Frannie clucked her tongue. “Well, sweetie, the country’s had some setbacks, but we’re still a strong nation. As long as we exercise our right to vote and exercise our ability to make weak candidates disappear to Amazonian rain forests with stunning bouts of amnesia.”
“I mean America the pop singer,” I said. “She’s dead.”
Sylvie’s eyes went wide. “What happened?”
“Jaz found her unconscious in her room.” I dropped my purse on the floor, walked inside, and explained the horror of my evening. “Johnny Pikes administered CPR, then he got sick.”
“So surely they ran a clinical tox.” Sylvie said, guessing correctly. “What did they find?”
“Fentanyl,” I said. “Johnny was treated and should be fine. But it was too late for America.”
Frannie closed her eyes and offered up a quick prayer. “The poor girl.”
“Why does this keep happening to me?” Jaz had experience with people falling at her feet, while I had experience with people dropping dead at mine.
Sylvie looked to her BFF with a little too much interest. “Another murder.”
“We don’t know that,” I said. “Maybe it was an accidental overdose.” Though Enchanted Events had become a total murder magnet, something I’d refused to put on our website, no matter how many times my grandmother suggested it.
“What else do you recall?” Sylvie asked.
A lot of horrible things.
“Perhaps a cookie will help you process.” Frannie moved toward the kitchen, and Sylvie and I joined her.
I sat at the granite-topped island while my grandmother poured me a strong glass of iced tea, and Frannie held out the Jimmy Carter cookie jar. My grandmother had all sorts of knick-knacks commemorating the presidents she and Frannie had served. There was the Richard Nixon toaster that only partially worked, the Bill Clinton ashtray, the Barack and Michelle salt and pepper shakers, and of course, the autographed Ronald Reagan salad bowl in the shape of a cowboy hat.
“Her room was a disaster,” I said. “Clothes everywhere, and she’d clearly gotten sick. There was a spilled coffee mug on the floor beside her.”
“What if someone did kill her?” Frannie chewed thoughtfully.
“The town is crawling with devoted fans of Jaz’s,” Sylvie said. “Perhaps one got a little too devoted.”
“Security was tight on the concert-goers,” I said. “Not so much on anyone who was working or staying in the house due to everyone already passing security clearances, but I can’t see a fan being able to leave the ballroom and get upstairs. We have no reason to think this wasn’t self-inflicted.”
“Did you tell Beau?”
I blinked at my grandmother’s change in topic. “Not yet.”
“You should stay over at his house,” Frannie suggested. “In case there’s a murderer at large.”
“I’m perfectly safe by myself.”
“Paisley and Beau have decided to slow things down.” Sylvie gave Frannie a dubious look. “I think Paisley’s scared.”
“It was a mutual decision. Beau’s in total agreement.” Judgment on my relationship was not what I came here for. “Can we get back to the fact that someone died tonight?”
Sylvie opened a George W. Bush canister and scooped out some decaf coffee. “Any sign of struggle? Marks on the body? Blood?”
“No blood. No signs of struggle that I noticed, other than a dropped coffee.”
“Drugs do run rampant in the music scene,” Frannie said before catching my offended glare. “Or so I hear.”
“Her room looked like a tornado had struck,” I said, “but Jaz thought America was just messy. Oh, and Jaz spotted one of her own earrings on the floor beside America.”
“Oh, for the love of the Bermuda Triangle! Hold everything!” Frannie pulled her phone from her fanny pack, then pushed some buttons. She swiped and scrolled for a tedious moment before lifting startled brown eyes to me. “Paisley, do you remember Jaz’s song “You Ain’t the Other For Long?”
“No.” In the last few years, I’d taken to listening to anything but pop music, as I couldn’t stomach the frequency of catching Jaz’s voice on the radio, a menacing reminder of the woman who had ruined the Electric Femmes.
“It was a number one hit a year ago. Really big in the clubs.” Frannie shrugged a shoulder. “At least in the ones I visited.”
“Are these the same ones you got kicked out of?” Sylvie asked.
“Their jealousy of my advanced sexy moves is not relevant to this story.”
