by Penny Pike
I stared at J.C. as if he’d just admitted to pushing Polly Montgomery into the chocolate himself for ratings. Was reality TV coming to this—adding murder to the mix?
“The camera,” Detective Shelton said. His eyes narrowed at the young man. “Now, or I’ll arrest you for interfering with a homicide investigation.”
“Not without a court order,” J.C. said. “I know my rights.”
Detective Shelton turned to Jake. “Miller. Got any judges who owe you a favor?” Jake knew Detective Shelton from when he was an attorney and from the recent homicide investigation.
Jake nodded and opened his cell phone to make the call.
“I said I’d download it to your computer,” J.C. argued. “I just need a computer.”
“Dude,” Dillon said to him, “I’ve got my laptop in my mom’s car. You can download it now.”
“Awesome!” J.C. said.
“Is that okay, Detective?” Dillon asked Detective Shelton. He nodded. While Dillon and the detective weren’t exactly friends, Dillon had learned to trust the cop, which was something new for him, being a part-time hacker.
Detective Shelton nodded. “Hurry back,” he added. He checked his notes and then looked at Reina. “You said Ms. Montgomery was intoxicated.”
“Yes. I thought it best if she got some sleep before the event tomorrow. So I put her in a cab, gave the address to the cabdriver, and sent her home.”
“So how did she end up in there?”
“I have no idea,” Reina said. “Maybe she got out of the cab. Maybe she came back. Maybe someone brought her here. I don’t know.”
Detective Shelton thought for a few minutes, then said, “All right. So somehow Ms. Montgomery made it back here, went upstairs while you people were partying downstairs, climbed up onto the stage, leaned over the top of the vat, got knocked over by one of those mixer thingies, fell in, and drowned. Have I got that right?”
No one said anything. The whole idea sounded ludicrous. Yet what other explanation was there? Polly had been drunk. And falling into the vat was certainly possible.
The only other option was unthinkable. Someone had intentionally pushed her into that vat of hot chocolate.
Chapter 7
My imagination was running away with me, as usual. Of course, the last time that had happened when there was a dead body, my suspicions proved to be true. Statistically, the chances of Polly Montgomery’s death being deliberate were pretty slim. Still, I’d be curious to hear what Detective Shelton determined after his investigation.
After telling one of the officers to go downstairs and begin questioning the guests, the detective moved us to a small room adjacent to the ballroom, leaving the crime techs to do their work until the ME arrived. Dillon returned with his laptop and set it up for J.C. to use.
“I’ll be interviewing each of you,” he said, once we were assembled. “Ms. Patel, I’d like to talk to you first. The rest of you, please just sit quietly.”
Reina followed him to a table across the room, just out of listening range, leaving the rest of us sitting together at another table. Although I couldn’t hear what she said, I could see her twisting the tissue Aunt Abby had given her as she answered Detective Shelton’s questions. We sat in silence as J.C. downloaded his footage, Dillon texted on his cell phone, Aunt Abby tapped her finger on the table, and Jake frowned.
Ten minutes later, Reina returned to our table.
“Your turn,” she said to J.C.
The camera guy stood up, yanked down his ragged T-shirt, and smoothed back his wayward hair, as if preparing for a job interview. Grimacing, he picked up his camera and the laptop and headed over to where the detective sat waiting for him. Reina slipped into his seat.
As soon as J.C. was out of earshot, Aunt Abby turned to Reina and whispered, “Can’t you go?”
Reina shook her head. “Not until everyone is done. He said he may have more questions.”
“What did he ask? What did you tell him?” Aunt Abby asked her quietly.
“Nothing.” Reina shook her head, still twisting the tissue that was nearly shredded. “I can’t tell him anything because I don’t know anything about Polly’s death. Like I said earlier, I left her in a cab—she was nearly passed out—and the next thing I knew, she was floating in that vat of chocolate.” Polly shivered.
“What else?” Aunt Abby asked, eyes wide with interest.
“Quite, please!” Detective Shelton called from across the room.
