When Roxy came to the small cobbled street that led to the Funky Cat, she walked right past it. She wasn’t ready to go home just yet. She would visit Sam at his laundry. There were still a couple of reporter’s vans parked on the street near the inn, but she strode along, confident that the journalists wouldn’t notice her as long as she walked purposefully.
But Roxy’s confidence was misplaced. As she turned a corner, she bumped into a female reporter. The other woman had been walking quickly and banged into Roxy with some force. Thick black hair tumbled in waves over the reporter’s shoulders, and she struggled to move freely in her tight black skirt suit and high heels. Roxy didn’t recognize her and wouldn’t have known she was a reporter by sight, but for the microphone that the woman wielded like a weapon in front of her bright red lips.
The woman stumbled back and looked shocked for a moment but recovered in an instant. “Roxy Reinhardt!” she cried.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“THE MANAGER OF the Funky Cat Inn, formerly a call center operator with Modal Appliances, Inc. My name is Mariah Morales.” The woman assumed an expression of concern. “Tell me, Roxy, a murder was previously connected to your establishment when owned by Evangeline Smith. How do you explain this second death? A poisoning at that.” She shoved the microphone in Roxy’s face, awaiting answers to her questions, and gestured urgently toward a man with a camera. “Come on, Sheldon!” Morales hissed.
Roxy felt a huge lump rise in her throat. The microphone terrified her, and she felt adrenaline shoot through her body as, like a cornered animal, she looked for an escape route. “Sorry, I can’t say anything,” she gasped. A car passed and seeing Morales’ microphone, the driver honked the car’s horn loudly. The sound startled the reporter and for a second she took her eyes off Roxy. Seizing her opportunity, Roxy fled, hoping Mariah couldn’t follow in her stiletto heels.
Propelled by a speed that she didn’t know she possessed, Roxy flew down side streets and across sidewalks. People scattered to let her through. Shame burned in Roxy’s pink cheeks, but her feet drove her forward and away from Mariah Morales and her menacing microphone. Why, oh why hadn’t she been content living her quiet little life? Why had she chosen to live bigger? Why couldn’t she have enjoyed the total obscurity of being a call center operator?
By the time she exploded through Sam’s doorway, Roxy was angry with herself, with the world, and especially with Mariah Morales. She found Sam at the front desk, quietly doing some paperwork. He raised his head in surprise when she shot through the door.
“I’m so sick of this!” she burst out.
Sam laughed a little. “Hello to you too, Roxy.”
“Sorry,” she said, glaring at him. She looked back to see if Mariah and her cameraman Sheldon had followed her. They had. She could see Morales tottering on her high heels up the street, Sheldon jogging beside her.
“Help! The press. They’re following me.”
“Here.” Sam parted a rack of shirts each draped in plastic. “Behind there. Be still. Don’t make a noise.”
Roxy slipped in between the shirts, and Sam let them fall so that they obscured her.
Mariah pushed open the door to the laundry and said, “Can I just…?”
“I’m sorry, no, you can’t,” Sam said walking up to her.
“But…”
“This is private property, and I ask that you remove yourselves immediately.”
Mariah stretched her red lips into an especially beguiling smile. “I can assure you, sir, that we…”
“No,” Sam said firmly, not swayed by her feminine wiles, attractive as they were. “Please leave right now. That is all. You are trespassing.”
Mariah’s expression quickly changed into a scowl. “Whatever.” She flounced out, carelessly allowing the door to close on Sheldon who scurried behind her, the big camera he carried on his shoulder weighing him down.
Sam locked the door behind them. “You can come out now, Roxy.” There was a rustle of plastic as the shirts parted and Roxy appeared, red-faced and windswept. “The reporters are still bothering you, I see,” he said.
“Yes,” said Roxy. “You saved me. Thank you. I don’t know what came over me, I just ran and ran.” She was feeling a little better already. The laundry was lovely and warm, and the thrum of the machines was hypnotic. They relaxed her. She flopped down on a plastic chair. She felt safe here with Sam.
“But the reporter is not really what’s on my mind.”
