Death by Pumpkin Spice

by Alex Erickson

  “Can you tell me why you were drinking in the bathroom?” Paul asked, calm as could be.

  “To forget,” Quentin said, sitting back and crossing his arms. I did a quick once-over of him, but if he’d gotten pumpkin on him from killing his girlfriend, he’d cleaned it off. “To obliterate myself so I wouldn’t have to think about Jessica Fairweather ever again.”

  “So, you wanted her out of your life?”

  Quentin looked up and frowned. “Wait. What is this about?” He looked from Paul to me, and I thought I saw a hint of fear behind his eyes.

  Paul laid both of his hands onto the table and leveled a stare at the man sitting across from him. Gone was the calm, friendly man, and in its place was the strong and in-charge policeman.

  “Were you jealous of Jessica? What about the other men she was sleeping with?”

  “What? No.” Quentin’s brow furrowed as he tried to think things through in his semi-drunk state. “She was rich, and she had other lovers, I’m sure, but I still loved her. She could be a downright bitch when she wanted to be, but aren’t most women?” He paused and glanced at me. “No offense intended.”

  “Were you upset when she rejected you?” Paul asked, drawing Quentin’s eye back to him.

  “Sure,” he said. I noted a slight panic to his voice. “She turned me down in front of everyone. I thought having people watching might keep her from blowing me off, but I guess she didn’t really love me as much as I thought she did. Even though I knew what she was like, I thought a part of her might be willing to settle down if I were to ask. She couldn’t go on like she had been forever, right?”

  “And her turning you down, it made you angry?”

  “Sure, yeah. It would upset anyone.”

  “Is that why you killed her?”

  Quentin’s hand froze halfway through the process of raising his coffee mug to his lips. It was like someone had doused him with ice-cold water. His eyes, red from his earlier sobbing and the start of his hangover, grew wide and aware. All signs of inebriation were gone.

  “Killed her?” he asked at a whisper. “Jessica took off.”

  Paul held his gaze, blue eyes scouring the face of his suspect as if he could divine whether he was telling the truth or not. “Her body was found earlier this evening. She died just after you chased after her.” He paused, seemed to consider whether he should go on or not, and then added, “She was strangled.”

  Each word seemed to stab Quentin like a knife. He winced and cringed back in his chair, as if he could escape the truth. He started to shake his head, stopped, and then carefully set down his mug. His face turned an ugly shade of white; then he was up out of his chair and over to the corner where a wastebasket sat. He fell to his knees and retched into it.

  Paul didn’t rise, didn’t move to comfort him, so I stayed right where I was. I was mortified by how brutal the statements had been, especially if he hadn’t killed her. I suppose he could have thrown it at him like that to gauge his reaction, but it was still cruel. I gave Paul a disapproving glare, but his gaze was firmly on Quentin.

  After what felt like an endless couple of minutes, Quentin pushed himself to his feet and braced himself against the wall. “Are you sure it was her?” he asked, his voice breaking so much it made me want to walk over and hug him.

  “We are.” Paul was still all business. “Mr. Pebbles, if you would . . .” He indicated the vacated chair.

  There was a long moment when Quentin just stood there, staring at the chair like he couldn’t comprehend what it was. I wasn’t sure he even knew where he was anymore. He took a shaky step forward, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then collapsed into the seat as if his strings had been cut.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, unable to hold back any longer. The poor guy looked about ready to break into more heaving sobs. Seeing it once was enough for me. “It has to be tough to hear after what happened.”

  “I . . . It is.” He fisted his eyes so hard, I was afraid he might pop them out the back of his head. “She can’t be dead.”

  And then the tears started again.

  Both Paul and I could do nothing but watch him as he sobbed. If he’d killed Jessica, he was doing a pretty darn good acting job. I could feel myself getting choked up just watching him. I know there are heartless people who can fake misery, but looking at Quentin now, I was positive he could have had nothing to do with her murder. If he did, I’d eat my deerstalker hat.

  “I’m sorry,” Quentin said, snuffling back the tears. “I don’t know what to do.” He grabbed the mug from the table and downed the coffee like it was a fifth of Jack. He looked disappointed when it wasn’t.

  “Can you account for your whereabouts after you left the ballroom, up until you were found in the bathroom?” Paul asked. I noted his tone was back to being kinder, gentler.

  “I, um . . .” Quentin’s face screwed up in concentration as he wiped away his remaining tears. “I chased after Jessica after she . . .” He sighed. “After . . . you know.”

  Both Paul and I nodded in unison.

  “She left the ballroom and was walking quickly down the hall. I called out to her and she screamed at me to leave her alone. I couldn’t bring myself to walk away, so I kept following her, begging her to stop and talk to me. She found the nearest bathroom and then locked herself inside.”

  “Did you follow her in?”

  “No, like I said, she locked the door.”

  “Was it the same bathroom Ms. Hancock found you in?”

  “No, it was the one upstairs.”

  Paul and I shared yet another look. The pumpkin room was downstairs, so if she was killed there, she would have had to come back down at some point. Whether she did it on her own power or not was debatable. I couldn’t imagine someone killing her upstairs and then dragging her all the way into the pumpkin room, so it was likely she’d come down on her own. If that was the case, then someone might have seen her, other than her murderer.

