miss fortune mystery (ff) - once upon a murder (hair extensions and homicide 2)

by bow, frankie

“No one's looking into anything, Fortune. Unless it's to strengthen their case against Ida Belle. As far as they're concerned, they have their suspect.

  “There must be something on that computer that could point to another suspect. Threatening emails, request for a restraining order.”

  “Fortune, I can’t ask too many questions. They know Ida Belle and me are both from Sinful, so it’s okay for me show a little interest in the case, but can’t overdo it. Why are you so sure she even had a computer? Did you ever see one?”

  I closed my eyes and reconstructed the Bad Romance session in my mind. Felicity Valentine was sitting to my right. In front of her was a stack of index cards. A rollerball pen, the kind you buy in bulk from the office supply store. A copy of the conference program, open and folded back to the day's events. Under the conference program, almost entirely concealed by it...

  “Yes, she had a computer. I remember. It was one of those little notebook ones, and it was bright blue. Turquoise. It matched her jewelry.”

  “Oh. Good to know. What happened to your clothes?”

  I looked down to see a smear of dirt across my stomach where I’d flipped over the balcony railing to let myself into Felicity’s room.

  “Oh, how did that get there?” I made a show of trying to brush the dirt off.

  The doors slid open on the concierge level and we started down the hall toward the lounge.

  “Have you heard anything else, Carter? Anything at ...”

  We passed a family heading toward the elevator. We smiled and nodded. The parents smiled and nodded back. The teenage daughter stared at Carter.

  We watched the family disappear into the elevator before resuming our conversation.

  “I don’t have anything for you, Fortune. We’ll just have to wait for the process to play out.”

  “I’m not impressed by the ‘process’ so far. Come on, Carter, anything? Some clue that contradicts their theory? Someone else who had a beef with the deceased?”

  “The worst drama I’ve seen here is with these guys I have to room with. You should’ve seen what went on this morning. The Case of the Missing Bronzing Powder. I thought we were gonna have another murder on our hands for sure.”

  My phone rang in my bag just as we reached the doorway of the Concierge Lounge. I checked the caller ID. Gertie.

  “Fortune, where are you? I’m trying to get Ida Belle to come down to dinner.”

  I looked at Carter. “I was thinking I’d skip dinner tonight.”

  “You can’t! They’re going to have that memorial service for Felicity Valentine. Fortune, you know how murderers love to show up at the funeral of their victims.”

  “Gertie, I don’t think that’s a real—okay. Fine. I’ll be right down.”

  I snapped my phone shut and dropped it back in my bag.

  “Want to join us for dinner downstairs?”

  Carter shook his head. “Thanks for the invite, but I’ll take a rain check. I’ve been ‘on stage’ practically all day. It's exhausting. I think I’ll just grab a beer and then go hang out in my room and catch up on email and stuff. Take advantage of the free Wi-Fi.”

  “Wi-Fi.” I repeated. “Of course.”

  “Of course what?”

  “I didn’t even think of it because I don’t carry a Wi-Fi-enabled device. Hotel Wi-Fi is designed for convenience, not security. Wish me luck!”

  I left Carter at the door of the Concierge Lounge, and sprinted down the stairwell. I didn't have time to wait for the elevator.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Gertie and I didn't have any luck convincing Ida Belle to come down to dinner with us.

  “Ida Belle,” Gertie pleaded, “the real killer might tip their hand when they're talking about Felicity. We need another pair of eyes.”

  “Aha! So you admit you need glasses.”

  Gertie stiffened. “I admit nothing of the sort. Fine, Ida Belle, suit yourself. But if we miss an important clue because you decided you'd rather sit here sulking in the room, don't blame us.”

  “I'm not sulking, Gertie. I just can't stand the idea of, okay. It'd be like, how'd you like to try to get your dinner down while people are up on stage going on about Saint Celia Arceneaux and how lucky the town of Sinful was to have her as our mayor?”

  “Why, I'd positively gag.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Okay. I see your point.”

