Joanna felt like a queen. A queen who was a little beat up and smelled like Chicago after Mrs. O’Leary’s cow knocked over the lantern, but a queen nonetheless. She was propped up on the couch with pillows and a blanket, and had three men and a dog ranged around her. Paul sat the closest, pressing a damp washcloth to her forehead. The cat didn’t like the disruption and had retreated to the basement, where he was probably curled up on Gene’s bathrobe.
“So,” Foster Crisp said, “The neighbor was the murderer. She was there all along.”
“And her real name was Meredith, David Sipriano’s widow, right?” Paul said.
“Exactly.” Joanna drained half her glass of water and stuck it out for a refill. Cool, pure water had never tasted so good.
“Bradley Stroden’s secretary was putting the bite on her, so she rented the house next door to keep an eye on things,” Gene said.
“If ‘keeping an eye on’ means ‘killing,’ then, yes,” Joanna said. “Think about it. It all makes sense. She had full access. Who else would be able to poison the violet pastilles and the letter? Not to mention steal the memoir and return it, shredded, to the front door?”
“Why did she do that?” Crisp asked.
“She wanted Mary Pat to let down her guard and hold the memorial service after all.”
“She doesn’t have priors,” Crisp said.
“Maybe she’d never been pushed to the limit before. Except that once, when her husband might have been tempted to leave her. She took care of that problem.” Joanna thought about the negligee, now with Detective Roscoe. “She had no idea another copy of Starlit Wonder existed, either. She’d already destroyed the one in the UCLA archives.” Joanna was sure it had been she who had stolen the copy. “She had to get rid of this copy, too, and anyone who knew what was in it.”
“So she moved next door,” Gene said.
“I can imagine her, after she received Luke’s blackmail letter, researching Bradley Stroden and trying to figure out how to contain the scandal that would erupt when his memoir came out,” Joanna said. “More water, please.” She cooled her throat. “She discovered the house next door was vacant.”
“I can see why,” Crisp said. “The traffic noise is horrible.”
“So she rented it and faked a video of spending time at a spa. Now she was in the ideal location to stalk her blackmailer and shut down the memoir for good.”
“All along, people had assumed Sipriano killed his mistress,” Paul said.
“Even the mistress’s brother. He’d pinned the murder on Sip in his screenplay. Meredith was desperate that no one would figure out that she killed Brigid Blackburn all those years ago. All they’d have to do is reopen the investigation into Blackburn’s death and track her movements that night.”
“The DNA on the nightgown will clinch it, of course,” Crisp said.
“So, it’s finally over,” Paul said. He set the damp cloth aside and clutched Joanna’s hand. “I’m not going to lie. I’m glad.” He gave her a look that said, “We have some talking to do.”
Joanna headed him off. “It’s a shame the old house is gone. And the Edith Head costumes—well, most of them, anyway.” The gold evening gown would need a careful cleaning, but it had survived. “I wonder…”
“Wonder what?” Crisp said.
“Mary Pat told me that Edith Head had insisted Bradley Stroden take the costumes. Head knew movie blood from the real thing. Do you think…?”
Crisp smiled. “I like it. Not that it matters now.”
“I feel that somehow Peter Blackburn knows his sister’s murder was solved, even if he’d been wrong about her killer.” Joanna set the water glass on the coffee table near her head. At last, she felt calm. Except for one item. “How are things with you, Gene?”
“Have you thought about your confession?” Paul added after a glance at Joanna.
“Oh, with all the excitement, I forgot to tell you about it. It’s done. I wrote it all out right here.” He pulled a sealed envelope from his back pocket and tossed it on the coffee table. It was fat enough to hold plenty of details and was addressed to The Oregonian with a P.O. box as a return address.
Joanna and Paul exchanged glances. “So, you wrote it all out. But you haven’t sent it in yet.”
For a man pending a return to prison, Gene looked relaxed. Joanna thought he might have loosened his belt a notch, too. Those baked goods were adding up.
“I don’t have to. I showed Melba, and we walked to the mail drop together. She asked a few questions, and I told her how, when word got out, my parole officer would tighten the screws and might cite me for hiding evidence, but that my prison term wouldn’t be longer than a few years. If I was lucky.”
Crisp raised an eyebrow. “Go on,” he said in a dry tone.
“Well, I’d opened the hatch to the mailbox, was just about to slip in the letter, and she pulled back my arm. Said the fact that I’d written my confession was enough for her, and, besides, the Greffulhe jewels were where they belonged, anyway. Plus, she has a soft spot for cats.”
“Smart woman,” Paul said.
“It’s true,” Gene said. “And a looker, to boot.”
“I hope you’ll bring her by the house sometime soon. We have a lot of pastries to thank her for.”
“We’ll both come. I’m leaving soon. Nearly packed. There’s a little apartment above the bakery with my name on it.”
“What are you going to do for money?” Joanna asked.
Gene looked at Crisp. “Foster said he might have some jobs for me here and there.”
Crisp shrugged. “He knows the community. He’s a good contact for a P.I.”
Joanna reached for Gene’s arm. “I’ll miss you. I will.”
“Oh,” Paul said. “One more thing. Apple forwarded it to me. One of the Book Bunnies stopped by the shop.”
He showed her the screen of his phone. The Book Bunnies stood holding a trophy shaped like a book. They were all grinning, even Pearl. Joanna pulled the phone closer. Could it be? Mindy had taken off her coat. The Mamselle Knits sleeveless dress showed white arms reaching for the trophy.
Joanna’s head fell back onto the couch. Things really seemed to be wrapped up. “What a memorial service that was,” she muttered.
“A hell of a finale,” Crisp added.
“Truth is,” Gene said, “Bradley would have loved it.”
The next night, Joanna and Paul sat on the couch, alone. Open windows brought in cool night air and the songs of crickets.
“It’s been a while,” Paul said.
He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Joanna knew what he meant. It had been a while since they’d had the house to themselves with no Gene to feed or to appear in the middle of the night or to tie up the bathroom.
“It has. He was a good houseguest, though.”
Paul looped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed them. “Come on, you’re glad he’s gone.”
She laughed. “I’m glad we have the place to ourselves again.”
For a few minutes they sat in silence.
Joanna reached for Paul’s hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t leave you a longer note when I went to the Stroden house yesterday. It felt like an emergency, and I didn’t have time to spare.”
Paul withdrew his arm and faced her. “You didn’t leave me a note. I mean, I knew something was up because you’d come home and changed your shoes to the ballet flats.”
“But I did. I wrote it on the pad we keep in the buffet drawer. You know, the one for the grocery list. I left it on the table.” She placed a hand on his forearm. “I wanted you to know what I was up to. Like we’d talked about.”
He pushed aside her hair and kissed an ear. “Thank you. But I didn’t get any note.”
As if having the same thought, they both looked at the envelope Gene had left on the table. “Gene left his confession. Do you think—?” Paul started.
“He might have written it on the same pad and tossed aside my note.”
Paul leaned forward and picked up the envelope. He handed it to Joanna.
It felt heavy. She squeezed it. “I wonder what he said? I mean, we know the story. I just wonder…”
Paul took it from her. He slipped a finger under the envelope’s flap and ripped.
“You can’t open that,” Joanna said. “It’s private.”
He shot her a sideways glance. “If I know my uncle, it won’t matter. Here.”
He pulled out several sheets of paper and smoothed them flat. They were blank.
Joanna’s mouth dropped open. She laughed and shook her head. “Honestly. Somebody ought to make a movie about this.”