The sea of girls parted like a school of minnows to let the emergency responders take away their fellow student. Leah was beside herself. “It’s happening again. First Caitlin, then Ginger and Xavier, and now Nora.” She sobbed in Ellie’s arms as stricken students stood motionless in the hall, dazed and shocked for the second time in two weeks. Only this time they weren’t wearing their Winter Ball gowns, just their Dunlap Academy plaid uniforms.
“It’s not time to jump to conclusions,” Ellie said in a stricken tone, “but this doesn’t look like murder.” She gestured with her pointy heel to the syringe on the floor. “I didn’t know Nora had a drug problem, but this could be an overdose.”
A flutter of recognition flittered though my brain. I was transported back to Dunlap the day before the Winter Ball. Ginger had tried to meet with Nora’s father Sterling Jennings, but he’d called off their meeting in a huff when she’d been mere minutes late.
What if Ginger suspected Nora had a drug problem, and that’s why she wanted to meet with Nora’s father?
But Ginger was conveniently gone, and we couldn’t ask her if that was why she’d called the meeting. I bent down to take a closer look at the syringe.
“Don’t touch it,” Ellie warned, stepping away from her sister.
“I won’t,” I replied, crouching down. “I just don’t see anything else around here that she could have been injecting.” Nora’s room was fairly neat, her shoes lined up in a row under the wide bay window, her books piled in a tidy stack on her desk. I didn’t dare peek into her closet—Truman would have my head for playing unauthorized detective. But it seemed suspicious that there was a syringe and nothing else on the floor.
I bent in half and glanced under the bed, expecting to find the contraband there. But it was as neat as the rest of the room. Nora hadn’t even used the space for extra storage, and it was devoid of dust bunnies or errant clutter.
But something caught my eye: a glint of a sequin on the carpet. I craned my head, and saw the source of the decoration. Duct-taped to the bottom of Nora’s bed was what looked like Ginger’s tablet, the same one she’d dressed in a shiny navy sequin cover the night of the Winter Ball. The tablet that Truman had expected to find near her body but had been conspicuously missing.
My heart pounding, I called Truman.
“I’m already on my way.”
* * *
While Xavier slumbered on, Nora awoke the next day. I welcomed the news the girl would live, although she’d probably spend the rest of her life behind bars.
“She denied she killed Ginger,” Truman said over the cup of coffee I handed him. His eyes were red and puffy, and his shoulders hunched with exhaustion. But he cracked a guarded smile after he took his first sip. “It just feels good to finally get a break in this crazy case.”
“And even though she killed Ginger, I didn’t want her to die,” I said. “I’m so glad Ellie and I heard her in her room yesterday.”
“You got there just in time to save her.” Truman solemnly set the cup down in its saucer. “She probably didn’t mean to take that much heroin. Then again,” he mused, “maybe it was a suicide attempt over her guilt for killing Ginger.” He shook his head.
“She hid her habit well. It couldn’t have been easy for her to keep her addiction a secret among all those students.”
Truman let out a snort. “Oh, she didn’t hide it. She advertised it, if anything.”
I felt my eyebrows shoot up, and Truman went on. “She was dealing drugs at school, not just taking them. She’d already gotten kicked out of one boarding school for doing it. Dunlap was her last chance. Her father pulled some serious strings to get her in.”
“So Ginger knew to watch out for her.”
Truman nodded. “The tablet you found under Nora’s bed was Ginger’s. Ginger wanted to meet with Sterling Jennings to discuss his daughter’s expulsion. When Sterling skipped out on their meeting, Ginger must have decided to deal with it after the Winter Ball.” Truman shook his head with a heavy expression dimming his features. “That’s probably why Ginger called me, as a courtesy, the day before she died. She wanted to tell me about Nora’s dealing. I wish I’d been in the office to take that call instead of testifying in court.”
“You couldn’t have known,” I soothed. “And you certainly had no idea a student would take matters into her own hands and murder the headmistress to keep from getting expelled.” I shuddered to realize the mousy, shy Nora was a murderess.
“The last piece of the puzzle was trying to figure out how Nora replicated Caitlin Quinn’s murder in Los Angeles.”
