by Kendel Lynn
“A car,” she said, twisting her shaking hands. “It came out of nowhere. Like nowhere. It rammed the side, the passenger side. Sam, he got hit worse.” Tears rolled unabated down her cheeks, off her chin. “He needs surgery, they said. I think he broke his hip.”
“The doctors took him,” Tucker said. “Upstairs, maybe?”
“I’ll find out exactly what’s going on,” I said. “Is Millie Poppy with him?”
“Tucker, you go,” Juliette said. “Please, check on Millie Poppy, too. I’m okay, really. He needs you more than I do right now.”
“You need me, Jules,” he said. He held her twisty shaky hands. “I can’t leave you. This shouldn’t have happened. I should’ve been there.”
“It happened so fast,” Juliette said. “So so fast.”
“When?” I said. “I just left you, what, an hour ago?”
“I know, right? It was like fifteen minutes max after…we were…the girl…after we split up…you know.” She squeezed Tucker’s arm. “Please, be with Millie Poppy. She’s alone. Find out about Sam’s surgery and when we can visit.”
He seemed unsure of what to do. He loosened his hold and leaned on his heels. He looked anguished, confused. His grandfather on one floor, his fiancée on another.
“I’m okay,” she insisted. “It’s barely a bump. I don’t need surgery or anything. And Elliott will stay with me, won’t you?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “It’s a small hospital. We’ll be right here. You just keep us informed, okay? The nurse at the desk,” I slid the curtain wider to point, “he’ll tell you where they moved Sam.”
“Okay, I’ll go, thanks,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
We watched the nurse direct Tucker to the elevator, and he passed us with a short wave.
“Close the curtain,” Juliette said. “Then sit right here.” The rolling hooks hadn’t even stopped scraping the metal bar when she continued. “We don’t have much time. I know Tucker. And Millie Poppy. They won’t leave me for long.”
“What’s up?” The visitor’s chair screeched as I dragged it to the bedside.
“That car purposely ran me off the road,” she said.
“Like road rage?”
“No, not quite. Rage, yes. Look, I found something out, but I can’t tell you now. Not in the hospital. Later tonight when I’m home.”
“I’ve watched enough movies and read enough books to know when someone says they found out something sinister, but will only talk about it later, that person ends up dead.”
She half-laughed. “That’s fair. But I don’t think I have time to tell you everything, and what if someone is listening?”
“No one’s outside this room. We can see beneath the curtain, and with this whispering, no one will hear what we’re saying. They may wonder what’s so secret, but they won’t hear the actual secret. Is this about Tucker? Sam? Is that why you don’t want to tell me now?”
“Not exactly,” she said. The hand twisting returned. “They already won’t leave me alone for three minutes to use the bathroom. Tucker had to beg Millie Poppy to check on Sam, and then you saw, we had to beg him to check on Millie Poppy. They find out I was purposely run off the road, even that little bit of freedom will disappear. I’m not a fool. I don’t want to be left completely alone, but I don’t need them within four feet of me at all times.”
“Then talk fast. Trust me, it’s better if you tell me now.”
She sat up straighter, then grimaced in pain. “My head hurts. The airbag smacked me right in the face.”
I handed her a plastic sippy cup with water from the side table. “Drink, then talk.”
After a long swallow, she nodded and leaned closer. “Okay, here goes. It’s about Jona and Farrah.”
“You think they crashed into you? About the show and Tucker? Why Farrah?”
“It starts with Jona. She always has a secret agenda, or really, multiple agendas. She’d prepared this whole plan for the wedding, the magazine, a tv special.”
“She told me,” I said. “Highlighting Daphne’s beadwork and your cakes.”
“Exactly. Then all of a sudden two weeks ago, there’s a whole new plan for a season three of Down the Isle. She told me it was because of our wedding. A spinoff. She was totally vague. But she lied. Turns out Daphne was to be the next Eligible. Was going to start filming right after my wedding if they could sell it to the network. Farrah thought it should be her. That she deserved to be the next Eligible, not Daphne.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Tess called me when I was driving Sam to the blue search zone, right after we left you. Farrah stormed into the Cake & Shake today looking for me. Screaming it was her show, not mine.”
