“It’s nice to meet you, Hayden.” Her voice was husky, tinged with millennial vocal fry. “Danny talks about you a lot.”
The man in question scowled. “I wouldn’t say ‘a lot.’”
Tansy gave him a teasing smile. “I would.” She turned to me again, her expression sobering. “Did you really find—”
I nodded before she could finish. I didn’t want to relive the moments when I’d discovered the wassail-splattered woman.
Tansy understood. “It’s awful. So awful,” she told me in a low voice. “I mean, I can’t say it’s surprising, exactly, but—”
A warning look from Danny cut her off midsentence.
I glanced from my bodyguard pal to the woman I surmised was his . . . client? I wondered what was up. “Is it Albany Sullivan?”
They both looked at me as though I were crazy to think so.
I didn’t understand. Not even as Danny shook his head to confirm it wasn’t Albany. He turned his attention to the hubbub going on nearby, his body language even more guarded than usual.
But then, Danny often has a bad attitude, especially when it comes to authority figures. Growing up tough in a gritty, wrong-side-of-the-tracks neighborhood in L.A.—and then falling into (temporary) criminal behavior—will do that to a person. Danny was reformed now, but getting there had taken a while.
“It’s Melissa Balthasar,” Tansy volunteered somberly. “One of Christmas in Crazytown’s producers. Roger is the other one.”
With a nudge of her perfect chin, she indicated the disheveled, silver-haired man who’d crumpled beside the body.
I examined him more closely. “Is he her father?”
Tansy’s laughter pealed out, vibrant and inappropriate. Several people turned to glance at us, full of disapproval or curiosity or both. But I was too busy gawping at her to care.
I’d recognized her at last. The “Tansy” to whom Danny had introduced me so casually was, in actual fact, Tansy Park, world-famous sitcom star and bodacious breakout sex symbol.
Without her customary big blond waves, lipsticked smile, and barely there wardrobe (the better to showcase her famous bikini body), Tansy seemed like a different person altogether.
Until she laughed, that is. Her hooting laughter was unique. Everyone in the world has heard her inimitable guffaw.
Tansy’s laughter might have been the most endearing thing about her. Or it would have been, under other circumstances. As it was, poor Tansy seemed shamefaced by her lapse in decorum.
Shoulders slumping, she turned away. Danny saw and kindly squeezed her hand, even though comfort wasn’t on his list of security services, slated next to surveillance and ass kicking.
“He’s her husband,” Danny informed me. “Where I come from, the two of them are a legit power couple. Without Melissa, Albany’s memoir—and the show in Sproutes—wouldn’t be happening.”
I frowned. “But Roger has to be fifty, at least. And Melissa—” I broke off, trying to estimate her age. I couldn’t.
I felt too haunted by the memory of her pale, waxy face.
“She’d just turned twenty-six,” Danny said. “I compiled security dossiers on everyone involved in the production.”
Tansy nodded in agreement. I estimated her own age at around the same. But the bombshell sitcom actress was alive and vibrant. Melissa Balthasar wasn’t. Never would be again.
She’d been younger than I was, it struck me. Awful.
“You want them?” Danny’s voice intruded on my thoughts.
I refocused. “Your dossiers? No, thanks. I’m not going to—”
“Investigate this time,” was what came next. But I was brought up short by the appearance of another brunette. I caught sight of her as she wandered inside and down the hallway, like a ghost.
Maybe she was a ghost. Because, with an eerie sense of déjà vu, I thought I recognized her. She looked like Albany. Again.
My staring gave me away. Danny and Tansy followed my gaze to the fourth Albany Sullivan mirror image I’d seen that night.
“Albany’s sister, Ophelia Sullivan,” Danny supplied. His perceptive gaze caught mine. “I know what you’re thinking.”
He couldn’t possibly. Because what I was thinking was preposterous. We didn’t even know for sure if a murder had been committed at the B&B that night. Not technically. Not yet.
All the same, I couldn’t help wondering, If the worst had happened, which Albany look-alike had been the intended victim?
