Dead Girl in a Green Dress

by Loucinda McGary

  "Is she out riding right now?"

  "Nope. When it rains, she generally uses one of the hotel’s carriages."

  Swearing inwardly again, Tate thanked the older man and as he walked back to his horse, he mentally adjusted his game plan one more time. Unfortunately, it didn’t bode well for getting back to Byrony soon. He took out his phone and called her, but his call went directly to voicemail.

  "Hey Sunshine, you better have lunch without me. I’m leaving the Grand stable for the hotel, and if the Sarge is there, you might have to bail me out of jail."

  ***

  Trying to keep herself occupied, Byrony went through her own case file for probably the thousandth time. She kept going over and over the details that didn’t make sense. Tate believed Jessica’s body had been moved to the place it was found. She was convinced the killer had changed Jessica’s clothes. Her sister could have never afforded that designer dress. Plus the dress was totally not her style.

  As she sat drumming her fingers on the desktop, her gaze strayed to Tate’s laptop case. The corner of a file folder protruded from the back pocket of the case, and she pulled it out without hesitation. Most of the information matched what she had in her own file, but Tate’s scribbled timeline caught her attention. Several question marks peppered the notations. She studied the timeline for many minutes before she dialed Detective Shaffer’s number.

  When she got his voicemail, she tried the Mac City police department’s general number. The operator told her Shaffer was not available and put her through to his partner, Detective Rosen. As she explained who she was, the detective sounded gruff to the point of rudeness. "Look Miss Long, I’m very sorry about your sister, but we’ve made an arrest, and I have other work to do."

  Byrony stifled her growing annoyance and kept her tone even. "I appreciate that, but there are some things that I don’t understand. Please detective, indulge me for a few minutes?"

  After an awkward pause, Rosen gave in impatient sigh. "Jim told me you didn’t take no for an answer. I’m a busy man, make it quick."

  His churlish remark dissolved any remnants of Byrony’s unease and she spoke matter-of-factly. "I’m curious about the time-of-death. I realize it’s not an exact science but the coroner’s report differs from your and Detective Shaffer’s notes."

  More silence ensued from Rosen’s end, as if her comment had made him uncomfortable, which gave Byrony a nudge of satisfaction. When he answered his tone sounded blustery. "No, it’s not an exact science. Plus Detective Shaffer and I showed the photo around Main Street. Several people said they’d seen a red-haired woman in a green dress shortly after the last ferry left for Mac City." Muffled voices caused him to break off a moment. "Sorry, Miss Long, gotta go." And he rang off.

  Byrony stared at the phone in her hand, the heat of outrage burning its way from the pit of her stomach up her neck to her face. And she knew she could do nothing about the detective’s callous dismissal. She tossed the phone on the bed and picked up the remote with an unsteady hand. She’d thought they were getting close to solving her sister’s murder. But now everything seemed to be working against them. Time to lose herself in some mindless TV.

  An hour later as Byrony switched off yet another decorating show, her phone rang. Tate. Her pulse kicked up a notch. But the number wasn’t his. In fact, she didn’t recognize it so she answered hesitantly.

  "Miss Long, this is Michael Prince. Please don’t hang up. I need to tell you something."

  Fighting the urge to verbally lambast him, Byrony replied with deadly calm, "I can’t imagine you saying anything I want to hear, since you seem incapable of telling the truth."

  After a long pause he spoke softly in a conciliatory tone. "I suppose I deserved that considering all that’s happened. But I feel you deserve to know that I truly loved your sister Jessica."

  She couldn’t help herself. Byrony made a derisive sound.

  "I knew you wouldn’t believe me, but it’s the God’s honest truth." Prince insisted in a whisper that sounded preoccupied, almost as if he were haunted.

  "You were more than twice her age!" Byrony spat in disgust. "And she was your employee."

  "I admit Jessica was young," He sounded a bit too smooth in his quick defense. "But she made me feel like I was young too. The world was bright and full of hope when I was with her."

  "Oh please!" Byrony interrupted, unable to listen to another word. "Spare me your bull-shit. You took advantage of her, had a fling with a naïve young girl."