“Not yours?”
“Weird right? First, she’s mad about me and my dress, and Daphne ends up missing. Then she’s mad about Daphne being Eligible, and I get run off the road. And it wasn’t my show!”
“Why did Farrah think she should be Eligible?”
“Farrah was cut from our season by the producers. All behind the scenes. Tucker cut her on camera, that’s the way the show works. She said Daphne sabotaged her and that’s why Jona made Tucker send her home.”
“Sabotaged her? How? With Tucker?”
“Daphne caught Farrah stealing her beads and told Jona. Farrah was pissed. Like next level apoplectic. Said it was bullshit, completely fabricated. That Daphne knew Tucker was into her, not me. She claimed Tucker was going to cut me from the show. Farrah said Daphne didn’t want to lose her only ally on the show, meaning me, so she made up some story about stolen beads forcing Tucker to cut her, Farrah, instead.”
“And you’re only telling me all this now?” I said. “You said Farrah was furious at the Cake & Shake the other day because of your wedding dress. Now it sounds like she’s had a huge beef with Daphne since the show aired two years ago.”
“It wasn’t that huge.”
“You used the word ‘apoplectic.’”
“Yeah, that’s a Millie Poppy word. It’s just, you know, on the show everything was DEFCON 5 drama.”
“DEFCON 1, but I get you.”
“The whole thing was, like, half a day. But anyway, before Farrah was furious about me and my dress. Today, Tess said she was losing her shit over Daphne and the show. Fuming she thought she should’ve gotten the big break. Been the one to get the magazine spread, open her own boutique, be the next Eligible. Maybe it was me who sabotaged her all along. That I wanted her off the show since now I’m getting all the publicity.”
I scooched closer. “Daphne never told you Jona proposed season three with her as the next Eligible?”
“No! And I didn’t even know there was a season three. You’d think Jona would’ve said something with all this planning we’ve been doing. Like I said, she’s always hiding multiple agendas.” Juliette sipped from her cup. “Anyway,” she said, her voice even lower, “Tess never finished talking to me. A car came out of nowhere and ran me off the road. I didn’t see who was driving or even notice what the car looked like.”
“It was hit and run?”
“Yeah. It could’ve been Farrah. I mean, look at the timing. We were right by the Cake & Shake, and I think she’d just left.”
“You tell the police this?”
“Yes,” she said. “But they didn’t seem convinced. A detective is going to call me tomorrow. He wanted to come by today, but with Tucker and Millie Poppy here, I said to call me.”
The curtain whipped open and we both jumped. Sippy cup water splashed onto both our shirts and the thin blanket covering Juliette’s legs.
“You scared me,” Juliette said, with a nervous laugh. “What’s wrong, Tucker?”
His skin was ashen, his lips drawn tight. “It wasn’t a broken hip. It’s dislocated.”
“That’s better, right?”
Juliette said.
“Sure, I guess,” Tucker said. “We couldn’t talk to him. He’s getting an MRI. The doctors didn’t say much. But they didn’t look optimistic. Millie Poppy told me to wait with you, and she’ll tell us everything in a minute.”
“You left her alone?” Juliette said.
“I’m going to leave you two,” I said. “Sid’s here in the hospital. She’ll fill me in on Sam. Get some rest.”
“No rest,” Juliette said. “I have to bake all night. They’re releasing me any minute, I’m sure. They said there’s a concussion protocol, but I’m totally fine.”
She looked like crap. Tear stained, blood stained, shaky, jittery, and freaked out.
“Do not worry about the cakes,” I said. “We can do without them.”
“No,” she said, gripping my arm. “We need the cakes. The cakes are everything. Our whole arrangement.”
“Juliette, I meant for the BBQ,” I said. “You’ll still have your wedding. It’s okay, really. We’ll leave all the beach décor in place for you. It’s not a problem.”
“But it’s your whole party,” she said. “The centerpieces for every table.”
“You’re giving us the beach and the tents and everything, and for no cakes in return?” Tucker said. “We can’t accept. With Juliette and Sam in the hospital, how can we get married?”
