Beau didn’t seem to have heard a word she said. He was too busy eyeballing Matt’s hand across my shoulders.
“Haley Jo gets her gift for understatement from her mama,” Sylvie said. “Babs Madewell was runner-up to Miss Arkansas 1981 and still wears Vaseline on her teeth and her hair teased to glory.”
“Aren’t you sweet?” Haley Jo ditched her plastic smile. “I hear you ladies are butting into the investigation. I’d hate to think you might be responsible for bungling something up and interfering with justice.”
Frannie rounded on Haley Jo, her Christian charity left in the choir loft. “I worked over four decades in the CIA, and I’ve protected people whose names you couldn’t even spell, let alone—”
“That’s enough,” Beau said quietly. “While I’d love to see the authorities handle this dangerous mess, Frannie and Sylvie are experts and competent in all they do. But Paisley . . . is not.”
Of all the nerve. “I’m pretty sure I solved a murder a few months ago.”
Beau ignored my relevant factoid. “Besides, Paisley told me she’s staying out of it.” The sands of a Destin beach couldn’t be drier than his tone. “But, Officer Quincy, as long as you two are spending time together, you might as well make sure she’s not putting herself in harm’s way. Maybe gets some extra patrol at her office and home?”
“That could be arranged,” Matt said. “Isn’t that a good idea, Paisley?”
I did not need a security detail on my tail reporting my every move to Ballantine. “Just swell.”
“Always glad to help.” Beau’s gaze met mine with a gleam of satisfaction. “Whatever it takes to keep my neighbor safe.”
30
The crescent moon levitated in the inky sky as I waved to Matt while he drove away in his patrol car. After tapping out the secret knock, I let myself into Sylvie’s house, shut the door behind me, then rested my head against the wood to gather my thoughts and give my achy body a pause. I had promised an update, and I needed some time in the comfort of cherished family.
“We didn’t see any kissy-kissy, smoochy-smoochy.”
I peeled open one eye to see my grandmother, aunt, and Emma standing in the foyer looking more than a little judgmental.
Kicking off my flats, I walked past the women and aimed for the kitchen. “For all you know we went at it in the car with heavy petting galore.”
“Does she even know us?” Frannie said.
“We were watching you as soon as Officer Sweet Cheek’s cruiser appeared on my street.” Sylvie beat me to the fridge and took out a pitcher of fruit-infused water. “Sit down, shug. I’ll fix you some dinner. Unless you’ve already dined with that adorable man?”
“No, just a quick lunch.” I bellied up to the bar, resting my chin on my palm.
“You’ve been with him all this time, and he didn’t feed you dinner?” Emma asked.
“I’ve been at the Renaissance faire all day. Matt made me call him when I left Fox Falls so he could escort me here.”
“That’s endearing,” Frannie said. “I had a date last month who escorted me off the premises, too.”
“Matt and I are going out for lunch Tuesday if that redeems me any.”
“How was this afternoon’s rendezvous?” Sylvie sliced into a homegrown tomato, setting it on top of a giant piece of lettuce. Next came crispy bacon, something she always kept on hand. Because she was the best grandmother ever.
“It was nice.”
Sylvie’s rinsed her knife then shut off the tap. “Nice?”
“Oh, no.” Frannie lifted the lid off of the cookie jar nearby. “Nice? I’ve had more complementary adjectives for sheet sets. What gives?”
“I’ll tell you what gives,” my grandmother said as she loaded my plate with an overstuffed BLT wrap. “Matt may be handsome, adorable, sweet, have a job, and be in possession of a good set of teeth, but he’s not—”
“Don’t say it.” I took a lengthy drink of water and set my glass down with a thunk. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“Fine.” Sylvie held up her hands. “I won’t.”
Emma said it for her. “He’s not Beau.”
“I’m not dealing with this tonight.” Good heavens, I needed more bacon in my life. “I’m tired, I had to cover all day for Alice again, and I promised to check in, so here I am.”