Aunt Abby slunk down. She waited a few minutes, then whispered, “What else did you tell him?”
Reina stole a glance at the detective, who was concentrating on J.C.’s statement. She whispered, “I told him Polly had been drinking most of the night. Everyone knows she has a taste for wine . . . and beer . . . and scotch and whiskey and vodka.”
What, no cough syrup? I thought. Was Reina throwing poor Polly under the bus?
Reina seemed to read my mind—or was it my frown—and quickly added, “Not that her penchant for anything alcoholic is relevant, but the fact that she was intoxicated has to be the reason why she fell in.”
True, Polly had been bombed. But if she’d woken up from her drunken stupor and left the cab, why would she go into the upstairs ballroom and not return to the party? And what would possess her to lean into that vat of chocolate?
We sat quietly, contemplating our thoughts. After a few minutes, J.C. returned, his face flushed. He set his camera and the laptop on the table, then nodded to Dillon. “Thanks. I sent the footage over to his e-mail, so I can keep my camera. You saved me. I owe you.” He turned to Jake. “You’re up.”
Jake stood, glanced at me, and headed for the detective.
Once again, Aunt Abby began her own whispered third degree, leaning in to J.C. conspiratorially. “What did you say to Wes . . . I mean, Detective Shelton? Was there anything on your camera that showed what happened?”
J.C. shook his head. “Nope. Nothing. I saw what the rest of you saw, only through my camera lens, and now he’s got everything I have. But this stuff is going to be golden for the TV show.” He patted his camera.
“How so?” I asked. “All you’ve got is some party footage. You just said you don’t have anything showing Polly’s death—or do you?”
“No,” J.C. said. “But there’s still plenty of drama. And when it gets out that one of the judges died—especially the way she died—the ratings will be huge.”
I shook my head, disgusted at the videographer’s callousness about the tragedy. It was all about exploiting a woman’s death just to garner ratings.
“Quiet!” Detective Shelton commanded. “Don’t make me put each of you in isolation.”
Jake ambled over and tapped me on my shoulder.
I knew what that tap meant.
I stood up. “I don’t know why he wants to talk to me,” I said, “but here goes nothing.”
I joined the detective at the small table and sat across from him.
“Ms. Burnett,” he said in his low voice. “Nice to see you again.”
I doubted that. “I think you can call me Darcy, seeing as how you’re dating my aunt—don’t you think, Detective?”
He winced. “Darcy, then.” His facial expression softened, and he looked at me as if I’d lost a close relative, when I hardly knew the woman. I figured it was a trick he used to get people to relax and unburden themselves. I, however, had nothing to unburden. This was a colossal waste of time.
“Darcy,” he repeated, “did you see anything that might help clarify what happened to Polly Montgomery?”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Detective, but I didn’t see anything unusual. Yes, I was at the party and she was there, but it was a party like any other party. Lots of drinking, lots of flirting, a little drama when Polly Montgomery collapsed on the table and we all thought she was—” I stopped.
<
br /> “Dead?” the detective finished the sentence for me.
I shrugged. “But that time, it turned out she was just tipsy. Then Reina and J.C. took her away, and that’s the last I saw of her until . . .”
He nodded again. “Did you happen to notice what Ms. Montgomery did during the party—besides fall on the table? Who did she talk to? Did she have an argument with anyone? Did she slip off somewhere with another guest?”
I thought back, trying to remember what I could. “She was hard to miss in that red velvet dress and the rock the size of a chocolate truffle,” I said. “Plus, she was very flirtatious and outgoing.”
“Uh-huh.” The detective made a note in his notebook, then looked up at me, waiting for more.
“Umm, she seemed to talk to just about everyone at the party, flitting from person to person—mostly the men. Dillon noticed that she had an odd conversation with the other two judges, but I wasn’t there so—”
He cut me off. “I’ll talk to Dillon about that. Just tell me what you saw or heard.”
“Okay, well, like I said, she seemed to chat up everyone,” I said. “Made the rounds. Besides the judges, I think she spoke to the contestants, the camera guy, Reina, even Jake. I think I was the only one who didn’t catch her eye.” And that had been deliberate.
