Death by Pumpkin Spice (5 page)

The room fell silent. Jessica's head turned slowly until she was facing Quentin. She didn't even try to disguise the look of horror on her face.

“Are you serious?” she asked, voice high-pitched and nasally. “You can't be serious.” She huffed. “Get up, you idiot.”

Someone barked out a harsh laugh as Quentin shot to his feet. He refused to raise his eyes past shin-level, and I got the distinct impression he had to do that often when he was around her.

“If you think I would ever marry you, you are delusional,” Jessica went on, unrelenting. “I don't need your money, if that is what you think. And since you can barely perform in the best of conditions, I don't need that, either.” Another round of laughter met that, further deepening the growing flush on Quentin's face.

“Jessica, please.”

“Jessica, please,” she mocked, voice going an octave higher. “God, what an idiot. To think I wasted so much time on you.” She turned and stormed away, still muttering to herself. She nearly bumped into a man in a black suit and hat who was just entering as she left the room. The man looked startled, and then guilty, as he watched her go.

Quentin stood in the center of the room, unable to look at anyone for a long, horrible moment. When someone else started laughing—this time a woman—he bolted for the hall, calling out, “Jessica!” as he went.

“Wow,” Vicki said under her breath. “That was rough.”

“No kidding.” If it had happened to me, I'd probably have died right then and there. I couldn't imagine ever being that cruel to someone, especially someone you were supposedly close to.

“Excuse me, Krissy.”

I tensed and then plastered on a smile as I turned. “Paul. How good to see you.”

A tense silence filled the air. Will took a step closer to me but didn't put a protective arm around me, which earned him a few points in my book. I didn't need someone claiming me like some sort of child's toy, though having him near made me feel a little better.

“I think we've met,” Shannon said, giving me a friendly smile.

“We have,” I said, doing my best to be pleasant. There was no reason for the claws to come out. Paul simply wasn't interested in me. I couldn't fault him for that. And from what little I'd seen of Shannon, she seemed nice enough.

And besides, I was here with Will.

Paul cleared his throat and turned to Will. “Paul Dalton,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Will Foster.” They shook.

Vicki and Mason had retreated a few steps but were keeping an eye on the festivities. Vicki was watching Paul like a hawk, as if waiting for him to do or say something she didn't approve of. I think Mason's hand on her wrist was the only thing keeping her from marching up to Paul and demanding to know why he'd turned his back on me.

We all looked at each other, unsure what to say next. As far as uncomfortable silences went, this one was a doozy. My eyes met Paul's for a heartbeat; then we both looked away as if just looking at one another would get us into trouble with our dates.

My eyes fell on someone I recognized, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I'd found a way out of this mess before it could get any worse.

“Oh! There's someone I'd like to talk to. I'll see you later, Paul.”

I grabbed Will's hand and practically dragged him across the room to where Heidi Lawyer stood, looking as out of place and miserable as I felt. Her husband had been murdered a few months back, so I suppose she could be going by her maiden name, Harper, now, but she would forever be a Lawyer to me. She actually looked relieved when she saw me walking toward her.

“Ms. Hancock,” she said with only a cursory glance at Will. “I'm surprised to see you here.”

“Call me Krissy,” I said, giving her a brief, uncertain hug. I hadn't been sure she'd want to talk to me. During the process of solving her husband's murder, I'd accused her of some pretty icky things. I wouldn't have blamed her if she never wanted to see me again, but so far, she seemed appreciative of my help. “I didn't think I'd see you here, either.”

“Mom made me come,” she said with a sigh. “She thinks I should be looking for a new husband and set me up with some creep old enough to be my dad.” She nodded toward a fat man dressed as Alfred Hitchcock who was sixty if he was a day.

“Sorry about that,” I said with a wince.

“Mom thinks I can put Brendon behind me like that.” She snapped her fingers. “But I can't. He might not have been the best man out there, but I still loved him.” She sighed. “When I pointed out she didn't start dating again until fifteen years after Dad's death, she only got mad. I think this date is punishment for that.” Her eyes flickered to Will, who was standing a respectful distance behind me. “You here with Dr. Foster?” she asked me.

“I am.” I beamed at her.

