by Laura Durham
“It kind of ruined the mood to discover he has to bring in one of my best friends for questioning about Blanche’s murder.”
Kate pressed a hand to her throat and tightened her grip on the white paper bakery bag in her other hand.
“Not you,” I said as I watched her visibly relax. “It’s Fern.”
Kate dropped her pink purse to the floor and sank onto the couch, her green silk shorts leaving lots of exposed leg for her to tuck under her. “I thought we already went through this with the questioning at the station and the makeovers.”
“About Cher’s murder.” I padded barefoot into my kitchen, talking through the open space between the two rooms divided by a waist-high counter and retractable wooden shutters I never closed. I opened the refrigerator and pulled out two bottled Mocha Frappuccinos. I shook them as I walked back to the living room. “This is about Blanche’s murder.”
“The police think Fern had something to do with Blanche Davidian being murdered?” Kate took the bottled coffee I extended to her and handed me the white bakery bag. “Did Fern even know Blanche?”
I twisted the top off my drink and sat down next to Kate on the couch, peering into the bag and being hit with the scent of sugar. “Not that I know of, but Fern is always full of surprises. For all we know, he styled Blanche’s wigs as well.”
“Can you hand me the one with chocolate icing?”
I passed her the oversized vanilla cupcake wrapped in wax paper and topped with chocolate buttercream. “Cupcakes for breakfast?”
Kate dipped one finger into the icing. “I figured you’d either need the calorie replacement or the comfort of sugar. I got you the Razmanian Devil since I know you like raspberry and lemon.”
I pulled the familiar lemon cupcake crowned with lemon icing and a tiny red fondant heart out of the bag. I took a bite, knowing the raspberry filling was in the center. The rush of sweet and tart made me close my eyes and smile. “Good call.”
“So the police are interested in talking to Fern because he may have styled the victim’s wigs?” Kate asked, peeling the wax paper away from her cupcake so she could take a bigger bite.
“I wish that was it. Apparently, two witnesses at Perry’s claim to have seen a man in all black pulling the gold velvet down in front of the casket. Can you remember anyone else at the reception wearing a black suit?”
Kate took a swig of her coffee. “I don’t remember anyone there who wasn’t in sequins except maybe Jesse. He was in a navy suit, wasn’t he?”
“That’s right. Was Stefan wearing something dark too?” I tried to remember his outfit from the brief glimpse I’d gotten of him heading toward the stairs, but I drew a blank. The only thing I could say for sure was he wasn’t in sequins.
“I didn’t see him, but doesn’t he always wear black?” Kate said. “I do know there’s no way Jesse could have killed Blanche. We were talking to him right before we found Fern and went up to the stage. Plus, he’s not the type.”
I agreed with Kate. Jesse didn’t have opportunity or motive. I couldn’t imagine why either groom would want to kill Blanche. As far as I knew, they’d never laid eyes on her.
“So it couldn’t have been Jesse and we don’t know about Stefan,” I said.
“If the same person killed both drag queens, it couldn’t have been Stefan. We know he didn’t kill Cher. He was more upset than anyone,” Kate said. “It almost ruined his wedding, and we both know how obsessed he was with having the perfect wedding.”
“There must have been someone else because it wasn’t Jesse or Stefan, and you and I both know Fern could never kill anyone.”
Kate dropped her crumpled-up wax paper in the empty bakery bag. “At least he could never strangle anyone. I wouldn’t put it past him to slowly poison someone for wearing a mullet or having frosted tips.”
“If we follow that logic, Richard would knock off every person who dared to put ketchup on his filet mignon.”
“I’m surprised he hasn’t,” Kate said.
Come to think of it, so was I. I finished my cupcake and coffee as I thought about how dramatic my friends were and how dramatic the wedding industry was in general. I bet paralegals didn’t have these types of work problems.
“Does Fern have any idea he’s a suspect in Blanche’s murder?” Kate asked, taking the paper bag and both of our empty bottles and heading for the kitchen.