Sylvie handed me another chocolate chip cookie. “Twice she accidentally fired her pistol into the ceiling while coming out of a floor spin.”
“Anyway. . .” Frannie cleared her throat and returned her focus to her phone. “The lyrics to the song say, “I know you’ve got another. I know you cheat so hard. I might poison her fancy mocha. Boy, you gonna find my earring. Like a calling card.”
Seriously? “That was a big hit?”
“The point is,” Frannie continued, “Jaz wrote a song about killing the other woman.”
Oh.
Then the full reality of that fact whooshed into my brain like a tsunami.
Oh!
Sylvie’s face mirrored my surprise. “What if Jaz killed America?” she asked. “You said there was a mug on the floor.”
“Yes, but there’s a coffee set in every bedroom.”
“The homeowner provided that?” Sylvie asked.
“We hired a coffee service at the request of Jaz.” I bit into a cookie, and the crunch magnified in the room. “I can’t imagine her murdering anyone. She has a mean streak for sure, but murder? No way. Not to mention, she has a handler for everything. I think sleeping, singing, and breathing are the only things she hasn’t hired out.”
“So she hired an assassin,” Frannie suggested.
It was preposterous. “Jaz isn’t the brightest bulb in the spotlight, but she’s also not dumb. She wouldn’t be so stupid as to murder someone in the exact fashion of one of her songs.” I rubbed the back of my aching neck. “Though it’s certainly relevant.” I held up my cookie in salute. “Good find.”
“Thank you.” She gave me an air high-five. “I still got it.”
I reached for my phone with dread. “I better call the police and tell them about the song.”
“It has to be more than coincidence,” Sylvie said.
Maybe.
But I sure hoped she was wrong.
Chapter Eight
The news of America’s death was everywhere the next morning. It rose in the steam from coffee cups where the old-timers gathered at the hardware store. It slid like butter across pancakes down at the diner. It was passed over fence posts and clipped to clotheslines as neighbors stepped into their backyards.
“That was the last one.” Alice took a drink of hot tea and set her phone in her lap. “So far, everyone’s okay with the change of plans.”
Our Enchanted Events team had met in my office at five o’clock this morning, canceling the Jaz Fest activities for the day and quickly throwing together a new agenda for the participants. We’d called every person who’d signed up for the fest, apologizing for the updates and giving them new itineraries. I had to finalize all these decisions without Jaz, who was nowhere to be found and according to her assistant, “not in a place to take calls.”
“I’ll pass on the word. Keep me updated.” I disconnected my call and took a bite of bagel. “Reese Riggins says Jaz is unavailable for the whole day. She’s meeting with the police and sticking close to Johnny. He’s flying in a big celebrity attorney, and Reese expects them to be in meetings ’til this evening.”
“Has she been charged?” Henry asked, clearly ready to go defend his dream lover’s honor and present her a bouquet of prison-ready nail files.
“No,” I said. “I’m not sure this is even considered a homicide.” Yet. “But it sounds like Johnny’s preparing for it.”
“And to think, I was working in that hou
se all day.” Layla grabbed a bagel from the bag on my desk. “I probably crossed paths with a murderer.”
“Me, too.” Alice gave me the side-eye. “Course, wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened.”
“Just one of the perks we offer here,” I said. “Health insurance, dental, and brushes with death. Try getting that from a desk job.”
Henry scrubbed an impatient hand over his clean-shaven face. “Anyway… buses will begin picking up our festival friends at ten a.m. They can hop off and hop on all day, with excursions to Crystal Bridges Museum, the Sugar Creek park and trails, the Native American Museum, and downtown Bentonville. Did I miss anything?”
I finished up a text with Beau and fired another off to the transportation manager at Blue Lines Bus Service. “Beau’s called in some help and can offer activities at Fox Falls—free hikes, ATV rides, fishing.” I didn’t see the average Jaz fan being interested in hooking a few trout, but we were desperate people here, and I was grateful for Beau’s help. He’d been waiting on the front porch when I got home last night, going inside with me to inspect the house and check all the doors and windows. I’d turned down his offer to sleep on my couch like my own personal bodyguard, but I had to admit I’d tossed and turned all night. Even though we didn’t have confirmation of murder and I wasn’t a target, this whole situation really creeped me out.
