Roxy Reinhardt Mysteries Box Set

by Alison Golden

  “But it was!” he said. “It is! I was the one who convinced him that we should do this job here at your hotel. He didn't want to. This isn't his style. He wanted to go for the Hilton project. He wanted to focus on that. He was saying we should do a showreel to impress them and even stay and shoot in Hilton Hotels ourselves on an unpaid basis to prove what we can do and get the job that way. But I told him no.” Michael choked back a sob. “I told him, let’s focus on our own indie stuff and not go running after a big name brand. And now look what’s happened! It’s all my fault, and nothing anyone can say will change my mind.”

  Roxy couldn’t fathom what Michael was talking about, but she didn’t feel it was the right moment to probe. She waited for him to continue speaking. She was willing to sit there and listen to him for as long as he wanted, but he shook his head and said, “I need to get out of here.”

  “I'll help you,” Roxy said. “You want me to get you a reservation? Or parking? Or…? What do you need from me? I'm here for you.” This was far beyond customer service. This was human to human. Roxy’s heart was so heavy with compassion for Michael. She could not even begin to imagine what it must be like to have your best friend die, let alone find them dead, possibly murdered. She thought of what it might be like if she found Sam, Elijah, or any of her friends the way that Michael had found Dash, but her mind just wouldn’t go there. She couldn’t, wouldn’t imagine it.

  He said, “No, I’ll take care of everything. All I need is for someone to get me over there so I don’t throw myself in front of traffic.”

  That took Roxy aback. “I will go with you,” she said quickly. “Tell me when you're ready.”

  “Now,” he said, beginning to tap away at his phone. “I’m ready now.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “I’M JUST MAKING the booking,” Michael said. “I’ll go to the Hyatt. Then I’ll see that awful detective and give him a piece of my mind. Why is he talking to the media before talking to me? I was Dash’s business partner and his friend and…” He trailed off.

  “I understand,” said Roxy again. “Just remember that when we go out, there may well be reporters looking for you and perhaps me. We’re two of the people who’ll face the most press interest—me as the owner of the hotel and you as Dash’s partner.”

  “Oh, man, I’d forgotten about that,” said Michael. “I haven’t thought of the outside world since the moment I found him. But I know my fans, Dash’s fans, are out there, waiting. They need to hear from me, not a bunch of random reporters. It might seem crazy to go back on social media straight after this, but honestly, some of the fans are…well, they’re like family. They need to hear from me.” His face crumpled, “But I’m not strong enough yet.” He sniffed and wiped his eyes.

  “If they really care about you, they’ll give you all the time you need and will totally understand how you feel,” said Roxy. “Just do it when you’re ready.”

  Michael gave her a small smile. “Thank you so much for understanding, Roxy,” he said. “I’m very hard on myself at times. It’s wonderful to have a friend like you. Dash was…” His voice faltered.

  Roxy felt her heart swell with warmth. “It’s nothing,” she said. “I’m glad to have met you. I just wish it had happened under better circumstances. Let’s do what we can to get justice for Dash now. I promise I will fight to the end for him.”

  Roxy thought they should take a vehicle to the Hyatt. They could go in Sam’s work van. They could hide in the back. But shortly after Sam said he was on his way, he called Roxy’s phone. “The street’s jammed with reporters and their cars,” he said. “All over the place. They’re parked in the middle of the street, everywhere.”

  “Have you tried the back entrance?”

  “Yep, there’s reporters there too.”

  “Let’s just face them, Roxy,” Michael said. “They want their pound of flesh, so let’s give it to them. How bad can it be?”

  Roxy thought it could be pretty terrible actually, but she said, “Okay, but no talking to them, promise?”

  Michael nodded.

  So with Sam unable to make it through the throng, Michael and Roxy had no choice but to walk through a sea of reporters. They had to push their way through. There wasn’t a single foot of space and none of the journalists would give an inch. Microphones were shoved in their faces. Questions were shouted in their ears. Someone even tried to wrestle Michael’s case out of his hand. In response, Michael elbowed the man in the chest to push him away. “Leave us alone!” Michael shouted.

