Chapter 11 #2
Liar. She didn’t like spiders or anything creepy-crawly.
Once when we were tweens, we sneaked into an abandoned house.
We’d ridden our bikes to get there. Someone had told us ghosts inhabited it.
We didn’t encounter any, but we ran into so many cobwebs, our hair was covered with spiders.
Tegan screamed and screamed. After I batted the spiders off her and made sure my hair was spider free, we raced home … and never told a soul.
I grinned. “What she means is, she likes Batman.”
“Yeah? Me too.” Patrick’s mouth curved up on one side.
“The comics, not the movies.”
“Ditto. And I like goblins and ghosts—”
“Allie has a ghost kitchen.” Tegan motioned to me.
“I’ve heard of ghost kitchens. Is there really a ghost in yours?” Patrick made an eerie ooh sound and wiggled his fingers.
“I sure hope not.”
As if roused by spirits, the bookcase that was separated from the wall to my right pitched forward. I pushed Tegan out of the way. Straight into Patrick’s arms. A split second later the bookcase crashed to the floor. Dust billowed. Tegan eeked.
“Whoa!” Patrick said, holding her tightly. “Did not see that coming. You okay?”
“Y-yes,” she stammered, but she wasn’t. She was shaking like a leaf.
Tegan was so spooked, she didn’t press Patrick further about the mud—neither did I—and she elected to stay the night at the inn, supposedly to protect her mother, though I was pretty sure she wanted her mother to comfort her.
After assuring her ghosts didn’t exist at the B&B, nor did any spiders or bats, I went home.
But, admittedly, the event had freaked me out.
For a long while, I cuddled Darcy to calm myself.
Once my nerves were steadied, I started in on the scones and muffins for tomorrow’s delivery to Whispering Winds, a rival bed-and-breakfast to the Blue Lantern.
The inn rarely ordered from me, only when their live-in cook was sick or on vacation.
When two dozen of each were in the ovens and I’d set the timers, I decided to tackle a couple of vintage 1920s dessert recipes.
While researching the era to create the menu for the party, I discovered orange-drop cookies had been in fashion.
Why? Due to the war and the inaccessibility of traveling to Europe and the Mediterranean, Florida had come into fashion, as had California, with its burgeoning movie industry.
Both states boasted gigantic citrus groves, and with the development of refrigerated railroad cars, citrus fruits became popular.
Suddenly, fresh-squeezed orange juice at breakfast was in demand.
Orange-drop cookies were easy to make. For a twist on the standard, I decided we’d also offer blood-orange crinkles.
While I squeezed oranges and prepared the dough for the orange-drop cookies, I couldn’t stop thinking about Jason and Delilah and Jay Gatsby and Daisy.
Though Gatsby, because of his idealism, was worthy of honor, he had a fatal flaw.
He erred when loving Daisy, and when he heroically defended her after the car crash, he received his own unjust punishment.
Jason had also been an idealist. Had his love for Delilah weakened him?
I recalled mentioning to Zach how Jason had uttered a syllable of Delilah’s name as he lay dying.
What if, as Tegan had theorized, Delilah was in town, and Jason had been trying to tell me he’d let down his guard and invited her into his home and she’d stabbed him? Was Zach considering this possibility?
Who else might be on his radar, other than me?
I started to text him about Delilah, but before pressing Send, I erased the text.
He wasn’t going to reveal anything. He was troubled by me.
Why? Did he really believe I was capable of murder?
Had he focused on me as the main suspect because the weapon used to kill Jason was, indeed, my spearpoint? Could two spearpoints be identical?
“Crud,” I murmured. If I hadn’t mentioned that the spearpoint resembled mine, Zach might never have thought—
Stop, Allie. You had to tell him. You did the right thing.
“Double crud,” I muttered.
Darcy mewed from the other side of the Plexiglas door and pawed it.
“It’s okay, sir. I’m all right.” I caught sight of my laptop computer on the island. If Zach hadn’t researched Delilah, I should. And perhaps I should do an Internet search on others I suspected of murder.
