miss fortune mystery (ff) - once upon a murder (hair extensions and homicide 2)

by bow, frankie

  I fought my way upstream against the lunch crowd to make my way back to Ida Belle and the detective.

  “It’s not a formal interrogation at this point,” Detective Augustine was saying as I pulled up. “But if you want to start bringing lawyers into it, it could be.”

  “Fortune,” Ida Belle exclaimed. “There you are! Tell him where we were this morning.”

  “Detective Augustine.” I wondered whether my firm handshake was retired-beauty-queen-like enough to be convincing. Probably not. “I’m Fortune Morrow, Ida Belle’s friend. I was with her this morning. Is there a problem?”

  With my wedge heels, I stood slightly taller than the detective. I could tell that annoyed him.

  “We were just having a chat, Miss Morrow. Join us.”

  Augustine led us over to a group of three plush chairs arranged around a tiny round table. It had been designed as a pleasant place to rest between conference sessions, but this was going to be anything but pleasant. I watched my fellow conference attendees disappear into the Mardi Gras ballroom for lunch. A woman walked out and pulled the door shut. I wondered if Ida Belle and I would have to go hungry until dinner.

  “Now, Miss Morrow.” Detective Augustine interrupted my daydream of roast beef and fried potatoes. “I understand there was an incident yesterday between your friend here and the deceased.”

  “It was a verbal exchange,” I said. “There was no physical contact, or threat of harm.” Again, not very retired-beauty-queen-like of me. If anyone asked I could always tell them that I watched a lot of detective shows.

  “We had words,” Ida Belle said. “I’ll admit it.”

  The “we” part wasn’t exactly right. Ida Belle had had words, lots of them. Felicity, though, had barely said a thing.

  “She was a copycat and a cheat,” Ida Belle went on. “You must've heard about her stealing that other writer’s stories. You’re wasting your time talking to me, Detective. You should be looking for what’s her name.”

  “Destiny Davis,” I said.

  Augustine pulled a notepad from the breast pocket of his jacket and consulted it.

  “Yep. Davis.”

  He looked up from his pad. “And what was the exact nature of your disagreement with the deceased?”

  “Felicity wasn’t doing too well in English class. So she asked to see my essay that I was gonna turn in—”

  “You two were taking an English class?”

  “It was junior year of high school. We were supposed to write about the election, and I had a number of opinions about it. Of course Felicity never picked up a newspaper so she had no idea what to write about. Anyways, I finished my assignment early, and she wanted to see my paper, just to get an idea of what to write. Or so she claimed. And then that sneaky little skunk copied my work.”

  “This happened when you were in high school?”

  “That’s what I said. Anyway, when Miss Lebeau saw our two papers were similar, Felicity claimed that I copied her. Still makes me mad to think about it.”

  “And you witnessed this?” Augustine asked me.

  “No. It happened before I was born.”

  “The argument that transpired yesterday.”

  “Oh. Yes. I was there.”

  “And what about early this morning? Where were you early this morning?”

  “Fortune and me went for a walk.”

  “What time was this?”

  “We started out around seven. Took me a while to get Fortune out of bed.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Just around the block.”

  Someone pushed open the ballroom doors, letting conversation and food smells waft out. I hoped Detective Augustine would wrap this up quickly.

  “Did you enter the parking structure?”

  Ida Belle paused.

  “No. We just walked around the block, like I said. We went into a store.”

  “Name of the store?” he asked.

  Ida Belle shrugged.

  “Jazz City,” I said.

  He wrote the information on his little pad without a glance at me.

  “Did you notice anything unusual on this walk of yours?”

  “Oh, sure,” Ida Belle said. “The side street was blocked off. Police cars everywhere. We had to keep walking and then turn down the next block. Was that Felicity in the middle of all that commotion? When we heard the news we wondered if that was her in the alley.”

  Behind Detective Augustine, two shirtless cover models strolled by. Their masculine swagger reminded me of Carter LeBlanc. I mentally swatted away the unwelcome thought as if it were a gnat. Detective Augustine kept writing on his little pad.