“Promise you won’t breathe a word to Reese?” I called out as I heard her open my foot-pedal-operated trash can.
“Cross my heart,” she said as the trash can lid clanged shut.
“I may have left a message on Fern’s voicemail giving him a heads-up.”
Kate’s head popped up over the kitchen divider. “I’m guessing you weren’t supposed to?”
I shook my head. “Reese wasn’t even supposed to tell me.”
Kate made a clucking noise with her tongue as she came back into the living room. “I guess you don’t need to worry about the kind of PJs you wear after all.”
“You really think he’ll be angry enough to break up with me?” I asked, my stomach fluttering.
“Reese?” Kate gave me a knowing look. “How do you think he’ll react when he finds out you actually tipped off his only suspect? What do you think his superior will think?”
I bit the edge of my fingernail. “I guess I didn’t think it through, but I didn’t want Fern to be ambushed by the police and have a nervous breakdown.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I would have done exactly the same thing. But I’m not dating the hot detective. Have I mentioned the cute sous chef I met the other night?”
“I thought you were dating a guy who works at the State Department.”
Kate wrinkled her nose. “I’m off politics, but I did meet a nice reporter from Politico. I’m thinking of having dinner with him.”
“Not at the restaurant where the other guy is a sous chef, I hope.”
Kate looked scandalized. “Of course not. I’m not an amateur, you know.”
I did know. Considering the number of men Kate dated and juggled successfully, I would never call her an amateur. My mind wandered back to my love life.
“Maybe Reese won’t have to find out. I can call Fern and tell him I was mistaken.” I snapped my fingers. “Better yet, I can offer to arrange a meeting with Reese and Fern. I’ll act as the liaison.”
Kate pulled her phone out of her purse and looked at the screen. “Well, you’ll have to do that later, because we have to pick up Alexandra from the airport in less than an hour.”
I groaned. In my preoccupation with Fern being a potential murder suspect, I’d completely forgotten the cake baker for Debbie and Darla’s baby shower cake was flying in this morning.
Alexandra had been our go-to cake designer for years before she’d up and moved to Scotland. She’d claimed it was for the highland scenery and men in kilts, but I knew it had been the only way she could escape the crazy Type-A Washington brides. The more in demand her elaborate and delicious cakes had become, the more exacting and impossible her clients had grown. At the time, I’d thought her moving to another continent had been extreme. Now, I wasn’t so sure.
Because she loved us and because we promised she never had to speak to or lay eyes on the clients, Alexandra agreed to fly back for our most important cakes. Since she’d done the cake for Debbie’s wedding, there was never a question she’d do the baby shower cake. Plus, we loved the excuse to see her.
“Give me ten minutes to throw on clothes,” I said as I hurried down the hallway to my bedroom. “In the meantime, can you call Fern? Calm him down, make up something comforting, tell him we’ll be over later?”
“You got it.”
It took me less than ten minutes to pull on jeans and a pale-blue button-down and put on enough makeup so Kate wouldn’t complain I was going for an Amish chic look.
“Bad news,” Kate said when I reappeared in the living room. “Fern’s not answering. I tried his cell three times, and I called t
he salon. No dice.”
I tried to ignore the growing knot in my stomach. “Maybe he’s sleeping in.”
Kate raised her eyebrows but didn’t respond. We both knew Fern was an early riser.
I grabbed my black purse from where I usually left it on the floor beside the couch and felt it vibrating. I dug my phone out and checked the display. “Reese,” I whispered to Kate as if he could hear me.
“Answer it,” she said. “It could be nothing.”
“And if it’s not?”
She blinked at me as I pressed the talk button.
“Hey!” I tried to make my voice sound as cheery and normal as possible as I followed Kate out of my apartment and locked the door behind us. “What’s up?”
“I’ve tried your friend Fern at his home and work and he isn’t there.” He paused. “He wouldn’t happen to be at your place, would he?”
I sighed, grateful to be able to give him an honest answer. “Nope. I haven’t seen or talked to Fern since Perry’s yesterday.”
