by Amity Allen
“Yes. In fact, most of us had no idea that she had been asked not to. Only those people Heather had told, but after she was gone, Liz just kept on filming with some of us. I did a small interview. I don’t think Liz meant to be ghoulish about it, but I think she saw it is a stroke of luck that Heather was out of the way.”
“Do you think she killed Heather so that she could keep filming?”
“No. When I saw Liz last night she was wasted. And she continued drinking. It’s possible she knew who did it. Maybe that was why she was drinking so much, but I didn’t get the sense that she felt guilty. I kinda got the feeling she was a regular drinker, that maybe she had an ongoing drinking problem. She was committed to her show, but I’m not sure she was committed enough to commit murder.”
“Did you see anyone else at the bed and breakfast? Anyone suspicious or anyone hanging around who didn’t have a room there?”
“No. Only the guests, and after Liz passed out on her bed, I went to bed.”
“What time was that?”
“Around one.”
“Liz Stoner was still alive at one a.m.?”
“Yes.”
“What were y’all doing until one o’clock in the morning?” His blue eyes pierced mine, and suddenly I felt the prick of sweat in my armpits.
I let out a big breath and burst out, “Well, if you must know . . .”
“I must.”
“Liz was passed out and I was watching footage of her show on her computer.”
He frowned. “I thought we had that, or were you watching something else?”
“No. Liz made copies before she gave it to you guys.”
His forehead crinkled. “You said she had a computer. We didn’t come across a computer in her room this morning. What happened to it?”
“That’s a good question.”
“Where was it when you left?”
“I set it on the dresser, and this morning it wasn’t there anymore.”
He handed me a pen and a piece of paper. “Here. Write down a description of it. Everything you can remember about it—color, brand, model, size. Everything.”
I bent my head and followed his instructions. “You think someone murdered her for her computer, or to get what was on the computer?” I asked with a shiver. It really creeped me out to think that while I was sleeping a murder had been committed just a few doors down the hall.
Was she suffocated?”
He shot me a warning look.
“I know it’s ‘police business,’ Officer, but it also happened in my home. Possibly minutes after I left the room. Surely you can tell me what you think happened to her.”
He sighed. “Most likely she was suffocated, but we’ll have to wait for the official report.”
I nodded, satisfied. “Thank you.”
“What was on the footage that you were looking at?”
I briefly described what I’d seen to him, including the eyewitness account of Heather actually falling ill.
“But I think you guys have already seen all that . . .”
“Most likely, but if that’s the case, what other reason would someone have for stealing Liz Stoner’s computer?”
He tapped his finger against his chin.
Was he questioning my story? Perhaps it sounded suspicious.
Narrowing his eyes, he leaned towards me. “Why were you so interested in that footage?”
I swallowed hard. “I got really into the whole pageant thing. I was a judge, remember? Liz had asked me to be in the show, and I just wanted to see it.”
That answer seemed to satisfy him, and he continued writing down my responses until finally he said, “I think that’s it for now. We’ll talk to your aunt Cricket and the other guests, but for now you’re free to go.”
“Does that mean I’m not a suspect?”
He shook his head as if that were a ridiculous notion. “No, Poppy. You’re not a suspect.”
“Why not?” It wasn’t that I wanted to be a suspect, but I was curious about his reasoning.
“Well for starters, I can’t think of any motive you’d have for killing Liz Stoner. Plus you’re not acting like a guilty suspect.”
“What does a guilty suspect act like—in your experience?”
He shrugged. “We don’t have a lot of murders in Fairhope, Poppy. In fact, this is the first one since I’ve been a police officer here so I don’t have a lot of experience with killers, but my guess is that if you had done it, you would either be acting really squirrelly or you’d have lawyered up by now.”
“Good point,” I said, patting my pocketbook that held my phone, all set to dial Buddy’s number.
The officer who’d been working at the next desk wheeled his chair over and handed a sticky note to Officer Goodnight.
“What’s this?” Goodnight asked.
“Got that number for ya.” The guy wheeled back to his desk.
“What number?” I couldn’t resist asking.
“We found a burner phone in Liz Stoner’s room, in addition to her main phone. Lots of calls and texts on it, but they only went to one number.”
“Who does it belong to?” Goodnight asked the other cop.
“It’s a cell phone, registered in Nevada. Owner’s name is Bruce Martindale.
“Bruce Martindale?” I asked.
“Yeah, is he a friend of yours?”
“No, but he’s the guy who took over the pageant after Heather died. He’s a dad in the pageant world. A coach too. He was staying at our B&B, but I’m pretty sure he checked out a couple of days ago.”
“When your aunt Cricket comes in later, ask her to bring along her guest records.”
I nodded. “So do you think Liz was involved with him?”
“Judging by the content of the texts between them, I’d say so.”
“But if he wasn’t here, he couldn’t have killed her, so should I be worried?”
“I’d recommend that you and your aunt change the locks and be very vigilant over the next few days. Maybe even shut down the B&B until we find out who’s behind this.”
“She’s not gonna like this.”
