“At the scene of the crime again, I see.” Detective Goode made the comment as he passed me by. He didn’t stop to continue taunting me, but made for the now cordoned off marquee tent. “You’ve got a knack for finding trouble.” That was thrown over his shoulder at me.
I gritted my teeth as he strode away, my arms folded. I didn’t give him the courtesy of a reply, partly because he struck me dumb—a first for me—but mainly because I had other places to be, and arguing with him would only delay me.
“Thank you, ma’am,” the police officer said, and handed me his card. “If you think of anything else, you can feel free to call this number. We’re setting up a tip line related to today’s event. You think of anything else, you call, OK?”
“I’ve already told you who did it,” I replied. “So why would I call the—?”
But the officer had already moved onto the next of many witnesses. I was free to leave the park now that I had given my statement about the events that had unfolded just over a half an hour ago.
Glendaree dead. Poor Lauren in a state. And the judges announcement postponed until they could rouse Belle-Blue from her faint. Of course, she had passed out in front of everyone a good ten minutes after Glendaree’s death. Typical Jessie.
My phone buzzed, and I extracted it from my pocket.
Around the corner. Big G.
A text from my grandmother. I exited the park, checking that no one was on my tail, and hurried around the corner.
My grandmother’s Mini-Cooper was parked across the street. I got into it, a wave of adrenaline lifting me from my irritation at Detective Goode.
“What have you found out?” I asked.
“Kayla is on the run,” Gamma replied, starting the engine but waiting for me to put on my seatbelt. She tore down the road, dodging pedestrians with professional driving maneuvers. “She’s not at Jessie Belle-Blue’s guesthouse. Was last seen packing her bags and rolling them down the front path.”
“Ah. The actions of an innocent person.” I’d known that she had to be involved in this. She’d had an affair with Brenda’s boyfriend, for heaven’s sake. And the first thing she did was run for it? “Do we know how she’s getting out of town?”
“No. She doesn’t have a car,” Gamma replied. “And that leaves us but two options. Firstly, that she leaves via bus or secondly, she runs to her father’s home.”
“The thief.”
“Correct. I’m taking us to Mr. Wren’s home.” Gamma put the car in high gear and we flew down the streets, taking corners with precision and terrifying several of the locals who were used to a more leisurely style of driving in Gossip.
Mr. Wren lived on a farm, except instead of fields of crops, he had one field that was filled with cars and car parts.
Gamma parked her Mini-Cooper in front of the farmhouse, a broken down wooden building that looked as if it’d fall over in a stiff breeze, and we got out, squaring our shoulders.
“No sign of her,” I muttered.
“Don’t give up hope yet, Charlotte.”
We walked up the front steps of the farmhouse, the wood creaking dangerously underfoot, and knocked on the front door.
Silence, and then.
“Who’s that?” A gruff voice from within.
“Mr. Wren? Can we talk to you for a moment, please?” Gamma called, sweetly.
“Who is it?” He wrenched the door open, and I held my breath. He smelled strongly of bourbon and cigarettes. I glanced down at his shoes for posterity, but he wore a pair of trainers that were pretty small. I doubted they’d match the size of the prints I’d found on Brenda’s porch.
“Mr. Wren,” Gamma said. “Hello. My name is Georgina Franklin.”
“I heard of you,” he replied. “You run that inn where all those people keep dying.”
“We prefer the phrase ‘murder hotel’ to inn,” I said.
Mr. Wren sniffed, not finding my interjection all that funny. “Yeah, and so? What do you want?”
“Is Kayla here?”
“Kayla? Heck no she ain’t here. My daughter don’t come visit me anymore unless she want something. Cut from the same cloth as that good for nothing mother of hers.”
“When last did you see her?” I asked.
“Look here, now what’s this about?”
“A car,” I replied because I couldn’t think of anything else that would be relevant to this man.
“Ah. Kayla’s car?”
Gamma and I exchanged a glance. Had I just accidentally hit the jackpot?
“Kayla had a car?” Gamma asked.
“Well, sure, she used to have a car before she sold it to me. She had herself a white Kia, but it didn’t work too well until I fixed it up. I offered to sell it back to her, but she wanted to keep the money rather than have the wheels. Strange if you ask me.”
My heart did flip-flops. So close. This was all adding up. The white Kia!
“When did she sell you the car?” Now that we’d exposed the thread, I needed to tug on it.
“Oh, shoot, like a month ago? It sat on my lot for ages.”
Wait, what? She sold the Kia a month ago, yet… huh? I don’t get it. If Kayla hadn’t been driving the Kia, then who had?
“I’d sell it to you,” Mr. Wren continued, flashing us a yellow-toothed grin, “but I already sold it last week. Finally moved that piece of trash on.”
“You did?” I asked.
“Who did you sell it to?” Gamma put in.
“I dunno. Some short, ugly lookin’ guy. Young.”
“What was his name?”
“Eh, let me think.” Mr. Wren scratched his chin, the stubble rasping noisily. It took a painfully long time for him to access the memory centers of his brain. “Right, yeah, it was Brian something or the other. You’ll have to ask Kayla. She was the one who gave him my details to buy the car. Some friend of hers or the other.”
I made a mental note of that, but the name didn’t ring a bell.
“He works out in the other town, but he lives here in Gossip. Said something like that. He wanted a daily driver. A car that could put the miles in so he could get to and from work.”
“Oh, uh, OK,” I said. “Thanks, Mr. Wren.”
“You really had your sights set on Kayla’s old Kia, eh? Sorry I sold it. Might’ve gotten a better price from you.” He let out a wheeze of mirth. “But, eh, no use crying over spilled gas. Might as well light a match to it and watch the world burn.”
“In keeping with your aesthetic,” Gamma said.
“Sure.” He didn’t seem to realize she’d insulted him.
“Mr. Wren, do you have any idea where we can find Kayla?” I asked, but as soon as the words had left my mouth, it hit me.
Of course! Norman Sweet.
Where else would she run to than his house? She’d probably hide out there until the coast was clear to make a break for it.
“No idea where she might—”
“I think I know,” I said, turning to Gamma. “I know where she is.”
“Then why’d you ask?” Mr. Wren called after us, as we raced back down the collapsing stairs toward the Mini-Cooper. “Hey, you looking to flip that car? I could make a tidy profit on that! Mini-Coopers are hot, nowadays, you know.”
Gamma and I bundled into the car and took off, leaving Mr. Wren in a cloud of dust.