After preparing a sheet of orange-drop cookies and removing the scones and muffins from the oven, I opted to take a fifteen-minute break and opened the computer. The screen came to life with a picture of Darcy sitting atop the head of his llama cat-scratching station.
I clicked on the Word icon and created a new blank document. For a header, I typed the words Jason Gardner Murder.
Once an English major, always an English major. Before writing any thesis, I created an outline, laying out the points of my introductory paragraph, which then led to the orderly body of the thesis and ended with a well-supported conclusion, in this case, the identity of a killer.
“These are my top three suspects,” I said to the cat. “Patrick, Reika, and Iggie.”
I designed a three-column grid and typed each of their names in a column.
Patrick, because he thought Jason would ruin the ecosphere of Bramblewood, not to mention Jason had humiliated him at the shop.
Reika, because she was ardent about wanting the properties to be ceded to the preservation society.
Iggie, because he had wanted to build on the properties and begrudged Jason’s ability to waltz in and seal the deal.
“And possibly Delilah, if she’s in town,” I added.
Darcy sat on the other side of the Plexiglas door, staring at me and listening with rapt attention.
“Can you think of anyone else, sir?”
He tilted his head.
I added a column on the right, entered Delilah’s name, and then opened an Internet browser.
I typed Delilah’s married name into the search bar.
Images of her popped up, as well as links to her social media accounts.
She was no longer an art curator, it appeared.
She was an in-demand personal shopper, who shared everything she purchased with her viewers.
That gave me pause. Patrick had accused Jason of building the mall to lure Delilah to town.
At the time, I couldn’t fathom why he’d have thought a mall would be enticing.
This new twist made sense. If she was an influencer, building an upscale mall with her tastes in mind might be the ticket.
I scrolled down and stopped on one of the images showing her at a gala that took place last night in Hollywood.
She was on the arm of a very handsome man and was glowing with happiness.
The caption cited the man as her husband, who was, as Jason had stated, a vintner and renowned art collector.
Dozens of eyewitnesses were grinning in the background.
Something felt off about the picture. Studying the image harder, I realized Delilah wasn’t merely glowing.
She was pregnant. The baby bump was small and fairly hidden under the Empire-style dress she had on, but I was certain I was right.
Had learning of the pregnancy stunned Jason and caused him to abandon the project in Santa Monica?
No matter what, the photo gave Delilah a verifiable alibi, so I left her column empty and proceeded to research the others.
Patrick Hardwick’s alibi of going caving by himself was, as Tegan had suggested, flimsy. No witnesses. No proof. His claim that he’d muddied his shoes at the site sounded reasonable, but he’d looked nervous when I’d raised the issue.
“What did Jason mean when he said, ‘Memories of one’s mistakes rarely fade’?” Did Patrick have a criminal record? An illegitimate child? I doubted he and his parents were in WITSEC.
I typed the phrase What’s his secret? in Patrick’s column.
Darcy leaped to the top of the llama and immediately bounded down to peer at me through the Plexiglas.
“Didn’t that hurt your toenail?” I asked.
The cat whisked his tail, signifying it did not, and looked from me to the top of the llama and back.
“Aha! Yes. Smart cat. A deep dive is necessary.” He wasn’t really implying anything of the sort. He wanted me to play. “First, however, we should learn a tad about Jason, don’t you think?”
I typed his name into the search bar. A number of projects he’d built appeared as images.
Most were beautiful in design. In Seattle.
In San Francisco. In Aspen, Colorado. His style was akin to I.
M. Pei’s. I discovered a few links to articles that described his work.
I skimmed them and couldn’t find one person who’d claimed a design was shoddy.
A link to an article about the building he hadn’t completed in Santa Monica, California, popped up.
I clicked on it. The image of the shell of a building was front and center.
The lede read, Builder dumps mall project, leaves pristine area in shambles.
Reading on, I learned Jason hadn’t explained why he’d abandoned the mall, but it had occurred about four months ago.
“Delilah,” I whispered. “It had to have been because of her.”