“I hope you’re not intimidated by my feminine power.” Frannie leaned against the exam table as if posing for a magazine. “Some men find it a turn-on.”
I managed a smile for the doctor. “We just picked her up from the mental institution yesterday. She’s still adapting to sunlight and fresh air.”
He reached for his laptop with an indulgent grin. “As I was saying, take it easy the next few days. I’d stay off electronics, avoid texting, basically anything that can strain your eyes and brain.”
Me not text? He might as well amputate my hands. “Uh-huh. Sure. No problem.”
The door flung open, and a harried Beau limped in. “Paisley.” He dodged my grinning grandmother and drooling aunt, arriving at my side in three strides.
“Hello, Beauregard.” I let him paw my limbs, inspect my face, and run his fingers across each scrape and bruise.
“Sylvie called me.” His eyes roamed over every inch of my form, and he didn’t seem to like what he saw. “I can’t get a hold of your mother.”
“She’s probably getting matching manicures with Jaz.” I brushed his hand away from my aching shoulder, heartened that he was here. That was a sure sign he cared, right? “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” he said. “You look like you fell down a flight of stairs.”
“You and those honeyed words.” I patted his chest. “I’m okay.”
“She has a concussion,” the doctor said. “She’ll need to be supervised the rest of the day and tonight.”
“I’ll stay with her.” The look on Beau’s face said he meant business and wasn’t in the mood to argue.
“I have two women living with me,” I countered. “I’m covered in the chaperone department.”
“They’re not reliable,” Frannie said, completely updated on my concerns with Beau. “Your grandmother and I insist you stay with Beau. Don’t we, Sylvie?”
“Indeed, we do. Her very life depends on it.”
I would fight this battle later. “Is Detective Ballantine still pacing the waiting room?”
“I sent him away,” Dr. Zion said. “You need to avoid anything stressful.”
Frannie shook her head. “That is one fine bedside manner right there.”
“Do you need a note for work?” Dr. Zion asked.
I thought of Henry. “No, my boss would just rip it up.”
Dr. Zion gave me some final instructions, which Beau repeated back to him twice as if there would be a test afterward. Then after securing my promise to return if I deteriorated, the doctor set me free and left the room.
Beau rounded on me, his forehead pinched in a fierce frown. “What happened?”
“Like I told Ballantine, I was in the stairwell at the mansion, and somebody pushed me.”
“Did you see anyone?” he asked.
“No. I kept hearing things when I was investigating the second floor, then when I came back down the stairs, I heard someone behind me. But if I saw anything, I don’t recall.” I tried to think who was unaccounted for. “Everyone was at Jaz’s picnic.”
Beau closed his eyes briefly and pinched the bridge of his nose. I’d seen this look before. A lecture was about to follow. “What were you doing in the mansion?”
“I—”
“And before you give me your cover story, I’d prefer it if you cut straight to the truth.”
“He’s good.” Frannie wagged her finger at Beau. “He’s real good.”
My head pounded and all I could think about was how much a giant bowl of ice cream would make it feel better. “We went to search the house.”
Beau stared at me like I was simple. “The house the police have thoroughly searched?”
“That’s the one.”
He tunneled his hands through his sandy brown hair. “Can we get through one Sugar Creek homicide without you volunteering to be the next target?”
“We don’t trust Ballantine further than he can spit a sunflower seed. He’s got Jaz in his sights, and who knows what he’s missed by narrowing the suspect list to only her.”
Beau took a lengthy pause to flare his nostrils and glare. “Did you at least find anything?”
“Yes.” I nodded with deep conviction. “A pamphlet.”
“A pamphlet.” Beau looked like he wanted to strangle us all. “You think that’s a valuable discovery?”
“I’m not sure.” I locked eyes with my grandmother and aunt. “But we’re about to find out.”