The detective sat up straight. His body language was clear. He was done with me. “Well, Ms. Burnett—Darcy—if you think of anything else, you’ll let me know?”
“Of course,” I said as I got up to leave.
“Oh, Darcy?” he added. “Would you ask Dillon to join me?”
I nodded. I was suddenly feeling exhausted by the events of the evening. Tomorrow was going to be the first day of the festival, and I desperately needed some sleep. I wished I could leave, but I had to wait for Dillon and Aunt Abby, so there was no point in asking.
“Sure,” I said. I headed back to the table. “Dillon, he wants you now,” I said, trying to keep a light tone. But inside I felt uneasy. Something wasn’t right about Polly’s death. And I was curious to learn what the crime techs and ME would eventually discover.
“Where’s Jake?” I asked the others after I sat down.
“He got a text and said he had to go,” Aunt Abby said.
“But the detective said we had to wait. . . .” I tried not to show my disappointment. “Did he say anything before he left?”
Aunt Abby looked at me with a sympathetic face. “No, dear.”
I hate sympathetic faces.
J.C. was still reviewing the footage he’d shot, while Reina was busy texting on her smartphone. I wondered how the death would affect the festival or the contest. When prospective attendees heard the news, would it keep them away? Or would it bring in ambulance chasers and the morbidly curious?
I waited with Aunt Abby until Dillon had his turn, wondering where Jake had run off to, then waited some more for Aunt Abby to have her turn. Still no sign of Jake.
As soon as Abby returned, I stood to leave, hoping the detective didn’t have any more questions for us.
“Thank you all for your patience,” Detective Shelton said, ambling over. “I’ll get in touch if I have more questions.”
Reina stood up, grinning at her cell phone. “Good news!” She glanced up at us. “I don’t have to cancel the contest! I’ve found another judge to take Polly’s place at the last minute! A man named Delbert Morris. He’s the chocolatier at Toujour Truffles. We’re saved!”
With that, she picked up her small beaded purse and practically ran out of the room.
So much for mourning the loss of Polly Montgomery.
* * *
As Dillon, Aunt Abby, and I left the Maritime Museum, I spotted Wendy Spellman on the sidewalk, looking a little befuddled.
“There’s your friend,” I said to Aunt Abby. My aunt turned around, waved, and headed over, saying, “I’ll be right back.”
No, she wouldn’t, I thought. She’d be yakking with her friend for the next hour if I didn’t do something. “Come on,” I said to Dillon, and we met up with Aunt Abby and Wendy a few yards away.
“Aunt Abby—,” I started to say.
She cut me off. “Darcy! I want you to meet my oldest and dearest friend, Wendy Spellman.”
I smiled and offered my hand. Wendy’s delicate, pale hand shook mine softly.
“I think we met,” she said, frowning, as if trying to recall the meeting.
“Not formally,” I said, “but I was at the party. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
I glanced at Dillon, who was spinning on his heels, glancing around the area and trying to avoid eye contact with Wendy. The woman really seemed to make him uncomfortable.
“And Dillon!” Wendy said, spotting him standing behind me. She gave him a big, motherly hug. I checked to make sure.
“Wendy,” Dillon said, after clearing his throat. “I hope the cops weren’t too hard on you.”
“Not at all, you sweet boy,” Wendy said. “They just asked us a few questions, like where we were when the body was discovered and did we know the victim well. That’s about it. This has been quite a night, hasn’t it? Just like on one of those TV cop shows like Law and Order. I love that show.”
Wendy seemed more excited about the events of the evening than disturbed.
“Did you know Polly?” I asked, curious by her lack of empathy for the deceased.
“No. Never met her—until tonight. She was one of the judges, wasn’t she? I wonder if the competition will be canceled. I hope not. I spent hours working on my entry.”
Aunt Abby explained what she’d learned from Reina—that a replacement had been found. Wendy gave a big sigh of relief.
