Chapter 21

My mom’s copy of Murder on the Orient Express was on the bookshelf in the study at my dad’s house. It was stacked on top of a slew of other murder mysteries, but was, by far, the most worn-out of the bunch. I didn’t think it would give me any insight to the murder plaguing my mind, but I pulled it from the shelf anyway. Flipping through the pages revealed my mother’s annotations. She’d been fascinated with Poirot’s keen ability to lay out the array of clues before him and, from them, deduce the truth.

Poirot was clever.

Agatha Christie was cleverer.

I, on the other hand, felt like a mouse in a maze. I’d die of starvation before I found my way out.

My mother had underlined the clues she’d missed on her first read-through of the novel, jotting exclamation points in the margins, notes about what the clues meant once she knew the truth, and a series of highlighted words. When I read them, one word or phrase after another, they showed just how clever the author had been. Twelve stab wounds to the victim. Twelve people hiding in plain sight, each with a motive leading back to a kidnapped child.

I sighed and replaced the book. Josh Prentiss hadn’t been stabbed. He’d been poisoned, and one could only be poisoned once, so while Pilar’s suggestion that a bunch of people might have worked together to kill the man, it didn’t make sense in reality.

I came back to the fact that Josh had been generally liked.

But he hadn’t really been, had he? His wife knew he’d cheated. He’d stolen money from at least a handful of women, and maybe more. Many of them seemed to have figured that out before his death. He’d been a booster, okay, but despite his efforts, there was still no marquee and no new assistant coach. Did any of the executive board have doubts about his honesty? My spine crackled. I needed to talk to more boosters.

It didn’t take long to find them. A quick perusal of Santa Sofia High School’s website led me to the athletics page, then to the football program, and finally to the boosters. I scanned the names, but none was familiar. Each linked to an email. I clicked the first one, which opened up a new email, and started to type. I didn’t get far because I had no idea what to say.

Hi! My name is Ivy, and I work at the bread shop where Josh Prentiss was just hours before his death. Did he have any enemies? Any people who might have wanted him dead? Did he cheat the football boosters out of money?

If I received an email like that I’d run for the hills.

I deleted the draft and instead wrote down the names of the executive board for the boosters in my notebook. Josh had been the controller. The rest of the names were meaningless to me, but I hoped one might lead to a clue.

As well as an email link, a phone number was listed for each board member. Before I could talk myself out of it, I opened the keypad on my phone and called the president. The call was answered on the third ring. A friendly voice saying, “This is Shannon,” took me aback. I forged ahead in my most professional voice, half afraid I’d hang up before I even realized I’d done it. “Hi Shannon. My name is Ivy Culpepper. I’m looking into the death of Josh Prentiss. I believe he was on the executive board for the Santa Sofia High School football boosters?”

There was a weighty pause before the woman released an emotional sigh. “God. He was. I can’t . . . I still can’t believe he’s gone. Dead.”

“Murdered,” I said shortly, in the same way Mandy Trainer had corrected me.

On the other end of the cellular waves, Shannon Lipsky gasped. “Right. Murdered. I can’t believe it,” she said again, as if that was the only phrase she could summon up.

“I know. It’s shocking. Listen, I have a few quick questions.” I held my breath that she wouldn’t interrupt me to ask who I worked for and why I was digging into the man’s death. “Was Josh generally liked by the board and the boosters?”

“Oh my God, yes. He was so wonderful. He and Cheryl—that’s the treasurer—they worked miracles raising money. Josh was just so committed to the student athletes. He will be very missed. Sean, um, Fitzwilliam is going to take over as controller, at least until we can hold an election to fill the position.”

I wondered about the um between Sean’s first and last names, but it was good information. I jotted it down. “Fitzwilliam. He’s one of the directors, is that right?” I asked, referring back to the list of names on the website. “Married to . . .”

“Right. To Cheryl, the treasurer. At least that will be an easy transition. He can check over the books in the comfort of his own home.”

I asked a few more questions, but Shannon couldn’t tell me anything else. I hung up with her and moved on, dialing Cheryl Fitzwilliam. I went through the same introduction, hoping for the same result. I got it, but this time it came with an onslaught of tearful emotions. “It’s just . . . I can’t . . . I can’t believe he’s really gone,” she said, her voice breaking down on that last word in a way that made me wonder if Josh’s predilection for older women wasn’t hard and fast. Maybe the hesitation in Shannon’s voice a few minutes ago was because she knew something had been going on between Cheryl and Josh.

“I know. I’m so sorry,” I said, leaping forward with that theory even though I had not a shred of evidence to support it. “Were you and Josh . . . close?” I asked, heavy emphasis on the word close.

Instead of answering, she wailed into my ear. “He was . . . oh my God, I miss him so much. Please don’t tell anyone. My husband, he’ll kill me.” She gasped at her own choice of words, and I could hear the sound of her hand slapping over her mouth. When she spoke, her voice came out muffled. “I didn’t mean . . . ohhh!”

“Cheryl,” I said slowly, “were you and Josh having an affair?”

Her sob said it all. Either Cheryl Fitzwilliam was an award-winning actress, or she was truly in distress over her lover’s death. After a few more wailing answers to my probing questions, I hung up and promptly called Sean Fitzwilliam, because if Cheryl felt so strongly about Josh, could she have really kept those feelings from her husband?

This time, there was no answer. His voice mail was pleasant enough. You’ve reached Sean Fitzwilliam. Leave a message, and I’ll call you back at my earliest convenience.

I left a message, hoping he really would call me back.

I tried the secretary, the vice president, and the other two directors, talking to two of them and getting nothing new, and leaving a message with the third.

I was confident York was digging into Josh’s marks, and dredging up any other women Josh might have gotten his hooks into. Including Jeanne P. And I also knew he’d eventually talk to the boosters. Who knew, maybe he had already.

I had just two lingering questions from talking to them myself: Did Sean Fitzwilliam know his wife Cheryl had been having an affair with Josh Prentiss? And if so, could he have been the one to poison his fellow football booster?