by Liz Mugavero
“Hey,” a voice said in her ear.
She gasped, nearly jumping out of her shoes. Trooper Lou Sturgis stood there shaking his head, a resigned look on his face. He looked older these days. Or maybe it was maturity. Either way, he’d lost the pudgy, eager look she remembered from the first time she’d met him, and gained that cop look. Probably because he’d become well versed in murder investigations over the past year.
“Trooper Lou. Hey. I was just . . . taking a minute.”
He nodded. “I don’t blame you. I heard it’s getting messy in there. And I guess we’re keeping this one quiet.” His disdainful tone said he felt the same way as Jessie about that.
Stan nodded. “Did you see Jake when you came in?”
“I did. I sent him home with your niece.”
“You did?” Stan felt a rush of relief. “Thank you.”
“No problem. I know where to find him if he turns out to be the culprit.” Trooper Lou winked at her. “Am I heading upstairs?”
“Yep. Bathroom. But I don’t know how to get up there without going through the party.”
The maid appeared as if she’d conjured her. “This way, please,” she said to Sturgis. With a look of mild horror, he followed her to what Stan presumed was a back staircase just as Patricia burst through the kitchen door, a tall, thin, balding man at her side.
“Why is there a bus full of police parked in my driveway?” she asked. “I thought it was a joke, but . . .” She trailed off as another cop appeared in the back hall.
“Upstairs?” he asked.
“What on earth is going on here?” Patricia demanded.
The trooper looked at her, unimpressed, then turned to Stan. “Upstairs?” he repeated.
Wordlessly, Stan pointed down the hall where the maid and Sturgis had gone. The trooper grabbed his radio and barked instructions into it. A minute later, another group of cops swarmed in through the back as Patricia watched in horror.
“Mom, Jessie needs to talk to you,” Stan said.
“Patricia, I’ll go with you,” her companion said anxiously.
Her mother’s eyes narrowed into slits.
But from somewhere out in the main room, the noise level rose. People started to catch wind of something happening. And then, clear as day, a woman’s voice rose and crested over the crowd like a tsunami. “Murdered?” she screeched. “Someone was murdered ?”
Chapter 9
Stan covered her eyes with her hands so she didn’t have to see the blood drain from her mother’s face.
“What. Is. Happening,” Patricia said through clenched teeth.
She grabbed her mother’s arm and pulled her away from her companion. “Eleanor Chang is dead,” she hissed. “Someone killed her upstairs in the bathroom. Jessie needs you ASAP.”
Patricia gaped at her, the righteous anger draining away. “What?”
Stan gave her a shove. “Go.”
For once in her life, Patricia listened. She grabbed her friend’s arm. “Roger. I need your help.”
He nodded. “I’ll go with you.” Turning to Stan, he said, “I’m Pastor Roger Ellis. From the Unitarian Church. I’d like to help, if I can.”
“Please,” Stan said, relieved. A pastor seemed like a good idea right about now. Before her mother could walk away, Stan called her back. “Mom. Where’s your engagement ring?”
Her mother turned and gave her an odd look. “In my jewelry box. Why?”
“You probably need to check on that,” Stan advised. Before her mother could ask her to elaborate, Trooper Lou appeared at the bottom of the back staircase. “Is there a quiet place away from the party where we can talk?” he asked.
Patricia nodded. “Upstairs in the—”
“No,” he interrupted. “Not upstairs.”
Patricia sent him a filthy look. “We can talk in Tony’s study,” she said tightly.
Stan thought about trying to slip out, but Trooper Lou caught her eye. Like he knew what she was thinking, he shook his head once. Patricia led them down the hall, bypassing the secret stairway, and pushed open a door next to it.
Jessie emerged from the secret stairway, looking around. Stan pointed to the door. She’d shoved it open, about to step inside, when one of the other troopers approached her.
“Trooper. If you need help with interviews, happy to jump in,” he said.
Jessie cocked her head, sizing him up. “Who are you again?”
