Ugh. “Seriously? I’m pretty sure you’d feel differently if the shoe was on the other foot. You have a GPS tracker on my phone, surveillance on my front door, and a partner who tells you things.” I felt a twinge of guilt at the last one since I still hadn’t told him about Mr. Black’s case. Then again, I hadn’t had the chance to either. “That’s a lot of information,” I pointed out. “How would you feel if I disconnected all that stuff and stopped talking to you?”
“That’s different. It’s about your safety.”
“It’s the exact same thing. You care about my safety and well-being, and I care about yours. But that goes beyond the physical, so when your mom is in the hospital, both your and her well-being are at stake, and I want to be there for you. Which I can’t do if I you don’t tell me about it.”
Connor grunted. It didn’t even sound like an affirmative grunt.
“It’s not like I’ll be any good at protecting you physically,” I persisted, “so this is it. This is the way I can be your partner and support you. But you need to let me.”
Silence.
“Look, I have to go, but think about this, okay? This is not just a difference of opinion, this is a foundational element of having a relationship, and while I don’t expect you to turn into Chatty Cathy, you need to learn to share things with me.”
He grunted again.
“I’m going to take that to mean you’ll think about it. Lovely speaking with you.”
Okay, the last sentence might’ve been sarcastic. But while I consider myself a patient person (except when I’m hungry), Connor was a sore test of that particular virtue.
An hour later, I was standing once more in the WECS Club ballroom. I used one of the grand white columns to steady myself. Partly because of the inappropriate heels my client expected me to wear and partly because I was juggling three missions: fulfill my Shade duties, observe and eavesdrop to collect useful information for Vanessa, and obtain a new lead on the Watts case.
The Taste Society wouldn’t be happy about that if they ever found out. Keeping Vanessa Madison poison-free in this den of iniquity was more than enough to keep my full attention.
I strode over and grabbed the glass that I’d seen one of her companions’ hand hover over. “May I get you something more suitable for the next course, Mrs. Madison?”
She fluttered a hand at me without sparing a glance. Now how could I ensure no one poisoned her food while I was gone? I couldn’t, so I grabbed her plate too. She’d only eaten three bites of it.
Knowing she was safe, albeit without any food or drink, I took my time wandering through the crowd on my way to the kitchen, listening for interesting snippets of conversation.
“You’ll never believe what I caught my maid doing.”
I resisted my natural curiosity and didn’t slow down to find out.
“It doesn’t matter. René Laurent chooses whoever puts out most satisfactorily.”
Here I paused. René Laurent was the fashion mogul who determined which of the twelve photos made the cut into the Scandalous Cause calendar. Vanessa might want to know about this one.
“No way, everyone knows he’s gay,” the woman’s companion replied.
“Then maybe they send their husbands.” Snickers of laughter. I moved on.
“I heard they arrested someone already.”
“Was it his wife? By the sounds of it, she had plenty of reasons to want to kill him.”
What kind of reasons?
“No, she had an alibi. It was another parent at the Frederick Academy apparently. The father of one of those scholarship kids from a low socioeconomic background. Beats me why they let the little troublemakers rub shoulders with the leaders of the future.”
It was tempting to trip and send Vanessa’s wine all over the snobby, self-entitled witch, but I was supposed to stay invisible. Plus I had to test the wine to confirm whether it had been spiked.
I traipsed back down the stairs toward the kitchen and tasted it as soon as I was out of sight. Poisoned with lithin and celandium, two innocuous over-the-counter drugs that when mixed together with alcohol would’ve given Vanessa a nasty, acne-like rash. How did these women learn this stuff? Was there a convenient little handbook on how to poison your friends?
I’d have to study the WECS Club member whose hand passed over the glass so I could describe her to Vanessa and earn my extra cash. But before that, thanks to Emily and the would-be poisoner, I’d get to repeat the entire rigmarole of waiting long minutes outside the kitchen for new food, testing said food, and watching hawk-eyed as Vanessa attempted to eat it.
