She’s crazy, my inner voice reminded me. Nothing a crazy woman does has to make sense.
She had told me that Bixby had texted her. She had told me that he wanted to meet her at the Chocolate Box. Why would he want to meet with her? And where was Bixby’s security team? Why hadn’t they stopped her?
Was she being set up?
But by whom? By Bixby? Why would he want someone to shoot at me?
“Please, Penn,” Gibbons said, his voice even quieter and calmer than it had been before, “let’s sit down. Talk to me. I’m here to help.”
I looked at the chair and then at his kind face again. With a murmured “thank you,” I sat down and told him everything. As I spoke, his expression turned harder, darker. His jaw tightened. He wrote everything down and spoke only when he felt he needed clarification on a point I’d made.
When I’d finished, he closed his notebook and looked up at me. “It seems we’ve badly underestimated the threat Candy poses to Bixby Lewis and to the community here in Camellia Beach.” He shook his head as if not able to believe the words that were leaving his mouth. “I’ve read all of her arrest reports. It’s true that she’s done some outrageous things—destroying property, breaking and entering, sending letters—but she never crossed the line. She never got violent.”
“Don’t all stalkers escalate into violence?” I asked.
“Some do, but from the accounts I’ve read of Candy, she’s been a groupie, following Bixby Lewis around the country for years now. In all this time, she’s followed nearly the exact same pattern. She writes letters. She breaks into his hotel whenever she can. And she’ll make a mess of any piece of property she can get her hands on that belongs to Bixby’s current … er … love interest.” His face turned a bit pink as he said that last bit.
“I’m not his love interest,” I protested.
“Candy seems to think otherwise,” he said kindly.
“He flirts with everyone,” I insisted. I then leaned forward and said quietly so no one could overhear us, “He’s so in love with himself, I’m beginning to wonder if there’s room in his heart for anyone other than the reflection he sees when he passes a mirror.”
He chuckled at that, but his hard eyes and tight jaw remained serious. “We will catch Candy. As the evidence builds, I’m beginning to think you’ve been right all along, Penn. That girl is a threat. She may even have gone after Bixby and accidentally killed Stan. She might very well be our murderer.”
“No, that’s not right,” I protested. “You told me yesterday that the evidence you found at the bonfire proved Stan was the intended victim. What’s changed?”
He sighed. “I must have been reading the evidence wrong.”
“I can’t believe that. You don’t make those kinds of mistakes.”
“Yesterday you were convinced that was exactly the kind of mistake I was making.”
“Obviously I was wrong. Can you tell me about the evidence? What did you find that persuaded you that the killer had specifically targeted Stan?”
“You already know I can’t discuss specific details of the case with you.” His shoulders slumped. “But I can tell you that after what Candy did here today, I’m going to go back and review everything we know. And don’t worry, Penn, we have teams of officers searching for Candy. We will stop her before she can try to hurt anyone again.”
What was wrong with me? He was saying exactly what I’d wanted him to say. Candy was the danger everyone needed to watch out for. So why was I suddenly doubting it? Why did I now think that poor delusional Candy couldn’t be guilty of anything more than breaking a few windows?
“I hope you’re right.” I truly meant it. I hoped with all my heart he was right and I was wrong. After all, catching a crazy woman on the run on an island with only one bridge should be child’s play for the police. And once they caught her, all of this would be over. Bixby would be safe. The Summer Solstice Beach Music Festival could continue without a lingering cloud of danger hanging over it. But I didn’t believe it. I didn’t believe it even as the words formed in my mouth.
Something in the back of my mind kept tugging at me, telling me I knew something, something that would explain why Stan was murdered and why Bixby’s life was in danger. The evidence was all there, that nagging voice in my head insisted. Was the evidence there? If it was, I had no clue as to how to fit the pieces together.
Was Candy a killer? My gut said no. But if it wasn’t her, who had killed Stan? And why would that person want to kill both Bixby and me? That was the question I needed to answer before Bixby—or anyone else involved with the festival—got hurt.
