by Amity Allen
She paused to sip her drink. “When you can get the footage.”
“Yeah, when it all comes together it’s like poetry.” I cringed at my own characterization of this exploitation as poetry, and I prayed my favorite poet of all time, Maya Angelou, wasn’t listening to this conversation, wherever she was, but I wanted to butter up Liz so I could get my eyeballs on that footage.
“But, in this case, the big three all clammed up the minute the police used the ‘m’ word. Kinda suspicious, don’t you think?”
I wasn’t about to tell Liz there were a lot of things that sounded suspicious about this case, so I simply nodded. “And the big three were Anna Beth Martindale, and who were the other two?”
“Oh. Dimples Bradshaw and Allessandra Gustavez.”
“All beautiful girls.”
“To be sure. And with Dimples coming out the winner, and Allessandra the runner up, I’m glad I at least got the crowning on camera. I’m sure we can salvage something from all this, if the police would just let me go home. They say I could go as early as tomorrow though, so it’s not bad. I’ve turned it into a vacation of sorts.” She high-fived me. “A paid one at that.”
“I’ll bet.”
After we ate, Liz finished her drink and I offered to drive her back to the B&B.
“You sssure you don’t mind?” she slurred.
“Not a bit,” I said, helping her to the car.
Once we got back to the B&B, we went upstairs to her room, me with the hope that she’d show me the footage.
Unfortunately she got as far as opening the laptop and starting it up before she passed out cold on the bed.
Crumbs. I needed her password.
I didn’t know Liz well enough to guess at a password for her. I considered rifling through her purse to look for clues, but decided I’d better not. Instead, I shook Liz awake and asked for her password.
“Grey Goose,” she mumbled, and I wasn’t sure if she was ordering a drink or if that was her password.
I typed it out with both g’s capitalized and ding-ding! It worked.
I wouldn’t describe myself as a tech genius so it did take a few minutes for me to locate the correct files. They were labeled by date and I opened up the one with Saturday’s date.
I clicked play and watched as Tippy Bradshaw said, “That’s right, suckers!” into the camera.
She went on, “My daughter won! For those of you who didn’t know it, eat that. Dimples is the best. I knew it, but now all of America knows it too.” She puffed out her chest and made her fingers into the shape of a gun and pretended to shoot at the camera, then blew on her fingers and placed them back into an imaginary holster at her waist.
I cringed. Competition brought out the worst in some people.
Moving the trackpad on the computer, I scrolled back through the video.
A cute little girl with red hair said to the camera, “I had fun today even though I didn’t get the biggest crown.”
I didn’t recognize her and that seemed to be film from the end of the pageant, so I backed it up further.
Then there was pretty little Anna Beth with a tear rolling down her cheek. She was saying, “Can you believe they would take a crown away from a little girl?”
That’s right. I had heard a rumor circling that last year, at Bloomin’ Belles, the staff had made a mistake and handed Anna Beth the wrong crown. She’d had her picture taken with it and everything, but once the error had been discovered, they’d taken back the crown and given her a much smaller one.
Definitely dramatic fodder for Liz’s TV show. Little girl wronged returns to the pageant where the mean old organizer took away her big crown? Maybe Heather got wind that the storyline of the episode on the Bloomin’ Belles pageant made her out to be the Wicked Witch of the South. That could be enough to make her want to sabotage the show’s production.
I couldn’t imagine Bruce Martindale had taken it well either—Heather taking back Anna Beth’s crown. Which begged the question—why had he returned to this pageant in the first place after that experience? I made a note to check the guest log and see if he was still at the B&B or if he and Anna Beth had checked out already.
Not sure what I was looking for exactly, I let the film play for about forty-five minutes until I got something of interest.
Some ladies I didn’t recognize were standing around talking. It took me a few minutes to realize they were talking about witnessing Heather’s murder. The camera crew caught this portion of their conversation on tape:
“It was awful,” one woman said.
“Really? Did you see it?”
“Unfortunately. It’s something I don’t think I’ll forget for the rest of my life.”
“Heavens! What was it like?”
“Well, we were just sitting there. Eating. Shooting the breeze, ya know?”
“Right.”
“Then Heather looked around frantically. She said something about how she couldn’t see. And she clutched her throat.”
“What else did she say?”
“Thirsty. She said she was thirsty. It looked like she was reaching for her glass, but she knocked it over. Maybe because she couldn’t see, but she seemed so uncoordinated all of a sudden.”
“Oh my goodness. Then what happened?”
“She gasped. She kept gasping and it was like she couldn’t breathe. Then her head just plopped into her potato salad.”
“How terrible!” the other woman said, ghoulish fascination shining on her face.
“It was. Just awful. I’ll never forget it as long as I live, I swear.”
After hearing that, I felt slightly nauseated so I pressed pause. Looking over at Liz, I noticed a slight trickle of drool slid down onto her pillow. Poor thing.
