by Gina LaManna
“It was a lovely ceremony until my son decided to fight a drunkard like a lunatic.” Mrs. Clark daintily cut a pea in two slices. “Then it turned into a PR nightmare. The police will probably want to take you in for questioning again Dane, if not worse. Don’t even get me started on the media circus outside the gates of Castlewood.”
“It’s not Dane’s fault,” I said without thinking. “He was sticking up for me.”
She fixed a stare on me, her eyes a different shade of blue than her son’s. While Dane’s eyes held a piercing intensity that spoke of intelligence and even humor, hers were dull, almost gray, and empty. “It’s his fault for getting involved with a woman like you in the first place.”
“Mother!” Dane warned. “We’ll not discuss this over dinner.”
“I told him this was all a bad idea to begin with,” she continued. “Sleeping with the staff is never a good idea. Don’t you agree, Randall?”
Her husband’s face turned a slightly uncomfortable shade of red. “Yes, of course, dear.”
Dane’s eyes narrowed to glittering pieces of diamonds. “You may leave if you’re not happy here, mother.”
“What did you say?” Her voice was a harsh whisper.
“You’re no longer welcome to dine with us,” Dane said, “if you cannot treat my guests or my staff with respect.”
“Dane,” I said with a slight shake of my head. “It’s okay, I’ll get going. It’s late anyway, and—”
“Don’t move, Lola.” Dane’s voice came as a command, and there was no arguing with the stony expression on his face. “What will it be, mother? Apologize to Lola, or this dinner is finished.”
Mrs. Clark dropped her fork. It clattered onto the plate before her, and when a single pea rolled onto the tablecloth, she didn’t even seem to notice. Nor did she notice when one of the young, bright-faced members of the kitchen staff came to clear it away.
“Get out of here,” she snapped, shooing away the overzealous new staff member. “Dane Clark, you will never speak to your mother like that again.”
“Amanda,” Randall said, a hint of pleading in his voice. “Please just apologize. It doesn’t matter, anyway. She’s just staff. She’ll be gone next month.”
I blinked, looked down at my plate, and tried to pretend I didn’t exist.
“I don’t see how I can apologize when I didn’t do anything wrong.” A steely silence met Amanda’s declaration. She looked from one of us to the next, skipping over my face in exchange for her husband’s. “I’m just being honest, Randall.”
“Mrs. Dulcet, please bring my mother’s coat,” Dane said. “Call Uncle Anders and let him know my parents will be returning soon.”
Amanda’s mouth cracked open as scurrying sounds from one room over filtered back to us. “Dane Clark!”
“Amanda, apologize for crying out loud!” Randall’s voice boomed. “I want to stay in my son’s house and eat a damn meal instead of running over to Anders’s every time the two of you argue. Why does it matter who he sleeps with? He’s not going to marry the girl.”
Amanda took one look at Randall, then scanned across the table. Either her husband’s logic made sense, or the tone of his voice had instructed her not to push him further. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,” she said briskly toward me. “But I’m just looking out for the well-being of my son.”
I nodded, looking down at my plate. It wasn’t that I loved the way Mrs. Clark treated me, but in a way, I could understand. She was a woman from a certain level of society, and she wanted the best for her son. Growing up with a mother who couldn’t have cared less if I’d dated a convicted murderer or the President of the United States, a part of me wished that she had cared enough to at least meet my boyfriends—not that there had been many of them.
Randall clapped his hands. “Now that that’s settled, Mrs. Dulcet—cancel the car and serve dessert, will you?”
For the rest of the evening, Dane’s gaze didn’t once land on his mother. Her gaze didn’t land on me. Randall’s gaze didn’t veer from the warm brownies he shoved into his mouth along with the bits of melting vanilla ice cream on the side. Only when coffee was served did Mrs. Clark break the silence.
“Why was he even there?” Amanda asked suddenly, frowning at the extra scoop of ice cream on my plate. “The ex-boyfriend. Isn’t it strange that he showed up at that woman’s funeral?”
