Death by Pumpkin Spice (10 page)

Paul heaved a sigh and gave me a “give it to me” gesture.

“When you first got here, did you notice how many Marilyn Monroes there were?”

He shrugged. “I didn't pay that close of attention.”

“There was Margaret Yarborough, who changed after she found out about the murder. She was one. Our victim was the second.”

“Okay?” Paul prodded when I paused for dramatic effect.

“There was one other Monroe in the room, at least that I saw. She was wearing the same dress but didn't have as many pieces of nice jewelry as the others. She looked a little out of place, like she didn't feel like she belonged.”

Concern flashed in his eyes then. “She's missing?”

“I don't know that for sure,” I hurriedly assured him. No sense starting a panic. “But I haven't seen her since. I suppose she could have left before the murder, but what if she's somehow connected?” I didn't want to say that I thought she might very well be another victim. “While you deal with Quentin and look for guests who can corroborate his story, I could look for her. She might still be in the ballroom and I've simply overlooked her, but I'd feel a whole lot better if I knew she was safe.”

Paul scratched the back of his head as he regarded me. “You have to promise me you'll be careful,” he said after a moment. “Just because we've found only one body, doesn't mean our killer is done.”

“I know. I'll be careful.”

“And don't go wandering off, either,” he said, wagging a finger at me like I was a disobedient child. “I'm glad you found Mr. Pebbles, but I don't want you wandering through the halls anymore. If something were to happen to you . . .”

“I had Will with me when I found Quentin,” I reminded him. “And if I get the urge to take a stroll, I won't go alone. If Will can't come with me, I'll take Vicki and Mason.”

Paul didn't look convinced.

“I'll be fine,” I said. “Trust me.”

A smile played at the corners of his mouth, bringing out those dimples of his. Something smoldered in his eyes as he looked at me and I felt decidedly hot.

“I do trust you,” he said. “It's everyone else I don't.”

And with that, Paul returned to the makeshift interrogation room, leaving me standing in the hall, dumbfounded. Right when I thought I was figuring my love life out, he says something like that and gives me a look that has me tingling in all of the right parts.

I fanned myself off as I turned to head back into the ballroom. As much as I'd like to, I had to stop thinking about Paul and his dimples. I had a Marilyn Monroe to find.

I only hoped that when I finally
did
find her, she'd still be breathing.

10

My first glance around the ballroom didn't reveal the third Monroe right away, so I decided I might best use my time by listening in on the various conversations going on around the room while I searched for her. Maybe someone knew where she'd gone, or perhaps, like Reggie Clements, she could be found sitting somewhere out of sight, but nearby.

Many of the guests were still standing in their little groups, talking amongst themselves, gossiping, if their amused expressions told me anything. There didn't seem to be the worry and panic that normally went with a murder. It was strange how unaffected everyone seemed. As far as they knew, they could be the next victim.

That is, unless the people here knew something I didn't.

“I don't see why we should be forced to sit around and wait for the police to do their work,” the fat man with the monocle said as I approached. “I didn't come here to socialize.”

The woman he was talking to snorted in a very unladylike way. “You just came for the free booze, Bert.” She waved a flippant hand toward the wineglass in his hand. “If you think I'm going to carry you back home, you are sorely mistaken.” Her eyes flickered to me and narrowed. “Is there something you want?”

“No,” I said with a smile. “Just looking for conversation.”

She huffed and both her and the fat man turned their backs to me before moving off.

I continued on. There had to be someone willing to talk to me, someone who knew something that might help me in locating Monroe three, or at least someone who might know why Jessica Fairweather was killed. I knew Paul didn't want me snooping around, but could he really be mad at me if I came up with information he could use? It wasn't like I was going to chase after the murderer myself.

I eased up close to a group of men, all dressed like they were rich aviators. They had on the brown leather jackets, the gloves, and the leather caps you see in old films. Their flight goggles sat perched atop their heads. It was quite obvious they'd dressed to match.

“She was always in it for the money,” the oldest man of the group was saying as I approached. “I'm surprised she even bothered to hold this thing after his death.”

“I don't think she even likes this party,” another, younger man, said. “She'd probably be far more comfortable sipping martinis on a beach somewhere.”

The three men laughed, with the third adding, “I won't be surprised if she is on the first flight out of town the moment this thing ends.”

“Are you talking about Mrs. Yarborough,” I asked with my best innocent smile.

All three men turned and looked at me as if I'd just crawled out of a trash heap.

“I'm just wondering,” I added, not wanting them to stop talking just because I'd opened my mouth. “I barely know her. This is my first time here.”