“Leah must have told her about it,” I mused.
Truman nodded. “Leah was the one who found Caitlin, and she must have gossiped about the event to her friend. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to Nora. Staging Ginger’s death at the Winter Ball when some of the same people who were present in Los Angeles thirteen years ago were together again in Port Quincy would make it seem like Nora was the last person to perpetrate the crime.”
I nursed my own cup of coffee and tried to wrap my head around it all. I had to admit I was shocked Helene wasn’t behind Ginger’s death. “I hate to say it, but I thought Helene Pierce would be prosecuted one day for Ginger’s death.” She’d been so furious about Ginger’s plans to make the school coed that I’d have bet the farm on her as the headmistress’s murderer.
Truman leaned back and chuckled, the first sign of mirth I’d seen from him in days. “Helene may be your arch enemy, but I can’t see her as a murderess.” He grew thoughtful. “I couldn’t say the same for Iris Barnes, though. That woman would stop at nothing to advance her daughters.”
I was glad that Iris hadn’t killed Ginger to get her daughter her position as headmistress. An errant thought skittered through my brain.
“What about Ginger’s secret boyfriend? Did you ever find out his identity?”
Truman shook his head a bit dismissively. “No. We thought we’d finally figure it out when we recovered Ginger’s tablet. But he used a Google account that we haven’t been able to trace yet.” He sighed wearily. “I’m ready to retire that angle, since I’m almost certain we’ll prove Nora murdered Ginger.” He cocked his head in thought. “Some people just like their privacy for privacy’s sake alone. We may never know who Ginger’s boyfriend was.”
Unless it’s Owen, I thought to myself.
But Truman was ready to put the case of the murder of Ginger Crevecoeur to bed.
“To solving part of the mystery,” he said drolly, and held his delicate cup of coffee aloft.
“To solving the mystery.” I clinked cups with the chief of police, the buttercup-covered china ringing out a hollow sound.
I just wish I could be as sure as he is.
* * *
The day of the wedding rehearsal dawned fair and bright. Snow still covered the ground, but the sky was a clear, cloudless cornflower blue. The air was frigid enough to singe my lungs with each breath I took, and thankfully I’d be spending most of the day in Iris and Ellie’s tropical greenhouse, setting up for the rehearsal dinner.
“It’s Friday the thirteenth,” Rachel mused. She straightened a plate on one of the charming wrought-iron tables we’d be using to serve dinner and stood back to admire her handiwork. We’d transformed the lush greenhouse into an elegant party space by ferrying china, linens, and stemware from Thistle Park. Iris and Ellie bustled about the space setting up the remaining lacy metal tables we’d rented for the occasion.
“I’m not usually superstitious,” I said. “But I’d like to chance it and say that we’ve dealt with enough for this wedding. I hope our luck is finally turning, despite the inauspicious date.” I placed tiny butterfly name placards on each place setting. Dakota and Beau had suggested the design in memory of Ginger, and I’d happily obliged.
Rachel and I oversaw the staff we’d hired to help prepare and serve the food. Everything was in place and ready to go. I stepped back with a smile and observed the fru
its of our handiwork. The greenhouse was at once cozy and elegant, dazzling and welcoming.
“I can’t wait to transform our greenhouse into something just as wonderful,” I gushed to Rachel. For now, the greenhouse looked like the aftermath of a crime scene that it was, the bleeding hearts trampled on and pulled up, roots exposed and dying.
Ginger’s killer will be brought to justice, but what about Caitlin’s killer and Xavier’s attempted murderer?
I pushed away the dark thought and nervously surveyed the dessert and coffee set up for the party.
“Uh-oh.” Several brass carts, ornate and shining, stood at the edges of the party space, bearing antique teacups. Carafes of hot water stood at the ready for the culmination of dinner. The tea itself was housed in adorable, delicate metal cages fashioned as birds, each one nestled at the bottom of a teacup. Guests could each take a cup and pour in hot water, rather than using a teapot. It was a charming display, but the loose leaves made me nervous. They were the perfect vehicle for poisonous plants.
