“You and me both, my dear.” But she moved slowly, acknowledging the reality of the concern. Satisfied that she would be as careful as she could, I slung my camera bag over my shoulder, hiked up my dress with one hand, and together, we headed inside.
I pulled open the door to the convention center, ushering Mrs. Branford in ahead of me. I’d scoped out the ballroom the week before so I knew exactly where I was going. Impatience crawled through me, but I kept my pace slow so Mrs. Branford could keep up. Once we were in the ballroom, she had committee details to take care of. She’d go her way and I’d go mine.
Each room in the facility was named after a California locale. From the Redwood Forest to Palm Desert to Half Moon Bay, the rooms represented the vast beauty of the state. We stopped in front of the San Francisco Bay room, but as I reached for the handle, the door wrenched open. I stumbled back and my camera bag slipped from my shoulder. I tried to catch the strap in the crook of my arm, but my ankle buckled and I lost my balance.
“Ivy!” The moment slowed and Mrs. Branford’s voice sounded far away. I thrust my arm out to try to catch myself, but too late. Just when I thought I was going down, a hand gripped my upper arm. One second I was nearly sprawled out on the corporate carpeted floor, the next I was yanked upright like a rag doll. My feet sought purchase, but they couldn’t find the ground. The hand around my arm tightened, and another hand found my hip and held tight. “You’re good,” Miguel said. He deftly slipped the camera bag from the crook of my arm, all the while holding on to me until I could regain my balance.
I brushed the front of my dress down, tried to pat my spiraled curls back into place, and looked sheepishly at both Miguel and Mrs. Branford.
“Your knight in shining armor,” she said under her breath.
I glared at her. I was not a damsel in distress, and the last thing I wanted—or needed—was a man—even Miguel—to rescue me. Still, I was certainly glad he’d caught me before I’d crashed to the ground.
Miguel placed his hands on my shoulders. “You okay?”
I waved away the concern etched on his face. “Completely fine,” I said, although my ankle was sore and I wondered if I was going to make it through the evening. I loved the opportunity to dress up, but three-inch heels, which were on the conservative side for many, were extreme for me and not my normal footwear.
He leaned into me, brushing his lips lightly against my cheek. “You look beautiful.”
I felt a touch of heat in my cheeks. He looked pretty dashing himself in a cream-colored guayabera, a black sport coat, and slacks. “You’re quite the pair,” Mrs. Branford said, “but if you’re done . . . People to see, things to do, a murder to solve.”
“Mrs. Branford,” I scolded, but she’d said enough for Miguel to pull back and give me a side-eye.
“A what to what?” he asked, his question directed to Mrs. Branford, not to me.
Mrs. Branford gave him the look I’m sure she’d given to a thousand teenagers over the years. “Come now, Miguel. You know our Ivy well enough to understand that she’s not sleeping, she’s hardly eating, and she’s worried sick about Billy.”
I stared at her, marveling at her sixth sense, but signaling to her with my eyes to stop.
Instead she shook her head, this time at us both. “My goodness. I have spent eight and a half decades on this planet, at least five of them in direct contact with teenagers. One of my greatest strengths as a teacher was not to actually instruct, but to observe. To watch, listen, and learn. By doing those three things, I armed myself with everything I needed to reach them. It’s the same with you two. I watch. I listen. And I learn.”
I started to speak, but she held up one gnarled finger and shushed me. “The older I get, the less sleep I need. Which means I spend far too many hours in my parlor reading or knitting or trying to teach myself to crochet. You wouldn’t think that would be so difficult, but I find it horribly so.” She fluttered her hand in front of her. “But I digress. From the vantage point of my sofa, I can see the front of your house. Which means I know when you turn your lights off at night, and when you alight in the morning.”
If it were anybody other than Mrs. Branford recounting her spying activities, with me as the focus of her scrutiny, I would have been incredibly freaked out. But instead, I was mildly amused. I suspected that she knew everything about everyone on Maple Street—and that they wouldn’t be nearly as interested in her deductions as I was.
