Deputy Jackson’s instructions notwithstanding, I leapt to my feet and spun about. Leaning over the windowsill like a neighbor come to gossip was Sheriff Connie Lamb.
My height but with about fifty pounds more muscle than I had, the woman cut a no-nonsense figure in her tan uniform shirt and dark-brown trousers and tie. Her brassy blond hair—almost the same color as the big metal badge pinned to her chest—was twisted into a tight French braid. Her mirrored sunglasses reflected my shocked expression back at me, though I swiftly regained my composure.
“Sorry, Sheriff, I thought you were a serial killer.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot,” she replied, deadpan. “Where’s Jackson?”
“Right here,” the deputy replied, striding his way in from the hallway. “Don’t worry, ma’am, everything’s under control. I checked the rest of the house in case the suspect was still here. Whoever it was, he’s long gone.”
The sheriff slanted him a look. “He? Based on the witness description, I thought Ms. Fleet was the suspect, and it looks like she’s still here—and left to her own devices. You want to tell me what’s going on?”
Jackson looked as sheepish as a man of his size and appearance could. Still, I was impressed by his save as he replied, “Upon further questioning of Ms. Fleet, while technically she made an unauthorized entry, it turns out she was in the house for legitimate reasons not related to what appears to be a burglary. I asked her to remain here while I secured the scene first before I took her formal statement.”
“Uh-huh.”
Her expression was as skeptical as the deputy’s earlier had been. She glanced about the room, taking in the disarray. “What about the rest of the house? Is it trashed too?”
He nodded his bald head. “It all looks pretty much like this. Stuff’s thrown around, but nothing’s destroyed, no graffiti, so I wouldn’t say vandalism. And all the electronics are still in place, so I don’t think it’s a run-of-the-mill burglary. I’m guessing someone was searching for something specific, probably the cash Ms. Fleet was carrying around.”
“Cash?” The mirrored-sunglasses gaze whipped my way.
I nodded. “Ten thousand dollars, all in hundreds.”
The sheriff tugged off her sunglasses and hung them from her shirt pocket. Her icy-blue gaze regarded us both with restrained exasperation.
“Doug, why don’t you sign out and join your girls at church, and I’ll take it from here. If you’ll unlock that front door on your way out, I’ll come in and have a little chat with Ms. Fleet before I call in the crime scene boys.”
A couple of minutes later the deputy had left and the sheriff had come in. Motioning me back to my seat at the dining table, she took the chair opposite me and pulled out a small notebook from her non-sunglasses pocket.
“Let’s start from the top,” she told me. “I received Mr. Westcott’s voice message yesterday that you two took it upon yourselves to pick up Ms. Quarry’s dog”—
“Gustopher,” I helpfully supplied. “He’s a Goldendoodle.”
“—as a temporary foster situation until other arrangements could be made,” she continued, ignoring my interruption, though I saw her write down the pup’s name. “How did you access the house that time?”
I explained how Roxanna had previously told me about the key under the Uga statue—that and the fact that I was sure I’d put the key back again, only to find it missing on the return trip.
She held up a restraining hand before I could voice my theory that whoever had ransacked the house must have known about the key too. “We’ll circle back around to that in a minute. Let’s keep going in chronological order. What was the state of the house when you and Mr. Westcott entered to retrieve the dog?”
“You mean, was anything torn apart like it is now? No, everything looked the same as usual.”
“So you’ve been in Ms. Quarry’s house before?”
I nodded. “We went out for drinks once, and we had lunch over at Peaches and Java, and I picked her up here both times. We did a couple of doggy playdates too, but she came over to the B&B for those.”
The sheriff wrote for a moment, then flipped to a second page and said, “Tell me what went on once you and Mr. Westcott were inside.”
“Not a lot. Harry took Gus out back to do his business while I went to the kitchen to load up his food and leashes and such. That’s when I found the dog treat canister with the cash in it,” I explained, pointing to the red ceramic jar still sitting on the floor. “Of course, I had no idea there was anything besides dog treats inside it until I got it home and looked inside.”
