by A. Gardner
I move up a row.
This time I study the man's movements like a lioness. Every time I move, it gets easier. I'm starting to adjust to my rapid heart rate and heavy breathing like it's normal. Cira continues to follow me without question—the two of us crawling at super speeds without a peep of noise. We might actually make it out of the theater in one piece.
I think one step at a time.
Move up a row.
Move up a row.
Now another.
At this rate, the bald-headed man won't catch up to us in time. We'll be out on the streets of Paris before he has the chance to aim his pistol. My confidence rises with every step I take. I look over my shoulder at Cira crouched down behind me and smile. She smiles back. The two of us move up another row. Our very last row.
Our next step is the exit.
I scan the back of the theater, formulating a back-up plan if this one goes sour. I glance back down at the stage. If the doors are locked, we'll have to start all over again and take our chances behind the curtain.
"Ready?" I whisper. Cira gulps, biting the corner of her lip as she nervously nods.
The bald-headed man kicks another seat, yelling in frustration. He points his handgun at the ceiling and bares his teeth as he fires a shot into the air. The sound pierces through my skull, and Cira and I crouch lower.
"Are you mad?" a voice booms from the exit. "Do you have any idea how much that ceiling is worth?"
"It's only paint," the bald-headed man huffs.
"You, Sir, are a complete and total arse." My eyes dart from the exit to Cira. The voice sounds familiar. I raise my eyebrows, seeing sandy blonde hair and a well-mannered grin.
"Detective Casey," I say to Cira. A wave of warmth courses through me. My nightmare is over. I jump to my feet, feeling a hard tug on my wrist.
"Poppy," Cira spits out. "Poppy, no."
The Detective sees me. He shakes his head at the bald-headed man with a disgruntled look on his face. The man grits his teeth as he glances at me from across the auditorium, realizing he was way off. He growls, pummeling his fist into the back of chair so hard that I'm shocked his hand is still attached to his body.
Detective Casey keeps his hands in pockets. He steps aside as another man pushes through the door leading out into the hallway. Hugo Biven, former father of the bride, catches his breath. He narrows his eyes and stares at his right-hand man.
"Detective?" I blurt out. "What's going on here?"
Hugo stands next to him. Detective Casey doesn't bat an eye, much less make any attempts to have the man standing next to him arrested. A lump forms in my throat. It appears that my songs of relief were sung too early. Detective Casey isn't here to set us free. He's in on it.
"Poppy," Detective Casey responds, "you and I need to have a little chat."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
My lungs feel like they're burning even though I'm standing still. Breathe, Poppy, breathe. Detective Casey looks at me like he would if we were to casually bump into each other on the street. I want to yell at him. Tell him he's a slimy scumbag for playing along this entire time.
"Where's Cira?" Hugo asks. It's more of a command than a question.
Don't turn your head. Don't look down.
The hopeful thought jumps into the forefront of my mind. If the answer to that question isn't obvious that means Cira is still crouched down next to me. I quickly step away from her and closer to the exit. It's all up to Cira now.
"We split up," I lie. "She went backstage."
Hugo nods at the bald-headed man, and in an instant he goes trudging back from where he came to look for her. I watch him out of the corner of my eye. I've been caught again, only this time things will be different. The lucky throw of a dressing room chair won't save me. Hugo won't leave that bald-headed oaf of his to do his dirty work a second time.
Unless he's stupid.
"Come with me, Ms. Peters," Detective Casey instructs.
"What are you doing?" Hugo murmurs. "That wasn't the plan."
"I'm changing the plan," he answers.
I hesitate to step forward, but the Detective waits for me like we're about to sit down for a round of routine questioning. I take a few steps toward him but stop when I'm close enough to see the sweat of Hugo's plump forehead.
"I don't get it," I say out loud, studying the Detective. "Why take the time to investigate if you already know who killed Sam?"
"I told you she's a nosy one," Hugo mutters under his breath.
