Royally In Trouble

by Jenny B. Jones

  “He said it was suspicious I hadn’t told them about my life in Iowa the first time the police spoke to me, like I was trying to hide a murderous past. And maybe I should have, but I knew once they realized Tommy Fitzsimmons died of suspicious means, they’d focus solely on me while the real killer went free.”

  She sounded so genuine. Angela struck me as someone who lived pretty transparently. In the short time I’d known her, she kept her thoughts and feelings close to the surface. Aside from a bad spray tan and her usually heavy makeup, there seemed to be very little artifice about her. But I knew this had been a misleading assumption before. If I’d learned anything from my last involvement with a murder case (and from the music business, for that matter), it was that nobody could be trusted.

  “Your first husband drowned in your pool.” Sylvie dropped the statement with little grace, pulling us back to the very topic Angela didn’t want to discuss. “Understandably there were some unanswered details surrounding his death. I’m sure that was difficult—to suddenly find yourself widowed . . .and to have the police questioning the circumstances of his demise. Were you the one who found his body?”

  We sat in the heavy silence and waited as Angela lost her battle with keeping the tears at bay. “I know what it looks like.” Her voice snagged on her words. “You’re just like everyone else in that town I left—you think I killed my husband.” Her cheeks shined with the tracks of her tears. “I didn’t kill Tommy. My gosh, I wanted to.” She lifted her head with stunning bravado. “I thought about it nearly every night I was married to that monster. What did I care about prison? I was already in one. I’d come from a terrible home. My dad smacked us around, and my mom was too scared to do anything but be his punching bag. We were dirt poor and the shame of the town. But I got out. I went to the junior college, working fifty hours a week. And when I met Tommy Fitzsimmons while waiting on his table at the Songbird Cafe, I knew my life would never be the same. Three months later, he promised to take me away from all that squalor and the nightmare that was my home. Told me I’d never want for anything again. Not that he was rich, but I’d have food, clothes, a home. And he was a pastor. He had to be a good man, right?”

  “I take it he wasn’t.” I knew what it was like to once love a man who wasn’t anything you’d believed.

  “The devil cut him from the same greasy cloth as my daddy. It started with the yelling for no reason, but soon he was slapping me in the face and shoving me into walls. I lived with it for years. One time I tried to tell the police, but my husband was too well known in the community, and Tommy made sure I looked the fool. There was also the Sunday I told the music director’s wife, but she went straight to Tommy, and he, of course, made me regret it.” She reached for a tissue from the coffee table. “I prayed every night for a solution, for a way out. Some nights I even prayed for God to end my life.” She wound a chunk of blonde hair around her fingers with a twist. “When I came home that afternoon, I saw it. That’s right, I saw it all. Tommy and I had gotten into a big fight only hours before, and I had a dislocated shoulder to prove it. I was in the kitchen cleaning up the dishes he’d thrown at me when I heard him holler. He must’ve fallen. I saw him pick himself off the concrete, then stumble around. Didn’t have the sense to stay put. I had the remains of my great-grandma’s pie plate in my hands as my husband fell right into the pool.” Angela lifted tortured eyes. “I called 9-1-1 ten minutes later.” She gave us a moment to let that sink in. “Everyone in that town thought I was guilty—I guess it’s because I was. I packed up my dog and whatever would fit in my car, and I left the state.” Angela’s direct stare held a challenge. “I didn’t tell the detective that part of my story. If you want to turn me in, you go ahead. I’ve lived with it long enough, waiting for the day I’d either fess up or someone would find me out. At times, my guilt has been a tormentor worse than any prison. But at other times—the freedom of living without fear of abuse is the purest joy I’ve ever known.”

  “I hear you,” Frannie said. “I do understand.”

  I wasn’t sure what all was in Frannie’s past, but I knew it included at least two husbands. And none of them were around to tell their tales.

  “My past alone makes me a likely candidate for a murder suspect,” Angela said. “But I loved Trace. When I moved and discovered the Tulsa Renaissance Faire, I found a piece of my life I hadn’t known was missing. I had a purpose, I had friends. Those people eventually became the family I’d never had. I laughed for the first time in years. I could put on a costume and become someone else, someone with no past and no shame.”