“Is this the best idea, in light of what happened to Xavier?”
Rachel rolled her eyes. “I found these tea cages in the butler’s pantry. They haven’t been used in ages and they’re perfect for this party!” She placed a hand on my arm, her face annoyed. “Quit being the Safety Czar,” she chided.
I blanched at the title she’d given me last fall when I’d insisted on placing rather unsightly fire extinguishers in each guest’s room.
“I don’t care how cute they are. I don’t think I’ll be having any tea.”
Rachel shrugged and got back to work. “Suit yourself.”
An hour later and the rehearsal dinner was in full swing. Dakota and Beau mingled with the forty or so guests, their faces animated and lively. Rachel gave Beau a wide berth, and the two of us put out small fires all evening. I chastised myself for worrying about the state of Dakota and Beau’s union. They actually seemed like a couple in love this evening. Beau was attentive and doting, and Dakota gazed at her fiancé with tender glances.
Maybe I was wrong about them.
Maybe they would have a fulfilling marriage and many years together ahead. Or perhaps my hunch about them before had been correct, and they had some kind of arrangement for an open relationship. I didn’t think Dakota would be into that, but they were the quintessential power couple. Perhaps they were willing to preserve their engagement and marriage at all costs.
Stop being so cynical.
Beau’s head jerked up, and I followed his gaze. His eyes seemed to slide over the curves of a pretty waitress, and I felt my stomach contract.
Nope, I’d been right. Dakota and Beau had fooled me again, like the entertainers they were. I predicted a rocky road ahead for the bride and groom. An uneasy feeling stole over me. I didn’t take personal responsibility for the couples whose weddings I planned, of course, but I wanted the best for them. I didn’t feel like I was merely throwing them a big party. Sometimes I felt like I was launching the public face of their marriage. I wanted to feel good about it. And I felt anything but regarding Dakota and Beau.
“Penny for your thoughts.” Owen appeared at my side looking just as miserable as I was sure I did.
“I hope they’re happy,” I mused.
Owen appeared pained, his hipster good looks dampened and muted. His whiskey-colored eyes were sad behind the chunky frames, and even his beard seemed droopy today. It was as if he were going to launch into an early “if anyone thinks these two should not be joined” speech.
Beau chose that moment to amble up to us, his bolo tie in place and his ten-gallon hat a jaunty, formal black. He appeared to gloat somewhat, and clapped Owen on the back a little too hard.
“I can’t believe that gorgeous gal is mine,” he opined, his counterfeit twang out in full syrupy force. He sent Dakota an exaggerated wink and dug his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth in his cowboy boots. His breath was redolent with alcohol. I wondered how much he’d had to drink.
“Take care of her,” Owen gruffly muttered. He snapped his suspenders in suppressed anger and his eyes scraped the floor.
“Oh, I will,” Beau said with a triumphant smile. “You can count on it.”
“Honey, let’s go.” Dakota materialized at her fiancé’s side, her face grim. She took in Owen’s discomfort and tried to put him out of his misery. “Beau, it’s time for you to give a speech, remember?”
“Of course.” Beau planted a possessive pucker on his wife-to-be and ambled up to the raised dais at the front of the greenhouse to thank the assembled guests for coming. He reached into his pocket and extricated a note card, clearing his throat. A slim piece of metal fell from his pocket and clattered to the ground next to his cowboy boots.
“I want to thank y’all—”
“Oh, no.” Dakota’s gasp was loud enough to direct all eyes from Beau to her. She stared in horror at his feet as if she’d just seen a rat.
But it was much worse.
There, at Beau’s feet, rested a shiny red butterfly clip.
The kind Ginger always wore.
A pin dropping, or a butterfly clip as it were, could be heard in the greenhouse.
“Now, this isn’t what it looks like.” Beau’s face turned as beet red as the scarlet clip, and he bent down, his inebriated state making it hard to pick up the delicate, winged hair decoration. He fumbled around and swore, finally scraping the scrap of red metal into his palm.
The room began to buzz with the chatter of anxious and confused guests.
Owen finally found his voice.
“You killed Ginger, didn’t you.”