  “Do you remember where you were between five and six this morning?”

  “Sleeping?” I wondered why Ida Belle sounded unsure.

  “How about you?”

  “I was asleep as well. Ida Belle and I are sharing a room in this hotel.”

  “Either of you enter the parking garage?”

  We both shook our heads no.

  I was making my best effort to seem cooperative. I didn’t want to provoke Augustine into running my prints. Sure, Director Morrow could cover for me if he had to, but I’d already caused him enough trouble.

  Ida Belle wasn’t as worried about making a good impression.

  “You find who wrote those books that Felicity copied,” Ida Belle said. “That’s who you should be looking for.”

  Augustine stood by way of dismissing us. He didn’t seem to appreciate Ida Belle’s telling him how to do his job.

  “Thanks for your time, ladies. I’ll be in touch.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ida Belle and I found Gertie in the Mardi Gras Ballroom and took our seats at the table.

  “If you two’d taken any longer I’d have had to break out the plastic bags,” Gertie said. “I was putting it off as long as I could, because the tiramisu would’ve gotten all squished.”

  “Thanks for saving our seats.”

  “Food’s cold,” Larry warned.

  “That’s okay. I’ll eat it.” I dug into the congealed étouffée. Larry was right. It had cooled to the temperature of the chilly ballroom.

  “Big turnout for lunch.” Ida Belle picked up a fork and poked at her plate. “I guess that's cause we’re all stuck here.”

  “I think people are curious to see how they'll handle the luncheon,” a woman piped up. Her soft gray curls and little spectacles made her look like a grandma straight from Central Casting. “What are they going to do now with their keynote speaker passed on?”

  “Felicity Valentine was going to be speaking today?” I asked. “About what?”

  “Do we have to stay here?” Ida Belle complained.

  “This is the only place where you can get anything to eat,” the grandmotherly woman said. “The sandwich shop's clean out. I just tried to pop over to the liquor store across the way to get some brandy, I do like a little glass before I go to bed, but they wouldn’t even let me cross the street. Police are at every door. And they act like even trying to leave makes you suspect in their eyes.”

  Ida Belle perked up and extended her hand.

  “I'm Ida Belle. Pleasure to meet you. This is Gertie.”

  “Verna. I'm not a writer, just a fan.”

  “Me and Gertie here brought a limited supply of our Sinful Ladies Cough Syrup. Handcrafted and healthful. I think we could spare a bottle.”

  “Oh, could you? I’d pay you, of course. I tried the gift shop and everything’s sold out. Even that funny vermouth that you always see on the bottom shelf. And do you know, I think I might feel a cold coming on.”

  “We’ll be right back.” Ida Belle and the grandmotherly Verna stood up and left. I took Ida Belle’s untouched plate –she had the beef entrée that was supposed to be for me—and stacked it on top of mine.

  “At least if no one can get out of this hotel,” Gertie said, “I still have a chance of meeting Lexi Tingle.”

  “Lexi’s here?�
� another lady at the table asked.

  “They said on her fan boards that she’d be here. Why would they make that up?”

  “Wishful thinking?” someone else said. “I’d love to meet her too but I heard she never makes public appearances.”

  “So what did the detective want with Ida Belle?” Larry asked.

  I swallowed my lukewarm mouthful of beef and recapped our interview with Detective Augustine.

  “So you saw where it happened?” one woman gasped.

  “I think so, although he wouldn’t come right out and tell us anything.”

  “Maybe Destiny Davis found her.”

  “No one knows what Destiny Davis looks like. She might not even be here.”

  “She could be a man.”

  “Some of the best romance writers are men,” Gertie squeezed Larry's bicep.

  “Is plagiarism a motive for murder?”

  “No,” I said. “No, it's not.”

  “We writers are crazy, but we’re not that crazy.”

  “Oh yeah? What about the guy that tracked down that girl who gave him a one-star review and hit her over the head with a wine bottle?”