Heidi nodded in appreciation. “I wish I could be so lucky, but no, I get Chuck Butcher. What kind of name is that, anyway?” Her shoulders sagged. She looked nearly as defeated as when Brendon had been murdered.

“I'm sure it will work out for you,” I said, patting her on the bare shoulder. Her dress was a little more revealing than she appeared comfortable with, and I somehow knew her mother had something to do with that. “Mason is here somewhere,” I said, glancing back to where I'd left him with Vicki.

“Yeah, we've already spoken. He finds it hilarious I'm stuck here with that.” She nodded toward her date.

I started to reply when a shriek silenced the entire ballroom as if it had been a gunshot. Everyone spun toward the hall as one, almost as if we'd rehearsed it. The scream came again as an older woman stumbled into the room, hand over her mouth, eyes bugging out of her head. She was as pale as a ghost.

“Someone help!” She gasped, pointing back the way she'd come. “There's . . . I . . .” She took a shaky step forward. “Someone has been murdered!”

And then she fainted dead away.

5

“Everyone, stay back!”

Paul knelt by the fainted woman and gently shook her. Her eyes fluttered open and she jerked away, as if she thought he might attack her.

“It's okay,” he said. “I'm with the police.”

“Oh, God!” She grabbed him by the arms hard enough that it had to hurt. “I found her. She's dead!”

“What's your name?” Paul asked, gently.

The woman looked surprised by the question, but when she answered she was somewhat calmer. “Isabella Ortega.”

“Okay, Isabella, can you tell me who you found?”

The woman shook her head, unwilling or unable to answer.

“Can you show me where you found her?” he asked.

She bit her lip and then nodded.

Paul helped her to her feet and kept a hand on her elbow as they turned toward the doorway. “Everyone stay here,” he said, before letting Isabella lead him down the hall.

There was a moment where no one moved and then everyone in the ballroom started forward after Paul and Isabella. I glanced at Will, who shrugged, and we hurried after.

“There!” Isabella said, pointing. She'd stopped halfway down the hall and refused to go any farther. The room she indicated was two doors down.

“Okay,” Paul said. “Remain here until I check it out. Can you do that for me?”

Isabella nodded.

He cast an annoyed glance over his shoulder before walking toward the door. The crowd who had gathered moved with him, and I don't think he could have said anything to keep them at bay. I went along with everyone else, curiosity winning out.

The door to the room was open. Pumpkins were laid out as if the room was meant to be a pumpkin patch straight out of someone's nightmares. Some of the pumpkins were carved so that they looked sinister. There were no friendly smiles on these jack-o'-lanterns. The walls of the room were painted in shades of dark orange and blue that were reminiscent of dusk. Guarding the pumpkins was a trio of scarecrows, their jack-o'-lantern faces grinning evilly down at where the body of Marilyn Monroe lay.

Gasps echoed through the crowd, and I heard Margaret Yarborough's name whispered more than once. I'd eased my way to the front with Will, so I could see that it wasn't the older woman's body, but rather one of the younger Monroes I'd seen earlier. Her head was turned at an unnatural angle and smashed through a pumpkin, so it was hard to tell which one without getting down on my knees to check—something I wasn't too keen on doing. I'd leave that job up to Paul.

“Is she really dead?” a man wearing a monocle asked.

“Move so I can see better!” a woman whined.

Will took my hand and squeezed. Our eyes met and I saw a deep sadness there.

“Did the scarecrows do it?” a man called. This was met with a round of nervous laughter.

“All right.” Paul stood, clearly not amused. “Everyone get back into the ballroom. Now!”

Surprisingly, the crowd complied. I'd expected most of them to argue, maybe snap a few pictures, but they turned and started back the way they'd come. I took one more look at the dead woman, said a silent prayer for her, and then headed back to the ballroom.

The room was buzzing with excited conversation. No one seemed too broken up over the dead girl, which put a bad taste in my mouth. I knew many of these people thought themselves above everyone else, but someone had died! Money was no excuse for a lack of compassion.

Paul stopped just inside the ballroom. He had a look of deep concentration on his face as he removed his cell phone from a pocket, punched in a number, and held it up to his ear.

“Was that the girl who stormed out of here?” Vicki asked, coming up beside me.