It was getting late and cold. “We’d better get going, Aunt Abby,” I said to her. “Big day tomorrow.”
My aunt turned to her friend. “Wendy, can we give you a lift? I’ve got my car.”
“That would be lovely, Abigail. Thank you so much.”
The two women began walking arm in arm down the street, while Dillon and I followed.
“I’m not getting into that backseat with her,” he mumbled.
I grinned. Wendy Spellman hardly looked like the man-eater type Dillon had described. As soon as we arrived at the car, Dillon opened the front passenger door and pulled the seat forward. “After you,” he said to Wendy. Aunt Abby went around to the other side and climbed in to join her friend in the backseat.
I drove the four of us to Wendy’s apartment on Gough, following her directions, while listening to the two old friends talk about the old days. When the name George Brown came up, I paid closer attention.
“I remember him!” Wendy said. “Didn’t you date him before you met Ed?”
“I might have gone out with him once or twice,” Aunt Abby conceded humbly. “It was no big deal.”
“I thought he was cute,” Wendy said. “You could have passed him on to me.”
Maybe Dillon was right. Maybe this sweet old lady was really a she-wolf after all.
Aunt Abby giggled. “I seem to recall you were perfectly capable of getting your own guys.”
“Married three times,” Wendy said proudly. “And three times a widow.”
A black widow, I thought fleetingly, then mentally reprimanded myself.
“This is it,” Wendy said as I pulled up to the curb in front of her apartment building. “Thank you so much for the ride. See you all tomorrow. And best of luck to you, Abigail.” She gave a quick peck to Aunt Abby’s cheek and stepped out of the car.
Aunt Abby reached out of the window to give her friend’s hand a squeeze. “You too, Gwendolyn.”
“We won’t need luck now that we’ve got a new judge!” Wendy let go of Aunt Abby’s hand and stepped back, then waved us off.
On the ride back to Aunt Abby’s house, I found myself exhausted from the party, th
e drama, and the interrogation by Detective Shelton. And what about Jake? He seemed to have completely disappeared, and I couldn’t help wondering if he was meeting his ex somewhere.
Not that I cared. Not at all. Nuh-uh.
I was glad for Aunt Abby that Reina had found a replacement judge so the contest could continue. Like Wendy Spellman, my aunt had worked so hard preparing hundreds of her chocolate whoopie pies. Frankly, if the whole thing had been canceled, I wouldn’t have minded for myself. But no such luck.
A thought popped into my head as I parked the Prius in Aunt Abby’s garage. What was it Wendy had said just before she waved good-bye? Something about not needing any luck now that a new judge had been found. Did she mean now that Polly was out of the judging? That was an odd thing to say, especially since she’d claimed she didn’t know Polly.
Too tired to think, I dragged myself out of the car, while Dillon helped his mom out of the backseat.
“Mom,” Dillon said, “how about making some hot chocolate?”
Aunt Abby and I looked at him in horror.
“Seriously?” I said.
Aunt Abby shook her head, then gave me a hug and sent me on my way to the RV.
I was totally chocolated out. I had one philosophy about food and that was “you can never have too much chocolate.” But tonight I’d reached my limit, and even the smell of it coming from the samples in the napkin Dillon had smuggled into the car made me grimace. What was happening to me?
“Get some sleep, sweetie,” Aunt Abby called to me. “The festival opens at eleven, and we have lots to do before then.”
“G’night,” I called back. I walked the few steps to my home-sweet-RV—Aunt Abby’s Airstream—which was decorated in contemporary Disney. My aunt was a fan of anything Mickey, Minnie, Donald, Goofy, and the rest of Walt’s gang, and had collected a pile of Disneyana—there really is such a thing—from places like vintagedisney.com, nostalgiadisney.com, rememberdisney.com, and of course, eBay. The Cheshire Cat clock that hung over the door of the RV had apparently been a “lucky find.” Aunt Abby had discovered it at a local Goodwill store, buried in the kids’ toy section. She prided herself on paying “two bucks” for something considered worth a fortune among collectors.