“That’s not fair.” Bee pouted. “There are plenty of crazy people who target celebrities.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” I scrubbed my hands over my face, probably smudging my carefully applied makeup, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. A man had died and our friend was missing, and Detective Wilkes was already on the way over to speak to us.
He wore his standard ‘uniform.’ Not really a uniform, but a pair of smart black pants and a blue shirt, his identification badge hanging on a lanyard around his neck. He stopped in front of us, clearly unimpressed by our presence.
“Good evening,” Wilkes said. “How are you?”
“Bad,” Violet snapped. “How do you think we are?”
Bee squeezed her shoulder. “We’re tense, detective. We’ve just had a horrible evening.”
“Did you catch who did it?” I asked. “The shooter?”
Wilkes didn’t answer, but his gaze met Jamie’s and hardened. Maybe that was because of Jamie’s history as a detective or perhaps there was another reason for it. Either way, the encounter grew icier by the passing second.
“I’ve got your names and numbers, but I have a few preliminary questions I’d like to ask you all before I speak to you separately,” he said. “Is it true that you came here to meet Miss Lucy Cornwall?”
“Yes,” I said, and the others merely nodded.
“And she was with you in the hall?”
“What’s this about?” Violet asked. “Is Miss Cornwall one of your persons of interest?”
Detective Wilkes sniffed, tucking his clipboard to his chest. “Ma’am, I’m going to ask you to come with me,” he said. “Just over this way. I’ll need to interview you about this evening.” He led Violet off while she complained, leaving us to wait our turn.
“I don’t like it when they do that,” I said. “Splitting us apart and asking us questions separately.”
“They have to do it.” Bee’s gaze was stuck on the front of the building and the yellow line that was occasionally disturbed by the wind. “It’s protocol.”
“They needed a clear picture of the events,” Jamie agreed.
Sheesh. Now I had two police officer friends that could tell me right from wrong. Was that a good or bad thing? Would Jamie want to get involved in investigations like Bee?
I shot a glance my bestie’s way, hoping that she wasn’t fixated on figuring this one out too. As much as I enjoyed solving the cases, they always brought trouble, whether it was for us or someone else. Bee’s jaw was set.
She’d been a fan of Drake’s. She was already emotionally invested in what had happened. Then again, we’d all be invested for a while—when I closed my eyes, the image of Drake keeling over came back to me.
Shot while breaking into song. In front of everyone.
The person who’d done this had clearly wanted other people to see, even though it would put them at great risk of being caught. That or they’d wanted to terrify Drake’s fans.
Or humiliate him.
After all, he was a popular man. What worse way to die than on stage in front of the crowds of admirers who’d come to hear him sing?
“Mr. Hanson.” Wilkes had returned with Violet. “Would you step aside with me for a moment?”
“Sure.” My date followed him, his hands tucked into his pants, though his shoulders were raised.
“What did he ask you?” Bee was on Violet, immediately.
“Goodness, he was persistent,” Violet muttered, fluffing her bottle-red hair. “He wanted to know where Lucy was during the start of the concert, so I told him. Sitting at the end of our row.”
“That’s not technically true.”
Both women turned to me. “What do you mean?” Bee frowned. “I saw her arrive. She was wearing a purple dress.”
“Yes, she arrived.” My gut did a topsy-turvy leap. “But she left before the shots were fired.”
“She left?”
“Her seat was empty. I looked over at it, and she wasn’t there. Though, I didn’t see her leave.” I chewed on the inside of my cheek. “You don’t think…?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bee said. “She wouldn’t do something like this. She was dating the man.”
“And unhappy about all the attention he was getting.”
Bee quieted, wrinkles creasing the skin around her eyes. She studied the community center again, peering up at the windows on the second floor. “Where do you think the shots were fired from?” she asked.
“I saw this guy behind the curtains.” I told them about the weedy guy and the glinting item in his hand, the one that might’ve been a gun, a cellphone or something else. “Whoever he was, he’s not here now.”
