptu bouquet. It looked casual and lovely and set off the colors of Mrs. June’s kitchen, and she oohed and aahed over them for a good minute before she invited us to sit at her kitchen table. Her signature orange chocolate cake beckoned from under a glass cover, and soon we had large slices sitting in front of us while Mrs. June ran fresh tap water into a vase.
“Now, to what do I owe this visit?” She placed the bouquet in the center of the table. “Or do I even need to ask?”
Liv spoke first. “We were just over at the Rawling place to pay our respects to Derek and thought we’d stop by and say hello.”
Liv also had the Southern lady trick down to a charm, but it proved unnecessary with Mrs. June.
“Cut the malarkey. I know that act. You learned it from your grandmother.” She laughed. “I was fairly good at it myself, in my day. But I’m an old woman now.” As if to prove it, she sank into the chair. “So if you don’t mind, can we skip the verbal gymnastics and just cut to the chase?”
“Miranda Rawling mentioned something about letters she found in Derek’s closet,” I said. “Letters she insists are from Jenny.”
“And I suppose you’re curious about what they said?” Her face was serious, but the twinkle in her eye gave her away.
“Miranda indicated that they implicated Jenny, gave her a motive for Derek’s death.”
Mrs. June sighed. “To answer the question you’re too shy—or cunning—to ask, yes, I’ve seen them. Bixby asked me to photocopy them so he could log the originals into evidence. I can’t say I read every word. I was only supposed to make sure all the words were legible so he could use the copies in the investigation. But it helps to be a speed reader.”
It was true. I’d seen her flipping pages faster than anyone I’d ever known. Mrs. June always had a book in her hand, and always a different one. I was surprised the Ramble Public Library could keep up with her.
“The only thing the prosecution will have a hard time doing,” she said, “is proving those letters were from Jenny.”
“Miranda said they were signed with a nickname.”
“Bunny.” Mrs. June snorted. “And the letters were all computer printed, in some curly, girlie font designed to look like handwriting. Which is kind of weird to begin with.”
“The font?”
“The letters. You young people are always e-mailing today, and texting. And sending instant messages or . . . what do they call it . . . tweeting. I still don’t get that. But if it was twenty years ago—maybe even thirty—I would have understood letters.”
“Jenny is a little old-fashioned,” I started. But I never knew her to send a letter. Except the letter where she basically dumped me. But that had at least been handwritten.
“But the letters were incriminating?” Liv asked.
Mrs. June bit her upper lip. At this point, I knew I simply had to wait. While all those TV investigators seem all bluster and questions, Grandma Mae had taught us that sometimes silence proved more effective—that other people would want to fill in the space with words—and you could learn all kinds of things just by sitting back and listening. So I took another bite of my cake.
Mrs. June didn’t disappoint. “Mind you, if this gets back to Bixby, I could lose my job.”
Liv rushed in to swear that she wouldn’t tell a soul. With my mouth full of cake, I raised my hand in an oath.
“The letters were . . . disturbing. They started out normal enough, maybe a tad brazen. But then . . .” She turned to me. “Audrey, are you sure Jenny wasn’t on drugs? Because there’s a major personality shift in those letters. Drugs could explain everything. Including how she’s acting now.”
I sat back. “Mrs. June, when I knew Jenny, I’d say no way. But I haven’t spent much time with her over the last year or so. I just can’t put my mind around her doing that, though.” Then again, we were supposed to be best friends forever, and I couldn’t have imagined her dumping me like she did. But this wasn’t junior high anymore. Not that BFFs worked out that well in junior high. “Maybe if you could tell me how the letters changed.”
Liv kicked me under the table. Too direct?
Mrs. June didn’t seem to notice. She leaned in. “They got juicier and juicier. Like those soap operas on steroids.” She leaned back and fanned herself with a napkin. “I’d hate to be the one to read those out loud in court.
“And then, she starts talking about getting married. Things like, when they’re married . . . and here she turns into some June Cleaver. Talking about making chicken, collard greens, and biscuits, and having ten kids.”
Which sounded more like Jenny. “So that can give Bixby enough to suspect Jenny,” I said.
“It would help if someone found the answers to these letters.” She paused while cutting herself another tiny sliver of cake. “But they don’t end there.”
Miranda had already suggested the letters contained threats, but I wanted to hear Mrs. June’s interpretation, so I tilted my head and raised my eyebrows and let her go on.
“The last few months are the ones that are damning—pardon my French. Threatening sometimes, peachy keen other times. Like she somehow lost contact with reality and rode any wave she could climb onto. Like one of those split-personality types. I almost expected to see a different name down at the bottom. And they went on that way—sometimes more than one letter a day. Sometimes June Cleaver and sometimes, I don’t know, one of those hockey-mask-wearing, chain-saw-carrying psychos from those blood-and-guts movies.”
“So the letters contain threats.”
“I’ll say.” Her eyes sparkled, but then she stopped, cast me a sympathetic look, and patted my hand. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to get all excited, but I’ve been working for the Ramble police for a lot of years, and this is the most excitement we ever got. I almost forgot she was your friend.”
Mrs. June took a deep breath and then exhaled. “Maybe, based on those letters, the lawyer might consider a psychological defense.”
“I’d like to see Jenny,” I said. “None of this makes sense with the girl I know. But perhaps if I could visit with her and listen to her, maybe I could get a handle on . . .”
Mrs. June shook her head. “She’s just curled up in a little ball—at least that’s ho
w Brenda found her when she took in her food. They put her on a suicide watch, but I wish someone would call her doctor in. If she asked to see one, they’d allow it. But she still insists she doesn’t want or need to see one—or anyone else, for that matter.”
I could see why Mrs. June was convinced drugs were involved. And that could explain the rapid personality shift.
My heart sank. I had hoped to find more information that would clear Jenny. Instead, everything just seemed to be piling up against her.
Chapter 10
“But I bought two of them.” Mrs. Burke pointed to the rose-patterned pens in the stand next to the cash register.
“And I put them in your bag,” Amber Lee answered. “I recall clearly.”
“But they weren’t in the bag when I got home.” Mrs. Burke straightened to her full height—an intimidating four feet, nine inches.
Amber Lee held her ground. “We’re not responsible for items you may have lost on the way home.”
“Just a minute,” Liv interrupted.
Amber Lee stepped back. She looked a little miffed but held her tongue.
“May I see the bag?” Liv said.
Mrs. Burke produced the Rose in Bloom bag.
Liv took it, running her hand along the bottom before her fingers found a hole in the seam.
Amber Lee sighed and looked down.
“My associate is right, of course,” Liv said, sparing Amber Lee some embarrassment. “We’re not responsible for any item lost after it leaves the shop. But since, in this case, your pens appear to have slipped through a defective bag, perhaps this time you could choose another?”
Mrs. Burke’s eager hands played across the selection of pens and chose two with white roses hand-painted on a wood barrel. I heard Amber Lee’s quick intake of breath. I suspected the lost pens had been a cheaper variety.
Mrs. Burke appeared appeased and chatted with Liv on the way to the door.
After escorting the woman out, Liv rolled her eyes, breaking the tension and coaxing a wave of laughter from Amber Lee and the rest of the staff who were now spying from the back room.
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