“Mr. Gould?”
“No. Nothing. I’m fine.” And then he scurried off, glancing over his shoulder.
Either Gerry was really being haunted—which I didn’t buy for a second—or there was something else going on. Perhaps he was being paranoid, but I got the feeling there was more to it than that.
He’s being followed.
Or he was just a really strange person.
I hovered on the bottom step, one eye squinched up as I considered what’d happened.
“Charlotte,” Gamma called, moving out into the hall. “We’re going to host the memorial service tomorrow. Sherise has given the go-ahead.”
That would give Gamma a chance to say her farewell to a longtime friend. And, hopefully, would provide more clues for us.
22
The memorial service would take place near the fountain, under the trees in the back yard of the Gossip Inn. We’d set up chairs for the guests, a small stage with a speaker’s stand that Gamma had found in the attic, and a massive picture of Darling in all her glory.
A food table packed with delicious mint-chocolate cupcakes awaited the guests once they were done paying their respects. Lauren had also prepared mini-pizzas and pastries, as well as an array of sandwiches with their crusts cut off.
I hovered at the back of the grouping of chairs, watching as the guests settled into their places. I had helped usher a few of them to their seats, but my job now was to act the part of the willing helper or assistant and hang back.
Really, this was because I needed to keep an eye on the main players, their actions and interactions during the memorial service.
Sherise sat in the front row, waiting for the service to start, while Gerry had positioned himself on the opposite side of the aisle to her. He stared straight ahead, no paranoia about ghost attacks evident.
Brixton, the handsome brit who may or may not have been having an affair with Darling but who had been handing out baskets of something to strangers, was two rows behind Gerry.
Callie sat a space down from Brixton, occasionally twirling strands of blonde hair around her index finger and giving the handsome man doe-eyes. He ignored her completely.
So many relationships that overlap. And so little evidence to connect any of them to the crime scene.
The rumor was that Darling had been choked and then bludgeoned to death.
Detective Crowley had been cagey about the cause of death at first, but the papers had reported on what the alleged murderer—the stalker behind bars—had done to her.
The bludgeoning part, as gross as it was to think about, made sense. I’d heard a thumping noise from outside the library door on the night of the murder.
Did that mean Sherise was in the clear? Not necessarily. She might’ve worked with someone to murder Darling. Perhaps strangled her and then when that hadn’t worked…
Implausible.
And why had there been no blood spatter in the library?
Bludgeoning made a mess. And the blood on the coffee table hadn’t constituted that.
What were we missing?
I scanned the crowd of gathered mourners, effecting a relaxed pose.
The reverend from our local church walked up to the stand and took his position. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “It’s under sad circumstances we gather here this morning, to mourn the passing of the shining star that was Darling Gould.”
I glanced toward the inn’s front entrance, checking the gates were still shut.
A few members of the press had turned up and hovered around outside, trying to snap photographs or make reports for local news stations, but there weren’t as many as I’d expected. That was good. The less attention on the inn, the better.
The reverend spoke about Darling’s radiance then led everyone through prayer. A hymn was sung, and then Darling’s favorite passage from the Bible was read. After, Sherise rose from her position at the front of the gathering and moved to the stand.
She stood before everyone, somber in her black getup.
“I can’t believe we’ve lost Darling. She truly was a sparkling gem. She lit up a room with her smile,” Sherise said, dabbing under her eyes with a tissue.
Cheesy and generic, but OK. Was it just me or did Sherise not look that upset?
“If Darling could’ve been here,” she continued, “she wouldn’t have wanted us to cry over her passing. She would’ve wanted us to celebrate all the good times. Like the time we went on safari in South Africa, and she lost her camera while snapping pictures of the lions. They surrounded the car, you see, and she was leaning so far out that everyone was screaming for her to get back in. One of the female lions leaped up toward her and—well, you can see how Darling made every day interesting. She might not have had the most sense at the best of times, but she was a wonderful person.”
Gerry made a noise like a foghorn.
Heads turned in his direction.
Sherise’s soft, watery-eyed gaze hardened up. She didn’t look at Darling’s husband but down at the speech she’d prepared. “If I could have told Darling one last thing… if I could go back now, I would tell her she was wrong about the script, but that I should’ve treated her better when we spoke about it.”
Weird thing to say in a eulogy, but OK.
“Because she was special,” Sherise continued. “And she—”
Gerry made a second noise like a foghorn, even louder if that was possible, and rose from his seat. “She was not special! Not as special as you all are making out,” he snapped.
Eyes widened. People gasped.
“Gerry, sit down, you fool,” Sherise growled. “This isn’t about you.”
“Of course, it’s not. Nothing’s about me,” he replied. “Everything’s about Darling. You want the truth about her? She was a wretch. She always got what she wanted, and when she didn’t, she would throw a tantrum. She was bound to run afoul of a murderer. Bound to—”
“Shut your mouth.” Brixton started from his chair. Callie tried to tug him back into his seat, making a mewling noise like a cat.
“I’d like to see you make me,” Gerry replied.
