Say Yes to the Death (17 page)

Thankfully, no one said anything more about Olivia or the mess she'd left behind. Instead, we all sat down at the kitchen table and Millie led us in a very simple grace, something I hadn't done in longer than I'd cared to admit.

After the “Amen,” Mother began nattering on about some upcoming charity ball or another, and I found my appetite again. I dug into the beef Wellington even though I didn't usually eat red meat, particularly when it was pink. But it was calling to me like a Siren's song, and I didn't fight it. As I listened to Cissy and Millie chat about non-­earth-­shattering events like Penny Ryan Trippelhorn's real due date and a braless Jennifer Aniston appearing at the NorthPark Neiman Marcus to plug perfume, I did nothing but chew, savor, and swallow until I'd cleared my plate of carrots and green beans and beef and, à la Oliver Twist, politely asked, “Please, may I have more?”

Millie seemed thrilled to see me demolish the meal she'd prepared, although I noticed she barely touched hers. Ditto my too-­thin mother who ate, like, three carrots, two beans, and two forkfuls of beef before she pushed away her plate, groaning and insisting that she couldn't eat a bite more without popping the button on her size zero pants. Maybe it was the wine—­I abstained, but Cissy and Millie managed to empty the bottle—­because suddenly Millie began to talk about Olivia.

“It seems wrong, doesn't it, when someone with the face of an angel can be so cruel. She wasn't so bad at first, just arrogant.” Millie waved a hand dismissively. “But so many young people are these days, like the world belongs to them. Once she got that silly show, she went from bad to worse, treating us all like we were her minions, there to serve her. She had no respect for anyone's talent or hard work. She only cared about what we could do for her.”

Mother and I both made sympathetic noises but neither of us spoke.

Millie paused and wet her lips. “I worked my fingers to the bone on Penny Ryan's cake, and to hear that Olivia had bad-­mouthed me at the reception, pretending she didn't know the first layer of the cake was foam? I was horrified. Of course, she knew every detail about that cake. She had what amounted to an architectural drawing of the danged thing on her tablet the day we met to discuss it months ago. She made me study it and sketch it out on paper for my own file.”

Very clever of Olivia, I mused, not giving Millie the electronic file or a hard copy so Millie wouldn't have proof to back up her words that the fake first layer had been Olivia's idea.

Hearing that reinforced my theory that Olivia's take-­down of Millie was scripted. Was it Olivia's doing? Did she figure that would spice up the drama? Or had someone else written that particular script? What about Janet's contact, Sammi Garber, the producer?

“Did you get the feeling Olivia meant to embarrass you from the start?” I said, because I couldn't help myself. “Like she set you up?”

Millie looked confused. “Set me up? I don't know, Andy. All I do know is that she was trying to get me to write the cake off, and I wasn't going to let her win. I wasn't going to let her drive me out of business like she did Jasper.” Her voice turned into an angry whisper. “I could have killed her for double-­dealing like that—­”

I glanced at Mother.

“—­but I didn't,” she finished and slugged down what wine was left in her glass. “Instead I was planning to sue her and that show of hers. Someone had to make her stop behaving so recklessly. Though I guess someone did, didn't they?” She turned her owl eyes upon us. “Only it wasn't me.”

“Had you told anyone yet,” I asked, “about wanting to sue?”

“I told Olivia.” Millie nodded. “I sent her an email telling her I was going to take her down, no matter what it cost.”

I groaned inwardly. I could only imagine what the police thought of that email when they'd read it. It sounded like a death threat, not a warning that a lawsuit was forthcoming.

“Is there anything else you can think of that might help your case?” I said. “Maybe there's some small detail you didn't figure was important at the time.”

Millie set her mouth in a grim line. “You know, I've been wracking my brains, trying to think of something important that I missed, something that would help the police find her killer, but it's all such a blur. Although”—­she bunched up her forehead—­“something odd did come to me as I lay down to rest on your guest bed this afternoon, Cissy, but it's so foggy that I'm not sure if it's real or a dream.” My mother leaned forward, like she was going to interrupt but didn't. “When I went into Olivia's building and found her office door unlocked, I heard strange sounds above me. A thumping . . . or maybe it was more like a drumming that got dimmer and dimmer.”

A thumping or drumming sound?

“Like footsteps?” I suggested. “Could it have been someone running away?”