“Jessica? I'm not sure.” But now that I thought about it, I did remember catching a glimpse of an expensive-looking necklace around the neck of the victim. Unless there was a fourth Monroe running around the place, I was pretty sure our victim was indeed Jessica Fairweather.

“I don't see the boyfriend,” Will said, eyes scanning the crowd. “What was his name again?”

“Quentin,” I supplied.

“You really don't think he would kill her just because she turned him down, do you?” Vicki asked, aghast.

Will shrugged. “You saw what happened. She didn't just turn him down, she humiliated him in front of all these people. People have killed for less.”

“I don't see the hostess, either,” Mason said with a frown.

I did a quick scan, though I couldn't see over anyone's head. Sometimes being short sucked. “None of the Marilyn Monroes are here.” A surge of worry worked through me. Did we have a Marilyn murderer on our hands here? It didn't seem likely, not unless someone had some serious issues with the deceased star that was brought to the fore when he was surrounded by them.

Paul shoved his phone into his pocket and then raised his voice above the murmur of the crowd. “Okay, everyone, the police are on their way.”

This was met with jeers and a few snotty remarks that caused his frown to deepen.

“No one is to go back into the pumpkin room for any reason. In fact, I want everyone to stay right here until we can get this thing sorted out.” He looked around the room, almost as if doing a quick head count. “Do we have a list of guests?”

No one leapt forward to provide him with one, which wasn't much of a surprise. I was pretty sure many of the guests still thought this was some sort of sick joke. If it was, it was in pretty bad taste. I don't think this was what Margaret Yarborough meant when she said Howard had surprises waiting for us.

Paul heaved a sigh and caught my eye. He stood there staring at me long enough, I started to get nervous, before he motioned me over.

I glanced at Will, who released my hand and took a step back. “Go ahead,” he said. “I'm going to go grab a drink.” He looked pale and a little shaky. I was guessing he'd be hitting the alcoholic beverages rather than the punch.

“This should take only a minute,” I told him, which earned me a strained smile before he walked away.

I took a deep breath and then headed over to where Paul waited. He looked as agitated as I'd ever seen him, which was saying something. The man was a police officer, so he'd seen his share of horrible things. When I neared, he stepped into the hallway a bit, presumably so we couldn't be overheard.

“Is that the girl, Jessica?” I asked.

He nodded. “I think so.”

“Poor thing.” She might have been cruel, but no one deserved to die like that.

“Buchannan is on the way,” he said. “But I'm worried he might not make it up the driveway. It's raining pretty hard now, apparently, and some of the roads are washed out. The driveway here was pretty treacherous when I'd driven up it earlier, so it has to be a muddy soup by now.” His frown deepened. “Until he makes it here, I'm all there is to keep order.”

“You'll be fine.” It felt good to be the one saying that for a change.

Paul rewarded me with a smile that revealed those dimples of his before his frown returned. “I wish I felt fine. This is a mess.” He rubbed at his forehead and closed his eyes.

I gave him a moment before asking, “What do you need with me?”

Paul tugged at his ear and glanced past me, into the ballroom where many of the guests were peering out at us. “I can't do this on my own.” Another heavy sigh. “I can't control these people, either. I've already lost track of our hostess.”

“Margaret Yarborough,” I provided, in case he didn't know her name.

“And there are a few other faces I haven't seen since the body has been found.”

“Like the boyfriend.”

He nodded, distracted. “Until Buchannan gets here, I don't know how I am going to keep everyone in check.”

I stood there and waited for him to go on, unsure why he wanted to tell me his doubts. It didn't make me feel any better that the only cop on hand was worried about keeping control. While it didn't look like anyone was panicking yet, that didn't mean it wouldn't eventually start. And once one person flipped out, it was only a matter of time before half the crowd started in.

Finally, Paul rubbed at his face and then leveled his gaze on me. “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary before . . . this?”

I gestured around me, indicating the Halloween decorations and costumes. “It's all out of the ordinary,” I said.

That earned me a slight smile. “Well, if you notice anything especially out of place, let me know.”

My eyes brightened. “Why, Paul Dalton, are you asking me to assist you on this?”

He looked annoyed, but nodded. “I'm going by the assumption that the boyfriend is our culprit, but I'm not going to rule anyone else out. There could be quite a lot of people who would want our victim dead.”