  “Yeah, but that was in Scotland.”

  A squeal of the mic pulled everyone’s attention to the front of the room. Felicity’s assistant Danny was standing at the microphone.

  “This kid has no stage presence,” someone muttered.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, good afternoon. I’m Danny Armbruster, assistant to the late Felicity Valentine.”

  His voice caught and he took a moment to collect himself.

  “Felicity was going to talk to you today about her amazing career. I’d like to, not take up too much of your time, just a couple of memories and also a, uh, something else. Okay. First of all, anyone need an assistant? Because I’m available.”

  That got a few nervous chuckles, followed by excruciating silence.

  “Sorry. Just a little, just trying to lighten things up, some levity there. Felicity would’ve, wouldn’t have minded—Felicity and I, we had—she wasn’t just my boss. She was my mentor and my friend. We could talk about anything. She was, she had a great sense of humor.”

  Good thing Ida Belle had left before the tribute to Felicity began. She'd probably be sitting there sticking her finger down her throat.

  “And her career, her amazing career,” Danny continued. “Well. You all know that. New York Times bestseller. USA Today bestseller. FT bestseller.”

  The audience erupted in cheers. When the room quieted down, he continued:

  “So I’ll share a little bit of what she might have told you today, the advice I always heard her give. Focus. What is your brand? Who is your reader, and what is the experience she wants from your books? Felicity knew her readers wanted protagonists who surmounted obstacles and got their HEA every time.”

  “That’s Happily Ever After,” Gertie whispered to me.

  “Thank you.”

  “But there’s something else I need to tell you. What I’m going to say right now might come as a surprise. I insisted on being the one to tell you. Because it’s going to come out anyway, despite what Felicity might have wanted.”

  He glared in the direction of Detective Augustine, who stood with his arms crossed.

  “Felicity Valentine was an incredible businesswoman,” Danny continued. “And an artist, of course. You have to be both. And like many of you here today, she had another pen name. Another author brand. One that you might know.”

  Gertie gasped and mouthed “Lexi.”

  Danny took a deep breath.

  “I know people have been saying—terrible things about Felicity, that she’s a plagiarist, etcetera, and I know that that isn’t true. It’s not. And the reason I know it’s not true is…Felicity’s other pen name was…Destiny Davis.”

  I couldn’t hear anything Danny said after that; it took Detective Jean-Baptiste Augustine stepping up to the lectern to quiet things down. Augustine announced that conference attendees were now free to come and go unless instructed otherwise. The lockdown was over.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I went to look for Ida Belle, who had wandered off with the grandmotherly Verna. I wanted to tell her the news about Felicity's secret identity, and let her know that we were no longer on lockdown.

  I found Ida Belle standing outside our room, talking with two women I didn’t recognize. When she saw me coming, she quickly handed each of them a bag and shooed them away. The women each gave me a friendly little wave and then hurried down the hallway toward the elevator.

  “Who are they?” I let myself into the room and Ida Belle followed me in. “Where’s your new friend Verna?”

  “What’re you doing here?”

  “Looking for you. Good news. Felicity Valentine and Destiny Davis were the same person.”

  “Who’s Destiny Davis?”

  “The author that Felicity Valentine plagiarized.”

  “Did you just say they're the same person? She copied from herself?”

  “That's what it looks like.”

  “Why'd she do a dumb thing like that? She think she could sell twice as many books or something?”

  “It wasn’t word for word. The Felicity Valentine books were clean and the Destiny Davis ones were more explicit. Maybe she kept the two pen names separate because she was afraid that her Destiny Davis books would ruin her career as a family-friendly writer.”

  “Or maybe the other way around,” Ida Belle said. “Maybe she didn't want the sappy stuff to ruin her cred.”

  “Oh. I didn’t even think of that. Good point.”

  “So if it was such a big secret, how'd you find out about it?” Ida Belle pulled open the top dresser drawer and started loading cough syrup bottles into her big bag.

  “They just announced it downstairs... Ida Belle, what are you doing?”

