Candy Apple Dead (16 page)

“No.”

“Can you find out?”

“No.”

“Karen—”

“No, Abby. No. You are not one of Charlie’s Angels. You own a candy shop.”

“I know that, but—“

“Well, what if Chelsea is the murderer? How will you protect yourself if she tries to hurt you? Fling peanut brittle at her?”

“I’ll figure that out.”

“How? Brandon couldn’t.”

I’ll admit that made my pulse stutter, but I wasn’t ready to back down. “Fine. Then I’ll find out from someone else.”

Anger flared in Karen’s eyes. “And do what?”

“I’ll know that after I talk to her.”

“Oh, now
there’s
a convincing argument. Why didn’t you just say that in the first place? You’re being stupid, Abby. I don’t want any part of this.” Karen turned away as if she thought the conversation was over.

I barely resisted the urge to fling peanut brittle at
her
. “All I want is to find out why she has Max,” I shouted, but the bell over the front door rang, and Richie Bellieu sashayed into the shop. My heart dropped, and I knew the argument was over—at least for now.

Unlike Iris, who keeps her sexuality a secret, Richie practically flaunts his. Arms wide, spiked hair bobbing a little with each step, he rushed Karen and swept her into a huge hug. “Karen, darling,” he said, making kissing motions at the air near her cheeks, “don’t you look fabulous this morning?” He spotted me in the kitchen and wriggled his fingers over Karen’s shoulders. “Abby, that sweatshirt is
so
your color.”

Yeah. Gray. I swallowed my temporary defeat and forced a smile. “Morning, Richie. How can we help you?”

He released Karen and pressed a hand to his chest. “I desperately need your help. We have a huge group coming to stay at the B and B this weekend, and we’re out of
everything
. I need something to fill the dishes in each of the guest rooms, and I need something terribly special for the lobby and the lounge.” He lowered his voice half a decibel and dragged Karen away. “I’m not supposed to say anything, but these people are from Hollywood. They told Dylan they’re coming to scout a location for a new movie, so naturally I want everything to be just perfect when they get here.”

His voice trailed away as they turned the corner, and the last thing I saw was the triumphant gleam on Karen’s face. She should have known better.

Giving up just isn’t something I do.

 

 

Karen managed to dodge my questions for the rest of the afternoon. I spent some time trying to find a line on Chelsea Jenkins, but she wasn’t listed in the phone book, and none of the people I called knew where to find her. Apparently, my sister-in-law was the only person around who knew where Chelsea lived, but Elizabeth wasn’t answering the phone—at least not for me.

I tried again, without success, to reach my brother and fielded questions from my mother who called to tell me about a new recipe for pecan logs she’d just found, and to complain that she was having trouble finding Wyatt. Maybe I should have told her what was going on, but I’d had enough trouble telling her when my life fell apart. I didn’t want to be the one who told her about Wyatt and Elizabeth, and I hoped she’d never need to know that her baby boy was under suspicion for murder.

A little before six, I left Karen to lock up the shop and set off on foot to make a couple of deliveries. I delivered a candy bouquet to Lois Williamson at the shoe repair shop and dropped three pounds of Divinity’s special sparkling hard candy assortment at Curl Up and Dye. Every one of the women who works there (and most of their clientele) is on a perpetual diet, so I don’t know where the candy goes, but it disappears like magic every week.

Paisley Pringle bounced around the parlor in a bright yellow sundress and matching flip-flops, trying to convince me that I should let her “do something” to my hair. I don’t mean to be rude, but if Paisley’s hair is what I can expect for my money, I’ll pass. It took almost half an hour, but I finally escaped without a manicure, without a pedicure, without frosted highlights, and without a head full of hair product.

With the rest of the evening to call my own, I decided to stroll past Man About Town again—at least what was left of it. I was halfway there when I noticed a familiar Buick Regal on the street in front of the Paradise Playhouse and decided to make a slight detour.

