by Lotta Smith
“I see a ring on your ring finger, but I don’t see your date. Where is she?” Rick interjected as I froze without taking Woodhouse’s hand.
“Um, yes. My wife’s staying home. After all, we have a four-month-old child and this event didn’t seem to be baby-friendly. We had a shotgun marriage, but I wasn’t really expecting such a sudden marriage or becoming a father.” He touched the ring with his previously extended right hand and shrugged nonchalantly.
Having passed the awkwardness of shaking hands, I felt sorry for his wife as I caught reluctance crossing his face. At the same time, I was slightly tempted to kick him in the behind. It took two people to have a baby, and he was acting like it wasn’t his choice. Talk about an immature guy!
As I fretted with my thoughts about a total stranger’s marriage, waitstaff at the café started beverage and snack service with a wagon full of assorted teas, coffee, scones and clotted cream, sandwiches, and heavenly selections of petit fours.
I looked around and saw only eight people, including us. There were a couple of women in their midtwenties, two men accompanying the women, and another older guy in a leather jacket and motorcycle pants. As for the older guy, he looked the least happy for the occasion.
“It looks like a small group reading. Is this some kind of an experimental session?” Rick asked Woodhouse.
“Actually, Carina’s been totally secretive about this reading, so I don’t know much about it other than she wanted you to be here.”
“Did she tell you why?” Rick asked, swiping his phone.
“Unfortunately, no.” Woodhouse shook his head. I caught a slight irritation in his voice. “She’s kind of kept me out of the loop.”
“Speaking of uncommunicative, there’s no announcement about this reading on her official website.” Rick showed the screen to us. Carina’s website was dramatically eye-catching. The background was bloodred, and an animated white rose shed its white petals.
“What would you like to drink?” I caught one of the staff asking the women at the next table.
“Can I have champagne?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but alcoholic beverages can be served only after the reading. The sponsor of this event wants to make sure that everyone can concentrate,” the female waitstaff—a college student, perhaps—said apologetically.
“Okay, then I’ll have a coffee.”
When the waitstaff came to our table, Rick ordered Earl Grey, and I had a Hibiscus tea and a red velvet truffle.
Woodhouse, who took a seat at our table, took a sip of coffee and talked to me. “Hmm, red beverage and red chocolate. Amanda, you must be a true red aficionado.”
“I should have ordered a mint julep truffle instead,” I said. “The green would have added more holiday flair.”
As I responded, a couple of women at the next table waved at Woodhouse.
“Hi, Dylan.”
“Why don’t you introduce us to your friends?”
Woodhouse waved back at them. “This is Amanda and Rick Rowling.” Then he introduced the women to us. “This is Catherine Davenport, and the lady here is Natalia Rain. They’re Carina’s BFFs from high school and my occasional heroes in times of need.”
“Rick Rowling? The USCAB heir? Oh my God! Haven’t I seen him on Page Six? Dylan, you’ve got to tell us how you’re acquainted with him,” Catherine said excitedly as Natalia quietly displayed a neutral smile by her side. Obviously, Catherine was outgoing and Natalia seemed reserved.
“Violet Huss, my currently hottest author, is a friend of his father,” Woodhouse responded.
“Oh, yes. Violet can be pretty persuasive.” Rick displayed a polite smile like he was genuinely happy and enjoying this conversation.
“It’s so lovely meeting you!” Catherine extended her hand.
When Rick said, “Pleased to meet you,” and shook her hand, I caught a glimpse of his façade as the successor of his family’s multibillion conglomerate.
After shaking hands with him, Catherine happily called to one of the guys chatting by the wall. “Hey, Harry. You should come meet Rick.”
As the young guy—perhaps in his early twenties—scurried to her side, Catherine introduced him. “This is Harry Geiser, a photographer. I think it’d be nice if Harry could shoot your photos for Forbes magazine.” Then she turned to Harry. “Meet Rick Rowling. He’s the USCAB heir.”