  “Don’t like to leave the room unprepared. If we're gonna be stuck in this hotel--”

  “Oh, that’s right. I almost forgot. Quarantine’s cancelled.”

  “What?”

  “We can leave the hotel now. We're allowed to come and go. Ida Belle, what’s the matter? I thought you’d be glad to hear that.”

  “Sure,” she sighed. “I’m thrilled.”

  We found Gertie and Larry in the meeting area right outside the Mardi Gras Ballroom. Ida Belle and I pulled up two more chairs to join them.

  “Now I just went ahead and used my real name,” Larry was saying, “but I mean, the stuff I write, I could walk up and hand it to my pastor. Now Gertie, I think you might want to think about a pen name—”

  “I’m not ashamed of my writing,” Gertie declared.

  “Good for you, Gertie,” Ida Belle said as she took her seat. “But not everyone’s that broad-minded. I agree with Larry. Pen name’s the way to go if you’re gonna write smut.”

  “It’s not smut, Ida Belle. It’s seniorotica.”

  “Hey, I have an idea. How about publishing your smut as Celia Arceneaux?”

  “Celia Ars… sounds like the spelling would be tricky,” Larry said. “How about something like, oh, I don’t know, Gwen Hart. H-A-R-T, so it sounds like ‘heart.’”

  “That’s your same initials, Gertie” Ida Belle said. “You should do that. That’d make it easier to remember.”

  “You’re thinking of witness protection,” I said. “Oh, good afternoon, Detective.”

  Detective Jean-Baptiste Augustine stood over our little party, peering down his handsome nose at us in a most disapproving way.

  “Ladies. Mister Lindgren. Good afternoon.”

  He checked his notepad.

  “Mister Lindgren, please come with me.”

  Larry turned and winked at Gertie as the detective led him away.

  “You owe me dinner, Gert.”

  “Oh dear,” Gertie sighed. “We were afraid this might happen.”

  We all looked at her.

  “Larry had a motive to murder Felicity?” I asked.

  “
Larry?” Ida Belle repeated. “What’d she do to him?”

  “Oh, nothing. There was a little bit of a kerfuffle with Felicity on a romance author forum last year. Here, I’ll show you.”

  Gertie pulled out her smartphone and traced her tiny fingers around the screen.

  “I was surprised to learn of it, because usually romance authors are so supportive of one another. But I suppose Felicity had to go and make a big statement about how men should stay away from writing romance. And Larry writes romance, of course, so he replied.”

  “Did he threaten her?” I asked. “What did he say?”

  “Threaten her? Oh, no, he was as polite as he could be. Here, you read it, Fortune. You have young eyes.”

  Gertie handed me her phone.

  “I’m tired of men coming in and thinking that writing romance is simple or easy,” I read. “For all their talk, I’ve yet to see a man who can write a decent, clean romance. I think it’s time for the guys to back off and write about exploding helicopters or whatever, and quit making a mess of the genre and the stories that I love.”

  “Felicity wrote that?” Ida Belle exclaimed. “She’s got some nerve. Telling people who’s allowed to write what.”

  “L_Lindgren must be Larry. Here’s what he says: ‘Although I have yet to match Miss Valentine’s sales figures, I am proud of the modest success of my Cascade County series. My stories speak to the human heart, and to our universal desire to love and be loved.’ “

  “That was awfully civil of him,” Ida Belle said. “Lot more polite than I’d have been, I can guarantee you that.”

  “So what’s the problem?” I asked.

  Gertie took her phone back.

  “Well, I only hope that the police are as sensible as you are, Fortune. But it’s a little worrying to me that there’s a record online of him having a conflict with Felicity.”

  “I think if you’re famous, you’re always going to find yourself having conflict with someone,” I said. “That’s why I treasure my obscurity. Remember the woman at our yoga session who thought Felicity stole her idea without crediting her? Anyway, let’s hope they’re just questioning everyone so that they can say they’ve dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s. Hey, everyone’s going downstairs. Are we missing something?”