I glanced toward Travis. In his arms, Albany didn’t much resemble the self-assured, wisecracking media darling she’d been while making the rounds to publicize her “almost memoir.” In the wake of Melissa’s death, Albany appeared scared. Sad. Confused.
Her distress seemed genuine. I couldn’t help feeling moved.
“You’re thinking that Melissa Balthasar might have been murdered,” Danny forged on bluntly, clearly startling Tansy. “You’re noticing that she wasn’t the only tall, skinny brunette around here. You’re wondering if someone meant to kill Melissa . . .”
“Or if someone else—a look-alike—was the target,” I finished. “Yeah. Pretty much.” I couldn’t help analyzing the situation. Blame the tumultuous months I’d spent mixed up in murders. I was different now. Danny, my closest friend, knew it.
“No!” Tansy squeaked with alarm. She clutched Danny’s bulging bare biceps, drawing my attention to his brawny bod.
I wondered if the two of them were lovers. Then I dismissed the thought. Danny had his faults. Mixing business with pleasure wasn’t one of them. If he’d been hired as Tansy’s bodyguard, then he wouldn’t be sleeping with her, too. Maybe afterward . . .
“You don’t really think this was murder, do you?” Tansy asked, her beautiful eyes wide. It was difficult not to stare at her. “I mean, Zach’s B&B is a really nice place. Surely no one would bust in here and actually kill Melissa, just like that.”
I remembered her earlier comment that the producer’s death hadn’t been exactly surprising. Also, the significant look Danny had employed to cut her off. There was something going on here.
But no matter what Danny surmised, I didn’t plan on sleuthing this time. I’d had enough of murder and misdeeds—of immersing myself, however reluctantly, in the grim side of life.
I intended to remain on the sunny side of the street from now on. See, when it comes down to it, I’m not cut out for dwelling on disaster. To prove it, sometimes, Danny and Travis give me a hard time for being what they call “a soft touch.” For being too trusting. For liking (almost) everyone I meet. But I can’t help it. Most people are good—or well intentioned, I reminded myself then. A surprising number of people help in a crisis; even more make ordinary days special just by existing.
Who wouldn’t want to lean on that? I did. So I did.
Occasionally, I point out to my cynical security-expert pal and his brainy (sometime) adversary, Travis, that while I might consider multiple suspects while sleuthing, only one is guilty. That means I’m necessarily suspecting innocent people. I don’t want to get too carried away being antagonistic toward them all.
“If someone did commit a murder, the police will find out,” I reassured Tansy in what I hoped was a heartening tone.
As I watched the proceedings in the dining room, though, I had my doubts. So far, the police hadn’t been especially useful in the murder investigations I’d been involved in. But there was a first time for everything, right? I’d been told to stay put so my statement could be taken. Yet no one had followed up with me. That delay bugged me. Shouldn’t I be interviewed before I forgot exactly what I’d witnessed? Wasn’t time of the essence?
Memory is a fallible thing, I knew. It shifts with time and circumstance, forming a spectrum of possibilities more than a verifiable truth. But still . . . I wished the Sproutes police were more proactive. Of all the officers there, someone could have taken my statement. For all they knew, I could ID the killer.
If there was one, I reminded myself. Th
at was far from an inevitability. Most likely, this was an unfortunate accident.
The grave expressions on the officers’ faces said it wasn’t.
Four potential Albanys. Four potential victims. Hmmm . . .
“Harvard said he was inviting you here.” Danny scattered my thoughts. His nickname for Travis, his onetime archenemy, almost made me smile. At least it was better than Captain Calculator, another of his favorites. Travis and Danny had cooperated a few times—notably, for my sake—but mostly, they competed with one another. Constantly. “I bet you weren’t expecting all this.”
“That’s for sure,” I agreed. Around us, the B and B’s guests were starting to return upstairs, looking hollow eyed and full of questions. So far, the police hadn’t offered any answers. “All I wanted were a few jingle bells, some candy canes, and maybe a chance to make a snow angel. Have you ever done that?”