  “And then you fell in love with another woman’s husband,” Sylvie said.

  “I did. I guess everything in my life is touched by heartbreak. And my bad decisions. I believed Trace when he told me he loved me—when he said we’d settle in Sugar Creek and get married. I’d finally found a man who loved me for me, who had similar interests, who was fun, who was exciting and successful. A man who’d never leave me with bruises.”

  But what about the bruises on the inside? The ones nobody saw? Had they gotten to be too much for Angela? What if she was lying—what if she’d found reason to believe Trace wasn’t going to divorce his wife? Could it be possible this woman had just cracked?

  “Are you going to the cops?” Angela asked.

  I looked to Frannie, who I sensed needed to take lead on this decision.

  “No,” my aunt said. “Accidents happen. Even terrible ones that forever change two lives.”

  “I could’ve fished him out of that pool.”

  “Maybe,” Frannie said. “But he might’ve already been gone. Head trauma’s a funny thing. I’d like to think your husband died in peace.”

  Angela nodded her head. “Then that’s what I’ll think too. He simply went to sleep.”

  Frannie squeezed her trembling hand. “And woke up to answer to his Maker.”

  We piled back into the van, all of us quiet with our thoughts. I felt like I’d just run the emotional equivalent of a marathon in the pouring rain while dodging lightning bolts, pit bulls, and a snake-filled swamp. I was exhausted, spent, and feeling about as ethically grounded as a spinning top.

  “What just happened in there?” I fastened my seatbelt as Frannie put the van in drive.

  She turned down her Willie Nelson blaring on the radio. “Sometimes things aren’t black and white, hon.”

  I looked out the window as we left Fox Falls. “We’re really not going to the police?”

  Sylvie turned in her seat. “What does your gut tell you about Angela’s story?”

  My gut was as unsettled as my conscience. “I believe her.” But that didn’t make it right.

  “It’s her burden to carry,” Frannie said. “And I have no doubt it will still be a shackle she’ll drag for many more years to come. The facts are all there in the case for the police to review anytime. How they interpreted that information is their business.”

  Five minutes later we drove past the Sugar Creek police station.

  And kept on going.

  32

  “Okay, Mrs. Hampton. Let me just read my notes back to you for your son’s cake. You’d like a gluten-free, dairy-free, soy-free, nut-free vanilla cake with preservative-free frosting.”

  On Monday, Carrie Smith-Hampton, self-appointed royalty of Sugar Creek Real Estate, smoothed her too-tight ponytail and consulted the notes on her phone. “Organic vanilla, please. Preferably sourced from the rain forest, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “And did I mention no eggs?”

  “At least twice. I’m sorry your child is allergic to all these things. It must be difficult.”

  “Oh, William’s not allergic to anything. Now, did you get my email about the clown?”

  Once again I scanned the explicit instructions she’d sent three times. “Clown must not be scary, should be fun and entertaining. Must not wear a red wig. Cannot have high eyebrows raised in constant surprise. Did I miss anything?” />
  “Don’t forget, the clown should be able to do balloon animals, but only the soft cuddly variety. No meat eaters.”

  “No bears, no tigers, no dinosaurs. Got it.” Vegan balloon animals. I felt sorry for this clown already. “We found a man who does pony rides for parties, but I’m sorry to report he doesn’t have a single hypoallergenic horse.”

  “That’s too bad.” She released an elongated sigh. “I guess regular ponies will do. But they aren’t allowed to do their number twosies in my yard.”

  “I’ll pass those instructions on to the animals.”

  “Oh, William’s going to have such a wonderful birthday!”

  I doubted it, but at least the party would be nice. “I’ll call you with any updates. Until then—”

  Her phone trilled, and Carrie answered, holding up an authoritative finger to pause my words. “Carrie Smith-Hampton with the award-winning, home-selling Sugar Creek Realty. How may I help you?”

  She could help me by taking her call somewhere else. But not only did Carrie stay put, she upped her volume as she spoke, as if the whole building needed to hear. She was one of those.