She seemed to have forgotten her urgency to enter the ballroom. I wanted to get in there, too, but I suspected that learning about Mrs. Branford’s skills of deduction would come in handy. “What else have you observed?”
“I know you are not sleeping the number of hours you should,” she said, basking in the glow of our attention. “I know that you’ve already lost five pounds—maybe more—since Max’s death. And these things tell me that Billy coming under scrutiny is not only taking its toll on him, but it’s wearing you down, as well.”
Miguel placed his hands on my shoulders, looking into my eyes. “She’s right, Ivy. You’re no good to Billy if you don’t take care of yourself.”
“I’m fine,” I said.
“You’re not fine.” We’d gone from high school sweethearts to a brand-new relationship in progress. Not long ago, he’d told me he was all in. Looking at the concern etched on his face now, I believed him.
“Let’s go,” I said, reaching past them both and pulling open the door to the ballroom. I crossed the threshold, knowing they’d be right behind me. Just inside, we all came to a stop. The room had been transformed from a plain, unadorned space to a retrospective of Santa Sofia’s Art Car Shows over the years. The committee had to have spent an inordinate amount of money recreating—or disassembling and reassembling—winning entries from the past. All along the perimeter of the vast room, the front halves of cars emerged from the walls as if they’d driven right through but had gotten stuck halfway.
Mrs. Branford nodded her approval. “Perfect.”
“How did they do that?” I asked in awe, but she just shrugged.
“I don’t know. It was Max’s idea, actually. He hired a crew to make it happen.”
From what I knew of Max, prior to talking to Vanessa Rose, self-interest had been the driving force behind many of his actions, which meant these were all of his cars on display. Excluding the wall behind us with the two double-door entrances to the room, the main walls held three cars each. Correction, three half cars each.
“At his own expense?” Miguel asked, taking the words straight from my mouth.
“Entirely. The committee told him in no uncertain terms that we could not even begin to take that on. He said no problem, that he’d take care of it himself as long as we approved the idea. To which, of course, we said yes. It meant less outlay for us in the decorating department.”
“Penelope!” Someone from across the room waved at us, beckoning Mrs. Branford. “Oh my goodness, I’m so glad you’re here! We need your thoughts.”
“Be right there,” she called, waving her hand at the woman. She looked at Miguel and me, dropped her voice a level, and winked. “I don’t know what they’d do without me.” She was clearly pleased, though, her smile curving her lips up contentedly as she sauntered off, swinging her cane.
“I don’t know what I’d do without her,” I said to Miguel. I talked to her on the phone several times a day, saw her at least once a day, and just knowing she was across the street from me kept me grounded.
Miguel wrapped his arm around my shoulders. “She’s like a cat with nine lives. That woman isn’t going anywhere.”
That was the truth. Penelope Branford might just outlive us all.
I limped slightly, grimacing at the arch in my ankle. Ironic that I was the one hurt after working so hard to make sure Mrs. Branford wasn’t. Miguel kept his hand on the small of my back. His touch sent an electric charge up my spine, but I was here to work. There was no telling where any bit of information might lead to in my e
ffort to help free Billy from suspicion.
We circled the room, looking at each of the cars on display. I wished they held some message—some clue as to who else had a beef with him. But, of course, they didn’t. They were just cars. Plaques hung on the wall next to each installment with Max’s name emblazoned across the top of the engraved brass sheet and the year that particular art car had won. Alongside the wood and brass plates was a series of framed pictures from the corresponding year. In each, Max was in the driver’s seat, a smug look on his face as if his winning was inevitable. In every single picture, a woman—the girlfriend du jour—sat in the copilot seat. Some smiled, some were serious, but the one thing that stood out to me was their age. I’d learned from Emmaline that Max had been fifty-six, but every single one of the girls in question looked to be a good ten years—or more—younger than him. Plenty of women hadn’t seemed to care about the age difference.
