Chapter Thirty-Five
Juliette made a beeline for the paperwork stacked on the desk as she kept one ear out for the restaurant staff.
Veeta’s distraction seemed to be going strong, the clamor of the restaurant echoing down the hall as more cooks and servers came rushing out of the kitchen to witness the display.
Juliette scanned each document for that distinctive font.
Brigitte was a far better record keeper than her late husband, all of the paperwork clipped or stapled together, several of the stacks with color-coded tabs to indicate where they needed to be signed and several more with Post-it notes with phone numbers or follow-up questions about tax laws or contract disputes.
Brigitte had certainly stepped into her role as heir to the Ellingham fortune—there were stock trade requests from board members, the paperwork to grant Warren’s art collection to the museum that Clayton had dropped off, and even a charity proposal to donate a sizable chunk of money to a children’s hospital in exchange for naming a wing after Brigitte.
Yep, it looked like Brigitte had moved on from her husband’s untimely demise. But still no divorce decree.
Juliette worked her way through the drawers, admiring Brigitte’s handsome fountain pen collection and her entire drawer dedicated to skincare products, until she’d cleared the last drawer with no sign of the divorce decree.
Brigitte was too organized to simply shred such a thing; she’d want to clear everything with the lawyers before getting rid of evidence like that. So where would she hide a divorce?
The only decoration in the room was a small, simply framed painting of a young girl holding a stuffed bunny.
It was so unlike what Juliette assumed Brigitte’s style to be that she naturally gravitated toward it, lifting up the edge of the frame.
The wall behind was hollow, like someone had sawed through the drywall, and inside the cavity were stacks of money, a handgun, and a manila envelope.
Careful not to disturb the money or the gun, Juliette pulled the file and flipped it open.
“Bingo,” she whispered.
She folded up the secreted divorce decree and stuck the folder back in place, tucking the paper down the front of her dress before slipping into the hallway.
Their original plan had been for Juliette to meet the others at the back alley and hand off the paperwork, but that was obviously off the table with Veeta’s big stunt.
Juliette would just have to make her own way out and figure out how to explain everything to Charlie later.
“That’s her!” came a strident voice at the far end of the hall as Juliette froze, caught in the neon light. The militant woman blocked her way back to the restaurant, and right behind her stood Troy Pham himself, wielding a knife. “I knew she had to be behind this. Reporters!”
“That’s not a reporter, auntie,” Troy said, narrowing his gaze.
“I was just leaving, actually,” Juliette said, striding down the hall as if she had every right to be there and the office door behind her wasn’t wide open.
“I don’t think so,” Troy said, pointing the knife at her. “I recognize you. You were there for Warren’s big speech, and at the luncheon tent fighting with Brad. The one that got in the way when I punched that asshole. What are you here for? Revenge? Blackmail?”
“So distrusting of your fellow man,” Juliette said, eyeing the doors behind her. No emergency exits that she could see.
“Nah, you’re coming with me,” Troy said. “I’ll get the truth out of you.”
Juliette didn’t like her odds against a butcher knife, and she wasn’t sure she could make it to the gun hidden in the wall, so she reluctantly followed Troy and his aunt into the cleared-out kitchen.
Well, almost cleared out.
“Kate?” Juliette said in shock. “Veeta? What are you doing back here?”
“Apparently our distraction was a little too distracting,” Kate said sheepishly.
“One of you is going to tell me what the hell is going on!” Troy exploded, still waving that damn knife around.
“Let’s take it down a notch,” Juliette said, putting her arms up defensively. Unfortunately, that shifted the divorce decree in her bra, and the edge popped up out of her cleavage.
“What is that?” Troy demanded.
“Part of my dress,” Juliette said, looking him square in the eye.
Troy said something to his aunt in Vietnamese, and she stomped over to Juliette to snatch the paperwork loose. She unfolded it, scowling, and held it up for Troy.
“See? I told you, she’s a reporter,” said the aunt, waving the paperwork around. “Sniffing for a story about your girlfriend and her dead husband.”
“Why do you want Bridget’s divorce paperwork?” Troy asked.
“We know all about your little scheme,” Veeta said, going for bravado. “Brad was planning to ditch Brigitte and leave her with nothing, so you took a nine iron to his head and now the two of you get all the cash.”