The crowd of onlookers had mostly been separated to be interviewed by the police, but the balding guy wasn’t among them. Had I imagined him in my distress? Surely, everyone should be—
“I didn’t do anything! Let go of me! Let go!”
The community center’s doors were open, and two uniformed police officers emerged, walking Lucy between them. Her hands were cuffed behind her back, her cheeks streaked with long dark lines of mascara.
“Lucy!” I cried.
She spotted us, and her bottom lip quivered. “I swear, I didn’t do anything. I would never have shot him. I would—” The officers fed her into the back of a police car, and her words cut off.
This couldn’t be happening. Where had she been? Somewhere in the building or…
“Bee.”
“I know,” my friend said, watching as Lucy was driven off in the cruiser. “We’re not going to let this happen. Detective Wilkes.” She marched over to him.
“Ma’am, you’re interrupting an interview.” The detective glowered.
“I don’t care about your darn interview. Where are you taking Lucy?” Bee demanded, pointing a finger at him. I hurried over and grasped her arm, lowering it before she got into trouble too.
“Lucy Cornwall has been arrested,” he said, “for the murder of Drake Haynes. You’d do well to cooperate with police at this time by giving us your statements. I’m almost done with Mr. Hanson here. After that, I’ll call you to speak to me.” He wasn’t happy about it—his mouth set in a grim line.
“This is outrageous,” Bee said. “You can’t just arrest her without reason!”
“We do have reason,” he replied. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Instead of waiting for Bee to leave, he escorted Hanson off.
“What does this mean?” I asked, releasing Bee’s arm. “Surely, if they’ve arrested her they don’t need statements.”
“They still have to take witness statements and build a case against her,” Bee said. “And it means that we’re going to help her, Ruby. We’re going to figure out who really did this.”
“You don’t think it was Lucy.” I didn’t want to believe she’d done it, but I had my doubts. She’d been angry with him. She’d been missing. The police must’ve had a reason for arresting her.
“No, I don’t,” Bee said.
A murder in Muffin. One of our new friends under arrest.
We wouldn’t let this slide.
6
Breakfast at the Runaway Inn the next morning should’ve been a somber affair—a celebrity had been shot in full view of just about everyone in Muffin, and one of the locals had been arrested on suspicion of having murdered him.
“Poor Lucy,” I said, glancing around at the other diners in the dining area.
We’d taken our usual table in front of the window, with a view of our food truck parked outside. Guests, old and new, had taken places all around us, and there was nothing hushed about the chatter this morning. Everyone had smiles on their faces apart from one or two of the diners.
“Does no one care?” I asked. “I mean, he was shot right on stage in front of everyone and Lucy—”
“Not everyone is friends with Lucy.” Bee scooped up butter from the dish and gestured with her knife. “And a death like that? Well, it’s bound to get people talking
. Get them excited.” She grimaced.
“Excited. That’s gross.”
Bee finished buttering her roll. “We’ve got to get involved,” she muttered, darkly. “I don’t believe Lucy did this.”
“But she was missing during the performance,” I said. “Where do you think she went?”
“I don’t know, but it wasn’t to shoot the man she was dating. It doesn’t make sense.” Bee took a bite of her roll, chewed primly then swallowed. “Why would she throw everything away over a man she’s only just started dating?”
I told Bee about what I’d seen on my date with Jamie the other night—Lucy standing by, furious while Drake had been swamped with fans asking for selfies and autographs. “And you saw how she acted when she came to invite us to the concert, yesterday.”
“Hmm.”
“I’m not saying she did it, but we do need to figure out where she was last night. I think that will be crucial.”
Bee’s serious expression faded and was replaced by a smile. “You’re thinking more and more like a detective every day, Ruby.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a good thing, given that I’m not one and that Wilkes already believes he’s arrested the killer.”
“Oh, he’ll thank us later.” Bee tucked into her omelet, and I picked at my grilled cheese sandwich and fries.