Brixton marched down the row of seats, heading for Gerry’s side of the aisle and dragging Callie along with him like a plastic bag. If plastic bags screeched and kicked.
I turned to Smulder, who had taken up a position near the buffet table, and he moved to intercept the two men.
He’d have to be careful about it, not reveal too much, or they’d know he wasn’t a normal gardener.
Quickly, I whipped my phone out of the pocket of my jeans and dialed the police to break up the disturbance. It wasn’t a low-key move, but it was far better than an all-out brawl—that would only bring more negative attention to the inn.
Brixton and Gerry collided, falling to the ground, fists and insults flying. Callie yelled from where she’d been deposited in the center aisle, wringing the end of her dress in her hands and kicking her feet.
Seriously, what was with these people? They had the emotional control of children.
Was it a celebrity thing?
The only person who seemed remotely calm was Sherise.
She stood behind the podium, watching the fray with the strangest smile on her face.
One that didn’t belong at the memorial service of her dearly departed friend.
23
An hour later, the police had settled everyone down. Both Gerry and Brixton had begrudgingly agreed they wouldn’t press charges against each other for the fight. The memorial service had continued, though the reverend had had to be taken home because he’d gone into a dead faint at the sight of Gerry’s broken nose.
Brixton might’ve been pretty, but he’d sure known what to do in a fight.
Suspicious.
The guests who weren’t utterly traumatized by the memorial service brawl had stayed to mill around and eat mint-chocolate cupcakes in the inn’s back yard, the early transition into spring chilly but not unbearable.
>
I drifted past the guests, my ears pricked and my eyes wide open.
“—just what Darling would have wanted, if we’re honest,” a woman said—a friend who had come from out of town to attend the memorial service.
“How so?” Another man asked, one who had only arrived at the inn today.
“Aw, come on, you know how much Darling loved drama. A fight between her husband and her fling? That’s the perfect send-off.”
It was now common gossip that Brixton had been having an affair with Darling. But was it the truth?
I kept moving, grabbing a plate and a cupcake from the buffet table. I scooped a bit of the creamy frosting off the top and enjoyed the sweetness while I searched the grounds for my target.
Gamma had gone inside with Sherise and was plying her for information. Brixton and Gerry had retired to their rooms.
That left “mild” Callie, who was prone to tantrums and random catfights, and who may have helped Gerry kill his wife, if she’d believed Gerry would get the money and they’d both benefit from it.
That or she’d been jealous over Darling’s alleged affair with Brixton.
Man, this was complicated.
Five people who were friends with such complex relationships? It boggled the mind. The only person who seemed removed from the drama was Sherise, but she was the one who’d been nearest the scene around the time of the murder.
I spotted Callie sitting on the fountain’s edge, her legs crossed daintily and a plate on her lap. It held an untouched mint-chocolate cupcake.
How has she not eaten it yet? I stuffed the rest of mine into my mouth, holding back a moan at the burst of gooey delicious filling, then strolled over.
“Are you all right, Miss Gordon?” I asked, stopping next to her. “Need me to take your plate?”
“Oh… oh, no, I’m fine, thank you.” She grasped her plate tightly, shifting it on her lap.
The backs of her hands bore long, red scratches.
I acted like I hadn’t seen them. “Mind if I join you?” I asked.
“Sure. Go ahead.” Her reply was accompanied by a gentle bob of her head.
I sat down on the fountain’s edge, smiling at her like a goofball. “Do you like the cupcakes?”
“Yes. Delicious. I’m just struggling to find my appetite.”
Were the scratches from her catfight with Sherise the other day? Or was there a more nefarious reason for them? I wasn’t sure if I’d seen Callie without gloves before, so I had no way of confirming the source of those markings.
“It’s been a strange day,” I said, humoring her.
She brushed her hair from her cheeks. “Yeah. I just wish Brixton hadn’t gotten involved like that. I mean, why does he care what Gerry thinks about Darling? He shouldn’t be so defensive. People are going to think things they shouldn’t.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like… well, you know. You must have heard the rumors. Everyone believes Brixton and Darling were an item, but I refuse to believe that’s true.” Callie drew herself up straight, her grip on her plate tightening so the cupcake shook atop it. “Why would he want a decrepit old corpse when he could have a lovely, young woman?”
Wow! Decrepit… And corpse? What a choice of words. “I—uh.” The Charlie in me wanted to reprimand her for talking about Darling so disrespectfully. Age was just a number, as my grandmother had proved time and time again. But I had a cover to maintain and a murder mystery to solve. “Shoot,” I said, feigning surprise. “What happened to your hands? You’ve got scratches.”
“Oh.” Callie looked at them, blushing. She tucked them under the plate, holding it in her palms so the scratches were hidden. “Uh, it’s nothing.”
“Yeah? I thought maybe it was from the fight you had with Sherise?”
“No. Uh. No.” Callie glanced around, and I followed her line of sight. She stared at Cocoa Puff, who had planted himself on the top step outside the kitchen door to sun himself. “It was—uh, one of the cats.”
“Which cat? That’s terrible.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Callie said. “It’s really not a big deal.”