Tansy nodded. On her, wistfulness looked totally gorgeous. Next to her, I felt about as glamorous as an unpaired mitten.
It was silly, but despite the seriousness of the situation, Tansy’s presence lent a certain surreality to the proceedings. She was such a tremendous star that her sitcom was aired worldwide, dubbed in multiple languages. No matter where I traveled, Tansy’s show could inevitably be found on the dial. I couldn’t really be standing beside her in the flesh, could I?
Sure, she’d changed her hair color and downplayed her glam persona. All the same, down-market Tansy was still Tansy.
Danny scoffed. “I’m from L.A., remember? If you want snow angels, you’d better ask your genius pal over there.” He aimed his chin toward Travis, then gave a cocky grin. “He probably has a formula all worked out, with the right angles and approach.”
I didn’t doubt it. We shared a smile. “I might do that.”
“If you’re looking for the best Christmas, though, I can hook you up,” Danny went on. “After things settle down, I mean.”
He was pretending, for my sake, that Melissa’s death had been an accident. I appreciated that. So I played along.
“What I’m looking for is an old-fashioned Friendsmas,” I told him. A holiday shared with friends instead of family (hence, the name Friendsmas) sounded pretty good to me. “If I’d known you were here, I could have given you time to plan.”
A shrug. “I don’t need time to plan. Stay ready. Don’t have to get ready.” Danny squared his shoulders. “You good? There’s nothing we can do here, and Tansy has rehearsals tomorrow. We should get back to our motel. We’re staying across town—”
“Danny!” Tansy looked alarmed. Her gaze darted at me.
“You can trust Hayden,” he promised.
The actress bit her lip, appearing hesitant. I wondered what she was afraid of. I wondered, too, why she’d hired Danny. So far away from Hollywood, a bodyguard seemed like overkill.
“You go.” I gave Danny a good-natured shove. “I’ll catch up with you later. I need to stick around to give a statement.”
After a few words of encouragement for me (and, let’s be real, some advice), Danny left the B&B with Tansy. That left me.
Alone. Watching the police. Waiting for my turn to give a statement. Which was when I noticed the man I now knew as Roger Balthasar crouched forlornly beside his fallen wife’s body. I felt for him. I truly did. Until I noticed, from my unique vantage point, that Roger was engaged in what appeared to be a tense conversation—negotiation?—with one of the Sproutes police officers.
I squinted, wondering what might be going on. But there was no mistaking Roger’s cajoling demeanor—or the effect it had on the listening police officer. A moment later, the officer stood.
“Looks like an accidental death to me,” he announced.
As though his speculation had been a signal, the evidence-gathering team slowed to a crawl. I stared at them in disbelief.
Had Roger Balthasar, influential producer, just made a deal to shut down the investigation into his wife’s untimely death?
It sure looked that way. I shook my head—and caught Travis doing the same thing. Our gazes met. His seemed almost pleading.
My keeper wanted me to intervene. Just the way I always did. He was afraid, as I was, that if this was a murder (always a big “if”), then Albany had been the killer’s true target.
I was afraid of the same thing. It didn’t require rocket science to recognize the potential significance of those four look-alike brunettes. But I was afraid of getting involved, too.
So far, I’d been fortunate enough not to be seriously hurt while engaging in amateur sleuthing. Any day now, however, my luck might run out. I didn’t want to become a victim myself.
You should probably know at this point that I’m a fairly tall, reasonably lanky brunette myself. While I don’t have a killer fashion sense, I do have shoulder-length dark hair and just enough of a passing resemblance to Albany to feel uneasy.
But there was no help for it. I was in. I had to be. If the police investigation was (maybe) corrupted—if there wasn’t going to be a legitimate inquiry—then someone had to help, right?
Someone in Sproutes was hiding a murderous Christmas secret—someone horrible enough to spoil the holiday season. I had to find out who. I had to do it before that person struck again . . . just in case they’d missed their target the first time.
If the killer had made a mistake, he’d realize it soon.
More than likely, he’d attempt to “fix” it. Also soon.