Dane spoke to his plate. “I’m sure he wanted to pay his respects to the dead.”
“But their relationship was over,” she said. “Clearly the girl didn’t love him, or she would have been with him.”
“I was in attendance.” Dane’s voice was liquid silver in the murky silence. “And I’m the one suspected of murdering her. I think that’s far stranger, don’t you?”
That caused Mrs. Clark to freeze, but only for a moment.
“We all know you didn’t kill her—the accusations are a clerical error,” Randall said. “Of course you should have been at the funeral. You did the right thing, son, paying the expenses. The Clark Company takes care of their employees—after all, that’s the only way to maintain loyalty and control. It would be incredibly rude to not pay your respects because of a clerical error. It’s about the strategy, Dane—this will help company morale.”
“The accusations aren’t a clerical error,” Dane said through gritted teeth. “The murder weapon was a paperweight from my desk. Someone was setting me up.”
“But it’s an obvious set up,” Amanda said. “Nobody thinks you had a hand in her death. What I can’t believe is the way that woman’s parents were flaunting their money around.”
“Money?” I asked.
“Yes, the thing that you use to buy goods and services,” Amanda quipped. “If you’re not familiar with it, you should try to acquire some.”
“Mother!” Dane rose to his feet, but his father interrupted first, catching my eye and speaking directly to me.
“Andrea’s parents have come into an extreme amount of wealth with Andrea’s passing. My wife is merely trying to say that it’s considered rude to arrive at their daughter’s funeral in a new car purchased with money they received due to their daughter’s untimely passing.”
“Money they received?” I looked to Dane. “Did you know about this?”
“Of course not,” Amanda said. “We know people. Amaliyah Ricker’s mother was a client of our accountant’s firm. She happened to have created a trust for her granddaughter, Andrea, before her death. Now, that was years ago, but Amaliyah came in the office a few weeks ago causing quite the scene. Fortunately, I happened to have an appointment that day and overheard a few things. Marie, our accountant’s wife, filled me in on the rest of the details.”
Dane turned to his mother with newfound curiosity. “What details?”
Amanda gave a smug smile. “As it turns out, Andrea’s grandmother left all of her money in a trust fund to be delivered to Andrea on her thirtieth birthday.”
“What?” I gaped, my reaction a reflex. “That is not the story I heard.”
“Well, you didn’t know the accountant who handled their trust,” Amanda said. “So, I’m not sure where you heard anything at all.”
“I talked to Amaliyah. She said her mother left money for them when she passed, and Amaliyah and her husband gave it all away because they didn’t want it,” I said. “It was a pain point between Andrea and her mother—Andrea wanted the money, but Amaliyah wanted nothing to do with it.”
“Andrea liked money, sure,” Amanda said. “But only because she didn’t have any of it. Andrea was dirt poor and so were her parents. If they told you anything different, it’s a lie. They’ve never given money away.”
“But—”
“Amaliyah wanted her mother’s money. Her mother didn’t give it to her. That was the pain point,” Mrs. Clark said. “The reason Andrea sought financial wealth later in life is because she grew up with nothing. Nobody likes to have nothing now, do they?”
Amanda looked all t
oo pointedly at me, and I found myself nodding along.
“So,” I said, puzzling through this new information, “the only way Amaliyah would’ve inherited her mother’s money is if Andrea passed away before her thirtieth birthday—then the money would have gone to her instead of Andrea.”
Mrs. Clark nodded. “Now tell me how the police still believe my son is a suspect when Andrea’s own parents have a motive to the tune of one point two million dollars,” Amanda said, waving a hand in disgust. “What motive did Dane have to hurt Andrea—nothing! The girl was nothing to him except for a pretty face on a magazine cover. You didn’t love her, did you, Dane?”
Dane cleared his throat. “Andrea and I were business acquaintances and nothing more. I wouldn’t even classify us as friends.”
