That afternoon…
I had texted Gamma twice in the last hour, and she’d both messages without replying. Again, most unlike her. Was Lauren right? Should I be worried about the strange behavior? Silly. Even if I was worried, there wasn’t must I could do about it short of asking Gamma what was up.
The truth was, if my grandmother, the most decorated spy in NSIB history, wanted to hide her activity from us, she’d do it without too much effort.
I sat outside the hair salon in town, parked in the Mini-Cooper with the windows cracked to allow in the brisk breeze, waiting.
Apparently, Emmy Scott worked at the salon. I’d gotten a description of her from Lauren. Tall, pretty, with cherry red hair and freckles.
I’d already spotted her in there, chatting away with her clients, but I didn’t have anywhere else to be, and I needed time to think about the case, so I was in no rush to head inside the salon. To be frank, salons stressed me out. The last time I’d been in one, I’d been forced to change my natural hair to something much more bushy and cumbersome.
Yet another reason I’d made a poor spy.
“OK,” I muttered, and brought my notepad and pencil out of my purse. I leaned the notepad against the steering wheel and started my note-taking, glancing up now and again to make sure Emmy hadn’t disappeared.
Victim
Donny Braxton. Local lothario who had quite a few enemies. Apparently, one who hated him bad enough to stab him in the back. In his twenties.
Evidence
Stabbed in the back. No murder weapon.
The street was super open so anyone could’ve run up and committed the crime then disappeared again.
No car was seen or heard at the scene, but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t one.
Mrs. Cruz heard a bump at the time of the murder that might’ve been the victim falling over.
Mia Cruz claims she didn’t hear or see anything.
Nothing in the bushes.
There was a shoe at the crime scene that Mia had thrown at the victim before his death. Allegedly.
Suspects
Mia Cruz—The girlfriend who was disgruntled because Donny wouldn’t propose to her. She didn’t drop any hints that she knew that Donny was cheating on her Emmy Scott. She had fought with Donny and might’ve had motive by virtue of that. Apparently, wanted to be a model and leave Gossip. If that was the case, why did she claim she wanted to settle down with him?
Mrs. Cruz—Tension between Mrs. Cruz and her daughter. She didn’t like Donny one bit. Could she have had a motive to get rid of him because she thought he wasn’t good enough for her daughter?
Noah Braxton—Noah’s brother who claimed they were best friends. Could be inheriting everything from his brother, not that his brother had much that I know of. Noah’s a writer so he might be struggling? That would give him an alibi. Has an alibi as he was with Emmy around the time of the murder. Need to check this.
Emmy Scott—The fiancee. Did she know about the girlfriend? If everyone in town knows, then why wouldn’t she? Alibi?
I paused, tapping the nib of my stubby pencil against the page.
That was all I had so far. It wasn’t much. Actually, it was a lot of questions and very few answers, and I didn’t have any firm suspicions about anyone yet except for maybe Mrs. Cruz, interestingly enough.
The fact that she’d heard a noise and hadn’t checked what it was, then had been the person to discover the body the next morning…
The front door of the salon opened, and I straightened, tucking my notepad and pencil away again.
Emmy Scott had emerged. She waved at the car parked behind mine, where a man with graying hair sat reading a book with his glasses perched on the edge of his nose.
I got out of the Mini and followed her.
“Miss Scott?” I called.
She stopped walking and turned to me. “Yeah? Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, clutching a gaudy golden purse to her side. “I’ve just finished work for the day, but you can feel free to call the salon and make a booking. Ask for me directly.”
“I’m not here about my hair.”
She studied my short, blonde cut and arched an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”
Wow. Nice. “Yeah,” I said. “I wanted to talk to you about Donny. Your fiance?”
Emmy pressed her hand to her chest and took several breaths. The car door opened and the man inside emerged. “Honey? What’s wrong? Is this woman bothering you?”
“Hi,” I said, to the guy. “I’m Charlie Smith. I was just asking Miss Scott a few questions.” Or I’d been about to. I circled the car and shook the man’s hand. “You are?”
He wriggled his nose, the thick gray mustache beneath it moving along with it. “Mr. Scott,” he said. “I’m Emmy’s father. What do you want to talk to my daughter about? She’s been through a lot. She doesn’t need people prying into her personal life.”
“I wanted to talk to her about Donny Braxton,” I said. “I’ve been asked to—”
“Get in the car, Emmy,” the father snapped, instantly. “Now. Get in the car.”
Emmy gave me a miserable look and got into her father’s car. She placed her purse in her lap and squeezed her eyes shut.
“I didn’t mean to upset her or you,” I said. “And I’m very sorry for your loss. You see, I’m a—”
“I know exactly who you are.” Mr. Scott stalked forward, and I held my ground meeting him stare for stare. We were about the same height, and he didn’t intimidate me one bit. Not because of the height thing, but because Gamma had taught me a wicked trick for knocking a man out with a specific finger pinch maneuver.
“Oh?”
“You’re that nosy little investigator from the Gossip Inn,” Mr. Scott growled. “My daughter has been through enough. She doesn’t need you messing with her mind. She’s finally free from that idiot’s grasp, and I won’t let you bring her down all over again.”
“You’re talking about Donny,” I said. “You didn’t like him.”
Mr. Scott pressed his lips together.
“Mr. Scott, I’m just trying to help.”
“Why? Why would you want to interfere? Let the police do their work and stay out of it. We don’t need people… interfering.”
He’d said that like three times in a row now. “If Emmy would like to talk to me, please give her my card.” I removed a white card that I’d had printed with my name and cell phone number on it. I held it out to Mr. Scott.
He stared at it like I’d presented him with an ossified piece of poop. “Stay out of our lives. She doesn’t need another stalker freak following her around.” And with that, he got into his car, honked the horn at me to get me to move out of his way, then tore off. I caught a glimpse of the side of his daughter’s face. It was tear-streaked.
Now, that was interesting.
In my experience, people who had secrets were the ones who didn’t want others to “interfere.” I hopped in the Mini-Cooper, started the engine, and set off after the Scotts.