I couldn’t disagree with that, so I followed her through the door. “Where do we start?” I asked.
“Maybe with some chips and dip,” Scoots interjected from behind me.
“I meant where do we start with figuring out who killed Beau Lyons?”
Beverlee, who was already elbow-deep in Josie’s crisper drawer, pulled out jars of mayonnaise and roasted red peppers and smacked them onto the counter. She continued to rummage around until she found what she was searching for. “Aha,” she said, drawing an orange brick of cheese out of the refrigerator and holding it up in the air like a trophy. “Pimento cheese is brain food for the sophisticates among us.”
We stared at her, slack-jawed, as she rooted through the pantry until she found the foil-wrapped remnants of the baguette she had brought over a few days before. Then she started slicing and grating, mixing ingredients and mumbling to herself in incoherent sentence fragments accentuated by wild gesticulations with the knife.
I glanced at Scoots with wide eyes.
She shrugged. “Everybody’s genius works differently.”
Once she sliced and toasted the bread under the broiler, Beverlee topped each piece with a dollop of pimento cheese and arranged it on an acrylic tray she found in Josie’s cabinet.
She carried the tray out into the living room and placed it on the coffee table, then dropped back onto the sofa with a sigh. “Now I can think,” she said.
I sat next to her, careful to give her plenty of room if she needed to think with her knife again.
“Right now, Josie is the only suspect for the murder,” Beverlee said as she reached for a piece of bread. “So we need to search where they aren’t looking.”
She turned to me. “What did you find out tonight at the warehouse?”
“Not much. Just that Beau’s wife-to-be is also getting cozy with the hair guy.”
Scoots leaned forward. “Cozy like she was getting comforted by a dear friend during her time of despair? Or cozy like those pictures TMZ had of her doing the dirty in the food factory?”
“It seemed more like the second kind.”
“Interesting,” Scoots said with a smirk. “So her first man sold her out, another got murdered, and the last one likes to do her hair when he’s not skulking outside the warehouse in the dark?”
“That girl seems to know her way around a pickle,” Beverlee added with a bemused smile before taking another bite of bread.
I snickered. “She’s a real big dill.”
“But does that make her a killer?” Beverlee asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t get that feeling. She seemed to genuinely like Beau. And there was no way for her to guarantee she’d be able to stay on the show. By killing him, she was risking the possibility that she’d be sent home.”
“But if the hairstylist was in love with her, he might have killed Beau to get his competition out of the way,” Scoots said.
I made a note on the pad of paper Beverlee had left on the table earlier that day. First suspect: Rocco Sabatino.
It would be a shame if he was the killer. That kind of hair shouldn’t be wasted in prison.
“Speaking of competition,” Scoots added. “What about the other two? Jason and Hazel. If they killed Beau, their road to half a million dollars would be a lot smoother.”
I scribbled their names on the paper. “Let’s check into them. The more people we can investigate, the more likely we are to find the killer.”
“Who else would benefit from having Beau out of the way?” Scoots asked.
“There’s the new groom, Dan Nichols,” I said. “But he didn’t arrive until after the murder, so despite being an opportunistic scumbag, it probably wasn’t him.”
“He got here awfully fast for somebody that had to upend his entire life, though. Put him on the list.”
Beverlee tapped her finger on the table, her silver nail polish glistening under the living room lights. “So where do we start?”
“We need to figure out who these people really are,” I replied. “And to do that, we will have to catch them when they’re not on camera.”
“Most of them are staying at the Budget Inn near the bridge.” I cringed, realizing I had broken my confidentiality agreement again. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”
“Well, let’s go snoop around,” Beverlee said. “We’ll start in the obvious place, with Rocco the hairdresser.”
“It’s not that easy,” I responded. “They’ve hired extra security to keep both the paparazzi and the Flat Falls nosy brigade away. They were hiding in the dumpsters, trying to get scoop on the show before it goes live.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Beverlee said. “We’ll go over there together, and you can flash your employee badge to gain access. If that doesn’t work, I’ll flash something else.”