Chapter 21
Detective Gibbons left the Chocolate Box with a small box of truffles I’d packed for him tucked under his arm and the swagger of a man on the verge of success.
I frowned as I watched him make his way into the heavily wooded area across the street from the shop where Candy had fled and where the bullets had originated. He was heading down the wrong path. Not literally down the wrong path. While this morning’s shooting had convinced him of what I’d been thinking all along—that Candy was a crazy killer—it had done the opposite for me. She might be crazy, but I no longer believed it was a killing kind of crazy.
If it were, I’d already be dead.
Gibbons is a professional, I reminded myself. He won’t let himself go too far afield with the investigation.
Still, I worried about the safety of those closest to me. I also worried about why someone would want to shoot me. Did I know something about Stan’s murder that made me a threat to the killer? Had I seen something at the bonfire that would point me to his killer?
I hadn’t seen anything that everyone else hadn’t also seen. Other than the chocolate bonbons I’d found near Stan’s body, I couldn’t think of anything of importance that I might know about the murder. And I’d told the police about the bonbons. But there had to be something I was missing, something that had made me a threat to the killer.
Before the day of Stan’s murder, I’d never even heard of him. Dealing with the musical talent was Bubba’s job, not mine. My role in the festival was advertising, ticket sales, and coordinating with the festival sponsors.
As I swept up the broken teacups, my thoughts spun round and round, always coming up with the same non-answers. I desperately needed to talk things over with someone who could give me a fresh perspective. But I couldn’t leave the shop, not with that gaping hole where a window should have been.
I tried to get in touch with Bertie to see if she could come back and watch the shop. I got her voicemail. I then tried Althea’s number.
“I’m driving around everywhere, searching for Mama,” Althea said, her voice thick with worry. “Where could she have gone? What’s happened that’s making her act so strangely? She’s not answering her phone.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I couldn’t reach her, either. Do let me know if I can do anything, okay?”
I didn’t have the heart to say anything about the shooting, not while she was so worried about her mother. I hung up and tried to call Granny Mae in Wisconsin. After ringing several times, her phone also switched over to voicemail.
By this time, I felt so frustrated that I nearly stamped my foot and howled like a madwoman. Not wanting to scare the customers, even though the only two people in the shop were still just Fox and Alvin, I muttered angrily below my breath before calling the window repair shop to order yet another window replacement. Since the glaziers already had the measurements on file, they promised to make it out to the Chocolate Box with the new window around six that evening.
Until then, I’d have to board up the window … again.
My gaze traveled back to where Fox and Alvin were still hanging out on the café sofa. Both Chief Byrd and Detective Gibbons had told us we could leave. Or, if I wanted, I could open the shop back up for business. Fox and Alvin didn’t look as if they were in any hurry to get back to their practice session. Or perhaps they were waitin
g for me to go back and interrogate them about why Bertie had stopped singing with The Embers.
Yeah, right. I doubted they were waiting for me. They clearly seemed hesitant to talk about Bertie and whatever had happened that had led her to stop singing with them. Perhaps, if I tried to charm them, they’d slip me a crumb or two of information. With that in mind, I enlisted their help in nailing up boards over the broken window. They held the boards while I swung the hammer.
“Don’t go trying to bat your eyes and preen with us, gurl,” Alvin drawled with a hacking laugh several minutes into our work on the window. Clearly, my attempts to sweeten them up so they’d loosen their tongues hadn’t worked. Not that my failure surprised me. I’d always been better at brusque than charming. “Done seen all those games before. If’n you want to know what Bertie don’t want you to know, you’ll have to hear it from her own lips.”
It took me a solid minute to detangle what Alvin was saying to me. “I’m not digging for gossip. Can’t you just tell me about the incident that led to her quitting the band?”