“We know you’re worn out, shug.” My grandmother wrapped me in a warm side hug, planting a kiss on top of my head. “You haven’t had a day off in ages. Not like me and Frannie—we won’t be victims of occupational tyranny in our new acting roles.”
My aunt nodded. “We got SAG cards.”
“I was putting out fires all day,” I said. “A leak in the cupcake trailer, the generator quit in the event tent, and two jousting horses took off to explore the creek. I never saw most of the cast. Somehow I’ve got to spend more time with them.” I thought it might be time to focus on Nathan and Rebecca.
“You didn’t miss much.” Sylvie pulled up a barstool. “Rebecca was her usual bossy self. Nathan ran around trying to make everyone happy.”
“Cam’s living it up as King Henry and letting it go to his head,” Frannie said. “Angela called in sick again.”
Sylvie took a snickerdoodle from Frannie. “Rebecca was not pleased.”
Her words pinged something in my worn out brain, and I dropped my BLT on the plate. “Yesterday at the parade a woman in the crowd acted like she knew Angela. She insisted her name was Christine. I didn’t think much about it then, but Angela was pretty anxious to get away.”
“It’s not unusual to be mistaken for somebody else,” Sylvie said.
“Yeah.” Frannie tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I get mistaken for Halle Berry all the time.”
“Angela acted almost frightened.” Now that I thought about it, it was too strange. “And then she didn’t show up today?” I finished my dinner, filling Sylvie and Frannie in on everything I’d seen and heard during the parade.
“Let’s pull up this Christine Fitzsimmons and see what we find.” Frannie laced her fingers and gave them a crack.
Fifteen minutes later, Frannie swiveled her laptop toward me and smiled. “The name Christine Fitzsimmons pulled up three people in Sioux City, Iowa, but none of them looked like our Angela. To save time and narrow the selection, I ran her photo through my almost-patented facial recognition software.” She beamed with pride. “I call it Faces You Can’t Erases.”
I rubbed my bleary eyes. “Catchy.”
“I know, right?” She clicked a few keys. “Here’s what I came up with.” A familiar face popped up on the screen. “Christine Angela Fitzsimmons formerly of Ponca, Nebraska.” Her hair wasn’t blonde, but long and dark brown. She wore no makeup and sported a pair of round glasses.
With more keystrokes, additional photos appeared, along with an impressive string of articles.
We’d moved to the dining room table, and I sat down to get a closer look. “What do we have here?”
Sylvie had her own laptop open with a traffic jam of browser windows open, clicked on one, and read. “Christine was born thirty-five years ago in Plano, Texas. Married Tommy Fitzsimmons when she turned twenty-one. Tommy was apparently a pastor, and they eventually landed in Nebraska while her husband led the flock of the Sioux City Church of Faith down the road in Iowa.”
“Why would she change her name?” I scrolled to another article.
“This is where it gets good.” Frannie lived for a plot twist. “Like straight outta Days of Our Lives good.”
“Guess whose husband was found dead right before Christine Fitzsimmons left town and her old identity in Nebraska?” my grandmother asked.
“I was working on the build-up.” Frannie huffed. “Don’t steal my moment, Sylvie.”
“Sorry. It’s just too exciting. We haven’t seen this level of intrigue since Paisley nearly met her maker.”
“Angela’s husband died?” I asked. “Are you saying he was murdered?”
“Th
ere was all kinds of speculation.” Emma handed me a printout of an especially juicy newspaper article. “The Sioux City Sentinel did a series of stories on the death, but in the end it was ruled accidental.”
The article in my hand showed a photo of Tommy Fitzsimmons. He looked a good ten years older than his bride. In the picture he wore a three-piece suit, his tie cinched uncomfortably tight, and he possessed a full head of slicked-down hair. His wide smile revealed a small gap between his front teeth. “Give me the short version. How did he die?”
“Angela claims she found him doing the dead-man’s float in their pool,” Frannie said. “Autopsy showed a bump on his head, so the final verdict was that he tripped over some pool cleaning equipment, bumped his head, fell in, and drowned. He’d probably been in the water for hours before she got home from an errand at the church, and there was no saving Pastor Fitzsimmons.”
