A Bite of Blueberry

by Melissa Monroe

  “How’s Anna doing?” Jamie asked suddenly.

  “Fine, I suppose. Why?”

  “Well, she seemed upset about something the other day. Did she have a bad day at work?”

  “No. We had a bit of an incident involving a frog. One of the pet store’s residents managed to sneak in when she took over the night shift.”

  He chuckled. “Uh-oh. She hates frogs. She has since I made her watch that horror movie with me.”

  “What horror movie?”

  “You know, the ones about the killer frogs? It came out in the seventies, I think.”

  Priscilla groaned. “Not that one. That one was horrible. Why did you show it to her?”

  Jamie shrugged. “We like watching bad movies together. Lighten up, Priscilla, you’re not her mom.”

  She sobered at once. “No, I’m not.”

  Jamie seemed to realize he’d stepped into a touchy subject and fell silent for the rest of the ride over. By the time they reached Markinswell Manor, the quiet interior of the car was nearly unbearable. Priscilla barely waited for the car to stop before she jumped out.

  The black car parked in a corner of the drive would mostly likely have gone unnoticed by human eyes. It was a new moon tonight, and the street lamps were almost a mile away from the manor, near the main road.

  “Someone’s here,” Priscilla told Jamie in an undertone.

  He squinted into the dark ahead of them. “Can you tell who?”

  “I don’t know it by sight. I think someone may be inside.”

  Jamie drew his gun, though he kept it pointed at the ground. “Maybe we should go back.”

  Priscilla shook her head. She had a job to do, didn’t she? Whoever was in the building, she could handle them. Jamie followed her up the stairs with palpable reluctance, keeping an eye out for anyone who might want to hurt them.

  The police tape that had been strung over the front door had been broken. If Priscilla strained her ears, she could just make out the sound of female voices.

  “I should go first,” Jamie hissed when she opened the door. “Someone could shoot you.”

  “And I’m not going to die immediately if they do,” she reminded him. “Just stay close, all right?”

  “Arthur says this guy could have silver bullets. You’re not impervious to harm, Priscilla,” he pointed out.

  Shoot. She’d almost forgotten about those bullets. Had Cedric Fowler been right? Would it take the killer longer to get those bullets, or was she walking into a trap? Either way, she had to go. Silver or lead, a bullet would kill Jamie more quickly. She crept forward, despite his protests.

  The manor looked like the set for a horror movie without the lights on. Grandfather clocks, marble columns, and old furniture cast eerie shadows over the hardwood. Inside, she could see the beam of a flashlight far inside the manor, but she doubted it would be visible to Jamie for another few minutes. She took his hand as they crept quietly down the hall toward the main room.

  “What are we doing here, Octavia?” an anxious female voice hissed from further inside. “We’re going to get into trouble.”

  “We’ll be in even bigger trouble if someone finds out what I slipped Clarissa,” another woman— Octavia, Priscilla guessed—hissed back. “I put the baggie inside that cake. No one was going to touch the food after what happened.”

  There was a wet sound from further inside the house, and Priscilla ground her teeth. Someone was tearing apart her cake with no regard for the work put into it. She could have at least fed it to the birds if they hadn’t decided to demolish it.

  It was stupid to be so concerned for the well-being of the cake after what she’d just heard. Priscilla remembered that a haughty-looking girl had slipped Clarissa something shortly before she died. She’d thought it had only been a cigarette. She listened more closely still, trying to puzzle out what she was hearing.

  She and Jamie inched along the wall, getting closer to the end of the room, where her table had been situated.

  “This isn’t much,” the unnamed woman said. “Are you sure we had to come for this?”

  “Of course, we did,” Octavia snapped. “It’s the only thing that links me to Clarissa. Bad enough that I had a connection to Benedict.”

  Priscilla’s ears perked at that remark. Behind her, Jamie stiffened and leaned closer to hear.

  “Who is she?” Priscilla whispered.

  “Octavia Wick. The Wicks are friends of the Montgomery family. I read about them in the files.”

