by Gina LaManna
“Yeah, but not by choice,” I said. “I can’t believe the four of us got stuck in this mess.”
Forget about that. Where are you going first?
I shrugged, which had the awkward side effect of sending Paul flying from my shoulder. He landed inches from a cup of cold coffee and shot me a haughty, disgruntled stare.
“Back to Abigail,” I said. “I’ve been thinking about this morning, and I just can’t quite figure out how she got to the crime scene so quickly. It’s weird, isn’t it? She avoided every question I asked.”
I’m staying home. This morning was exhausting.
“You didn’t even have to move anywhere!” I said. “How can you be tired?”
I want a bon bon. Paul said. Bon bon, please.
I sighed, forked out a bon bon and put it on the little green plate that Paul loved. It had a photo of Kermit on it. Then I headed to the shower, rinsed off and finally felt warm again.
By the time Paul had finished his bon bon (prissy little toad), I was ready to launch a murder investigation.
Four
You have to do something about the garden, Paul said. It’s no place for a toad to live.
“It’s fine!” I was on my way out the door to track down the medical examiner. Though I doubted I’d learn much from Abigail, I needed to find out if she or the police had uncovered additional details from the crime scene. “You hate being outside, anyway. You’re an indoor toad.”
But all my friends have started moving away. Paul sounded melancholy. All your plants are dying.
I stopped on the front walkway to my home and studied the lawn. “Huh,” I told Paul. “Maybe you’re right.”
Look at your daisies. Dead as doornails. What about your ferns? It’s as if they’re turning to sludge.
I hesitated to kneel because I’d just showered, but I bent closer to the ground and studied the rows upon rows I’d carefully planted earlier in the year. Sure enough, at least half of the plants were dead. Some of them had even morphed into a weird sort of mush that resembled dirt but smelled like the inside of a well-used garbage can.
I waved a hand in front of my face to disperse the odor. “Why does this always happen to me? I read the manuals. I water my plants. I put some of them in part shade and the rest in full sun as the tutorials described. I even tried to get some functioning internet to research these things!”
If you talked to Zola, maybe she could help, Paul suggested. She doesn’t have to be an enemy, you know.
“Zola won’t help me. She still thinks I’m at fault for the incident.”
Everyone thinks it’s everyone else’s fault, Paul said, sounding as snappish as he ever got. Why can’t you girls just shoulder the blame equally and start over? You’re all stuck here together. Why not make the most of it?
“You just want your toad friends back.”
That too. Conversation with you can be tedious.
“I’m the one talking to a toad!” I stood, stretched my creaky joints and realized that I wasn’t as young as I used to be. Neither was Zola for that matter, and maybe Paul had a point. Maybe we could move past the stupid school nastiness and become real friends, not just pseudo friends who watched each other’s backs when the going got rough. “I’m going to ask Zola for gardening help.”
Good on you. Now, can you drop me off on the front steps? I don’t want to get my feet dirty.
“You’re the weirdest toad I know.”
Kiss me, and maybe I’ll turn into your prince.
“Get out of here,” I said, but I gently walked him to the front and set him down. “I’ll be back after my meeting with Abigail.”
Is it a meeting if she doesn’t know you’re coming?
“Fair enough. My ambush of Abigail.” I took one more glance around and studied the yard I hadn’t noticed was melting before my eyes. With a grim set to my lips, I muttered, “And I’d better be ready to suck up to Zola, because she won’t help me for free.”
That’s the spirit!
The hunt for the medical examiner was short lived. Abigail valued beauty above all things. Therefore, she spent most of her waking hours at one branch or another of Eternal Springs’s spa and resort.
I entered the spa and checked in at the front desk, asking for Abigail. The receptionist pointed the way to the mud pits, so I headed in that direction, wondering why rich people paid good money to have themselves slathered in gunk. Even Paul hated to get dirty, and he’s a toad.