“We’ll circle back to that one in a minute too.”
She made a couple of quick notes and then resumed her questioning. “What else did you do after you had gathered all the dog’s supplies? Did you walk around the rest of the house, open any cabinets or drawers?”
I frowned and shook my head.
“You mean, did I snoop around in my dead friend’s house?” I asked, more than a little offended. “No. Harry brought Gus back inside, and then—”
“Oh, wait,” I interrupted myself. “Gus was upset because he couldn’t find Roxanna anywhere, so I left Harry to call you while I ran upstairs with Gus to get one of her T-shirts. You know, so he’d have something of hers to comfort him at night while he slept.”
My voice wavered a little, and for a moment I saw a flash of sympathy in the sheriff’s pale eyes. But all she said was, “So you went upstairs. Was anything out of place there?”
“Not that I could see. I went into her bedroom, opened her clothes hamper, and pulled out the shirt.”
I didn’t tell the sheriff about my moment of silent contemplation, though I recalled something else. “One thing that was kind of unusual happened while I was upstairs. Gus started barking at the window, and when I looked out, there was a car parked at the curb right behind my Mini Cooper. It was only there for a few seconds before it took off down the street.”
“Did you see a license plate? What about make, model, and color?”
I shrugged. “I couldn’t see the tags from upstairs. But it was a silver two-door, kind of sporty looking. Sorry, I’m not good with car brands.”
“Was the driver male or female?”
“I couldn’t tell. Besides, the windows were tinted—but not the black aftermarket tint that will get you pulled over, just regular old factory standard gray,” I clarified, earning a nod of approval from the sheriff with that detail. “Then Gus and I went back downstairs, and we all left the house. I locked the front door again, and I’m ninety-nine percent certain I put that key back where I found it.”
The sheriff made a few more notes. Then her sharp blue gaze shifted to the red canister. “Since you’ve already been carrying it around, why don’t you bring Gustopher’s treat jar over here so we can discuss the money you found.”
I did as requested, giving her a rundown on how I’d seen the canister on a high shelf in the pantry and how I’d used the step stool to pull it down before adding it to the rest of Gus’s haul. I explained that, once back at the B&B, I’d opened the canister to give the dogs a late-afternoon treat, only to find something besides Scooby Snacks inside. I finished by describing how I’d counted out the wad of hundred-dollar bills before wrapping the cash up again so I could return the jar intact to Roxanna’s house.
Once I’d ended my account, the sheriff slanted me a look. “Was there a reason you didn’t call my office to report this find so we could secure the cash for Ms. Quarry’s next of kin?”
“I was going to,” I hurriedly defended myself, “but I talked to Harry. He convinced me it would be better to not say anything and just put it back where I found it. Not that we didn’t trust your people to keep it safe, but, you know, red tape and all…”
I trailed off as Sheriff Lamb slowly shook her blond head, her free hand momentarily pinching the bridge of her nose.
“Word of advice, Ms. Fleet,” was her dry response. “Next time you need legal advice, ask someone other than Harry Westcott. Now, would you please explain how you ended up climbing through a window instead of entering Ms. Quarry’s residence via the door like you did the first time?”
I told her again about the missing key, emphasizing that I was very sure I’d put it back beneath Uga when Harry and I had left the house the previous day.
“Interesting,” she replied, pursing her non-lipsticked lips. “You relocked the front door when you left yesterday, and it was locked today when you returned. And the rear door was locked as well?”
“It was today,” I confirmed. “And I remember seeing Harry unlock it yesterday when he took Gus out back.”
She nodded and made a note that I assumed was to ask that question of Harry later. But what she said aloud was, “You know, I’ve been a cop for almost twenty years, and I can’t even guess how many burglaries I’ve investigated. But I can say that in all those cases, never once was the suspect considerate enough to lock the door after himself once he was finished ransacking the place.”
She paused, the silence giving me a moment to realize that the whole locked-door thing was rather odd. I could see the burglar closing the door to avoid the attention that an open door would bring, but why take the extra step of locking it? And, presumably, taking the key with them afterward?
