by Liliana Hart
Hank took a step back. “Me? No way. It’s her,” he said, pointing to Agatha.
“Riddle is a woman?” she asked incredulously.
“Yep,” Agatha said, her lips pressing together and a slight color coming to her cheeks.
“Well, it looks like it’s my turn to go all fangirl,” Martha said.
Agatha seemed to shrink from the praise. She’d purposefully avoided being identified as a bestselling novelist, and she’d portrayed A.C. Riddle as a man for a number of reasons, one of which was for privacy.
“Looks like two celebrity worlds collide in the café,” Hank said, trying to smooth out the awkwardness.
“While you’re here I’d love for you to sign my book,” Martha said. “You never do signings. I guess I know why now. Wait until my book club finds out you’re a woman.”
Agatha winced and Hank felt the guilt creep up on him. It was going to be impossible to stop the freight train that was Martha Magee.
“Great idea,” Hank said. “But maybe we could do the signing and a picture over in the Sam Houston Room. We booked it for our reception but they won’t let us see it because of the show.”
“Oh,” she said. “I guess we could do that.” She waved for Tabitha to come over to the table, and when the girl arrived Martha said, “Let’s head over to Sam Houston. These people want to see the room, and I want to get a book signed by my favorite author.”
“Oh,” Tabitha said. “But you’re not scheduled for a break for another twenty minutes.”
Martha patted Tabitha on the cheek and said, “I’m Martha Magee. They’ll wait until I get back. You can sit right here at the table and hold my place.”
And with that, Martha cut through the crowd with practiced ease and Hank and Agatha followed behind her. She spoke with a security guard who stood stiff legged on the outside of the banquet room, and then she squeezed through the double doors and waved for them to follow her inside.
“Oh, my goodness,” Agatha said. “It’s going to be gorgeous. Thank you for allowing us to see this.”
Hank reached out to squeeze Agatha’s hand and then pulled her in close to kiss her on top of the head.
“Aww, y’all going to make me cry,” Martha said. “Y’all remind me of how I was with my first husband. So romantic. Let me get my picture and I’ll get out of here so y’all can look around.”
Martha gave Hank her phone so he could take the picture, and the two women stood close and put their arms around each other. Agatha was considerably taller and dressed quite a bit more casual, but they looked perfectly matched as he centered them in the frame.
“Hey, move to the left, and I’ll get the show’s logo in the background.” Hank figured if Martha shared it on social media Agatha might get a nice boost in sales.
“Like this?” Agatha asked as they both scooted over.
Hank looked through the screen, but his eyes were playing tricks on him. He blinked a couple of times and then zoomed in so he could take a closer look.
“Hank, you okay?” Agatha asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “But the dead guy behind you has had better days.”
Chapter Two
Agatha barely caught Martha as her eyes rolled into the back of her head and her body went limp. She eased Martha’s body the rest of the way to the carpeted floor and left her there, so she could get a good look at the body.
“Don’t move,” Hank said, and made his way toward her. The corpse was slightly concealed among the camera crew’s lighting and technology equipment crates, but there was enough of the body showing that she recognized the face.
“Oh, my gosh,” Agatha said. “That’s Rowdy Mustang.”
“Who?” Hank asked.
“Rowdy Mustang,” she repeated. “He was last year’s winner of Top Shelf Chef.”
“If he was last year’s winner, what’s he doing here now?”
“The grand prize for last season was the head chef job at a five-star resort. The show never told us which resort though, so I guess that’s why they’re doing the opening episode here.”
“Well, reality television enjoys its drama, but this seems like overkill,” Hank said. “No pun intended.”
“What do you see?” Agatha asked. “Obvious cause of death?”
“Can’t tell,” he said. “We’d better call Coil before this crime scene becomes a disaster area. I can’t imagine the TV people are going to be too excited about having their schedule messed up.”
“You’re right,” Agatha said. “We need to keep this as quiet as possible for now. There are fans all over this place.”
“So much for getting a break from murder,” Hank said, blowing out a breath. “We’re right in the thick of it. Again.”
“Murder?” Martha asked, and then she passed out again.
“I have a feeling she’s going to be a problem,” Hank said, tucking his badge into his waistband.
He made a quick call to Coil and then made his way back to the double doors where they’d entered, and he spoke to the security guard to make sure no one came in except the police. Agatha knew Hank had things under control, but she also knew that they were about to be under a spotlight. A hotel full of celebrities and a dead body was TMZ material if she’d ever seen it.
“My head hurts,” Martha said, rubbing the back of her skull. “Did I pass out? What happened? I don’t think I was drinking.”
“No, you weren’t drinking,” Agatha assured her.
She eased Martha into a sitting position, and had a feeling Hank was right. Martha was going to be trouble. She was known for her flair for the dramatic on the show, and if there was trouble on the show she was usually right in the middle of it.
“We just need to do our best to preserve the crime scene. My fiancé and I are both special investigators for the Bell County Sheriff’s Office.”
“You’re a writer and an investigator?” Martha asked. “No wonder your books seem so real.”
