Third Time's a Crime

by Diana Orgain

  “Hello, America!” he cooed. “Welcome back to Cold Case in the Castle! Where we’re getting closer to solving the murder of Jane Reiner. As you know, the competition is stiff here, but we can only have one winner. Last night we asked you to decide who should stay and investigate further and who should be eliminated. Well, America, you’ve spoken!” He tapped the envelopes he held in his hand. “I’ve been told that we broke records last night with all the viewers phoning, texting, and tweeting.” He covered his heart with his free hand. “We here at RTV Studios thank you from the bottom of our hearts for all your support. Now the votes have been tallied and, unfortunately, it’s time to say good-bye to one of our favorite contestants.”

  He tore open the first envelope and nodded as he read it. “Dr. Arch, Karen, you’ll be happy to know that your fans regard you as the best in the business. You are safe from this elimination.”

  Dr. Arch drew a breath, and flashed me an arrogant look.

  I said nothing. I’d always figured it would be Scott and me against Dr. Arch and Karen in the end.

  Jessica and Ashley fidgeted next to us. Ashley repeatedly rocked back and forth on her heels, while Jessica continued to twirl a lock of her blond hair around and around on her finger.

  Scott put his arm around me and pulled me close. The heat from his body calmed my nerves as Harris tore open the next envelope. He frowned for a moment and looked up. “Is this right?”

  “Keep rolling!” Cheryl said. “Just read the card, Harris.”

  Harris nodded and called out, “Jessica and Ashley . . .”

  My breath caught.

  Could it be that Scott and I would be eliminated?

  “I’m pleased to tell you that you are safe from elimination,” Harris finished.

  A hush came over the room, as if the oxygen had been sucked out of it.

  Ashley suddenly gasped. “What?”

  Jessica grabbed my hand. “Oh, no! No, no!”

  Ashley thumped Scott on the back. “Sorry to see you go! But hey, I’m glad it’s not us.”

  My brain was slow to compute what was happening. Scott and I were off the show? Was that right?

  Harris said, “Georgia, Scott, unfortunately, I’m sorry to say you will not be solving this mystery this time.” He clapped his hands and said, “Now it’s time for you to say your good-byes.”

  We’ve been voted off.

  “We didn’t make the final four,” I mumbled.

  Scott shook hands with Harris, then with Dr. Arch. Dr. Arch was looking rather smug and part of me was relieved to say good-bye to him.

  But the other part of me was fuming. I had fully invested myself in figuring out what had happened to Jane. I had stitches on my leg to prove my dedication and yet it hadn’t seemed to matter in the end.

  Scott put an arm around my shoulder and ushered me out of the room.

  “I can’t believe it’s over,” I said as we walked down the corridor toward the front door of the castle.

  He shrugged. “Well, I find it hard to believe that America would vote for Dr. Arch over you. But I can say, I probably wasn’t the best teammate.”

  “No! Don’t say that.” I stopped and grabbed his shoulder. “You’re a great teammate, Scott. I love you.”

  The sound of rustling behind us interrupted us. We turned to see Becca and Bert charging at us. “Georgia! What’s going on?” she asked. “What’s happened? What are you two doing out here?”

  I shrugged. “What do you mean? We’re off the show.”

  “What?” Shock distorted her sweet features and she shook her head in disbelief. “How can that be?”

  “I guess America voted,” Bert said. “It’s hard to believe, because you were such a shoo-in, but we can’t ever take anything for granted. I took the elimination pretty hard, too, but I’m okay with the consolation prize.” He put an arm around Becca and crushed her to his side.

  She squealed with delight, and my heart filled with joy for her. I so wanted her to find a perfect match.

  Scott turned to Bert. “Did you have any idea that we would be eliminated? I mean, did you get a vision or whatever?”

  Bert shook his head. “No. I don’t get them all the time. In fact, usually not as frequent as lately. I think something about the castle was really fueling my abilities.”

  “The place really is haunted,” Becca said. “All the stuff going down can’t be a coincidence.”

  “Oh, come on,” I said. “Everything has an explanation. The blackbirds were migrating, the floor was rotten through, and the heater was tampered with.”

  “What about you being locked in the cell last night?” Scott asked.

  I shrugged. “I’m going to account for everything. I don’t care if they voted me off or not. I’m going to figure out who murdered Jane, the groundskeeper, and Father Gabriel. And I’ll bet whoever killed the last two was probably the person who locked me in the cell.”

  Becca hugged me. “That’s the spirit. That’s what I love about you, and that’s what the producer of Globe Tracker will love, too.”

  My mouth went dry as disappointment choked me. “Do you think that they’ll still want me?”

  She patted my shoulder. “I don’t know, honey. It’s hard to say, but I’ll reach out to them. It’ll be my first call.”

  “What are you talking about?” Scott asked, and when I turned to look at him, I was shocked to see he’d paled.

  Becca pressed her lips together and gave us a fleeting glance. “Oops. Bert, we should see if Cheryl needs us.”

  Bert wiggled his fingers at me as he and Becca took off down the dark corridor.

  Scott flung open the front door of the castle and stormed out.