  Roxy winced. She pictured Michael looking like a crazy man on the front page of the newspaper. Perhaps they would even start to make up a narrative about Dash’s killing, implicating Michael as the culprit. Trial by press, isn’t that what they call it? Terrible. She didn’t want to even think about what they’d print about her and her hotel.

  Eventually, after much pushing and shoving and stonewalling, the pair arrived at the Hyatt. Thankfully, the reporters were barred from entering while Michael and Roxy were let through. The hotel locked the doors from inside once they’d passed into the lobby. Frustrated to have their quarry elude them without responding, the reporters piled up outside, banging on the glass. “We're going to call the cops on you!” a security guard shouted to the journalists, but it made absolutely no difference. The reporters were like a pack of wild wolves desperate to sink their teeth into their prey.

  “Oof, this is what it must be like being part of a boy band. Thank you so much for coming with me,” Michael said to Roxy breathlessly. They were both red-faced with exertion and adrenaline. “Those reporters were crazy. How are you going to get back?” Michael said.

  Roxy looked out the door. “I think I’ll have to get a police escort,” she said with a sigh. Overhearing her, a young, bright, overly enthusiastic concierge said, “I can arrange that for you, miss.”

  “Thank you,” Roxy replied hoping against hope that it wouldn’t be Johnson who came to get her.

  Michael’s phone beeped, and he fished it from his pocket. His face clouded over as he read it. “I just got a message,” he said. “It’s Dash’s family. Well, his mother and brother. His father died a long time ago. They’re staying here until the case is solved. They’re coming down from Missouri.” His face was strained.

  “Oh, I see,” said Roxy. Then she ventured, “Is everything okay?”

  “No, not really,” he said. “They are not nice people, Roxy. They hate me and have wanted me out of Dash’s life for a long time. They didn't trust him to live his own life, they wanted to dictate everything he did. But they didn't know him, they didn’t care to know him, not the real him. They didn’t understand what he wanted or what he loved. They just wanted to control him and have him conform, be a good, hometown boy who’s great to his momma. He was never going to be like that, he wanted more from life, but they kept on trying.”

  Roxy gave a sad little smile. “He was about the furthest thing from a conformist you could imagine, wasn’t he?”

  “Tell them that when you see them,” Michael said bitterly. “They thought he was being led astray by me.” He gave a sad smile too. “It was probably the other way round, wasn’t it?”

  Roxy returned Michael’s smile. “I think so, yes.”

  “Anyway, they’re planning to stay at your hotel.” He widened his eyes meaningfully. “Good luck.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  UNFORTUNATELY FOR ROXY, it was Detective Johnson who drove her from the Hyatt back to the Funky Cat. He took the opportunity to drive her in a marked squad car complete with flashing lights and the occasional blast of the siren in order, she suspected, to make a spectacle of her and give her a stern warning.

  “I heard that you’ve been saying that Dash was poisoned,” she said to him.

  “Yeah, that’s right. At your hotel.” Johnson kept his hands on the steering wheel but leaned over meaningfully, taking his eyes off the road and the reporters for a second to glance in her direction.

  “
Does that mean we can expect to be graced with your presence some more? Will you be coming to question us again?”

  “And poke around your kitchen. We’re waiting on the full toxicology reports, but your place was the last one where the victim ate or drank anything.”

  “Only along with everyone else!” Roxy said, her indignation overcoming her shyness. “And the rest of us are fine.”

  “Means nothing, we have to investigate thoroughly. The victim’s food may have been messed with. And I want to talk to that flibbertigibbet again. The one from across the road.”

  “Elijah.”

  “Yeah, him. And that goth. The one with the tatts.”

  “You mean Nat.”

  “Yeah, her. I want to talk about them nightcaps. You likely have a murderer in the house.”

  Roxy frowned. She didn’t like the sound of this at all.

