Sage was munching on a beignet while tapping furiously away on her laptop with the other hand. “Client’s got a major issue,” she said through a mouthful. “I’m going to be gone for the rest of the day. You don’t need me for anything, do you?”
Roxy did need her. There was something so reassuring about having Sage around. The African-American woman felt like an ever-loving mother figure who could comfort Roxy and make her feel safe. But Roxy didn’t know how to say that. Plus, she was the proprietor of a hotel. She needed to be strong. An adult. “No problem,” Roxy said with a forced smile. “Go ahead. We’ll be fine.”
“Do you know what happened?” Nat asked Sage.
“No…what?”
Nat explained what had happened to Michael.
Sage frowned. “But Dr. Jack and Michael walked back together from here last night. How could that have happened?”
“Apparently they separated at some point and Michael walked on to the Hyatt alone,” Roxy said. “That’s when he was attacked, according to Detective Johnson.”
“Oh,” said Sage. “What is going on right now? The energies are very, very strange at the moment. Up and down, up and down, up and down, and all over the place.”
“I’ll say,” said Roxy.
“Well, I really must be going,” said Sage. “I’m so sorry, I know this isn’t a good time for me to jump ship, but I’ll send healing energy through the building and into the air so that you will all feel more grounded and at peace.”
Roxy smiled, not knowing if Sage was amazing or absolutely crazy.
Sage paused for a moment, closed her eyes, and waved her hands back and forth. Then she said a quick, “Goodbye! I leave you in love!” and was gone.
Nat and Roxy continued to make po’boys in silence. The atmosphere in the kitchen was a little lighter, but still quite somber. Nat turned on Evangeline’s old-fashioned radio, and it crackled into life. The station played authentic Deep South jazz music, and the sounds of a double bass solo bubbled into the room, bringing some warmth with it.
After being grilled by Detective Johnson, no one was feeling particularly sociable, so Roxy and Nat took the roast beef po’boys, chips, and salad to the guests’ rooms and returned to the dining room, where they sat down to eat. Roxy poured herself some coffee and offered Nat a cup. Nat shook her head.
“So who wasn’t here last night when Michael and Dr. Jack left?” Roxy mused.
“Well, Ada left earlier so she wasn’t here at all,” said Nat. “I think we need to keep a proper eye on her.”
“Yes, I know you don’t like her,” Roxy said, a little more sharply than she meant to. “But I don’t see a real motive for harming Michael, let alone killing Dash.”
“Oh, come on. Dash humiliated her.”
“I don’t think she’d kill for that,” said Roxy. “Anyway, I think it’s much more likely to be Lily. She wants to win the Hilton Hotels sponsorship, and Michael and Dash were after it too. Imagine if she took Dash out, and then last night she tried to stop Michael?” Roxy’s heart skipped a beat. “Remember, she ducked out when Sage offered to do a reading for her? She said she was going out to see her fans. I didn’t see what time she came back in. Did you?”
“No,” said Nat. “But it can’t be her. She’s so elegant and fine!”
“I think she has the strongest motive so far,” said Roxy. “And she doesn’t have good alibis. She was in the hotel the night Dash was killed and she was missing for part of last night too.
“Perhaps we can get in contact with the fans she saw,” said Nat, “and find out the time she was with them.”
Roxy sighed. “Johnson warned me off investigating right when Dash’s body was found, and you heard him in the lobby of the station earlier. We’re not supposed to investigate at all. We shouldn’t even be talking about it. I mean what are we thinking? We’re discussing which of our guests could be a murderer! Let’s talk about something else, get our minds off it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
SO NAT TOLD Roxy all about the next pair of Doc Martens she planned to buy. They had a white skull and red roses design and came with bright red ribbon laces that looked just awesome when tied in a bow. Then Nat explained how she was going to upcycle the new table and sculpture they’d bought on their trip to the flea market and that a niche goth band that she liked would be in town later in the month and could she have an evening off to go see them?
“Of course,” Roxy said.
