Dead Girl in a Green Dress (17 page)

Casually dressed tourists must be the norm,
Byrony
realized, but she still felt self-conscious. "Do you carry anything by Oscar de la
Renta
?"

"As a matter of fact…" The woman ushered her to a wrought iron baker’s rack with several items hanging from it. "We just got these silk blouses in last week. These jewel tones will compliment your coloring beautifully."

Byrony
couldn’t resist touching the gorgeous fabric. Too bad one blouse probably cost almost as much as she earned in a week. She shook her head. "Do you have any dresses?"

The woman whisked the blouse back into place. "Nothing for fall or winter, but I believe we have a couple of summer dresses over in our clearance corner."

She led the way to an alcove with a dozen items draped over two old steamer trunks. "What size are you?" the woman asked, as she sifted through several garments.

A flash of bright green and black made
Byrony’s
breath catch in her throat. Her fingers shook as she reached for the green dress. The same green dress Jessica had been wearing.

Byrony
started to hyperventilate.

From what sounded like a far distance, she heard the saleswoman say, "That’s the only one of those we have left, but I’m sure it’s not your size." Her voice stopped abruptly when
Byrony
doubled over, gasping for breath. "Are you all right, Miss?"

"I –"
Byrony
stumbled toward a velvet slipper chair in the corner. "—need water."

"Of course, dear!"
The older woman helped
Byrony
sit down before she rushed away.

Listening to the click of the clerk’s heels,
Byrony
lowered her head to her knees, forced herself to breath slowly and deeply, and pulled herself together. A moment later, the woman reappeared and pressed a plastic bottle into
Byrony’s
hand. Cautiously, she raised her head.

After a long drink,
Byrony
managed a wan smile. "Thanks, I’m okay now."

"Are you sure?" The woman nodded at the plastic brace on her arm. "I didn’t realize you had an injured arm."

"Honestly, I’m fine now,"
Byrony
reassured, sitting up straight and schooling her expression. "Do you happen to remember who bought the other green dresses?"

"Funny you should ask. That was one of the strangest sales I ever made. This odd woman bought two of them, one in a size four and one in a size six."
Byrony
felt her heart pounding harder and faster as the salesclerk continued. "The woman had on a pair of huge Dolce and
Gabbana
sunglasses that she never took off. Plus she wore a ring with a diamond the size of a goose egg, but the cheesiest red wig I’ve ever seen."

A diamond the size of a goose egg
… The image of a large diamond sparkling on Cristina
Woodleigh
Prince’s hand popped into
Byrony’s
mind.

"R-red wig?"
She managed to stutter. "Long red hair?" But she already knew the answer.

The clerk nodded and rolled her eyes.
"Really
really
bad.
Plus, she didn’t bother to try on either dress, just paid cash and rushed out like she thought paparazzi might show up or something."

The tinkling of the bell over the front door intruded on
Byrony’s
racing thoughts. The salesclerk craned her neck then patted
Byrony’s
knee.
"More customers.
Sure you’re all right?"

Better than you’ll ever know.
But aloud
Byrony
said, "Yes, thank you so much."

While the clerk schmoozed with the two older ladies,
Byrony
got to her feet and edged toward the door, pulse roaring in her ears. Everything was crystal clear to her now. Cristina
Woodleigh
Prince killed Jessica and put the green dress on her. Then she showed up in the same dress and a red wig to make it look like Jessica was still alive to throw off the timeline.

If the salesclerk could identify Cristina’s ring, they could prove she was tied to the murder. Closing the front door behind
herself
,
Byrony
fished her phone from her pocket. She had to tell Tate!

Chapter 11

Baseball cap pulled low, Tate shifted in his saddle as he watched the back loading dock of the Grand Hotel. The trees where he and his horse waited not only provided some protection from the drizzling rain but also concealment. Tate had recognized the wagon used by Nick Brandon parked in the back of the hotel and rather than confront the
Sarge
, Tate decided to bide his time for awhile. Pulling out his phone, he called Detective Shaffer.

"Madison?" The surprise in Shaffer’s voice sounded genuine. "I was just about to call you." His voice dropped to a hushed tone. "I think I found Jessica
Long’s
shoes."

"No shit?" Tate regretted his outburst at the unexpected news and cleared his throat to cover his lapse.
"Where?"

"Bright yellow running shoes, right?" Shaffer confirmed, still sounding guardedly quiet. "Saw them in the window of a local thrift store. The place benefits Alzheimer’s patients, and we lost my mother-in-law last year." He gave a loud cough and Tate heard a door close. Then the detective continued, "I asked the clerk who donated them. She wasn’t positive but said Mr. and Mrs. Prince
contribute
lots of clothes and shoes. I’m having them checked for DNA right now."

As Tate struggled to contain his growing excitement, he saw Nick Brandon emerge from the back door and climb into the wagon. Into the phone he spoke calmly, "Appreciate you telling me, Jim. Can you let me know when you get the DNA results?"

"I’ll try, Madison, but no promises."

Tate clicked off his phone with a grunt of triumph. He didn’t need any test result. His gut already knew the answer – Michael or Cristina Prince had killed Jessica. Or they both had.
 

While Tate digested this revelation, Sergeant Brandon rolled by in his wagon, headed back toward town. Obviously the guy had no intention of pursuing Cristina Prince as
Byrony’s
attacker. Tate watched until the wagon moved out of his line of sight, mentally debating whether or not to confront Mr. and Mrs. Prince now in the hotel.

The sudden appearance of none other than Cristina
Woodleigh
Prince made the decision for him. Emerging from the back entrance, she wore a yellow rain slicker with a hood, which she flipped up over her hair as she hustled across the muddy yard. Tate’s pulse kicked up a notch because he knew exactly where she was going, in spite of the rain.

