Death by Pumpkin Spice (17 page)

There was really only one option.

With one last futile glance toward where Paul was leaning down to peer between the cars, I hiked up my pants and started running.

17

My foot sank a good three inches into the soft, rain-drenched soil as I attempted to run toward where I'd last seen the retreating figure. For someone with so much money, Margaret Yarborough did a pretty poor job of taking care of her property. I knew it was raining, but there were muddy holes filled with water in the yard, as if she had a big dog that had decided to go on a buried bone hunt. It was making progress difficult, to say the least.

A curse broke through the downpour and I altered my course toward it. I was closer than I thought because after only a few soggy steps, I saw my target rising from the ground where he'd apparently fallen. The man was fat, and while I couldn't see his face, I was pretty sure I recognized the shape of his body from the party. If I wasn't mistaken, he'd been wearing a monocle and doing a lot of complaining.

“Hey!” I shouted. “Stop!”

The man glanced back once and then started slogging through the muck again. He wasn't wearing a monocle now, but that one glimpse of his rain-slicked face was enough to assure me it was the same man.

It was like running through a swamp as I gave chase. I was making better progress than the fatter man, thanks to our weight difference. He seemed to sink down to mid-calf with every step.

Still, it felt like I'd run three miles, even though we were only a dozen yards from the house or so. I sucked in a deep breath, nearly choked on a mouthful of rain, and then rushed forward with everything I had. There was no way I was going to get outrun by a man twice my size!

The property had started to slope gently downward, toward the smattering of pine trees that lined the property. The man was making for them, huffing and puffing with every step. I had a feeling that if he made it to the safety of the trees, I would lose him for good.

“Halt!” I shouted, putting as much command into my voice as I could.

“Leave me alone!” the man shouted back, pausing in his escape long enough to look back at me. “I just want to go home.”

Right
, I thought.
And I'm the queen of England.
I had no doubt he would make a quick stop at home, long enough to pack his things so he could flee the country. Why else would he be running away, in the rain, after a murder, if he wasn't the one who had committed it?

“Careful, Krissy. He might have a weapon.” It was Paul's voice in my head, yet I ignored it like I would ignore my own. If the big man pulled a gun on me, I'd just have to hope the rain would foul up his aim enough that I could get inside his reach and disarm him. Never mind the fact I'd never learned how to go hand to hand. I was hoping my adversary was just as ignorant as I was.

My quarry gave an exasperated sigh and turned to face me. “You really shouldn't have followed me out here. I have nothing you want.” He reached into his inside coat pocket.

My mind flared a bright scarlet.
Holy crap!
He really did have a gun! I was only a handful of slippery strides away, so if I let him pull the weapon, he'd have to be blind to miss me. I sucked in a deep breath, and not wanting to give him the chance to shoot me, I threw myself at him, just as his hand came from inside his coat, holding a large, cylindrical object.

I roared in defiance. It might not be a gun, but he could bludgeon me with it all the same. He opened his mouth as I barreled into him, using my arm to knock the item from his hand. We both went down into the mud, me on top, and him on his back. He grunted in pain as we hit the ground. I grabbed for his wrists, but he slapped my hands away.

“What are you doing?” he shouted. His face was splotchy red, as if he was having a hard time breathing. I doubted a man his size could sleep on his back comfortably. “Get off of me!”

“You're not going to hurt anyone else,” I said. “I'm putting you under citizen's arrest until Officer Dalton gets here.” I wasn't sure that was an actual thing, but it sounded official enough in the heat of the moment.

“Arrest?” the man sputtered. Water pounded into his face, causing him to have to squint at me. “I didn't do anything.”

“Tell that to the cops,” I said, feeling more and more empowered by the second. This was the first time I'd taken down a suspect on my own, without breaking something in the process. “Stand up slowly and don't try anything, or else I'll have to knock you down again.”

“You'll have to get off of me first.”