With the next course in hand, I was halfway through the crowd when a hush went over the room. All eyes swiveled to the staircase. A dainty brunette had just reached the top. She wore a simple black shift dress that skimmed the floor as she walked. I wondered who she was to command so much interest. Not even Vanessa Madison had such a physical effect on the club.
“Nicole, how are you holding up?” asked a woman in a fitted skirt and cashmere wrap. The spell on the room broke. Conversations resumed. I heard whispers of “widow” and remembered where I’d seen her before. Michael Watts’s wife.
One of our primary suspects.
Nothing about her suggested she knew her way around a gun. She was quiet and withdrawn, in a manner that seemed more habitual than a new state of grief. But you never knew what was going on beneath the surface, especially with the quiet types.
Maybe she’d found out about her husband’s dirty secrets and had been planning the murder for weeks. Maybe she’d been waiting for an opportunity. And maybe Mr. Black had given it to her. When she came home to find Michael badly beaten, she could’ve finished it right then so there might be someone else to take the blame. Sure, they’d said she had an alibi, but alibis could be bought.
Nicole sank into a seat as if she couldn’t stand up any longer, and I realized I was staring. I resumed my way over to my client and felt bad for thinking like that about someone who was probably genuinely mourning the loss of her life partner. But that’s what detectives did, I guess. Think the worst of people. No wonder Connor wasn’t good at relationships.
I shifted my mind back to my three missions. I had my hands full without throwing Connor into the mix.
By the time Vanessa decided she was ready to depart, my feet were aching again and the only missions I’d achieved were the ones she’d set me. Priority parking was given to the WECS Club members, leaving “the help” with a long walk to their vehicles over pebbled paths. It was a lovely stroll through the garden but painful in heels. So after the first WECS function, I’d brought a pair of comfy shoes to change into for the trek to and from the parking lot.
I hobbled into the walk-in closet where the working staff stored their belongings and slipped off my heels with giddy relief. Barefoot, I rummaged through my bag and then rummaged some more. What the heck? My comfy shoes were missing. It was easy enough to lose something small in the cavernous properties of my bag, but shoes were another matter. And sure, my eyes were fatigued, but not that fatigued. I checked the cubbyhole my stuff had been stowed in, but it was empty too. There was only one explanation.
Emily Lin.
We’d left at similar times yesterday. So much so that I’d all but power walked to my car to avoid a long, awkward stroll beside her. She must have seen my efficient, clever shoe system and hatched up this foul plot.
I leaned my head against the wall and wondered what I’d done to deserve an enemy like her. I’d been trying to take the high road, hoping my lack of reaction would make her feel guilty or lose interest. But enough was enough. She was going to learn that two could play her vindictive games. I thought I’d grown out of that sort of thing after graduating high school, but it turned out that adults could be equally petty and childish. Maybe more so.
Mind turning over revenge strategies, I pulled my blasted heels back on and headed to the parking lot. I tried to enjoy the green lawns and rose bushes, but it was hard with
a blister developing on each of my little toes. When I finally saw my Corvette’s silver nose peeking out from the other cars, the “Hallelujah Chorus” played in my mind.
Until I went to grab my keys.
She wouldn’t.
I sat down on a patch of grass and pulled every last item out of my bag.
She did. She’d taken my keys as well.
I couldn’t imagine her actually stealing them. Grand theft auto wasn’t her style. Petty aggravation was. Which meant that she’d probably hidden them somewhere in the stupid closet I’d just come from. On the off-chance I was wrong, I could hardly call someone to come to my rescue until I knew for sure.
I said a naughty word.
It was sorely tempting to walk back in bare feet, but Vanessa wouldn’t appreciate the scandal if I was caught. I grumbled and limped all the way to the clubhouse, then began a systematic search of the cubbyholes.
The door to the closet opened as I was looking behind someone else’s bag.
“What are you doing? That’s Chantelle’s bag.”
I spun, feeling guilty even though I wasn’t doing anything wrong. It was the girl who’d been sympathetic after the chef had kicked me out of the kitchen. She wasn’t looking sympathetic now.