  “Hey,” I added. “No dealing while we’re gone.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Seriously, Ida Belle. You’re in enough trouble.”

  “I’m with Fortune on this,” Gertie said. “It’s nice to make a few extra bucks, but we have to save some cough syrup for the drive back.”

  “The drive back? You two can’t go without cough syrup for two whole hours?”

  “Two hours seems like forever when you have a cold,” Gertie pouted.

  “You do not have colds. No one has a cold. Geez. Gertie, is Larry going to meet us for dinner?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he has his laptop, right?”

  Larry Lindgren had saved three seats for us using his hat, his conference swag bag, and his laptop as markers.

  “Gertie, Fortune.” He stood and executed a half-bow. “Any news about Ida Belle?”

  “She made bail,” I said. “She’s resting in the room right now.”

  “She wasn’t really in the mood to sit through an evening of people saying nice things about Felicity,” Gertie added.

  “Well, that is good news about Ida Belle,” Larry said.

  I took the laptop from one of the chairs and sat down.

  “Larry, can I use this for a second?”

  “My laptop? No, Fortune, I really—”

  “Oh Larry, she just needs it for a quick moment.”

  “But couldn't she…”

  “Oh, thank you,” Gertie gushed. “Now can you unlock it for her?”

  Larry sighed.

  “Here, Fortune, it’s password protected. Let me unlock it for you.”

  As Larry and Gertie chatted, and Larry cast an occasional worried glance in my direction, I connected to the hotel Wi-Fi. Then I downloaded a wireless network analyzer and launched the free trial.

  I held my breath and watched. After about thirty seconds, the software started capturing 802.11 packets and reassembling them into approximations of the original websites. I searched for anything that looked like login credentials, copied them, and pasted them into a text file.

  The stream of data slowed when dinner service started, giving me an opportunity to examine what I'd just collected. I apologized to my tablemates for being antisocial and said something about deadlines. Everyone nodded sympathetically, except for Gertie, who rolled her eyes.

  Like eavesdropping, poking around in other peoples’ email accounts is usually pretty boring. But once in a while, snooping pays off.

  I saw a login with the username DannyAM. Felicity had talked about Danny's Hah-vahd degree. Harvard calls their master of arts AM, for the Latin artium magister.

  DannyAM had to be Felicity's assistant Danny Armbruster. With any luck, his archived email might have copies of Felicity's correspondence. If I were really lucky, I might see something about a restraining order or a police report.

  I checked to make sure no one was looking over my shoulder. No one was. Everyone was paying attention to the woman on stage. She was praising Felicity's generosity of spirit and love of life and other unobjectionable qualities. Her speech was exactly the kind of thing you come up with when you have to talk about someone you didn't know very well.

  I turned my attention back to the laptop.

  Enter your email: DannyAM

  Password: DavidF0sterWallace!

  Most of Danny’s in-box was junk mail from book promotion websites. There were a few form rejections from literary magazines for his short story, Speaking of Untoward Provenance. One message from Felicity, dated five days earlier, was a reminder to check
something about a Library of Congress number.

  I switched over to Danny's contact list. Nothing too interesting there. I moved on to the trash folder, which by default contained the last thirty days' worth of deleted email.

  I read for a few seconds, and then I shut the laptop, tucked it under my arm, grabbed my bag, and sprinted out of the ballroom.

  “Fortune, my laptop,” I heard Larry call behind me.

  “I’ll bring it right back.”

  I plopped down on a padded bench outside the ballroom, set down the laptop, pulled out my phone, and called Carter. When he finally answered, I could tell that I’d woken him up.

  “Carter, it’s me. Can you get Detective Augustine?”

  “What do you have?” I could tell he was instantly awake.

  “It’s Felicity’s assistant. Danny. Danny Armbruster. He did it.”

  “Why would the assistant want to kill her? She was his meal ticket.”

  “Carter, Danny is lying. Felicity wasn’t Destiny Davis. That was Danny’s pen name.”

  “Is he down there now? You have visual contact?”