“So what’s up?” he said.
“I found out some things about one of my guests. She’s not been truthful, and I’m not sure what to do. Not in the circumstances. I’d like your help, your advice.”
“You don’t seem to like it when I give you advice. So I don’t know how I can help.”
“This time it’s different, I’m asking for your advice—about this little…um, investigation I’m doing into my guest.”
“Hmm well, you ignored me last time when I told you to stop investigating, and then you went and solved a murder!” said Sam. “Boy, did I feel like a jerk afterward.”
“But you were right!” Roxy said. “It was just by chance that I solved it. It was a lucky break. But this time, I’m really out of my depth. I have to keep the influencers happy or they’ll post terrible things about the Funky Cat, but this person, the one who’s been untruthful, is one of the influencers! Oh dear. And it looks like I’m going to have to say something to the media eventually. Or they’re just going to keep popping up in unexpected places. Oh dear, oh dear.” She was wringing her hands and looking around the room as though the answer might lie among the racks of plastic-swathed laundry or in the churning washing machines.
Sam came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. “There, there. You just need to calm yourself a little. And never mind those journalists. They are like cockroaches. They scuttle away when you stand up to them.”
The pressure from Sam’s hands calmed Roxy, and she took a couple of deep breaths. “Exactly like cockroaches.”
“You could just give a generic statement that yes, this thing happened. It’s a terrible tragedy, that your thoughts are with the family, and you’re looking forward to the case being resolved.”
Roxy gulped and looked down at her lap. “That sounds like a press conference. Lots of journalists.”
“It doesn’t have to be like that,” he said. “You can do it with one news crew. I guarantee all the other stations will pick it up.”
The very thought of Roxy’s face being beamed across the country, even the state—heck, the city, was terrifying.
Sam moved in front of her, and when she looked up from watching her fingers, which she was interlacing in different patterns in her lap, she saw him looking at her intently. The concern in his eyes caught her off guard.
“Just do it if you want to,” he said. “If you don’t, that’s fine too. Just don’t let fear get in the way of what you want to do.”
Roxy smiled a little. “Easier said than done, though, right?”
He nodded. “Generally, yes, but don’t feed fear with time, that’s what I always say. It’s like ripping off a band-aid—it’s best just to go for it.”
“And what about Johnson? And the untruthful influencer?”
“Well, that’s up to you too. Do what you think would be the best for Dash.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
FOR DINNER THAT evening, Nat had prepared shrimp étouffée and salmon cakes with rice and a Creole remoulade. None of the guests felt in the mood for a large, dress-up dinner, so everyone came down in their jeans and sweaters. The evening had turned cool. Lily Vashchenko even wore bright pink fluffy slippers with rabbit ears—and two-inch heels. Only Ada dressed up. She wore jeans but with towering stilettos and an emerald-green silk shirt.
Everyone—even Kathy—made a concerted attempt to talk about everything except Dash’s death. They talked about the weather (changeable), what was planned for next year’s Mardi Gras (nothing that they kn
ew of, but they were sure it would be fun), the color of the dining room wallpaper (powder blue with shimmering beige stripes), whether all bottled water was collected from natural springs (!), and Derek’s future career plans (none specific at present).
Roxy made a special effort to smile a lot at Sylvia and engage with everything she said like she was her special friend. A raised eyebrow from Nat let her know she was overdoing it a little, so she toned it down.
Roxy was desperate to tell Nat what she’d found out about Sylvia, but they hadn’t been alone all evening. She had to be patient. The guests would shortly be retiring for the night, and Roxy would be able to launch straight into all that she’d learned as soon as she and Nat were alone in the kitchen.
“Let me help you load the dishwasher,” she heard Kathy say, as the others left for their rooms. Roxy inwardly groaned.
“But you’re a guest!” Roxy protested. “I can’t let you do that. Please, please, sit down in the lounge and help yourself to a drink.”
“But I insist,” said Kathy. “I’m doing an online course in personal development, and for a challenge, we have to go out of our way to do one good deed a day.” She held her head up proudly and said, “It’s always good to learn and grow.”