I consulted my revised checklist and tried to read through the scribbles. “Alice, you and Layla need to be at the Sugar Creek Community Church at 9:30 to pass out maps and help the guests find their first destination.”
“Got it,” Alice said.
“What do we do if we don’t hear from Jaz today?” Layla asked.
“Then we have to cancel the fest,” I said, making a decision. “Let’s meet back here after lunch . . . and plan for that likelihood.” Standing, I gathered my laptop and stuffed it in my bag. “I’m going to see if I can track down Jaz.” My team stared at me with equal parts dread and dismay. “Good luck and Godspeed.”
The Sweetheart Lodge sat on a quiet street east of town, surrounded by a few acres of apple orchards, where Tammy Jane Pine and her third husband Larry produced apple preserves so divine, you wanted to eat it with a spoon straight from the jar. Normally, their little lodge was for couples looking for a romantic getaway. But during large events in Sugar Creek, they opened up their rooms to anyone in need of a place to stay.
I knocked on a door. A wooden heart declared it to be cabin number three, where Reese had been relocated Sunday night.
Steps sounded from inside before locks were thrown and the door finally creaked open. “Paisley.” Reese pushed up her blue framed glasses and invited me inside. “Has Jaz still not called you?”
“No. Where is she?”
“She’s staying with Little Tee Pee at another rental house. Johnny Pikes has her on lockdown and won’t let her out of his sight.”
“Where?”
“Mr. Pikes has sworn me to secrecy.”
“Is she okay?”
Reese moved a fuzzy, heart-shaped pillow and sat on the couch. “I guess. In true Jaz style, she’s mostly worried about her reputation and her festival. She said to tell you the event must go on.”
“We have no assurance Jaz will show up for it.”
“She swore she’d be prepared for tomorrow.”
I couldn’t simply take her assistant’s word for it. I needed to talk to Jaz. “Reese, did you see anything strange last night?”
Reese gestured to the small living space. “Besides the champagne glass hot tub and the queen-sized bed in the shape of a pair of lips?”
“I meant before . . .before Jaz found America.”
“No. Not that I can recall.”
“I need to talk to your boss. We have three hundred festival attendees wondering if they should pack up and go home. If you hear from Jaz, tell her to call me.”
Reese nodded. “I’ll do that.”
As I walked outside and dug for my car keys, two police SUVs arrived. Out of one stepped Matt Quincy, newest member of the Sugar Creek police force and a man I’d dated briefly before Beau. “Hey, there.”
He slipped off his Ray-Bans and smiled. “Are you already grilling my witnesses?”
“Don’t worry. I haven’t had time for any solo interrogations yet.”
He shook his blond head and laughed. “But we both know it’s coming.”
The earth was round, the environment was in peril, and I would eventually start nosing around. Why deny the realities of the universe? “Can I assume by your use of the word witnesses that America didn’t die from an accidental overdose?”
Matt pressed his lips together as if he wanted to put the kibosh on any more slips. “You didn’t hear that from me.”
So there it was. Someone had killed America. “As long as we’re off the record and all, how do you know it was murder?”
He looked around and sighed heavily. “I’m only telling you this because, given our new line of questioning, everyone who was in that house is going to know anyway.” Matt swatted at a mosquito flying near his pretty-boy face. “The coffee service in America’s room was tampered with.”
“The single-serve coffee maker?”
He nodded. “The foil tops on the pods all had a tiny hole in them like they were injected with a needle. Fentanyl in each one. Did the homeowner stock the coffee in each bedroom?”
“No. We rented those from the Sugar Creek Beanery. At Jaz’s request.” Specifically, at Reese’s request on Jaz’s behalf. “We only provided the mugs with our logo.”
“Was the service delivered or did someone from Enchanted Events pick it up?”
“Delivered.” Thank goodness. That kept me and my team off the line of suspects.
