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

by bow, frankie

  “Gertie!” a man’s voice exclaimed.

  We all turned to the door, where Larry Lindgren stood, red-faced and sweaty. He clutched his straw hat in one hand, and propped the door open with the other.

  “Gertie, I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  Gertie leaped up and hurried over to Larry. While they were busy embracing, I turned back to Carter.

  “That’s Gertie’s new friend Larry Lindgren. They were questioning him too, but I guess now they have Ida Belle, he’s in the clear. Boy, I hope I’m that spry when I’m her age. Anyway. Any other information?”

  “Felicity Vigneau had tangled with quite a few of the people attending this conference. Besides that there were two ex-husbands. Not to mention a recent situation with someone else's husband. With so many potential suspects they’d almost given up on solving this thing. It was like a gift when they saw that footage of Ida Belle.”

  “Wasn’t there anyone else in the parking garage during that time?” I asked.

  “No one that the camera caught.”

  “How sure are they about the time of death?”

  “Body temp, rigor, lividity all lined up with about six a.m.”

  “Was Felicity wearing a watch?” I asked. “If she fell from a height, maybe a broken watch—”

  “She was wearing a watch, but it wasn’t broken. It was still running.”

  “Oh boy. I hope Ida Belle can keep her mouth shut until her lawyer gets there.”

  Larry and Gertie came over and seated themselves in the two empty chairs.

  “After they released me, I saw them bringing Ida Belle in,” Larry said. “Gertie told me it’s serious. How can we help?”

  Carter pushed himself up from the table.

  “You all can help by getting Ida Belle the best lawyer you can afford and staying out of the way of the police. I know you all want to pitch in. The best thing you can do is get some money together for her legal defense.”

  Carter slid me a quick sideways glance.

  “The problem is, unless someone can find out who really killed Felicity Vigneau, Ida Belle could very well end up taking the blame. Now if you’ll excuse me, my break’s almost up. Oh, one more thing. I hear they’ll be collecting Felicity's effects from her hotel room. Probably by the end of today.”

  “It’s already almost four,” I said. “Carter, where are you going to be?”

  Carter muttered something.

  “Where?” Gertie pressed. “I didn’t hear what you said.”

  “Bad Boy Roulette. That’s the name of the session. You don’t need to go. It’s not going to be that interesting.”

  I watched Carter rush out. Larry cleared his throat.

  “I was planning to go to the beat sheet workshop,” he said. “Gertie, would you accompany me? Fortune, you’re very welcome too.”

  Gertie held out her own conference program at arm’s length and squinted at it.

  “Oh, that was one I wanted to attend. But what if Ida Belle tries to call me?”

  “I’ll stay here and keep my phone on,” I said. “You go enjoy the session. We can meet up in the room afterwards.”

  As soon as Gertie and Larry were gone, I jumped up and went out into the hallway. I went right toward the emergency exit instead of left toward the elevator, where I might run into Gertie and Larry.

  It looked hopeless for Ida Belle. She'd lost her temper and yelled at Felicity in front of dozens of witnesses. The next day she was caught on camera practically at the murder scene. There had to be an explanation. One that didn't involve Ida Belle being the murderer.

  My phone rang, the caller ID showing a New Orleans number I didn’t recognize. I did recognize the voice.

  “Ida Belle! I was just thinking about you. What’s going on? Hang on, I’m going into the stairwell. Phone reception might not be too good.”

  “Well, I got good news and bad news,” Ida Belle said.

  “Let’s hear the good news.”

  “That lawyer Gertie found convinced ‘em I wasn’t a flight risk, so they set bail.”

  “That’s great. And fast! Do I want to know the bad news?”

  “I had to use Marge’s house as collateral.”

  “Marge’s house? You mean the house I’m living in?”

  “That’s not a problem, is it? Cause you know it’s what Marge would’ve wanted.”