The sheriff, meanwhile, continued, “There’s a good chance the person who broke in was looking for something very specific. Detective Jackson seemed to think it might have been the money you found. To your knowledge, did Ms. Quarry ever speak in public about keeping a lot of cash lying around the house?”
“No,” I told her, “but there is something else you probably should know. At the bridal expo, I overheard an argument between Roxanna and Virgie Hamilton. Virgie accused Roxanna of embezzling money from their joint business account. She claimed Roxanna had taken ten thousand dollars.”
The sheriff’s already ice-blue gaze turned suddenly glacial. She set down her notebook and pen to lock eyes with me.
“Ten thousand dollars,” she repeated. “The same amount as in the dog treat jar. And did you tell Deputy Jackson that little detail about Ms. Hamilton’s accusations yesterday when you gave him your statement at the expo?”
I shook my head, refusing to feel guilty. “No. And at the time, I didn’t think it mattered. I like Virgie well enough, but she’s not the nicest person out there. A couple of hours before the fashion show, I overhead another fight she had with her ex-husband. That one got pretty nasty too. So as far as I knew, the whole embezzling thing was just Virgie being…well, Virgie.”
“Right,” the sheriff agreed. “Just Virgie being Virgie—until Ms. Quarry ended up dead under suspicious circumstances. And until you discovered ten thousand dollars stashed away in her house.”
Now it was my turn to stare as the words suspicious circumstances sunk in. My previous doubts about Roxanna’s death abruptly resurfaced. “Are you telling me that what happened to my friend wasn’t an accident?”
“Not at all. Let’s just say that since our friends at the ME’s office don’t work weekends, we won’t officially know how Ms. Quarry died for another day or two.”
“But unofficially…?”
The sheriff gave me a tight smile. “Unofficially, I suggest you stick to innkeeping instead of burglary, and don’t go gossiping around town about our discussion today. And unless you plan to go through Georgia peace officer training, I also officially suggest you leave the investigation of Ms. Quarry’s death to my people. Agreed?”
I nodded.
“Now, do you have any other bombshells you’d like to drop on me?”
I shook my head.
“Then thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Fleet. You’re free to go.”
Maybe it was just me, but I heard an implied for now in her words. And as I was smart enough to know to get going while the getting was good, I hurriedly rose.
“Thanks, Sheriff.”
Then, figuring I might as well ask, I added, “Any chance I can take Gus’s crate with me? I didn’t have room in the car yesterday, and if he ends up staying with me for a while, I’ll need it.”
“Sorry, nothing leaves the house until the scene is released,” she replied, only to surprise me by adding, “but I’ll see if one of us can drop it off to you later.”
One of the perks of living in a small town, I told myself as I thanked her again and headed out. But once back in the Mini and on my way home again, the import of what I’d learned began to sink in. Though Sheriff Lamb hadn’t said so in as many words, I could read between her law-enforcement lines well enough to know that my suspicions had proved correct.
Roxanna’s death had been no tragic accident but a deliberate killing.
Blinking back tears, I again recalled seeing her pretty patterned scarf tied high and tight around her neck. Murdering someone in that way, up close and personal, was surely the most heinous act someone could commit on another person. But had her death been planned from the start, or had it been a crime fueled by blinding anger and opportunity? And was the murder tied to the ten thousand dollars I’d found—which sum might or might not be the same cash Virgie had claimed Roxanna had stolen? Or had she been killed for some totally unrelated reason?
But possibly the most important question was, now that I knew we were dealing with something other than an accident, what was I going to do about it?
“Stop it!” I shouted aloud, to the dismay of the elderly man in the lane beside me as we both waited at one of Cymbeline’s few traffic lights.
Stop it, I silently repeated. Sheriff Lamb had explicitly warned me not to get involved. And, truth be told, I wasn’t eager to play junior detective and go poking around looking for suspects. The smart thing would be to keep my head down and let Sheriff Lamb and her deputies do their jobs. Because, for all I knew, the medical examiner might come back with the determination that her death had been an accident.