  "It wasn’t like that, I swear!" The usual smoothness had completely disappeared and his voice trembled slightly, his control slipping. "We were going to be married. Jessica wanted to tell you. She thought you would understand, but I wanted her to wait until I’d filed for divorce."

  "But now she’s dead." Byrony stated flatly, not convinced that his assertions were anything but an act.

  "Y-yes." The catch almost sounded like a sob. "But I needed to tell you, what Jessica and I had was real."

  "Save your breath Mr. Prince. The only thing I see that’s real is Jessica’s death." She inhaled deeply to give herself the strength to continue her attack. "I find this all very convenient for you. Perhaps I’d be more inclined to believe you if you’d been this forthright with the police."

  "But I don’t know who killed her!" His cry sounded anguished, but Byrony still doubted his honesty. "I wasn’t even here. I left Saturday morning and when I got home Monday night, Jessica was – she was --" His voice broke.

  "I don’t think you killed her." Byrony grudgingly admitted, remembering Tate’s words after they’d first met with Prince. "But I believe you know who did, and it wasn’t Justin Saunders."

  "But the police…" Prince sputtered.

  Byrony remained unmoved. "Mr. Prince, if you truly loved my sister, as you claim, then you’ll go to the police and tell them what you suspect."

  "But I – I"

  "Good-bye Mr. Prince." She disconnected and dropped the phone on the bed. Then she pounded the pillow muttering, "Liar! Liar! Liar!" with every punch.

  After taking the edge off her anger, she started to wonder what had possessed Michael Prince to call her. What had he hoped to accomplish? And could he have possibly been serious?

  The uncertainty made her head throb. So many of her beliefs had been challenged, things she never would have imagined had happened. Until a couple of days ago, she’d never have believed Jessica capable of having an affair with a married man, especially not a sleazy one like Michael Prince.

  A wave of guilt swamped her. She had no business judging her sister’s behavior, not after the things she done in the previous thirty-six hours. Thinking about making love with Tate should have made her feel self-conscious, but it didn’t. This sudden and intense involvement with him might seem like a fling to someone else, but it didn’t feel the least bit like it to Byrony. And though the idea repelled her, she couldn’t help thinking that Jessica might have felt the same about Michael Prince.

  She was struck by a sudden intense longing to see Tate, hold him. Which was ridiculous since she’d only seen him a few short hours ago. But she picked up her phone anyway, and noticed the missed call. Hearing Tate’s sexy drawl sent tingles of pleasure down her spine, even if she didn’t relish the idea of lunch without him. Neither did the thought of eating in the room alone. Pulling on her jacket, she grabbed her umbrella and headed for the diner.

  Probably due to the nasty weather, the place was packed and Byrony found herself sitting on a stool at the counter. The same flirty waitress seemed frazzled as she rushed around pouring coffee and carrying plates. When she finally came over to take Byrony’s order, she looked around and asked, "No boyfriend today?"

  Taken aback that the woman had actually noticed her last time, Byrony muttered, "He’s busy."

  "I’ll bet he is," the bleached blonde said with a snort.

  Not sure whether to be insulted or not, Byrony ordered an omelet and sipped her coffee. As the rush subsided, the waitr
ess came back to refill Byrony’s mug and lingered to ask where she was from. Then when Byrony answered Chicago, the woman rhapsodized about the great shopping.

  "But you have lots of shops here on the island." Byrony reasoned.

  "Yeah, but not like Chicago," the chatty blonde replied.

  Struck by sudden inspiration Byrony asked, "If I wanted to buy a designer dress, is there a shop here I could go to?"

  The waitress tapped her bottom lip with her pen. "Gina’s Closet has really cute stuff, but if you want big name designers you’ll probably have to go to the Purple Iris. It’s on Huron Street."

  "Thanks, I’ll check it out."

  The other woman looked incredulous. "Does your boyfriend really like designer stuff?"

  Stifling the urge to say, "He likes it on the floor," Byrony gave a furtive smile and said, "You’d be surprised."

  According to the GPS on her phone, the Purple Iris was only three blocks away. The rain had slacked off, so Byrony decided to walk. The clean, fresh air would help her shake off the negativity that clung to her.