  “Wait!” I called after him. “Scott! Let me explain.”

  The sun was coming up in the east, casting a warm glow on the Golden Castle and I desperately wished I could feel that warmth in my heart. Instead, all I felt was dread.

  Scott stopped short of the wooden steps, and turned to look at me. His face was stoic. “Go ahead. Explain. When were you going tell me?”

  I shrugged. “I . . . I don’t know. There’s not really anything to tell. I don’t even know if it’s happening.”

  “But we’re a couple, right? We’re supposed to tell each other these things. Communication, Georgia! It’s pretty obvious,” he said.

  Anxiety bubbled up inside me. “You said you needed space. I was trying not to confuse things.”

  “Well, needing space and not telling me what’s going on with you are two different things.”

  “They are?” I asked.

  “Yes!” he said. “You don’t even trust me enough to tell me that you have an offer? What? Are you supposed to move to L.A. now?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t really have any information, and it’s not an offer.”

  “But it’s been ongoing,” he said. “And you haven’t told me anything.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know if it was important.”

  “Well, of course it’s important. I mean . . .” He stopped talking suddenly and buried his head in his hands.

  Despair clawed at me.

  How could I have messed things up with Scott?

  I reached out for him, but he stepped away from me, avoiding my reach. “Scott, it doesn’t mean anything. Becca and I were just chatting, you know? If it had turned into anything real, I would have told you.”

  “Told me, huh? Informed me.” He folded his arms across his chest, cutting himself off from me.

  “I don’t mean it like that,” I said.

  “Yes, you do. You would have told me your decision, meaning I have no part in the decision making.”

  I felt completely deflated and tears threatened. “Scott,” I pleaded. “I need to work. I need to have an income. You know that.�
��

  His face softened as he looked at me, seemingly judging my sincerity. “I know. But if we were planning to get married, wouldn’t my income be enough for us?”

  My throat ached from holding back tears, yet I managed to whisper, “I’ve never expected a man to support me.”

  “So what does that mean? You marry a man and just take off to L.A.?”

  “Marry you? I didn’t know . . .”

  “You didn’t know I was getting ready to propose?” he asked.

  My knees felt weak.

  I’d screwed everything up.

  All this time I’d been fretting over Scott’s feeling for me and yet what had I done? I’d managed to make plans that didn’t include him. Was that some kind of stupid defense mechanism?

  Was I sabotaging myself? Pushing away the only thing I ever really wanted. To be loved. To marry. To have a family.

  And for what?

  To be on reality TV?

  My stomach lurched and I fought the nausea that rumbled in my belly.

  “How could I have known?” I sputtered. “You said you wanted space. You said you weren’t sure if you loved me. And now you tell me you were getting ready to propose? I don’t understand!”

  “Well, I wanted space to sort things out,” Scott said. “I was numb for a long time, and I just didn’t really know what I was feeling. I was confused.. But I thought we were . . . I thought that the track we were on, a life together . . .”

  My heart constricted, and I resisted throwing myself into his arms. “Yes! Yes! It’s the track we were on.”

  He sighed. “Well, if it’s the track we were on, how do you expect to live a life with somebody when you go to a different town for work?”

  “I don’t know,” I croaked, my voice cracking with emotion. “I hadn’t thought it through.”

  “Because I’m not a priority,” he said, and I noticed for the first time that the edges of his eyes were turning red. He wiped at them angrily.

  I grabbed his hands. “Scott! Scott! It’s not that. I promise—”

  He pulled his hands out of mine, a small noise escaping his throat. “Maybe we do need a break, Georgia.”

  My heart clenched, my breath catching.

  This was it.

  This was the moment that I had feared.

  “No, Scott! No,” I stammered. “We’re not ready for a break. I love you.”

  He pressed his lips together, and rubbed at his face. “Are you sure about that, Georgia?”

  His words hit me like a cannonball in the stomach.

  He was right.

  Even though I knew he’d been having a hard time these past few days, I hadn’t done anything to make it easier for him. Maybe it was me. Maybe I was the one who was scared of commitment.

  Tears bubbled up, and I ran at him and hugged him. “No, we’re not ready for a break, Scott. I love you,” I said.

  He hugged me back, stiffly, patting my shoulder in a very cold, platonic way. “You’ll get over me, Georgia. I think you’re practically over me anyway,” he said.

  Before I could protest further, he released me and rushed away.

  I was left alone, feeling the warmth of the rising sun on my skin, wishing I could die.

  Twenty-three

  After Scott left, I sat on the front porch awhile, wallowing in self-pity. I wept until the tears stopped coming, leaving me feeling weak and hopeless.

  Finally, I decided that the only good thing about being let off the show was that it would give me free rein to investigate, and I definitely needed an investigation to get my mind off my disastrous love life.

  I retrieved my phone from one of the crew members and borrowed Becca’s car to drive into town. I hadn’t eaten breakfast, so I stopped into the local bakery, Golden Confections, and fortified myself with chocolate-banana grilled cinnamon toast. It was so delicious it almost made things right with the world. Until I licked the bit of powdered sugar from my fingers and remembered Scott.