"I can hear you," I point out.
Detective Casey laughs.
"I will tell you everything you want to know, Poppy." He outstretches a hand. "Unlike my barbaric partner…" He sneaks a glimpse at Hugo who is roughly wiping his forehead. "…I am in favor of a more civil approach."
"Casey—"
"Shhh," he shushes Hugo before he has the chance to complain.
I take a few more steps and reluctantly take the Detective's hand. Listening to his explanation will buy me time. Hopefully, the time it takes for Lewis and the police to track me down.
Unless Lewis is also in on the scheme.
"I feel like I'm twirling around in circles," I say. Detective Casey leads me out of the theater and to the grand staircase. The two of us have no problem climbing to the top-level seating area, but Hugo has trouble. He pauses to take a break, breathing heavily as he pats his sweaty neck. Detective Casey nudges me into a tight hall with curtains at the end. I pull aside the soft fabric and see another view of the grand auditorium. This time from much higher. We're in a booth overlooking the stage. There are chairs set up along the gold-flecked railing, and sitting in one makes me feel like a bird on a perch. I avoid looking down at the stage below me. Instead, I focus on the enormous painting of dark red stage curtains blocking the backstage area from sight. The tassels and braids look so real from here.
"It is lovely, isn't it?" he says, sitting across from me. "Go on. Make yourself comfortable." I turn myself slightly, so I can see the hall leading out. I clasp my hands together tight enough that the tips of my fingers begin turning red.
"Sure." How am I supposed to make myself comfortable when I feel like one little push could send me tumbling over the ledge? Maybe that's the whole point?
"Now, I know what you're thinking, Poppy," he begins.
"People are never what they appear to be?" I snidely chime in.
"You're wondering why you were brought here," he continues.
"Among other things." I glance into the hallway, surprised that Hugo hasn't joined us by now. He must still be huffing and puffing on the staircase. "Like why the hell are you working with a meathead like Hugo?"
"I did what was necessary, but unfortunately we have differing views on how this situation should be handled."
"Don't tell me you're Olivia's distant uncle twice removed," I respond. I shake my head. All this trouble for a spoiled socialite when women like Cira are being stepped on and taken advantage of. "Please, don't say you're her Godfather. This is all too much for a Sunday afternoon."
"Olivia?" He wrinkles his nose. "No, I'm not any of those things."
"Then why would you care about covering up her…" I stop, remembering the very reason that made Hugo turn psycho. The very reason he was prepared to let me take the fall for Sam's murder or kill me. Or both.
Dovington Manor will forever be a stain in my memory. Like that devilish spot of red wine from last year's Christmas party that won't go away. Ever. Sure, you end up laughing about it later, but not until much, much later.
The first conversation I ever had with Detective Casey he mentioned something that I overlooked until now. Something that slowly makes this disaster of a day more clear. Of course, it would take more than a hefty businessman with connections to murder a man like Lord Samuel Dovington and get away with it. Even catering his wedding was a complicated ordeal. It was a group effort.
Sam's rocky fate was a group effort.
"You do ask a lot of questions," De
tective Casey points out.
So far my curiosity has done nothing but attract trouble. I wish I had an off switch for things like that. I glance out at the theater, formulating my words carefully before I say them out loud.
"You have a daughter," I say quietly. "You mentioned her once. The first time we spoke. You said you just want what's best for her, remember?"
Detective Casey looks stunned at first. He leans back in his chair, suddenly very interested in the color of the floor and shininess of his shoes. But then he rubs his eyes and looks at me. His smile lines are saggy, the whites of his eyes are dull, and he hunches his shoulders forward. He looks tired. Worn out and absolutely exhausted.
"I see there's no fooling you anymore," he replies. He speaks quietly. More like an elderly man than a prestigious detective. "Yes, I do have a daughter. I love her dearly."
"But…"
"But as you get older Poppy, you'll find that there's more gray in this world than you realize." He takes a minute to clear his throat. "Black and white doesn't exist for me anymore."
