The Minstrel & The Campaign

by Lila K Bell

  “I had my theories.”

  My heart did a double-beat. Finally, some theories. I hoped they were wild and outlandish but filled with enough truth to lead me in the right direction.

  “Like what?”

  “Like that she’d gotten tired of small-town living and run away.”

  Boring.

  “Or that she’d fled to escape her lover.”

  More interesting, but not quite what I’d hoped to hear.

  “You knew about Amelia and John?”

  She laughed.

  “Everyone knew about Amelia and John who bothered to pay attention. They weren’t exactly subtle. I told her it was a bad idea. He was a politician, focused only on the next election, but she insisted on getting involved with him. She was a sweet, lovely girl before that.”

  “You were good friends, then?”

  I wished I could open my eyes and get an idea of what kind of expression Veronica wore. To hear Susan tell it, there had been nothing but animosity between the two women. If Veronica were telling the truth, they’d been great friends until John had come between them. It was difficult to discern the truth with a makeup brush tickling my nose.

  “The best of friends,” she said. “She got me the job at City Hall.” A faint sigh reached my ear. “Hearing they found her… well, it was the first good night’s sleep I’ve had in twenty-five years. I’m heartbroken, but at least I know what happened. I know she’s not out there suffering somewhere. Although I don’t want to think about what that man might have done to her.”

  “You think Mr. Kingslake murdered her?”

  “Of course I do,” she said, and there was heat in her voice that was definitely anger, but I couldn’t peg the motivation. Anger over what she claimed to believe he did to Amelia or over his rejection of herself? “The last couple of weeks before Amelia disappeared, they’d been having trouble. You can open your eyes now.”

  I opened them and was shocked by the harsh lines that had appeared around Veronica’s mouth as we’d talked. Not even the best makeup in the world could hide the evidence of such disdain.

  She pulled another brush from her kit and reached for a shade of lipstick I wouldn’t have tried on to save my life. Without hesitation, only pausing to correct the angle of her brush, she set to work.

  With her applying lipstick, my questions were limited, but Veronica seemed content to continue her tirade without prompting.

  “Amelia never mentioned they were having problems, of course,” she said, “but the signs were all there. Circles under her eyes, the way she intentionally went out of her way to avoid being alone with John in her office. And then there was the fight.”

  I stiffened, and only the desire not to have a streak of lipstick smeared across my face kept me still. A fight? John hadn’t mentioned any fight.

  “It was the night she went missing. The two of them were out in the courtyard screaming at each other.” A faint frown creased her brow, but hardly enough to leave a wrinkle. This wasn’t a woman who did wrinkles. “I have no idea what it was about. I wish now I’d been paying more attention. I did catch Amelia telling him to leave her alone, but it didn’t sound like he was listening.”

  She shrugged and set down her brush to switch it for the eye shadow. “I wouldn’t be surprised if John waited for her to come back inside and clocked her over the head before she could embarrass him by breaking things off. He was in the middle of a campaign, you know. The last thing he would have wanted was negative press.”

  Clocked over the head? Had the police revealed how Amelia had died? I made a note to check when I got home. It was possible Veronica had just given herself away.

  Her face suddenly split into a smile. “Listen to me gossiping away about things I’m sure you don’t care about. It was so long ago. All I mean to say is that I’m glad the man is behind bars so Amelia can rest in piece. Now, let’s get your eyes done so you can get to your event.”

  I closed my eyes again to let her work, but this time I was glad for the divide between us. She’d given me a lot to think through.

  Why hadn’t John mentioned a fight? It already looked bad for him, but to hide that kind of information just made his position look worse.

  Unless Veronica was lying. As enthusiastic as she sounded to share her story, I couldn’t help feeling that she’d been rehearsing an act. Running through a version of events she would tell the police if they asked. That didn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t true, but she carried enough resentment and jealousy to make me wonder.

  But suspicions changed nothing. She’d crafted a solid narrative, and every piece of it pointed to John.

  Except for how Amelia died. If there was no way she could have known about the blow to the head, my job here could already be done.

  8

  After my appointment with Veronica, I headed straight to the coffee shop. After sitting still for so long, I needed a pick-me-up.

  I had to admit Veronica had done a pretty great job with my makeover. In the sense that I didn’t look like a clown. I also couldn’t move my face well enough to create any actual expressions. It was possible, though I won’t swear to it, that more than five minutes had been spent making faces at myself in the rear view mirror to see what the effects would be.

  Aside from that, however, the colours she’d chosen for me were striking, and I’d even bought a tube of that “never in a million years” lipstick.

  So with my face on and my curiosity piqued, I walked into the coffee shop.

  To my surprise, and delight, I spotted Lucy sitting at the counter along the far wall. She was staring into the street watching people pass by, and after ordering my latte, I went over to join her.

  “Hey, Lucy,” I said. “What brings you here on a workday?”

  She smiled at me as I pulled out my seat, and all absent-mindedness fled from her eyes.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting any heavy thoughts.”

  “Not at all,” she said. “I was just people watching. Taking a bit of a break before I head back to work for the evening shift.”