“And,” I said, gaining momentum as pieces clicked into place. “According to Ryan, Andrea was turning thirty next week. This would have been the Rickers’s last chance at the money. I assume the trust went to them in the case of Andrea’s untimely death?”
“If that’s not motive, then I don’t know what is. And she wouldn’t have given them a dime after the way they raised her,” Mrs. Clark said. “People like Andrea don’t know how to manage that amount of money. She would have blown it on plastic surgery and a monstrosity of a new house, if she could manage that much.”
“But Andrea was their daughter,” Dane said in a sole defensive argument that completed our conversation. “How could someone kill their own daughter? And more, I hadn’t ever heard of these people. How could they have gotten inside the castle and stolen the paperweight?”
Chapter 19
I SAT UP IN A BURST of adrenaline sometime after midnight.
I’d tucked into my bedroom above Psychic in Pink shortly after dinner and drifted into a restless sleep sometime later. It was impossible to say if I’d jolted awake due to one of my pulse pounding nightmares, or if the shot of fear was due to something in reality.
I hesitated, listening—and then I heard it. I hadn’t dreamt the noise. A whisper of movement flickered from downstairs, someone picking their way across the living room floor.
Someone had broken into my home.
There was no time to change into real clothes, so I threw on the bright pink robe as I climbed out of bed and made my way toward the top of the staircase. The Sunshine Shore was a safe town, save for the latest fiasco with Andrea’s murder. Dotty and I had never had so much as a robbery in all of our years here; in fact, I’d only begun locking the door recently. Something about being alone in the house had me taking the extra precaution.
A muffled crash alerted me to the intruder’s position. My visitor must have stubbed a toe on the kitchen table. Judging by the low curse word mumbled afterward, it was a man.
I held my cell phone in my hand and pressed the 911 button. I’d already hesitated too long, frozen partly by fear and partly by curiosity. The phone rang once.
“I’m calling the police,” I yelled downstairs. “They’re on their way. Leave me alone!”
The intruder paused, all floor squeaks coming to a halt. “Lola, is that you?”
I couldn’t see the man’s face in the dark, but I sensed his presence. I knew that voice. “Richard?”
“911, what is—”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” I brought the phone back to my mouth. “It was a terrible misunderstanding. I’m okay—I thought someone had broken into my home, but it’s just a friend of mine. I’m so sorry to have wasted your time.”
After disconnecting with 911, I flicked on the lights and found Richard squinting in the brightness.
“Howdy, Lola. I needed your help.”
“What were you thinking? You have got to stop letting yourself in here uninvited.” I wrapped my robe tighter around my body. “You don’t ever need my help after midnight unless you’re deathly ill. Understood? And in that case, you’re better off calling an ambulance.”
“But—”
“Understood? We need boundaries, Richard.”
“Fine.” He glanced down at a huge moving box in his arms full of what looked like junk. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Well, I could, and you disrupted me.” I sat down on the staircase. “And I’m not happy about it.”
His shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry. Would it help if I told you I talked to Big Richard, and he’s all for renting out The Lost Leprechaun to you for that fancy schmancy gala you’ve got planned?”
“That does help some,” I admitted, perking up slightly. “We’d need it on the last Saturday of the Sunshine Shore festival—rented exclusively for the evening. Would that work?”
“Two grand food and drink minimum, and we’ll let you have the venue for free,” he said. “You can do whatever you want to it, so long as all decorations are taken down by noon the next day.”
I felt a smile growing over my face. “You’ve got a deal. Do we need to sign a contract?”
He extended my hand. “We do things the old-fashioned way. I know you’re not a gentleman, but how do you feel about shaking on it and calling the red tape good?”
“Fine by me.” I returned the handshake, my mind already scrolling through the invite list. If I got RSVPs out immediately, that would still give people a week to clear their evenings. It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than nothing.
After we shook on the arrangement, I was feeling marginally less annoyed that Richard had broken into my house. I was even feeling charitable at the deal he’d garnered for us with his father.