Agatha wasn’t going to burst her bubble and tell her the investigator’s badge was only a few weeks old. Hank had made her a special investigator during his short tenure as sheriff, and she’d decided to keep the title now that Coil was back in charge.
“Wait here for me,” Agatha said. “And don’t get up too fast. You had quite a shock.”
Agatha patted Martha’s shoulder and she got up and moved closer to the body, careful of where she stepped and to not touch anything. Hank was right. There were no obvious wounds, and she didn’t see any blood or a murder weapon. His open eyes didn’t have burst blood vessels, and she didn’t see any bruising around the neck. Maybe he had a heart attack.
When Agatha turned back, Martha was artfully posed on the ground, taking a series of selfies and then typing frantically into her phone.
Hank came back in just as Martha went live and was giving an update to her fans.
“Told you,” Hank said, pointing to her. “Coil isn’t too far away. He said to keep everyone clear.”
“What about Martha?”
“Let’s get her out of here before she decides to show all her followers an up-close and personal look at Rowdy Mustang.”
“I’ll handle her,” Agatha said. “Maybe I can get her to cooperate without making a fuss.”
Agatha stayed out of Martha’s camera view and rolled her eyes as she listened to the retelling of what had happened, with a few white lies thrown in for flair. Agatha snuck around until she could get Martha’s attention.
“Oh, my,” Martha said, looking into the camera. “I’m being summoned by the investigating officers. I’ll keep everyone updated unless I’m taken into custody. It would make sense that I’m a suspect considering I know the victim.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Agatha said, motioning again to Martha, a little more insistent this time. Martha gave a little wave and disconnected.
“In television you’re always on,” Martha said. “I guess that’s the beauty of being a writer. You don’t really have to worry about the public persona. I still
can’t believe you’re not a man.”
“Being ‘on’ isn’t really helping the investigation. It’s usually frowned upon to announce someone’s death before their family is notified.”
“Oh, Rowdy doesn’t have any family,” Martha said, waving a hand in dismissal. “The people on the show are probably as close as he was to anyone.”
“Still,” Agatha said. “If you could refrain from giving your location that would be helpful. We don’t need a lot of people coming here and trampling on our crime scene.”
Agatha was slowly leading her toward the doors.
“Sure thing,” Martha said. “Poor Rowdy. He didn’t deserve to die like that. His picture is going to be plastered everywhere, and he’s not looking his best right now.” She shuddered. “His eyes were all bulgy and his skin looked real bad.”
Agatha pushed open the door and saw the security guard was still in place. She was even more surprised to see there weren’t any gawkers standing there waiting to see what was going on. Maybe Martha hadn’t given away too much information after all.
“I know you’re supposed to be finishing up the signing, but we’d appreciate it if you’d go straight up to your room,” Agatha said, and then she decided to add, “Without talking to anyone. We’ll need to speak to you again to get a statement.”
“Of course, of course,” she said, and then dug in her Kate Spade handbag and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. She scribbled something on the paper. “I’m always happy to cooperate with the police. This is my personal cell.”
“Thanks,” Agatha said, surprised and a little bit giddy to have a real-life celebrity’s personal cell number. “We’ll be in touch.”
Agatha closed the door and made sure it clicked, and then headed back toward Hank. He didn’t look too happy.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“It’s not clear cut whether we’re dealing with a homicide or natural causes, but you know the drill.”
“Everything is treated as a homicide until it’s proven it’s not.”
“Bingo,” he said. But the expression on his face was flat, and there was something in his eyes she didn’t recognize.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said with a sigh. “I wasn’t expecting today to turn out like this. How do we go from wedding planning to celebrity meeting to murder investigating all before lunch?”
She rubbed his back soothingly. “We’re just lucky I guess.”
Hank paced in front of a high stack of hard-shell storage boxes and miles of twisted cables and electrical cords.
“Without going into the whacky drama of a reality cooking show, what’s this thing all about?” Hank asked.
Agatha lit up at the request, and she knew she was a little too excited, but she was just glad he finally asked. “It’s an elimination competition. And the three celebrity judges put the chefs under extreme pressure, mess with their minds and undermine their self-confidence, and they challenge them to prepare impossible dishes. Then the judges give a final score at the end of each show and someone gets kicked off.
“Last season was a real nail-biter. The final showdown was between Rowdy Mustang from Texas and Gaston Boudreaux from south Louisiana. It was intense. It seemed like they had a personal vendetta, and the rumor was they were really fighting over a woman, but they never touched on that during the show.
“In the end, it was Rowdy’s blue crab gumbo recipe that won out over Gaston’s New Orleans crab cakes. Rowdy also won a hundred thousand bucks, a buttload of cookware, and a job as the head chef at an unspecified five-star resort.”
“And what did Gaston get?”
“Nada,” Agatha said, looking at him pointedly. “He’s practically fallen off the face of the earth. I don’t even know if he’s working at a restaurant anymore.”
“Are you saying Gaston might’ve killed Rowdy?” Hank asked.
“I have no idea. Those shows are so fake, and they’re edited to create tension. For all I know, those two could’ve been best friends off camera.”
“Isn’t there some kind of fan site or something you’re a member of where you could find out where Gaston is?”