The dogs enthusiastically greeted my return home by begging for a snack. I obliged, glad for their furry company in the otherwise empty house. It was almost one PM, meaning I had another three or four hours alone before Harry returned from his quote/unquote date with Dr. Garvin. Which was perfectly fine by me, given that we’d parted this morning under less-than-friendly circumstances. But I realized now how much I’d come to depend on the actor being my sounding board.
Which maybe meant I’d made a mistake in telling Harry he could stay past the thirty days we’d originally agree on. The longer he remained in my house, the more he became a permanent fixture in my life. And given that I apparently hadn’t quite shaken off the last man in my life—why else would Cam’s pending marriage have knocked me for a loop?—no way did I want to set myself up for that kind of failure with any other man.
Shoving aside the issue for now, I decided that keeping busy was my best bet. But after lunch and a little playtime with the pups, I found myself uncharacteristically at loose ends.
Since opening the B&B, I’d usually spent my Sunday afternoons cleaning after the weekend guests had departed. But as I’d deliberately not booked any guests for the past couple of days, everything was already in place. I’d done my wash the night before, and as always, the lawn and gardens were Hendricks’s bailiwick. All of which meant I was chore-free for the day. While normally I would have relished the respite, suddenly that big chunk of free time seemed impossible to fill.
I could finish one of the three or four mystery novels that sat half-read on my bedside table, but I wasn’t in the mood to try solving someone else’s murder. I could haul my single-gear bicycle out of the garage and tool around the neighborhood, except that the tires were low and my hand pump had gone missing. I could even break out the cute bag of yarn I’d bought on impulse a few weeks back in hopes of teaching myself to crochet, but I knew I didn’t have the patience for that today. And so, leaving the pups playing together in the fenced-in side yard, I made my way to my bedroom office and opted for the default of settling in front of my laptop.
I made a quick check of my email and typed a few replies. That done, I meant to browse social media, maybe scroll through a couple of those clickbait pages that showed glamorous celebrities sans makeup. But after a few minutes of idle surfing, I instead found myself on one of the popular car-ratings sites looking for silver two-door sedans.
Specifically, silver two-door sedans that looked like the one that had briefly parked behind me the day before at Roxanna’s.
Remembering how I’d heard the grinding of transmission gears, I was able to narrow down my search to makes and models available in stick shift. Harder was recalling the vehicle’s exact silhouette, since I’d seen it from above. After an hour of scrolling through what seemed like a dealer’s lot worth of cars, I decided what I’d seen had been a Nissan…or maybe a BMW. Which meant the driver was either budget minded or rich, which left a significant pool of possible owners.
My eyes practically spinning in my head, I logged off the computer. While I wasn’t confident that I’d actually ID’d the car in question, I was certain that should I see the vehicle again, I would recognize it. Whether its presence at Roxanna’s house was coincidental or significant remained to be seen.
I stood, stretched, and then looked at the clock and groaned. Barely three PM, leaving a good chunk of the day still to get through. I went to the door leading out to the porch and let the dogs inside again. The pair trotted in together as if they’d been a team forever and simultaneously leaped onto my bed. Both circled a few times atop the comforter before flopping down for their pre-supper snooze.
I smile fondly at the pair, grateful that my Gus-fostering venture seemingly was working out well. As for myself, despite the weekend’s turmoil, I still had the workshop at Midsummer Night’s Flowers tomorrow as something fun to look forward to.
The florist’s email had been among those I’d read earlier, since he had finally replied to my message from yesterday. His response had been surprisingly chatty given that he and I had only just met.
Yes, despite yesterday’s tragedy, our seminar is still on—fourteen paid customers (including you!) are all ready and eager to learn. Besides, I’ve already ordered the supplies.
Yes, Virgie is holding up relatively well, though you can imagine she is not her usual self. And as her son is not exactly the nurturing type (millennials!), it has fallen to me to help her deal with the shock of her partner’s death.
What interested me more, however, was a final comment at the end of his message. According to the florist, the infamous prop cake had been Virgie’s idea, which was why she was taking Roxanna’s death so hard.