"What happened to her?" I ask. "Your daughter, I mean."
"Lord Dovington preyed on her the same way he did the others, though in young Olive's case he used force rather than charm." He looks down again, blinking repeatedly to keep his eyes from watering. "She's my only daughter. I had to do something."
"So you decided to deliver justice to his doorstep."
"Thus my obsession with the Dovington's began." He nods, glancing over his shoulder to make sure we're still alone. "I landed myself on the family's radar by catching a former gardener who ran off with family jewels. Samuel's mother kept me in her back pocket after that."
"How did you meet Hugo?"
"I started tracking Samuel's every move," he answers. "I knew about the affairs before Olivia herself figured it out. Then when she finally put the pieces together that Samuel was seeing Cira again, she went running to her father. Hugo Biven might be a successful, wealthy entrepreneur, but he does have a shady reputation. When I learned he had contacted Cira, I knew what he was planning."
"So that's when you approached him and said you wanted in?" I guess. I scoot closer to the edge of my seat, hoping he'll continue.
"Yes," he admits. "Hugo wanted to destroy the Dovingtons completely. The plan was to take half of the estate as well by killing Lord Dovington after the wedding."
My chest pounds. I blur out the rest of the room and focus solely on Detective Casey's face. The more he confesses, the easier it is for him to spit out the truth. I clench my hands into fists, digging my nails into my palm as I wait impatiently to hear what really happened that day.
"How?"
"A car crash," he says in almost a whisper. "Cira agreed to slip something into his evening tea. He was planning on a midnight celebratory drink at the pub, you see."
"A much better plan," I comment.
"But then Olivia let her temper get the best of her," the Detective goes on. "Cira went out into the garden that day. I suspect she wanted one last look at the man who ripped her life to shreds before sending him to a fiery grave. But she must have gotten too close. Close enough to be recognized."
"And Olivia went mental," I chime in.
"She was already outrageously upset that a clan of Samuel's former conquests had shown up to embarrass her on her big day. When she spotted him conversing with yet another ex-lover, she decided to intervene."
"So she pushed him over a cliff." I wait to see if I'm right.
"I believe her last words to him were something along the lines of if you're going to dip your finger in every honey pot, then eat this." He scratches the side of his head.
"Is that what Cira told you?"
"No," he answers. "It's what I heard. I didn't show up after the murder. I was a wedding guest."
My stomach leaps in place.
"I never noticed you," I admit. "But I was busy with the dessert. So you saw the whole thing?"
"My dear." He sighs and lets out a short chuckle. "I am the whole thing." He takes a moment to collect his thoughts. "I stepped in when Olivia shoved that diamond trinket in Samuel's mouth. She was on the brink of ruining it all. From making it look like anything but an accident. I intervened, and in an attempt to separate both Cira and Olivia from a similar fate, I pushed him."
"You?" I gasp.
"Something horrid came over me," he says quietly. "Samuel stumbled, and in that brief moment I saw in him my daughter's pain—all the suffering he'd caused her. And he didn't feel an ounce of guilt. So I helped him along." He takes a deep breath. "One firm push was all it took."
"But your plan?" I ask. "Why not carry out the plan?"
"I let my emotions get the better of me," he answers. "As did all of us that day. We decided to carry on as usual. Of course Lady Dovington had me on the investigation straight away. Meanwhile, Hugo was putting another plan into place to frame someone for the killing. One unlucky pastry intern."
"Me?" I place a hand on my chest.
"Framing you was not my idea, Poppy, but Hugo will do anything to keep this quiet."
"Apparently, stealing your necklace wasn't enough," a voice barks from the hallway. Hugo steps out of the shadows with his bald-headed sidekick. "I thought we agreed never to speak of this, Casey." He glares at his crumbling partner. Detective Casey quickly changes his demeanor, embracing once again the aura of a confident, sly, seasoned detective.
"She was inches from figuring it out anyway," he defends me.