“Ah,” the eldest said, as if that explained everything. “Margaret was never interested in the same things Howard was. I don't know what he saw in her, and quite frankly, she never did seem his type.”

“I thought she enjoyed all of this.” I gestured around the room, at the decorations and odd costumes.

One of the younger two men gave me a patronizing smile. “She went along with it simply because she wanted to make sure she wasn't left out of his will. She married him for his money.”

I raised my eyebrows at that. “Are you sure?”

He gave an easy shrug. “It wouldn't surprise me in the slightest if she did.”

“She probably killed the bastard, too,” the eldest said.

“You don't really think that, do you?” I was appalled. Why would these men come to the party if they disliked and distrusted Margaret so much? It sounded to me like the rumor brigade was out in full force, yet I was intrigued.

“I do,” he said. “His death was sudden. The Howard I knew wouldn't just up and die like that. I bet she poisoned him somehow, made him weak so she could work her magic on him. The woman is a witch, and in more ways than one if you ask me.”

I frowned. “But if she was after his money and didn't care about these parties, why bother having this one?”

“Probably because her lawyer, Christian Tellitocci, put her up to it.” The sneer he gave told me what he thought about Mr. Tellitocci. “Those two were always far too close for my liking.”

“Is he here?” I asked, looking around as if I knew what he looked like.

One of the younger men laughed. “He never comes to these things,” he said. “Thought it might be in bad form.” He didn't expound on the comment, though I got the gist.

The aviator trio pointedly turned so they were no longer facing me, shutting me out of their conversation. That was okay; I was getting tired of their self-righteousness, anyway. Their disdain for Mrs. Yarborough left a bad taste in my mouth, but it did give me something to think about.

Margaret would have inherited quite a lot of money upon her husband's death, I would think. The house itself had to be worth close to a million, if not more. Could she have really killed her husband so she could inherit the money? Had she been cheating on her husband with her lawyer like the young aviator had insinuated? And if so, who all knew about it? And who would benefit if Mrs. Yarborough were to die next?

I hadn't seen or heard anything that indicated the Yarboroughs had any children. It was possible the kids were all grown up and had moved away, yet a part of me didn't think that was the case. Margaret didn't seem like the kind of woman who would want children, though I'd only spoken to her briefly. And I couldn't imagine trying to raise kids in a house like this.

But what if there was a son or daughter out there somewhere? Could they have gone after their mother, only to accidentally kill Jessica Fairweather instead?

It was a stretch, but at least it was something to go on. Up until now, the only motive we'd found for Jessica's murder was the way she treated others, especially her boyfriends.

“You don't know what you are talking about!”

The bark of angry words came from a few feet away. I turned to find the man dressed as Clark Gable whom Will had pointed out earlier, Terry Blandino, glaring at the man in the horn-rimmed glasses and fedora I'd seen him argue with earlier. Apparently, whatever their trouble, they had yet to work it out because Terry was whispering something harsh at the man, finger pointing accusingly. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but the man in the glasses wasn't happy about it.

I started their way, hoping to catch what Terry was saying, but he was finished. He spun on his heel and stormed past me without a second glance, face red and angry. The other man's eyes fell on me and he grimaced.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Was that Terry Blandino?” I knew for a fact it was, but I was curious to see how he'd answer.

He didn't disappoint. “What is it to you?”

I plastered on a smile. “He seems upset. I was just wanting to make sure everything is okay. My name's Krissy, by the way.” I held out a hand.

He eyed it a moment before shoving both his hands into his coat pockets. “Terry thinks he knows something. He's a fool. There's nothing more to it than that.”

“What does he think he knows?” I tried to make it sound like an innocent question, but it came out as prying, which it was.

His eyes narrowed at me behind his glasses. “Who are you again?”

“No one,” I said. “I'm just trying to get to know everyone.”

“Might want to be a little less nosy.” He started to push past me.

Okay, I had to admit, their fight was really none of my business, but once I get started, it's hard for me to shut it off. Until proven otherwise, everyone was a suspect, and that included Mr. Horn-Rimmed Glasses and Terry Blandino. Could their fight be about Margaret Yarborough? About the dead girl? Or was it something else completely?

Either way, their argument wasn't the reason I was there. I still had a Marilyn Monroe to find.

“Hey,” I said, stopping Horn-Rimmed. “Have you seen a girl in a white dress? She looks like Marilyn Monroe.” I paused, remembering how the last girl dressed like Mrs. Monroe had looked. “Not the dead one.”

He glanced back at me, frowned, and then walked away without comment.

“Gee, thanks,” I muttered.