  Unfortunately, the first thing she saw when she left the diner was the black carriage from the Grand Hotel. She took a couple of deep, cleansing breaths and tried to ignore the tingling dread crawling up her spine. But in spite of telling herself to keep calm, the closer the high stepping horses approached, the stronger the urge to run grew within her. Silently cursing her irrational and embarrassing behavior, she curled her toes inside her shoes in an effort to keep from bolting. As the horses and carriage swept past, muddy water splashed up on the leg of Byrony’s pants.

  "Shit!" Her breath came out in whoosh and she shook her head at her rotten luck.

  Then, with the carriage no longer in view, Byrony crossed the street and continued her quest for the dress shop. Still, she almost missed the tasteful sign on the ground floor of a small Victorian house that marked the Purple Iris. But she had to smile at the second floor office of Tanner and Martin, CPAs. She could hear Tate’s voice inside her head drawling, "Bean counters, can’t get away from ‘em."

  She left her wet umbrella in the fancy ceramic stand on the porch. No other customers were inside the shop, which was decorated with antique furniture that had pieces of clothing hanging from them. The salesclerk, who was fiftyish with immaculately coifed platinum hair, emerged from a side room when the bell over the front door tinkled.

  "Welcome to the Purple Iris. Can I help you with anything?" She seemed unfazed by the fact that Byrony wore sweatpants and a damp hoodie.

  Casually dressed tourists must be the norm, Byrony realized, but she still felt self-conscious. "Do you carry anything by Oscar de la Renta?"

  "As a matter of fact…" The woman ushered her to a wrought iron baker’s rack with several items hanging from it. "We just got these silk blouses in last week. These jewel tones will compliment your coloring beautifully."

  Byrony couldn’t resist touching the gorgeous fabric. Too bad one blouse probably cost almost as much as she earned in a week. She shook her head. "Do you have any dresses?"

  The woman whisked the blouse back into place. "Nothing for fall or winter, but I believe we have a couple of summer dresses over in our clearance corner."

  She led the way to an alcove with a dozen items draped over two old steamer trunks. "What size are you?" the woman asked, as she sifted through several garments.

  A flash of bright green and black made Byrony’s breath catch in her throat. Her fingers shook as she reached for the green dress. The same green dress Jessica had been wearing.

  Byrony started to hyperventilate.

  From what sounded like a far distance, she heard the saleswoman say, "That’s the only one of those we have left, but I’m sure it’s not your size." Her voice stopped abruptly when Byrony doubled over, gasping for breath. "Are you all right, Miss?"

  "I –" Byrony stumbled toward a velvet slipper chair in the corner. "—need water."

  "Of course, dear!" The older woman helped Byrony sit down before she rushed away.

  Listening to the click of the clerk’s heels, Byrony lowered her head to her knees, forced herself to breath slowly and deeply, and pulled herself together. A moment later, the woman reappeared and pressed a plastic bottle into Byrony’s hand. Cautiously, she raised her head.

  After a long drink, Byrony managed a wan smile. "Thanks, I’m okay now."

  "Are you sure?" The woman nodded at the plastic brace on her arm. "I didn’t realize you had an injured arm."

  "Honestly, I’m fine now," Byrony reassured, sitting up straight and schooling her expression. "Do you happen to remember who bought the other green dresses?"

  "Funny you should ask. That was one of the strangest sales I ever made. This odd woman bought two of them, one in a size four and one in a size six." Byrony felt her heart pounding harder and faster as the salesclerk continued. "The woman had on a pair of huge Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses that she never took off. Plus she wore a ring with a diamond the size of a goose egg, but the cheesiest red wig I’ve ever seen."

  A diamond the size of a goose egg… The image of a large diamond sparkling on Cristina Woodleigh Prince’s hand popped into Byrony’s mind.

  "R-red wig?" She managed to stutter. "Long red hair?" But she already knew the answer.

  The clerk nodded and rolled her eyes. "Really really bad. Plus, she didn’t bother to try on either dress, just paid cash and rushed out like she thought paparazzi might show up or something."

  The tinkling of the bell over the front door intruded on Byrony’s racing thoughts. The salesclerk craned her neck then patted Byrony’s knee. "More customers. Sure you’re all right?"