“Thank you. And now, I’m going to prep some vegetables in case anyone wants dinner later,” Nat announced.
Roxy got up from the table and stretched. “I feel so tired,” she said, “like all the energy’s been sucked out of me.”
Nat smiled wryly. “Being around Johnson will do that to a girl, right?”
Roxy sighed. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“Go have a nap.”
“I can’t,” said Roxy. “I have some admin stuff to do, and I also need to decide if I should speak to these darn reporters that are still hanging around. Elijah’s saying they are affecting his business. His regulars aren’t coming around so often because they are bothered by the reporters. He asked if I’d consider speaking to them. It might get them to go away, he said, but I’m not convinced. Sam agreed with him.”
“Yeah, but they’ve faded away now, pretty much,” Nat said. “There’s just a few left. It’s not like it was before. We didn’t even have any follow us when we went for the boat ride, did we?”
“That’s because we were clever,” said Roxy. “Still, it might be the proper thing for me to make some kind of statement. What do you think?”
Nat shrugged. “I have no idea, Rox. Just do what you want to do, I say.” She put their plates into the dishwasher. “See you later!” she called as Roxy picked up her coffee and headed to the tiny little office that was next to her bedroom. “I’ll be back in time to help you with dinner,” Roxy replied.
Roxy’s office had once been a much larger space, but it was rarely used and had become a dumping ground for all sorts of items that “might come in useful someday.” The room had been filled with spare crockery, a broken washing machine, and bed linen that no one ever used. Papers from as far back as the 1980s had been strewn next to electrical parts that no one knew what to do with. There had even been a bicycle wheel propped up against the wall. During the refurbishment, the junk had been cleared out, and walls were put up to divide the space into a new, sleek office on one side, and Roxy’s personal rooms on the other.
The office was absolutely tiny, but Roxy adored it. It had a large window looking out onto the cobbled street, and she’d painted the walls one of her favorite colors, aquamarine. She had a brilliant white desk, a slimline white laptop, a white spinning chair that Nat had painted to make it look distressed, and a glossy white table lamp. The dark wooden floorboards had been polished until they shined, and everything felt just right.
Roxy used a computer to do the hotel accounts. Sage had taught her how, but she still wrote them down in a book too. The physical act of writing out the numbers made her feel more in touch with the financial health of the business than did tapping keys and moving a mouse around. She used an aquamarine gel pen—she had quite a few of them, all kept in a sparkly green box—and wrote everything down in a navy blue ledger.
Roxy spent a little while filling in the ledger and balancing the petty cash. She put on some relaxing music, checked her email, and updated the hotel’s Facebook and Instagram pages. Before she realized it, two hours had flown by. Hearing Nat clattering around in the dining room as she laid tables for dinner caused her to pay attention to the time. Roxy looked at her watch, astounded, then got up and stretched her neck from side to side. Where had the time gone?
She left her office and noiselessly walked into the kitchen. She made Nat jump. “Oh gosh, you scared me!” Nat cried.
“Hey,” Roxy said, blinking. She felt like she was waking from a dream. “Sorry about that. I got into some kind of zone,
a business accounts and petty cash zone if you can believe that. I’ve literally had my head down since I last saw you. And not for a nap.” She raised the cup of coffee she was still nursing, the coffee long cold.
“Rather you than me. Look, I’m going to have a fifteen-minute rest before I start dinner,” Nat said.
“I think I’ll do the same,” said Roxy. “See you in a few.”
Roxy opened the door to her room and straight away looked around for Nefertiti. Her little cat seemed to love staying in her room even though she had the freedom to roam wherever she liked in the hotel. It was certainly quiet and peaceful for her in there but not very interesting. Still, Nefertiti seemed to be perfectly content most of the time. Occasionally, when the sun was shining, the Persian would meow to be let out and sun herself in the courtyard, looking nothing short of regal. But now, Nefertiti was curled up on Roxy’s chair, purring in her sleep. Roxy gave her cat a tickle under her chin and took off her shoes. It was only then that she noticed something by the door, a slip of paper on the floor. She’d stepped over it when she came in.