I’d promised to buy advertising for Divinity in the theater’s next playbill, and I really should confirm the arrangement with Vonetta Cummings, the theater manager. But that wasn’t the only reason for my visit. Chelsea Jenkins had appeared in a couple of productions at the Playhouse in recent months, and I hoped Vonetta would know where to find her—and that she’d share that information with me.

Posters advertising the theater’s next production,
Forever Plaid,
hung in one window; a brightly colored poster listing the season’s full schedule hung in the other. I scanned the list quickly and made a mental note to buy tickets to several of the shows.

Inside the deserted lobby, props lined the walls, and the concession stand stood empty, waiting for tonight’s crowd. I could hear music and laughter coming from the back of the theater, probably from the rehearsal hall, but Vonetta rarely attends rehearsals, so I decided not to waste my time looking for her there.

I turned in the other direction, passed the ticket window, and walked down the short hallway that leads to Vonetta’s small office. Her door was ajar, and I could see her sitting behind the desk, the telephone receiver glued to her ear. She grinned broadly when she saw me and motioned for me to come inside.

There’s only one word to describe Vonetta—regal. She’s tall, slim, and powerful, always perfectly put together, always clothed in something that celebrates her African-American heritage. Her short black hair may have started turning gray in recent years, but her office hasn’t changed a bit.

Scripts, CDs, video tapes, sheet music, and pieces of a hundred different costumes litter almost every inch of the small room, leaving just enough space for Vonetta to squeeze in.

She gestured toward a chair buried beneath a mound of paper, so I moved the stack to the floor and sat. It had been a long time since I’d been here, and old memories came flooding back. My first and last production for the Playhouse was
The King and I.
I’d been one of the nameless wives—a human set prop whose only job was to smile, provide occasional musical backup for the main characters, and look pretty. And I wasn’t very good at any of it.

I was only sixteen at the time, and I’d been thrilled to be part of the play—until Vonetta cast me in that nothing role and made Chrissie Montague a dancer. I don’t like to think I’m a sore loser, but that decision effectively ended my career in theater. I’m sure it would have ended anyway. If
The King and I
hadn’t done the trick, going away to college and meeting Roger would have. My husband had done his best to eradicate all evidence of my upbringing during the early years of our marriage and I, God help me, had let him.

But like I said, I try never to think about Roger.

After a few minutes Vonetta finished her phone call and beamed at me. “Abby Shaw. I heard you were back in town. I’ve been meaning to get down there and say hello.”

“And I’ve been meaning to do the same thing. Life gets in the way sometimes.”

She nodded and moved a stack of folders from one spot on her desk to another. Vonetta’s organized. You’d just never know it to look at her workspace. “I’m sorry about your aunt,” she said. “I know how close you were to her.”

Even all these months later, it still hurt to think about losing her. I choked out a “Thank you.” Vonetta sensed my discomfort and tried to lighten the mood. “So what brings you here? Don’t tell me you’re thinking about joining us again.”

I laughed and shook my head. “Not yet. I’m still trying to get my head above water at the shop.”

“Then you’ve come about the ad space?”

I wagged my head yes-and-no. “I still want to do it,” I assured her so she wouldn’t misunderstand. “But I need to ask you a big favor.”

“Oh?”

“I’m trying to find Chelsea Jenkins. I’m hoping you can help me.”

Vonetta’s expression didn’t change, but the smile faded from her eyes. “Why do you want to find her?”

I shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about her since the fire. I just want to make sure she’s all right.”

“Yeah, and I’m Oprah Winfrey,” Vonetta said with a sharp laugh. Before she could say more, a digital ring tone sounded, and she scowled at the cell phone on her hip. “Walk with me,” she said, rising abruptly. “There’s a delivery at the loading dock.”

One thing you don’t do is argue with Vonetta. Like I said, she’s organized, and her days follow a strict timetable. I shot to my feet and followed her out into the hallway. She set off at a rapid clip—another thing about her that hasn’t changed.

“Talk to me, child. Why do you really want to find Chelsea?”