“Try over by the drinks.” I turned to see a little old woman smiling at me. “I think I saw her there.”

“Thank you,” I told her. “You're a big help.” And then I hurried over to where she'd indicated.

At first, I didn't see her. There were a few party guests by the drinks, talking, but no white Monroe dress. My heart sank, thinking the old woman had either been mistaken, or had led me astray for some unknown purpose, but then I saw her, standing against the wall as if she were trying to sink through it.

As I noted before, her dress wasn't as nice as the other Monroes', and she wasn't wearing nearly as much jewelry. That didn't mean she wasn't pretty, however. Even with her limited, less expensive necklace, and with a nose that was a little too long, a little too pointed, she still looked stunning.

“Hi,” I said, approaching her carefully. She looked like she might startle easily. I wondered if I'd had that same deer-in-the-headlights look on my face when I'd first arrived. I'm guessing I did. “My name's Krissy Hancock. Mind if I talk to you for a moment or two?”

The girl shrugged. “I suppose.” She hesitated, then added, “I'm Elaine, by the way.”

“Hi, Elaine.” I smiled reassuringly at her. “Did you come here alone?” I asked. On both occasions when I'd seen her, she hadn't talked to anyone. I wasn't sure many people came to a party like this without a date, but if she had one, she wasn't spending a lot of time with him.

Elaine nodded. “I was invited.” She said it like she thought I might contradict her or accuse her of sneaking into the party. “But I don't know why.” Her brow furrowed. “I'm not anyone.”

“I'm sure that's not true.”

A dainty shrug, followed by, “Sure.”

Even though she clearly didn't want to talk, I plowed ahead with my questions anyway. “Did you know the girl who was killed?” I asked. “Jessica Fairweather was her name.”

Elaine shook her head. “I didn't. She was wearing the same thing I am.” She touched her dress as if wearing it somehow made her guilty of a crime. “What if the killer had found me first? He might have mistaken me for her.” A hint of hysterics came into her voice then. “I could be dead right now.”

I reached for her to put an arm around her shoulder, but she flinched away. “I don't think you're in any danger,” I said, returning my arm back where it belonged. “Is there anyone here you could stick close to, just in case?”

She bit her lip before answering. “Yeah, I guess. My dad is here.”

“Your dad?” I didn't know why that surprised me. Maybe it was how her clothing looked just as out of place as my own did. This didn't appear to be a girl with a lot of money, and since she hadn't come as some rich guy's plus one, I wasn't quite sure what I expected. Maybe her dad had gotten her an invite. Could he have cut her off for some reason, left her without a lot of money? She looked old enough to live on her own, early twenties maybe, so it could be he decided to let her see what it was like to live on her own, without having everything handed to her, for a little while.

“He doesn't talk to me,” Elaine said. “He left me and my mom years ago, left us with nothing.” She sighed and a profound sadness filled her eyes. “I thought he sent the invitation, which was why I came. But when I tried to talk to him when I first got here, he pretended like he didn't even know me.”

I winced. That was pretty harsh, even from a father who was willing to leave his wife and child with nothing. “Who invited you then, if he didn't?”

“I don't know. I got a letter in the mail. I got a phone call a few days after that, asking if I was coming. They didn't say who it was, just said it was important that I made it.”

“Did they give you a name?”

“No,” she said. “I figured it was one of Dad's assistants. He usually has them do things like that for him.” She glanced past me and practically whispered, “I'm going to go get something to drink.”

I nodded absently, trying to put everything together. The poor girl looked so timid, so frightened, I felt bad for her. Could someone have been playing a cruel joke on her, inviting her to a party where she would stand out and be ostracized from everyone, including her dad? Or was something else going on? Had her invitation come from someone trying to get father and daughter back together?

And if so, could any of it have anything to do with Jessica Fairweather's murder? It was hard to see how, but like Terry Blandino and Horn-Rimmed's argument, I wasn't going to dismiss it out of hand.

“Krissy?”

I jumped, startled, and turned to find Will standing nearby. His friends—and their wives—were nowhere in sight.

“I'm sorry,” I told him before he could say anything. “I'm not ignoring you on purpose.”

He smiled. “It's okay.” He glanced toward where Elaine was getting a drink of punch. “Do you know her?”

“No,” I said. “Do you?”

He shook his head. “I haven't seen her before. She doesn't look like she wants to be here.”

“No, she doesn't.” I watched as she sipped her punch. She glanced my way and then retreated to a lonely corner where someone wouldn't ask her painful questions. “Do you have any idea who her father might be? She said he'd left her mom a few years ago, but I didn't get a chance to ask her who he is.”