I fought not to groan when Beverlee reached into her shirt and fluffed up her cleavage. “Isn’t the point for us to be inconspicuous?”
Beverlee shuffled into her handbag and extracted a travel-sized aerosol can of hair spray, emptying it onto her bangs. “Glory, it’s not possible for me to be inconspicuous.”
Scoots thrashed her hand in front of her face to diminish the fumes. “When are you going to do this?”
I sighed. “They’re filming a location shoot at the beach tomorrow. I’m supposed to be planning the ceremony, so I don’t have to be there. Let’s stop by the motel then.”
Beverlee clapped twice. “Perfect. That will give me plenty of time to get my catsuit ready.”
When I knocked on Beverlee’s door the next morning, she was dressed from head to toe in black spandex. But to call it a catsuit was a bit too generous. Instead, it reminded me of a full-length Jazzercise leotard from the eighties. She was only missing neon green legwarmers and a Richard Simmons poster on her wall.
“That might be great for nighttime snooping, but don’t you think it’s a little bold for sneaking around today?” I asked.
“Will I be too distracting?” She ran her hand down the abundant curve of her hip.
I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so I bobbed my head up and down. “Yes, that’s it exactly. You could attract too much attention when we’re trying to fly under the radar.”
At least that part was the truth.
“I can see your point. Be right back.”
I released a deep breath and sat down at her table to await her to return.
A moment later, a harsh clunk near the sliding glass door made me bolt up from my chair.
Matilda, Beverlee’s favorite pet chicken, stared at me from the other side of the glass.
I acknowledged her with a quick wave.
She continued to stare, then rammed the door again.
“Beverlee,” I called out down the hall. “I think your chicken just head-butted the back door trying to get in here.”
“Well, let her in,” Beverlee responded with a sniff.
Matilda stood statue-still and watched me as I walked toward the door, but as soon as I flipped the latch and slid the glass aside, she sprang into action. With an excited squawk and a flurry of black feathers, she brushed past me into the kitchen and settled on a small footstool next to the counter.
“Check the cookie jar, too,” Beverlee replied. “I made her some energy bites this morning.”
With a grunt of displeasure, I tugged the lid off the chicken-shaped ceramic cookie jar and scooped out a sticky ball of seeds. I put one in my palm and offered it to Matilda.
She didn’t take the treat, but I could swear she rolled her beady eyes.
I was about to tattle on her, because even Beverlee wouldn’t tolerate poultry disrespect, but then my aunt strutted back into the kitchen. Instead of changing out of the catsuit, she had merely added accessories. A teal off-the-shoulder sweater stretched tightly across her chest. She had also wound a leopard-print fanny pack around her waist and changed her shoes from black kitten-heeled sandals to shiny gold sneakers.
A yelp es
caped my throat, and I clamped a hand over my lips to keep a string of profanity from slipping out.
Beverlee didn’t notice. Instead, she walked over and took the energy bite out of my hand and popped it into her mouth. She tossed a loving gaze toward Matilda. “It appears my girl isn’t a fan of honey,” she said, wiping crumbs from the front of her sweater.
“Did you just eat chicken food again?” I asked, nausea churning in my belly.
“She eats the same things we do, Glory,” Beverlee admonished. “Nuts and seeds, fruits, vegetables.”
“Her favorite food is sugar cookies, Beverlee.”
Beverlee grinned. “Oh, that reminds me. I made her some fresh apple butter turnovers a few days ago as a part of her training. She loves them. Pull them out from the fridge and help yourself to one while I grab my purse.”
Beverlee had always used food to show her love, but I wasn’t sure how Matilda the Chicken warranted the good stuff.
I opened the refrigerator. Compared to mine, which contained a tray of fast food hot sauce packets and an expired gallon of milk, Beverlee’s fridge was overflowing with colorful fruits, fresh vegetables, and enough foil-covered dishes to feed the entire high school football team three square meals a day for a week.