  “Yes. He’s about to take the stage. Didn’t they check the elevator footage? They should’ve seen Danny and Felicity together.”

  “Most of the security cameras are disabled.”

  “Oh, right. Doll collectors’ convention.”

  “I’m calling Augustine now. Stay there and don't let Armbruster out of your sight.”

  Dearest Danny,

  It pains me so to write this. I must apologize for the medium of this message, but my thoughts are jumbled, and it is only with the possibility of revision, of cut-and-paste, of search-and-replace, that I may compose them.

  If this was how Felicity Valentine wrote an email, I probably wouldn’t make it through one of her books.

  I'd always considered you more than an assistant, Danny—you were my friend, and at times I thought of you almost as the child I never had. I have never wished anything but success for you. How painful, then, was this discovery—and how utterly, entirely, unnecessary.

  Detective Augustine, along with two of his men, walked past without acknowledging me, and slipped into the dark ballroom.

  If you had only confided in me. I would have kept your secret, had you deemed that necessary (although I believe your literary colleagues might surprise you with their open-mindedness. Then again, perhaps not). But to steal from me—without my knowledge, and without thanks. A work in progress is a premature infant, frail and vulnerable. You stole my babies from me —what betrayal!

  I watched through the open door as Danny finished his eulogy to applause and stepped off the stage. The two uniformed officers converged on him and led him away.

  I could have told you what a sin, a waste, it is to steal another’s words. I learned this lesson in the hardest way, many years ago. I lost a dear friend—something I will always regret.

  Yet even now, I believe in Redemption. I cannot allow you to make the same painful mistake I did. We shall stay and face the music, Danny. No more deception. I believe that Honesty is always the better course, and I hope that I do not have cause to regret mine.

  I forwarded the email to Carter LeBlanc.

  I was about to shut down the computer when a file on the computer desktop caught my attention. I clicked it open and looked through the contents.

  Danny Armbruster's public arrest left the Mardi Gras Ballroom in disarray. People were talking on their phones, uploading the news to their social media channels, and rushing from one table to the next. I pushed my way through the pandemonium back to where Gertie and Larry were sitting.

  “Here’s your laptop, Larry. Thank you for letting me use it. You were more helpful than you can imagine.”

  “Thanks, Fortune.” He reached for it without looking at me. I sat down next to him.

  “Just tell her,” I whispered. He shook his head.

  “You’d make her so happy.”

  “What are you two talking about?” Gertie asked.

  Larry looked at me, and then at Gertie. Then he sighed.

  “Gertie,” he said.

  “Yes, Larry?”

  “You know how you came here hoping to meet some of your favorite authors?”

  “Well, I know who my favorite author is now,” Gertie beamed at him.

  “No, I know, and it's awful nice of you to say it, but wasn't there a particular author you were hoping to meet?”

  “Lexi Tingle? That’s okay. I’m still glad I came. Very glad, Larry.”

  “Gertie. Look.”

  Larry opened his laptop and scooted it over so that it sat open in front of Gertie.

  Gertie peered at the screen, her eyes widening as she read.

  “Where did you get Lexi Tingle’s royalty reports? My goodness, she sells a lot of books, doesn’t she?”

  “I’d prefer it if you didn’t tell anyone,” Larry said.

  Gertie blinked as the news sank in.

  “Larry, you’re...”Gertie lowered her voice to a whisper. “You're the New York Times bestselling erotic romance author? I’ve been hanging out with Lexi Tingle this whole time? “

  Larry tugged his collar and blushed.

  “Oh, Larry, you could teach me so much!” Gertie threw her arms around him, and although it didn't seem possible, he turned even redder. I excused myself and headed back up to the room.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Carter joined Ida Belle, Gertie and me in the concierge lounge the next morning. We all loaded up on coffee and breakfast pastries. They were the same breakfast pastries that were on offer downstairs in the Mardi Gras Ballroom, but we didn’t have to wait in a long line for them. And we could sit and enjoy them with a beautiful view of the city, with the river winding through it.