“Sylvie talked to an agent friend of hers near Sioux City,” Emma said. “Lots of folks thought Christine Fitzsimmons killed her husband.”
Frannie crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “One article said he was a neat freak who would’ve never left the pool equipment out. Another editorial mentioned that Christine’s father was in prison, hinting that maybe his criminal ways had leached down through the branches of his family tree. Tommy was beloved by his congregation, and there were lots of wailing and calls for justice.”
Sylvie ran a hand through her wilting pixie cut. “Whether she killed him or not, it’s notable that the woman known as Christine Angela Fitzsimmons packed up a U-Haul the day after the funeral and left town. A blonde Angela Simpson showed up in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and got an Oklahoma driver’s license one week later.
“Assuming a new identity is pretty drastic,” I said. “Makes her sound incredibly guilty. Do you think she was hiding from the law?”
“Before you go off making a citizen’s arrest, she didn’t create a totally new persona,” Sylvie said. “She started going by her middle and maiden name, so she wasn’t trying to hide too hard. If you’re looking, it’s easy to track her.”
“Angela’s possibly killed before,” I said. “And she has motive.”
“Yep.” Sylvie nodded her blonde head. “Trace had yet to divorce his wife or cut Rebecca out of the Renaissance faire.”
“Another man who took her for granted.” Frannie’s lips thinned. “I know that can fill a body up with all kinds of irrational anger. Poison your mind. Maybe Angela had enough. Maybe she finally snapped.”
We could definitely be on to something. “Snapped, then threw a dagger into the black heart of Trace Hudson. Should we call the police?”
The ladies went uncharacteristically quiet.
Sylvie studied a nonexistent chip in her manicure while Frannie made slow work of brushing crumbs from her jeans. Emma drank her tea.
“We do share this information, right?” I asked.
My grandma cut Frannie a look, and they seemed to come to some agreement without saying a word. “It’s certainly an option,” Frannie said.
“And probably a good one,” I felt I needed to add.
“Look,” Sylvie said, “the detective is an alright sort of fella and surely already knows about Angela’s early years, but he didn’t exactly graduate first in his class, you know? Who solved the last murder? We did.”
“I think you mean me.” And I had the hospital bill as a memento.
“Right.” A chip in her manicure drew Sylvie’s attention. “That’s what I said.”
“Let’s go talk to Angela ourselves,” Frannie said. “Put some pressure on her, see what she knows.”
Emma stood up and stretched. “I think I’ll skip this one. I have a nosy husband to get home to.”
This was not a sound idea. “And you think Angela’s going to confess to a murder—just because you ask her?”
Sylvie blotted her lips with a napkin. “I guess we’re about to find out.”
31
My nerves were as fried as Della Parson’s perm specials down at the Dixie Snip. I knew Sylvie and Frannie would outlive me because too many more years of being their tagalong, and my racing heart would just give out.
“Can we talk about this?” I waited for the back door of Frannie’s minivan to peel back in slow motion before bailing out, barely catching my grandmother and aunt as they made their way over the gravel parking area and right to Trace’s cabin. Where Angela still stayed. “This could wait until Monday. Or when we contact the police.”
“Would you calm down, Paisley?” Sylvie rapped on the wooden front door. “You’re with us. What could possibly go wrong?”
“You don’t have enough days left in your lifetime for me to tell you.” I nervously eyed the cabin windows. “What if Angela killed Trace? Haven’t you watched enough Murder She Wrote? When you confront a killer, they do not just say, ‘Oh, okay, thanks for calling me out. What a dear you are! Now you run off now while I turn myself in.’ No, they say, ‘You caught me. Now meet the business end of my nasty nine millimeter.’”
“Really, Paisley.” Frannie knocked this time, her fist falling in a heavy rhythm. “We did not survive over four decades in the CIA just to play amateur hour on a little murder case.”
“Plus,” Sylvie whispered, “we’re packing heat.”
“A gun?” My voice hit a high octave. “You brought a gun?”
