Death by Pumpkin Spice (9 page)

Will held his smile during my entire speech. “I don't blame you for what you're doing,” he said. “I was going to tell you that I'm proud of you. I think you should keep doing it for as long as it takes to get to the bottom of this thing.”

“Even if it means we don't get to spend any time together tonight?”

He shrugged. “I won't lie and say I'm okay with you putting yourself at risk, but it makes you happy. What you are doing is important. You don't have to worry about what I think. I have friends here; I can hang out with them until you're done.” His smile widened. “I sometimes forget myself and act like a fool. I should be the one apologizing to you for acting as if I don't understand. I do.”

I suddenly felt all warm and fuzzy. “I've been an idiot.”

Will took a step forward and wrapped me in a big hug. He smelled good. Very good. It was all I could do to keep from melting into him.

“That makes two of us.”

I started to smile, but just then, something thumped behind me.

I flew out of Will's arms like he'd burst into flames. Heart hammering, I spun and scoured the hallway, trying to determine where the sound had come from. Fake cobwebs hung from the ceiling, concealing fake spiders, and probably a few real ones to boot.

“Did you hear that?” I asked, voice shaking a little. The empty hallway that had been a blessing a moment ago suddenly felt oppressive and frightening. We were close enough to the ballroom that I doubted we were in any real danger, but then again, if the killer was here and had found a gun, we'd be on our own.

The thump came again, and I was able to pinpoint it as coming from the second door on the right. The door was made of heavy wood and a gargoyle face had been carved into it. Red rubies were inset as eyes. When the next thump came, the face shook.

“Let me,” Will said, taking a step forward, cane clenched in his fist.

I really should have let him go first, but my stubborn streak kicked in then. I didn't need saving or protecting, darn it! I snatched the cane out of his hand and stepped up to the door. I didn't know if the person inside was the killer, a victim, or maybe not even a person at all. As far as I knew, Margaret Yarborough kept a pair of pit bulls locked away.

“We should wait for Paul,” Will said from just behind me. “Just in case.”

“You can go find him,” I said at a whisper. “But I'm going to check this out.” The murderer might have dragged someone into the room and could be killing them even now. I didn't want another Monroe's death to weigh on my conscience if I could have prevented it.

I pressed my face close to the door, listening for other sounds. I thought I heard what sounded like a heavy glass clunking up against the floor, but it was hard to tell since it was quickly followed by another thump.

“Hello?” I said, causing Will to hiss in a nervous breath. “Is everything okay in there?”

There was a snorted laugh, but otherwise, no answer.

I looked at Will, who looked back at me, eyes pleading with me to back away and let someone else handle it. It made me feel good that he was concerned about me, but not so much that I was going to give in.

My hand tightened on the cane as I reached for the doorknob. “Hello?” I asked again, this time louder. “Are you hurt?”

No answer.

“I'm coming in.”

“Don't tell them that!” Will hissed.

I tried the door, fully expecting it to be locked. It clicked open halfway before smacking up against something and coming to an abrupt halt. I peered inside the room, terrified I'd find someone bleeding out, laughing madly as their life bled away onto the floor.

Instead, Quentin Pebbles sat on the bathroom floor, legs spread out in front of him, blocking the door. He held a mostly empty bottle of wine in his hands. His nose was red and his eyes were puffy from both crying and a little too much drink. His costume was open at the chest, exposing a sweaty white T-shirt beneath. His red bow tie lay on the floor next to him. He sniffed, wiped at his nose with the back of his hand, and said, “She doesn't love me.”

And then he broke down into big, blubbery tears.

9

Quentin sat at the table in the room that was quickly becoming Paul's makeshift interrogation room, rubbing his head. Paul had managed to scrounge up a cup of coffee somewhere, though it was black and cookie free. Every few moments, Quentin would take a sip and grimace before going back to massaging his temples.

“I was stupid to think I could tame her.” He spoke without any provocation. “I should have seen the signs.”

Paul glanced at me and we both sat down. I didn't have to beg him to be allowed to sit in on the questioning this time. I think he would have even let Will come in if he'd wanted to. Instead, Will decided to go back to the ballroom, and had asked me to go.

I, of course, declined. There was no way I was going to miss this.

“What can you tell us about tonight?” Paul asked, keeping his voice low and soothing. No sense agitating a man who appeared willing to talk, especially if he was going to confess.

“We came to the party together,” Quentin said without looking up. “I've been planning to propose to Jessica all week. I thought about doing it before we came, or perhaps when we were heading back home, but decided to do it here.” He snorted a laugh. “What a plan that turned out to be, right?” He sighed and shook his head, slowly as not to jar his already throbbing skull. “I think she knew what I was planning from the start. She'd been acting funny lately.”

“Funny how?” I asked, earning me a warning look from Paul. Apparently, the same rules applied here as they had when Reggie Clements had sat in Quentin's chair. I mimed zipping my lips closed.