  Priscilla absorbed that piece of information, though a larger part of her was focused on the conversation still going on between the two girls.

  “Is it true?” the woman asked in a small voice. “What you said? Do you know who killed him?”

  Octavia was silent for a long moment before she spoke.

  “I’m the reason he’s dead. I can’t change that now. Can we please go?”

  Jamie had apparently heard enough to act. He leapt out of the shadows and into the beam of the flashlight.

  “Hands up!” he said, bringing his gun to bear. There were two matching gasps from the girls, though Priscilla couldn’t see them beyond the halo of the flashlight.

  “Octavia Wick, you’re under arrest for the murder of Benedict Montgomery.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The cuffs rattled noisily around Octavia’s wrist as she struggled to get free. Of course, she was only as strong as the average eighteen-year-old girl, perhaps less so, given her svelte body, so it did her very little good.

  For her part, Priscilla was reveling in the fact that, for once, she was on the opposite side of the table, sitting with Arthur, instead of across from him like a common criminal. For once, she was not the subject of his suspicions.

  “You let me out right now,” Octavia raged, banging a fist on the metal table. “You have no right to keep me here!”

  Arthur’s expression didn’t change. He’d been regarding her with an icy stare for the last half hour. It was apparently Priscilla’s turn to play good cop, because she’d spent that time getting Octavia something to drink. She’d promptly swept the cup of coffee onto the floor like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Priscilla was itching to mop it up before it made the floor sticky, but Arthur wouldn’t let her. If Octavia wanted to sit in the mess, she could.

  “On the contrary, Miss Wick. I can hold you for up to seventy-two hours without charging you with anything. Not even your vaunted lawyer can change that.”

  Octavia glanced sideways at the man who’d arrived about fifteen minutes before. He was a mild-looking black man who called himself Scott Allen. They’d been waiting for his arrival for the last hour because, after using her one phone call to phone her father, she’d invoked her right to remain silent and had done so until her lawyer arrived. Then she’d had plenty to say.

  Allen nodded once, in acknowledgement. “However, it will reflect very poorly on you when this case goes to civil court, Chief Sharp. What jury will convict a young woman guilty of no crime?”

  “She’s guilty of plenty of crimes,” Arthur growled. “Trespassing, for one. Possession of marijuana—”

  “I know you live out in the boonies, Police Chief Sharp, but even you should know that medical marijuana has been legal in the state of Massachusetts for years now. Even small recreational amounts have been decriminalized.”

  Scott Allen, despite his rather pleasant demeanor, reminded Priscilla of a cat who’d caught a mouse. He was simply playing with Arthur, batting him back and forth between his paws, evoking the reactions he wanted until he went in for the kill.

  Arthur’s face contorted in sudden rage. Allen had made a mistake trying to condescend to him, and Priscilla knew he wouldn’t allow himself to be caged so easily by the clever man.

  “Perhaps you haven’t heard, Mr. Allen, but the legal limit is only ten ounces per month, unless prescribed otherwise by her doctor. You’ve yet to show me her prescription, so I only have your word on that. In addition, we have eyewitness te
stimony that Miss Wick gave the deceased a joint containing some of the cannabis she purchased. And as I’m sure you know, sharing one’s prescription is illegal. So that’s possession with intent to distribute. I hear from her friends that she was driving. So that’s operating under the influence. You have no legal leg to stand on, Mr. Allen. Now let me question your client, and we can all get out of this room before sunrise.”

  “I advise you not to answer his questions, Octavia.”

  “I’ve told you,” she muttered. “It’s Vi. I hate that stupid name.”

  “If you insist, Miss Wick,” Allen said.

  Octavia blew out a breath. “You’re not gonna get away with this. You have nothing on me.”

  “You said you were responsible for Benedict’s death,” Priscilla said, speaking directly to the girl for the first time since fetching the coffee.

  “Hearsay,” she said with a shrug. “You can’t prove I said anything. Did you record me? I don’t think so. Your word against mine, and I haven’t been accused of murder. Twice.”

