Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
I considered running back to the main house and trying to find the sheriff, but who knew how much time that would take?
And I was beginning to think that time might be a precious commodity for Katie Gilman.
The stairs were steep, and all three of us tried to prevent our gowns from touching the dried blood.
I spoke first. “Since that’s not fresh, I’m guessing it belongs to Mr. Finch rather than Katie Gilman.”
Jemma didn’t respond, and Summer was either turning green or reacting really poorly to the dim lighting. When she leaned forward and threw up, I knew it was the former.
“Oh Lord, Summer. Do you need to go back to your cottage?” Jemma asked, her hand on Summer’s back. She somehow sounded both concerned and annoyed.
Summer wiped at the edges of her mouth before responding. “No. I’ll be okay. We need to… we need to find Katie.”
The walls felt like they were closing around us; no dirt or tree roots peeked from the cement, and Jemma, the tallest of us, had to duck as we moved farther into the enclosed space. She took the lead and Summer the rear, so I was sandwiched between them.
Whoever had designed this tunnel had done a good job sealing the tomb-like cavern and leaving just enough room for a person to walk single file from the heart of the rose hedge maze to…
wherever the tunnel let out. There must’ve been some kind of ventilation, and the lighting was dim but sufficient.
Still, no living thing—no gnats or spiders or cockroaches—came in or out, which wasn’t exactly comforting.
A narrow strip of halogen ran along the ceiling, so we could now follow the drops of blood along the ground several yards into the tunnel. When we reached the end of the bloody trail, tossed against the curve of the tunnel wall lay a shoe.
I bent down to study it. Rows of sparkles ran across gold fabric. “Do you think that was the—” I started as I crouched near the footwear.
“—the murder weapon?” Jemma finished for me, skirting the heel and bending closer. Sure enough, blood had dried along the edges, and there seemed to be mud caked into the fabric.
“Do you think the murderer was wearing it?” Summer sounded like she might be sick again.
“I sure hope not because I know that shoe,” I told them. It was one half of the pair that Savilla had been wearing when I first met her in the entryway of the estate late Wednesday afternoon. I looked around for the other one, but it was missing. “Savilla wouldn’t kill her own father, right?”
Summer bit her lip, but Jemma shook her head. “All signs point to Dr. Bellingham. He could’ve easily procured the shoe, brought Mr. Finch down here, and murdered him.”
As I tried to envision the scene, Jemma studied the area, walking a few feet beyond us.
“Maybe this is something,” she said as she bent down to pick up a piece of paper that had been folded into a tight square and dropped on the ground.
She opened it carefully and held it toward the light so she could read the faint scrawl.
“It’s a list of names.” Jemma began reading aloud. “Dakota, Jemma, Gina, Pam…”
I took the sheet from her. A numbered list of thirty names—all of them pageant contestants—lined the page. And I was first on the list.
“Only one name is crossed off,” I noted.
Summer met my eye. “Dakota.”
I could tell from her expression that she was trying to think of a way to reassure me, but she wasn’t quite convinced herself.
The air in the tunnel was cooler than the night above us, but heat prickled behind my ears, at the base of my neck, under my arms. I thought of who else had been metaphorically crossed off the pageant list so far—Mr. Finch, dead; Mrs. Finch, poisoned; Aunt DeeDee, behind bars.
The familiar feeling that I might be next shook me.
“Perhaps it’s some kind of pageant ranking?” Jemma suggested.
“Or…” Summer began. “What if it’s a list of who Dr. Bellingham is coming after next?”
The three of us let that thought sink in. Until we could prove that this man was Mr. Finch’s killer, I wouldn’t be able to rest easy.
“This is a list of contestants,” I thought aloud. “Whatever it means, I can only imagine that one of the judges wrote this, which suggests that Dr. Bellingham was down here.”
I imagined him in this space, the way he could easily navigate the confines with his thin frame and spry physique.
After befriending Mr. Finch and acting as a judge for two different stints across more than two decades, he would know this property.
Mr. and Mrs. Finch trusted him. He could get into places—shoe closets, whiskey cabinets, guest rooms, secret tunnels—that others had no idea even existed, let alone how to access.
“It has to be Bellingham,” I said, picking up the shoe with one finger inside the toe. I held it with one hand and the list in the other. “Let’s see where this ends.”