My brain recorded those words and played them back twice. Should Trace’s wife rise to the top of our suspect list?
“Cam, welcome back!” Ida motioned for Cam to join her and other friendly faces. “Grab a bagel before they’re gone!”
“Thank you for bringing these things to light, Paisley,” Nathan said. “Confession is always good for the soul, right?”
Cam and Nathan joined Ida, and I watched the faire family welcome Cam back to the fold. If he did kill anyone, he was one heck of a convincing actor to the contrary.
Sylvie, Frannie, and I worked the crowd, saying hello to everyone we passed. The faire participants were an eclectic, interesting lot from young to old, rich to poor, from a high-powered attorney to a stay-at-home dad. It was not only some great people- watching, but had been a good opportunity to meet more folks from my hometown.
“Good morning, Rex.” I took a bagel from a bag marked Cinnamon Crunch. “Are you and Ida ready for another festive weekend?”
“We certainly are.” Rex yawned and reached for his own cup of coffee.
“I’m sure you’re tired,” I said. “Beau said he saw you working late last night at Creekside Inn. It probably makes for an early morning.”
Rex’s hand paused for a moment, then he took a drink from his cup.
“My Rex never sits still,” Ida said. “I practically have to make him sleep.”
“I ate at the inn last night,” I said.
“Oh, how nice.” Ida handed two bagels to a passing couple. “Was it a special occasion?”
“Paisley had a hot date,” Sylvie said. “I tried to pouf up her cleavage, but do you think she listened to me?”
Frannie shook her head. “Some kids do not respect wisdom.”
Ida smiled at her husband. “It’s hard for Rex to work there and not tell them how to run their kitchen.”
“Creekside’s always good,” Sylvie said. “They make the best fried pickles in all of Arkansas.”
“That’s always been one of Rex’s specialties.” Ida beamed with pride.
“The secret’s in the batter.” Rex reluctantly gave us his attention. “You can’t coat it too thin or too thick.”
Frannie took a sip of coffee. “That’s exactly what I tell Pablo at the salon when he waxes my upper lip.”
“It’s not easy to work two jobs at our age, is it?” Sylvie rubbed her own back as if feeling some senior citizenly pains. “Why aren’t you enjoying your golden years yet?”
“We are,” Ida said. “We love what we do at the faire, especially now that it’s closer to home. Rex here’s just gotten it in his head that we need a bigger nest egg.”
“We help out our only daughter.” Rex frowned. “She’s a single mom and trying to go to college.”
“We help pay for daycare and some tuition,” Ida said. “She’s had a hard time of it, and we do what we can.”
“I think it’s very noble and generous,” I said. “I know from experience seasonal work can be hard to depend on.”
“Darn right, it can,” Rex groused. “And don’t think I don’t know why that Beau Hudson popped his head in the kitchen to check on me. It wasn’t to say hello, that’s for sure.”
Ida’s head jerked in a double take. “Well, Rex Alderson, what are you going on about?”
“That Hudson fellow playing twenty questions with me last night like some sort of detective. Like I haven’t already told the cops everything I know.”
“Well, sure you have, dear.”
“I got eighteen-year-olds working circles around me, and I can’t be bothered to stop and chat. I got nothing to say about Trace’s murder. I didn’t kill him, I don’t have any reason to want the man dead, and that’s all there is to it.” Rex walked away, leaving his wife bewildered.
“My goodness. I don’t know what’s gotten into him lately. Just overly tired, I guess. It’s not like anyone suspects Rex of the murder.” Her fingers worried a vest button as she laughed. “I mean, what possible reason would my sweet husband have to hurt Trace?”
I looked in the direction her husband had exited and wondered that myself.
Were we wasting time keeping Rex Alderson on our suspect list?
Or did this overworked grandfather somehow have a motive to kill?
24
“What do you mean we have a man down?”
The next day at the faire grounds, I pressed the phone to my ear, trying to hear Nathan over the chattering people around me as I made my way to the queen’s tent.