“Yes, but…” Nat looked a little bewildered. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Kathy said emphatically.
Nat shook her head. “Well, okay…if that’s really what you want.”
Kathy sang Country and Western songs as she loaded the dishwasher and Nat and Roxy cleared the dining room. They waited to see if Kathy had an ulterior motive for offering to help, but when she was done, she simply gave them a huge smile and said, “Deed done for the day.”
Roxy smiled back. “Thank you, Kathy. Now please, go ahead, and sit yourself down with a nice drink.”
“Raise a glass to Dash for us,” Nat added.
“I sure will,” Kathy replied.
Nat closed the kitchen door behind Dash’s mother as she left and waited a few moments. She whispered, “I’m not sure about her.”
“She is a bit strange. Anyway, forget that. Listen to this.” Roxy explained all about Sylvia being Helen and everything she’d learned.
“No way!” Nat whisper-shouted. “I thought there was something fishy about her.”
Roxy laughed. “You think everyone’s fishy, Nat.”
“But even if she does appear a bit dodgy, why would she kill Dash or hurt Michael? And wasn’t she asleep by the time Michael was attacked? He stayed for a good while to chat with Sage and Dr. Jack, even after the others had gone to bed. They were talking about subatomic reality and how that related to spiritual enlightenment, or something like that. Sage told me. Of course, it’s all rubbish, but that doesn’t change the fact that Sylvia couldn’t have attacked Michael when she was here, in bed.”
“I guess you’re right,” Roxy said. “But, she could have snuck out. I didn’t lock the door until past midnight, because Ada, Lily, and Derek stayed out late.”
“Well, it’s them we need to look at, I reckon,” said Nat. “Lily wanted the Hilton contract so she could have bumped off Dash to give her a better chance of landing it, Ada could have done it in revenge for Dash humiliating her, and Derek…well, maybe he was jealous of his brother, so much so that he killed him.”
“Come on!” said Roxy. “Derek wasn’t even in the city when Dash was killed.”
“Good point,” Nat said. “But he could have attacked Michael. Maybe Michael’s attacker wasn’t the same person who killed Dash. Maybe Derek believes Michael was the murderer and was doling out his own form of justice.”
“Oh, I don’t know what to think,” Roxy admitted. “It’s just too complicated, but I can’t stop thinking about it. I need to do something. Oh, and I found all this out because of a note someone posted under my door this afternoon. Don’t you think that’s strange?”
Nat stared at her. “That is weird. Who would do that? Do you recognize the handwriting?”
“Nope,” said Roxy. “They wrote it all in capitals. The writing’s very shaky like someone wrote it with their opposite hand.”
Nat sighed. “A poison pen letter! Look, I sound so, so, so incredibly boring and square, I know, but you should really hand that over to Detective Johnson.”
Roxy wrinkled her nose. “Yes, you’re right. But, oh, you know he’s going to grill me like a cheese sandwich. I’ll have to psych myself up for another interview. Which reminds me, Sam still thinks I should speak to the reporters, give them a simple statement to get them off my back. One of them accosted me in the street earlier.”
Nat shrugged and said casually, “Sounds like a good idea to me. Can’t hurt, can it?”
“Oh, easy for you to say!” Roxy said, feeling a wave of anxiety immediately rise up and wash over her. “I’m the one who has to stand in front of all these cameras that are beaming my face across the world and say stuff that makes some kind of sense. It’s terrifying.”
Nat flashed her a wicked grin. “You’re the boss. That means you get all the headaches, responsibility, and horrible jobs. Congratulations!” She threw her hands up in the air and laughed. “Sorry, girl. Look, I believe in you. Go ahead and do it. In fact, do it right now. Go out there and find a reporter. The more you wait around, the more afraid you’ll become.”
Roxy could hear her heart thumping, even in her temples! But she knew Nat was right. It was crunch time.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
ROXY DID EXACTLY what Nat suggested, and trying not to think any more about what she was doing, she marched outside. She stood in the middle of the narrow cobblestoned street on which the Funky Cat Inn was located and looked up and down, straining to catch a glimpse of the woman with a mass of wavy dark hair, a flash of red lipstick, and a massive, menacing microphone. It was late in the evening. Roxy half-hoped that Mariah Morales had gone home.