After I found the right dish and slid it onto the counter, Matilda trotted across the room and pecked my foot.
“Ow,” I said. “Be nice or I’ll let you starve.”
Matilda made a clucking noise I interpreted as an apology, so I peeled back the layer of foil. I lifted a turnover off the plate and held it out to her. She charged it with enthusiasm, nibbling off a small bite and running toward the door. Once she reached the glass, she sized me up like a puppy, waiting to see how quickly I responded to her demands.
“Fine,” I said, depositing the remaining pastry on the ground outside the door. Matilda left the house with a chipper swagger in her tiny steps.
The scent of sweet apples and cinnamon on my fingertips reminded me I hadn’t properly fueled for a morning of breaking and entering.
I hesitated, but my growling stomach talked me into grabbing one of the chicken snacks. I moaned as the sticky syrup hit my taste buds.
I snatched a second one and shoved it into my mouth before returning the plate to the refrigerator. A flash of shame that I had stooped to eating chicken food tugged at my brain, but the intense sugar buzz quickly overpowered it.
When Beverlee returned with her purse and a knowing smirk, I was more than ready to hit the trail to find a murderer.
11
Even though it sat on a piece of prime real estate only two blocks from the water, the Budget Inn lived up to its name. Run-down and dirty, it had been too good for the roaches long before I had known why a motel would rent rooms by the hour.
Its large sign was crooked and broken, like someone had thrown a baseball through it years ago. A used pizza box stating No Vacancy in red block letters hung from a single piece of duct tape from the bottom.
The Budget Inn had always been a hotspot for both vagrants and partiers. I shook my head as I remembered tasting my first sip of Carolina moonshine in Room 147 during Zoey Tremaine’s sweet sixteen party. Her parents had owned the place and apparently thought it was a good idea to let their only daughter have an unsupervised sleepover in one of the suites.
As I turned into the motel parking lot with Beverlee riding shotgun, we passed the Methodist Ladies’ Book Club, who had gathered on the street next to the motel with cameras and autograph pads. They squealed when they saw my car, but when they recognized me, they backed off in disappointment. I gave them a finger wave, while Beverlee shot daggers at them through the glass, disappointed they were stalking not-really famous people without her.
A gaggle of photographers had assembled near the driveway. Two of them were playing cards on a rickety folding table on the sidewalk between them. A third lingered in the shade under the bushes, red hair poking out from beneath a familiar black hoodie. Yet another sat cross-legged with his laptop on the grass, long legs extended like he was on a beach vacation instead of lurking in a cheap motel parking lot for signs of second-rate television stars.
Beverlee craned her neck to get a better look out the front window. “I thought you said it was a secret that the cast and crew were staying here.”
We came to a stop next to a man slumped in a folding metal chair, dark sunglasses covering his eyes. Unlike Jimbo, this security guard was squat and portly, the bald spot on his head almost reflective in the morning sun. I cranked the window down, and the guard hauled himself to his feet.
“I’m afraid there’s no vacancy at the motel today, ladies.” He said the words slowly as he planted his hands on the roof, making a quick perusal of the car like he was trying to figure out if we were a threat or if maybe we were carting around a buffet in the back. “And the parking lot has been reserved for a private party.”
“You don’t need to be so secretive, honey,” Beverlee said from the passenger seat. I looked over and caught her giving the man a wink. “We know what’s going on here. But my niece works for the show, so if you could let us through, we’ll be out of your way.”
“I’m not sure what show you’re referring to, ma’am.”
I leaned over to grab my purse, which was crammed next to Beverlee’s legs on the floorboard.
He stiffened and reached into the back of his waistband. After struggling for a moment, he finally produced a Taser, which he casually rested on the window frame.
Nobody wanted to get blasted this early in the morning, so I held up my hand. “Relax, John Wayne. I’m just getting my badge.”