“I need to document these cars before the event starts and the people come,” I said after we’d made one entire loop.
I reached for my camera bag, but Miguel shook his head. “I got it,” he said, holding on to the case as I retrieved my Canon. Once the bag was zipped up again, he slung the strap over his shoulder and walked with me.
“You’re the perfect assistant,” I said.
He gave a slightly salacious smile. “I have many untold talents.”
“I just bet you do,” I said, lifting one eyebrow.
He wrapped his arm around me, pulling me close. “I’ll show you, one by one by one.”
My feet came to a standstill. In my heels, I could look at him eye to eye. And meet him lips to lips. I could imagine his many talents. I wanted to imagine them. Hell, I wanted to experience them. But not yet.
He seemed to read my mind. Or my face. He dropped his hand from my waist, interlacing his fingers with mine. “I’m all in, Ivy, remember?”
I nodded, squeezing my hand around his. “I know.”
His gaze intensified. “Are you?”
And then some. “I am.”
He flashed that crooked grin of his and nodded. “Good.”
He stayed by my side as I retraced our steps to photograph the plaques, the pictures, and the corresponding cars. I shot from different angles, looking for artistic composition to complement the artistic nature of the cars themselves. At one point, I managed to crouch down, shooting one of Max’s past creations from the bottom looking up to capture the feeling of being under the sea.
“This is why I don’t wear high heels very often,” I said, needing to take Miguel’s proffered hand to stand up again.
Before he could respond to that with some witty remark, the distinct sound of something breakable hitting the ground came from behind us followed by a sharp “Shit!”
We turned to see a young man dressed in black slacks and a white dress shirt swiftly picking up shards of a white plate. Another server hurried to him with a broom and dustpan. In less than two minutes, it was cleaned up. As they stood to leave, a small group of people entered through the same double doors we had. Emmaline, with the tight spiraled curls of her black hair, her porcelain-like cocoa skin, and the sharp angle of her jawline giving her face a heart shape. Her cream dress was elegant, and with her shoulders thrown back and her confident stride, she looked like a movie star on the red carpet. She laced her arm through Billy’s, who looked dapper in a dark suit. From their expressions, neither one looked particularly glad to be here, but they came into the ballroom, stopping as they saw all of Max’s cars on display.
“Look,” Miguel said, lightly touching the back of my arm. I turned, then sighed with dismay. Sheriff Lane and one of his deputies had slipped in without my noticing and stood tucked in the shadows of a back corner. Their attention was firmly rooted on Emmaline and Billy, who had started the slow promenade around the room to look at each car. “He’s determined,” I said, hoping the sheriff didn’t have some grandiose plan of arresting Billy and making a spectacle in the middle of the event.
Miguel and I stopped at one of the three hors d’oeuvres tables set up along the west side of the room. Mrs. Branford was nowhere to be seen, but while Miguel and I had been circling the room, Olaya and her crew had started setting up their portion of the buffet tables. For this particular event, The Fish Market had prepared carrot and tuna bites, smoked salmon on chunky slices of cucumber and garnished with sprigs of dill, thinly baked potato pancakes topped with gravlax and Dijon mustard and dill, seared scallops wrapped in prosciutto, and lobster salad to accompany Olaya’s mini sourdough boules. Yeast of Eden had also supplied bruschetta for The Fish Market’s tuna salad, and thin slices of toasted French bread for a hot crab dip and herbed shrimp dip. If I had any sort of an appetite, I’d have one of everything.
Olaya and the head chef of The Fish Market, Walter Jessup, stood to one side, evaluating their creations. Miguel gave a low whistle. “Looks pretty damn good.”
Walter had one arm folded across his chest, stroking his chin with his other hand. “I agree.”