The food was amazing as always, but I couldn’t bring myself to eat. Lucy had been a good friend to us since we’d arrived in Muffin, and the thought of her in jail, waiting for—
“Good morning!” Mrs. Rickleston swayed over to us.
“Heavens.” Bee set down her cutlery, the silver clattering against her plate. “Are you trying to give us a heart attack?”
“Sorry, dear,” Mrs. Rickleston said, but couldn’t hide her grin. “I’m just in a great mood this morning, aren’t you?’
“Not particularly,” Bee replied, coldly.
“Why so happy, Mrs. Rickleston?” I asked, hoping she had good news for us.
“Because that good for nothing Lucy Cornwall is behind bars, of course. Exactly where she belongs.” Mrs. Rickleston had a mean glint in her eye. “I always knew she’d get in trouble for her stalking, sabotaging ways and now she has. I never imagined she’d be arrested for murdering a celebrity. That Haynes man should have known better than to get involved with a harlot like her.”
Bee pushed her chair back and stood up. “Don’t talk about Lucy like that.”
“Beatrice, dear, I didn’t take you for the type of woman who supported murdering pieces of trash. Then again, you were friends with her, weren’t you?”
“We are friends with her.” My cheeks were hot as fire. How could Mrs. Rickleston be this cruel? “And you should have been to. She didn’t do anything to you.”
“Of course, you would think that, dear. You let people walk all over you.”
I reeled as if I’d been slapped. “W-what?”
“Enjoy your breakfasts.” Mrs. Rickleston waved her fingers over her shoulder and walked off, humming under her breath.
My heart thudded in my chest. Bee glared at her back.
“I ought to shake some sense into her,” Bee hissed. “I ought to—”
“Don’t.” I got up, abandoning my plate that was still full of food. “Come on, Bee, let’s leave. We’ve got a long day on the truck, and we can do some ‘research’ during our breaks.”
“Fine. Good. Whatever helps us prove Rickleston wrong. You know, I liked her when we first arrived here, but now… she’s bitter as black coffee.”
Bee and I walked out of the dining area, and I turned over Mrs. Rickleston’s comment about me being a pushover. Was she serious? I didn’t let people walk all over me. I knew when to say no.
We entered the lobby and found a heavily pregnant woman coming down the stairs, one hand on her belly, her face pale.
“Becca,” I said—it was the woman I’d met on the truck yesterday. “I didn’t know you were staying at the Runaway.” Hadn’t she said she was staying with family? I must’ve been mistaken. My thoughts had been fixated on Jamie at the time.
“Are you all right?” Bee offered her a hand.
Becca waved it away and forced a smile. “I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong with the baby, if that’s what you’re asking. Or my pregnancy. I’m just a bit stressed out. You know, someone was murdered last night.”
“They think they’ve got the person who did it,” I said.
“They do?” Becca asked, perking up. “So, you’re telling me there isn’t a murderer on the loose?”
“That’s what they say,” Bee grumbled.
“That’s great. Oh, what a relief. I was terrified. It was just the way it happened. Anyone who is willing to kill someone with all those witnesses around… Scary.” Becca rubbed her stomach. “And I’ve got a little one to protect.” She promised to come by the truck later for a snack before heading for the dining room.
“She’s got a point,” Bee said. “I bet this murderer, the real one, not Lucy, would be willing to kill again if given the chance.”
That was food for thought that would’ve given Hercule Poirot’s brain indigestion.
“To the food truck.” Bee slipped her arm through mine.
7
“Thank you so much, dear,” my customer said, accepting a rainbow cake in a cup from me. “Are you all right? I here you were there.”
That was all anyone could talk about this morning. The murder.
Muffin had been flooded with reporters from smaller and larger news stations across the state. Rumor had it, one of the biggest broadcasters had sent a team. I hadn’t seen them yet, and I didn’t want to. Appearing on camera in front of the country was my worst nightmare.