He flushed. “Garrett Colby. I’m the new K9 handler. You remember, right? Part-time allocation to Frog Ledge?”
“Right. Thanks for the offer. What I really need is someone who can let the guests know we need their contact information and that officers will be talking to everyone momentarily. If we don’t get started soon they’re going to be here for a long time.”
“What do you mean?” Patricia’s voice floated out of the room. “You’re planning to harass my guests?”
Stan wanted to crawl into a hole and hide.
Jessie glanced through the door at Patricia with barely disguised contempt. “Ms. Connor. Someone is dead.” She took a deep breath. “We’ll need the medical examiner to confirm, but it appears to be foul play. Of course people can’t leave until we’ve made sure we at least know who was here.” She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her, cutting off Patricia’s objections.
Pastor Ellis, still standing in the hall like a deer in headlights, looked at Colby. His face was ashen. “So this was . . . foul play? You’re certain?” Ellis asked.
“Unconfirmed as of yet,” Colby said.
Pastor Ellis blew out a breath and looked at Stan. He appeared to be about to ask her something, but Trooper Lou emerged from the study, his face grim. “Talk about a party crasher,” he muttered to Stan, then turned to Colby. “I’ll make the announcement.” He moved past Stan, heading back toward the main party. She followed.
Trooper Lou entered the great room and whistled, stopping most of the conversation in its tracks.
“I need everyone’s attention,” he said. “There’s been a situation, and we’re asking that no one leave the premises until we’ve spoken with you and gotten your contact information. The faster we have everyone’s cooperation, the quicker we can let you go.” With that, he turned and headed back to the makeshift interview room. “Stick around,” he murmured to Stan as he passed. “See what the reaction is.”
Stan watched as more police worked their way through the crowd with notebooks and pens. She could hear snippets floating through the air: “Someone’s dead . . . murdered?” “No, couldn’t be, I heard heart attack.” “Do you really think someone died?” “I’m telling you . . . strangled.”
Stan sent up a silent prayer that most of them were too old to be snapping photos of the situation and uploading them to their Instagram accounts—or worse, Snapchatting them. Although, there were a few young people here, so one could only imagine what they were recording.
Young people. Her head snapped up. “Oh God,” she said out loud. She raced into the back hall past a startled Pastor Ellis. Skidding to a stop in front of the study door, she pounded on it.
Trooper Lou yanked it open, glaring. “What?”
Stan motioned him to step into the hallway. He did. “This better be good.”
“Monica. Eleanor’s daughter,” Stan said, frantic. “I totally forgot she was here. Someone needs to get to her before she hears about this!”
“Crap.” Trooper Lou chewed on his lip. “Okay. You know what she looks like? Where she might be?”
Stan nodded. “I know what she looks like. I met her a little while ago.”
“Good. So you can ID her. Can you get her? I’ll ask Jessie to talk to her.”
Jessie would love that. Sometimes Stan thought she liked dealing more with dead people then living people, especially when in uncomfortable situations. “Yeah. I’ll go look for her. Where should I bring her?”
Trooper Lou looked around, uncertain, his gaze landing on Ellis. “Bring her here,
I guess. We’ll have to find another room to take her.”
Stan turned to go, then paused. “What should I tell her?”
He rubbed his hand over his hair. “I don’t know. Tell her . . . you need to talk to her in private.” He shrugged helplessly.
“You’re a big help,” Stan sighed. She turned just as the police radio erupted with activity.
“Suspect out front,” she heard from Trooper Lou’s radio behind her. “In custody.”
Lou moved faster than she’d ever seen, heading toward the great room. Stan followed, pushing through the crowd to get outside. She made it to the front door in time to see a cruiser pull up out front. Two cops escorted a man to the car, and in that pause while they opened the door, Stan realized who their suspect was.
“Richard?” she gasped.
Richard’s jacket was missing, and what was left of his impeccable outfit was rumpled, his tie skewed to the left. He argued with the cop, but she couldn’t hear what he said. Trooper Lou joined the fray, blocking him from Stan’s view.