“We’ve dusted for prints, so hopefully that will give us something. But right now, your friend looks pretty guilty.”
“I prefer to refer to her as my former co-worker.”
“Is she the killing type?”
My answer was still the same. “No.”
“Then that makes her the ideal murderer.”
“If you’re gonna arrest Jaz, can you make it after her festival?”
He grinned and slipped the sunglasses on top of his head. “I’ll be sure and relay that to Detective Ballantine. You know how he loves your input.”
My phone rang loudly from my bag. “Sorry, I have to take this. Keep me in the loop, Matt.”
“I’m not gonna do that, Paisley.”
“We’re practically investigative partners.”
“That’s not what we are at all.”
“You people pretty much owe me a badge.”
“Stay out of this, Sutton.”
I held up my phone. “Sorry. Can’t hear you.” Walking to my car, I held the cell to my ear. “Hello?”
Sylvie’s voice came through loud enough to shake the surrounding pines. “Paisley, Almira Gulch has flown into town. I repeat, Almira Gulch has landed.”
My grandmother spoke in code all the time, but I couldn’t place this particular reference from the Wizard of Oz. “What are you talking about?”
“Your mother.”
“What about her?”
“Hon . . . she’s here.”
Chapter Nine
One hour later, I shoved the last bite of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich into my mouth, turned the steering wheel with my free hand, and cranked Aretha Franklin’s “R-E-S-P-E-C-T” at full volume. It was just like my mother, who I hadn’t seen in two years, to drop in, not only during a gigantic crisis but at lunch. No, I didn’t need to eat today. Please, allow me to drop what I’m doing and run right over to greet you. Why on earth wouldn’t I leave work right now? No reason at all. Just trying to keep a business afloat while stepping over dead bodies and looking for uncommunicative, AWOL pop stars. That’s all. No problemo!
My head full of steam, and my mind whirling with the zillion things that needed my attention, I stomped up Sylvie’s driveway, knocked twice on her
front door, then let myself in. “Hello?”
“In the kitchen!” my grandmother called.
I pulled my shoulders back, straightened my posture, then walked to the kitchen, wearing an outfit my mother would hate and a smile barely this side of tolerant. I found Mom seated at the large island, sipping a cold drink next to Frannie, Sylvie, and my cousin Emma.
“Hello, Mom.”
“Paisley! Darling!” She leaped from her barstool and wrapped me in her slender arms. “How I’ve missed you.”
Her familiar scent of lilac and vanilla filled my senses, and I closed my eyes and allowed myself to collapse into her comfort. How many times had I wished to talk to her or have her near? I’d missed her and—
“Hon, did you not have time to fix your hair?” Mom took a step of retreat, her eyes cataloging every aspect of my appearance, from my curly red hair pulled in a long ponytail to my black, sequined miniskirt and electric blue heels. “My assistant says that messy bun thing is more for college girls, don’t you think?”
Was it too soon to ask when she was leaving?
I hugged the others before returning to my mother’s side. “What’s brought you to Sugar Creek?” Mom was a workaholic, so my guess was business.
She gave me a quick peck on the cheek. “It’s been way too long. Can’t a mother pop in on her oldest daughter?”
“Of course. It’s just that. . .” It’s the worst timing ever. “I know you weren’t simply in the neighborhood.” My parents were motivational speakers who’d long ago moved from Sugar Creek and now made the Pacific Northwest their home base. World-renowned, they traveled the globe, teaching folks how to run on hot coals, develop corny life mottos, and go from zeros to heroes. When I became a pop star at the age of sixteen, my parents had thoroughly disapproved. They were type A, driven people without an artsy bone in their fit bodies. My brother and sister were the same, and I’d grown up often wondering if perhaps these people weren’t my real family, and I’d simply been left on their doorstep as an infant. But then there was Sylvie, and there was no question she and I were related. If adolescence wasn’t hard enough, try growing up with M.K. and Ellen Sutton as your parents. These overachievers could give anyone an inferiority complex. Even after five Grammys, I still couldn’t measure up to the expectations of my mom and dad.
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