  Priscilla bared her fangs slightly at that accusation. “You still said it. What was the motive, Octavia? Jealousy? Or was it just spite? As I recall, you gave Clarissa the joint she was smoking just before she died. From where I’m sitting, it looks like you meant to lure Clarissa away from the safety of the hall and right into the waiting arms of the killer.”

  “I didn’t kill her.”

  “No, of course you didn’t. The hit man you hired did that. Your hands are theoretically clean.”

  “You’re treading on thin ice, Miss Pratt,” Allen said, cutting her off before she could really gather steam. “That’s defamation of character.”

  Priscilla snorted and crossed her arms over her chest. “Oh, is it now? I don’t think I’ve committed either slander or libel, Mr. Allen. In order to prove libel, you’d have to have that accusation in writing. Even then, under common law it’s not a crime if I haven’t spread the libelous material to someone other than the accused. And you can’t prove malice on my part. I don’t know that the statement itself is not true. All indications lead me to believe that Miss Wick is guilty of at least abetting a crime.”

  Allen’s eyes narrowed. “There’s still slander, Miss Pratt.”

  Priscilla forced a smile. “Words which will never leave this room if it turns out that Miss Wick is not guilty.”

  Olivia banged a fist on the table again, breaking the tense standoff by making everyone in the room jump.

  “I will sue you!” she raged, pointing a shaking finger at Priscilla. “I’m going to take every penny you own. That pathetic bakery of yours will close its doors. This is intentional infliction of emotional distress.”

  Priscilla actually laughed. “I bet you’re used to whipping that one out, aren’t you? Does it bully your teachers into submission when you receive a bad grade? Have you weaseled your way out of punishment with that?”

  Octavia mouthed at her wordlessly. Priscilla went on.

  “You see, I do know what that means. And my actions tonight hardly count as severe, or beyond the bounds of decency, Miss Wick. Try again.”

  The corners of Allen’s mouth twitched in amusement, but he fought off a genuine smile. “I wasn’t aware you were the department’s legal counsel, Miss Pratt. Forgive me, but you appear a little too young to have completed law school.”

  Priscilla gave him a toothy smile, exposing her fangs fully. “I’m older than I look. But you’re right. I never did go to law school. I just have an avid fan of legal TV shows in my employ.”

  “But she is a police consultant,” Arthur said. “And she was in the presence of one of my officers at the time of discovery. She had every right to be there, and your client did not.”

  “Again, I urge you to remain silent,” Allen said, glancing down at Octavia, who’d slid down her chair, sulking. She straightened, and her chin snapped up. She glared at Priscilla.

  “You don’t know what you heard, Pratt!”

  “Enlighten me, then.” Priscilla folded her hands in front of her.

  “Octavia—” Allen began in a warning tone. She ignored him.

  “I wasn’t the jealous one, okay?” she snapped. “That was Benedict. He couldn’t stand that it was over. That it had been over for years, or that I’d found someone better than him.”

  “You were dating?” she asked.

  “Sophomore year. We didn’t have a lot in common, to be honest. We just bonded over the fact that we hated this crummy little school. His parents pulled him out of a great prep school in Manchester, New Hampshire, and moved him to the middle of nowhere. I got kicked out of the one my father supported in Andover. What an embarrassment, right? Well, he moved Mom and me out here until he could square away his commitments there.”

  “And you broke up when?”

  She shrugged. “Just before junior prom. He didn’t take it well.”

  “Did he threaten you?” Priscilla asked.

  She couldn’t actually picture the kindly boy she’d met doing something like that. But people were just full of surprises, weren’t they? She hadn’t suspected the dowdy old lady who’d sat on the historical society of murder either.

  Octavia shook her head. “No. But he was persistent. He wanted to know who I’d met. I wouldn’t tell him. But he found out anyway, in the end. He always did.”

  “Why wouldn’t you tell? Were you afraid he was going to hurt them?”