Stan raced out the door and over to the group of cops, grabbing Lou’s arm. “What are you doing? You can’t arrest Richard!”
“Stan.” Lou grabbed her and dragged her away from the other cops, none of whom looked friendly. “Stop. You don’t want to mess around here.”
“But he didn’t—”
She was stopped in her tracks by another, louder voice that suddenly cut through the chaos. They turned to see Tony Falco running into the front yard. A cop went to grab him, and he wrenched his arm away.
“This is my house,” he roared. “What the blazes is going on here?”
Chapter 10
Tony didn’t look like his normal mayoral self. Nor did he look like he was going to his own fancy engagement party. Dirty jeans and a torn sweatshirt replaced his typical custom-made, elegant suit, giving him the look of a misplaced farmer. Everyone stared. As he burst through the front door, no one seemed to realize who he was. Then as it sunk in, the whispers started up again full force.
“Mayor Falco. Please come with me. I’ll explain everything,” Trooper Lou said. With a warning look at Stan, he motioned her back into the house behind Tony and followed.
Tony kept his gaze straight ahead despite the guests who tried to reach out. Stan watched them go, biting back all the questions—What were they doing with Richard? What happened to him outside? Did they really think he killed Eleanor?—and tried to refocus on finding Monica. The now-motherless daughter. She swallowed against the sick feeling rising up her throat.
Following a hunch, Stan went out to the deck and followed it halfway around the house. Monica hadn’t struck her as the type who wanted to be in this mix, so it made sense she would’ve sought out one of the places not congested with people.
Her hunch paid off. Monica Chang was one of only three people still out on the deck. The ruffled dress was hard to miss. The other two, a man and woman, huddled together whispering. Monica was slumped over one of the only tables. At first Stan thought she was asleep. Her head rested on one fist. Her other hand clutched a cell phone.
Stan cleared her throat. “Monica?” she asked.
No response.
“Monica?” she asked, louder. The remaining couple on the deck paused in their conversation and watched, curious.
Monica’s head snapped up and unfocused eyes searched for Stan’s face. Her hair stuck to her cheek on the side where she’d rested. “What?” she asked, her words slightly slurred.
Either she’d been asleep, or she was drunk. Or maybe both. Excellent. “I’m Stan. I met you earlier. Can you come with me, please?”
Monica’s brows knitted in confusion. “I guess.” She glanced around, maybe looking for her mother, but rose unsteadily and followed Stan inside. She tripped over the doorframe and grabbed for Stan to steady herself.
“Are you feeling all right?” Stan asked, wrapping an arm around the girl’s waist.
Monica nodded. “Fine.”
“Were you drinking?”
Monica’s head snapped up and she glared at Stan. “No!”
Stan let it go and led her inside, trying to usher her past the uniformed officers talking to partygoers. But Monica balked. “What’s going on?” she whispered.
Stan’s hesitation must’ve tipped her off that something wasn’t right—Monica twisted away from her and tried to take off, but her movements were slow and sloppy and she lost her balance. Stan grabbed her before she fell. Luckily, she weighed so little Stan could easily hold her up.
“It’s okay,” Stan tried to soothe her, keeping her voice low so eavesdroppers couldn’t overhear. “We need to talk to you about your mother.”
“My mother,” she whispered, her body going limp. “What’s my mother doing? Is . . . is she having me arrested?”
Startled, Stan shook her head. “What? No, of course not.”
Monica sagged against her and started to cry. Stan looked around helplessly, but the people paying attention to them looked horrified. The rest were caught up in the drama of the night, or complaining about how they were stuck here. Cursing her mother, Trooper Lou, Tony, Eleanor and the Universe, she half dragged, half carried Monica out to the back hall. She’d given up on trying to make this less of a spectacle. That horse had left the barn long ago.