Abigail sat in a vat of the stuff with the black mess slathered over her face, her shoulders and her lady bits, though it didn’t cover all that much. I’d found her in the female-only portion of the spa, and as it turned out, ladies walked around here wearing nothing but dirt.
“Sorry to bother you,” I said, crouching next to the hot tub-like pit filled with black goo that resembled the current state of my garden, just slightly less toxic-scented. “But I have a few questions for you.”
Abigail’s eyes flashed open, startling white against the darkness of the mud. “You’re interrupting my mud bath!”
“How is this a bath? You’re getting dirtier!” I shook my head. “Never mind. I will stop bothering you in just a second after I ask you a few questions.”
“First Skye, then you?”
“Skye already beat me to it?”
Abigail rolled her eyes then closed them. “It’s Skye’s job to investigate. It’s the only thing keeping her sane — otherwise she’d be forced to write about face creams and nail polishes, and we all know that would drive her into a looney bin.”
I cocked my head in silent agreement. In that way, Skye and I were similar. I wanted a big radio show broadcasting important news and accurate weather and funny banter, and Skye wanted a popular column with noteworthy stories and poignant pieces. Neither of us would ever be able to achieve that so long as we were stuck in Eternal Springs, but we’d both decided to give it our best shot.
“Did you find out anything about Mary? Can you confirm if she was murdered?”
“Why should I tell you?” Abigail snarked. “I’m in a mud bath. You’re interrupting my private time.”
“I’ll buy you a facial,” I told her. “I have some credits that I won from karaoke night that are going to expire. I’ll transfer them all to you.”
“How many points?” When I told her the number, her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “Okay, then sure. I can confirm Mary is dead and that she was killed.”
“I’ll need more than that for a hundred and two points,” I said. “How? Why? Any suspects?”
“Besides yourself?”
“Me? I cannot actually be a suspect.”
She shrugged. “You’re as good as any. Nobody has any clue who murdered Mary, or how or why.”
“I thought you said she was strangled.”
“I didn’t say that, but it’s true,” she said. “I guess we’re still just lost when it comes to the who and why.”
“Was she dead before she fell into the pool?”
Abigail opened one eye at me and sighed. “Here’s what I have: Someone approached the victim and strangled her — a personal crime, so possibly one of passion or of anger, or both. The person also had to be strong enough to hold Mary down — it looks as though she might have fought back based on a quick glance under her fingernails, but I’ll need the lab reports to confirm.”
“Mary was tiny,” I said. “What was she, eighty pounds soaking wet?”
“Just over one-hundred pounds and slightly more than five feet tall. She was small,” Abigail admitted. “But it’s instinct to fight for your life. She would have struggled.”
“Time of death?”
“You really are incessant with your questions, aren’t you?” She heaved a sigh. “She wasn’t dead all that long before you found her. Again, without the lab reports I can only guess. I’d put her time of death around eight that morning — just less than an hour before you found her. I believe she was dead or close to it by the time her body hit t
he pool, though I have some tests running that will let me know if she inhaled water. That would indicate she’d still been breathing when she hit the pool.”
“She could have hit it and been unconscious but breathing,” I said, “and then the official cause of death would be drowning, right?”
“For your purposes, the important fact is that someone wanted her dead.” Abigail’s eyes flashed open, looking eerily cold at me. “I don’t think that’s being questioned. The official cause of death will be but a trivial detail.”
“Not trivial, but —.”
“A shame she won’t be able to compete in the contest, don’t you think?” Abigail’s face took on an odd little grin that could only be described as bizarre. “Unfortunate, really. She’d worked so hard to have sixty wins, just to fall one short ... .”
“Why are you smiling?”
“It’s how I process grief,” she said, giving a shake of her head. “Plus, I’m thinking of all the good Mary has done — bringing so much beauty into the world.”
Abigail was starting to creep me out. I had all I needed from her for the time being, so I stood up.