But Olaya narrowed her eyes, stood back, and cocked her head. And then, as if she’d had some great epiphany, she launched into action, building more height by adding boxes on top of boxes, draping cloth, tulle, and burlap over them, and then rearranging platters. I snapped a few pictures of her as she worked. She was an artist in the kitchen and with her bread, but she was also an artist in her presentation. I wanted to document all of it.
Finally, she stepped back, looking satisfied. Miguel, Walter, and I looked at each other, then at her. She gave a final nod. “Listo,” she said.
I crouched down again, taking pictures from interesting angles to capture the pink of the salmon and the contrasting green of the dill, the golden crust of the sourdough boules, and every other little detail Olaya and Walter had put into their food.
Through it all, I kept an eye on Billy and Em as they worked their way slowly around the room, as well as the sheriff and deputy. They hadn’t moved from their spot in the corner. At least the sheriff had turned toward the door rather than burning a hole in Billy’s back with the intensity of his earlier stare. I watched him as he watched the townspeople begin to spill into the ballroom. Just like he’d been at the hangar, he seemed to be studying each and every person, gauging the likelihood that any given one of them could have murdered Max Litman.
I turned my attention to them, listening to the cacophony of their chatter. The pall that had been like a dark cloud over the crowd at the parade had given way to excitement. It filled the air like the aroma of baking bread steaming from an open oven door, wafting through the room until every corner was infused with it. The women’s dresses glittered. The men’s sleek coats dazzled. The Art Car Show and Ball was an opportunity for the people of our quaint beach town to sparkle, and they were doing it magnificently.
“No one holds a candle to you,” Miguel said, his voice low, his breath warm on my ear.
I leaned into him coquettishly, but only for a moment, because from across the room, I spotted someone I hadn’t expected to be here.
Vanessa Rose.
* * *
Each time I’d seen the spiritual advisor, she put on an entirely different persona, as if she were donning a different hat. First, she’d been frazzled and acting as if she had secrets to hide. Then she’d been an earthy fortune-teller. Now she was doe-eyed and innocent, yet a knockout in her low-cut and form-fitting dress.
“That’s Vanessa Rose,” I said to Miguel.
“The life coach slash spiritual advisor?” he asked, following my gaze.
“The same.”
“Did you know she’d be here?”
I quickly schooled my expression. “I didn’t, although I guess I’m not surprised.”
“Maybe she’d been planning on coming with Max?”
That was quite possible, actually. Not for the first time, I wondered how their relationship had evolved over the time they’d known each other. I didn’t have any inkling of what her motive might be,
but I revisited the idea that Vanessa could have killed Max.
I caught a glimpse of the sheriff. He’d moved to a different location. Even in civilian clothes, he looked like the law. He rocked back on his heels, his arms folded over his chest. Body language spoke volumes. He wasn’t interested in talking to anyone. His stance and his scowl ensured that no one would approach him.
But then a man did approach him. I couldn’t see him well, but I placed him in his early sixties, dark but thinning hair, and a thin frame. The man said something to Lane, who shook his head sharply, and as if he’d been shamed, the man slunk away.
I made a split-second decision, handing my camera to Miguel. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you—”
But with the music and constant chatter, I was already out of earshot. I ignored the dull ache in my ankle, kept my head up, shoulders back, and my stride confident.
Up close I noticed that Sheriff Lane’s scowl carved the vertical lines between his eyebrows into deep crevices, and his lips were pulled into a thin line. Definitely unapproachable. But his “don’t even think about coming near me” stance wasn’t going to deter me.
“Sheriff,” I said, coming up to him.
He acknowledged me with a single nod and a frown. “Ms. Culpepper.”
I didn’t waste any time with pleasantries. “Look, I know you think Billy killed Max, but he didn’t. There are plenty of people with motives.”
I had his full attention now. “Is that right?”
“It is.”
“I’ve heard about your detectiving prowess,” he said.
I heard the faint mocking tone, but chose to ignore it. I also chose not to downplay the two murders—three if you counted my mother—I’d had a hand in solving. “That’s right. Which is why I think you should listen to me.”
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