  Johnson was prattling on in the seat next to her. “Now, don’t you go around investigating like you did last time, y’hear? I'll slap cuffs on you faster than you can say Miss Marple, if you do,” he threatened. “We need to treat this very carefully, what with the press interest and all.”

  They lapsed into silence and neither of them said much else for the rest of the ride. Roxy stared out at the reporters clamoring at the patrol car’s windows, fighting the misery that was weighing her heart down as they crawled along the street. What had her life become? Riding in police cars, chased by hordes?

  It was only when she got back to the hotel and into the kitchen where Nat and Evangeline were clearing away breakfast that she realized her insides were turning over with hunger. She hopped onto a stool and ate beignet after beignet while watching Nat load the dishwasher.

  “Johnson wants to talk to you again. He says Dash was murdered and that it was probably one of us. You were the last person to serve Dash food.”

  Nat looked at her quizzically.

  “The nightcaps,” Roxy explained.

  “Oh right, well I’m totally in the clear. Unless someone’s put rat poison in the punch when I wasn’t looking, they were regular old brandy milk punches.”

  “Yeah, I know you didn’t do anything,” Roxy said mournfully. “But someone did. And probably someone who was here that night.” Hopelessness was starting to wash over her like a tide on a beach. She kept pushing the emotion away but it kept returning. Each time it got a little bit stronger and pervaded a little bit further into her soul.

  Nat regarded Roxy with a worried expression. “Look, I'm really sorry if anything I’ve done has made things difficult for you.” She winced, then paused from loading the dishwasher, and turned to lean against the side. She gave a deep sigh. “I know I should have been nicer to Ada. About Ada…it's just that…well, everything is changing. I've never been a person who is good with change. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Oh, I’ve forgotten all about the dress incident. That seems like an age ago now and, well, we're both in the same boat,” said Roxy. “I don’t like change either.”

  “What do you mean?” Nat said. “You seem to revel in it. You’re sure fancy enough around this place, always wearing your lovely sparkly outfits, smiling like it’s Mardi Gras.”

  “You're plenty good enough as you are,” said Roxy, smiling. “Isn't that right, Evangeline?”

  “I don't know what you're both talkin’ about,” the older woman said. “You young ones and all your soul-searchin’ are a mystery to me. Back in my day we were hired for a job and we did it, no questions asked, no navel-gazin’ required.”

  “That's all very well for you to say, Evangeline,” said Nat. “You don't live in the age of social media. Everything is about identity now. Everyone has to have their own personal brand. It's not easy. It brings with it a whole bunch of insecurities and worries that we are not matching up to everyone else.” She popped her head out into the dining room to check that there were no guests there. She lowered her voice to a shouted whisper. “Like Lily Vashchenko. She's just so perfect! Her home is immaculate and beautiful. She always has the best outfits on, and her hair is amazing. And that’s before we even consider her social media content! How are we supposed to match up to that? That series she did on other people’s kitchens was tremendous.”

  Evangeline shook her head. “Why would you want to look at pictures of other people's kitchens for goodness sake?” she said. “How do people even have the time?”

  Nat sighed. “You just don't get it.”

  “You’re right about that, cher,” Evangeline said. “I don't. And I have no wish to.”

  Roxy continued to munch away at beignet after beignet, amused at the conversation but feeling heavy-hearted still. “He wants to poke around the kitchen some more too,” she said.

  “Who does?” Evangeline asked.

  “Johnson.”

  “Hmph! It wasn’t my food that poisoned that Dash fella!” Evangeline grumbled.

  “No, I’m sure it wasn’t. We’d all be dead if that were the case, but maybe whatever poisoned him was put in the food. He’s right, it’s not outside the realms of possibility that someone tampered with it.” Roxy put her half-eaten beignet down, her stomach finally signaling that it had had enough. She pushed herself from her stool. “I want us to do something,” she said. “Moping around is not helping. One of us may be the murderer, but the rest of us are innocent. I have to keep things positive. I can’t give up.”

  “There’s the evening with Sage coming up. She’s bringing her crystals and cards and whatnot,” Nat said.