Roxy bent to pick it up and frowned.
LOOK INTO SYLVIA’S STORY. YOU’RE ONLY GETTING HALF THE PICTURE.
It was written in capital letters. The handwriting was shaky like the person was writing with their opposite hand or they were trembling. The paper was unlined and smartly folded.
Roxy walked back to her bed slowly, reading the note over and over. Was it genuine? Or was it malicious? And who could have left it?
Now Roxy was wide awake and the possibility of a rest was gone. She climbed onto her bed and reached for her phone.
She navigated to the browser and typed “Sylvia Walters” into the search bar. All she saw was a list of Facebook profiles for women with the same name, none of them the Sylvia that she knew. Roxy tried again.
“Sylvia Walters’ story”
“The truth about Sylvia Walters”
“Sylvia Walters’ scam”
All of these search terms turned up nothing at all. It was only when she searched “Sylvia Walters’ secret” that Roxy came across something, and even that was buried deep, deep in the search results. On page fourteen, in fact.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE BLOG WAS called The Musings of a Middle-Aged, Mid-Western Mom. It didn’t look very professional at all—more like a site made from a free template. The second to last entry was dated 10 years ago.
But the last post, the most recent one, the one that when she read it had Roxy’s breath catching in her chest, was from just one year ago. Obviously, the blog owner had given up on broadcasting their thoughts to the world but had deemed this subject worthy of logging back in after a nine-year break.
The secrets you don’t know about popular Instagram influencer Sylvia Walters.
Roxy scanned the article quickly, her eyes darting from side to side across her phone screen. The blogger wrote that she was from Sylvia’s hometown, a place with a population of less than 5,000 in Illinois but wasn’t specific. But Sylvia Walters isn’t even her real name. It’s Helen Matheson. Don’t believe me?
There was a grainy photo of the front page of a newspaper. The newspaper had printed an image of a woman, her hands cuffed, seemingly walking out of court surrounded by police officers. The headline screamed KILLER WIFE TRIAL CONTINUES!
Roxy thought her heart might burst out of her chest. Killer wife? She squinted at the newspaper photo, but it was hard to see if it really was Sylvia. The woman in the picture looked larger, but Roxy supposed Sylvia might have lost weight since then. She read through what the “Middle-Aged Mom” had to say.
Well-known Instagram influencer, Sylvia Walters AKA Helen Matheson, was sentenced to 20 years in prison for killing her husband Raymond Matheson in an altercation at their home. When she was released, she took a new name and moved to a new state.
I had forgotten all about her until I saw her posts in my Instagram feed. I recognized her immediately and saw that she had written a book. I bought it. It is packed with LIES.
In it, Sylvia/Helen says she spent a lengthy time in Europe, but I’m writing to tell you that she was never in Europe. She was in JAIL. For killing her husband. And the jury found that her attack on him was NOT in reasonable self-defense.
Raymond Matheson was a good man and well-loved by his community. Sylvia/Helen’s defense was that he was abusing her, but no one in our town believes that. We think she was trying to kill him for the insurance money but got caught before she could cash in. Anyone who comes into contact with this so-called “Sylvia Walters” should BEWARE. She is a liar and a convicted felon. Steer clear!
Roxy put her phone down on the bed. This was all too weird for words. Was it true? But why would anyone make it up?
Roxy’s thoughts were whizzing through her brain far too fast. All of a sudden her bedroom was too small. The walls felt like they were closing in on her. Her head was hurting. She needed coffee and she had an overwhelming urge to get out of the hotel.
Roxy slipped her shoes back on, squeezed out a pouch of cat food into Nefertiti’s bowl, and headed out of her room, grabbing her coffee cup as she did so. It was in the lobby that she bumped into none other than Sylvia. She was carrying her trekking poles. Roxy gasped.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” said Sylvia, laughing. “I don’t look that bad in a tracksuit, do I?”