“My photos for Forbes magazine?” Rick shook his head. “No one at Forbes wants my photos, I’m afraid. They don’t have time to feature a civil servant in their magazine.” I didn’t miss a slight twitch of his eyebrows as he said that.
“I’m sorry, Rick,” Harry apologized. “Catherine has this tendency of overpromoting me to everyone she sees. Besides, my boss over there is the main photographer. I’m just his assistant. My work with Carina is more of a web designer rather than a photographer.”
“Come on, Harry. Grab your chance while she’s still pushing you for your success.” The guy who had been chatting with Harry by the wall ambled toward Harry and chimed in. “Perhaps she’s trying to boost your confidence by upgrading your portfolio. My gut instinct says Catherine’s waiting for you to pop the question.”
“Tyson, I respect you as my boss, but please let me make my life’s decisions, okay?” Harry looked troubled following his boss’s words, but I saw a hint of a smile crossing Catherine’s face.
“Hmm… in that case, you can shoot photos of my old man,” Rick said, smiling like a cat licking cream. “Perhaps dressing him up in an Easter bunny suit or something will capture the world’s attention.”
“Are you sure USCAB’s CEO would dress up in an Easter bunny suit and let me take photos of him?” Harry asked with a serious face.
“I don’t know, but personally, I’d love to see it,” Rick responded.
“Rick,” I whispered into his ear, “I don’t think Dan would like to appear on magazines in a bunny suit.”
“I know, but there’s a first time for everything.” He flashed a wicked grin.
Shaking my head, I took a glance at the man in motorcycle wear. While Carina’s acquaintances—Dylan Woodhouse, Catherine, Natalia, Harry, and his boss called Tyson—chatted away, he was impatiently tapping his feet while seated.
“Come on, give me a break! How long is she going to make me wait?” He angrily kicked one of the table’s legs.
“Excuse me, you are…?” Woodhouse asked him in a puzzled manner.
“I’m Larry Burton, a P.I. I did two gigs for Carina Christien. My reports were flawless, but she refused to pay for one of the assignments, telling me she wasn’t satisfied with the results. She’d been ghosted away, and then, all of a sudden, I’m summoned to this reading. I don’t know what the hell is going on,” he answered, irritably scratching his head.
“Wh-what was that assignment about?” Woodhouse asked. For some reason, his voice went an octave higher, as if channeling Mickey Mouse.
“Have you ever heard of confidentiality?” Glaring at the people gathering around, the P.I. flashed a grin. The bared incisors gleamed like knives.
CHAPTER 3
As awkwardness filled the air, the lights were dimmed and the sound of high heels clicking on the hardwood floor echoed.
In the eclipsed light, the woman from the registration desk came into the café. She was carrying a candle in one hand.
Everyone stopped chattering, and then came a silence.
“Thank you all for gathering for this special occasion. I’m Kimmie Balman, younger sister of Carina Christien. Tonight, I’m reciting my sister’s work.” She looked around the tables and walked to the sofa. “Now, let’s open the door for the Soiree of the Undead.” She bowed and took a seat. As she did, I noticed she was sporting a choker necklace that she didn’t have on at the registration desk. The necklace came with a crimson stone—garnet, perhaps—the size of a mushroom.
“Rita’s sister? It’s my first time seeing her. Have you seen her, Nat?” Catherine whispered to Natalia, who shook her h
ead, muttering, “No. I’ve never seen her.”
I caught them talking and figured that Carina Christien’s real name was Rita.
“Rita? Aha, now I understand,” Rick murmured and took a sip of tea.
“What do you understand?” I asked him, to which he responded with an enigmatic smile.
Without answering my question, he winked and touched my lips with his index finger. “We’ve got to be quiet for the reading.”
Feeling my cheeks burning and appreciating the shades, I glanced at Kimmie, who was holding a big, leather-bound book that looked like an ancient manuscript. I found it a romantic theater tool.
As Kimmie blew out the candle, the spotlight above her head switched on. She put the unlit candle on the floor, sat up, and opened her mouth. “I was killed on that day—to be exact, I was murdered.”
