Chapter 8
The afternoon sun finally breaks through the clouds, making all the fake gold in Gold Rush Hollow glitter like a gold-plated panic attack.
Dexter and I approach Willow at the dessert table, where she’s constructing what can only be described as a mountain of sugary happiness on a single plate. I might have to follow her cue.
“Detective Drake!” she calls out cheerfully, adding yet another chocolate coffin to her already precarious pile.
Her crimson-stained lips curve into a smile.
“Are you here to arrest me or compliment my interview skills? Because honestly, I’ll take either.
My ego needs constant feeding, much like my stomach apparently. ”
“We just have a few questions,” Dexter says in a professional tone, though I notice him eyeing the bourbon pecan tarts.
“Oh, you should all get plates,” Willow insists. “Nothing says murder investigation like a little stress eating. Plus, these chocolate coffins are almost too appropriate, aren’t they? They’re like little edible crime scenes.”
I have a feeling she knows the way into the detective’s good graces is through his stomach. Of course, she’s right. Men are so easy to read.
Within minutes, all three of us have loaded up plates that fly in the face of all known dietary recommendations.
I’ve got two apple cider donuts, a pumpkin cheesecake bar, and something Savvy calls death by maple syrup that I’m pretty sure is just butter held together by sugar and maybe maple-based revenge.
We settle at a nearby picnic table, and both Fish and Chip immediately claim their spots among us like the nosy furry snoops they are.
This suspect smells like expensive perfume and poor choices when it comes to her love life, Fish observes, delicately sniffing in Willow’s direction.
She has excellent taste in desserts, though, Chip counters, his eyes tracking every movement of her fork. That chocolate coffin has raspberry filling. RASPBERRY! That’s practically a fruit. Talk about your healthy eating!
Your understanding of nutrition is why you’re shaped like a basketball, Fish replies.
“So am I a suspect?” Willow asks between bites of what appears to be her second tart.
“How exciting!” She wiggles her shoulders to exemplify her point, despite the fact that no one answered her question.
“I’ve never been a suspect before. Well, except for that time in college, but that was just a misunderstanding about a borrowed car and a small fire. ”
Dexter pulls out his phone to take notes. “We’re talking to everyone who was present yesterday morning.”
“Of course, you are.” She demolishes an apple cider donut in three bites.
“I was in full view of the cameras the entire time, being professionally humiliated by my ex-husband’s existence.
Crystal can verify. She was practically surgically attached to my hip, asking me about my journey and my truth.
” She averts her eyes as if she’s had enough of the woman.
Quite frankly, so have I. “Anyway, I wanted to tell her my truth involves a lot of wine and revenge fantasies, but I guess that doesn’t test well with middle America. ”
“Same, sister,” I say, and we share a quick knuckle bump.
“Did you know Duffy Banks well?” I ask, trying not to watch her inhale her food with the efficiency of Chip discovering an unguarded tuna sandwich.
“Duffy was president of the boys’ club that enabled my ex-husband’s extracurricular activities.
He’d create fake production meetings so that Cooter would have bona fide alibis.
‘Sorry, honey, late production meeting’ meant ‘Cooter is at Hogs Duffy wanted more sensationalism. Guess who won?”
She gestures at herself with a fork full of chocolate coffin.
“And Cooter has always been dramatic about his solutions,” she goes on. “Once, our dishwasher broke, and instead of calling a repairman, he bought a whole new kitchen. The man doesn’t do subtle. Murder isn’t out of the realm of possibility.”
The angry bald one did smell like fear yesterday, Fish confirms. And cheap cologne. Mostly cheap cologne.
I knew he was bald under that baseball cap.
Cheap cologne? Chip muses. Maybe he was trying to cover up the murder smell.
I don’t think that’s a thing, Fish says.
Could be. You don’t know. You’re not a murder scientist.
“Where was Cooter during the coffee switching?” Dexter asks.
“Right in the middle of it all. Handling cups like he was dealing cards in Vegas,” Willow is quick to tell him. “He handed one to Duffy, then took it back, then gave him another one. It was like watching someone have a nervous breakdown through beverage distribution.”
“I was there,” I say. “It’s true. But in everyone’s defense, those pumpkin spice lattes looked delicious. They didn’t hold back the whipped cream or the sprinkles,” I say to Dexter as if this were an important detail in the investigation.
I guess Chip and I have our culinary obsessions in common.
“So nothing odd happened?” Dexter presses on as he nods at Willow.
“The whole morning was odd,” she shoots back. “The energy was off. It’s like everyone was waiting for something to happen.” She gives a bitter laugh. “I guess they didn’t have to wait long because something sure happened, something lethal.”
She’s not wrong, Fish observes. The air did smell like anticipation. And bacon. But mostly anticipation. Hoomans broadcast their drama like a radio station no one asked for.
“Do you think Cooter would really kill someone?” Dexter asks directly.
Willow considers this while polishing off her last chocolate coffin.
“The old Cooter? No. He’d just have a midlife crisis and buy a motorcycle he’s too scared to ride.
But the new Cooter? The one who’s been publicly humiliated, lost his marriage, his reputation, and his dignity?
That Cooter might do anything. When you have nothing to lose, you’re the most dangerous you will ever be. ”
I nod. “There are no truer words.”
She stands and brushes the crumbs off her designer jeans.
“I actually have some footage on my phone from yesterday if you want it. I record everything now. I guess you could say I have a few trust issues, you understand. It comes with the territory of finding out your husband has been playing musical beds with half the service industry.”
“That would be helpful,” Dexter says.
She pulls out her phone, does some swiping, then airdrops the files to him. “There you go. Twenty minutes of Cooter looking like he’s about to vomit, Clyde trying to seem important, and Crystal being so perky, I wanted to check her for batteries.”
She starts to walk away, then pauses. “Oh, and Detective? When you arrest someone, can you do it on camera? My followers would love the behind-the-scenes content!”
She’s either innocent or completely insane, Fish mewls.
Why not both? Chip asks. Hoomans are complicated. Like those desserts with multiple layers. Delicious but confusing.
And that sums up humans in a multi-layered nutshell.
Georgie and Ree wander over, having apparently been lurking nearby.
“That woman just ate her body weight in sweet treats,” Georgie says with an expression that suggests she clearly admires her for it. “I respect that kind of commitment to emotional eating.”
“Even I was impressed,” I say. “And I feel like I invented emotional eating.”
“She pointed the finger pretty firmly at Cooter,” Ree notes.
“Can’t blame her,” I say. “Pointing at your ex during a homicide investigation is much more satisfying than actually killing them. Plus, the legal fees are lower.”
In the distance, I can see Crystal doing selfie videos, her manic enthusiasm radiating like someone who mainlines espresso and motivational quotes.
“Ready for suspect number three?” Dexter asks.
“The perky one who’s dating my ex?” I groan. “This should be fun.”
It won’t be, Fish predicts. That one smells like hairspray and desperation.
And vanilla. Lots of vanilla, Chip adds. I bet she tastes like a cookie.
Fish grunts, Please don’t taste the suspects.
That was ONE TIME.
As we head toward Crystal, I realize we’re no closer to solving this than we were an hour ago. Everyone has a motive, everyone had the opportunity, and everyone is pointing at everyone else.
Someone definitely killed Duffy Banks.
The question is, who was desperate enough to actually go through with it?