“Angela left,” Nathan said. “She said she got overheated and sick, so she went back to her cabin. She’s the lady-in-waiting in the two-woman skit for the queen’s tea.”
Relief bulldozed over me. You didn’t walk through the horrors of more than one murder in a short time without the words “man down” making you think the worst. “Do you think she didn’t want to be in a sketch with Rebecca?”
“It’s possible. All she really had to do was help pass out cookies and help the Queen with an audience-participation game. Pretty easy stuff, so I’m sending you a substitute lady-in-waiting. If you could help her get settled and update Rebecca, that would be great.”
Much of my job for the faire was simply trouble-shooting and putting out fires. It gave me lots of exercise and excuses to walk by the food trailers. “On my way right now.”
It was a quarter till three, and the tea was about to begin. The show was supposed to be a daily event, but Nathan had postponed it last weekend when everything had gone south and murdery. My hot pink paisley rain boots slid a bit on a blob of mud, making me grateful I’d foregone my usual high heels. The world always looked a little different when viewing it from four inches closer to the earth.
“I don’t know how women got anything done in these dresses.”
I turned to find my grandmother lumbering behind me, holding her heavy skirt above the soggy ground. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “I thought you were on knife-throwing duty.”
“I was. But I guess my offering up tips and charming anecdotes from my real life slowed the lines. I mean, excuse me for trying to offer some context for their throws. Nathan sent me to help out Rebecca.”
“You’re her lady-in-waiting?”
“I don’t know. All I heard was cookies and here I am.”
I glanced about for eavesdroppers. “Have you seen anything noteworthy today?”
“Saw a lady with way too much boobage on display and a guy in a kilt who, after a brisk wind, probably regrets not wearing undies.”
“I meant in connection to Trace.”
“Oh.” She dropped her volume. “I’ve walked around a bit. Cam kind of floats about and makes up his own little dramas. He interacts with anyone who’ll engage his character. It’s quite interesting to watch. He’s actually pretty decent and has an impressive accent.”
“That’s it?”
“You try a Cockney accent.” She gave her vowels a painful stretch. “It’s bloomin’ hard, I say.”
Apparently it was, as she just sounded Scottish. “Is that all you’ve observed?”
“I saw Angela leave.”
I stopped, not wanting to bring our discussion into the tent. “Did she look sick?”
“Sick of Rebecca maybe.”
“Has Frannie had any luck tracking down sales of large acreages?”
“She hadn’t found squat. I’m betting Trace and Nathan made an offer for the land under a corporation they’ve formed. She’s going to try and work that angle.” Sylvie waved at some friends who walked past. “I did get an interesting text from a highly trained informant.”
“Who’s that?”
“My hair stylist. He said—”
“Good afternoon, ladies.” Detective Ballantine’s looming figure nearly blocked the sun as he sidestepped two elderly women and joined us at the entrance.
“Detective.” My heart still flopped like a dying fish at the very sight of him. “Nice of you to visit the faire today.”
“Oh, don’t count her out yet,” Sylvie said. “There’s still Saturday.”
The detective did not find that amusing.
“Have you made any progress on the case?” I asked.
“Every day we learn something new,” he said. “Just a matter of time before we wrap this one up.”
What did the police know that we didn’t? I hadn’t learned diddley squat.
Ballantine propped his fists on his hips and watched the crowd as if each person entering the tent could be a suspect.
“Are you joining us for the Queen’s tea?” I asked. “I didn’t take you for a tea and biscuits sort of fellow.”
“I’m not here for imaginary parties. I’m here to solve a murder.” He took off his shiny metal sunglasses. “You and your grandmother wouldn’t be running one of your own investigations now, would you?”
“Us?” Sylvie’s laugh was a little Cruella de Vil. “Don’t be silly. I’m just a senior citizen enjoying her golden years. How about you, Paisley? Have you been doing any CSI lately?”
“I think solving one murder for your department was enough for me.”