Frannie snorted. “We don’t use firearms anymore. I’ve got my favorite taser I call my Saturday Night Special, two throwing stars, and one piece of gum.”
“What in the world is the gum for?” I dared to ask.
“Duh, for chewing. My throat gets dry when I’m about to whoop some boo-tay.”
“And I’m carrying two stink bombs in my brassiere.” Sylvie gave her chest a quick inspection. “Though I forgot our gas masks, so it’s anyone’s guess how that’s gonna turn out.”
“There, you see? It’s all covered,” Frannie said. “We’re not gonna let anything happen to you.”
“Yeah,” Sylvie said. “Plus, your mother would kill me.” My grandmother knocked one more time. “Angela? Angela are you home? It’s Sylvie Sutton and some friends.”
The door finally eased open, revealing a freshly showered Angela in drippy hair, pink sweats, and eyes free of makeup. “Kinda late to be out visiting, isn’t it?” Angela watched us warily.
“Hi, toots,” Sylvie said. “Can we come in and talk?”
“We have a few questions we’d like to ask you,” I said from safely behind my aunt.
“Oh, okay. I guess.” She stepped back, letting us inside. “Um, can I get you something to drink?”
Frannie plopped herself on the couch. “Do you have a slow gin fizz with a sprig of mint and a squeeze of lime?”
“No.”
“Then nothing for me.”
The scent of spaghetti drifted from the small kitchen connected to the living room. Angela had added two throw pillows to the leather couch and matching chair. On a small accent table sat a lamp and a few framed photos of her and Trace smiling for the camera. She seemed to have made herself at home in this Fox Falls cabin, as if she had no plans to leave.
“I’m house shopping,” Angela said, reading my mind. “Rentals are hard to come by, and I thought I’d just stay here as long as I can.” As if on cue, the tears pooled. “Trace and I were gonna move to this town. Make a life in Sugar Creek. Can I interest you in some cookies?”
I blinked at the transition, but Frannie and Sylvie had already moved toward the kitchen like it was preschool snack time.
Angela played the perfect hostess, serving tea and snacks, but the hands that extended those refreshments were anything but steady. Maybe she did kill her first husband—and Trace as well. And she knew we were on to her.
“Those cookies could be laced with something,” I said for Sylvie’s ears only.
She sank her teeth into one and sighed. “Yeah, laced with awesomeness.”
Frannie returned to the seating area, gesturing to the space by
her in invitation for Angela to sit. “How about we chat about a man named Reverend Tommy Fitzsimmons.”
All color fell from Angela’s face, as if the ghost of the good Reverend was standing right in the room. “Wh-who did you say?”
“We know about your first husband,” my aunt said as she chewed a chocolate chip cookie. “Oh, these are still warm. Dee-lightful.”
“I was married before. But that was a long time ago.” Angela balanced on the edge of the couch, as if primed to self-eject any second. “I didn’t have anything to do with his death.”
“Have the police talked to you about your life in Iowa?” Sylvie asked, settling on the stone hearth of the fireplace.
Angela stared at the floor, as if looking into the shine of the hardwood to see some assistance reflected back. “Yes. Detective Ballantine brought me in for another chat last week.”
“Did Trace know about your first husband?” I asked.
Angela ran her finger over a seam on the couch. “We hadn’t had a chance to discuss it yet.”
Sylvie’s gaze briefly met mine.
“Why not?” Frannie asked.
“Because that was my old life.” Tears filled Angela’s wide eyes. “I didn’t kill my first husband, and I’m not spending the rest of my days living like I did. Tulsa was my fresh start. I didn’t want to be known for who I was. I wanted people to see me for who I was becoming.”
My heart hitched at her words. Minus the dead, abusive husband part, those words could’ve been mine. Sugar Creek was my fresh start, and I didn’t want to be known for my cannon ball into music obscurity anymore.
“Detective Ballantine talked to me like he’d already decided I killed Trace,” Angela said.
“That’s pretty much standard procedure for him.” I knew that from experience. “The man has little mercy and even less personality.”
Royally In Trouble Page 21