Kate began to walk down the stairs, her heels slapping against the floor. I followed her, my black ballet flats almost stealthy in comparison.
“Any idea where he might be?” Reese asked.
“Not really.” Again, another honest answer.
“Okay. I’ll talk to you later, babe.”
“Bye.” I could tell he was exasperated, and I was glad it wasn’t with me. Yet.
When we reached the ground level, I stopped and jerked my head toward the apartment door closest to the building entrance. “I need to tell Leatrice about the shipment we might be getting for the shower. I do not want it returned, so I need her to keep an eye out for the UPS guy.”
“Easy. Doesn’t she love the UPS guy?”
I knocked on Leatrice’s door. “She only recently gave up on me marrying him.”
The wooden door opened a crack and Leatrice’s eye appeared. “Hello, dear. What can I do for you?”
It was unusual for my overly involved neighbor not to come bounding out of her apartment with a thousand questions about where I was going and an equal number of reasons why she should come along. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine and dandy,” she said, not widening the opening in the door as I tried to look over her head into the apartment.
“What’s on your head?” Kate asked, drawing my attention to her yellow towel turban.
Leatrice’s cheeks colored as she touched a hand to her head. “I decided to change my hair color, that’s all.”
My suspicion was piqued. The only time I’d known Leatrice to change her hair color was when it was done for her. By Fern.
“Is Fern with you?” I asked.
“No.” She shook her head, but her contorted facial expression told me she was lying. “It’s just me.”
I heard a muffled voice from inside the apartment and her head jerked inside before reappearing.
“And Perry Mason. Another marathon.”
“Perry Mason does not sound that prissy,” I said, pushing the door open with one hand to reveal Fern at Leatrice’s dining room table wearing a matching yellow towel on his head. I could see bottles of developer, tubes of color, various combs, mixing bowls, and measuring cups spread in front of him.
“Who are you calling prissy?” he asked, adjusting his floral print smock over his shoulders.
“Why are you here and not at work?” Kate asked. “Please tell me you’re not getting matching perms or something.”
“Now that’s an idea,” Leatrice said. “They’d never recognize us with big curls.”
“What are you talking about?” I looked from Leatrice to Fern.
Leatrice bounced up and down on her toes. “We’re changing our appearance so we can go on the lam.”
“I got your message. I refuse to go to prison, Annabelle.” Fern stood, his smock swirling around him as he spun to face me. “I’m making a run for it.”
“And I’m driving,” Leatrice said.
Reese was going to kill me.
Chapter 20
“I’m afraid to ask what color you’re dyeing your hair,” I said to Leatrice as I stepped inside her apartment and let my eyes adjust to the lower light.
Leatrice didn’t get as much natural light on the first floor as I did on the fourth, and she kept her blinds closed for fear of being spied on. Since her apartment was on the same side of the building as mine, her layout was similar. But where mine was minimalist and lacking in any decorative items not connected to a wedding, hers was filled with bright patterns and plenty of knickknacks.
She patted her towel turban. “Since I’ve been a blonde for a while, Fern thought it would confuse the fuzz if I went back to brunette. Make it easier for us to disappear.”
“The fuzz?” I put a hand over my nose to block some of the ammonia smell and said a little prayer of thanks Fern hadn’t decided to color her hair pink or blue.
“And are you going blond?” Kate asked Fern.
Fern sucked in his breath. “Heavens, no. I only added a few burnished-copper highlights for the spring.”
“That should confuse the police,” Kate muttered to me.
“All of this because the police want to talk to you about Blanche’s murder?” I dropped my purse onto Leatrice’s floral print couch since her coffee table was covered with paperback mystery novels.
“They’re trying to frame me.” Fern’s eyes welled up with tears. “I didn’t even know Blanche very well, and I certainly didn’t have any reason to kill her, so how am I a person of interest?”
Leatrice hurried over and put a spindly arm around his shoulder. “We think it’s a setup.”