“Oh no, not at all!” Roxy said. “I just didn’t expect anyone to be here. It’s been quite a day. I’m a bit on edge, that’s all.”
Sylvia pursed her lips and nodded. “I know what you mean. It has been a day.” Sylvia looked at Roxy’s cup. “You know, I gave up coffee a while back to manage my stress. It’s helped tremendously,” she said. “Nothing after 2 PM, otherwise I get these anxious thoughts at evening time. I thought I actually suffered from anxiety and went to the doctor for medication, but before I took any, someone suggested I give up caffeine as an experiment. I’ve been anxiety-free ever since! You should try it.”
At any other time, this would have been very interesting to Roxy, but right now Sylvia’s prattling made her want to scream. Maybe in the future, she would give up caffeine, but for now, she just needed to be alone to think.
“I’m going to try that,” Roxy said, pointing her finger in the air. “Maybe I’ll get some decaf in the meantime.”
“Good idea,” said Sylvia. “I’m going for my power walk now, down by the riverside. I’ll be back in time for dinner. Want to come?”
“No, no. You go. Have fun,” said Roxy.
Sylvia smiled. She waved. “See you!”
Roxy whipped out her phone and pulled up the city library website. After scrolling around the site, she texted Nat. Sorry, can’t help with dinner after all. Have to go do something. I found out something crazy. Talk later.
Roxy put her coffee cup behind the reception table and headed out the door, not even sure in what direction she was headed. She consulted her phone for the street name and punched it into her maps app.
Roxy ran to her destination. Unable to stop herself, she sprinted so fast she could hear the wind rushing past her ears. She only slowed to a jog when her destination came into view.
The library was housed in a huge colonial mansion fronted with white pillars and white woodwork. Out of breath, Roxy slowed her pace to a walk. As her heart rate slowed, she also started to doubt herself again. What had seemed like a no-brainer back at the Funky Cat—delve into the library records—now felt like an over-reaction.
Still, over the past few months, Roxy had gotten a lot better at trusting her intuition. She marched into the library and up to the librarian’s desk. “Hi there, good evening,” she said breathlessly. “I was wondering if you have a way of looking up old newspaper content. Say from 20 years ago?”
“Sure we do,” said the librarian, a kindly looking man in his 60s. “A New Orleans paper?”
“Well, no. Illinois. But I’m not sure where in Illinois.”
The man gri
maced. “Might have a problem there. What information are you looking for?”
“I want to look up reporting about a woman. A Helen Matheson. She was on trial for murder.”
“Okay,” the man said as if this were a perfectly normal request. “Come over here to this computer, and we’ll access the database.”
An hour later, Roxy walked out of the library, shivers running up and down her spine. It could have been because she was still only wearing her yellow sundress and the sun was going down, but more likely it was because she had located Helen Matheson in the online database. Everything the blog had said was true. She had even seen a picture. Helen Matheson was clearly and indisputably a younger version of the woman she knew as silver-haired, sexagenarian Sylvia Walters.
Roxy meandered through backstreets on her way home, her thoughts mirroring her rambling walk. She was so distracted, she found herself by the river without even knowing how she got there. Roxy sat down on a bench and chewed her lip as she thought some more. If anyone could see inside her brain, they would have seen ideas and theories shooting between her synapses, like spectacular lightning bolts exploding in an electric storm.
She didn’t want to go back to the hotel just yet. How would she face Sylvia with all these questions in her head? Roxy had always been great at hiding her feelings, but only if she was quiet and could make herself small, practically invisible. She used to be able to do that without too much effort, but now? Now, she had to be an upbeat, welcoming host who constantly ministered to her guests. Hiding her emotions in the type of situation she now found herself felt almost impossible. She was too honest.
When Roxy came to the small cobbled street that led to the Funky Cat, she walked right past it. She wasn’t ready to go home just yet. She would visit Sam at his laundry. There were still a couple of reporter’s vans parked on the street near the inn, but she strode along, confident that the journalists wouldn’t notice her as long as she walked purposefully.
New Orleans Nightmare Page 11