Millie cocked her head. “I wondered that same thing. Only the building is just two stories tall. If someone ran, they were going across the roof.” She sighed. “I must have been imagining things.”

My mother glanced at me across the table, as though she was waiting for me to decipher what Millie meant.

I wasn't sure what she wanted me to do or say. I hadn't seen anyone else in the building. Millie was right: if she'd heard footsteps drumming overhead that meant someone was on the rooftop. So how did they get down? Had they used a fire escape and left a getaway vehicle parked somewhere near the lot at Highland Park Village? That certainly implied lots of malice aforethought.

Unless the noises Millie thought she heard overhead at Olivia's office were something else, or weren't real at all, as she'd suggested, and whatever drug my mother had slipped into her nap-­time tea had caused her mind to play tricks.

“You need to tell Brian,” I said firmly. “He'll know what to do.”

“I'm seeing him tomorrow,” Millie replied. “He's coming for me early so we can get to work. I hope I can sleep so I'm clear-­headed enough to be of help.”

“Watch some mindless TV or have Mother bore you with her tale of running into Bill Gates outside the President Wilson Hotel in Geneva and shoving her bags in his hands, thinking he was a dorky-­looking bellman,” I suggested. “That'll knock you unconscious.”

“Oh, Andrea,” my mother pooh-­poohed me.

“I do need to rest,” Millie said and took off her glasses to rub her eyes. She looked utterly wrung out. “But I'm afraid I might stare at the ceiling all night.”

“You will sleep,” my mother said, “I'll make sure of it.”

I had to wonder if she'd laced Millie's glass of wine or had plans to give her more spiked tea.

“First, let me take care of these.” Millie started to stand and pick up her plate, but I made a noise of protest.

“No, no, I'll clear,” I told her. “You two should head into the den and put your feet up.” I pushed my chair back from the table to start gathering the dirty dishes.

As I took a load over to the sink, I heard my phone playing “Highway to Hell.” I scrambled for my bag and dug it up, hoping like heck it was Malone calling from an office phone rather than his cell, telling me he was heading home.

“Hey!” I said without checking the number. “I missed you.”

“Aw
,
shucks, Andy, that's so sweet. I missed you, too,” replied a voice that wasn't Brian's, or any man's for that matter. It belonged to Janet Graham.

“Sorry, I thought you were Brian,” I said, trying not to sound disappointed. “So what's up?”

“I found him,” she said, fairly bubbling with excitement.

But my brain was so addled I couldn't recall exactly who she'd been looking for. “Found who?”

“The florist whose career Olivia turned to toast,” she said in a rush, and I heard music and chatter in the background, like she was calling from a party. “I had to ask around . . . and around . . . and around, but I found Jasper Pippin. He didn't retire to the Keys. He's been lying low practically right under our nose, and I've made a date for us to meet with him tomorrow.”

Chapter 22

M
alone called not long after Janet, saying he'd left the office and was on his way home. So I kissed my mother on the cheek and squeezed Millie's hand, telling them both “Good night.” I had to hope that tomorrow would bring some good news. Malone and his defense team at ARGH were on the offense, and maybe whatever preliminary autopsy results they got would be in Millie's favor. He'd told me to have faith, and I was trying.

Regardless, my chest constricted as I drove away from Beverly Drive. This wasn't how Millie should be spending her golden years. She should be doing what she loved most: working in her shop, baking cakes that made people happy, even opening up that restaurant she'd always dreamed of.

I couldn't turn on the radio as I headed back to the condo. My head felt so crowded with thoughts that there was no room for music or chatter. I realized I suddenly had a very full Monday and none of it was work-­related. In reverse chronology, I had the interview at Brian's office in the afternoon, time to be determined. At eleven o'clock I had Draco's bridal show at the merchandise mart. Before that, at nine o'clock, Janet was picking me up so we could visit a swanky retirement village called Belle Meade.

And, no, I wasn't looking to commit my mother.

I knew the place well because an old bunkmate of mine from Camp Longhorn used to run it before she ran into some trouble. According to Janet, Jasper Pippin had been quietly working at Belle Meade as their in-­house floral technician. He was responsible for visiting the downtown wholesale flower market weekly to put together their fresh arrangements, and he taught classes on flower-­arranging for the residents.