She’s going to be hungover tomorrow, I thought as I went downstairs to get Liz an extra washcloth. While I was down there, I filled her a tall glass of water and took a few minutes to throw some laundry from the washer into the dryer and start a new load.
I climbed the stairs with Liz’s water and placed it next to her on the bedside table.
When she woke up, she was going to be dehydrated. Perhaps that would help.
I watched more uncut footage until I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore.
Yawning, I closed down the computer and tiptoed over to set it on the dresser near the window. Liz was sleeping so deeply, I didn’t want to disturb her.
Before I closed the door to go to my room I took one last peek at the passed out woman laid out haphazardly on the bed. She was snoring loudly enough to wake the guest in the next room.
Never in a million years would it have occurred to me that it could be the last time I’d ever see her alive.
I opened the door the next morning to Officer Goodnight standing on the front stoop.
“Good morning. May I help you?” I asked as pleasantly as I could, even though it was concerning to have a police presence at our family home and business.
“Yes. I’m here to speak with a Miss Liz Stoner,” he said, sounding very official.
“Come in.” I stepped back in the doorway and held my arm out, welcoming him into the living room. “Why don’t you have a seat in here while I go tell her you’re here?”
“Thank you.” He sat stiffly on one of my great-grandmother’s loveseats, and I climbed the stairs to find Liz.
She wasn’t going to be in any shape to talk to the police. I knew that much.
But as I got to the top of the landing and rounded the corner, I almost ran into Aunt Cricket, who had just come out of Liz’s room. Her face was as white as a sheet.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Oh, Poppy. It’s our guest. That Stoner woman . . .”
“What about her?”
“I don’t think she’s breathing.”
“You don’t think she’s what?” My heart pounded, and I pushed past her into Liz’s room.
Sure enough, there was Liz, lying on the bed, basically where I’d left he
r the night before. Only this time her body remained perfectly still, and no snoring sounds escaped her. I watched for the rise and fall of her chest, but it was wishful thinking.
Good gravy! I’d expected Liz to be in bad shape today, but this was taking it to a completely different level.
“Did you check her pulse?” I asked Cricket.
“No. I was afraid to touch her.”
I reached over and checked both her wrist and her neck. Nothing.
Knowing I shouldn’t disturb anything, I scanned the scene for clues. There were no ligature marks on her neck, but there were a couple of pillows next to her head rather than under them. I recalled her having her head lying on at least one of them when I’d seen her last. It seemed a good hypothesis that she’d been suffocated by someone holding one or both of those pillows over her face. She’d been out of it enough the night before I doubt she’d have been able to put up much of a fight.
I glanced around the room to see if there was anything else out of place or unusual, and that was when I noticed Liz’s laptop wasn’t on the dresser where I’d left it. Afraid to touch anything else, I didn’t dare look in the drawers, but it wasn’t under the bed or anywhere in plain sight.
Had Liz gotten up in the night and used it? I highly doubted it. My hunch was that it had something to do with Liz’s untimely demise.
I couldn’t be positive, but I did know we couldn’t keep this new development from Officer Goodnight any longer. “Well, there’s a policeman downstairs who wants to see her. I guess we should tell him.”
Over the next few hours we received visits from the coroner, additional police officers and the paramedics who left with Liz Stoner’s lifeless body in their ambulance. Not long after I heard the coroner tell Officer Goodnight they should treat Liz Stoner’s death as a homicide, the police officer told me I was going to have to come down to the station.
“Can I get another cup of coffee first? I’ll make you a cup,” I offered, rubbing my eyes. It had been a long morning. All of this had started at practically the crack of dawn. Liz’s body was barely cold and already the police wanted to question me? Somebody needed to remind them the pace of things was supposed to be slow in the South. It felt like our small-town police force had been saving up all their energy for years and now that they finally had something to do they were giving it all they had.
“Yes, you can make some coffee. Just don’t take too long. I don’t want to be accused of exhibiting favoritism because you’re a celebrity.”
“I won’t dawdle,” I promised.
Ha! He thought of me as a celebrity. That was kinda sweet. The past few days I had felt a lot less like a B-list celebrity and more like a G-list hack, but I could tell by his expression that he probably thought I was at least a “B.”
We sat in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee to percolate. I yawned, secretly planning to take a nap later.
The coffee pot chirped and I held it up. “Would you like some?”
Officer Goodnight held up a hand in that “stop” sign police officers and the Supremes were so famous for. “No thanks. I’m on duty.”
“It’s not like I was offering you bourbon for breakfast,” I muttered under my breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” I said, reminding myself to be polite. He and I had been doing well until now, and I really didn’t want to push it. After I poured my coffee, I asked him, “So, are you going to drive me, or do I need to bring my own car?”
He considered this before answering. “Whichever you prefer.”
It would be weird riding in a police car, but there was something about it that screamed field trip; and it seemed like a better choice than driving my own car with him following me. I’d be scared the whole time that he’d pull me over for some minor infraction on the way. I’d forget to turn on my blinker or not stop for long enough at a stop sign—something. Call me paranoid, but that was an experience I wanted to skip.