Fox smiled kindly and patted my shoulder. “Bertie would flay us alive if she thought we were telling people stories that were hers alone to tell.”
“That’s right, gurl. And she’d use that sharp tongue of hers to peel the skin clear off our bodies,” Alvin agreed.
“Talk to Bertie. Ask her about it. She might surprise you and …” Fox shrugged as if he didn’t believe for a minute I’d get the information I wanted, at least not from Bertie.
“I’m going to close up,” I told them after hammering in the last nail. “After getting shot at, I’m too nervous to stay in one place. I need to go for a walk.”
“Of course you do, darling,” Fox purred. His elfish lips curled into a charming smile. He then offered me a nip of something that smelled like gasoline he kept in a small flask in his back pocket. I thanked him and said I might take him up on the offer another day.
I left yet another message with Bertie, who still wasn’t answering her phone, fetched Stella from the office, and locked up the shop.
Upstairs, Troubadour greeted me with meows and looked as if he might even try to rub against my leg in greeting. Stella clearly wasn’t going to allow that to happen. My pup surged forward, barking her pretty head off. Her giant tan-and-black ears fluttered like a butterfly in search of a flower. Troubadour, angry that Stella had blocked his path to me, hissed at my pup and then, in true catlike fashion, lifted his nose in the air and wandered back into Bertie’s bedroom as if to say he hadn’t wanted to greet me anyhow.
Stella looked pleased with herself as she followed me into my bedroom, where I changed out of my business attire and into a lightweight pink sundress. After grabbing a large straw sunhat from a peg by the door, I hooked Stella’s leash to her pretty pink collar. As usual, she tried to nip my hand, but I was learning her naughty tricks. I moved too quickly for my silky little hellion to get her teeth anywhere near me. With her excitedly leading the way, I headed down Main Street toward the beach. Stella barked happily as she tugged at the leash, urging me to pick up my pace.
The day was turning into another hot one. The noonday sun blazed down from a bright blue, cloudless sky. A line of cars stuffed with colorful blowup floats and with surfboards tied to their roofs clogged Main Street as day-trippers waited to turn onto the road that led to the beachfront park on the west end of the island.
Halfway down Main Street, I was surprised to see Congressman Trey Ezell coming out of Althea’s shop. I would never have guessed the serious congressman was interested in crystals.
“Congressman,” I called out to him.
He looked startled to see me but quickly regained his composure. He was dressed in an old-fashioned seersucker suit, the kind of suit many of the long-term residents at the Pink Pelican Inn liked to wear.
“Please,” he said, holding out his hands to me in greeting, “call me Trey.”
I let him take my hands in his. He held on a tad longer than I would have liked—but then again, some people did that. “Are you okay?” he asked. “I heard what happened. A shooting? At your shop?” He shook his head. “I can’t imagine anything like that happening in our quiet town. That Bixby Lewis fellow has certainly attracted some unsavory people.”
The congressman sounded suspiciously like the police chief, blaming outsiders for bringing the wrong type of people into town with them. “I don’t think blaming the musicians is fair. You have to admit that Bixby has encouraged many families to come and pay top dollar to rent beach houses, have dinners out, and buy hundreds of dollars’ worth of souvenirs.”
“Yes, yes,” he said. “But I heard a woman with a gun follows him everywhere.”
“I don’t know who pulled the trigger this morning or why.” Stella tugged at the leash, anxious to get moving again. I made her sit before tossing her another treat. “It could have been someone local.”
“What do you mean? You don’t know the shooter’s identity?” he asked, sounding incredulous. “I heard it had to be that young woman who followed Bixby to Camellia Beach.”
“Word sure gets around quickly.” Not that I was surprised. In a town this size, news tended to spread like a frenzied wildfire kicked up by the summer breeze. Still, I shook my head. “I don’t think Candy shot at me.”
“Candy?” he asked.
“Bixby’s stalker. She was at the shop, but she’d been lured there. By whom? That’s the question that needs answering.”