“Kind of a come-­down from owning his own shop and doing galas and weddings for the biggest names in Big D,” Janet had remarked, and I couldn't disagree.

But was it enough of a motive for murder?

Janet had talked to the current manager of Belle Meade, who'd given us a pass to attend Jasper's Monday morning flower arranging class. Jan had claimed she was doing a piece on extracurricular activities for the young at heart for the
PCP.

“It'll make a nice sidebar to my feature on Olivia's life and untimely death,” my friend had informed me. “One of those ‘where are they now' bits.”

“As in, here's what one of Olivia's victims—­and possibly her killer—­has been up to since La Belle from Hell ruined his career?”

“That's perfect, Kendricks. Mind if I use that for my opening line?” Janet had dryly remarked before hanging up.

I didn't care so much about Janet's cover story as the fact that I'd have a chance to size up Jasper Pippin in person and see if my first impression was, “Oh, yes, I can see him stabbing Olivia in the neck with a cake knife.”

When I reached my parking lot and pulled into my slot, I saw Brian's Acura neatly tucked into my guest space. He'd turned on the porch light but I didn't see any lights beaming through the windows. It wasn't that late. Had he already gone to bed?

I went in quietly, setting down my keys and bag on the kitchen counter. The only sound I detected was the air conditioner whirring.

“Bri?” I said as I tiptoed into the bedroom. “Are you awake?”

His reply was a softly grunted, “No.”

I toed off my shoes and pulled off my yoga pants, dropping them onto the carpet. Then I struggled out of my bra without removing my T-­shirt. I tossed the bra to the floor and crawled into bed.

I snuggled up beside him, setting my hand on his chest and my head on his shoulder. I felt his heart's steady thump beneath my palm. At first I thought he had dozed off in the few seconds it had taken me to undress. Then I heard his voice, quiet in the dark.

“How was Millie?” he said.

“She's trying to be brave,” I told him, “but she's scared out of her mind.” I felt his arm wrap around my back. “Mother's trying equally hard to distract her.” And possibly slipping mickeys in her tea, I left unsaid.

“Cissy's a good egg.”

“If not a little scrambled,” I replied, and he chuckled, drawing me nearer. For a while I lay there beside him, tucked against his warmth. I listened to him breathe and tried to clear my head. I wanted to close my eyes and drift off. I wished I could. But I imagined I smelled Allie's perfume, and I found myself picturing the two of them working late, Allie sitting much too close to him.

Stop it,
I chastised myself and swallowed down my jealousy. Brian and Allie hadn't been downtown at ARGH making out. They were working toward the same goal I was: to keep Millie out of jail. So instead of making some idiotic comment, like,
Can you tell Allie to nix the patchouli?
I asked him, “You're going to get Millie off, right? She's not going to prison for something she didn't do, is she?”

“Not if I can help it,” he whispered into my hair. “Let's get some sleep, okay? It's been a long day, and I'm beat. And you've been through the wringer, too.”

He was right. It had been one of the longest days of my life.

“I love you, Brian Malone,” I said and tightened my hold on him.

He nuzzled my neck and murmured, “I love you, too.”

So this time when I closed my eyes, I envisioned Malone and me on our honeymoon, far away from Allie Price and from my mother, on some tropical island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Somehow I dozed off.

When I woke up, blurry daylight edged the window shades, and I heard Brian's razor humming in the bathroom. It was almost like yesterday had never happened, I thought as I yawned and stretched before turning on my laptop. Only yesterday's horrors were real as a glance at the local news headlines on my laptop would attest:
THE WEDD
ING BELLE SLAIN, ARR
EST PENDING SAY COPS.

Oh, boy.

My stomach fluttered.

It was strange, the way nothing had changed and everything had changed in twenty-­four hours. My life would go on, maybe better than before. Olivia's death had closed a rough chapter, and the unwritten chapters that lay ahead promised to be the best part of the whole book. There was just one hitch: Millie. Until she was off the hook, my story was bookmarked.

Luckily, I had plenty of nosing around to do, enough to keep me very busy. But first I had to brush my teeth.

Brian waited until I'd rinsed to kiss me. Then he asked what I was doing all day and whether I could come down to the office at two o'clock. I told him I was seeing Janet to help her with a story and then to a fashion show with Mother—­he raised his eyebrows at the latter but not the former—­and I should be done by lunchtime. Satisfied, he kissed me again before grabbing his briefcase and leaving to pick up Millie at Mother's house.