“Alright,” I agreed. “Tell me what’s on your mind. I’m already up, anyway.”
“Great. I need some help because I have a date today with Stephanie.” His shoulders went from slumped to straight in a second, and his eyes widened with excitement. “The poem worked. She loved it.”
“That’s great!”
“Now I need help making it perfect. Every detail has to work—it’s my only chance to get her back.” His arms were trembling with excitement as he set the box down on the stairs. “Since you’re a psychic and everything, I figured I would get your read on my plan before I screwed everything up again.”
“Why the box?” I couldn’t help my curiosity. I was nearly certain I saw a feather duster in there. “And why is it here with you?”
Richard began taking items out one by one, displaying each like a proud cat who’d brought back trophy mice. “I have handcuffs, perfume, cologne, two golf clubs—in case she’s picked up mini golf since she dumped me—a baseball glove, a hockey stick, a beach towel, a sexy French maid costume—”
“Let’s start at the beginning,” I said. “Handcuffs?”
“I’m trying to think of every possible item we might need. See, she told me that she just wanted to get coffee. No strings attached, just to talk. I don’t know what that means, so I’m trying to be prepared for any possible outcome.”
“Let me repeat. Handcuffs?”
“I figure it might go like this: we start at Dungeons and Donuts. I buy her the biggest cappuccino in town. We have a great time—I have a list of jokes to make her laugh for starters. Then, after she’s primed and in a great mood, I take her out to my car where I have this box of wonders in my trunk.”
“Do go on,” I said. “I can’t imagine what happens next.”
“I’m going to give her options. She used to say I never liked to trying anything new, but I’m going to show her that’s all wrong.” He grinned. “We can try mini golf. Then, I figure we’ll play catch at the park. I have a ball in here somewhere, I think. Maybe kick around a soccer ball. I have beach towels in here for us to lay out after, and I think I even have some non-expired sunscreen...”
As Richard rifled through his box, I struggled with advice. He was trying, I had to give him that. “Handcuffs?” I asked again. “Please explain how meeting for coffee to talk requires handcuffs.”
A larger grin spread across his face. “Just in case she wants to try something new after our dinner. I made real romantic reservations at
Nancy’s new place, see. They use real wine glasses and you have to order from a laminated menu. If she’s feeling romantic, maybe she’ll enjoy the French maid costume.” He held up a feather duster, tickled his own nose, and sneezed. “Or not. I won’t be offended if it’s too wild for her.”
I let out a longer sigh, wishing it was a little later in the morning so I could justify making coffee. “Let me get one thing straight. Stephanie said she just wanted to meet for coffee.”
“Yeah, and to talk.”
I ran a hand over my forehead, stood up, and dragged myself downstairs. Resting a hand on Richard’s shoulder, I simply shook my head. “It’s too much. Your idea is, ah, good in theory, but all of this is overwhelming.”
“But—”
“You trusted me with the poem and it worked, right?”
He nodded.
“Well, this is the same thing,” I said. “Trust me. Leave this box of stuff here for now and pick it up later so you won’t be tempted to use any of it. It’ll just push her away, I promise you.”
“I can keep it in my trunk, just in case.”
“That won’t lead to anything good,” I said. “She just wants to talk. If you bombard her with everything at once, she’ll push you away faster than you can say hello.”
“Then how am I supposed to win her back? I’m not good at talking.”
“Hey, you wrote that poem, didn’t you?” I spread my hands wide and raised my eyebrows. “That came from inside your heart, and she must have noticed. Latch onto whatever it is that made you write those words—the part of you that loves Stephanie more than everything else—and use it. Don’t scare her away or pressure her into a relationship. Just be yourself, and that’s all you have to do.”
“Be myself minus the curse words?”
“Yeah, that’s a better way to say it.”
“What if I take along the golf clubs just in case...” He stopped speaking at my stern expression. “Fine. I’ll leave everything here.”