Chapter 19
NINETEEN
Jemma and Summer didn’t hesitate, nor did they ask whether or not they should follow me and Savilla on the same path I’d taken the day before to the Finch apartment, the walls around us turning from tasteful modernity to ornate gaudiness in a matter of steps.
As the four of us entered the long hallway to the Tickled Pink Apartment we stopped in our tracks. Two medics, one on each side of a gurney, wheeled an unconscious Mrs. Finch toward us, an oxygen mask over her mouth.
“Oh my God,” Savilla said. “She was breathing… she just wouldn’t…”
“She seems stable,” the medic reassured her. I recognized him as a fellow student who’d graduated a few years ahead of us, and I wondered if he’d worked at the hospital with Momma. There was no time to ask. “The oxygen is a precaution. We’ll take care of her, Miss Finch.”
“Can… can I come with her?” Savilla asked, her voice shaky.
“You can follow us there in your own car.”
Summer raised a hand. “I have a rental. I’ll drive you.”
Savilla looked to me. “Will you be okay? I think the sheriff will be at the apartment any minute.”
That must’ve been why Sheriff Strong had been hurried earlier this morning. A pang of guilt rushed through me.
I could see Savilla trying to keep her emotions under control. First her father. Now her stepmother… I also sensed not only the concern for her parents but a deeper fear: a fear that she might be next.
“You go,” Jemma told Savilla and Summer. “I’ll stay with Dakota.”
I was grateful not to be left on my own, even if my new companion was Jemma.
My thoughts turned to Dr. Bellingham then—how he’d smiled and flirted coquettishly with Jemma only moments ago.
He was quickly becoming my top suspect in whatever was happening here, but how would he have had access to Mrs. Finch this morning?
How could he have been down there preparing to meet with us and at the same time doing whatever had been done to the pageant owner’s wife?
The medics rushed the gurney down the hall. Summer led Savilla away while Jemma followed me into the Finch apartments, and for a fleeting moment I imagined Jemma attacking me from behind. But I was being dramatic, silly with the lack of sleep and ongoing intrigue.
We crossed the threshold into the silver and magenta sitting room at the front of the residence.
“I’ve never been in here,” Jemma marveled.
White powder from fingerprinting marred the furniture, and shattered glass had been splintered across the floor. “What do you think happened?”
“It looks like she was enjoying a morning aperitif that didn’t settle well,” Jemma speculated.
“That’s an understatement.”
Just then a figure came from one of the back rooms. Charlie Strong.
“Good morning again, ladies,” he said by way of greeting. His eyes still had bags underneath, but he seemed to be making an effort at some sort of nicety. “Sleep well?”
“With my aunt in jail at your directive? Nope.”
“Your aunt is in jail because she’s a suspect to theft and possible kidnapping—or murder,” he reminded me. “Unless you’d like to confess something?”
I couldn’t tell if he was joking, but either way, I didn’t appreciate the question. “Hilarious, Sheriff.”
“I’m nothing if not a tease,” he said dryly before his tone shifted and his expression grew more concentrated.
I decided to focus on the real issue. “So, what happened here this morning?”
“Savilla woke up, got dressed, and then found her stepmother unconscious. She called the ambulance, who informed me.”
“And after you arrived, she came to look for me at the morning tea,” I finished for him.
“Right. She thought you might have some insights to share with me.” He considered the general layout of the apartment and any clues it might offer, and I couldn’t tell how he felt about me—or Jemma—actually being here.
I cleared my throat. “I’m… I’m sorry I was a little curt earlier. I had no idea you were dealing with… this.”
His eyes darted to me. He was either confused by the apology or unwilling to accept it, because he didn’t say anything.
“Well, it looks as if whatever was in Mrs. Finch’s glass was the problem,” Jemma said, before extending her hand to the sheriff, never missing an opportunity to make a good impression. “I’m Jemma Jenkins, long-time contestant and”—she paused as if the word was hard to get out—“friend of Dakota.”
The sheriff nodded in acknowledgement, but he didn’t shake her hand.
I would’ve laughed if the situation hadn’t seemed so ridiculous. My beauty pageant nemesis was now on the case, trying to outwit the handsome but grumpy sheriff with me. What a riot.
The sheriff addressed me. “Savilla mentioned that you were up here last night, serving Mrs. Finch drinks.”