I knew Kimmie was only reciting the manuscript, but there was something awe-inspiring with the way she uttered those words.
She went on about the tale of a girl who aspired and thrived to become a great actress. The former mousy girl grabbed the chance and turned into an overnight success. She acquired everything—fame, fortune, and a loving boyfriend. However, her happily ever after suddenly ended when she was murdered by someone who envied her success.
“I should remember who killed me. I should have felt the touch of my killer, but unfortunately, I don’t seem to recall anything. Perhaps due to the shock I had—as they say, death has a tremendous impact on one’s soul.” She took a deep breath. “On that night, I was sporting a red velvet ribbon around my neck as I climbed the railing of my condo’s balcony and hanged myself. I was still wearing my red shoes, and a neatly typed suicide note with my signature was left on my desk. I had allegedly committed suicide, but actually, I didn’t even think about killing myself—which led me to believe that I was murdered. I was definitely murdered by someone listening to my tale.” Then Kimmie raised her face and glared at the people sitting in front of her.
At first, it seemed like a typical Carina Christien bit for the show, but when the lights were suddenly turned on, I noticed everyone, except for Rick and I, was sporting a blanched face.
“That was untasteful, wasn’t it, Kimmie?” Woodhouse stood up and snapped.
“Yes, that was gross!” Catherine declared. “It’s supposed to be a party to celebrate Rita’s recovery.”
“Or else… are you implying that her condition has changed?” Natalia eyeballed Kimmie suspiciously.
I was having a hard time grasping the situation, but when I caught a glimpse of Larry Burton, the P.I., his mouth was agape as if he were genuinely shocked.
Arms crossed, Kimmie stood up. Glaring around the place, she said, “Okay, so let me tell you a little bit about this gathering for those of you who may be confused. Rita Balman, my sister, achieved huge success as an author named Carina Christien. But all of a sudden, she attempted suicide by hanging herself from the balcony of her office—sporting her usual getup of a black dress, red ribbon choker necklace, and red patent leather shoes. A printed suicide note with her signature was left on the desk in the room.
“Except, she didn’t end up dying from suffocation. The noose around her neck loosened and she fell from the balcony, straight to the hard limestone patio floor. Thanks to hitting the large Christmas tree, she didn’t die immediately. She was alive when she was found lying unconscious. She was in critical condition and stayed unconscious for three days, but her body and soul chose to live. When she woke up, she strongly denied trying to commit suicide. She declared that someone tried to murder her.”
My jaw dropped. This was supposed to be a romantic getaway, and another murder attempt was the last thing I’d expected—no, I mean, dreaded! I glanced at Rick, who was casually listening to Kimmie’s story.
“Catherine, Natalia, you two were at Rita’s office that night just before the incident. Dylan, you were having a personal issue with my sister, weren’t you?” Kimmie pointed her accusing finger at each person. “Tyson, you had a phone conversation just seconds before her fall, and Harry, you should have been there when she fell from the balcony. And, oh, Mr. Burton, Rita told me how you shouted at her and threatened to kill her.”
“What the hell are you talking about? That woman hired me, I did my assignments with detailed reports, and then she changed her mind, saying she wouldn’t pay for my work. Can you just say, ‘Okay. I understand. Have a great day!’ Who am I? Polly-fucking-anna?” Burton, the P.I., banged the table. “Besides, they were just words. Talking about killing and actually killing are two different things!”
“I’m an editor! Sometimes the editing process can be a hell of a rough ride, and there are times I have no choice but to make some harsh comments. Still, if she jumped off the balcony following an argument with me, that doesn’t make me a killer, does it?” Woodhouse yelled.
“He’s right!” Catherine chimed in. “Okay, so sometimes, Natalia and I were a little envious of Rita, but that doesn’t make us killers. On that day, Rita was totally stressed out, and we got worried. So we went to her favorite gourmet food place to buy some cakes, only to find her lying unconscious. Oh, did you just forget that we’re the ones who called the ambulance?”