  “Where did you go after she locked herself in the bathroom?” Paul asked. “Or did you wait outside it until she came out again?”

  “I stood outside the room for a few minutes, asking her to come out and talk. We’d had fights before where she’d storm off and, after cooling down, would come out and we’d smooth things over. This time felt different, so when she refused to come out and see me, I left.”

  “Did you see anyone else upstairs in one of the rooms? Did anyone pass by while you waited?” I asked.

  “No.” Quentin shook his head and frowned as if he was having a hard time remembering things clearly. “The hallway was deserted at the time, though I do think I remember hearing a few voices down the hall somewhere. I wasn’t exactly in my right mind at the time, so I didn’t pay any attention to them.”

  “So you don’t know if the voices were male or female?” Paul asked. “Two or three people?”

  “Sorry.” Quentin’s cheek hopped and I could tell he was on the verge of crying again. It had to be hard, knowing that if he would have stuck around, Jessica very well might still be alive.

  “Where did you go after you left her in the bathroom?”

  “Downstairs.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I couldn’t face everyone again, and I couldn’t leave because Jessica’s driver wasn’t due to pick us up again for a few hours. I suppose I could have called someone to get me, but at the time, I wasn’t thinking straight. I ended up going to the kitchen, hoping to find something to . . . well . . .” He gave me a sad, embarrassed smile.

  “Did anyone see you there?”

  Quentin nodded. “There were a few people there, talking. Some of the maids were there, too, dressed in those old-style dresses. I asked one of them for a bottle of wine and she gave it to me without question. I took it and wandered around for a little bit, avoiding everyone. When I started running out of places to go, I found that bathroom and decided to drink myself into oblivion.”

  It sounded like quit
e a lot of people had seen Quentin after he’d left Jessica in the bathroom, yet there was also a lot of time unaccounted for. He could very well have killed her and still had time to get the wine and drink away his misery. Or he might have left her, drank himself into a rage, and then found her again, this time in the pumpkin room, before going to the downstairs bathroom to finish off the bottle.

  But I just couldn’t make myself believe he was responsible for her death. There was too much pain in his eyes, too much confusion. He was the obvious suspect, of course, and until Paul or I could completely clear him, he would remain that way.

  “Do you know who might have wanted to hurt Jessica?” Paul asked.

  Quentin considered it a moment before shaking his head. “I’m not sure anyone would really want to hurt her. I suppose one of her old boyfriends could have done it, or maybe a new one, I guess.”

  “Do you know the names of these boyfriends?”

  “No, I don’t. I didn’t want to know then, and I still don’t.” Quentin clenched his fists atop the table. “I just can’t see anyone doing it. She might not have been the most pleasant person to be around sometimes, but when you were with her, she could make you feel like the king of the world.” Fresh tears filled his eyes. “Why would someone do this?” He completely broke down again and buried his face in his arms.

  Paul motioned for me to stand. “We’ll give you a moment,” he told the sobbing man, before guiding me to the door. We stepped out into the hall and he quietly closed the door behind us, leaving Quentin alone with his grief.

  “I don’t think he did it,” I said immediately.

  “My gut says you are right,” Paul said. “But I can’t go with my gut here. I’m going to have to put him somewhere safe until we either come up with the real killer, or can get out of here and perform a proper investigation.”

  “Have you heard from Buchannan yet?”

  That earned me a brief frown before Paul tipped back his bobby hat and rubbed at his face. “Not yet,” he said, before sighing. “I’m going to have to find the people Mr. Pebbles claims to have talked to or seen, especially the maid who gave him the wine.”

  “That isn’t going to be easy,” I said. “Not unless he can give you a better description.” I’d seen at least a dozen waitresses floating around, and I was sure there were a few more than that working in the kitchen.

  “I know.” His shoulders sagged. “But what else can I do?”

  “I could look for her for you,” I offered, anxious to be of more help, but Paul shook his head.

  “You found my missing guests,” he said. “Other than making sure no one tries to leave, I don’t think you should involve yourself any further in this. I don’t want you putting yourself at risk any more than you already have.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I grumbled. “I know how to take care of myself. And besides, there are a few other guests who I noticed were missing right around the time of the murder.”

  Paul gave me a disapproving frown. “And you’re just now bringing this up?”

  “Well, I wasn’t sure it was important!” I lied.

  Paul heaved a sigh and gave me a “give it to me” gesture.

  “When you first got here, did you notice how many Marilyn Monroes there were?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t pay that close of attention.”

  “There was Margaret Yarborough, who changed after she found out about the murder. She was one. Our victim was the second.”

  “Okay?” Paul prodded when I paused for dramatic effect.

  “There was one other Monroe in the room, at least that I saw. She was wearing the same dress but didn’t have as many pieces of nice jewelry as the others. She looked a little out of place, like she didn’t feel like she belonged.”

  Concern flashed in his eyes then. “She’s missing?”