"Not if she was dead," Hugo bluntly adds.
"Hugo," Detective Casey scolds him. "I told you. One man. That's it. I don't care to repeat the act I've committed. Now, control your temper." He clenches his jaw, staring Hugo in the eyes.
"My temper?" Hugo throws his head back and laughs. "You're criticizing my temper? Your temper is what got us here in the first place." His voice echoes through the auditorium like a plane screeching through a canyon. "Why can't anyone keep their mouths shut?" He looks to his right-hand man who opens his mouth to answer. "Don't answer that," Hugo mutters.
"It was an accident," the Detective insists.
"That was no accident," Hugo argues. "You preach about justice and morality, but you're no different from me, Detective. There's a demon lurking behind those eyes. I can see him." The Detective's face turns scarlet as he raises his fists in protest. Hugo lifts his chin, looking down on his measly opponent like he could take him out with a fly swatter.
"I wouldn't have had to if Olivia wasn't so careless," he shouts back. "I told you to let the boy take the fall. There was no reason for you to come all the way to Paris to steal Poppy's diamond. Greg's thievery would have been plenty to prove that Olivia's necklace could have been anyone's."
"I did what I had to do to tie up loose ends." Hugo takes a step forward. "It would have come out that Billie and her band of blondes hired him to steal Olivia's wedding band anyway. That's his only offense."
"I should've handled this matter on my own," Detective Casey says, taking a step back. "I knew you'd go behind my back and bury us for what we did."
"This ends now," Hugo firmly replies. He bursts forward and grabs the Detective by the collar of his shirt. Detective Casey is ready for him. He reaches for Hugo's neck, wrapping his hands around it like it's a thick nut loaf.
I jump to my feet, watching in horror as the Detective squeezes Hugo's neck until he wheezes—desperately trying to suck in as much air as he can. The two of them stumble closer to the edge, knocking chairs and shouting as they both fight for dominance over the other.
The bald-headed man steps in to save Hugo. He grabs the Detective's wrists with his fists and forces him to release his death grip. Hugo gasps for air, clutching the front of his neck.
But the Detective lunges for him again.
There's fury in his eyes—an unquenchable rage.
The bald-headed man smirks as he quickly bends down and grabs the Detective's calf. With one smooth upward motion, he tosses him over the railing. I
feel like there's a fire blazing in my throat as I watch his body whip through the air like a kitchen towel being tossed in the laundry.
The Detective screams as he claws at the swirly carvings on the railing for a place to hang onto. My chest is pounding so rapidly that I have to forces myself to peer over the edge. I take a few steps to the side and see the Detective dangling for dear life. His head is facing up toward the ceiling, and his eyes are wrinkled.
The bald-headed man takes out his handgun and aims it at his dangling opponent. Hugo smiles and promptly gives his hired muscle an approving nod. A rush of adrenaline pulses through my extremities when I realize what's about to happen.
I'm about to witness a murder.
And then it'll be my turn.
"Stop!" I shout.
The bald-headed man turns toward me, but I'm already running at him.
This isn't going to end well.
I focus on his gun and nothing else. I dive for it, using all the muscles in my legs and abdomen to leap into the air the way I used to for jeté jumps. I slam into my target's beefy bicep and send him backwards over a chair. His arm flies up—barrel aiming at the ceiling. A bullet fires into the auditorium. The skyward metal makes the bronze and crystal chandelier in the center of the theater shake.
Grab it, Poppy. Take the gun!
It's like I'm watching myself act out a scene from a play. Hugo and his thick sidekick cover their ears when the shot rings through the room. The heart-stopping noise jolts me toward the one thing in the booth I need to survive.
I grab the gun and steady my footing.
How do I even use this thing?
I aim it at Hugo first, holding it like I've seen cops do on TV. I carefully glance over the edge at the struggling Detective. He's taking deep breaths and trying to keep a tight hold on the decorative railing. I gulp.