After shuffling through the contents, I eventually found the ID, a laminated plastic card on a black lanyard. I dangled it out the window between my fingers.
He squinted at the card. His breath smelled like nicotine and spicy pork sausage, and bile rose in the back of my throat. “There’s nobody here,” he said. “They’ve all already left. They’re filming off-site today.”
I dropped the badge into my purse, finally able to suck in a gasp of fresh air. “That’s okay. I’m just here to deliver some paperwork.”
It took him a full minute before he shoved the Taser back in his pants, but he waved me through.
“Have a good day,” I said, but I pressed on the gas a little too hard and the car lurched forward a few feet. The guard jumped back like I had run over his foot.
“Your coworkers are nice,” Beverlee said, her eyes wide and hopeful.
I groaned. “We’re not here for you to fix me up with a second-string security guard who smells like the inside of a diner bathroom. We’re here to search through Rocco’s room.”
“How are we supposed to figure out his room number?” Scoots asked.
As we drove around the building to the registration office, I spotted a familiar rust-covered Chevelle. “I’ve got this. Some things never change.”
I strolled past the swimming pool, blanketed with a thick layer of green slime, and nudged open the metal door to the office. If time had been unkind to the exterior of the Budget Inn, it had skipped the office completely.
Dark wood paneling lined the walls, faded where the sun had reached through the glass every day for decades, and heavy brown curtains hid the windows that faced the pool deck. A tiny black-and-white television, its rabbit ears replaced by fragments of rusting metal coat hanger, showcased an infomercial for miracle disinfectant. A housefly buzzed around my head, then landed on the worn Formica counter next to a vintage adding machine.
I ran my finger over the counter and left a trail in the dust. Clearly, the Budget Inn didn’t buy their cleaning supplies from the TV.
When I hesitantly reached over and tapped the bell, a crisp, cheerful ring echoed through the empty room.
“Be right there,” a voice called from down the dark hallway.
While I waited, I flipped through a tourist brochure for a fried seafood restaurant I’m fairly sure went out of business around the time
Clinton left office.
A woman with frizzing hair the color of day-old mushrooms stepped into the room, her mouth full and half a glazed donut in her hand. “How can I help you?” she asked after she’d finished chewing.
“Hey, Zoey. Long time, no see.”
She slipped on a pair of rhinestone glasses from a tarnished chain around her neck and squinted toward me. “Glory Wells, is that you?”
“In the flesh,” I said, sweeping out my palms and giving her a quick curtsy.
She rounded the counter and wrapped me in a hug. As she passed, I got a whiff of lemon Pledge and powdered sugar. “I heard you came back to town with your tail between your legs,” she said with a wave down my body. “But you seem good. All fresh and relaxed-looking.”
“Um… thanks?” Shame fought its way up my cheeks, but I gave a quick shrug and swatted the fly away from my cheek. “Divorcing a jerk will do that to you.”
“Don’t I know it?” She let out a gravelly laugh that reminded me of her old Chevelle’s grinding gears. “Been there, done that. Three times, if you want the truth.”
With an abrupt zig-zag, Zoey reached behind her and withdrew a thick phone book, its edges yellowed and ripped, and smacked it on the counter next to me. “Got him,” she said. “That darn fly has been buzzing around here for a week.”
I tried not to gag as she scraped the book against the counter, the fly’s corpse dropping to the floor at my feet.
“Let that be a lesson to all your insect friends,” she said, brandishing the book in the air and pointing it toward the darkest corners of the room. “This is where bugs come to die.”
When she was finally satisfied that she had gotten her message across, she turned to me with a grin. “I know you didn’t venture all the way down here to watch me wage war on the Flat Falls bug population. So how can I help you?”
I took a deep breath. Zoey had seen me through more lies than most people, from skipping school to pocketing a pack of Big Red gum from the principal’s desk. What if she figured out I was here to cause trouble?
Tying the Knot (A Wedding Crashers Mystery Book 2) Page 10