“I’d like to ride in the squad car if it’s all the same to you. Just let me tell my aunt Cricket that I’m going.”
Aunt Cricket had taken to her bed. Finding a dead body wasn’t a shock she could take in stride, so I told her I’d handle everything and urged her to rest. I started for Cricket’s room then stopped to ask, “Won’t you need to talk to her too?”
“Yes, please tell her we’d like to see her down at the station later this afternoon if possible, since she’s the one who found the body. But it appears you were the last person to see Miss Stone alive, so we have a lot of questions for you that are currently our top priority.”
A cold chill ran through my blood.
“The last person to see her alive before her killer,” I snapped defensively.
Ignoring my outburst, Officer Goodnight pursed his lips and said, “When you’re ready to go, I’ll be out front.”
Even though he brought out the prickly in me, there was something steady in his staid presence that made me feel better—like a buoy in the middle of monster waves.
I went to Aunt Cricket’s room and told her what was happening.
“Don’t worry, Poppy. They’re just trying to clear this up. Everything will be fine. You can always call me if you need me, and I’ll be up there later. If you start feeling like you need a lawyer, just call Buddy. You have his number, right?”
I nodded. Buddy had been taking care of our family’s legal troubles for as long as I’d been alive. He was a judge over in Anniston, but he still did lawyerin’ for us when we needed it.
Cricket took my hand between hers and squeezed. “It’s going to be all right, honey.” The creases around her eyes deepened with sincerity, and this comforted me more than I thought it could have.
“Thanks.” I squeezed her hand and made my way to the squad car in the driveway.
When I got outside, Officer Goodnight had the passenger side of his car open.
“I don’t have to sit in the back?”
He shook his head. “Not unless you just want to. You can ride up front with me if you’re all right with that.”
I got in the front seat and shut the door. After I buckled up and he pulled the car onto the road, I asked, “Can I make the lights go on?”
“Don’t push your luck.”
My shoulders slumped. “So I guess the sirens are out too, huh?”
“Yep,” he said shortly.
Something in the back of my head said I should be asking him questions. Questions that would help me figure out who killed Heather Morgan. And now Liz Stoner. Was it the same person, or could these cases possibly be unrelated? That didn’t seem likely, as it was too much of a coincidence for the only two murders in our town to occur in years to occur in the same week—both people having been involved in the same beauty pageant.
But my brain was foggy, and I was nervous. I hadn’t done anything. Liz had been alive when I’d left her, but then again a lot of people went to prison for things they didn’t do.
I tried to clear my head by focusing on everything we passed on the way to the station—the old building where Mads, Skylar, and I attended kindergarten, the fudge shop, the resale shop where Skylar swore you could find discarded designer bags, the Fairhope clock . . .
My head was starting to throb, and I pulled up Buddy’s number on my phone.
Just in case.
Once we got to the police station I waited for them to take me into one of those back rooms with the two-way mirrors with nothing between you and the interrogator but a table, but Officer Goodnight simply brought me over to his desk. He pulled a chair up next to the side of it and indicated I should sit down.
“Are you the one who’s going to be asking me questions?” I asked.
“Yeah, why?”
“I thought you were going to put me in a room and send in some hard-nosed detective to really make me sweat.”
“You watch too much TV.”
“Hey,” I bristled. “I think you’re confused. I was on TV. Actually, I’m more of
a reader.”
“Whatever.” I could see he was unimpressed. “There are only a few of us on duty right now and until there’s a reason for you to speak with the detective, I can take your statement.”
“Fine. I just don’t know why we couldn’t do it at the bed and breakfast. You were already there.”
“Procedure. Now can we get started?”
“Sure.”
“I believe you were the last person to see Liz Stoner alive. Tell me about that.”
“I resent that. I keep telling you, I was the last person to see her besides the killer.” I crossed my arms over my chest.
He ignored my petulance. “What was her state of mind last night?”
“She was upset. Drinking heavily.”
“Why?”
“Well, I think you guys were to blame for some of it.”
He furrowed his brow. “‘You guys’ as in the police?”
“Yes. She was upset that you took her footage and weren’t letting her leave.”
“She told you that?”
“Yes, and you probably already know this, but Heather shut down her coverage of the Bloomin’ Belles pageant shortly after it began on Saturday morning.”
“Tell me what you know about that.”
“Only that Liz came down here, booked a hotel room for herself at the bed and breakfast. Her crew was saying at one of the chain hotels up by the interstate, and they already had footage from Friday night and gobs of preproduction footage prior to the pageant on some of the contestants. So it really messed her up when Heather stopped production. Liz wasn’t even sure if it was legal, but Heather got the parents to stop cooperating so that really screwed things up for her.”
“They already had a lot invested in filming the actual pageant?”
I nodded. “Right. So when Heather kicked her out on Saturday, Liz was pretty pissed off.”
“To your knowledge, after Heather was killed, did Liz’s crew continue filming?”