A half-hour later, much to Beau’s disapproval, we’d set up shop in my living room. While I lay on the couch like an indulged patient, with fluffed pillows behind my head and a cozy blanket over my feet, Sylvie sat crisscross on the floor scanning her phone. Frannie occupied a chair, her laptop balancing in her lap. You knew it was serious when she dug out her rarely seen bifocals to better view the screen. And Beau? He alternated between sitting by me on the couch, holding my hand, and pacing a path on the new rug covering the hardwood floor, all while barking at me to drink more fluids. This felt a lot like a man committed to his girl. But I’d taken a big hit to the head, so what did I know?
“When you look at America’s social media for the last few weeks, it’s pretty easy to track where she’s been.” Frannie pulled up America’s Instagram. “I cross-referenced her photos with the tour schedule, and her pics seem to align with those cities and stops. Here she is at the Brooklyn Zoo. They played at Madison Square Garden that night.”
Ah, Madison Square. I remembered it fondly. The space allowed for a large show and an enormous, electric crowd, but I recalled my dressing room smelled like a moldy church basement. I was pretty sure Jaz didn’t encounter those issues anymore.
“Little Zee Zee’s website says the camp’s in Utah,” Frannie said. “Doesn’t specify what town. He has some photos of the events there, and when I ran them through one of my detection programs, it matched the topography to a city called Sparks. Now, when we look at America’s Instagram post from two Fridays ago, you can see she’s in Utah. The concert that night was in Salt Lake, which is two hours away from Sparks.”
Frannie held up her laptop, and I studied the view. America stood in front of a construction site, arms stretched wide. “Her caption says ‘Nothing is what it seems. Question everything.’” The three of us paused and digested that statement. “I take it this is Tee Pee’s campsite?”
“Two years ago it was,” Frannie said. “When I run America’s photo, it’s a match.”
“Did you get an address?” Sylvie asked.
“Is the earth round? Does Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson wish he could date me? Does our national treasure Dolly Parton have ten body doubles assigned by the U.S. government? Of course, I have an address.” Frannie pulled up another screen. “The coordinates lead us to these ten acres of land that did, indeed, used to be open terrain. But a year ago it was sold to Capital Ventures, who are currently building an outlet mall on that very site.”
Under the glare of Beau, I accessed Tee Pee’s website on my phone, where an aggressive pop-up requesting my email greeted me on the home page. “He’s still asking for donations for his charity on his website. Maybe he plans to operate the camp in an alternate location?”
“Perhaps,” Frannie said. “Or perhaps last year, after the property purchase, he took the money and only made it look like he held a camp for kids.”
That would be low down and dirty. “So why would America care?”
“She was known for her charitable contributions,” Sylvie said. “She frequently donated to organizations and volunteered every chance she got. It was one of the many reasons she was so likable.”
“Someone sure didn’t like her,” Beau said.
Frannie tapped Tee Pee’s face on the computer screen. “What if this guy here’s the murderer? I told you he was hiding secrets in those dreads.”
“Jaz acts like she doesn’t trust him,” I said. “Even she thinks he’s a contender for America’s killer.”
“I don’t see him running anything too w
ell thought out.” Sylvie sipped iced tea from a mason jar. “If he killed her, he’s left clues. And if he did run a fake charity, I bet it will be easy to confirm.”
“Jaz says he leaves every night.” I lowered my phone so Beau would quit giving me the Look of Shame. “He tells her he’s doing some Ozark sightseeing.”
“Then it’s time to follow the rapper on a few of these excursions,” Sylvie said.
Frannie shut her laptop, her eyes shining with excitement. “Want me to put a tracking device on his rental car?”
I adjusted the pillow beneath my head. “No.”
“Bug his phone?”
“Also not necessary.”
“Inoculate him with truth serum, tie him up like a Thanksgiving turkey, then bring him back here for our interrogation?”
I rubbed the bandage on my forehead. “It would be super nifty if we got through this investigation without getting arrested.”
“Frannie and I can at least keep an eye on Little Fee Fee,” Sylvie said. “If that boy’s up to something nefarious, we’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“He may have been the person who pushed Paisley. And if he is” — Beau traced a scrape across my jaw— “then he’s all mine.”