“That’s what I recommend. It’s her choice. Want me to give you a lift home?”
“Thanks, but there’s something I’ve got to do first.”
“Suit yourself.”
Not only could I use the exercise, but also Fairhope had recently come into its own—we had Uber now, and a ride was just a fingertip click away.
As I gathered my things to leave, I said, “By the way, Officer Goodnight, there’s one more person you should be sure to look at with regards to Heather Morgan’s murder.”
The look on his face told me he found this rather amusing. “And who might that be?”
“Her name is Marissa something-or-other. She runs a pageant in Atlanta. Shouldn’t be too hard to find. She and Heather were apparently big rivals.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?”
I shrugged. “Brittany Gustavez told me she was in New York when Heather was being murdered, but I’m realizing more and more that just because somebody says it doesn’t mean it’s true.”
“Very true. Thanks for the tip. We’ll have that alibi checked.”
I nodded.
“Oh, and Poppy?”
“Yes?” I looked up, and he stared at me intently. I’d forgotten how blue his eyes were. Big inviting pools you wanted to drown yourself in. Immediately I warned myself not to get sucked into the gravitational pull of his charm.
“It’s Niall.”
“What is?”
“My name. You don’t have to call me Officer Goodnight. At least not all the time.”
“Oh, okay,” I replied with a nonchalance that I hoped didn’t betray the butterflies that fluttered in my stomach.
Chill out, I told myself as I left the precinct. It wasn’t like he’d been hitting on me right there in the police station. He’d simply made a suggestion, one that would conserve energy. It took a lot mor
e energy to say “Officer Goodnight” than it did “Niall.” You were trading in five syllables for one. Or wait, was Niall two syllables? Hmm. You could say it with one or two, depending on how much of a Southern drawl you used.
Either way, it was shorter.
I forced the man out of my mind and walked a few blocks to the tiny fudge shop to pick up a couple of slices for me and Aunt Cricket. When I opened the door, I greedily inhaled the cloud of chocolate that wafted through the air.
There were at least a dozen flavors to choose from, but I chose plain chocolate for me, and rocky road for Aunt Cricket. She loved marshmallows, and I figured she might need some cheering up once she heard she might have to close down the B&B for a time.
Liz’s death had me unnerved. I didn’t think it had anything to do with me, but I did worry about waking up with a pillow being pressed against my face.
All these thoughts of death didn’t help with the task I was about to undertake. After I’d eaten a few bites of fudge, I packed it away in my bag and strode down the street.
At the corner, I took a left then another left and I walked until, before I knew it, I’d arrived.
My heart pounded in my chest as I opened the door to the animal shelter.
I walked in the front door of the animal shelter not sure what to expect, but dreading it.
There was a red-haired, freckle-faced teenage boy standing at the front counter.
“How can I help you?” he asked in a monotone voice.
“Hi!” I said as cheerily as I could.” I wanted to see if a cat was here.”
“Which one? We’ve got about twenty of them.”
My heart dropped. That was a lot of cats. “Um, it belonged to Heather Morgan.”
With a big sigh, he looked over at a computer next to him. “Name?”
“Oh. Poppy Parker.”
He frowned at me. “Is that the cat’s name or yours?”
“Mine. Oh, did you want the cat’s name?” I could feel the heat climbing my cheeks. “I don’t know his name.”
Not only did he seem to think I was an idiot for misunderstanding his question, but his face showed no signs of recognizing me.
Never overestimate the power of B-list celebrity.
“What color?” he asked. Then he added, “The cat.”
Smart apple.
“Black.”
“Sex?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know what day he came in?”
“I’m not even sure he’s here. But a Mr. Morgan may have brought him in recently.”
“Be right back.” He went to the rear of the office. There were some muffled animal noises, mainly barking, but for the most part they had the animals contained behind a door so you couldn’t hear them up front.
After a few minutes the kid returned.
“Yep. He’s been surrendered by his owner. Why? Did you want him?”
“No.” It was like window-shopping when you were broke. I knew I couldn’t have the kitty, but it didn’t stop me from worrying about him.
“All right. Anything else?” he asked, looking like there were a thousand things he’d rather be doing than talking to me.
“No. Thank you.”
“Okay.” He turned and headed towards the back.
“Wait. How long does he have?” I asked, my heart in my throat.
“Let me check.” The boy came back to the front desk, clicked a few keys then said, “A week.”
“A week? That’s it?” I was outraged. Heather was barely cold in the ground and already her pet was about to join her? Suddenly life felt unbearably cruel.
“Like I said, we’ve got a lot of cats.”
I stood there mutely, wanting with every fiber in my being to say, “Sure, I’ll take him home with me,” but I couldn’t. It wasn’t my home to take him to. It was my aunt’s business. A business I could mess up with the mere presence of a cat. And it wasn’t like we weren’t already having challenges right now anyway, with a guest being murdered and all.
“Look, if you’re considering adopting him, I wouldn’t take too long.”
“Oh, I can’t adopt him. Maybe someone else can.”
“I doubt it.”
“Why not?”