Chapter Eighteen
Dakota’s hand fluttered to her mouth in disbelief, the enormous diamond on her ring finger glittering in the greenhouse’s bright grow lights.
“I gave Ginger a set of those clips for her birthday last year.” Her chest rose and fell as she dragged in ragged breaths. For the first time in a while, she didn’t seem to be performing. I watched her transform, phoenix-like, and she went from shocked to chagrined to horrified to supremely angry. Her words were tinged with pure, white-hot rage.
“Beauregard Wright, you have a lot of explaining to do.” Dakota’s assembled guests swiveled their heads from her anguished visage to Beau to take in his response.
“It isn’t what you think.” The folksy affect was gone, his New Jersey accent back in full force. Beau rocked unsteadily on his cowboy boots and took a step back. “I can explain.”
The din of the forty or so guests got louder. Beau stared at the mutinous crowd and gulped. “I’ll be right back.” He executed a wobbly hop from the edge of the dais and shuffled through the doorway to the side greenhouse Rachel and I had used as a prep room.
“Time to text Truman,” I murmured to my sister.
Perhaps Nora didn’t murder Ginger after all.
“See!” Rachel was glowing with I-told-you-so vigor. “Maybe now everyone will finally believe that I didn’t hit on that no-good, rotten cheating bastard.”
“Let’s keep an eye on him.” I cocked my head in the direction of the prep room, where Beau was having a heated argument with Dakota. She paced in a circle around him like a tiger, throwing up her hands and gesticulating wildly. The counterfeit country star cringed and cowered in the face of her wrath. Dakota finally tore at her left hand and sent her engagement ring sailing into a koi pond, the large stone sending up a small geyser of water upon impact.
“I never want to see you again!” Her voice was loud enough to resound through the greenhouse. Beau slunk away from his fiancé, choosing to hide behind a small ornamental lemon tree. Dakota whipped around and left him in the side greenhouse, storming off to get some air. Ginger’s butterfly clip lay on the dais like a scarlet red letter.
Dakota and Beau’s guests seemed to be enjoying the show. They’d arrived this evening to celebrate the impending marriage of the starlet and the singer, but now had been treated to fireworks of an unexpected variety.
&n
bsp; “Where in the heck is Truman?” I stared at my cell phone in annoyance. “He needs to get here now.”
The noise level in the greenhouse grew to epic proportions. There was a crescendo of gossip much like a horde of mosquitoes buzzing around the glass structure.
Truman finally parted the small sea of guests and reached my side.
“I came as soon as I could.” He seemed mildly annoyed. “What is it now?”
“That.” I pointed to the dais and the butterfly clip. “That barrette belonged—”
“To Ginger.” Truman swore. “How did it make its way to that stage?”
Rachel and I filled him in on Beau’s aborted speech and spilling of the clip, and Truman rushed off into the farthest depths of the greenhouse jungle in search of Beau.
“He’s getting away!” Truman shouted from the back of the greenhouse as a loud clatter announced a scuffle. Rachel and I raced to the end of the glass space and saw Beau kick a prostrate Truman on the side. The chief of police moaned and struggled to get up.
“Hasta la vista.” Beau swept up his hat and placed it on his head before slinking toward the door.
“I don’t think so.” Rachel pulled a thin coil of leather from her purse and unfolded it with a snap. It was the whip, and she crashed it down through the air, snaring Beau by the ankle. She gave a sharp tug, with all her might, and he landed in a heap.
Truman crawled over and cuffed Beau behind the back, limping and leading him out past a cheering group of partygoers.
“I owe you an apology.” Dakota appeared at Rachel’s side, a sheepish look stealing over her exhausted and shell-shocked face. “I can handle his cheating.” Her voice was low and hollow. “I’ve dealt with that before, and I’ve even come to expect it.” A pool of tears collected in her famous violet eyes and spilled over, twin rivulets dampening her cheeks. “But I can’t handle the fact that he murdered my best friend.”
Rachel reached out and put her arm around Dakota. Ellie put her arm around her friend as well.
Murder Borrowed, Murder Blue Page 22