Before I left, I tossed one more question over my shoulder that’d been bugging me since the morning. “Where were you this morning around eight?”
Abigail sat up, a twist of revulsion on her lips. “Are you asking me for an alibi after I just volunteered a boatload of help to you?”
“It wasn’t free help,” I pointed out. “You wanted a facial.”
“B-but still!” She spluttered on a hunk of mud that had dripped onto her lip. When she finally washed it away, she had streaks across her face that made the woman downright terrifying. “I will not answer that. It’s an insult to me and my profession.”
“You’re a plastic surgeon,” I said, “not an ME by training. Also, you showed up at the crime scene super-fast — a little too fast, in my opinion.”
“So did you!”
“I skidded out of control and landed there! I would never have stumbled on the body otherwise.”
“I had business in the area.” Abigail tilted her nose high. She looked like the witch in this scenario with all the lumps and bumps caked on her skin. “And that’s all you need to know, so get out of my mud bath. And transfer your points to me, you witch!”
As I turned back to reception, I hid a smile.
If only she knew the half of it.
Five
It wasn’t my first choice to return to the scene of the crime, but the truth was that most people who’d known Mary had been staying with her. Marilyn, along with most of the contestants, weren’t from the island. They’d traveled here for the show.
I knocked on the front door of the Beauty Cottage and was let in by Billie Jo, the only local contestant who’d made the cut.
“Hi there, Evian,” she sniffed, her eyes red. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m really sorry for your loss, Billie Jo, but can I speak to a few of the girls? I’ve been asked to help look into Marilyn’s murder.”
“Oh, Mary,” she gushed, a new wave of tears welling up in her eyes. “The poor thing! How tragic. And just think, it could have been any of us!”
I had considered the same thing when Abigail had told me the time of death. If I hadn’t been running late to work, if I’d left an hour earlier as I’d planned in order to grab breakfast if any number of reasons had drawn me out of the house just an hour earlier, I might have stumbled upon a murder taking place. And if I had, would the killer have gotten rid of me too? Disposed of the evidence? I shuddered, thankful I’d never have to know.
“Sure, come on in. Skye just left, so the girls are still gathered,” Billie Jo said. “You might as well talk to some of us now since we’re all sobbing messes anyway. Some beauty contestants, huh?”
“Hey, it’s okay.” I pulled her in for a hug. “You guys lost a dear friend. Nobody is looking at your makeup during this time.”
“Well ... .” Billie Jo led me into some sort of central living room that likely served as gossip central. “Here they are.”
I understood her hesitation. About half of the girls perched on couches, chairs, chaise lounges or at the dining room table, with a compact pushed up to their noses as they reapplied makeup. The other half lounged more somberly, foregoing their faces for a more real-looking state of depression.
“Hi, I’m Evian.”
“You’re the girl who was trying to get us all to go on the radio at Coconuts last night, weren’t you?” one of the women asked. “Wasn’t your name, like, ... a water bottle or something?”
“Evian Brooks,” I said with a firm smile planted on my face. “And you’re right. I’m doing an investigative piece for Hex 66.6 and —.”
“Just like Skye?” the same girl interrupted. “You guys have weird names. What happened to Jane and Mary and ... .” She stopped dead at the last name. “Oh, poor Mary!”
I cleared my throat. “Skye’s a newspaper reporter. We’re working independently. Anyway, the reason I’m here is because I’d like to ask each of you a few questions.”
“Ugh, again?” the interrupter rolled her eyes. “Who knew Mary’s death would be such a hassle?”
I turned to her. “Great. Let’s start with you — what’s your name?”
“I’m Lauren,” she said. “And fine. Let’s go sit on the porch so I can tan while we talk.”
I followed the beauty contestant to the back of the house. When she reached the porch, she let her robe drop to reveal a slinky string bikini and plopped herself onto a lounger.
“I didn’t see anything,” she said, closing her eyes. “I was upstairs doing my manicure — see here, look. Pretty, isn’t it?”