I gave Travis a subtle nod, then went to get started. With only a few weeks till Christmas, there was no time to lose.
Three
“I can’t believe the way you took charge last night!” Albany Sullivan said to me over breakfast the next morning.
She’d definitely regained her composure—probably thanks to Travis and his comforting company. In the bright light of day, in fact, Albany didn’t even seem to be grieving. Maybe she’d already processed her feelings about Melissa? Or maybe, despite working together, they hadn’t been close? It was possible that Albany was simply one of those look-on-the-bright-side types.
I hadn’t expected to see her when Travis and I met, sticking to our agreed-upon 7:00 a.m. hour despite the awful goings-on last night. But Albany had accompanied my advisor, showing up without explanation, as though I were the interloper here, and not her. Given the circumstances, I couldn’t complain. Besides, I wanted to know her better. Who was Albany Sullivan, really?
At the moment, she was someone who spoke her mind.
“Someone had to do it, though, right? That ‘investigation’ was a joke.” Albany made air quotes with her hands. She rolled her eyes. “I promise you, Hayden, if the chief of police had been there last night, everything would have been different.”
“That’s what everyone’s been telling me,” I said.
My B and B’s genial host, Zach Johnson, had made almost the same remark, beat for beat, after he’d shown me the way to the buffet this morning. Out of deference to last night’s dreadful events, the customary breakfast service had been moved from the dining room to the B and B’s cozy parlor. Travis, Albany, and I had chosen a table near the yule fire in the big brick fireplace.
A glance down the hall told me, however, that the dining room didn’t appear to be an official crime scene. Contrary to what you’d expect, based on movies and TV detective shows, the room hadn’t been cordoned off with police tape. It had instead been considerately closed with a red velvet rope hung across the entryway. The meaning of that was clear enough, I supposed. I was dismayed to have confirmed what I already feared: the police weren’t stringently investigating Melissa Balthasar’s death.
“Besides, I didn’t do anything all that remarkable,” I told Albany. I noticed her hand resting on Travis’s atop the snowy tablecloth. “It was time to give my statement, that’s all.”
Albany laughed. She clasped Travis’s hand, once, then released it to pick up her orange-cranberry-pecan muffin. As she gave that sweet a dubious look, she shook her head, sugge
sting she hadn’t changed her mind one iota. “You charged over to the head officer and demanded to give a statement. I saw you. That’s take-charge behavior. I admire that. You can’t wait for life to hand out what you want. You have to take it. Right, Trav?”
Trav. Her familiar shortening of his name brought me up short. I’d thought I was the only one who called him that—usually while employing my customary frisky phone greeting.
Tell me, Trav. What are you wearing right now?
It had become a ritual between us—an imaginary seduction in a make-believe relationship. It was fun, pretending to gear up for some spicy phone-call flirting. Especially with Travis, who was always so straitlaced with me. I thought my keeper enjoyed our repartee, too. But now that game of ours felt slightly less special. I frowned and forced my focus onto my own breakfast.
It was a double-chocolate chocolate-chip muffin, of course, which wasn’t as Christmassy as Albany’s choice. But when life hands you two options, I always say, go with chocolate.
“Absolutely,” my financial advisor agreed with Albany. He hadn’t chosen a muffin, but bacon and eggs instead (of course). His plate lay mostly ignored between his suit-clad forearms.
He looked nice. I wasn’t sure Travis owned anything except suits. Taking off his tie was about as casual as he ever got.
“That’s how Trav got admitted to Harvard. By taking what he wanted and never accepting no for an answer,” Albany confided. Her gaze traveled affectionately over his chiseled profile. “It wasn’t easy, but he stuck with it.” She squeezed his hand again.
I dropped my own gaze to that fond gesture. Seeing it, I felt . . . something. Jealous? Rivalrous? Impatient? Was this the way Danny and Travis felt when they competed with one another?
If so, I didn’t like it. I felt uncomfortable. Self-conscious. And I was distracted from finding out what those difficulties were that Travis had overcome, according to cooing Albany.
The Peppermint Mocha Murder Page 3