Runways and High Heels and Murder

by Patti Larsen

  “At least Robert is at work, doing his best,” she said. “Unlike some of the sheriff’s department.”

  Jill jerked, her whole body twitching and I had a feeling this wasn’t going to end well. The thing was, it was likely Rose had something to do with the fact Jill took this rent-a-cop job in the first place, so it had to feel like a blow to the gut to hear such words in public from Robert’s girlfriend. What had the pair told her? Were they pretending to be her friend, to have her back? Surely she hadn’t fallen for that from them. I wanted to defend her but this was Jill’s issue to deal with.

  “Honestly, Jill,” Rose said, twisting the knife, “if you had been dedicated to your duties as a deputy, maybe you could have figured out who killed that poor model without Fiona almost drowning.” She made a face in my direction. “Again.” Like that was a tired and boring option for me to choose.

  Okay, so maybe I wasn’t going to leave this to Jill because Rose had involved me, right? Crew’s arms around me held me, though, and I silently fumed while the blonde deputy seemed to pull herself together.

  Thing was, Jill never got the chance to respond. Mila appeared out of nowhere—or, rather, moved fast enough to evade her FBI guard—and leaped on Rose with a screech of fury. “HOW DARE YOU?” Something chattered, the sizzling spark of the stun gun hitting the female half of Rosebert in the neck and making her teeth rattle together. Rose hit the deck with a gurgling gasp, Mila on top of her, the still active gun held firmly against her throat, while the FBI agent struggled to pull the wiry and determined crazy woman off her victim.

  My first reaction should have been to leap to Rose’s rescue, right? So should Crew’s. Jill’s. But it was a full three seconds before I felt my boyfriend’s arms relax as if to release me, before Jill unwound like she was going to act. Only Robert made an effort, but his was weak and ineffectual.

  Mila finally ended her attack, but only when the tall, strong agent lifted her bodily, kicking and screaming, from the prone form of Rose, the stun gun she’d stolen from the evidence bag left far too close to her falling to the pool deck with a clatter. She settled as soon as she was free, beaming at Jill who, shaken but composed, nodded back.

  Robert, meanwhile, cradled Rose’s head in his lap while the paramedics hurried toward him. He jabbed a finger at Mila in the grasp of the suit. “You’ll pay for that!” Wow, I was really scared for her. He meant it. Snort.

  Oh, Fee. Shame.

  “You’re welcome, Deputy Wagner.” Mila sounded positively blissful. The agent hurriedly carried her from the area, out the doors, but she could be heard long after the door swung shut behind her. “I’ll see you again soon!”

  Yikes. I looked up at Crew who looked down at me and I swear I saw his lips twitch into a grin. A fast check on Jill met the same look, the exact same smirk.

  So my love and my friend shared an evil streak? The same one that made me want to giggle hysterically all over again? I’d take it.

  ***

  Chapter Thirty Four

  The good thing about being hit with a stun gun was the recovery. Yes, I felt like crap for about twelve hours, shaken and my muscles aching and sore, but unlike almost drowning and going through pneumonia or being hit on the head and waiting out a concussion, I was pretty much back to normal after a solid night’s sleep.

  I checked my email in bed, laptop on my knees, pug at my side, and was surprised to find one from Alice Moore. Thanks for letting me borrow your dad, she sent. Huh. Whatever that meant. Let’s have coffee when I get home and I’ll tell you all about it.

  She had a date.

  The hoped-for message from Pamela Shard was nowhere to be found, neither by phone or by text or email either. She was clearly avoiding me and until I figured out the Patterson thing, I guess this was going to be a habit. Not that I liked it, or the fact that when I tried to call Alicia she sent me to voicemail. Not this again?

  Jill’s appearance with coffee and a grin was at least welcome. Daisy joined us, and I got to spend a fun hour or so giggling with the girls over boys and girly things, something I never expected from Jill. Nice to know our relationship was no longer rocky. When she rose to leave and I contemplated getting up at last, Jill hugged me.

  “It’s going to be okay, right?” She seemed suddenly lost, small, hurting.