He shifted again in anticipation as he watched her disappear on the path between the hotel and the stable. Restlessly checking his watch, he finally decided she’d had enough time to get to the stable and saddle her horse. If Reuben had a chance to tell her about Tate’s recent visit, she might change her plans.

Only one way to find out.
Nudging the mare, Tate kept her off the roadway. Instead, he picked his way through the brush and trees until he spotted the back of the stable.

Scant moments later, a yellow clad rider on a large black horse emerged onto the main roadway. If Tate had had any lingering shred of doubt, the sight of the horse and rider blew it away like cobwebs.

Was she going to seek out
Byrony
and try to finish the job?
 

Then he realized that instead of heading into town, the horse and rider were cantering toward the other side of the island. He guided the mare down to the roadway, but didn’t feel the urge to rush because he knew Cristina Prince was headed for Arch Rock.

By the time Tate came within sight of the formation, the rain had stopped, though water continued to splatter down from the trees and splash up from the puddles on the muddy road. When he entered the clearing, he saw no sign of the black horse even though he craned his neck to look in every direction.

"Over here, Mr. Madison."

He wheeled the chestnut mare around at the sound of his name. Cristina
Woodleigh
Prince had crawled over the chain link fence and stood on top of the rocky arch, waving her arm.
What the hell was she trying to do? Off herself?

"Hey, Mrs. Prince," he called to her, trying to keep his tone light, as he sidled the mare closer to the fence. "You need to come back over here."

"Why don’t you come on this side and get me?" she taunted though she moved a little ways down from the top as she gestured at the chain link. "You don’t even have to climb. I cut a hole in the fence when I was out here the other day."

So she’d planned this?
Exactly how cold and calculating is this woman?
Tate wondered while he continued to speak in a calm, steady tone. "You don’t want to be over there, Mrs. Prince. You could get muddy or hurt."

For a moment, she paused, and brushed at a streak of dirt on the knee of her jodhpurs. But then she gave her head a slight shake and seemed to shift gears. "You seemed very anxious to talk to me that day about the dead girl. Well, I’m ready to talk now, Mr. Madison, but you have to get off your horse and join me."

Tate still wasn’t sure how lucid the woman truly was. He could hear a slight manic edge to her voice that made him question her mental state. Or was it only an act? Damned if he could tell.

"Hurry up before I change my mind," she threatened, looking back at the top of the arch.

"Just let me tie up my horse." He kept his tone soothing, but his mind raced.

He turned the mare at an angle so that when he dismounted, he eased his phone into his hand without letting her see him. But his efforts were for naught because he couldn’t get a signal. Cursing silently, Tate tied the mare’s reins to a nearby bush, loosely in case he needed to make a fast exit. The weight of the
Glock
in his shoulder holster felt reassuring.
 

Behind him, he heard Cristina
Woodleigh
Prince’s riding boots sliding on loose rocks. "I knew one or both of you would follow me here. I’m almost sorry it’s you instead of
her
." The manic notes turned to anger. "She needs to know that slut sister of hers got what she deserved."

 
Deciding to shift gears too, Tate went for a dose of sarcasm. "Come on, Cristina. It’s not like Jessica was Michael’s first. I know the guy ran around on you."

The woman stiffened, drew herself up to her full height and glared down her aristocratic nose at him. "A man like Michael is bound to have a few indiscretions. But he always came to me and begged forgiveness, and I always forgave him."

Tate edged closer to the hole in the fence, though Cristina Prince didn’t seem to notice. "But Jessica was different, so what? As the injured party, you could take him to the cleaners in a divorce."

 
"There’s nothing to clean.
At least not enough."
She gave a nasty, hysteria-edged laugh,
then
warmed to her subject. "I expected to inherit my mother’s estate, but she’s run through almost everything." She shuddered. "And you can’t actually expect me to work at a job?"

Yeah, perish the thought
. Before Tate could speak again, she continued, "I tried to talk to the girl, but she wouldn’t listen. She kept insisting she and Michael were going to be married.
Like I would ever allow such a thing."

"I understand." Tate nodded in agreement. "You had to get rid of Jessica."

She gave him another annoyed glare. "But then her sister and you showed up. I tried to scare you off." Her voice quavered and her expression crumpled. "Why can’t you people just leave me alone?"

Time to end this.
Ducking through the hole in the fence, he extended his hand. "It’s all over now, Cristina. Come on back to town with me."

With a sob, she turned aside and seemed to draw into herself, her shoulders hunched.

Tate took a step closer, his hand almost touching her. "Come on,
Cris
- -"

She whirled, grasping his arm to pull him closer. A hypodermic flashed.

Reacting instinctively, Tate lashed out with his arm as the needle stung the side of his neck. But his glancing blow sent the syringe flying to the ground.

"You bastard!"
She screeched, and raked her nails across his cheek.

He backhanded her hard and sent her backward right on her upper-class ass. As she sputtered for a moment in the mud, Tate pulled the pistol from his shoulder holster.
"On your feet."

Cristina
Woodleigh
Prince threw back her head and gave another maniacal laugh. "Go ahead. You’ll never make it back to town. You’re a dead man."

***

Straight to voicemail again.
Byrony
stood in the middle of the sidewalk staring in disbelief at her phone. She’d already left two messages. Tate must be somewhere with no cell service again. But he was supposed to be at the Grand Hotel. Surely Sergeant Brandon hadn’t really arrested him?

Then she remembered, yesterday when Tate had confronted Mrs. Prince at Arch Rock, she couldn’t reach him either. He must be at Arch Rock now. A grim realization suddenly gripped
Byrony’s
mind, Cristina
Woodleigh
Prince had purposely lured him to an isolated area. Just like she had lured Jessica somewhere and then murdered her.