“No no no,” Troy said, pacing the length of the counter. “I knew this shit would blow back in my face. I knew it! I didn’t kill that fucking weasel, but I’m sure glad someone did. I’m not going down for it, though. They’ve got nothing on me.”
That didn’t exactly sound like someone who was innocent, Juliette wanted to point out, but Troy was far too agitated.
“The police know that Brad filed for divorce,” she said, testing the waters. It wasn’t exactly true, but if she’d discovered it then Detective Marks would eventually as well. Hopefully sooner rather than later, considering their current predicament.
“What are you talking about?” Troy asked, looking truly confused. “Brad didn’t file for divorce, Bridget did.”
“If that’s true, why hide the paperwork?” Juliette asked.
Troy swung a fist against a stand of hanging pots, sending them crashing to the ground.
“I told her it was a bad idea! We could just come clean, tell the cops everything. She never cared about the money anyway, she just wanted out. But she said it was too incriminating! Said if people knew about the divorce, they’d start asking all kinds of questions.
Brad was a limp-dick, brain-dead daddy’s boy who ruined everything he touched.
He never deserved her, never! But I didn’t kill that asshole, I swear it.
He was already dead by the time I found him!
I’m not letting anybody pin this shit on me. No fucking way!”
He swung the knife wildly, Kate and Veeta jumping out of cutting range.
“We should call the police,” his aunt said. “Lock them up.”
“No cops, auntie,” said Troy, looking them over with wild eyes. He tapped the tip of the blade against the counter, the rhythm like a ticking time bomb. “I’m gonna handle them myself.”
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Juliette said, moving toward Kate and Veeta. What a colossally stupid idea this had been, letting them talk her into including them. She should have handled this on her own. They were in this predicament because of her.
“We’re way past stupid,” Troy said, taking a step toward her and thrusting the knife close to her face for emphasis. “What was stupid was you ever coming here in the first place. You don’t know what I’m capable of when I need to be.”
“You mean like swinging a golf club into someone’s skull?” Juliette countered.
“I told you I didn’t do that!” Troy kicked a nearby rack of plates, sending several crashing to the ground. Porcelain bit into her feet, stinging, but she didn’t look down.
“It was you or Brigitte, Troy,” Juliette said, pressing her luck. “Who do you think the cops are going to choose? The European model with the face of an angel, or the guy with the long criminal rap sheet?”
There was a clamor from the restaurant and they all turned to the door in surprise as several officers in tactical gear swarmed the kitchen, guns trained on them as they shouted for Troy to get on the floor.
He tossed the knife away, putting his hands behind his head and dropping to his knees like he’d had plenty of practice getting arrested.
Which, given his youth, he probably had.
“I should have figured you’d be here,” said Detective Marks to Juliette, looking rumpled as ever as he followed the SWAT team into the kitchen. “You seem to pop up every time I gotta make an arrest.”
“Who are you arresting?” Juliette asked.
“We’re arresting Troy Pham for the murder of Bradley Ellingham,” said the detective as his officers cuffed Troy.
“We found surveillance footage from the country club of Troy leaving through the kitchen just minutes after Brad’s murder, and wouldn’t you know it?
His hands were covered in Brad Ellingham’s blood.
Troy even did us the courtesy of leaving a nice, easy handprint on the exit door for identification. ”
“I didn’t do anything!” Troy screamed as two officers led him out of the kitchen. His aunt followed after, berating the officers in Vietnamese and smacking them with the divorce papers.
“Plus, we finally got results back on the substance under Brad’s nails,” the detective continued. “It was some kind of resin, and apparently Troy spent all last week making that raindrop display out of, you guessed it, resin.”
That explained the bucket she saw in the supply closet. Who would be stupid enough to leave evidence like that just sitting around? A guy who already had a long list of convictions to his name, she guessed.
“So … we were right?” Juliette asked, not quite believing the nightmare was over. “Troy really killed Brad? What about Warren Ellingham? What about the missing manuscript?”
Detective Marks shrugged. “We’re serving warrants at his home and Pacific Pines now. If he still has it, we’ll turn it up. We’ve got the guy dead to rights. Go home and enjoy not being a murder suspect anymore.”