He shrugged and then winced as if the gesture had hurt. “Secretive, I guess. Pushing me away. Stuff like that. I think she was preparing to move on from me and when she realized what I was going to do, accelerated the process.” A faint smile lit his lips. “She does that a lot. When we first met, she was already dating a couple of other guys. She said she broke up with them, but I knew she didn't do it right away.”

Paul and I shared another look. I couldn't imagine what it would be like to be dragged along like that. I guess Rita's rumor of Jessica having a lot of boyfriends was true. It didn't make things any easier, though it did help us with a possible motive.

Quentin looked a lot less like Pee-wee Herman now that he wasn't wearing the red bow tie. Now, he simply looked sad and defeated. He continued to rub his head, which was likely throbbing from all the wine he'd drunk. On the way to Paul, he'd told me the bottle had been full when he'd found it.

“Can you tell me why you were drinking in the bathroom?” Paul asked, calm as could be.

“To forget,” Quentin said, sitting back and crossing his arms. I did a quick once-over of him, but if he'd gotten pumpkin on him from killing his girlfriend, he'd cleaned it off. “To obliterate myself so I wouldn't have to think about Jessica Fairweather ever again.”

“So, you wanted her out of your life?”

Quentin looked up and frowned. “Wait. What is this about?” He looked from Paul to me, and I thought I saw a hint of fear behind his eyes.

Paul laid both of his hands onto the table and leveled a stare at the man sitting across from him. Gone was the calm, friendly man, and in its place was the strong and in-charge policeman.

“Were you jealous of Jessica? What about the other men she was sleeping with?”

“What? No.” Quentin's brow furrowed as he tried to think things through in his semi-drunk state. “She was rich, and she had other lovers, I'm sure, but I still loved her. She could be a downright bitch when she wanted to be, but aren't most women?” He paused and glanced at me. “No offense intended.”

“Were you upset when she rejected you?” Paul asked, drawing Quentin's eye back to him.

“Sure,” he said. I noted a slight panic to his voice. “She turned me down in front of everyone. I thought having people watching might keep her from blowing me off, but I guess she didn't really love me as much as I thought she did. Even though I knew what she was like, I thought a part of her might be willing to settle down if I were to ask. She couldn't go on like she had been forever, right?”

“And her turning you down, it made you angry?”

“Sure, yeah. It would upset anyone.”

“Is that why you killed her?”

Quentin's hand froze halfway through the process of raising his coffee mug to his lips. It was like someone had doused him with ice-cold water. His eyes, red from his earlier sobbing and the start of his hangover, grew wide and aware. All signs of inebriation were gone.

“Killed her?” he asked at a whisper. “Jessica took off.”

Paul held his gaze, blue eyes scouring the face of his suspect as if he could divine whether he was telling the truth or not. “Her body was found earlier this evening. She died just after you chased after her.” He paused, seemed to consider whether he should go on or not, and then added, “She was strangled.”

Each word seemed to stab Quentin like a knife. He winced and cringed back in his chair, as if he could escape the truth. He started to shake his head, stopped, and then carefully set down his mug. His face turned an ugly shade of white; then he was up out of his chair and over to the corner where a wastebasket sat. He fell to his knees and retched into it.

Paul didn't rise, didn't move to comfort him, so I stayed right where I was. I was mortified by how brutal the statements had been, especially if he hadn't killed her. I suppose he could have thrown it at him like that to gauge his reaction, but it was still cruel. I gave Paul a disapproving glare, but his gaze was firmly on Quentin.

After what felt like an endless couple of minutes, Quentin pushed himself to his feet and braced himself against the wall. “Are you sure it was her?” he asked, his voice breaking so much it made me want to walk over and hug him.

“We are.” Paul was still all business. “Mr. Pebbles, if you would . . .” He indicated the vacated chair.

There was a long moment when Quentin just stood there, staring at the chair like he couldn't comprehend what it was. I wasn't sure he even knew
where
he was anymore. He took a shaky step forward, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then collapsed into the seat as if his strings had been cut.

“I can't believe it,” he said.

“I'm sorry,” I said, unable to hold back any longer. The poor guy looked about ready to break into more heaving sobs. Seeing it once was enough for me. “It has to be tough to hear after what happened.”

“I . . . It is.” He fisted his eyes so hard, I was afraid he might pop them out the back of his head. “She can't be dead.”

And then the tears started again.

Both Paul and I could do nothing but watch him as he sobbed. If he'd killed Jessica, he was doing a pretty darn good acting job. I could feel myself getting choked up just watching him. I know there are heartless people who can fake misery, but looking at Quentin now, I was positive he could have had nothing to do with her murder. If he did, I'd eat my deerstalker hat.

“I'm sorry,” Quentin said, snuffling back the tears. “I don't know what to do.” He grabbed the mug from the table and downed the coffee like it was a fifth of Jack. He looked disappointed when it wasn't.

“Can you account for your whereabouts after you left the ballroom, up until you were found in the bathroom?” Paul asked. I noted his tone was back to being kinder, gentler.

“I, um . . .” Quentin's face screwed up in concentration as he wiped away his remaining tears. “I chased after Jessica after she . . .” He sighed. “After . . . you know.”