“You don’t want to marry me?”
“I didn’t say that, Jules,” Tucker said.
“You’re definitely getting married,” Millie Poppy said from the curtain opening. “Sam already agreed with me. Said we need some happiness this week. If only for a day.”
“But without Daphne?” Juliette said. “Shouldn’t we wait until she gets home?”
“Honey,” Millie Poppy said. She leaned in from the other side of the bed, brushing Juliette’s hair away from her face.
I didn’t dare glance at Millie Poppy, in case she thought what I thought. Daphne wasn’t coming home.
“I know,” Juliette said. “Best case scenario is Daphne didn’t want to come to her best friend’s wedding. I can’t believe I didn’t think of canceling earlier. I’m a monster.” She cried in her grandmother’s arms, soft sobs turning thick, coming from a deep well of pain.
“Let’s not give up hope,” Millie Poppy said.
“Hope she hates me or hope she’s still alive?” Juliette said.
“How about we decide tomorrow after the BBQ?” Millie Poppy said. “This is your future, Juliette. Yours and Tucker’s. The wedding and the Cake & Shake. It’ll keep us busy, honey.”
“What about the catering?” Tucker asked. “Won’t waiting until Saturday night to decide be too late to cancel?”
“No later than now,” I said. “Your wedding is in less than two days. The food’s probably already been bought and prepped. But that’s the only big expense. The flowers, décor, beach, tables, almost everything else will already be set from the Beach BBQ.”
“See?” Millie Poppy said. “Let’s see where we are tomorrow.”
“Tucker?” Juliette asked. “What do you think?”
“It doesn’t seem right to use all the Ballantyne stuff for free,” he said with a head shake. “It doesn’t feel right.”
“I made all the sketches and details for every cake, down to the last candied pearl,” Juliette said. “Really. And they’ve already been baked. Most of them, I think. We have plenty of others at the Cake & Shake. It’s the decorating. I think I can do it. But what about the search? They need me, too. And Sam.”
“You need to rest,” Millie Poppy said.
“It’s too much,” Juliette said. “I can’t do this. I’m getting married in two days. My best friend is missing. I didn’t finish the cakes, and it’s for the Ballantyne, the biggest job of my career. And the photographers—”
“It’s okay, honey,” Millie Poppy said. “It’ll be okay. Sit back. Take a deep breath. You’re in shock.”
“Can Carla decorate your cakes?” I asked. “Using your sketches? They won’t be identical, but perhaps if she follows your instructions, it’ll be close. Could that work?”
Juliette wiped her face. “Absolutely, I’ve got drawings, color charts, everything. And she can cut some corners. Simplify them. Tess could help, too.”
“Tell me where your drawings are, and I’ll recruit Carla tonight.”
“Are you sure?” Juliette said. “It’s a lot to ask, and the party is tomorrow.”
“I’m positive,” I said. “We’ve done more with less, I promise.”
“The sketches are at the apartment,” Juliette said. “I’ve got my spare tools there. You can’t raid the shop, Tess’ll kill me, but it should be enough to finish them. If Carla needs anything, Tess will run it over to her.” She reached for a plastic bag next to the hospital bed. “Crap, my purse. I don’t know where it is. My keys are inside. My phone, my wallet.”
“Here, honey, use mine,” Millie Poppy said. She dug inside her own purse and pulled out a ring of keys. She wound one around the metal loop, then handed it to me.
“But how will you get into your house?” Juliette said.
“I’ll get Sam’s,” she said, then turned to me. “Her apartment lock was keyed with our house locks, so the keys open both hers and mine. Easier all the way around.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll give it back tomorrow.”
“See, honey,” Millie Poppy said. “You have plenty of help with the cakes, and there are hundreds of people searching for Juliette. You pushing yourself to collapse will not help anything.”
“Yeah, Jules,” Tucker said. “It’s been a tough week.” He looked as exhausted as Juliette did. Dark circles under his eyes, pasty skin. Worry lines had formed canals across his forehead and between his brows.