  Lucy worked at the Brookside Central Bank, helping rich clients invest their money to make them even richer. By the fatigue around her eyes, it had already been a long day.

  “You look nice,” she said.

  I dabbed self-consciously at the makeup on my cheek.

  “Thanks. One last pampering before the winter sets in,” I said. She didn’t need to know what I’d put myself through or why. While Lucy was low on the list of people who would roll their eyes or laugh at me for taking up this case, the fewer people who knew just yet, the better.

  For a moment, however, I thought the effort wasted when Lucy sighed and said, “I guess we need to find happiness where we can, right? With this new murder investigation, I feel like the whole town is crying out for Mr. Kingslake’s blood. A few people are even demanding that Detective Curtis be fired.”

  My jaw dropped. “Fired?”

  Lucy nodded. “Three murders, Fi. People don’t want to feel that their lovely little Brookside could be so rife with crime.”

  “But this one happened twenty-five years ago.”

  “Bad luck for her it came to light now, I suppose.”

  “All that tells me is people were better at keeping their crimes unnoticed back then. They should try harder not to get caught.”

  Lucy smiled. “Well, I’m sure it’s keeping everyone busy, anyway.”

  A faint blush touched her cheekbones, and I took a nonchalant sip of my coffee before saying, “Sam says hi, by the the way.”

  Her blush deepened, and I repressed a smile of my own. “I suggested to him we all catch a movie sometime.”

  “I would like that,” she said, barely above a squeak. Then she cleared her throat and said, “But I’m sure he’s got his hands full right now considering everything going on. Although I’m sure the case will be closed soon with all the evidence against Mr. Kingslake.”

  “Oh?” While I’d heard that such ev
idence existed, I had no idea it was public knowledge what the evidence was.

  Lucy slid her newspaper over to me and pointed to the article along the side of the front page.

  Teach me to let my father hog the paper all the time.

  I skimmed the article, most of it just a recap of what everyone in town already knew, until I got to the interesting part.

  “Killed with one of John’s golf trophies?”

  Lucy nodded. “It was found buried with her.”

  Darn. It seemed Veronica’s knowledge had been easy to come by. There went my simple solution.

  My stomach sank as I kept reading. Police have confirmed the trophy to be the object used to murder Ms. Wright, a brutal juxtaposition between Mr. Kingslake’s highest successes and greatest failures for the town of Brookside.

  This was so disheartening.

  Every step I took, more evidence piled up against John. In both my other cases, I would have loved for the path to be so direct. Only now, when I wanted to prove a man’s innocence, did the universe conspire against me.

  With everything pointing his way, I almost had to believe he did it… except for the fact that everything was pointing his way. When was anything that easy?

  I was missing something. If he didn’t do it, and I was starting to side with Gramps more and more on the subject, then someone was working very hard to make it seem like he had.

  Veronica?

  Some other player I hadn’t stumbled over yet?

  Whoever it was, they’d failed in one important regard: they’d made me want to unravel the puzzle.

  My promise to Gramps was no longer my only motivation. I was going to get to the bottom of this mystery and save John Kingslake.

  ***

  When I got home, I walked into the sunroom hoping to find Gramps soaking in the afternoon rays.

  Unfortunately, the only people there were my parents.

  “Fifi, what on earth did you do to your face?” my mother asked, obviously forgetting that she’d sworn never to speak with me again.

  “I thought I’d try a new look,” I said. “Don’t you like it?”

  “You look as though you were auditioning for some kind of amateur theatre production. Where in heavens did you go?”

  I knew what her reaction would be if I told her. I knew I should lie and tell her I’d let a friend of mine do it, but some twisted part of my psyche — the part that enjoyed shocking my mother — pushed me to tell the truth.

  “I made an appointment at Beauty Tips.”

  “You — I don’t — what were you — ugh.”

  The horror on her face, not only that I’d gone to a second-rate establishment but also the direct competition to her adored Antonio’s, made her contempt absolute. My most recent disappointment was also enough to remind her that she still hadn’t forgiven me for my last one, and she took her magazine and left the room.

  My father, sitting silently in his armchair with his evening newspaper draped over his knee, turned the page and continued to read. He hadn’t bothered to take a look at what his daughter had done and didn’t seem about to offer any commentary on the scene that had played out in front of him.

  “Have you seen Gramps?” I asked.

  “Upstairs, I believe,” he said, and I left him to his news, grateful that at least he didn’t feel the need to yell at me.

  I passed my mother once more on my way to the stairs, but she turned on her heel and marched back into the kitchen. With a shrug, I went up to my grandfather’s rooms where at least two members of the household were happy to see me.

  Charlie came at me at a run, his tail in full swing, nose immediately in crotch. I pushed him away with a gentle pat and he bounded back to Gramps.

  I followed him and settled in the second armchair. Gramps muted the TV and turned to look at me, opening his arms for Charlie to jump into his lap. The beagle took up the better part of his knees, but he was too pleased to have his warm wriggling companion close by to care that he wouldn’t be able to get up until Charlie did.