  Better than you’ll ever know. But aloud Byrony said, "Yes, thank you so much."

  While the clerk schmoozed with the two older ladies, Byrony got to her feet and edged toward the door, pulse roaring in her ears. Everything was crystal clear to her now. Cristina Woodleigh Prince killed Jessica and put the green dress on her. Then she showed up in the same dress and a red wig to make it look like Jessica was still alive to throw off the timeline.

  If the salesclerk could identify Cristina’s ring, they could prove she was tied to the murder. Closing the front door behind herself, Byrony fished her phone from her pocket. She had to tell Tate!

  Chapter 11

  Baseball cap pulled low, Tate shifted in his saddle as he watched the back loading dock of the Grand Hotel. The trees where he and his horse waited not only provided some protection from the drizzling rain but also concealment. Tate had recognized the wagon used by Nick Brandon parked in the back of the hotel and rather than confront the Sarge, Tate decided to bide his time for awhile. Pulling out his phone, he called Detective Shaffer.

  "Madison?" The surprise in Shaffer’s voice sounded genuine. "I was just about to call you." His voice dropped to a hushed tone. "I think I found Jessica Long’s shoes."

  "No shit?" Tate regretted his outburst at the unexpected news and cleared his throat to cover his lapse. "Where?"

  "Bright yellow running shoes, right?" Shaffer confirmed, still sounding guardedly quiet. "Saw them in the window of a local thrift store. The place benefits Alzheimer’s patients, and we lost my mother-in-law last year." He gave a loud cough and Tate heard a door close. Then the detective continued, "I asked the clerk who donated them. She wasn’t positive but said Mr. and Mrs. Prince contribute lots of clothes and shoes. I’m having them checked for DNA right now."

  As Tate struggled to contain his growing excitement, he saw Nick Brandon emerge from the back door and climb into the wagon. Into the phone he spoke calmly, "Appreciate you telling me, Jim. Can you let me know when you get the DNA results?"

  "I’ll try, Madison, but no promises."

  Tate clicked off his phone with a grunt of triumph. He didn’t need any test result. His gut already knew the answer – Michael or Cristina Prince had killed Jessica. Or they both had.

  While Tate digested this revelation, Sergeant Brandon rolled by in his wagon, headed back tow
ard town. Obviously the guy had no intention of pursuing Cristina Prince as Byrony’s attacker. Tate watched until the wagon moved out of his line of sight, mentally debating whether or not to confront Mr. and Mrs. Prince now in the hotel.

  The sudden appearance of none other than Cristina Woodleigh Prince made the decision for him. Emerging from the back entrance, she wore a yellow rain slicker with a hood, which she flipped up over her hair as she hustled across the muddy yard. Tate’s pulse kicked up a notch because he knew exactly where she was going, in spite of the rain.

  He shifted again in anticipation as he watched her disappear on the path between the hotel and the stable. Restlessly checking his watch, he finally decided she’d had enough time to get to the stable and saddle her horse. If Reuben had a chance to tell her about Tate’s recent visit, she might change her plans.

  Only one way to find out. Nudging the mare, Tate kept her off the roadway. Instead, he picked his way through the brush and trees until he spotted the back of the stable.

  Scant moments later, a yellow clad rider on a large black horse emerged onto the main roadway. If Tate had had any lingering shred of doubt, the sight of the horse and rider blew it away like cobwebs.

  Was she going to seek out Byrony and try to finish the job?

  Then he realized that instead of heading into town, the horse and rider were cantering toward the other side of the island. He guided the mare down to the roadway, but didn’t feel the urge to rush because he knew Cristina Prince was headed for Arch Rock.

  By the time Tate came within sight of the formation, the rain had stopped, though water continued to splatter down from the trees and splash up from the puddles on the muddy road. When he entered the clearing, he saw no sign of the black horse even though he craned his neck to look in every direction.

  "Over here, Mr. Madison."

  He wheeled the chestnut mare around at the sound of his name. Cristina Woodleigh Prince had crawled over the chain link fence and stood on top of the rocky arch, waving her arm. What the hell was she trying to do? Off herself?