“Roxy,” a voice said behind her, so close that it made her flinch. She spun around and there—as if Roxy had, by thinking about her, manifested her out of thin air—was Mariah Morales, her bright red mouth stretched into a broad smile.
“Hello,” Roxy said. Her voice sounded shaky and weak. Her shoulders drooped. Roxy hated that she sounded so pathetic. She instantly threw her shoulders back, lifted her chin and cleared her throat. “Hello, Ms. Morales. I want to make a statement.”
“Wonderful!” Mariah said, throwing one hand up in the air and snapping her fingers. “Sheldon, we’re ready. We’ll record it and send it right over to the station.” She looked around the street warily. “Wouldn’t want to wait for a live slot and let anyone else get their claws on this story.” Her voice became more intense. “Sheldon, come on! Are you ready yet?”
“Ready,” grunted Sheldon from behind her. He held the camera at chest height and the recording light came on.
Instantly Mariah slapped on her trademark smile. “And with me now is Roxy Reinhardt, manager of the Funky Cat Inn where just a few days ago famous Instagram influencer, Dashiell Davies was brutally murdered.”
Mariah continued to set up the segment as Roxy heard blood thunder through her ears. She barely registered what Mariah was saying until…
“What would you like to say to the world about this tragedy, Ms. Reinhardt?”
Roxy’s mind went blank. She couldn’t get her thoughts straight. In fact, she couldn’t think at all. The only thing she could do was open her mouth, let the words come, and hope she sounded somewhat lucid. She couldn’t even process what she was saying, not really. All she remembered afterward was “terrible tragedy” and “Detective Johnson,” “justice,” and “no evidence that our hotel food was responsible.” “Thank you,” Roxy said at the end of her statement. She walked away, leaving Mariah to close the segment in front of Sheldon.
As she made her way back inside the Funky Cat, Roxy felt something she had never experienced in her entire life. An incredible rush of relief and pride pulsated through her like she’d been “plugged in” for the first
time ever. The mint green of Elijah’s Bakery in front of her, the pink façade of the Funky Cat across from it, the dark blue of the sky above, and the bright orange of the streetlights were all so intense that she felt like someone had turned up the saturation on her vision. She wanted to skip, to run, to shout, she was so pleased with herself.
She had too much energy to go back to the hotel. Instead, she decided to track down Sage. It was late, but Roxy wanted a card reading even if she still wasn’t quite convinced she believed in them. She thought back to the reading Sage had given Sylvia. Her memory was fuzzy, but hadn’t Sage said that Sylvia’s story had not yet been fully released, that something about it was still unresolved?
Roxy climbed the steps to the street where Sage had her apartment, but there was no answer when she rang the bell. Roxy put her ear to the door, but she couldn’t hear a gong, drumming, voices, meditation music, or any familiar noise that would indicate Sage was home. Similarly, Roxy couldn’t smell the aroma of incense unfurling under the front door. She concluded that Sage wasn’t in. Roxy decided to try Dr. Jack’s botanica, instead. Despite the lateness of the hour, it would be open, you know, for the witches.
Roxy hurried to the magical supplies store, and stepped inside, savoring the wonderful familiar smell. She could never quite put her finger on what it was, but it was musky and sweet with notes of wood and herbs. It was like walking into a hug that you weren’t quite sure you wanted.
There was no one at the cashier desk, so Roxy weaved her way through the aisles of candles, cauldrons, handcrafts, statues, soaps, and skulls. Finally, she found Dr. Jack counting essential oils on a shelf, his back to her. Before she spoke out or identified herself, he said, “Hello, Roxy. How nice to see you.”
Roxy felt shivers go up her spine. “How did you know it was me?”
“You have a very distinctive aura,” he said. “Especially tonight. A very particular kind of energy, expansive. Did you achieve a goal of some kind?”
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