Ballantine’s eye brows dipped low. “While I’m a fan of your work, do not think it qualifies either one of you as a detective. You’re completely out of your league, and you put yourself and my team in danger when you pretend to be Holmes and Watson. Miss Sutton, you’re lucky you weren’t killed the last time you took the law into your own hands, but that luck’s gonna run out. For your own safety, I’m telling you right now—if you interfere with this investigation, you will be dealt with.”
“You know Beau Hudson is innocent.” The words sounded trite and repetitive, even to my own ears.
“Innocent until proven guilty. Just like any other suspect.” He gave a curt nod. “Enjoy your tea party.”
“He’s not the friendliest.” Sylvie watched the detective walk away. “I think he needs more fiber.”
“But he did call us Holmes and Watson. I’m going to take that as a compliment.” I flicked a bug off my glittery tank. “You were telling me about your informant?”
“Ah, yes, Armando. He does Mamie Watson’s hair, and she’s cousin to Perry McBride, who cuts Lily Tompkins grass, and she works with Nettie Simpkins down at Webb’s Feed Store, but she doesn’t talk to Armando on account of he won’t give her a perm.”
“Who? What?”
“I’m trying to tell you that Nettie told Lily who told Perry who told Mamie who told Armando that Nathan’s been picking Rebecca up at her sister’s every night around ten. Now if that’s true, there’s some first class frisky business going on.”
“You think their kiss wasn’t a one-time thing?”
“Well, they’re sure not huddled up in the midnight hours to review high yield interest rates. Mamie said she heard he’s picked her up every night since she got into town—as early as nine forty-five, but no later than eleven.” Sylvie rubbed her hands together. “You know what we gotta do?”
“Draw a flowchart so I can track your sources?”
“Have a stakeout.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’ve already told Frannie. She’s bringing baked goods, and I’m bringing the night vision goggles.”
“How about we just ask Rebecca?”
“Because that is zero fun. Did your mother just take possession of your body? Come on—you, Emma, me, Frannie, sugar, and carbs. It’ll be fun.”
“Sylvie—”
“I’ll pick you up at nine o’clock sharp.”
I followed her inside, knowing it was useless to argue. We walked past a teenager wearing an impressively feathered hat taking tickets, and headed toward the back of the tent. The place was filled with at least fifty tables and many were already full. The event had been Trace’s idea, and it looked like it was going to be a success. I guided Sylvie to a large partition where Rebecca now waited. She sat in a chair, regal in her royal garb and crown, checking her makeup with a gold compact in her hand.
“Hello, Rebecca.” I stepped back to allow room for my grandmother. “Nathan wanted me to let you know Angela fell ill.”
Disgust pinched her features. “Now what are we gonna do? I can’t perform this thing alone.”
“I’m here to help,” Sylvie said.
“Do you have acting experience?”
“I was once the body double for the president’s mother.”
“That’ll work.” Rebecca filled her in on what to expect. Basically, it was just passing out cookies and picking audience members to play a Tudor-inspired game of charades.
“You must be pretty tired, Rebecca,” I said when Sylvie’s tutorial was complete. “How are you holding up?”
“I have good moments and bad ones,” she said. “It helps to keep busy.” She glanced at her phone, checking the time. “Just a few more minutes.”
“Can I ask you something?” Sylvie asked.
I gave my grandmother a warning glare. This was not the time.
“Make it quick please.” Rebecca secured a crown to the top of her dark head. “My stomach’s a ball of nerves, I gotta pee, and I can’t keep my lines straight.”
“Are you having an affair with Nathan Moore?”
“Okay!” I said. “Let’s get in our places, shall we? Showtime, girls.”
But Rebecca didn’t budge. She closed her compact with a snap. “Did Angela tell you that?”
“You were spotted kissing Nathan the night of the fateful performance,” Sylvie said.
“My husband just died and you think that’s an appropriate question?”
“She’s sorry. Maybe we can catch up later?” I grabbed my grandmother and gave her a gentle push toward the exit.