Fifteen minutes later I had my face washed, hair brushed, and clothes on. I was eating a banana and trying to get some work done—­adding pages to a local breast cancer recovery group's support site—­when Janet showed up in her silver VW sedan, tooting her horn out front.

I could see her vintage yellow cloche hat through the glass even before I jumped into the passenger's seat and was able to take in her entire ensemble: orange hair, black glasses, black shirt, black belt, black and yellow striped skirt, and black combat boots with laces up the shins.

“Great outfit. Let me guess. You're the boogie-­woogie bumblebee from Company C,” I said, smiling as I buckled up and she put the car in gear.

“Good one.” She grinned. “Well, Jasper Pippin's into flowers, right? I figured I'd go with the theme.”

“So you're going to pump him for pollen?”

“Until it stings,” she said with a hearty
yuk-­yuk,
and I groaned.

Hey, at least she was in a good mood, I thought as she pushed the car into Preston Road traffic and hightailed it south to Forest Lane. Maybe she'd awakened this morning, too, and realized she could forever close the book on the bad times with Olivia. It was rather liberating.

We'd barely gone a mile before Janet started to rattle on about calling the Salvo Productions office and talking to her friend Sammi about getting stills from Penny Ryan's wedding, but I was only half listening until I heard her say, “I asked about that guy, Pete, but she said they didn't have a cameraman on staff named Pete anything.”

“What?” I turned away from the window. “Of course there's a cameraman named Pete. I saw him with Olivia. I heard her call him that. Maybe it's a nickname?”

“I described him to Sammi—­the tattoo sleeves, the beard, just like you said—­and she seemed really adamant that he doesn't exist. In fact,” Janet glanced away from the road as she told me, “Sammi insists they didn't send anyone from
The Wedding Belle
to shoot at Penny Ryan's wedding. She said they couldn't get permission from Lester Dickens. He threatened to have any of the crew arrested for trespassing if they showed up on his property.”

“Wait, what?” I stopped her because it made no sense. “Of course Pete was shooting for
The Wedding Belle.
Why else would he have been there?”

“He could have been part of the wedding photographer's party,” Jan suggested.

“No,” I said, because I knew that wasn't right. Pete didn't seem to have had anything to do with the official photographer. Another guy had shot all the formal wedding pics, and he had his own crew, all women, who'd taken the sanctioned shots of the wedding party and the families. Pete hadn't been anywhere around for that. “Olivia sure acted like he was with her show. When I interrupted her yelling at Millie for showing up an hour late with the cake, she had Pete take five. Then she ranted about ratings and how she had to ramp up the drama to hold onto her show. And when Olivia pulled a hissy fit about the cake, Pete was there, catching it all on his camera. If he wasn't with Salvo Productions, Olivia sure acted like he was.”

“That's weird,” Janet said, precisely what I was thinking. “You told me they confiscated the guests' cell phones, right?”

“Yep, and security was tight.”

“But somehow Olivia snuck this Pete guy in to record for her show? Wouldn't Lester Dickens have had him tossed once he saw him working the wedding?”

“You'd think so,” I agreed.

“And if Dickens didn't throw him out, surely the Ryans would have,” Jan said, and I nodded. “But no one did?”

“No.”

“Something's fishy, indeed,” she said.

That was exactly what I'd told my mother after Olivia's wedding cake drama. Who was Pete? And why was he at Penny Ryan's wedding? It was almost as though he'd been present just to record Olivia's dressing down of Millie when she was late with the cake and Olivia's histrionics over the cake-­cutting. Was it the Wedding Belle's idea to have a rogue cameraman on-­hand so that she could pressure Millie to drop the $10,000 bill? Or was there more to the story that I didn't see?

“Can you ask your buddy Sammi if the routine with Millie's cake was scripted,” I said, “because Millie insists Olivia knew the bottom layer was Styrofoam, that it was her idea in the first place. I got the impression Olivia pulled her pissy diva routine for the camera.”

“Sure, I'll ask,” Janet said. “Anything else?”

“We have to keep digging,” I told her, more convinced than ever that something very twisted was going on with Olivia toward the end, something that had worked its way up to her murder. And either Millie had been unfortunate enough to get caught in the crosshairs or she'd been the perfect patsy.