I did a little bed-flopping myself, finding a spot between the two pups to sprawl with my head propped atop a bevy of fancy pillows while I mulled over that portion of his message again.
The prop cake was Virgie’s idea, which was why she felt guilty.
Of course, that was what she’d told John. And since to this point everyone had been calling the death an accident, that could make sense. On the other hand, maybe Virgie’s guilt actually stemmed from the argument she’d had with Roxanna a few hours earlier. Which was likely something she’d not tell her ex, but it made even more sense. The pair had been friends—at least at one time—and surely it would be painful to realize her last interaction with Roxanna had been an acrimonious one.
Or could it be that Virgie’s feeling of culpability was far more telling—because she had strangled Roxanna herself?
“What do you think, puppers?” I murmured aloud, glancing from Mattie to Gus on either side of me. Both were happily snoring away, however, and so they made no response. I thought about it a while longer, then finally shook my head. A true southern woman, Virgie’s weapon of choice was cutting words. I could see her wielding a pearl-handled pistol from a socially acceptable distance, but only in self-defense. Even at her angriest, I couldn’t picture her brutally choking the life from someone.
In fact, such a killing seemed more the act of a man.
I sat up again so abruptly I dislodged the dogs, who scrambled not to tumble off the bed. While I didn’t style myself as a true-crime buff, I’d read enough to know that murder by strangulation was predominantly a man’s crime, and almost always perpetrated against a woman. In fact, it was as much an act of angry power as it was a convenient method of dispatching someone without resorting to a gun or knife.
Besides, whoever had killed Roxanna had to have been strong enough to lift her into the cake.
A scene from yesterday flashed through my mind—the sight of a tall man in a purple shirt disappearing down a corridor where none of the exhibitors were allowed. I’d not seen his face, but the color of his shirt was the same as the one John had been wearing. And the florist had been conspicuously absent from his booth before and during the fashion show, reappearing only after Roxanna’s body had been discovered.
But if Roxanna’s killer was John, what motive could he have had for such a heinous crime? Could he have been acting on some sort of misdirected defense of his ex-wife? Punishment, maybe, for the embezzlement—assuming that actually had occurred? Or had there been some darker relationship between the two?
Then I shook my head. No way could John have done something like that. True, I had only just met the man, but he had radiated a rare decency despite the obvious antipathy between him and Virgie. After she’d treated him with contempt, he still had rushed to her side when she collapsed and even seen her home again. People like that didn’t commit cold-blooded murder.
Did they?
The dogs, who had settled back down again, abruptly sprang to attention, and Mattie gave the bark that meant someone was on the property. I glanced at the clock and saw it was almost four. It had to be Harry returning from his outing with the good doctor. For the moment, I let thoughts of murder slide in my curiosity to know how the actor had fared in his first attempt as male escort.
“C’mon, you two,” I told the pups as I jumped up from the bed. “We need to catch our friend Mr. Westcott before he can hide in the tower room.”
The pair eagerly trotted after me as we hurried from my bedroom into the main foyer. My plan was to lie in wait there at the stairway so I could “accidentally” run into him returning from his so-called date just as I was headed to the kitchen to fix myself and the dogs a pre-supper snack. As I’d closed the driveway gate after me earlier, Meredith (might as well think of her in more familiar terms now) would have dropped him off at the curb. And so I waited for as long as I judged it would take him to walk from the pedestrian gate to the front door.
And kept waiting.
After a good minute had passed and the front door still hadn’t opened, I grew concerned. Already the dogs were bored with the wait and had flopped to the wooden floor, sprawling into dual tripping hazards. I frowned. Even if Harry had forgotten his house key, he knew the code to get inside.
I gave him a few more seconds; then, sidestepping the pups, I hurried down the corridor to the front door and threw it open. At first glance, I didn’t see Harry. That is, until I looked down to find him lying faceup on the porch, eyes closed and limbs sprawled in a pose that looked uncannily like the way Roxanna had lain after falling from the ill-fated cake.