“Aha! Are you investigating on your own like you did after the murder this past winter?”
“I wouldn’t say I’m investigating.” Of course I was investigating. I simply didn’t want to say it. “That would be foolish, wouldn’t it?” My investigation of Stan’s murder was my way of working to protect Bixby and the festival. It made good business sense, but I doubted anyone else would see it that way. “I’m simply a business owner trying to protect my own interests. And I’ve been sharing my ideas with the police.” At least that last part was true.
“You’ve come up with some ideas about the murder?” He tilted his head to one side. “Such as?”
“I haven’t worked it all out in my mind yet, but …” I wasn’t sure why I stopped myself from finishing the thought. Probably because some of the ideas in my head were half-baked and not ready to be shared. I shrugged. “Detective Gibbons is a capable investigator. I have faith he’ll get to the bottom of what’s going on. Is Althea in there?” I asked, hoping the congressman would let me change the subject. I also hoped Althea had been able to find her mother.
“No, no, she’s not here,” he said, much to my disappointment. He hooked his arm with mine and started to walk with me. I flinched at his touch. Stella growled. “She set aside a geode for me. I stopped by to pick it up.”
“I didn’t realize you were into crystals.” I’d pictured him to be as levelheaded as they come. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps he was as nutty as my best friend.
“No, they all just look like overpriced rocks to me. It’s my nephew, Tom, who’s a rock fan. Or at least that’s what he keeps telling me. I was picking him up a present as a thank you for working so diligently with me these last couple of days. With my guidance, his work performance is finally starting to live up to our hardworking family name. You know I come from a long line of politicians? My father ran for governor three times and served in the state senate for more than thirty years.”
“Is that so?” I said.
“Tom’s going to take up the political mantle after me,” he said proudly.
Stella’s growls grew louder. I used my big-eared pup’s bad behavior as an excuse to get my arm back. I tossed her a treat.
“She’s still as feisty as ever, I see,” the congressman said with a chuckle. “Little dogs are like that.”
“She seems to be,” I agreed with an honest smile. I was glad that he didn’t insult Stella or try to dominate her, which would only send her into crazy, berserk mode. So many people when they met Stella tho
ught they could instantly stamp out her naughty behavior by looming over the five-pound fluff ball in a big, frightening manner while shouting commands. Let me tell you, that kind of training didn’t work with this dog. Frankly, I couldn’t imagine that it would work with any dog. But I digress.
“I suppose the police turned your shop into a crime scene. Is that why you’re not working?” he asked.
“They’ve completed their work and turned it back over to me. I just decided to close up for a little while and take a walk.”
“You closed up? Where’s Bertie? Is she okay?”
“She went on an errand,” I said, wondering what my partner was doing that had made her feel the need for such secrecy.
Ezell nodded. “Well, I’m glad you’re taking some time away from the shop. I don’t want our island’s star entrepreneur burning out.”
“I don’t think there’s any danger of that. Trying to figure out how to make a bonbon without ruining it is a challenge I don’t think I’ll master anytime soon.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said distractedly as he glanced at his watch. “Listen, I’d love to stay and talk, but I have a meeting with a donor in half an hour. Maybe we can talk later? Perhaps over dinner? You can tell me more about those ideas you have about who shot at you today.”
“I’ll probably be too busy to eat tonight with everything that’s going on with the festival, but maybe another night,” I said. I couldn’t help but think it was odd and perhaps even a little suspicious that he’d offer a dinner invitation out of the blue like that. It wasn’t as if we were friends.
“Well, soon, then,” he said with a determined gleam in his eyes. “I would sure like to help you sort through what you know about the troubles going on lately. I especially would like to talk through what you know about Stan’s murder. As I’ve already told you, he was my friend. I’m desperate to see justice served. Maybe if we put our heads together we can come up with some good ideas to share with the sheriff’s office.”
Playing with Bonbon Fire Page 15