Sylvie locked the brakes on her fancy shoes. “We’re simply trying to figure out who all the players are in Trace’s life—and death.”
“I didn’t kill my husband.” Rebecca turned to me. “I did not kill my husband.”
Well, as long as it was all out there. “Angela might’ve implied that you had a . . .boyfriend,” I said.
Rebecca sat down in a seat, her skirt swooshing against the floor. “Nathan and I are good friends—have been for years.” She blinked back tears. “Trace and I were separated, so it wouldn’t be too outrageous if I did have a wild fling, would it? I didn’t owe Trace any respect or loyalty, that’s for sure. He’d broken our vows half a dozen times over the course of our marriage. And all that time, I was faithful. I stayed and took him back after every single infidelity—even Angela.”
“Why would you put up with that for so long?” Sylvie asked. “I’ve dealt with better mannered terrorists.”
“I actually loved the guy.” A broken, bitter laugh escaped from her red lips. “Trace was bad news from the beginning. Everyone tried to warn me of that. Nathan begged me not to marry him. Melly told me he was a heart-breaking crook, and my momma cried throughout our entire wedding ceremony. But I wouldn’t listen. Boy, was everyone right. I thought I could change him, thought I could make him love me as much as I loved him. And I think he did love me—in his own way. But it wasn’t enough. I was never enough.”
My brain flashed with an image of Haley Jo, and I felt a brief moment of commiseration with Rebecca. If Haley Jo was what Beau wanted, I would never make him happy. I wasn’t rich, wasn’t model gorgeous, wasn’t a clingy damsel in distress, and for the love of all that was sacred, I would never be one of those girls who forgot to eat.
“Trace didn’t want me to come with the troupe to Sugar Creek,” she said. “But I wasn’t missing a chance to see my sister. And these faire people are my family. And I followed Trace to be near those I love and try to give it one more shot with my husband.”
The broken eye contact, the way her voice went airy, as if she couldn’t totally commit to her own words—were they s
igns she was lying? “Even after you asked him for a divorce?”
Her eyes widened slightly at my statement. “Nothing’s a secret in Sugar Creek, is it? I don’t miss that about this town. Yes, I filed for divorce two months ago. That trampy Angela seems to think it was the other way around and that I simply wouldn’t sign, but that’s not true. I don’t know why Trace wouldn’t just sign the papers. It was a fair settlement. I’d wondered if maybe he did still love me.”
But killing him meant she could be rid of Trace and have all his assets. “Angela said you tore up the papers.”
“I had too many doubts. I think marriage is worth fighting for.”
But not when it’s abusive. “It must’ve been hard living under those conditions with Trace,” I said. “Especially without the support of your family.”
“It was. And lonely. We were only hours away in Tulsa, but it might as well have been ten thousand miles. Trace never wanted me to see my family here in Sugar Creek. He couldn’t stand them.” Rebecca’s hand went to the vintage choker at her neck. “But I had my Renaissance friends. They’ve always given me a purpose beyond doing some occasional filing for Trace at the car dealerships.”
“And it allowed you to keep a closer eye on your husband.” Sylvie squeezed her shoulder in solidarity. “I understand all about reconnaissance.”
“I won’t deny that. But what good did that do?” Her laugh was as bitter as a withered roadside blackberry. “He didn’t even try to hide his relationship with her.”
“With Angela.”
“Yes.”
“That was the biggest slap in the face. He had an affair with a cast member knowing I’d be around her, knowing I’d be expected to help her with costumes and props and see her smug face every day.”
Trace truly sounded awful. Had it finally gotten to Rebecca and she reached a point of no return? A cheating husband certainly gave her motive. “Did Angela rub it in?” I asked.
“Of course she did. She has this vitriolic dislike for me, as if I’m the offending person in this triangle. Can you imagine?”
I took a bolstering breath and dove in. “About this kiss with Nathan Moore—”
Royally In Trouble Page 17