  “You don't even live in that house, Ida Belle. I live in that house. How did you get them to—never mind. I’ll just have to make it my personal mission not to let you out of my sight.”

  “I was gonna ask you to pick me up, but it sounds like you’re not in the mood.”

  “I actually have something I need to do right now.”

  “I’ll just take a cab.”

  “Good. And get ready, cause I’m going to have a lot of questions for you when you get here.”

  Right now I had bigger things to worry about than my house being put up for bail collateral. I had a hotel room to break into.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Finding Felicity’s room was easier than I expected. I went down to the lobby, ready to deploy a complicated plan involving a story about a lost suitcase. When I approached the front desk, two clerks were complaining about the tenth floor being blocked off earlier. I turned around and went straight back to the elevator. On the tenth floor, halfway down the hallway from the elevator, yellow crime scene tape crisscrossed a doorway.

  Unfortunately, the hallway was thick with passers-by. Groups of two or three would pause their conversation and stare as they passed. There was no way to let myself into the room without attracting attention. I certainly couldn't pretend that it was my room, not while it was marked with a big “X” of crime scene tape. I hung around by the elevator for a few minutes, but as soon as people stepped into the elevator, more people came out into the hallway. I’d have to go to Plan B.

  I made a note of the room number, and then went up one floor and found the room directly above it. My plan B would have worked better after dark, but I didn't have the luxury of waiting until nightfall. I rapped on the door and listened. No reply. I looked up and down the hallway. Compared to the floor below, it was nearly deserted. One couple walked by and paid me no notice. This was going to work. Standing in front of a regular, unmarked hotel room door and fumbling in my purse for my room key looked a lot less suspicious than lurking around a marked crime scene.

  I pulled my “hotel key” from my bag. Its electronics were fitted inside the shell of an ordinary dry-erase marker. If anyone went through my purse, they wouldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. I swung my bag to my side so that it blocked any view of the door handle.

  I pulled the cap off the “marker” and pressed the metal tip up into the bottom of the lock. I held it steady until I felt the reassuring buzz, indicating that it had read the lock code and fed it back. After a few seconds the handle yielded, and I pushed the door open.

  Clothing, shoes, session handouts, and books were strewn around the room. At first I thought someone had tossed the place, but upon further inspection I realized that the occupant just wasn't very tidy. Also, judging by the brassiere hanging on the bathroom doorknob, she was rather formidably proportioned.

  The balcony side of the room was right on Canal Street. If this were any other city, I would’ve aborted the mission. I was going to have to swing from one balcony to another in broad daylight, a hundred feet off the ground. I would almost certainly be seen.

  But this was New Orleans’ French Quarter, a place so devoted to the pursuit of pleasure that it made Las Vegas look like Riyadh. If anyone caught me dangling from the eleventh floor I could just say I’d been drinking with friends and lost a bet.

  I moved to the balcony and slid the glass door shut behind me. I pulled out a pair of dark sunglasses with lenses big enough to confound most facial recognition software. I put on a baseball cap and pulled my ponytail through the hole in the back. Then I folded my body over the metal railing and flipped o
ver onto the balcony below. The metal creaked ominously, but held. The sliding door of Felicity’s room was unlocked. Who expects an intruder to come in from the outside when you’re on the tenth floor?

  I realized that I’d expected Felicity’s room to be full of romance-writer things. Satin pillows, boxes of bonbons, and scented love letters tied with ribbon. For a moment I wondered whether I was in the right place. Then I spotted a chunky pair of turquoise earrings lying on the night table.

  I pulled on a pair of gloves and started looking for Felicity's computer. It would have her email, her manuscripts, her sales information, and more. I hoped that somewhere in there I'd find the truth about who killed her. I started with the desk, then I went through the drawers, and finally I searched the wardrobe. It was packed with casual separates in tiny sizes and festive colors, which reassured me that I was in the right place.