  “I don’t know that for sure,” I hurriedly assured him. No sense starting a panic. “But I haven’t seen her since. I suppose she could have left before the murder, but what if she’s somehow connected?” I didn’t want to say that I thought she might very well be another victim. “While you deal with Quentin and look for guests who can corroborate his story, I could look for her. She might still be in the ballroom and I’ve simply overlooked her, but I’d feel a whole lot better if I knew she was safe.”

  Paul scratched the back of his head as he regarded me. “You have to promise me you’ll be careful,” he said after a moment. “Just because we’ve found only one body, doesn’t mean our killer is done.”

  “I know. I’ll be careful.”

  “And don’t go wandering off, either,” he said, wagging a finger at me like I was a disobedient child. “I’m glad you found Mr. Pebbles, but I don’t want you wandering through the halls anymore. If something were to happen to you . . .”

  “I had Will with me when I found Quentin,” I reminded him. “And if I get the urge to take a stroll, I won’t go alone. If Will can’t come with me, I’ll take Vicki and Mason.”

  Paul didn’t look convinced.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said. “Trust me.”

  A smile played at the corners of his mouth, bringing out those dimples of his. Something smoldered in his eyes as he looked at me and I felt decidedly hot.

  “I do trust you,” he said. “It’s everyone else I don’t.”

  And with that, Paul returned to the makeshift interrogation room, leaving me standing in the hall, dumbfounded. Right when I thought I was figuring my love life out, he says something like that and gives me a look that has me tingling in all of the right parts.

  Or wrong parts, depending on who you ask.

  I fanned myself off as I turned to head back into the ballroom. As much as I’d like to, I had to stop thinking about Paul and his dimples. I had a Marilyn Monroe to find.

  I only hoped that when I finally did find her, she’d still be breathing.

  10

  My first glance around the ballroom didn’t reveal the third Monroe right away, so I decided I might best use my time by listening in on the various conversations going on around the room while I searched for her. Maybe someone knew where she’d gone, or perhaps, like Reggie Clements, she could be found sitting somewhere out of sight, but nearby.

  Many of the guests were still standing in their little groups, talking amongst themselves, gossiping, if their amused expressions told me anything. There didn’t seem to be the worry and panic that normally went with a murder. It was strange how unaffected everyone seemed. As far as they knew, they could be the next victim.

  That is, unless the people here knew something I didn’t.

  “I don’t see why we should be forced to sit around and wait for the police to do their work,” the fat man with the monocle said as I approached. “I didn’t come here to socialize.”

  The woman he was talking to snorted in a very unladylike way. “You just came for the free booze, Bert.” She waved a flippant hand toward the wineglass in his hand. “If you think I’m going to carry you back home, you are sorely mistaken.” Her eyes flickered to me and narrowed. “Is there something you want?”

  “No,” I said with a smile. “Just looking for conversation.”

  She huffed and both her and the fat man turned their backs to me before moving off.

  Nice work, Krissy. Still making friends like a champ.

  I continued on. There had to be someone willing to talk to me, someone who knew something that might help me in locating Monroe three, or at least someone who might know why Jessica Fairweather was killed. I knew Paul didn’t want me snooping around, but could he really be mad at me if I came up with information he could use? It wasn’t like I was going to chase after the murderer myself.

  I eased up close to a group of men, all dressed like they were rich aviators. They had on the brown leather jackets, the gloves, and the leather caps you see in old films. Their flight goggles sat perched atop their heads. It was quite obvious they’d dressed to match.

  “She was always in it fo
r the money,” the oldest man of the group was saying as I approached. “I’m surprised she even bothered to hold this thing after his death.”

  “I don’t think she even likes this party,” another, younger man, said. “She’d probably be far more comfortable sipping martinis on a beach somewhere.”

  The three men laughed, with the third adding, “I won’t be surprised if she is on the first flight out of town the moment this thing ends.”

  “Are you talking about Mrs. Yarborough,” I asked with my best innocent smile.

  All three men turned and looked at me as if I’d just crawled out of a trash heap.

  “I’m just wondering,” I added, not wanting them to stop talking just because I’d opened my mouth. “I barely know her. This is my first time here.”

  “Ah,” the eldest said, as if that explained everything. “Margaret was never interested in the same things Howard was. I don’t know what he saw in her, and quite frankly, she never did seem his type.”

  “I thought she enjoyed all of this.” I gestured around the room, at the decorations and odd costumes.

  One of the younger two men gave me a patronizing smile. “She went along with it simply because she wanted to make sure she wasn’t left out of his will. She married him for his money.”

  I raised my eyebrows at that. “Are you sure?”

  He gave an easy shrug. “It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if she did.”

  “She probably killed the bastard, too,” the eldest said.

  “You don’t really think that, do you?” I was appalled. Why would these men come to the party if they disliked and distrusted Margaret so much? It sounded to me like the rumor brigade was out in full force, yet I was intrigued.

  “I do,” he said. “His death was sudden. The Howard I knew wouldn’t just up and die like that. I bet she poisoned him somehow, made him weak so she could work her magic on him. The woman is a witch, and in more ways than one if you ask me.”