  “Don’t you look lovely,” he said in greeting. “A bit… heavy around the edges, perhaps.”

  “You don’t get to judge. The things I do for you.”

  His eyes widened. “For me? Fi, you know you don’t need to pretty yourself up on my account.”

  “I know, and I wouldn’t, except when I need to get in to see Veronica Moore, John Kingslake’s ex-general secretary and supposed best friend of the victim.”

  Gramps snorted. “Veronica and Amelia, right.”

  “You know Veronica, too?”

  “Only met her a couple of times. Bombshell of a woman. She could turn heads as though she were made of magnet. Absolute cow of a personality.”

  “Gramps!” I don’t think I’d ever heard him speak so honestly about any woman.

  “I speak it as I see it,” he said. “All dressed up on the outside, but inside as fake as… well, something plastic.”

  “That may be the case, but she told me she heard an argument between John and Amelia the night Amelia disappeared. A real blow-up by the sounds of it.”

  He pressed his lips together and didn’t say anything. Was it because he knew more than he’d told me or because, after everything else he’d learned, he could no longer deny the possibility?

  “And there were a few updates in today’s paper.” I didn’t want to break this part to him, but I was sure he’d see it anyway. “She was murdered with one of John’s golf trophies.”

  “One of his…” Gramps shuddered. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Why would his trophies have been at City Hall?” I asked. “Did he cart them around with him wherever he went?”

  He offered a rough chuckle in response to my attempt to raise the mood. “No, he kept them in his office. I remember going there to see him and the whole back wall of his room was full of them. That man must have won at least ten tournaments, if not more. Each one sat in its place of honour so whenever anyone came to talk to him, they would have the reminder of the role he played in local charity events. It was a smart move.”

  “So they would have been easy to grab.”

  “For anyone who had access to his office, which weren’t that many people without an appointment.”

  “Veronica would have, though.”

  “Yes…” Gramps drawled, considering. “You have reason to think Veronica did it?”

  “Susan Featherby seems to think she was perfectly capable. According to her, Veronica wanted John to herself.”

  “That much is true enough. She never made much of a secret that she was interested, but John never returned the sentiment.” He frowned. “But would she have had the strength to drag Amelia into the courtyard to bury her? I might be able to believe she knocked her over the head, but the disposal… Veronica doesn’t seem the type.”

  “She could have had help. You can’t think of anyone else?”

  Gramps rubbed his brow. “I really can’t. There was an aide, I think. A campaign aide, but my memory of him is a bit fuzzy. He was the son or grandson of someone important, I think. I didn’t spend that much time at City Hall. I’ve always found politics boring and John knew it, so we usually had lunch somewhere in town.” He let out a sigh that seemed to comprise his entire soul, and his shoulders sagged. Charlie whimpered and nosed his chin, and Gramps rested a hand on the dog’s head to scratch his ears. “John did mention he and Amelia were going through a rough patch. He never mentioned fights, but maybe it went as far as that. I don’t know. I hate feeling like I don’t know my own friend as well as I thought I did.”

  “I’m not giving up hope,” I said. “The cleanliness of this investigation stinks, and I intend to uncover the source of the rot. Is there anyone else I should talk to? Anyone at all who might have an idea of someone who could be involved.”

  “You might want to speak with Amelia’s mother. She’s older now, a bit older than I am, I think. I’ll ask Bea if she knows where to find her. I remember John saying
Irene and Amelia were close, so maybe she knows more.”

  I stood up and kissed the top of his head. “Get some sleep. I’m invested in this now, and I don’t plan on slowing down. I’ll find out the truth. I promise.”

  9

  After another night of tossing and turning, I was up early again the next day eager to get moving.

  Veronica’s story had played on repeat in my head for a good chunk of the evening, and I wanted to know what John thought of her take on things. I hoped that in confronting him with someone else’s story, he’d be more willing to tell me his.

  Since I was waiting for Bea to get me Irene’s contact information anyway, I took my time at the gym, then drove over to the police station.

  Fortunately, Sam wasn’t working this morning, and it was an officer I didn’t know who let me in to see John. I didn’t get a fifteen-minute warning, either, and wondered if it was because he hadn’t been told to watch out for me.

  Hopefully he wouldn’t get into too much trouble.

  John looked up as I came in, but no expression crossed his wrinkled features. Was he relieved to see me? Curious? Irritated? It was like reading a blank wall.

  Not a bad skill for a politician to have, but frustrating when I was trying to get whatever information I could out of him.

  “I didn’t expect to see you again,” he said.

  “You’d better get used to this face, Mr. Kingslake, because if Gramps and I are right and you’re innocent, I’m not going to stop until I see you walking out of here.”

  “I am innocent.”

  “Then help me.”

  He said nothing, and I held back a huff. The man was infuriating.

  “Tell me about your argument with Amelia the night she disappeared.” If he didn’t want to volunteer information, I would give him the kick in the pants he needed.

  John sat up straight, his face folding into a frown. “What argument? There was no argument.”

  “I was told there was quite the blow-up in the courtyard.”