I scrambled off the man and stepped back, just in case he made a lunge for me. He rolled over onto his stomach and pushed himself to his feet, grunting and cursing all the way. He gave me an annoyed look before scouring the ground for the item he'd pulled out of his coat.

“Leave it,” I warned him, tensing. If he made a grab for it, I wouldn't hesitate. I refused to let anyone get the jump on me ever again.

The man ignored me. He took two steps to the left and I prepared to tackle him again. He looked down at something between his feet for a long moment before spinning to face me.

“You broke it!” he shouted in obvious rage. “Do you realize how expensive that bottle was?”

“Bottle?” My face crinkled up in confusion. “What bottle?”

“The bottle of wine you broke, you nincompoop!” His voice rose in pitch. “It's ruined.” He sounded ready to cry.

I looked past him to the spot behind him, and sure enough, shattered glass lay around a quickly thinning pool of deep crimson.

My first instinct was to apologize, but I squashed it immediately. He'd pulled the bottle out of his coat after fleeing the scene of a crime. How was I to know he wasn't planning on hitting me with it? If he didn't want the thing broken, he shouldn't have run in the first place.

“Let's go,” I told him, sounding far less sure of myself than I had a moment ago.

The man huffed and began trudging his way back to the house. After one last quick look at the shattered bottle of wine, I followed after him.

Igor was standing at the door when we returned. He looked anxious until he spotted us. His face brightened, and he looked so relieved, I thought he might faint, before he stepped aside, and said, “This way, madam. He's waiting for you.”

I put a hand on the fat man's elbow and led him after Igor, who was leading the way. I was dripping wet, covered in mud, yet as we passed through the ballroom, I felt like a hero. People stood at the doorway, watching, muttering to each other as they pointed at us. I straightened my back and raised my chin, happy I'd finally done something right and was going to be recognized for it.

“In here,” Igor said, motioning toward the bathroom I'd found Quentin in earlier that night.

“Thank you,” I told him. “Inside.” That to my prisoner.

He muttered something under his breath, but entered. I followed after, a grin splitting my face.

Paul was standing at the sink, a towel draped over his shoulder. He was drenched, but still in the same old-style police uniform I'd last seen him in. His scowl turned to concern when he saw us enter.

“Are you all right?” he asked, looking right past the big man, to me.

“Peachy,” I said, and I meant it. I might be dirty and out of breath, but I'd caught my man. “I found our killer.”

“Killer?” the fat man said, sounding surprised. “I didn't kill anyone.” He turned to Paul and jabbed a finger at me. “You should be arresting
her
!”

Paul looked back and forth between us before shaking his head. “Not here.” He grabbed two towels off a stack on the counter, tossing one to each of us. “Follow me.”

We headed down the hall, Paul in the lead, me bringing up the rear, and into the makeshift interrogation room. I glanced back once and winced at the trail of mud and water in our wake, but figured Margaret could afford to have it cleaned. As soon as we were all inside, Paul closed the door and turned to face our latest suspect.

“Tell me why you ran, Mr. . . .”

“Berry. Bertrand Berry.” The fat man looked down at himself and grimaced. “These clothes are ruined.” He held the towel in one hand, not using it.

“I think you have a little more to worry about than how much your dry cleaning will cost you,” Paul said, motioning toward the chairs.

Bertrand heaved a sigh but didn't sit. “I didn't do anything,” he said. “Well, nothing that anyone else here wouldn't do.” He leveled a finger at me. The ring there was coated in mud. “She destroyed a very expensive bottle of wine.”

Paul glanced at me.

“He pulled it out of his coat,” I said. “I thought it might be a weapon.”

Bertrand snorted. “I never would have hit you with it, you moron. I was going to show it to you so you would leave me alone.”

“Maybe you should have
told
me that first!”

“Maybe you should have paid more attention to what was going on, rather than assault me.” He turned to Paul. “I want to press charges!”

“You! You're the one who was running away and threatening me!”