  I pushed up the mattress and checked underneath, but I found nothing there, just the box spring. Maybe Felicity was too old-fashioned to own a computer. Or maybe her killer had taken it. No wonder the police were so interested in what Ida Belle had been carrying in that box.

  Just as I dropped the mattress back into place I heard voices out in the hallway.

  I made a split-second decision: balcony, or behind the door? I darted behind the door just as two uniformed officers pushed it open and walked in. I grabbed the door handle so that the door wouldn’t slam shut immediately.

  “She leave the balcony door open?” one of the officers said.

  “Maybe she hadda beau sneaking in,” the other guffawed. While the two men went to check the balcony, I moved around to the other side of the door. They had taken down the tape, so I walked out into the hallway. I strolled down to the elevator as if I had every right to be there, ignoring the stares and whispers that followed me.

  I wondered what Carter knew about Felicity’s computer. Or whether she’d ever even had one. I glanced at my watch, checked my conference program and headed down to the second floor.

  I'd done all I could here. Now it was time for Bad Boy Roulette.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Bad Boy Roulette”

  Carondelet Room

  Oh how we love our bad boys! They break rules & hearts, yet the best romances dish up hot, naughty heroes who have secret hearts of gold--but only for the RIGHT woman. In this workshop, we'll spin the wheel & find out what REALLY happens to this relationship in the end. Will our heroine find herself in sensual ecstasy or six feet under?

  I squeezed in among the standing-room-only crowd in the back of the room. In the front, Carter and another man (both shirtless) were spinning a game-show-style wheel. The emcee was talking, but the whooping and hollering in the room drowned her out.

  I decided I'd be better off waiting outside for Carter to finish. I was about to walk out when I caught a frantic waving motion out of the corner of my eye.

  It was Ida Belle, signaling from the other end of the room.

  I turned sideways and inched through the crowd in her direction.

  “I'm here,” Ida Belle shouted into my ear. “See? Haven't skipped town yet.”

  I glanced around to make sure no one was listening. No one was. All eyes were on Carter and the other guy, who were now flexing in bodybuilder poses. I didn’t see what twitching pecs had to do with “transgressive heroes with secret hearts of gold,” but the audience probably wasn’t looking for thematic consistency.

  “Ida Belle,” I shouted back at her, “when exactly were you planning to tell me that you were in the parking garage that morning?”

  Ida Belle said something, which was drowned out by a burst of loud cheering. We sidled over to the doorway and out into the hall.

  “You know my financial situation’s been a little tight,” Ida Belle said. “At the rate I’m going, I’ll be dead of old age before I can afford to buy a car.”

  “That doesn’t explain why the security camera caught you in the parking garage right around when your high school nemesis was murdered. Oh, and what was in that box you were carrying?”

  “It was a case of cough syrup.”

  “What? Why?”

  “We were running low. I wanted to have enough for the day, so I went out early to get it from the car.”

  “Ida Belle, Detective Augustine specifically asked us if we’d gone into the parking garage. Why did you tell him no?”

  “I didn’t tell him no. I just shook my head. Besides, it was none of his business.”

  “Well, why didn’t you tell me? And a whole case of cough syrup, are you insane? Who do you think is going to have to clean up when your liver explodes all over our hotel room?”

  “It wasn’t for me. I might have been sharing our Sinful Ladies’ Cough Syrup with some of the other women at the conference.”

  “I don’t believe for a second that you were giving away Sinful Ladies’ Cough Syrup.”

  “Well, no. Not giving away, exactly. You see, that’s why I didn’t say anything about it. I’m no lawyer, but—”

  “But cooking up moonshine and then selling it without a license out of the trunk of your car—sorry, my car—might not be, oh, what’s the word, I know, legal.”

  “The type of sophisticated lady who would attend a conference like this, they love our product, Fortune. They appreciate the fact that it’s delicious, effective, and comes in a discreet and dainty bottle.”

  “I’m familiar with the sales pitch, Ida Belle.”