“Seriously, Hank? Who has time for that? I have no idea where Gaston Boudreaux could be.”
“Hold on, tiger,” he said, holding up his hands in surrender.
“Am I about to be standing over a second body?” Coil asked, coming into the room.
The sound of Coil’s voice took her by surprise, and she jerked around to face him. He was stealthy.
“We’re undecided,” she told Coil.
“We are?” Hank asked.
“I got the rest of the team on the way,” Coil said.
“Did Hank tell you they’re filming Top Shelf Chef here?”
“He sure did,” Coil said. “Shelly and I love it. Hank said y’all had company when you found the body. Where’d you put Martha Magee?”
“We sent her up to her suite,” Agatha said. “Though I can’t promise that she doesn’t already have a million views of her encounter with a dead body. I wonder who the other judges are?”
“I stopped and talked to the resort manager on the way in,” Coil said. “Apparently Ronaldo Milan arrived from Paris yesterday.
“Oh, I hated him last season,” Agatha said, scrunching her nose.
“Me too,” Coil said, raising his hand.
“Seriously?” Hank asked.
They both ignored him.
“What about Kimmie Lemon? Is she coming back?” Agatha asked.
“The manager said she registered under another name, but it’s not like she can go unnoticed. It’s hard to miss a six-foot-five supermodel turned celebrity chef.”
“Six-foot-five?” Hank asked, mouth agape.
“Yep,” Coil said, smiling. “I knew we’d suck you in. You should give the show a chance.”
“No,” Hank said.
“She’s gorgeous,” Agatha told him. “She has the most beautiful skin. It’s as dark as those chocolates you love, and she dyes her hair as bright as a lemon. She’s a sight to see.”
“But is she a killer?” Hank asked. “Are any of them capable of killing, for that matter?”
Coil crossed his arms and leaned back on his heels. “Good question. If their characters on screen are anything like their real-life personas, then I’d say yes. They’re all capable of killing.”
“Wow,” Hank said. “They must be horrible. What about Martha? Even her?”
“She’s headstrong, but she’s a Southern lady at heart,” Agatha said. “Her whole image is based off her being this guru wife and mother. She’s like Donna Reed, Betty Crocker, and Martha Stewart all rolled up into a tiny package. She’s a real role model for the next generation.”
“Which generation?” Hank asked. “She’s probably my age.”
“No way,” Agatha said. “Her bio says she just turned thirty.”
“Her bio is lying,” Hank said. “She’s had some excellent plastic surgery, but look at her eyes. You can’t hide everything.”
“I still say she’s not a killer,” Agatha said.
“Maybe we should figure out if this is really a homicide before we start declaring people’s guilt or innocence,” Hank said.
“Hank’s right,” Coil agreed. “The team will be here soon, but how about we see if we can take a look without disturbing the area?”
“I’ve tried to get in as close as I could,” Hank said. “But there’s so much equipment. I don’t want to move wires around in case they caught prints.”
Agatha moved closer to the body than she had before. It was definitely Rowdy Mustang, but other than a pale, bloated face, it was hard to see much of anything else. She used the fingers on her right hand to twirl the engagement ring around on her left finger.
“You want to put it in your pocket?” Hank asked her.
“No, it’s fine. I’m not touching the body. It’s just weird that we were here about our wedding, and now we’re do
ing this.”
Hank sighed. “I’m starting to wonder if I’m ever going to get to retire. I’ve been almost as busy since I moved to Rusty Gun as when I was working for the FBI.”
Agatha winced. He was right. She wasn’t sure really how they gotten into this routine, but between Hank’s experience and her own, it was like the opportunities had practically fallen into their laps.
The deputies arrived, and she and Hank moved back so they could get to work. They methodically snapped pictures of the entire room, the immediate scene, and finally the corpse. Agatha helped Hank shift through the rubber-coated matrix of television cables. Finally, they were within inches of the victim.
Rowdy Mustang was from as small of a town in Texas as you could get. They’d highlighted his story on the previous season, and the midthirties bachelor had lived a wild and reckless life. But he’d been brilliant in the kitchen and his natural talents had led to opening his first restaurant.
He was about five and a half feet tall, and over two hundred pounds, and his looks were those only a mother could love. Rowdy’s thinning, bleached-blond hair had gone into a full sprint toward the back of his skull, and he wore a red bandana every show because he sweated so much.
Agatha saw the tattoos covering his throat, and although she knew both of his arms were heavily sleeved with ink, only his hands were showing at the end of his long-sleeved shirt. His back was arched backward over an equipment crate where he’d fallen in death, and his legs were anchored down by several larger crates. All she could see was the front of his body from the waist up.
“I still don’t see any visible signs of trauma,” Coil said.
“Deputy James said he was done taking pics,” Hank said. “Let’s move the body off of the crate and see what’s underneath.”
Agatha took a step back and then stopped. She’d gotten a glimpse of…something. She turned on the light on her phone and shined it across the body slowly.
“I see blood,” she told them. “And it looks fresh.”
The blood was still bright in color and had a sheen to it. She stepped back as James slipped past her to take more photographs.
“Can I touch him?” Agatha asked Coil.