“I want to find out what she knows about the fire that killed Brandon Mills.”

“And what makes you think she knows anything about it?”

“I just learned that she has his dog, but Brandon never let that dog out of his sight. I want to know why Max wasn’t with Brandon when he died.”

Vonetta glided through the lobby and then turned down the long, narrow corridor that leads to the dressing rooms on one side and the loading dock on the other. “So she has his dog. What does that have to do with you?”

“The police think my brother killed Brandon. I’m trying to prove that he didn’t.”

We’d reached the metal doors at the end of the hall. Vonetta stopped walking and turned to face me. “And you think Chelsea will help you do that?”

“That’s what I’d like to find out.”

“That’s a tall order, Abby. I don’t know if it’s such a good idea.”

I started to speak, but Vonetta opened the door and ushered me outside. I waited impatiently while she checked the delivery, signed the shipping bill, and finally came back to talk to me. “I know where to find Chelsea, and I can call her for you if you’d like, but I can’t just hand over her address without her consent. We have a responsibility to protect the people who volunteer their time here, and we take it seriously.”

“These are unusual circumstances.”

“Every circumstance is unusual to the person who needs something.” Vonetta had her don’t-mess-with-me face on, so I didn’t. “I don’t know that talking to her is going to help,” she warned. “I always understood that she and Brandon were close.”

“I’m sure they were. She worked for him for a long time.”

“No . . . I mean
close
. If you know what I mean.”

Brandon and Chelsea? That was almost as hard to imagine as his relationship with Elizabeth. “Are you sure about that?”

“That’s certainly the impression I’ve had.”

Chelsea and Brandon. Was there anyone in town he
hadn’t
been with? I was beginning to think five minutes of being special to him were four-and-a-half minutes too long. “Even if they had a relationship,” I reasoned, “it still wasn’t like Brandon to leave Max with anyone else.”

“Not even the woman in his life?”

My laugh echoed around the loading dock. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past few days, it’s that Brandon didn’t have just one woman in his life.”

“Maybe not, but I was under the impression that his relationship with Chelsea was quite serious.”

“Serious? Brandon?”

“I was under the impression that they were talking about a more permanent arrangement.”

“More permanent?—” I gaped at her. “You mean marriage?” Was that why he’d called Elizabeth? To solicit marriage advice? Considering how cavalier both of their attitudes were toward the institution, he’d probably called the one person in Paradise who’d tell him what he wanted to hear.

But if he’d been thinking about marrying Chelsea Jenkins, what the hell had he been doing flirting with me? I wondered how many other people had known about his relationship with Chelsea, and I hated him fiercely. Or maybe I hated myself for being so naïve.

Vonetta watched me trying to absorb what she’d said, and her expression softened. “I didn’t know the young man, but I do know Chelsea. She was head over heels in love with him, that was evident to everyone. The last time I saw her, she was ecstatic because their relationship had turned a corner.”

“When was that?”

“Two months ago, maybe. I heard her telling one of the other girls that she’d be married before the end of the year. I drew the only conclusion I could.”

“I just never—Brandon never gave a hint of that to me.”

“And you knew him well?”

“I thought I did.”

“Apparently not, though?”

“Apparently.” I chewed a thumbnail while the driver finished unloading his shipment. As I followed Vonetta back into the darkened theater, I asked, “Do you think Chelsea is capable of killing Brandon?”

Vonetta looked at me with genuine surprise. “Chelsea? That girl couldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Even if she found out that Brandon was being unfaithful to her?”

“Not even then. She’s a sensitive girl. Quiet. I don’t think she could hurt someone she cared about under any circumstances.”

“What about someone she didn’t care about?” I muttered, only half-joking.

Vonetta laughed and took my arm for the long trudge back up the corridor. “Only by accident. I’m sure your brother isn’t the murderer, but I’m equally sure about Chelsea. I don’t know why she has that dog, but she didn’t kill Brandon. I’d stake my life on it.”