“Yeah, right. What good does it make for us to kill Rita?” Natalia crossed her arms angrily.
Tyson Owen, the photographer, shook his head and let out an exasperated snort. On the other hand, his assistant, Harry Geiser, was at a loss for words and was visibly shaking.
“You know what? I just called Carina Christien for a work-related thing, and Kimmie, you’re accusing me of attempted murder?” Tyson said.
“It’s not just a murder attempt. I’m talking about a murder,” Kimmie shot back. “Rita had been recovering, but she sustained brain aneurysms due to the head injury she suffered from the fall. Her condition had been up and down and then three days ago, she started to deteriorate, and now… she’s gone! ‘Find my killer’ were her final words before she slipped back into a coma, and then she died. So here I came, sticking with her initial plan to identify the person who pushed her before the media finds out about her death!”
Tyson turned pale, but he managed to say, “I’m sorry for your loss. Still, if you’re accusing us of her death, can you at least demonstrate who did that to her and how?”
Kimmie displayed a calm, sad smile. “I’m not capable of identifying my sister’s killer, so I called Rick Rowling, the top-notch FBI agent who’s also known as New York City’s answer to Sherlock Holmes. He can see through one’s mind and solves every case as soon as he sets his foot at the crime scene. Mr. Rowling, please solve my sister’s murder. I will offer the best possible compensation to you.”
Rick turned to me and whispered, “Did you just hear her words? You must be impressed.”
“Hey, I think I’m helping you a lot with your cases,” I whispered back.
Everyone’s eyes were on Rick, as if he were under the spotlight. Just as the stress level reached a whole new high, he flashed a wicked grin. “Fine. If you insist, let me try my best for this case.”
I was taken aback by his eagerness. I’d never known Rick Rowling as someone with a voluntary spirit. Given his reluctance when Dan tried to persuade him into attending this occasion, I couldn’t help feeling nervous.
“Rick.” I touched his arm. “You’re not thinking about deliberately messing up this case just to punish Dan, are you?”
For a split second, he fell silent. “I have no intention of punishing anyone. Let’s just call it a ‘make a point’ project. Suppose things don’t work out as my old man planned. Then he wouldn’t think of sending me as a handyman,” he whispered back.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. We’re talking about a murder, after all. Besides, if your reputation is crushed, then USCAB’s will be crushed, too.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Excuse me? What are you talking about?” Catherine said impatiently.
“Fine. I’ll try solvin
g this case.” Then he turned to Kimmie. “Okay, let’s get it done quickly.”
“Thank you.” Kimmie’s face slightly perked up.
Rick stood up and ambled toward Kimmie. The sound of his leather-soled loafers clicking the wood floor echoed.
As he stood by Kimmie’s side, he turned to the crowd. “Here’s the thing. Unlike how Kimmie has previously described me, I’m just an ordinary human. And her story about me finger-pointing the culprit the moment I set foot in the crime scene was cool, except it was a total overstatement. As for the case, I need to understand more about the background, so I’ll ask each of you a few questions one by one, and then I’ll tell you my opinion. Are we cool with that?”
People exchanged glances and nodded in agreement.
CHAPTER 4
“Thank you,” Rick said like a gentleman. I had a hunch that the people attending this reading had no idea that he had once grabbed a suspect by his hair and shook him, and by the time he fessed up, the suspect was 70 percent bald. “Before questioning each of you, Kimmie, can you walk me through the context?”
Kimmie visibly strained. Gulping the air and clenching her fists, she started. “Exactly a year ago, on the night of Christmas Eve, my sister hanged herself at the condo she had been using as an office. She wrapped a long, bloodred ribbon around her neck and then jumped off the balcony on the fifth floor. But the ribbon loosened and she fell, straight to the concrete below. Still, the huge Christmas tree caught her, saving her for the time being. She had a bad concussion and didn’t remember what happened at the time of the incident.”
When Kimmie finished talking, Rick abruptly said, “By the way, I heard that Carina Christien was originally from the West Coast, but now she lives in New York. Did she move to the city following her literary success?”
