Chapter 30
THIRTY
As we walked farther into the tunnel, I could feel my heart rate speeding, and it wasn’t only because of the briskness of Jemma’s stride. We were headed straight toward a killer, and the walls were definitely narrowing.
“Aren’t tunnels supposed to be the same size throughout?” Summer sounded like she was trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.
“We can turn around if you need to,” I told her, even though I certainly didn’t want to stop now.
Jemma, unexpectedly, began to sing. Her voice, tentative at first, rose, echoing off the walls.
We stalled at first but then settled into the tune and kept moving forward, comforted by the sound.
The melody was pure and clear, the words about knowing and being known, and some of the tension left my body as the song rang out for several minutes.
“That was beautiful,” Summer said when she’d finished.
It had been, and I was struck by the power that Jemma held with her voice.
“Music helps me calm down,” Jemma said, neither acknowledging the praise nor dismissing it. “It helps me distract myself, helps me think about something else.” She turned in a circle and pushed forward as if she hadn’t just astounded us. “Like, I don’t know… how long have you lived in Aubergine?”
I was grateful for the distraction but also had to blink a few times to refocus on the task at hand.
If Jemma got up onstage and sang like that, I might never stand a chance.
“I’ve lived here my entire life. My ancestors supposedly came over on the Mayflower.
” I pushed past the lump in my throat. “Momma raised me in the house that her great-grandfather built, but last year, she… she died.”
The two other women remained quiet.
“What about both of you?” I asked.
Jemma answered, “I grew up in Rhode Island, went to school in New Haven, majored in pre-law, hated it, and now I work at Starbucks near Times Square while I’m trying to find money to produce my show… the one about my brother.”
Wait. New Haven? “You went to Yale? And became a barista?”
Jemma’s voice was rigid. “That’s almost exactly what my parents said.”
“I mean… it’s… it’s fine. It’s just that—”
“I didn’t use my degree? Reach my potential?
” I could hear the self-deprecating tone in Jemma’s voice, and I wondered if she realized how much more likeable it made her.
“My parents said that too. After my brother’s struggles, I was the grand hope of the family. So far, I’ve just disappointed them.”
“I was a pre-med major and switched to education, so no judgment here,” Summer chipped in. “I couldn’t manage anatomy and physiology. I felt like a dummy.”
Jemma chuckled. “I’m laughing because the only way I got through pre-law was by testing out of college algebra. I passed by one point.” She considered. “I can’t believe we never talked the last two years you’ve been here.”
“You weren’t exactly approachable,” Summer said, in a burst of raw honesty.
“Fair,” Jemma admitted. “After my first year competing, I gave up all chances of being Miss Rosie.”
“I guess it takes a murder to bring out your friendlier side,” I said, half-jokingly.
We walked several paces without speaking.
“What about you, Dakota?” Jemma asked. “What was your life aspiration?”
I couldn’t find the words to tell them that I’d wanted to open a veterinary practice in Aubergine since middle school when one of Momma’s friends, who had a practice a half-hour away, had let me shadow her for the weekend.
I’d watched the doctor deliver a foal and stitch a puppy’s injured paw.
I’d held a goat around the neck while she’d administered antibiotics, and I’d helped her diagnose a cat with heartworm before it was too late.
Helping these creatures was the closest I’d ever been to experiencing any sort of divine calling, and that purpose had driven me for years—until I couldn’t help my own mother.
“I wanted… I went to vet school. I planned to work with animals. Horses, mainly.”
“I’ve heard that vet school is as tough as med school,” Summer said. “You could work here at The Rose with the stable full of horses.”
“If it’s not shut down as the scene of a deadly crime,” Jemma added.
I tried to change the subject as I ran a hand along the cement wall. “I have no idea how much farther this tunnel goes, but maybe we could… um… review what we know so far about Mr. Finch’s death.”
“Good idea,” Jemma said, obviously more comfortable discussing the business of murder rather than more personal things, which was fine since the former was currently more important.
“Okay,” I started. “So Mrs. Finch last saw her husband in their apartment drinking whiskey around five p.m. on Wednesday afternoon. Then, she came to see the contestants, chat, and make an appearance. She left, but an hour or so later, she came back into the Primrose Ballroom and collapsed.”
“When she came to, she said she couldn’t find her husband,” Jemma said.
“But she’d found the note,” Summer added.
“That’s right, and then according to the sheriff, sometime after midnight Mr. Finch was stabbed through the eye socket”—I paused, reflecting on the new information we’d discovered minutes ago—“in this tunnel, with a high heel now in our possession.”
“Before guests were milling about the grounds the next morning for the judges’ tea, he was shoved into the kitchen cabinets in the 1950s tent,” Summer concluded.
“Lacy was setting up tents until three a.m., so whoever put him there had to have done it after that.”
“Which means he was likely killed in the early morning hours,” Summer mused. “He had to be placed in the cabinets sometime between three and…”
“Seven a.m.,” Jemma said. “That’s when I led my Broadway Butt-Buster.”
“So, after midnight, he died, and between three and seven a.m. his body was moved,” I finished.
Moved was a gentler word than what had likely happened, especially if this was a one-man operation.
Mr. Finch’s body would have been pulled up the stairs, yanked out of the rose hedge maze, and shoved into the 1950s kitchen cabinets.
I could imagine the manhandling that must’ve happened to get Mr. Finch’s body where I’d found it.
“Around nine the next morning, Savilla found her stepmother collapsed in the Finches’ apartment,” Summer continued.
I thought about Savilla finding her stepmother. Had she been shocked? Or had she expected to find her dead? Had she planned all of this with Dr. Bellingham?
As I wondered, Jemma called our attention to what stood only a few yards away now: the end of the tunnel, with a stairway leading up to a door, similar to the one through which we’d entered.
“Thank God. I was beginning to wonder—” I stopped when Jemma put a finger to her lips and pointed above us.
Listen, she mouthed.
Faintly, I heard an echo of voices beyond the door. As the three of us stood still and listened, first came the jumbled voice of a woman. Then a man’s.
It was Dr. Bellingham.