We fell into an awkward quiet. I pretended to admire the fountain, water dribbling from the statue and coursing over the stone.
Callie cleared her throat. “Do you know if Brixton’s all right?” she asked. “Do you think he might need someone to talk to?”
“I have no idea. I believe he went up to his bedroom to rest.”
“Then I should probably go see him.” Callie handed me her plate with her untouched cupcake. “He probably needs moral support after that run-in with Gerry.”
“You don’t like Gerry very much, do you?”
Callie shook her head, her sweet, harmless demeanor disappearing. “No. I don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because he interferes in people’s lives. He’s paranoid and strange, and… he couldn’t keep Darling happy.”
Keep Darling happy? Why would you care about that? You just called her a decrepit corpse.
“But—”
“I’m sorry,” Callie said, doing a little curtsy bob. “But I have to run. I need to check on poor Brixton. I would hate it if he felt alone after what happened.” She hurried off, leaving me with her cupcake and a range of new questions.
Callie hadn’t liked Darling, that was for sure. She didn’t get on with Sherise, as evidenced by the catfight. And she certainly didn’t seem to enjoy being around Gerry—though that could be a ruse since there was evidence they might’ve been having an affair.
The only person Callie Gordon cared about was Brixton.
That had to mean something. Especially since I’d become increasingly convinced that whoever had attacked Darling had done so as a crime of passion.
I ate Callie’s cupcake then got up and returned the plates to the kitchen, scratching Cocoa Puff under the chin on my way.
24
“What do we think?” I asked Gamma.
The sun had set, and Lauren had gone home for the evening, now that the memorial service was done and the guests had been served a light dinner.
My grandmother and I sat at the worn kitchen table, sipping on tea and discussing the events of the day.
“I think it’s interesting how angry everyone gets at the mention of Darling. Brixton, Callie, Sherise, and Gerry. All of them have had at least one altercation because of her passing,” Gamma said. “And I think it’s disgraceful they ruined my friend’s memorial service.”
“I’m sorry about that,” I said.
“Oh, there’s no need to be sorry,” Gamma replied. “All we can do is figure out what’s going on in this inn.” She tapped her manicured nails on the tabletop. “I won’t allow a murderer to go free.”
“It’s interesting you mention emotional discord. I’ve been thinking a lot about the crime scene and the supposed cause of death.”
“Bludgeoning.” Gamma pulled a face. “Doesn’t make much sense after what we saw. Blood on the edge of the coffee table.”
“And not much blood at the crime scene. Could they have gotten the cause of death wrong?”
“Surely not. Detective Crowley is a competent detective.”
“True.” I scratched the edge of my nose. It itched the more annoyed I became.
We’d let too many people go free.
The mushroom thief.
The murderer.
My ex-husband.
“So what do you think?” I asked.
“A crime of passion,” Gamma replied, “requires a surge of violence. A passionate rage that destroys the person in its path. Bludgeoning certainly suits that M.O. but—”
“No blood spatter,” I whispered.
“Precisely.”
We fell silent, considering the evidence laid out before us.
“If we consider the crime scene again,” I said, though we had been over it so many times before. “We have a shut window. No exit or entrance other than the library door—there was
no indication the murderer knew about the secret entrance behind the bookcase.”
“Correct.”
“So the likely suspect is Sherise, but the noise I heard occurred after she’d left.”
Gamma squeezed her eyes closed for a second and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Blood on the corner of the coffee table,” she whispered.
“She hit her head when she fell. That’s not bludgeoning,” I said.
“That’s it, Charlotte! She hit her head. She didn’t have her head hit by someone else.” Gamma put up a palm. “Consider this scenario. The attacker tries to strangle Darling, but she fights back. They panic, perhaps push her over. She hits her head on the corner of the coffee table at the back of the neck. Dies. They panic and run.”
“But no one else left the library. The window was shut. And Sherise did not panic when she left the room.”
Gamma’s enthusiasm died down significantly. “We’re missing something.”
“But what?”
She shook her head, and we sipped our drinks in the ensuing silence.
“How did Callie behave when you spoke to her?” Gamma asked, after a beat.
“In a nutshell? Like a friggin’ weirdo,” I replied. “She’s got issues. Anger issues.” I frowned. “She wasn’t at dinner, was she? I don’t remember serving her.”
“No, she wasn’t,” Gamma replied.
“I wonder if… no, it’s too obvious.”
“What is?”
I broke down what I’d seen for my grandmother. That Callie had had scratches on the backs of her hands, and that she’d been set on going to see Brixton. Then there was the whole “Darling’s a decrepit corpse” thing.
“Tasteless girl,” Gamma said, pursing her lips.
“But the scratches?”
“Yes, highly suspicious.”
“And she wasn’t at dinner. Maybe we should go pay her a visit,” I said. “Have a little chat.”
“Perhaps.” Gamma sighed and sipped her coffee. “Though I’m not sure it would gain us much information.”
I had a feeling about it, though. A certainty that if we tugged on this string, we would find something big.
Mint Murder (A Mission Inn-possible Cozy Mystery Book 5) Page 9