  “You know that morning they told us none of us could leave? Those few hours were a goldmine. We were getting ten times our usual price. If they coulda kept that quarantine going for just one more day—”

  Two women hurried down the hallway, late to a session. Ida Belle and I stopped talking until they were out of earshot.

  “Look, Ida Belle, for what it’s worth, I don’t think you killed Felicity. So did you tell them anything?”

  “Not a word. I lawyered up. Come on, I wasn’t born yesterday. So what do you have?”

  “I was able to look around Felicity's room,” I said. “Briefly.”

  “How’d you manage that?”

  “You don't need to know the details. Anyway, New Orleans’ Finest interrupted me before I could find anything useful. There are lots of people who have a grudge against her. Ex-husbands and jealous wives and people she fought with on the internet and that woman Hanny who thinks Felicity stole her idea and who knows what else.”

  “What about that dweeby assistant? Maybe she left him some money in her will and he got tired of waiting for her to die.”

  “That would be a great theory, except she left everything to charity. Animal shelters and things like that.”

  “So what now?” Ida Belle asked.

  “Keep our eyes and ears open. Listen for anything that could help us find out who really did it. Is this it? Are they wrapping it up?”

  “Let’s give our Bad Boys a hand,” I heard the emcee shout. She was immediately drowned out by a roar of applause and wolf whistles. I ran back into the room just in time to see Carter and the other guy blow kisses to the audience as they disappeared through a side door.

  I pushed my way through the crowd in pursuit, as the emcee announced an impromptu memorial for Felicity Valentine.

  “We’ll be sharing our memories during dinner in the Mardi Gras Ballroom,” she was saying as I slipped through the divider door into the adjoining room.

  Which, I realized too late, happened to be the changing room.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I wish I could report that my appearance in the cover models’ changing room caused some kind of commotion. Unfortunately, it didn’t, unless you count a bare-chested “lumberjack” rolling his eyes and huffing, “Ugh, who let a girl in here?”

  “Fortune?” Carter had his shirt on again and was slinging a gym bag over his shoulder.

  “Walk with me?”

  Carter nodded and followed me out the door.

  “Ida Belle made bail,” I said.
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  “I saw her in the back of the room. How’d she get sprung to fast?”

  “Gertie set up the lawyer and the bail bondsman.”

  “I can’t believe she made bail. Even if she used her house as collateral, it wouldn’t be—”

  “She used my house as collateral.”

  “Fortune, that was generous of you.”

  We stepped into the elevator and I waited for the doors to close before correcting him.

  “No it wasn’t generous of me. She did it without asking.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, I know. I can’t do anything about it. It’ll be fine. As long as the real Sandy-Sue Morrow never finds out.”

  “Right. The ‘real’ Sandy Sue Morrow.”

  “Don’t start. Listen, Carter? Do the police have Felicity’s computer?”

  Carter shrugged. “Haven’t heard anything. I guess it’s in her room. They’re going in to get her effects. Are we going up to my floor?”

  “Or wherever you want to talk.”

  “Okay. We can grab a beer at the concierge lounge now that my shift's over.”

  “Felicity’s computer isn’t in her room.”

  “Maybe whoever looked just didn’t see it because the computer was hidden somewhere.”

  “The computer wasn’t there, Carter. I know how to search a hotel room.”

  “Fortune, allow me some deniability here.”

  “Sorry. Hey, here’s an idea. Maybe it wasn't Felicity Valentine who was murdered. Maybe it was, what was the other name? Destiny Davis. You know anything about her? Who might want her dead?”

  “Actually I thought of that. But try picking through the thousands of hits you get when you Google Destiny Davis. I found a really basic website with the books on it. Not much else.”

  “Who was the site registered to?”

  “Dead end. Some kind of privacy company.”

  “So whoever set it up registered for domain privacy. That's consistent with Felicity not wanting anyone to know about her alter ego. Are the police looking into it?”