“I never threatened you.”

“You did!”

Paul raised both of his hands, and his voice. “Both of you, stop. Tell me what happened, like reasonable adults.”

Before either of us could speak, there was a knock at the door. Paul jammed his fingers into his eyes and rubbed as he called out a weary, “What?”

“Mrs. Yarborough wishes to speak to you,” Buchannan said from the other side of the door. “It has something to do with the man you're currently talking to.”

Paul continued to rub at his eyes a moment longer before sighing, and said, “Okay, fine. Bring her in.”

The door opened and Margaret strode in, looking aghast. I wasn't sure if it was because of our suspect, or if it had to do with all of the mud and water we'd tracked in. I held up my towel, as if proving that I wasn't doing it on purpose and was in the process of trying to sop up most of the mess.

She didn't look impressed. “My heavens,” she said. “What happened?”

“That's what I'm trying to figure out,” Paul said. He nodded once to Buchannan, who stepped back out of the room and closed the door.

“He was trying to flee the premises,” I said, trying to sound official. “I stopped him before he could escape.”

“As I told you before, I was trying to get home.” Bertrand said it like he was talking to a stubborn child. “And this woman knocked me over and shattered my bottle of Pétrus.”

Margaret's hand fluttered to her chest. “The Pétrus? It was the last one!”

“Hold up,” Paul said. “Start from the beginning and tell me exactly what happened.”

Bertrand patted at his pockets as if looking for something, before frowning. “I was . . . borrowing a bottle of wine from Mrs. Yarborough. I wanted to take it home before something happened to it, when this woman came out of nowhere and attacked me.”

“You weren't supposed to leave,” I said. “Police orders!”

Paul's jaw clenched as he looked to Margaret. “Is what he said true?”

“I don't know anything about him getting attacked, but I am sure Bertrand had the bottle. He takes something every year.”

A suspicious look glinted in Paul's eye. “Takes?”

Margaret waved a dismissive hand in front of her face. “It's nothing. Every year, things come up missing. Wine. Art. Silverware. It happens.”

“So, he was stealing it?” Paul asked.

“I suppose you could call it that.”

I looked dumbly from Margaret to Paul, then back again. “He was stealing from you, and you're okay with it?”

“It's just wine.”

“But the jewelry. You were upset that someone had taken it.”

“That's different, dear.” Margaret gave me a simpering smile. “They are far more personal and dear to me than some old bottle of wine, no matter the vintage.”

“It's ruined,” Bertrand lamented. He looked like he was going to cry. “And I didn't even get to taste it! The bottle was still unopened.”

“How much are we talking about here?” Paul asked. Margaret shrugged. “It was a good vintage,” she said. “I believe Howard had paid just over two thousand for it.”

The whole room seemed to tip sideways. I took a hasty step back and braced myself against the wall.
Did she just say two thousand?

Paul looked as flabbergasted as I did, but managed to keep his cool. “Why were you running, then?” he asked.

“I wasn't running anywhere,” Bertrand said. “With the police all over the place, I thought it would be prudent to get the wine out of sight before you started searching people. I didn't want to have to explain myself.”

Too late for that.
His excuse was sounding all too familiar. It was almost identical to the story Reggie Clements had told us, just replacing jewelry with wine.

“Do you really think we would have been suspicious of you?” Paul asked, his patience clearly at an end. No one was listening to his commands, and it was making his job harder. “Running only makes you look guilty.”

“It
was
an expensive bottle.” Bertrand said it as if it made everything okay.

Paul took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay.” He glanced at me and I could see a hint of irritation there. I wasn't sure if it was directed at me or at the situation in general. Under the circumstances, I let it slide without getting offended. He was having a rough time of it and didn't need me telling him it wasn't my fault.

“I'm going to need you to come with me,” he told Bertrand, turning to the big man. “Once you're secure, I'll get you something else to dry off with.” One towel was obviously not going to be enough.