“Oh, I’m fine as I can be.” Witnessing the murder had certainly been horrible, it wasn’t the thought of Drake dying that plagued me, but rather who had done it. Who had stood in that audience and fired the shot? And where had they fired it from?
“It’s a good thing that woman is behind bars, isn’t it?” the customer asked. “We can all sleep sound knowing that the police have done their job.”
Or they’d arrested the wrong person.
I accepted the customer’s money with a smile, and she tottered off, replaced by another and then another. Everyone was fascinated by the murder and by Lucy’s arrest, and I struggled not to let it get under my skin. Bee was already grumbling at anyone who dared mention it. One of us had to remain levelheaded or we’d chase off our customers.
When the line finally petered off and the last customer before lunch retreated with their rainbow cake in a cup, Bee and I decided it was time for a much-needed break. At least from the truck—not from brainstorming how we could help Lucy.
We closed the truck’s window, grabbed a cake in a cup each and sat down on the park bench next to the trail that wound around the duck pond and into the park.
I enjoyed the delicious cream cheese frosting on top of my cake. “What do you think?” I asked, licking my spoon. “Mrs. Rickleston?”
“Hmm.” Bee ate a spoonful of cake and chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t know if the nail polish incident is enough motivation for her to murder a celebrity. Does she even own a gun?”
Mrs. Rickleston had been Lucy’s enemy for ages—ever since Lucy had painted Mrs. Rickelston’s nails the wrong color. And Mrs. Rickleston had kicked out Drake based simply on the fact that he’d been dating Lucy.
But I had to agree with Bee here. It didn’t seem like enough motivation for the innkeeper to commit murder.
“If she’d wanted someone dead,” I said, “why wouldn’t she have killed Lucy?”
“True.” Bee ate another spoonful of cake. “But it’s probably far worse for Lucy now. Not only has she lost someone she cares about, but she’s in jail and she’s going to be charged with murder. Probably first degree. Now, she has to live with that forever.”
“So, you think Mrs. Rickleston had motivation?”
“Maybe.” Bee tapped her lip wit
h her spoon. “But we don’t have her at the concert or any proof that she has a gun.”
Then who could it be? I’d already told Bee about the man I’d seen on the stage, holding something in his hand, but we couldn’t follow up the lead without finding out who he was first. And that would be a challenge. He wasn’t familiar to us—and Muffin was a small town. If we didn’t know everyone’s names, we at least knew most of their faces.
“So, there are two theories,” I said. “First, that whoever did this, did it to get to Lucy. Or they did it because they wanted to get rid of Drake.”
“Right. But we need more than that to go on. More suspects.”
“Mrs. Rickleston,” I said, ticking her off on my finger. “Lucy. The strange man at the—” I gasped.
“What is it?”
Speak of the devil.
Mrs. Rickleston had just rounded the corner, walking alongside a man who was all too familiar. Balding, wearing square-frame glasses and a pair of jogging shorts and trainers, he walked with his hands on his hips, squinting up at the sky and sucking in breaths occasionally.
The pair paused, and Mrs. Rickleston gave the man a pat on the shoulder, saying something I couldn’t make out. She turned and headed back around the duck pond.
How odd.
“That’s him,” I breathed. “That’s the guy I saw on stage yesterday.”
“Are you sure about that?” Bee asked. “Absolutely positive?”
“Yes.” It was the strangest coincidence, but it was definitely him. I’d run over what had happened last night so many times that his face was burned into my memory.
What on earth had he been doing with Mrs. Rickleston?
I stood up as he approached. “Good morning,” I called out. “Excuse me!”
He did a double-take like he hadn’t realized I’d been speaking to him. “Oh, hello. Need something?”
“Hi, my name is Ruby Holmes.” I handed Bee my rainbow cake in a cup and walked over, my hand out for a shake.
“Nathan Bratte.” He didn’t take my hand, opting to nod instead. That was probably a good thing—he looked kind of sweaty. “What do you want?”
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