  “Well, hello, Rebecca!” The woman’s forcefully perky chatter became a buzz of background noise.

  I opened my email on my laptop and typed a response to a vendor who was helping with Friday night’s second and final dinner theater at the Renaissance faire. It was a charity event, with all proceeds going to the local school’s free food program for children in need. Had it not been for a great cause, Nathan said they would have gladly canceled and ended the festival early. While I enjoyed the success of the faire, one murder not included, I was also ready to move on to other projects and have a weekend off.

  Glancing at the clock on my screen, I felt a ping of anxiety at the time. A few more hours till my lunch date with Matt. The man had it all—a kind heart, good looks, a steady job. He was even a great dresser. So what was my problem? When was the zing-pow going to hit? He had yet to kiss me, and I was . . .totally okay with it.

  “Well, of course you needed to put the house shopping on hold for a bit,” I heard Mrs. Hampton say. “My goodness, what a terrible time. Did you receive our flowers? Oh, good. It was the least we could do for our favorite client. Again, on behalf of Sugar Creek Realty, we are profoundly sorry for the loss of your dear Trace.”

  My fingers fumbled on the keyboard. She was talking to Rebecca Hudson.

  “The house on Miller Lane is a delight, isn’t it? It doesn’t have your infinity pool, but that’s an easy fix, right? I can envision you hosting many an outdoor party there.”

  I kept my eyes on my computer screen while listening to Carrie run through various properties. Was Rebecca moving now? Wasn’t her home back in Tulsa?

  “I can pull up some new listings,” Carrie said. “I know you wanted to back up to the greens, and I think I have a few you’ll simply adore. Tomorrow afternoon would be divine. See you then.” Carrie kiss-kissed toward the phone, then ended the call. “I’m sorry, where were we?”

  “Clowns and cake.”

  “Ah, yes. Is everything settled here?”

  “I believe so.” I handed Mrs. Smith-Hampton her paperwork. “Sounds like we’re both helping Rebecca Hudson.”

  “That poor woman.” Her eyes closed as if conducting her own moment of silence. “What she’s been through!”

  “Yes, it’s certainly put the whole town on edge.” I cleared my throat and shut my laptop. “Rebecca said she’s enjoying house hunting with you.” She’d said no such thing, but a little ego fluffing might yield substantial results.

  Mrs. Hampton lit up like a candle on a dairy-free birthday cake. “I haven’t had a budget this big to work with in years. This sale will put me in the million dollar club for sure.”

  “She’s looking at the golf course?” The Sugar Creek golf course was surrounded by a neighborhood of homes for the wealthy and elite. Houses with foyers the size of my duplex.

  Mrs. Hampton stuffed her paperwork into her designer purse. “As you know, she has an extensive want list.”

  “Right,” I said. “Very extensive.”

  “I’ve tried to convince her to buy at the golf course and renovate so she’ll stay in Sugar Creek and not some of those luxury neighborhoods in Bentonville.”

  “What a dream client for you.” This required more fluffing. “But of course, she’s in the hands of the best realtor in all of Northwest Arkansas.”

  “Oh.” She rested her hand upon her heart. “How kind of you to say. I certainly work hard.”

  “I’m sure you’ve been putting in a lot of hours helping Rebecca search for this house. Such a shame Trace isn’t there to assist.”

  Mrs. Hampton hinged forward, like an old friend ready to divulge a hot secret. “I don’t think Rebecca was ever shopping for the two of them.”

  “Really?” I digested this fact.

  “She never mentioned his name.”

  Interesting. “Well, she won’t have to wait long to find her dream home with you on the hunt.”

  The woman was gonna pop the buttons on her blouse if she puffed up anymore. “No, indeed.”

  “And how long did you say you’ve been working together?”

  “Oh, Paisley, it was the strangest thing.” The realtor clutched the gold cross dangling from her neck. “She called me the morning of the murder.”

  33

  The first thing I noticed as I pulled into Sylvie’s driveway was the giant letters that attacked the entire yard that spelled out “Happy Birthday To Our Hotsy Totsy Mayor.”

