Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chipper Floyd leapt at Bridget’s invitation so fast that Juliette would have felt sorry for him if she didn’t suspect he was a two-time murderer.
Juliette snacked on a superfood smoothie as Brigitte made the arrangements.
She’d had to put her phone on silent to stop the constant onslaught of texts from the group chat.
Why couldn’t they get the message about moving on without her?
She obviously worked better alone, since she was finally on the brink of capturing the true murderer.
“He’s on his way,” Brigitte said. “You want to see the cameras?”
Brigitte swanned out of the curtains of the cabana like a movie star taking the red carpet and Juliette followed her lead, the two of them striking imposing figures as they strode past the gossip gals and left them blinking in awe in their wake.
“Never look back, darling,” Brigitte said breezily. “If they’re out of your eyeline, they don’t exist.”
“God, I love you,” Juliette replied as two workers pulled the double doors open for them.
Brigitte led the way to the security room, the guard scrambling up to relinquish his chair for his new boss.
Made-up European supermodel background or no, Bridget Ellingham was a force to be reckoned with.
The guard walked them through the bank of monitors, showing the cameras focused on the corridor leading to the men’s locker room.
“And none of these were recording the day that Brad died?” Juliette asked.
“No, ma’am,” the security guard said. “When the Piedmonts ordered the renovations to start, they cut the power to that whole section of the building. All the cameras were out.”
“How convenient,” Juliette muttered.
Brigitte went tense in the chair in front of her. “He’s here.”
Chipper Floyd breezed through the front entryway with a grin too bright to be casual, his greeting to the front desk so loud it leaked under the security room door.
He waved to the girl like he didn’t have a care in the world.
He waved to the boys working the door, calling out greetings to the gossip gals coming in from the pool.
Glad-handing and grinning like a political candidate on his way to bury the skeletons in his closet.
“What a fake,” Juliette said as he slapped a cabana boy on the shoulder so hard the kid wiped out.
He kept up that shit-eating grin as he approached the security guard stationed on the hallway.
There was a moment of unnecessary sweet-talking, considering that Brigitte had already given the order to let him through, and then Chipper was clear.
Gone were the exaggerated stroll and the glad-handing as he doubled his pace, his shoulders hunching in and his expression turning grim as the camera tracked him making a beeline for the locker room still covered in police tape.
“These are recording now, right?” Juliette asked, tapping the monitor.
“Of course,” Brigitte said. “The server backups are in a locked closet around the corner.”
“Let’s go see what our good friend Chipper is doing in there,” Juliette said.
Brigitte waved down the security guard as they entered the hallway, letting him lead the way to the locker room door just as Chipper Floyd came charging out, a gym bag tucked tightly under one arm.
“Brigitte, hey, good to see you,” Chipper said, bright and loud as he tried to edge around the security guard. “Thanks for this, by the way. You’re a doll. I’d love to catch up, but I’ve got a session scheduled with my swing coach in five minutes.”
“Stop him,” Brigitte said. The security guard shifted his bulky presence, blocking Chipper from leaving the hall.
“What’s the problem, Brigitte?” Chipper asked in edgy confusion, still trying to maintain his positive demeanor.
“What’s in the bag, Chipper?” Brigitte asked.
Chipper gripped the bag tighter, his knuckles going white as he eyed the security guard. “It’s my gear. My lucky shoes, you know. Gotta have all my best stuff for the qualifiers next week.”
“Let’s see those lucky shoes,” Juliette said expectantly.
Chipper’s gaze hopped to her in confusion. “Sorry, doll, I don’t sell my memorabilia.”
“I’m not a fan,” Juliette snapped. Seriously, he didn’t remember her again? “Show us what’s in the bag.”
“Brigitte, what is this?” Chipper asked, his voice low. “You said it was cool if I grabbed my stuff from the locker room.”
“I said I would let you in,” Brigitte said. “I didn’t say I would let you out.”
Chipper’s eyes blazed, but he could hardly attack them with the security guard right there. “This is bullshit, Brigitte. You can’t do this. I’ll call June Piedmont right now and—”
“What?” Brigitte countered, cooler than an iceberg. “Ask for her recommendation on a designer-brand ankle monitor? Open the bag, Chipper.”
“If it’s a money thing, I can get you fifty K in cash right now, no questions asked,” Chipper said. “I know Brad’s money was tied up in long-term investments. I can get you something liquid today, right now.”
“Are you trying to bribe me, Chipper?” Brigitte asked with a perfect eyebrow lift.
“Hand over the bag, Mr. Floyd,” said the security guard, his voice deep and low and super intimidating.
Even Juliette got a chill standing next to him.
When Chipper didn’t move, the guard reached out one beefy hand and wrestled the bag away from him.
He handed it off to Juliette, who practically ripped the zipper loose trying to get it open.
“You can’t do this!” Chipper shouted. “This is theft.”
“No, this is theft,” Juliette said, reverently extracting the loose pages of Warren Ellingham’s stolen memoir.