Pastor Ellis stood in the hall, head bowed in some kind of prayer. He raised his eyes at their approach. His gaze locked on Monica, who averted her eyes, then met Stan’s, a silent question. She shook her head and pushed Monica past him, pausing only to rap on the closed study door. She turned the corner, pushing doors open as she went. A laundry room. A closet. Then, to her relief, a small guest bedroom. She led Monica in and deposited her on the bed. The girl immediately curled into a miserable ball, her face pale and green at the same time, while Stan caught her breath. She peered out into the hall and waved at Jessie when she saw her doing the same guess-which-door routine.
Jessie appeared in the doorway seconds later. She took in Monica’s still figure on the bed, then looked at Stan. Stan recognized the look. It said, I’d rather deal with a madman than this. She approached the bed. “Monica. I’m Trooper Jessie Pasquale.”
Monica didn’t move, but Stan saw one eye fixed on Jessie.
“Do you think you can sit up and talk to me?” Jessie asked.
Monica clearly didn’t want to, but she forced herself up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, still clutching her phone. She’d spilled food, something orange, on her ruffled dress.
“When was the last time you saw your mother this evening?” Jessie asked.
Monica shook her head. “I . . . don’t know,” she whispered. “A little while ago.”
“How long? It’s really important.”
With shaking hands, Monica brought her phone into focus and looked at the clock, then looked helplessly at Jessie. “Half an hour? An hour?”
“Was she upset about anything?” Jessie asked.
“N-no. I don’t think so. Why?”
“Monica. Listen to me. This is very important. Did you see her arguing with anyone?” Jessie asked. “Or anyone bothering her?”
Another head shake. This time, she winced at the aftermath of the movement.
Jessie frowned, looked at Stan. Stan pantomimed taking a drink. She could almost see the cartoon word bubble above Jessie’s head: Great. Just what I needed.
“Monica,” Jessie said, more firmly this time. “How much did you have to drink?”
No reply. Jessie closed her eyes briefly, then crouched next to the bed so they were at eye level. “I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but your mother passed away.”
That got her to raise her head. Monica’s gaze slowly moved to Jessie’s face, then she lurched to her feet. “I need to go to the bathroom,” she whispered, and made a beeline out of the room.
Stan reached for her, but before she could grab her, Monica passed out cold at her feet.
Chapter 11
What’s
going on over there? Are you okay?
The text from Jake dinged as Stan raced down the hall looking for the nearest bathroom not containing a dead body. She needed a cold towel for Monica. She also needed a drink. Jake must be frantic by now, but she didn’t have time to talk to him. When she found the right door, she ducked inside and texted back:
I’m fine. Call you in a few . . . love you
She grabbed a towel, soaked it in cold water, and wrung it out. Searching through the cabinets, she found a stash of paper cups, filled one with water, then raced back.
Jessie stood in front of Monica’s door fiddling with a cell phone when Stan got back to the room. “What a cluster. Your mother is having a meltdown, just so you know.”
“Great,” Stan said. “And Monica’s having a breakdown, and Richard is arrested. What on earth is going on with that? Why did they—”
“Stan.” Jessie held up a hand. “Please. Don’t.” She looked around, then lowered her voice. “I can’t talk about that.”
Stan eyed her suspiciously. Jessie’s expression warned her not to push. “Meanwhile”—Jessie held up the phone—“any idea what Monica would use as a password?”
“Where’d you get that?”
“She dropped it when she passed out. I want to see if there were any texts with her mother. Or photos.”
Stan shook her head. “I have no idea what the password would be.”
A trooper came down the hall, a man and woman following him. “Rivers and Menoso are here,” he said to Jessie.
“Medical examiner’s office,” Jessie said to Stan.
“Some place,” the woman said, looking around. She had thick black hair and a lilting Spanish accent. “This had to put a damper on the party.”
Jessie inclined her head in agreement. “Long time, Menoso,” she said.
Menoso grinned. “I would think that’s a good thing, no?”
“Where are we headed?” Rivers asked. He didn’t seem impressed with Tony’s house.