  “I know, but that’s not until tomorrow. I want to do something now. I have to shift this energy that’s weighing me down.”

  “Once I'm finished up here, I was looking at hitting a couple of flea markets,” said Nat. “I want to find some more furniture to upcycle.”

  “But everything's done!” said Roxy. “The hotel décor’s complete.”

  Nat got a mischievous glint in her eye. “It’ll never be done. Not if I've got anything to do with it,” she said. “I have a great idea for a piece in the dining room that's going to take the luxury quotient to a whole new level.”

  Roxy smiled. When Nat put her heart and soul into things, it was always a fun time. “Come on, share with the class, then.”

  “Nope,” Nat said with a cheeky grin. “You'll have to wait and see.”

  “Why don't we ask Lily Vashchenko to come along with us? She’s turned upcycling around. It used to be something you’d do when you were broke. Now it’s a virtue signal,” Roxy said. “Isn't she the upcycling Queen?”

  Nat pouted. “No! I am!”

  “Okay, okay,” Roxy said, her palms up. “You do know what you're doing, I’ll give you that. But you don't have nearly a million Instagram followers just yet, do you?”

  “Nope, and I never will,” said Nat. “The idea of being famous makes my skin crawl, especially considering what’s going on right now.”

  “Very sensible, cher,” said Evangeline. “More trouble than it's worth. You run along now, I'll finish up here.”

  “Thanks, Evangeline!” said Nat. She ran out of the room at a sprint, anxious to be on her way.

  Lily Vashchenko was delighted by the invitation to visit the flea market. At least she smiled, enigmatic and cat-like as usual. “I wonder if I’ll find any unique New Orleans pieces,” she said. “The architecture around here is very interesting. Perhaps I'll find something wonderful to put in my own home.”

  Roxy called up to Sylvia’s room to see if she wanted to join them, but there was no reply.

  “I think I saw her going out the back with those pole thingies of hers,” Nat said. “What does she need them for anyway? It’s not like she’s going to be climbing any mountains.”

  “They’d be good defense in the event she comes upon any rabid reporters though,” Roxy responded. Nat nodded in agreement.

  The three of them assembled in the lobby and Roxy peered through the front door spyhole. Most of the reporters seemed to have given up and dispersed. “They probab
ly followed Johnson to the station after he escorted me back here in a squad car. He’s the only one talking to the press about what happened. Come on, there’s hardly anyone outside. Let’s go before we change our minds!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ROXY, NAT, AND Lily set out together on foot. There were still dribs and drabs of reporters on the sidewalk, but Roxy told Nat and Lily, “Walk straight past them, don’t answer any questions. Don’t even look at them. Just pretend like they're not there.”

  They only planned to walk as far as Sam's laundry. They took a couple of back streets and managed to lose most of the reporters that trailed them. By the time they reached their destination, there was only one still following them, and he was content to stand at the street corner and watch.

  “Sam!” said Roxy, with relief, as they burst into the laundry, the constant whirring of the machines making a loud hum. It was hard to make herself heard. Sam was loading a machine, but he stopped when he saw the trio come in.

  “Hey! How are you?”

  “Um, well, it’s been quite a day so far,” she said. “I took Michael to the Hyatt, and the press chased us, and I had to have a police escort home and now…”

  “Are you okay?” His eyes were soft with concern, and he came toward her as if to hug her, but then thought better of it and backed away.

  Roxy felt heat rise to her cheeks. “Oh fine, fine,” she said. “Don't worry about me. I'm just concerned about Michael and the rest of the guests, and now Nat and Elijah because Johnson is taking a hard look at them because of the nightcaps, and oh well, we just wanted to get out and lose ourselves in a crowd. We want to go to the flea market. Do you think you could take us in your van?” She was babbling and she knew it.

  “Oh,” Sam said, wincing. “I’d be happy to, but I've just sent one of my guys out in it to collect an order. I guess...” He looked a little embarrassed. “We can go in the Rolls?”