“Am I a suspect now?” I choked out the words.
“Whether we like it or not, everyone is.” He inhaled deeply, tired or frustrated or both. “But I was asking because I’d like your perspective… as an insider, as a person who was with the victim only hours ago.”
I didn’t have to give him this information, but maybe if I shared what I knew, he’d give me something in return.
I squatted down and put a finger to the pale pink carpet, which had been drenched in spatters of brown liquid.
I lifted my fingers and sniffed. “It’s whiskey, the same thing she was drinking last night. ”
“Here’s the bottle,” Jemma said, reaching toward the end table, almost grabbing the container and putting her prints all over it.
The sheriff held out a hand to stop her. “Right, but Savilla said her stepmother didn’t usually drink except for a glass of wine with dinner.”
I thought of the three glasses Mrs. Finch had downed yesterday and wondered how much of an anomaly that had actually been. I moved closer, to scan the contents of the decanter without touching anything.
The books in front of the bottle had been removed and stacked neatly on the end table just as I’d done, and I could see the row of mixers—ginger, lemon, sweet vermouth, grapefruit juice—except… My eyes roamed back over them.
Something was missing.
I closed my eyes and imagined the conversation with Mrs. Finch, the scent of vanilla and caramel and something else.
“It’s not a secret that she and Mr. Finch enjoy their liquor,” Jemma said.
“My predecessor was called out here a couple of years ago when things got too rowdy one night after the pageant,” the sheriff acknowledged. “But the police report didn’t mention Mrs. Finch.”
“Who did it mention?” I asked.
“I’m afraid that’s classified.”
“But this crime scene, or whatever it is, isn’t classified?”
“I can use my discretion about who I allow to help me with a case.”
“And you’ve selected me, a family member of a primary suspect?”
“You know what they say: Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” He seemed to immediately regret the words. “Not that you’re the enemy.”
Jemma was watching us like this was a tennis match, her head bobbing back and forth between us, a small smile on her lips.
“Look, I haven’t slept in almost thirty hours and…
” He let out a long breath. “I’m not exactly beloved in Aubergine after beating one of their hometown boys for the job.
This is my first real incident”—I wasn’t sure that was the word I would use for whatever this pageant had become, but sure—“and I would appreciate any insights you can give.”
It wasn’t exactly a truce, but it was a show of vulnerability.
My eyes fell on something I’d noticed last night when pouring Mrs. Finch glass after glass. Open on the side table was the honeypot with the purple bee and white flower.
I took a tissue from a box nearby and picked up the honey jar, sniffing it. Grapes. That was the missing scent. “Last night Mrs. Finch took her whiskey neat, but it looks like she used honey this morning.” I handed the jar to the sheriff. “Better have this tested.”
“And maybe a few shards of glass,” Jemma added. “Just in case something was in the cup before she poured the drink.”
“My officers are already on it.” The sheriff scratched at his jaw. “Can you tell me who else was in her apartment yesterday evening?”
“Savilla, Katie Gilman, Doris Davis—but she left after a few minutes.”
“Was Dr. Bellingham here?” the sheriff asked, startling me. Did his list of suspects match mine? When I didn’t answer, he clarified his thinking. “The other two judges were present, so I assumed…”
“No, but later, I was with Dr. Bellingham in the ballroom,” Jemma interjected. “He was on the dance floor with contestants all evening.”
“At the Jewels and Gems party,” I added. “I was there too but left early.” I skipped mentioning the ledger I’d taken from the Finches’ cabinet or the insurance policy I’d found. But I recalled the Polaroids in my purse.
Lacy was right. He needed to know about those.
“Hopefully whatever the lab finds will match whatever is in Mrs. Finch’s system.”
I opened my clutch. “What were her symptoms?”
“The medics said she was unconscious. Elevated blood pressure, irregular heartbeat. She’d broken out in a cold sweat. Signs of poisoning.”
Before I could talk myself out of it, I pulled out the Polaroids and read the message—the words implying that my Aunt DeeDee had killed not one but two people—one more time, before handing them over to him.
I considered briefly whether or not I wanted Jemma to see the coded message, but I was fairly certain that she’d had nothing to do with them.
Yes, she wanted to win, but I felt in my gut that she wouldn’t risk being caught cheating—or murdering—to do so.
“These were in my bed when I woke up this morning, but they could’ve been placed there before I got to my cottage last night.” I laid them on the settee.