“Why would the police want to set up Fern?” I asked, feeling my eye twitch coming on. “I know Reese wouldn’t. He really likes you.”
That may have been an overstatement of Reese’s feelings about Fern, but I knew he didn’t have a problem with him.
Fern pulled down the corner of the yellow towel wrapped around his head and dabbed his eyes. “Well, isn’t he a sweetheart? I’ve always liked him too. And for what it’s worth, I don’t agree with Richard.”
Knowing how jealous Richard was of Reese, I didn’t dare ask for clarification.
“Fern and I think the real killer is setting him up,” Leatrice said. “It’s all an elaborate hoax.”
“How?” I asked. “By tricking Fern into wearing a black suit to the reception for Cher?”
Leatrice pursed her bright-coral lips. “We haven’t worked out all the details yet.”
Fern sat up in his chair. “What’s this about my suit?”
“That’s why they want to talk to you,” Kate said, walking over to the table and examining the tubes of hair color. “Two witnesses mentioned seeing a man in all black fiddling with the gold fabric in front of the casket. Since the killer clearly lowered it so no one could see him strangle Blanche, they think it might have been the same person.”
“But it couldn’t have been me,” Fern said. “I was helping one of the girls with her hair right up until about two minutes before I saw you two and introduced you to Hedda Lettuce.”
Leatrice clapped her hands. “An alibi!”
“Can the woman back you up?”
“Pat Dry?” Fern said. “Of course she can. Her wig was all catty-cornered, and I evened it up for her.”
“Her drag name is Pat Dry?” Kate asked.
Fern touched a hand to his turban. “She was in a pale-pink number with lots of bugle beads.”
“Perfect,” I said. “All we need to do is tell your story to Detective Reese and let him follow up with Ms. Dry to confirm it.”
“I feel like the weight of the world is off my shoulders.” Fern stood up and began packing his supplies inside a nylon bag.
“Wait a second,” Kate said. “That still leaves some guy in all black who messed with the velvet fabric and probably killed Blanche. Shouldn’t we be worried?”
Fern flinched. “I can’t stand the thought of someone being
strangled a few feet away from where the rest of us were drinking it up. It’s horrible we didn’t see or hear a thing.”
“Someone had to see or hear something.” Leatrice went over to a tall wooden bookcase and pulled out a thick paperback volume. “According to The Everything Private Investigation Book, witnesses can be notoriously unreliable and forgetful. I’m sure some of the guests saw things they don’t know are clues.”
Looking at the book’s dog-eared pages, I wondered how many times Leatrice had referred to the manual when surveiling our neighbors or questioning the postman on his whereabouts when he was late with the mail.
“Where were you when you were fixing Pat Dry’s hair?” Kate asked Fern.
Fern bent over at the waist and shook out his hair. “Close to the band. She was one of the singers getting ready to go on after the tributes. I couldn’t have her performing with Leaning Tower of Pisa hair, now could I?”
Kate grabbed my arm. “I thought I saw Fern near us at some point, because I saw the back of a dark suit, but it couldn’t have been him if he was near the band. So some other man was there in a black suit.”
I thought back to the reception at Perry’s and remembered talking to Blanche for a while and listening to the singers before finding Fern again and meeting Hedda Lettuce. I did remember seeing a glimpse of someone in black who wasn’t Fern or our grooms, and I recalled noticing the fabric was down at some point. I rubbed my temples. It was all so muddled, and I couldn’t remember any details about the other man in black.
“You’re right,” I said. “There was someone else in black aside from us, Fern, and Jesse. I’m going to call Reese and tell him what we know.”
I pulled my phone out of my purse and dialed Reese’s number from my list of recent calls as Fern began combing out Leatrice’s once-again jet-black hair. Since I’d known her, Leatrice had gone from Wayne Newton black to electric burgundy to platinum blonde. I had no idea her real hair color or what it had been when she was younger, although I suspected it was heavily gray underneath the dye. It was hard to imagine Leatrice anything but the eighty-year-old I knew her to be.