  Danny Armbruster, Carter told us, hadn’t planned to kill Felicity Valentine. But he had planned to leave the convention when the story about the plagiarism surfaced. Felicity insisted that he stay and come clean. Nothing good came of trying to deceive people, she had told him.

  Danny disagreed, and decided to take the car and leave early in the morning. Felicity found out about this plan, followed him up to the parking garage, and tried to talk him out of leaving. He was insistent. She threatened to tell everyone the real story anyway, whether he was there or not. He panicked. Bad enough that he would be unmasked as a plagiarist. Intolerable, in his view, to be revealed as a romance writer.

  “Going to prison’s gotta be worse than either of those things,” Ida Belle said.

  “Well, that’s the funny thing,” Carter said. “He’s actually okay with how things turned out. He seems to think that writing a prison memoir will boost his cred.”

  Ida Belle stood up.

  “I gotta get going,” she said.

  “Right now?” I asked.

  “Got a sick friend.”

  “I see. Your sick friend have a cold by any chance? Requiring large doses of cough syrup?”

  “That’s my diagnosis,” Ida Belle said, and left.

  “I should go too,” Gertie said. “I’m meeting Larry at the series writing workshop.”

  “Do you have to leave too?” I asked Carter.

  “I have a few minutes. I’m not back on duty till the Wild West Cowboy Party.”

  “So stay and enjoy the complimentary breakfast with me.”

  Carter grinned. “My pleasure, ma’am.”

  “You know, you’re really good at this cowboy stripper thing, or whatever you call it.”

  “Cover model. We’re cover models.”

  “Are you actually on a book cover?”

  “Not yet, but I’ve had a couple offers. If I keep getting IOUs in my pay envelope, I might consider it.”

  “You’d be really good at modeling. If that’s what you want to do.”

  “Thanks for saying so, I guess. And hey, thanks for doing whatever you did to get the information about this case.”

  “Well, I—”

  “And please don’t tel
l me what you did to get the information for this case. But whatever it was, you deserve the credit. They couldn’t have done it without you.”

  I blinked, stunned. Did Carter just compliment me on my sleuthing?

  “So they’re sure the killer was Danny Armbruster?”

  “They found the vic’s computer hidden in his suitcase. He’d wiped it, but they’ll be able to reconstruct most of what was on there. It was just as you described it. A little blue netbook. And someone forwarded me a pretty incriminating email from Danny’s account. Of course I have no way of finding out who did that. Guess I’ll just have to put that down to my anonymous tipster.”

  “You called in Augustine and his guys on my say-so. You trusted me enough to stake your reputation on what I told you. Before you had any solid proof.”

  Carter grinned.

  “So are you having a good time here? I wouldn’t have guessed you were a romance fan.”

  “Ida Belle and I just came out to keep Gertie company. Something fun and different. An excuse to get out of town. I don’t know, I’m more of a nonfiction reader.”

  “I’m glad you came, Fortune. Even though I just about died of embarrassment when I first saw you here. And speaking of embarrassment. Time to go earn my paycheck.”

  Carter stood up, leaned over, and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

  “You don’t really think this romance is that bad, do you?” he whispered.

  He was out the door before I could think of a response.

  I picked up a copy of the complimentary newspaper and leafed through it, looking for World Events.

  I didn’t see anything about Ahmad’s capture, unfortunately, but a headline on the Lifestyle section caught my eye:

  Passion, Parkour, and Murder: A most Un-conventional Convention.

  Two color photos headed the story about the A.R.E.A. Conference. One was a head shot of the late Felicity Valentine. The other showed an unidentifiable person in a baseball cap and dark glasses, hanging from a balcony railing above bustling Canal Street. Just another day in the French Quarter.

  The End

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Frankie Bow is the author of the Molly Barda Mysteries. Unlike her protagonist, she is blessed with delightful students, sane colleagues, and a perfectly nice office chair. She believes if life isn't fair, at least it can be entertaining. Her experience with academic publishing has taught her to take nothing personally.