The sheriff studied the images. “This thing in the center of the photos… it’s a sash?”
“A pageant winner’s sash. My aunt’s, specifically. It’s hanging in her office.”
“Has anyone else seen these?”
Jemma peered over, her brows drawn. Now I was convinced she’d never laid eyes on these images.
“Just Lacy,” I answered. “But she won’t say anything.”
“Let’s keep it that way for now.” He gave us both a pointed look as he picked up the images.
“Look, Sheriff, I know my aunt is innocent. I’m certain that whoever put these in my room also planted that crown in hers.
I also spotted a ring missing from Dr. Bellingham’s pinky—he has a noticeable tan line.
I think he may be behind all of this. The last stint he had as a judge ended the same year that Miss 2001 went missing. ”
“Dr. Bellingham,” he repeated as he stared at the ground, trying out the accusation. He pulled out his notebook and flipped through the contents—information he didn’t offer to share with me.
“What have you got there? A top ten list?” Jemma asked, and I wondered if she’d meant to sound sarcastic. Perhaps she’d spoken that way for so long that she couldn’t really help herself.
The sheriff ignored the question.
“Dr. Bellingham is also… He’s a man that my aunt warned me to stay away from,” I said. “He’s got to have something to do with all of this.”
“Why would she want you to stay away from him?” His tone sounded inquisitive but also…
protective? I wondered if that was because he was specifically concerned for me, but no, he was concerned for everyone.
That was his job. The sheriff made eye contact with me, and I hated that I noticed the color.
Hazel rather than brown or green. Figured.
Even his own eyes couldn’t make a decision about how to be.
“This is an insider, someone who has access to a key,” he finally said. “Someone who knows their way around.”
“An insider could be someone like a judge,” Jemma suggested.
“Or security, or housekeeping, or… someone like Dr. Bellingham… or like DeeDee Green,” the sheriff added, making me hate him again.
“Why would my aunt put photos of her own sash in my bed and then accuse herself of murdering two people?”
He seemed to read my mind before he took a halting step toward me.
“I understand that you’re determined to believe in your aunt’s innocence.
” He studied me, and my face heated under his gaze.
“But you have to hear me: My job is to consider all angles, to think like a criminal and a law enforcement officer at the same time. If your aunt is innocent, you have my word, she will be released. If she’s not, then… ”
The words jarred me. “Wait… are you saying that you would consider those photos—the message about killing people—as some kind of evidence against my aunt?”
“Not necessarily, but—”
“I cannot believe this,” Jemma said, her voice rising in both pitch and volume.
Slack-jawed, I listened to Jemma come to my defense.
“Dakota came to you, gave you these photos, told you about Dr. Bellingham, and you stand there and say that this could be used against her aunt if—”
“Let me stop you right there, Miss Jenkins. I’m not saying any such thing. I’m not in the business of helping the family of the accused—or of working against them. All I meant was that we need all the facts before we draw any conclusions.”
His tone sounded reasonable, and it made me feel like I might explode.
Facts? This man wanted facts?
“Fine. I’ll give you facts,” I said through clenched teeth.
“The woman that you put in jail is the only family I have left. After my mother died, she…” I was almost crying now, but I didn’t want him to see, so I wiped at my eyes and caught my breath.
“Deanna Green was the person who came over every day and cooked and cleaned and got me out of bed. She made sure that I had somewhere to go, that I acted like a functional human being…”
As I said the words, memories of her swarmed my brain—of that first week without Momma in the house, of making me sit up and eat, of her running a hot bath for me, of her embroidering in my room while I napped.
She’d never been the one I’d confided in or sought out when I’d fallen down or had a broken heart.
That had always been Momma, my emotional support system in so many ways.
But, for my entire life, Aunt DeeDee had been showing me that she loved me, just not in the ways that I’d thought to notice.
“She loves this pageant, God help her, and she wouldn’t take so much as a pencil from the front desk, much less a crown or a…
a person’s life. Whoever put that crown in her room and these photos in my bed has something against my aunt.
My eye is on Dr. Bellingham, and I suggest you start looking there as well, because if I find out who’s behind all of this before you do, I just might do something reckless. ”
The sheriff seemed surprised by my little speech as he stared at me. “Miss Green,” he said calmly, “I know you’re frustrated, but please don’t do anything rash.”