| |
For the past two hours, I’d been dreaming of getting off my feet after the long day at the bazaar. That dream wouldn’t be coming true anytime soon.
The scuttlebutt said Mayor Mathis was backstage, trading his Santa outfit for civilian clothes so that he could hand over his costume to investigators. The dancers who’d just been on stage had been quieted with leftover hot chocolate and cookies. A volunteer elf came by, offering cocoa to the exhibitors, but I thanked her for the offer and waved her—and the sugary aroma—away. Sick to my stomach, I wanted nothing stronger than a sip of water.
Savannah and I watched as Caitlyn sobbed loudly on the cafeteria stage. The two police officers on parking lot duty had shown up almost instantly. I texted Jen to say I wouldn’t make it to Sombrero by eight o’clock as planned, and I ended with a news alert. Police want to interview us about Miranda Hargrove’s death.
As I could have predicted, Jen was tapping on the cafeteria doors less than ten minutes later, although the police insisted she keep out. Soon, her nose was pressed to the glass of a windowpane a few doors down. Whether or not she gained access was really a moot point. A photog from the Trib had been there for the past hour to snap photos of the closing ceremonies, and I noted—with the pride of a former journalist—that he kept doing his job, snapping away discreetly, even after police had arrived.
I was breaking down my jewelry displays when a racket on the stage made me jerk my head up. Caitlyn turned red in the face as she talked with a blue-suited fellow who had just shown up. Is that...? Oh yes, it was.
Detective Alan Shelton. Ugh. He might have been considered one of Roseland’s finest, but the detective and I had tangled over another murder investigation not too long ago. I avoided being at events when he was around, but there was no escaping the current one.
Caitlyn was clearly a wreck following the death of her boss. I strained to listen as Detective Shelton questioned her.
“We can do this here, or we can head down to the station for the interview if you’re more comfortable with that.” Anyone within earshot could hear him trying to calm her down, but she wasn’t having it.
“My boss has just been killed, and you’re standing here asking me who was on the official registration list? Have you lost your mind?”
Even though I had gotten crossways with the detective in the past, I’d also respected his position. Caitlyn needed to watch her mouth.
The detective lowered his voice, and I couldn’t tell whether he was being friendly or forceful. Whatever he’d said, Caitlyn stopped crying, and she nodded and followed him out into the hallway.
“I still can’t believe this.” Savannah put a hand to her mouth.
A stretcher was wheeled into the cafeteria, and my stomach clenched at what was coming next. Back in my reporter days, I’d been at crime scenes when a few bodies were removed, but it was still a sobering moment when the man in the coroner jacket came through the cafeteria and headed to the stage. Police officers and some volunteers held up blankets and shielded the area of the stage where Miranda’s body lay, but all of us watching knew what was going on.
An uneasy but respectful silence settled over the room as the stretcher rolled past with the sheet-covered body. Savannah had tears in her eyes, and I blinked back a few too.
Sure, Miranda had ruffled more than a few feathers that day, but I didn’t think any of those episodes had been enough to provoke a murder.
“So, who do you think killed her?” Savannah took in the entire cafeteria as she whispered. “Half of us here were ticked off at her for one reason or another. Me. Bob. Harriet. Gerald and the Humane Society. And I found out today that one of the show’s founding artists got excluded when his application supposedly didn’t arrive in time.”
“Oh?”
She nodded. “Do you know Tyler Montgomery? You might have seen him around earlier. Wears this crazy-looking vest with dried paint all over it as his artist uniform.”
I shook my head. “Never met him, but you were talking to him at your booth this afternoon, weren’t you?”
“Yes, but don’t tell Gus. She’s had a thing for him for years, so I was doing a little intel, and I don’t think he’s got a girlfriend.”
I couldn’t help grinning. He was nice-looking, and a fellow artist sounded like just the sort of guy who might appeal to Gus.
One of the officers on stage tapped a microphone and captured everyone’s attention. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, but as you probably know by now, we’ve had a tragedy here tonight. I’m sorry to inform you that Miranda Hargrove has passed away. I apologize for the inconvenience when I know you’re all ready to leave, but I’m sure you understand the importance of our gathering information while events are fresh in everyone’s minds.”
I was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, but I couldn’t begrudge the police some time to complete their work. Someone in the room might have seen or heard something that would help the officers discover who’d killed Miranda.
Gus walked up and joined Savannah and me, and the three of us sat behind my stripped table and speculated about the killer while we waited to give our statements. When it was my turn, Detective Shelton motioned me over to the table where he and three other officers had an assembly line of interviews underway.
“Good evening, Emma. I’m sure you’re ready to get out of here, but thanks for giving us some of your time,” the officer said.
“No problem. What can I tell you?”
“I’ve heard that Miranda had some altercations with a few of the exhibitors today. Did you witness any of those?”
I paused, considering.
“Emma?” He raised an eyebrow, looking impatient.
“I’m thinking. I’m thinking.” I sighed as I tried to figure out how many of the day’s dustups to share. “And yes, I saw a few words exchanged but nothing that would have led to murder.”
“We’ll draw our own conclusions, if you don’t mind.” His lips thinned, and when I cocked my head at him, he seemed to chill. “Just tell me what you saw.” He looked exasperated, and that annoyed me. The evening wasn’t exactly a picnic for me either.
“I overheard a heated conversation between Miranda and Harriet Harris,” I said. “Harriet was angry that Miranda was denying an exhibitor spot to Holly Harris Burke, Harriet’s daughter.”
“So Holly was registered like everyone else?” His pen paused in midair.
“That’s what Harriet said.” I nodded. “But you might want to confirm that with Caitlyn Hill, Miranda’s assistant. I imagine she’d be able to tell you the particulars of who submitted registrations on time and who didn’t. If anyone was unhappy about their assignment, she would know about it.”
“Were they the only ones you saw today who seemed upset with Miranda?”
“I’m not sure whether ‘upset’ is exactly the right word,” I admitted, “but Savannah Rogers, the watercolor artist, and Gerald Adams and Gus Townsend from the Humane Society all had some rearranging to do after they got their assignments. I wouldn’t say those conversations got as heated as the one with Harriet, though.”
“I see. Anyone else?”
“Bob Mathis. He was irate that Miranda hadn’t given him his old location. And Shareta Gibson had her artwork criticized, but that was a minor thing.” Sheesh, Emma. Ratting out half your friends today, aren’t you?
Detective Shelton wrote a few more notes in his small blue spiral-bound notebook. He seemed to be writing down much more than I’d actually said, so I took advantage of the break in the interview to pose a few questions of my own.
“I assume from the cord I saw dangling from her neck that she was strangled.” I looked him in the eye and waited for confirmation.
Shelton simply stared at me, and I stared right back. The question was probably pointless, but I had to ask. “Have you gotten any leads about who might have killed her?”
“Emma.” He looked at me and sighed. “We were called out here just about forty-five minutes ago and have been interviewing everybody we can since that time. Trust me. We’ll do our best to find out who did this.”
“I was just asking.” He didn’t have to be so touchy.
“And of course we’ll try to solve this as fast as we can.”
“I know that.” Well, I didn’t know that at all, but it was the right thing to say.
“You’re free to go.” He motioned toward the door. “We appreciate your time.”
“Thanks.” After tipping my head in his direction, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough and wheeled my bulky, if largely empty, jewelry totes to my car. I tossed the final tote onto the back seat, climbed behind the wheel, and wondered whether my aching foot would make it to the gas pedal.
Thinking about dinner with Jen gave me the second wind I needed, though. I wondered what she’d heard about the murder, and I couldn’t wait to bounce a few thoughts off her.