The front door opened and in walked my mother, speeding toward me as if there were a fire at her back. “I just heard! Oh, my darling, I just heard the terrible news.” She shoved Beau out of the way and grabbed me in a hug.
Oomph. “Hey, Mom.”
“Ellen, back up, for heaven’s sake,” Sylvie said. “Paisley’s brain has already taken a hit. You’re gonna dislodge what’s left of it if you keep squeezing.”
Mom reluctantly retreated, settling on the edge of the couch. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner. The volume was turned off on my phone, and when I saw all the messages, I came straight away. What on earth happened?”
Sylvie filled my mother in, leaving out our true purpose for being in the mansion.
“This is absolutely frightening.” Mom clutched the pearls at her throat. “I insist you let me hire a security detail for you.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I said. “I’m perfectly safe.”
Mom took in my disheveled state. “When I think of what could have happened, I just shudder. I’m so glad you’re okay.”
“She has a concussion,” Beau said.
“Then I’ll stay with you today.” Mom stood, bolstered by her new purpose. “I’ll see to your every need.”
“Actually, Beau was going to stay,” I said.
“Nonsense. This sweet man has to get to work. I’m your mother, I’m here, and I’m staying.”
“But—”
“Everybody out!” Mom flapped her arms like an air traffic controller, directing everyone toward the door. “My daughter needs her rest. Goodbye, now. Thank you for caring for Paisley, but I’ll be taking it from here!”
“We’ll look into that thing we talked about.” Sylvie kissed my cheek, then gave my mom the side-eye. “Godspeed. If the knock on the noggin didn’t kill you, the rest of the day won’t either. Probably. Most likely.” She straightened and sighed. “Oh, who am I kidding? It was nice knowing you.”
Beau leaned down, kissing me with that wry grin. “Call me if you need rescuing.”
“Can’t you take me with you?” I whispered.
“Spend some time with your Mom.” He gave my hand one last squeeze. “I’ll check on you later.”
My mother pushed them out the door, then turned back to me and smiled. “Now it’s just you and me. We’re going to have such a good day! You just forget all about your fall and don’t give one more thought to this murder investigation.”
I closed my eyes and prayed for patience.
I might be able to handle my mom today, but forget about the murder? Impossible.
Someone had been in the mansion with us. Someone who knew exactly what Sylvie and I were doing.
The question was, who had pushed me down the stairs?
They clearly wanted me off the trail.
I needed to figure out who killed America.
Before I was the next victim.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“I’m just saying if you truly cared about me, you would’ve kidnapped me last night and let me stay on your couch.”
Beau poured a loop of steaming syrup over his pancakes at the Bayonet before cutting into his stack. “I stayed ’til ten. And how many times did I offer my spare bedroom?”
“I don’t know.”
“Paisley.”
“Many times, okay?” I’d held up that detail and analyzed it from every direction. “But I couldn’t say yes and hurt my mom’s feelings. That’s why I needed you to climb my trellis, sneak into the window I left open, and lift my willing body from my bed and take me back to your place.”
“You left your window open?” Beau’s piercing blue eyes went stormy as he watched me over his coffee cup.
I choked on a bite of waffle. “Is that what I said? I misspoke. I meant to say—”
“Someone tried to kill you yesterday, and you left your window open?” He dabbed a napkin to his lips with excessive gusto. “Do we need to review safety procedures again?”
Lord, no. If it were up to Beau, I’d be cloistered in a tower, holding a pickaxe in one hand and a flamethrower in the other. “You’re missing the point.” I thanked the waitress for the coffee refill and waited until she walked away. The fewer people who witnessed my frequent neurotic meltdowns, the better. “My mother wouldn’t leave me alone last night.”
“How annoyingly maternal of her.”
“She made me dinner, Beau.”
His white teeth crunched into a bite of bacon. “You should call child protective services.”