  “Stick it out,” I said. “Trust Crew. Robert’s days are numbered.”

  I didn’t mean murder, but, well. If his body showed up? I’d be suspect #1.

  Crew’s explanation he’d been digging into Malcolm Murray in search of the means to help Libby/Eve satisfied my curiosity about where he’d been, and my father’s return—refusing to tell me anything while hugging me and chastising me in his deep, graveled voice about almost dying again—shut down any further interrogations I could have offered him.

  For now. There was a lot I had to ask my dad about and he wasn’t going to like any of it.

  I was sad to find that Grace had checked out without saying goodbye, Libby, too, though I was pretty sure the sight of the FBI in my driveway when I got home, Liz and her partner exiting without stopping to talk meant they were hopefully taking care of the situation.

  I found myself at Vivian’s door the next morning, Mom and Daisy sending me off for a free day to catch my breath. Like that was going to happen. Turned out, as I was welcomed into the inner sanctum my desire to talk to Grace personally was actually possible. She’d come to stay with the Queen of Wheat. Why she hadn’t in the first place I wasn’t sure, but it surely had something to do with the state of Vivian’s family.

  Both Grace and Libby were there, the young woman looking harried and not herself, though perhaps she was much more herself now than she’d ever been, finally able to show her fear. I hoped things went well for her from here, that the FBI could protect her, but I honestly wasn’t holding my breath. Not until I had a chance to talk to a certain Irishman.

  I was ushered in by a quiet maid who closed the doors to the large sitting room behind me, no sign of Clara or Martha. Only Vivian stood in front of one of the tall windows, the sunlight creating her in silhouette, slim, perfectly dressed, almost statue-like in her stillness.

  Grace, on the other hand, stood and hurried to me, hugging me to her in a tight embrace. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, patting her back before letting her go. She examined me just in case, fingers brushing over the red mark left behind on my collarbone by the stun gun.

  “We were so worried.” She turned and smiled sadly at Libby who had stood to join us and her assistant nodded in response. Gone was her guarded nature, her Goth-like attempt to hide who she was. Eve O’Shea instead stared back at me, light eye makeup and her hair in soft waves around her feeling much more authentic.

  “I can’t believe Frederick was behind this.” She squeezed my hand. “I didn’t think he had it in him.”

  “Are you all right?” I squeezed back. “I told Crew about your situation. He and his old partner in the FBI want to discuss your options.” Did Liz miss her after all?

  Eve shrugged and sighed. “I won’t testify against my family, Fee. That’s what the FBI requires if they are going to help me.”

  “We’ll see,” I said. “Just meet with them?”

  She finally agreed while Vivian quietly joined us.

  “The fashion show is moving ahead, if delayed.” She sounded all business.

  Grace hugged her, too. “Thanks to you, my dear, and your continuing support.” She smiled at Vivian fondly before blushing a little. “I spoke to Henry. We’re working together again, if on a trial basis.” Working, as in work-work or working as in…? She inhaled quickly and answered my unspoken question. “He’s explained everything, and I, in turn. We’re attempting to make amends to each other. To combine our efforts instead of working against each other.” She sounded very happy about that, though Vivian showed no signs of agreeing and Eve looked slightly concerned.

  I, for one, was rooting for love, thanks.

/>   “I’ve decided Kami needs to move on.” She was rather firm about that. I hardly blamed her. “And I’ve asked Noel to join my company. I feel it was a healthy move, for both of us.” Maybe Grace could do something to help the once ousted model recover herself. I was all for it.

  Vivian showed me out. I paused at the door, wanting to ask her about her aunt and grandmother, about the now achingly clear memory I’d been trying to suppress since Mila almost drowned. The boy in the water, screaming my name. Was that Victor? Why couldn’t I remember?

  Instead of opening that wound, I reached for her hand like Eve had for mine and squeezing her fingers ever so slightly. When she returned the touch, I took that as a sign she was willing to move ahead if I was.

  “You were really brave to give up everything for your family, Vivian.” I had no qualms saying it, either. “It couldn’t have been easy.”