I studied her sparkle-tipped hand and had to turn away to prevent my eyes from getting singed at the glare. “Gorgeous. Did you hear anything?”
“Nope.” She chomped on gum that she must have been storing in her cheek like a chipmunk. “I was in the bathroom with the door locked. See, it’s a tricky situation here. We’ve got eighteen ladies and two bathrooms. You do the math. I’ve seen Chelsea wake up at four in the morning just to get a turn to shave her legs.”
I winced. “Yikes.”
“Yeah. We live in real close quarters. Then again, most of us have run into each other at other competitions, so it’s not like we’re total strangers.”
“When’s the last time you saw Mary?”
“You mean now? Or before?” She continued chomping and answered both. “Before this, I saw Mary at the Wyoming Belles contest ... hmm, I don’t know, two months back? We stayed together then with about half these girls. More recently, I saw her last night at dinner with everyone else. I’m not staying in her room, so I didn’t see her after that.”
“Do you know who might have?”
“Tarryn is her bunkmate.”
“Isn’t Tarryn expected to take second place?”
“Sure, if you’re a betting woman and you want to play it safe.” Lauren flashed her pink-painted smile at me. “But if you really want to bet, go for me. I know I can do this.”
“I’m sure you can. Did Mary seem okay at dinner?”
“I don’t know. She was one of those quiet types — the really nice kind, you know? Like, she was actually nice and not faking it. I don’t really get it.”
“What about Tarryn? Did she seem okay? Were the two friends?”
“Tarryn is ... I mean, the girl wants to win. We all do. Were they best friends? Probably not. Were they civil enough? Oh, sure. We all are. There’re only a few enemies among us, but I don’t think Mary had any.”
I processed the information, wondering if any of the girls had it in her to kill one of their own for a shot at winning. “Was anyone acting strangely this week? Especially last night or this morning?”
“Of course,” she said. At my confused look, she shrugged. “We all act strange. We’ve each got these superstitions before a contest and, well, for example, Billie Jo pulls her eyebrows out from stres
s! The poor thing has to pencil them in.”
I realized Billie Jo’s eyebrows had seemed dark and stiff in an odd way, but as I wasn’t an eyebrow aficionado, I’d looked right past it. “Anything else? Anything suspicious?”
“Girl, I’m so self-absorbed I don’t notice much about others.” Lauren stood. “I’m getting fried to a crisp. Can you talk to someone else now?”
I had Lauren send the next girl out, a sweet little Texas belle so nervous she hiccupped through the interview. I put her out of her misery and ended our chat early. I went through seven more interviews in similar fashion, startled to find how self-absorbed some of these ladies became during contest season. For crying out loud, eighteen women were staying in one big house and none of them had noticed a thing out of the ordinary.
When interviewee number ten strode out onto the porch with her long legs working like stilts, her head tilted high, her black hair swinging halfway down her back, I sat up with interest.
Tarryn Southland, the expected runner-up to the pageant queen. I knew from the other girls that she was full of country charm. Hailing from a small town in Alabama, she was the opposite of Marilyn in many ways. While Mary was bright and bubbly with piano playing as a talent, Tarryn was darker and quiet, known for her soulful singing voice.
“I didn’t do it, if that’s what you’re wondering.” Tarryn wore dark skinny jeans despite the warmth and humidity. She folded her legs like a crane beneath her as she sat. “I know y’all must think I’m guilty or that I wanted her dead because she was expected to win it all.”
“I am trying not to assume anything,” I said. “I’m just asking questions and following where the facts and evidence lead.”
She gave me a bland smile. “That’s all good, I suppose.”
“Can you tell me more about Marilyn?”
“We all called her Mary,” she said in that accent of hers. It was endearing in a gentle, kitschy way. “She was truly a nice girl. Seriously nice. You know, the kind who doesn’t have enemies.”