“We don’t get a lot of people in here looking for cats. And it’s even worse for the black ones. Over half the cats I’ve got back there are black. People think they’re bad luck. It’s always the orange ones or the Siamese that get adopted. Or the occasional calico. The black ones, they’re the worst off. They’ve got nothing to set themselves apart from the others.”
“That’s awful.”
“It is, and just think how sad you’re going to be if you come in next week, and I tell you he’s been euthanized.”
Talk about a knife to the gut. “Ouch. Not afraid to hit below the belt, are ya?”
“I call ’em as I see ’em,” he said cheerily, dismissing me as someone else came in the front door. It was a frantic frizzy-haired lady hoping to claim her dog that she thought had been brought here by accident.
“He has a good home. He just got scared by the thunderstorm last night and dug out. He just gets frantic when we’re not home,” she was saying as I slipped out the door.
I was envious of this dog on behalf of Heather’s poor cat. Before Heather had died, he’d had a good home too, even if Mr. Morgan wasn’t a fan. It wasn’t his fault that his owner had gotten caught up in who knows what, or that she simply wasn’t a nice person. She had probably been good to him. Given him a home at least.
That was more than I’d ever done for an animal.
Feeling about an inch tall, I trudged the rest of the way home, kicking rocks in my path with an extra punch of sullenness.
When I got there, I found Aunt Cricket in the kitchen.
“I brought you some fudge.”
“Oooh, thank you. That sounds delicious. Won’t you join me?” She sat down and patted the chair next to her.
I plopped into the chair, shaking my head. “I don’t have much of an appetite.”
“What’s the matter? Upset about the murder upstairs?” Aunt Cricket asked.
“Well, that’s concerning. But really it’s more about a cat.”
“What cat?”
“Heather Morgan had a cat, and her husband doesn’t want it. He’s allergic, so he took it to the shelter.”
Cricket nodded.
“I don’t know. I feel bad for the poor kitty. He didn’t do anything. It’s not his fault his owner was murdered. It just seems unfair that he has to get put down because his owner had the bad luck to be murdered.”
“Life is unfair, Poppy. You know that.”
She was right. My life started out with the greatest loss possible and there seemed to be no reason for it. Maybe that was why I was so driven to find Heather’s murderer—I needed things to make sense. I wanted things that happened in life to have a reason.
“It’s like they’re following you around.” Mads made a face.
“Who?” I asked. It was the next morning at The Flower Shoppe and Mads and Skylar were giving me the third degree about what had happened the night before last at the B&B.
“Murderers. Just don’t bring them to work with you,” Skylar said, crossing her fingers at me in a gesture that said, “Stay far away.”
“I’ll try.”
“Seriously, I’m worried about you.” Skylar gave me a hug.
“Thanks.” I hugged her back. When I let go, I said, “I appreciate that, but I’m okay.”
“So the police have no idea who killed Liz Stoner?” Mads asked.
“Nope.”
“Do they think it has anything to do with Heather’s death?” Skylar asked.
“I’m not sure what their theory is. They aren’t exactly looping me into their investigation, as much as I wish they would,” I answered.
“Well, they’ve let Josephine go,” Skylar reported.
“Really? Why?” I asked.
“I guess
they don’t have solid evidence against her,” Skylar said.
“Well, I should think not.”
“What about that awful Brittany woman?” Mads asked.
“Allessandra’s mom?”
“Yes. I thought you overheard her saying something suspicious.”
“I did, but it turned out it was a misunderstanding.”
“Rats. I thought it might be that witch.”
I stiffened. The word “witch” coming out of Mads’ mouth like that—with venom—gave me pause. I wanted to tell my friends about my secret powers, but I didn’t know how, and I feared their reactions. What if they turned their backs on me? Shunned me, or worse?
Not that I expected them to do that, but I still wasn’t sure how to handle it, and when Mads said something like that, it made me even more nervous about them finding out.
“She could use some work,” I agreed, remembering the look on Allessandra’s face when her mother fussed at her for not winning the Mega Ultimate Grand Supreme title.
“What about that dude that took over the pageant?” Mads asked. “Y’all said he seemed kinda slimy.”
“He is,” Skylar agreed.
“And he was involved with Liz Stoner.”
“No! I would never have put those two together,” Skylar said.
“Me either, but that doesn’t make him a murderer. I can’t figure out a motive for him. After Heather’s death, he took over the pageant, which disqualified his daughter from winning a title, so her death didn’t benefit him. He just wound up doing a bunch of work that people complained about and he got no props for what he was sacrificing.”
“What about the husband? It’s always the husband,” Skylar said.
“I don’t think he was anywhere near the convention center when she was killed though, or the police would have arrested him already.”
“Maybe it was some long-acting poison, and he put it in her coffee before she went to the pageant that morning,” Mads said.
“Like he kissed her good-bye like everything was normal and planned for her to fall out at the competition and he’d act all surprised?” Skylar asked.
“Yeah.” Mads nodded.
“Hmm. And he is a doctor so I guess maybe he’d know what poison to use. I wonder if he has a motive . . .” I said.
