~ Maddie ~
Jenna and I are in the middle of forming a plan of action when Alicia texts me from the sales floor.
“Fran McDonald is here to see you. Would’ve come back to tell you, but I’m with a customer.”
“No problem. I’ll come out and get her.”
It’s not a bad interruption. Jenna and I have no leads other than Olivia and we’ve turned that situation over and over and ended up going nowhere.
“Alicia just texted that Fran is here,” I say. “Okay with you if I bring her back?”
“Fine with me,” Jenna says. “Maybe she’ll have a lead. We could use one since we’re stuck on Olivia.”
“Let’s not—” I start.
“I know,” Jenna interrupts me. “I won’t say a word about Olivia until we have something more substantial to hang our hat on.”
I let myself out of the office and make my way toward the shop floor.
Of all the writers’ group members, Fran would be the one I would trust the most to confide something speculative or confidential. But it just doesn’t feel right. Not right now. Even though Olivia isn’t one of my favorite people, I feel like it’s not fair to talk about her behind her back when it’s something as sensitive as accusing her of murder.
But I am glad to see Fran. She’s one of the founding members of the writers’ group, I’m sure she’s here to dish. That’s what we do mostly these days since Fran gave up writing. She is a seriously talented writer. She had found moderate success with her Carmody Callahan mystery series, but about two years ago, just as things were starting to happen for her, her publisher dropped her and she decided to give it all up because she wasn’t enjoying it anymore. She didn’t need the pittance it paid and decided her sanity was more valuable than driving herself crazy looking for a new publisher.
By the time Fran quit writing, Kellen was a big star living in New York and Olivia had traded mysteries for romance and didn’t think we were worth her time to travel from Ashville to Hemlock. That left MJ, who has never finished more than a couple of chapters of a full length and some short stories, and Hailey who has found success in independent publishing. Lately, she’s been writing paranormal mysteries, which is how she discovered her fascination with tarot card reading.
There’s a small town about twenty miles from Hemlock that has called itself a spiritualist camp. Many psychics and mediums have moved there to be among like-minded souls. Hailey, who always fancied herself sensitive to people’s vibrations, has been apprenticing with one of the mediums who specializes in tarot cards and tea leaf readings. Every so often, Fran, Hailey, MJ, and I will get together for dinner, but Fran and I meet more often. Even if it’s just for a quick cup of coffee.
She seems much happier since she quit and she’s so generous about reading my work and helping me talk through plot holes, or areas in the work where I’ve written myself into a corner.
I joke with her and say, since she’s no longer using her writing success, can I have it? Sadly, it doesn’t work that way. It’s not something a friend can bundle up and pass along to me like an old exercise bike or a potter’s wheel that’s been gathering dust in the corner. Though, Fran would if she could. She even introduced me to her editor, who promptly left to have a baby and had the nerve to leave the publishing world to stay at home with her child, leaving me at square one.
Of course, I’m saying that tongue in cheek. I would never begrudge a young mother time with her baby. I was luckier in motherhood than I’ve been in getting published. I was able to stay home with Jenna before she started school. Now, it seems like a million years ago, before my husband, Frank, was deployed and ultimately considered missing in action. But that’s another story. Right now, I’m hoping Fran is bringing me news about who might have wanted Kellen dead.
Fran’s face brightens the minute she sees me. “Maddie, I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Hi, Fran. I’m happy to see you, too.” I glance around the shop to make sure Alicia isn’t over tapped. I see the mother and daughter, neither of whom I recognize from town, are the only customers in the store. Alicia is showing them various wedding gown styles. She and I make eye contact and in one smile she conveys that she’s got everything under control.
“Let’s go back to the office,” I say. “Jenna’s there and we were just talking about things.”
“I figured you were,” Fran says as she follows me. “You’ll have to catch me up.”
Before we can step into the hallway that leads to the office, we hear a familiar voice.
“Maddie! Fran!”
It’s Hailey. She joins us and I have to move things around—shift the surplus of catalogues, fabric sample books, and complementary issues of Southern Bride—to make room for the four of us in the office.
While I’m doing that, Fran and Hailey greet Jenna with hugs and kisses on the cheek.
“I hope everyone is hungry,” Hailey says. “I picked up a dozen cinnamon rolls from the Briar Patch before I stopped in.”
She opens her oversized shoulder bag and pulls out the large box.
She holds it out as if it’s something precious. “I know exactly what you’re thinking.” Hailey sings the words. “You had no idea I had this big box inside my purse, did you?”
“Well, I—” I start to say.
“Of course you didn’t,” Hailey continues. “And that is how the murderer switched boxes on you.”
Jenna, Fran, and I glance at each other.
“You do realize that the dress box in question was about three times the size of the pastry box you just pulled from your bag,” I ask.
“Minor details,” Hailey says. “I wanted to demonstrate how it could be done.”
“If your bag was the size of a suitcase,” Fran says.
“Okay, skeptics. Please keep an open mind.” Hailey sets the box of cinnamon rolls on my desk.
The delicious, buttery-spiced aroma makes my stomach growl. Cinnamon rolls are the Briar Patch’s signature specialty. Now I realize, since my stomach was in knots this morning before I went in to talk to Jackson, I didn’t eat breakfast. Now, my stomach is singing an entirely different tune, sounding an angry chorus that is demanding I make up for lost time.