Both Paul and I nodded in unison.

“She left the ballroom and was walking quickly down the hall. I called out to her and she screamed at me to leave her alone. I couldn't bring myself to walk away, so I kept following her, begging her to stop and talk to me. She found the nearest bathroom and then locked herself inside.”

“Did you follow her in?”

“No, like I said, she locked the door.”

“Was it the same bathroom Ms. Hancock found you in?”

“No, it was the one upstairs.”

Paul and I shared yet another look. The pumpkin room was downstairs, so if she was killed there, she would have had to come back down at some point. Whether she did it on her own power or not was debatable. I couldn't imagine someone killing her upstairs and then dragging her all the way into the pumpkin room, so it was likely she'd come down on her own. If that was the case, then someone might have seen her, other than her murderer.

“Where did you go after she locked herself in the bathroom?” Paul asked. “Or did you wait outside it until she came out again?”

“I stood outside the room for a few minutes, asking her to come out and talk. We'd had fights before where she'd storm off and, after cooling down, would come out and we'd smooth things over. This time felt different, so when she refused to come out and see me, I left.”

“Did you see anyone else upstairs in one of the rooms? Did anyone pass by while you waited?” I asked.

“No.” Quentin shook his head and frowned as if he was having a hard time remembering things clearly. “The hallway was deserted at the time, though I do think I remember hearing a few voices down the hall somewhere. I wasn't exactly in my right mind at the time, so I didn't pay any attention to them.”

“So you don't know if the voices were male or female?” Paul asked. “Two or three people?”

“Sorry.” Quentin's cheek hopped and I could tell he was on the verge of crying again. It had to be hard, knowing that if he would have stuck around, Jessica very well might still be alive.

“Where did you go after you left her in the bathroom?”

“Downstairs.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I couldn't face everyone again, and I couldn't leave because Jessica's driver wasn't due to pick us up again for a few hours. I suppose I could have called someone to get me, but at the time, I wasn't thinking straight. I ended up going to the kitchen, hoping to find something to . . . well . . .” He gave me a sad, embarrassed smile.

“Did anyone see you there?”

Quentin nodded. “There were a few people there, talking. Some of the maids were there, too, dressed in those old-style dresses. I asked one of them for a bottle of wine and she gave it to me without question. I took it and wandered around for a little bit, avoiding everyone. When I started running out of places to go, I found that bathroom and decided to drink myself into oblivion.”

It sounded like quite a lot of people had seen Quentin after he'd left Jessica in the bathroom, yet there was also a lot of time unaccounted for. He could very well have killed her and still had time to get the wine and drink away his misery. Or he might have left her, drank himself into a rage, and then found her again, this time in the pumpkin room, before going to the downstairs bathroom to finish off the bottle.

But I just couldn't make myself believe he was responsible for her death. There was too much pain in his eyes, too much confusion. He was the obvious suspect, of course, and until Paul or I could completely clear him, he would remain that way.

“Do you know who might have wanted to hurt Jessica?” Paul asked.

Quentin considered it a moment before shaking his head. “I'm not sure anyone would really want to hurt her. I suppose one of her old boyfriends could have done it, or maybe a new one, I guess.”

“Do you know the names of these boyfriends?”

“No, I don't. I didn't want to know then, and I still don't.” Quentin clenched his fists atop the table. “I just can't see anyone doing it. She might not have been the most pleasant person to be around sometimes, but when you were with her, she could make you feel like the king of the world.” Fresh tears filled his eyes. “Why would someone do this?” He completely broke down again and buried his face in his arms.

Paul motioned for me to stand. “We'll give you a moment,” he told the sobbing man, before guiding me to the door. We stepped out into the hall and he quietly closed the door behind us, leaving Quentin alone with his grief.

“I don't think he did it,” I said immediately.

“My gut says you are right,” Paul said. “But I can't go with my gut here. I'm going to have to put him somewhere safe until we either come up with the real killer, or can get out of here and perform a proper investigation.”

“Have you heard from Buchannan yet?”

That earned me a brief frown before Paul tipped back his bobby hat and rubbed at his face. “Not yet,” he said, before sighing. “I'm going to have to find the people Mr. Pebbles claims to have talked to or seen, especially the maid who gave him the wine.”

“That isn't going to be easy,” I said. “Not unless he can give you a better description.” I'd seen at least a dozen waitresses floating around, and I was sure there were a few more than that working in the kitchen.

“I know.” His shoulders sagged. “But what else can I do?”

“I could look for her for you,” I offered, anxious to be of more help, but Paul shook his head.

“You found my missing guests,” he said. “Other than making sure no one tries to leave, I don't think you should involve yourself any further in this. I don't want you putting yourself at risk any more than you already have.”

“I'll be fine,” I grumbled. “I know how to take care of myself. And besides, there are a few other guests who I noticed were missing right around the time of the murder.”

Paul gave me a disapproving frown. “And you're just now bringing this up?”

“Well, I wasn't sure it was important!” I lied.