“She didn't seem very nice, did she?” I hated saying it since she was dead and all, but it was true.

“No, she didn't,” Paul agreed. “Did you see her talk with anyone else before the big scene?”

I shook my head. “I didn't even see her until that moment.”

“What about after? I didn't pay close enough attention to see if anyone other than the boyfriend followed her out.”

I thought back, but I hadn't really watched too closely, either. “I'm sorry,” I said. “I don't think I saw anyone.” And if I did, how was I to know at the time that it might be important? I would never in a million years have thought someone would have gotten murdered at a party.

Then again, this was my life we were talking about. Trouble followed me everywhere I went.

“All right. Okay.” Paul ran his fingers through his hair. “I need to find something to block off the room so that no one goes poking around.”

“Good idea.”

“I . . .” He trailed off and frowned. It was obvious he was having a hard time asking me for help. He'd spent so much time warning me off his investigations, he didn't know how to handle it now that he wanted my assistance. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Yes?” I asked, sweet as could be.

A flicker of annoyance passed over his features but cleared quickly. “Can you keep an eye on things for me while I'm gone? Until Buchannan gets here, I'm going to have my hands full. I need you to watch and see if the boyfriend—”

“Quentin,” I said.

“Quentin,” he agreed. “If you see him, don't try to detain him, but call me instead.” He paused, uncertain. “Do you still have my number?”

I nodded. I might have given up on Paul and I ever dating, but that didn't mean I was going to excise him from my life entirely. We could work very well as friends, I was sure. I just needed to get over my crush and move on. Both of us deserved to be happy, even if it wasn't with each other.

“Okay. Good.” He looked past me again, eyes roaming over the milling guests, who'd apparently lost interest in us. “If you see him, find me or call me. The same goes for Mrs. Yarborough.”

I nodded, excited to be of some use, even if it wasn't a part of the actual investigation.

Paul's face grew serious. “I want you to be careful. We don't know for sure if the boyfriend did it or if the killer is planning to strike again. I don't want you wandering around, asking questions, okay?”

I winced, hating how well he knew me, but nodded anyway. “Is it okay to ask if anyone knows where Quentin and Margaret have gone?” Not to mention the other Marilyn Monroe.

Paul thought about it briefly. “That should be okay. If you find anything out, tell me immediately. Don't go looking for them yourself. Understood?”

I plastered on a smile. “Of course.”

“Good.”

“Can you tell me how she died?” I asked. I wasn't sure I was prepared to hear the answer, but thought it better to find out now, rather than later. If the killer was running around with a gun or knife, I wanted to know, just in case I bumped into him.

“I can't say for sure, but from the look of things, I'd say she was strangled.” He looked sick to his stomach.

“That's horrible.” Strangulation was the kind of death often doled out by a jealous or angry lover, not a trained killer. It looked like we very well might be looking at the boyfriend, after all.

“Yeah, it is.” Paul started to walk away, but then stopped. He turned back to me and gave me a smile that was somehow sad. “And, Krissy . . . you look good.”

I floated back to the ballroom, feeling inordinately pleased, despite our main topic of conversation. Paul might not be my boyfriend, or even a suitor anymore, but his approval still felt darn good.

Will was waiting for me as I returned, putting a damper on my good mood; not because I didn't like him, but because I felt guilty. And I hadn't even done anything!

“Here,” he said, handing me a cup filled with red punch. “I tested it to make sure it wasn't spiked.” He looked almost disappointed.

“Thanks.” I took a sip and winced. It might not be spiked, but it wasn't great, either. It tasted like one of those expensive health drinks made from acai berries and pomegranate, which were two of my least favorite flavors.

I took a moment to look over the crowd in the hope that I'd catch a glimpse of either Margaret or Quentin, but with all of the masks and costumes, I wasn't having much luck. There were more white dresses in the room than I'd first realized, and while most of them weren't the same as the Monroe dress, they did make the search more difficult. Quentin's gray suit would also blend in, just as long as I didn't see the silly red bow tie.

In a way, I felt bad for the guy. He might be our killer, yet he had been belittled in front of his peers by the girl he thought loved him. That had to be hard on anyone. I didn't condone the murder, of course, but I could see where it might cause even the most rational of people to overreact.