  She seemed momentarily floored by my words, but recovered quickly. “This wasn’t the life I wanted,” she said, voice low, trembling ever so slightly. “But it’s the one I have, so I’m making the most of it.” She glanced at the sitting room door. “Friends like Grace make it more bearable, though being in touch with what I lost isn’t easy, I admit it.”

  Friends like Grace. I nodded, released her hand, only to feel her squeeze one more time while the possibility she was reaching for more than just physical touch made me pause and, as she had, return the favor. I stared at her a long moment, Vivian looking back, not knowing what to say or really to feel. We weren’t friends. Yet. But was that on the horizon after all?

  “I need allies,” Vivian finally said, keeping her voice down, but this time with an intensity that made me pay close attention. “Fee, there are things happening in Reading that are making me uncomfortable.” She cleared her throat, a delicate sound, the closest to vulnerable I’d ever seen her. “I used to be able to count on you.” Wow, where did that come from? Even she seemed surprised by the statement and yet again I thought of the drowning boy, considered bringing up what I was beginning to remember, decided against it as she went on. “I know you have this town’s best interest at heart. Can I call on you when the time comes?” Her icy eyes no longer seemed cold, but intent, focused. “And will you trust me to do what’s right, what’s necessary?”

  Hadn’t I told myself I’d be looking for a way to make Marie Patterson sit up and take notice? I didn’t even hesitate, though just a week ago I might have. “Whatever you need,” I said.

  Vivian’s relief came through in her touch, in her eyes and she nodded before opening the door and letting me go.

  As I drove away, chest tight with worry, I couldn’t help but wonder just what I’d agreed to but positive I was going to find out sooner rather than later. And that it likely had something to do with the Pattersons. While Victor’s death clearly lingered inside me, the reminder of his loss so long ago likely the reason memories were surfacing, it had nothing to do with my present circumstance. Didn’t I have enough to keep me occupied without digging into an accident I clearly chose to forget?

  No more mysteries. The proverbial inn was full.

  Besides, the ones I had at my disposal deserved my full attention. I didn’t get to ponder the treasure, Siobhan Doyle or the Patterson family’s part in whatever Vivian had cooking because my phone pinged and a check of the incoming text message made my heart clench.

  Need to see you, Malcolm sent. Now.

  I made it past his bullies without a fight, half-expecting one despite the fact he’d asked me to come. One never really knew when it came to Malcolm. And he was drunk, that much was apparent, in his slouched position next to a tumbler and a near-empty bottle of what looked like Scotch. He sat alone at a table in the corner of his silent establishment, windows shuttered, lights low, Malcom rattling ice in the bottom of his glass before setting it down with a thud.

  He looked up as I entered, staring me down while he toyed with his empty drink, pouring another before I could even come to a halt next to him. I stood, hands tucked awkwardly in my pockets, throat aching with more than the injury I’d sustained from Frederick, while Malcolm spoke like I’d asked him the question I’d been thinking for days.

  “The woman I love is lost.” He was almost unintelligible and it took me a moment to make out what he said in his thick Irish accent. When I finally understood the string of words, I gasped, sinking down next to him, my worry about Siobhan clearly justified.

  “She’s dead?” How horrible. Was fate really so cruel?

  But he shook his head, taking a deep drink of the fresh glass, the last drops of amber liquid in the bottle next to him likely to follow in short order. “Oh, no, lass, that would be too easy, wouldn’t it, then?” He stared at the Scotch in his glass a long moment. “Far too easy. And a mercy, something we don’t deserve, it seems. None for me or her in this life, God unwilling.”

  I leaned in and grasped his wrist, his free hand cold under mine. “What happened?”

  “A stroke.” He shook slightly, tears forming in his normally cold and calculating eyes. I saw his main bully lean toward him (I had to actually find out this guy’s name at some point, like we were on a first-name basis), standing behind him in protective, sorrowful guardianship and realized even men like Malcolm Murray knew love, connection, family. “Took her mind, it did, just like that.” He looked up then, weary and old, the energy gone out of him, the frightening man I half-liked, half-feared gone and replaced with someone I didn’t understand but could feel compassion for. “We had no time, darling Fee. No chance, we two. I knew better, knew a man like me couldn’t ever have the happiness she brought me, not for long. And I was right.”