  The second thing I observed was my grandmother hanging out her front door, waving to me like I was somebody she’d waited all day to see. I sat with the car in park and let the contentment seep into every pore, cell, and molecule of my body. When I was old and gray, these were the days I would remember. No Grammy, no platinum album could compare to being well and truly seen and loved.

  “Bring your buns in here, my little sugar cube!” she hollered when I finally pulled myself from the car. “Grandmama has steaks on the grill and Frank Sinatra on the record player.” She hugged me before I stepped a heel on her porch, her lips loudly smooching my cheek.

  “I have news to share.” I followed Sylvie inside where the party had already started.

  “Save it for dinner. I gotta tend to my steaks.”

  “She means she needs to oversee Noah.” Emma swayed to “The Best is Yet to Come” and led me to the dining room where I filled a plate with appetizers and sat by a crooning Frannie.

  Ten minutes and three more songs from Ol’ Blue Eyes, Noah and Sylvie came in from the back deck and carried the rest of the food to the table, where we sat down at our plates and joined hands.

  “Let us pray,” Sylvie bowed her head. “Dear God, thank you for Noah, thank you for my family, thank you for our food, and thank you that my thirty-year-old neighbor works out without a shirt and doesn’t close his blinds. Amen.”

  I lifted my head and flopped my napkin into my lap. “Rebecca sought out a realtor the day Trace died.”

  The room erupted into a fiery conversation, and I fielded questions and comments, while updating them on all I’d learned.

  “I don’t trust that one,” Frannie said. “She—”

  The doorbell chimed, pushing pause on the chatter.

  Noah rose from his seat. “I’ll get it.”

  “I can’t imagine who that could be,” Sylvie said. “I wasn’t expecting anyone and we still have to sing happy birthday and—” Her fork dropped with a clunk as Noah reappeared with the visitor. “As I live and breathe, Sarge McShane.” Eyes wide, Sylvie stood, clearly knocked off balance. “What in the world are you doing here, fresh off your anarchy reservation?”

  Wearing olive green pants, a Dolly Parton t-shirt, and camo jacket, Sarge stopped in the threshold, his attention riveted on my aunt. Mouth partially gaping, he stood there in reverent pause, like a sailor who’d been out to sea and deprived of his woman for far to
o long. “Hello, Frannie.”

  Frannie glanced up from a bite of corn, realized who stood before her, then leapt to her feet. “The world is ending! The end is nigh! Man your battle stations! Give your souls to Jesus!” She waved her napkin like a flag of surrender. “Grab the important things! Sylvie, you get the car keys and I’ll get the Twinkies!”

  “Calm down, my fair lady,” Sarge said. “The world ain’t ending. Yet.” Sarge looked like he was about to break into poetic odes to Frannie any moment. “But if it were, I’d give you the pass code to my heart. I mean, my bunker.”

  Sylvie’s eye roll rivaled that of any teenage girl. “If the sands in our earthly hour glass are still falling, what, pray tell, has prompted you to leave the safety of your conspiracy theory compound?”

  Noah gestured to an empty chair, but Sarge declined. “I come bearing important intel.”

  “You couldn’t call?” Sylvie asked.

  His gaze darted to Frannie. “It was too important.”

  Sylvie buttered a roll. “Are you here to take us hostage?”

  “No.”

  “Then please continue.”

  “There was a guy nosing around the area yesterday. Stopped in the pawn shop to ask for directions back to the highway when he got lost.”

  “Did he look like the murdering type?” Frannie asked. “’Cause we’d sure like to wrap this thing up.”

  Sarge blinked a few times, as if struggling to absorb the sound of his sweet Frannie’s voice. “Hardly,” he finally said. “Wore a suit and an ugly tie probably made by underpaid children in a country tyrannized by American consumer greed.”

  Frannie reached for a knife. “Was he single?”

  “He asked me about Trace Hudson.”

  All silverware stopped.

  Now he had my attention. “What about him?”

  “Guy told me he’d worked with Trace and was sad to hear of his passing. Said he was touring some property the two had plans for. Mentioned big things were coming to Sugar Creek.”