  A dry sob escaped me, and the girl behind the counter wearing tricolor wood plug earrings quirked a heavily studded eyebrow at me. “Everything okay?” she asked.

  “Peachy,” I said. “How about two dozen donuts?”

  “Suit yourself.” She shrugged, popping the sugary delights into a pink pastry box.

  I paid and left, headed toward the local police station. I didn’t know anything if I didn’t know cops. Outside the station, I parked and dug around Becca’s glove box. Finding a salmon-colored lip gloss, I applied it liberally. It wasn’t really my color, but it was better than nothing. And at least it mildly distracted an onlooker from the fact that I’d been bawling my eyes out for the past three hours.

  I got out of the car and clutched the pink pastry box for moral support. At the door of the police station I had to balance the box on my hip, while I pushed open the heavy door. Inside it was institutional and sparse. Two uniformed officers sat at computer stations. One, a woman, was wearing a headset and had an angry expression on her face. The other, a bald man, sat with a bored look, undoubtedly surfing Facebook for some excitement.

  As soon as I walked in, he perked up and eyed the box.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  I gave him my best nonthreatening, made-for-reality-TV smile. “I’m here to see Officer Holtz.”

  He frowned, still eyeing the pink pastry box. “I think he’s busy. Are these for . . . ?” He let the question dangle.

  “Yes. For Officer Holtz,” I said. “And whomever may be in the good graces of Officer Holtz.”

  The woman officer who was wearing the headset made a face, as if she didn’t approve of my bribing the bald officer, but she seemed too preoccupied with her phone call to interfere.

  The bald officer’s name tag read Gallagher. He smiled at me. “Well, I’m in his good graces.”

  “Of course you are, Officer Gallagher,” I said, opening the box. The smell of freshly baked donuts travels fast in a police station. Before long a flock of police officers was chomping down on donuts, and I’d been promptly escorted back to Officer Holtz’s desk.

  “How did you know cinnamon twist is my favorite?” he asked, wiping the sugar from the corners of his mouth.

  “Women’s intuition,” I replied.

  “Which murder most interests you?” he asked.

  “All of them,” I said. “They have to be interconnected, don’t they?”

  “Yeah. Unfortunately. I think so.” He tapped a pen on his notebook. “I can’t wait until they close that castle down, one hazard after another.”

  “What do you know about Father Gabriel’s death?” I asked.

  His lips turned into a thin line as if he was deciding how much to share with me. I glanced down at what remained in the pink pastry box. One last cinnamon twist. I pushed it toward him. “I won’t tell the wife you broke your diet.”

  He smiled and happily picked up the twist. “I’m sorry to say I don’t have much on the priest. The autopsy reports show he died from the fall. No surprise.”

  “May I see the file?”

  He put the twist down on a napkin and yanked open his file folder. “There’s not much in it, but seeing as you’ve been so hospitable and you were never a suspect . . .”

  From inside my jacket, my cell phone buzzed. But there was no way I’d interrupt access to insider information by taking a call at the most inopportune time. I slipped my hand into my pocket and silenced my phone.

  Officer Holtz handed me the file, and I perused it slowly. There were photos of Father Gabriel and the surrounding area: the rosebushes, a discarded wheelbarrow, and a muddy patch of ground. Then there were the autopsy photos. After flipping through the photographs, I read through the statements the cast and crew had given. There was nothing to note, really, except that Dr. Arch claimed he’d hurt his hand in the basement whe
n he slipped.

  It wasn’t unlikely that he’d fallwn in the basement, it’d been so dark, but it seemed too easy an excuse to explain away the injury.

  I tapped on the folder. “Dr. Arch. His hand. Could he have hurt it in a squabble with Father Gabriel, like say when he pushed him out the third-floor window?”

  Officer Holtz smiled. “I thought the same thing myself, but I saw camera footage of Dr. Arch slipping in the basement. He landed directly on his hand. I’ll say at least that piece is true.”

  Ugh.

  “Could the slip be fake?” I asked.

  Officer Holtz shrugged. “It looked real enough to me and the cameraman confirmed it.”

  I tapped on the file again. I had the nagging feeling I was missing something. I flipped through the photos once more.

  “The wheelbarrow. What was it doing there?” I asked.

  “Hmmm?” Officer Holtz asked. “What do you mean?”

  “Thinking out loud here,” I said. “The groundskeeper is dead . . . who put the wheelbarrow there near the rosebushes?”

  Officer Holtz scratched at his chin and then took a final bite of the cinnamon twist. “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

  An image came to me of the dirt near the pool. When I’d found the groundskeeper there’d been grooves in the earth that I hadn’t been able to identify. Now looking at the photo of the wheelbarrow, I realized the grooves must have come from the wheels on the wheelbarrow.

  Why would someone wheel a wheelbarrow up to the edge of an empty dilapidated pool?

  I slammed my hand down on his desk suddenly. “That’s how the killer transported the body.”

  “A wheelbarrow?” Holtz asked.

  “Exactly! We know the groundskeeper was killed somewhere else and then dumped in the pool. I think the killer wanted to move Father Gabriel’s body, too, but I found him and interrupted him.”