“Get better,” I said with a squeeze to Juliette’s hand. “And stay positive. Never give up hope.”
I’m what’s known as a highly sensitive person. Meaning most of the time, every emotion played across my face as I experienced it, sometimes full seconds before I even realized it. I’d spent years trying to perfect a poker face, and I hoped that hope shone through in that moment.
I wasn’t sure I agreed with Millie Poppy’s insistence of hosting a wedding where the bride and the grandfather of the groom were both in the hospital, and the maid of honor was on the national missing person registry. But it wasn’t my place to agree. Or to judge. In my sixteen years at the Ballantyne and thirteen years as an investigator-in-training, I knew every person handled grief, loss, and hope differently. Sometimes clinging to a distraction was the one mechanism that allowed a person to process a difficult, if not devastating, series of emotions.
Besides, I’d been tasked with locating Daphne. It was my priority to worry about her, not the wedding or those getting married. I didn’t need a distraction. Her family and friends did. I needed to stay focused and find answers.
By the time I arrived at Juliette’s, the early evening twilight had turned the sky pale lavender, blanketing the apartment in soft hues to match its quiet tones. The refrigerator’s hum. An upstairs neighbors’ footfalls. I appreciated Juliette’s contribution to the BBQ with cake sketches and piping tools. I knew Carla and I could pull it together. But more, I appreciated the opportunity to freely comb through the tangles hidden in this compact home.
I spent the first twenty minutes searching Daphne’s room. My earlier inspection on Monday had been perfunctory. She’d barely been missing. However, being on the other side of finding her abandoned car at the airport, along with the scare of finding a dead woman in a field, my perspective had shifted.
Unfortunately, it didn’t bring clarity or additional evidence like a diary outlining her travel plans or her phone hiding in a shoebox.
Although thinking about her phone gave me new ideas. Daphne had two burner numbers, their users unknown. But now I had a
n inkling as to her motivation to use a burner app in the first place. Daphne agreed to be the next Eligible on Down the Isle. Though why not tell Juliette about it? Embarrassment? Why keep it secret? A confidentiality clause? One of those burner numbers had to belong to Jona. I recalled seeing only a call or two from Jona on Daphne’s cell phone bill, and they’d happened months ago, not recently. Arranging for Daphne to be the top-secret star of the new season would’ve taken lots of private communication.
With complete access to the apartment, I decided to find that burner app on Daphne’s tablet.
Only the tablet was no longer in the basket next to the sofa.
I called Juliette, but it rolled to voicemail after a half dozen rings. I left a message, then searched Juliette’s room.
It was the apartment yang to Daphne’s yin. I don’t think Juliette had met a drawer she ever used. Clothes, shoes, journals, remotes, cords, yoga gear—mats, straps, blocks—all semi-stacked on the floor, bed, and cubbies. Photos, albums, scrapbooks, scissors, stickers, and paper occupied one entire corner. I paged through different albums filled with memories. Of childhood, college, friendships. And at the very bottom of the stack, one from Down the Isle.
Candid shots of Juliette with various contestants—Tucker, Daphne, Jona—were glued and stickered to heavy pages. Some pics showed them playing games, some were by the beach. The excellent quality spoke to stills taken by a professional camera crew, not quick snaps from a cell. Probably didn’t allow personal phones on the set. The candid shots revealed nothing but happy moments. No drama, no angst.
Until I turned toward the final pages. Torn remnants remained in the binder where two full sheets had been ripped away. I checked the wastebasket in the corner. Beneath a mound of tossed makeup cloths, wrappers, and shopping bags, two scrapbook pages had been slashed and crumpled. The scraps showed three photos of Daphne and Tucker, and two of Juliette, Tucker, and Daphne. The difference in these in the trash versus the ones intact in the scrapbook was in the body language. Tucker’s body language. He leaned in toward Daphne, his hand on her shoulder in two of the shots.
Jona said Daphne and Tucker had chemistry. Perhaps Juliette didn’t fully grasp its depth until much later. Like this week? Maybe she wasn’t so surprised after all that Daphne didn’t want to be in her wedding.