“I seem to have misplaced my car keys, and I’m trying to find them.”
“Why would they end up in someone else’s cubbyhole?”
Great. Now if anything went missing from anyone’s bags, I’d be branded a thief as well as a meal-destroyer. I’d like to think Emily wouldn’t go that far, but I wasn’t sure anymore. I ran through my options quickly and decided to tell this girl the truth. That way if something did go missing, maybe I’d have at least one person on my side.
“To be honest, the new girl that’s working for the vice president has it in for me. I think she turned up the stove on purpose and blamed it on me, and now she’s hidden my keys and the comfy shoes I wear to and from the parking lot.”
The girl looked unconvinced. “That sounds kinda far-fetched, but I’m sorry if it’s true. I guess we’ll know by whether anyone’s missing their belongings tomorrow.” She shot me a meaningful look, then grabbed her bag and left.
I groaned and resumed my search.
11
I finally located both the keys and shoes hidden behind someone else’s bag and drove home half an hour later than I’d expected. Etta was almost bouncing with impatience.
“Where have you been? I followed the principal after work to see if she went anywhere we could talk to her. And she went to a local bar without that snotty receptionist, but I don’t know how long she’ll stay, so we have to go right now!”
“You followed her? Alone? I thought we were doing this case together. What if she was dangerous? Even professional detectives have a partner for safety.”
“She’s the principal for goodness’ sake, and I followed her discreetly from a distance. The most dangerous part of the whole thing was the possibility of a traffic collision. Now let’s go.”
I knew she’d leave without me if I didn’t relent, so I trudged down the stairs. “We’ll go in my car then. I don’t know how anyone can be discreet in a car the color of Tweety Bird.”
Etta opted not to answer that. She gave me directions, and I started driving. Somewhere along the way, I noticed she was wearing her little-old-lady costume again.
“I’m not sure about that outfit,” I told her. “So far it’s left me abandoned to Commander Hunt’s less-than-tender mercies and gotten us almost shot at.”
“Nonsense, dear. This outfit is capable of miracles.”
Good. We were going to need one.
It was a modest establishment, the type that caters to the local regulars rather than tourists or those looking for a fun, new experience. Our target was sitting alone by the bar, nursing an amber-colored liquid that could’ve been scotch… or apple juice. I was betting on the alcohol. There wasn’t much else on offer in a place like this.
Her clothing was tailored and looked expensive, but somehow she didn’t give off the same impression as most of the WECS Club women. As if the picture of prosperity was a mirage that kept flickering around the edges.
Etta shambled along in her little-old-lady outfit. The transformation went deeper than the costume—she was a brilliant actress. Her gait went from light and quick to slow and hesitant, leaning heavily on her sturdy walking stick. Her ballerina posture shifted to hunched-over shoulders and a neck that stuck forward a few inches too far. Only her eyes still spoke of the spirited, elegant woman I knew.
“Is this seat taken, dear?” Etta asked Principal Olivia Gibson tremulously.
“Gram, leave her alone, there’s plenty of seats over here.” I shot the principal an apologetic look while Etta sent her a forlorn one.
“No, that’s okay,” Gibson said, demonstrating she had a heart. “She can sit by me.”
“Oh, that’s real lovely of you.” Etta teetered her way up onto the stool, making it look so difficult that I found myself ready to catch her. “My granddaughter here, she’s always worried about being polite. But I’m more interested in meeting people. I count myself blessed if I get out once a week nowadays, and I need to feel involved in this world somehow. Hear people’s stories. Otherwise, I sit around, feeling like the world’s just waiting for me to pass on. You don’t mind do you?”
“No.” Principal Gibson took a large swig, suggesting she kind of did. “Not at all.”
“Well. Let me buy you a drink then,” Etta said. “Barman, another of what she’s having please, and I’ll have a scotch on the rocks. Izzy there’ll have a club soda.” She turned to Gibson and winked. “She’s designated driver. There’s gotta be some benefit to getting old.”