  Octavia bit her lip and finally looked away. “I can’t.”

  “If you want us to believe you didn’t do this, you need to tell us who your significant other is, Miss Wick,” Arthur pressed.

  “I can’t,” she repeated, and sudden tears shone in her eyes. “He’ll be in so much trouble!”

  “Did he kill Benedict for that knowledge?” Arthur asked, staring her down. Priscilla knew how piercing that stare could be and didn’t blame Octavia when she flinched away from it.

  “No! At least ... I mean ... I don’t think so. It was so hard to tell …”

  “Tell what?” Arthur asked.

  “Do not answer,” Allen cut across him. “You don’t have to say anything more, Octavia. I’ll have you out of this room by sunrise, mark my words. They don’t have anything but misdemeanors. You do not have to incriminate yourself or anyone else.”

  Tears slid down Octavia’s pale cheeks. She wiped them away furiously. “I saw someone leaving the bathroom. I didn’t see much of him but it sort of looked like …” she trailed off into a hiccupping sob.

  “Looked like who?” Arthur asked, leaning across the table toward her. His gaze shifted from suddenly hostile to imploring. “Like who, Oct—Vi? Who was it?”

  “It looked sort of like …” she took a deep shuddering breath. “Benjamin Montgomery.”

  Then she added in a whisper, “My boyfriend.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Ew,” Anna said, her flag wilting slightly in her hand. They were seated in the bleachers, watching a game of basketball play out far below. “I can’t believe that. I liked Coach Montgomery. Is that even legal?”

  “I’m not sure about your school’s guidelines, but I’d say it’s at least morally suspect.” Priscilla waved the tiny flag that Anna had insisted she purchase. The regular basketball season was over, according to her assistant, which was why they’d traveled out of the city to attend the conference games for this year’s women’s basketball team.

  Anna made a face. “Why would he date an eighteen-year-old? He’s like a million years old.”

  “He’s forty-three, actually. And you’re dating a significantly older man yourself, Anna.”

  A tinge of pink dusted Anna’s cheeks. “That’s different. Jamie’s only seven and a half years older than I am. He’s twenty-five years older than her. That’s like a lifetime.”

  Priscilla shrugged. “I can’t throw stones. Anyone I decide to date will be vastly younger than me, unless I somehow find a vampire older than myself in these parts. I find that quite unlikely
.”

  “That’s different too,” Anna said. “When you’re immortal, it sort of becomes a moot point after a while.”

  Priscilla didn’t answer, too busy watching Benjamin pace the floor below. The Bellmare women’s basketball team was up by several points, and there were only a few minutes left on the clock. The girls darted around the court, moving quickly with the ball, making basket after basket. It was interesting to her, even if she didn’t follow the sport. Women hadn’t been allowed to roughhouse when she’d grown up. Benjamin was shouting instructions at the girls on the court at seemingly random intervals.

  “What do you think, Daddy?” Anna asked, glancing back at Arthur. He was slouching on the bleachers beside them, glaring down at Benjamin with a look he usually reserved for slugs on the ground.

  “About what?” He finally tore his gaze away from their quarry.

  “About how much older he is than Octavia. It’s different than Priscilla dating you, right?”

  “It wasn’t a date,” she and Arthur said together.

  Anna laughed. “You two are so cute.”

  Priscilla squirmed uncomfortably. She truly hoped that Anna wouldn’t get her hopes up about the possibility of something blooming between them. While she liked Arthur, she couldn’t imagine being with him in any significant sense. It would feel like spitting on Emily’s grave to start something with her husband. What she had with Arthur was an uneasy friendship, nothing more.

  The buzzer rang through the gymnasium several minutes later, and Priscilla had to clap her hands over her ears. The sound was deafening, and her ears were still ringing when she pulled her hands away a minute later. Bellmare had won the match, barely. Anna jumped up and down in apparent excitement. Priscilla knew that Anna had participated in one team sport or another all through high school, and was still on good terms with most of the coaches for that reason.