“I checked in with Madame Miranda first thing this morning,” Hailey says.
Madame Miranda, her spiritual advisor in Casa Rojo, is teaching Hailey the art of tarot reading. “Miranda consulted the cards about the Kellen situation and said she clearly saw someone switching boxes. And that is how the crime was committed.”
She cocks her head at an angle that suggests she’s solved the crime.
“Did she see who did it?” Jenna asked.
“That was not so clear,” Hailey says.
Jenna shoots me another glance that says she could’ve told me that much. I don’t need classes from Madame Miranda to be able to read my daughter’s mind, or at least pick up on messages she’s sending me.
“Specifics would be helpful,” Fran says. “I don’t know that Chief Bradley could make an arrest based solely on Madame Miranda’s switched-box theory.”
“I know.” Hailey sounds deflated as she falls into one of the office chairs I cleared for her and Fran. “I just keep thinking if I stay positive and meditate on what Miranda saw, I should be able to break through the haze and visualize the murderer.”
“I wish it was that easy,” I say. “I still can’t imagine who would want Kellen dead.”
“Well, I may have something,” Fran says as she flips open the pastry box and helps herself to a roll. She waits until everyone is settled with their sweet.
“I know I should offer coffee, but I want to hear what Fran has to say and that would only delay it. But you all help yourself to the Keurig in the hallway.” That’s where we have a beverage cart with a small refrigerator set up so we can offer our customers refreshments while they shop.
“No, way,” Hailey says. “Coffee can wait. I want to hear what Fran has to say.”
With all eyes on her, Fran takes a dramatic pause. “Well, when I got home last night, I could not sleep—just like y’all, I’m sure. So, I started googling Kellen and looking at what some of the online gossip sites have been saying about her. Had y’all heard anything about Kellen and Tom having marital problems?”
Three of us do a collective blink at Fran’s revelation. It was a good move. I was so mentally exhausted last night that I showered and fell into bed. This morning, I went from my appointment with Jackson straight to the office. I hadn’t had a chance to log onto the internet. Leave it to Fran to be one step ahead.
“Didn’t Kellen marry her agent?” Jenna asked.
“She did,” I say. “Tom Corsi. We were all invited to her wedding.”
“Well, all of us except for you know who,” Hailey says with a knowing look.
“Right, all of us except for Olivia,” Fran says.
“I guess I was away at college,” Jenna says. “But I remember you went.”
“MJ didn’t go out of solidarity with Olivia,” Hailey says. “She came up with some kind of excuse for you all, but she told me there was no way she was going to go after the way Kellen had treated Olivia.”
“And I’m sure in the next breath she swore that she wasn’t going to take sides,” I say and hate myself for being catty. Even though it was true.
“You know how MJ is. She always needs someone to worship,” Fran says.
“And Olivia always needed someone to worship her. Especially in this instance when she perceived that Kellen had wronged her. Olivia was definitely wanting people to choose sides. The three of us wouldn’t and that’s why she left the group.”
We’re all quiet for a moment and I’ll bet good money we’re all pondering whether Olivia could be so vindictive that she’d stoop to murder. But I refuse to go down that rabbit hole.
I’m relieved when Fran says, “I haven’t gotten to the juiciest part.”
“Tell us,” demands Hailey.
“According to TMZ’s website, Kellen and Tom were having marital troubles because Tom had been canoodling with the actress who is supposed to play the lead role in the screen adaptation of The Sting of Death.”
“That’s not true,” I say. “It can’t be.”
Fran shrugs. “There were some pretty convincing photos on the website of Tom getting pretty cozy with Bella Bellagio. Here, I took screenshots. Let me pull them up.”
Fran takes her phone out of her bag and starts tapping on the screen.
“Bella Bellagio?” Hailey looks starstruck. “She’s in Kellen’s movie? That’s impressive. She’s one of my favorite actresses.”
“Hailey, Bella Bellagio is having an affair with Kellen’s husband,” Fran snaps. “That’s not impressive. It’s horrible.”
Hailey frowns and looks as if she’s trying to process her favorite actress’s bad behavior.
“And that’s not all,” Fran says as she holds out the phone. “Look, the caption says these pictures were taken at the Biltmore Estate in Asheville. The two of them are staying less than a half hour away from the location that the scorned wife turns up dead. All we need is the smoking gun.”
Hailey’s brow is knit so tightly it’s almost painful to see. “I’d hardly say that’s a smoking gun. I mean, I think we’d know if Tom Corsi or Bella Bellagio switched Kellen’s dress box for one full of angry bees.”
“Well, they probably wouldn’t do it themselves,” Jenna says.
“Hailey has a point,” I say. “How would they even know about the dress box so they could hire someone to switch it out?”
“Yeah,” Hailey says, looking vindicated. “How would they know? Plus why have we not discussed the obvious?”
Fran, Jenna, and I look at Hailey. I do my best not to make a face because I know what’s coming.
“We’re all mystery writers here,” Hailey says. “Well, except for Jenna, but she’s smart. I think we need to talk about the elephant in the room—or should I say the elephant who was sneaking around the hotel last night. Olivia Knowles.”