I had the feeling Etta was enjoying this more than she should.
“Don’t drink too much, Gram. You know what happened last week.”
She flapped her hand at me. “Piffle. You just don’t know what a good time looks like.” She swiveled back to Gibson. “Now tell me. What do you do with yourself?”
“I’m a principal,” she said.
“Get outta here. I used to be a teacher back in the day. What made you get into it?”
Another swig. “I’ve been asking myself the same question.”
Etta chuckled appreciatively. “It’s a thankless job, I’ll bet. I always used to say, the kids were great, at least some of them were. But the paperwork was soul destroying. I imagine the principal gig is worse?”
“It can be. Though it’s less the paperwork and more the politics that drives me to drink.”
“I hear you. There’s the schoolyard politics—a whole mini infrastructure of juvenile society—and then there’s teacher and parent politics, which is about a hundred times as bad. Where are you principal of?”
“Frederick Academy.”
“Now that’s a school with some prestige behind it. Well done.” She took a sip of her own drink. “But wait, isn’t that the one in the news? With the parent murdered and some other parent arrested for it?”
“Now you know why I’m here instead of at home with my feet up. My holidays will be spent smoothing the feathers of overprotective parents and making bland, consolatory statements to the press.”
“That bad, huh? At least they can’t blame the school, right? It’d be quite another thing if a parent took out a teacher or vice versa. I’ve met a few parents I would’ve liked to take out, I can tell you that.”
It was Gibson who chuckled appreciatively this time. Less heartily than Etta had, but she must have been warming to the conversation.
“Just a few?” she asked.
Etta snorted. “I wish you’d been the principal at my school. The guy was as sour as a gherkin and had no sense of humor at all. I guess I would’ve been sour too if my last name had been Goober. But I want to hear your story. What happened? What was the guy who was murdered like? Or what was his kid like? You can tell a lot about a parent by their kid.”
“His kid’s
a wreck. You’d think it’d happen less at a highly regarded school full of rich kids, but sometimes I think it’s worse. At the very least, they’re as bad as the rest of us, only in shinier packaging.”
“Did you see it coming? Was the father the kind to make enemies?”
“Well, he put on a good front, but I’ve been around long enough to see his real colors. Just before school finished for the winter holidays, he got into an all-out shouting match with the guy they’re looking at for the murder. The victim’s son was bullying the other guy’s daughter. A learned behavior if you get my drift. That kid felt no qualms about beating someone up. And the girl’s a smart one—earned herself a scholarship—but she seems to be born a victim. Always denies being beaten up, which means my hands are tied and I can’t discipline the bully unless we catch him in the act. It’s a total mess.”
It was a total mess all right. Michael’s son was bullying Joy? And Mr. Black had gotten into a shouting match with Mr. Watts over it a few days before Watts had been found shot in his home?
Mr. Black had promised me it was nothing personal. That it was a professional job. He’d lied through his giant teeth. Which meant he probably did it.
Maybe he’d gone to beat Michael up like his boss had instructed and gotten carried away. Or maybe his boss hadn’t been lying when he denied sending him. Abraham Black was very protective of his daughter.
“Wait, you think the victim beat his son?” Etta said, and I was glad the onus was on her to carry the conversation while I was reeling. “Is that what you mean by learned behavior?”
“I tried calling child services, but you know how they are—they won’t do anything unless the kid is almost dead. If then. And they’re even worse with rich folk. So perhaps something good will come out of the whole thing. With the father gone the kid might learn how to be a functional member of society. His mom seems okay.”
“Not so great for the other kid though if her daddy goes to jail for protecting her.”
“Nah.” Gibson tipped back the last of her drink. “She comes to school with all sorts of injuries too. That’s what I meant when I said born to be a victim. Those kids are both stuck in nasty patterns of behavior, but with their fathers out of the picture, hopefully that pattern will break.”
Poison is the New Black: (Bonus story: Taste of Christmas) (An Eat, Pray, Die Humorous Mystery Book 3) Page 10