  Fear woke in me, that he’d fall into darkness. Malcolm always seemed to have this bright shininess to him, softening the edges of his wicked ways. I really did like him, admired him, even. Part of me wished I’d had more of a chance to get to know him up to now and was grateful for the role he’d played in my life in the past. But at this moment, I honestly feared he might get lost in the hurt that played across his face. Without hope, what could a man like him become?

  But no, I knew as I observed him drink again, sagging once more, he was a far better soul than he gave himself credit for. Not the darkness for this one, but emptiness, yes. He was lost, long gone, and would likely end up alone and powerless in short order.

  “I’m so sorry.” For a lot of things. I found I could barely speak, choking up over the layers of regret I felt for him.

  Malcolm leaned in slowly, like it took effort, one hand rising to stroke my cheek in the most tender touch I’d ever felt, his own wet with tears. “Find out what happened to my Fiona. Please, dear lassie, if you can. Save an old man from himself and find my daughter.”

  I wanted to cry, to hug him, but he was leaning back again, sighing, snapping his fingers. Another of his boys hurried forward with a fresh bottle and I knew I wouldn’t have much more time with him coherent let alone upright.

  “I need to know what happened.” I grasped for his hand again but he didn’t let me hold on, shaking his head.

  “It means uncomfortable truths. About John. About me and Siobhan. About my daughter.” He met my eyes again. “But I deserve to know. My darling deserves to know, too.”

  “Malcolm, I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what to look for.” He had to understand that.

  He reached into his breast pocket, fumbling a few times and I knew he was far drunker than he appeared. When he finally fished out the piece of paper I took it from him before he could drop it in his glass by accident. Fiona Doyle was written across it, with a date, June 14th, but no year. I looked up as he nodded, jabbing a finger at the scrap of a note.

  “Everything you need to know is right there,” he said, eyes suddenly intense and fixed on me. “Including how you came to be.”

  Me? I almost squeaked in surprise but didn’t get to talk about it further. Bully (that name would have to do) stepped toward me as if on some sort of silent cue and helped me phys
ically to my feet. And by helped me I mean he pulled me up, gently but with firm assurance I wasn’t going to win if I fought him.

  “Malcolm.” I tugged hard enough I won the battle, if not the war, and felt Bully relent a moment. “We need to talk about Eve O’Shea.”

  He knew exactly what I meant, didn’t say a word.

  “She just wants to live in peace.” I held my breath, knowing I was toeing a line. We’d had only personalish interactions to this point, though he’d helped me catch some stray thieves in the past. But that had been in his interest. This? This was crossing paths with what amounted to family.

  I was surprised when he finally spoke. “You find her,” he said, “and I’ve never heard of Eve O’Shea.”

  Impossible to miss the giant twitch in the massive hand of the man who held me still. And then we were moving, him leading me to the door, gently depositing me outside. I stared up at him, his dark eyes, his tight haircut, thick neck, lips tight in a frown of worry.

  “Miss Fleming,” he spoke in a soft tenor, “please. They’ll kill him if he goes against the family.” With that, he softly closed the door.

  I found myself outside on the sidewalk in the chill air, hugging my coat around me, clutching Fiona’s name in my hand and holding Malcolm’s life in my grasp. Not surprising then I felt cold inside that had nothing to do with the weather.

  I drove home, stunned, terrified to go digging, anxious about Malcolm’s safety despite myself—the man was a criminal who had made his choices—but knowing I had to. As I passed Watters Antiques I remembered Oliver Watters mentioned knowing something about Dad and Malcolm and, determined to give the broken man at the bar and his true love closure if I could, no matter what it meant for my father, I checked the closed sign and agreed to myself I’d be calling on him in the morning.

  I should have went right home. But I couldn’t bring myself to resume life as usual. Nor could I force myself to do an internet search of her name and that date just yet. Instead, I drove, out of Reading, into the mountains, following the highway, ignoring my phone and just putting distance under my tires.