“It wasn’t the homemade pizza she’d promised. No, it was baked fish and salad. With no dressing ‘because a head injury is a good time to start watching our carbs.’”
Beau had the nerve to smile, enjoying my play-by-play of our evening.
“When you left, she made me watch my dad’s latest self-improvement series.”
“You do look more enlightened this morning.”
“And all I heard about was Jaz this and Jaz that. And don’t even get me started on the giggle fest that ensued when the Anointed One came home. Once Jaz returned from her evening songwriter session at the high school, Mom only had eyes for Jaz, and I was completely forgotten.”
Beau’s fork paused mid-bite. “So that’s a good thing?” He caught my hostile glare. “No, a bad thing. Totally a bad thing.” He handed me the butter. “Have you thought about talking to your mom?”
Why did everyone suggest that as if open communication made total, logical sense? “No. I don’t have time, and she wouldn’t listen. My mom . . .” A flash of movement outside the window snagged my attention, and all food and whining were forgotten as I studied the scene.
Beau followed my stare. “Do you know those people?”
Outside next to a swaying flag pole and a leather-accented Harley Davidson stood Reese Riggins talking to a tabloid reporter. “That’s Jaz’s assistant.”
“And who’s the guy? Looks like an intense conversation.”
“That sleaze bag is Sharky Cooper, a reporter for the L.A. Tattler. He and I go way back.” He got his start a few years before the Electric Femmes and was known for being a stalking menace to musicians. “He once wrote an article on me claiming I’d had an affair with Justin Timberlake.”
Beau ceased his chewing. “Did you?”
“No.” Though I’d once gone to a party with the stepson of Justin’s trumpet player. “But the accompanying photo showed me in a torrid lip-lock with Timberlake. And when Sharky Photoshopped my head onto someone’s body, did he choose a slender person? No, he did not. I had hips the size of a coffee table.” Stealing a piece of Beau’s bacon, I watched the exchange outside. “Reese looks mad.”
“Maybe she’s defending Jaz’s good name. She has gotten a lot of bad press lately.”
Reese swiped beneath her eyes with the back of her hand. Was she crying? “It looks more personal than that.” Sharky gave Reese a final predatory grin before walking away. She watched him a moment, her Bayonet takeout bag beneath her arm, then disappeared from view.
Fifteen minutes later, I leaned back in my chair, my tummy full of waffles and gourmet coffee. “My head barely hurts now. Carbs are so magical.”
Beau grabbed the bill. “Be right back. Don’t disappear on me.”
He knew me too well. Against everyone’s loud protests, I announced my intent to work today. The fan fest was my project, and I couldn’t afford to turn loose of the reins now. Plus, I was fine. But I wasn’t in the mood to go chase down Reese or a creepy reporter.
I poured more cream into my coffee and stirred, reviewing what we knew about the case.
The list was short and unimpressive, with gaps that made it impossible to make any worthwhile connections. So far we knew Jaz certainly had motive. Her manager was pushing her out and had been investing more time and resources on the new girl. Not to mention, the scene of the crime was straight out of one of Jaz’s songs, a song about murder, no less.
Then there was Johnny Pikes. Why would he give Jaz the boot? She was a money-making machine, and presumably, he only had money and prestige to gain from keeping her on his client list. Why throw that away for America? What hold did America have on him? It must’ve been something good. Unless Johnny was just sick of Jaz. I’d seen agents and managers fire clients just for being annoying. It did happen. Life was too short to work with obnoxious people, I supposed.
Did Trina have a valid motive? Losing her job at Pop Sensation had to have been a devastating hit. But enough of one to kill her replacement? She still carried hurt over the way Jaz broke up the band, not to mention the way Jaz had ignored Trina’s efforts to get help on her albums.
Was Reese even a consideration? She certainly had early access to all areas of the house. She would’ve known everyone’s schedules, had ordered the cameras removed, and requested the coffee services. Did Sharky have information on Reese that could incriminate her? Did Jaz harass her poor assistant until she retaliated?
Fanatically in Trouble Page 17