Death by Pumpkin Spice (18 page)

“There are more towels in the hall closet upstairs,” Margaret put in.

“Thank you.” Paul took Bertrand by the arm. “Once you're dry, we'll have a nice little chat.” He glanced at me again. “Alone.” And then he led him out the door, and away.

Margaret clucked her tongue at me the moment they were gone. “You are quite the mess, aren't you, dear?” She looked me up and down as if appraising me. “I think I have something that will fit you.”

“Thank you,” I said, stepping away from the wall. A smear of mud remained behind.

“Come with me.” She crooked her finger at me. “We'll go somewhere private where you can change. I think you might want to take a shower.” Her eyes went to my hair where my hat was somehow still in place. “You look absolutely dreadful.”

We started for the door, but she stopped just before we reached the hall. “Would you mind taking off your shoes?” she asked. “I can't have you tracking mud all over my carpet upstairs and ruining it. Now
that
would be a shame!”

18

Margaret led me upstairs, into her private bathroom where, in her words, “No man will accidentally walk in on you.” She set a pair of white towels on the sink for me to use.

“Thank you,” I told her, marveling at the size of the bathroom. It was as big as my living room and, thankfully, missing all of the horror furnishings of the rest of the house.

“It's nothing, dear,” she said. She started for the door and then paused, turning back to me. “I hope you settle this mess soon. It's putting everyone through a tremendous amount of stress.”

For the first time since Jessica's murder, Margaret Yarborough
looked
like it was wearing on her. She'd been so composed and restrained before, yet now, I could see the stress lines at the corners of her eyes, the way those eyes were pinched with worry. Her hands were clutched at her waist, bones showing through the skin. She was no longer the demure Audrey Hepburn, but instead, an overly stressed widow, trying to hold it together.

“I'm going to try my best,” I said.

Her smile was shaky as she stepped outside the bathroom. “I'll find you something to wear.” She closed the door behind her.

The bathroom smelled like lilies in bloom. A garden tub teeming with jets rested beneath a skylight. A stand-up shower was in the corner. I eyed the shower for a long moment and nearly eschewed it for a nice, long bath in the tub. If it wasn't for the fact I was in someone else's house with a murder to solve, I very well might have done it.

With a sigh, I stripped out of my filthy clothes and left them in a pile by the sink. The floor would need to be cleaned afterward, but I didn't know where else to put them. With a quick check to make sure the door was locked—it wasn't—I stepped into the shower.

There was enough room behind the frosted doors to fit six or seven people. I couldn't help but wonder if it had ever held that many. After what I'd learned about the Yarboroughs, I felt it likely. The showerhead was as large as a dinner plate and had so many dials and knobs, I wasn't quite sure what to do.

Thankfully, turning the shower on was easy enough. The spray was a bit soft for my tastes, but I wasn't about to start fiddling with all of the knobs, knowing I'd probably break the thing before I found a setting I liked. I hurriedly soaped up, shampooed my hair, and rinsed off. I smelled like expensive perfume as I stepped out of the shower and reached for the towels. Like most everything in the bathroom, they smelled of flowers in bloom, and I felt like I was wrapping myself in a very large, very soft kitten.

“I need to find better towels,” I grumbled as I dried off. My hair wasn't going to dry anytime soon, not unless I wanted to search for a hairdryer, so I did the best I could with the towel. I stepped into my still-damp underwear, strapped on my bra, and then wrapped the other towel around me, tucking it in so it would stay in place. I headed for the door, which led into Margaret's bedroom, hopeful I would be left alone to change.

No one was in immediate evidence as I peeked out the door. Margaret's bedroom looked like something straight out of a
Dracula
movie. There were red silks hanging from the walls, which were designed to look like castle walls. A chill worked through me as I stepped into the room, as if I could feel a cold breeze seeping through the faux stone. A fireplace sat against one wall, and the charred logs inside told me it was a real one.

A bundle sat on the gigantic gothic bed, right beside two large white Persians who were watching me with interest. Both had eyes that were pale blue, and I was instantly in love.

“Hi, kitties,” I said as I walked over to them. “You really are beautiful.” And they were. I loved cats, though they often weren't nearly as fond of me as I was of them. These two sat on the red bedspread, looking all the world like show cats waiting to be judged.

Carefully, as not to startle them, I reached out and pet one. Its purr was deep, and rewarding blue eyes closed ever so slightly. “That's a good kitty.” If I could have taken them home, I would have. Misfit might not have approved, but he'd get over it. He might be a terror sometimes, but really, he's a giant softy, and I was sure he wouldn't mind a few play friends.

After petting the other cat—neither had moved, other than to lean into my hand—I turned my attention to the pile of clothes Margaret had left for me. The shirt was plain white and a little too large for my frame. The pants were just a pair of gray sweatpants that were likewise too large and baggy. Neither were Margaret's, of that I was sure. She wouldn't have been caught dead in something like these. At least the sweatpants had a pair of pockets in the front where I could shove my cell phone and keys.

I dropped the towel on the floor, beside a pair of sneakers I assumed were for me. My shoes were currently sitting inside a trash bag sitting beside the sneakers. I put on the borrowed clothes, grabbed the trash bag, and went into the bathroom to deposit my Sherlock Holmes outfit into the bag with my shoes. I went back to the bedroom and slipped on the off-white sneakers, which smelled oddly of olives.

I started to head back for the trash bag, as ready to return to the party as I was going to get in my unflattering garb, when a devious thought entered my head.

No one else was in the room with me, and Margaret had no way of knowing if I was done with the shower or not. She was probably back downstairs, entertaining guests, which meant I might not be disturbed for a good long while.

My eyes fell on the closet where Reggie Clements had hid when he'd attempted to return the stolen jewelry. Could a clue be inside? I doubted Jessica had been in here, and as far as I knew, the killer hadn't been in the room, either.

But I couldn't pass up the opportunity. I checked the bedroom door to make sure no one was standing outside and then closed it again before heading over to the closet. It was one of those large walk-in types that I always wanted, but never had. Fancy clothes hung on hangers, many of them in dry-cleaning bags. There was a rack for Margaret's shoes that seemed to go on forever. How could any one woman own so many shoes? I had a half dozen at best.

There wasn't much else of interest at first glance. I pushed aside some of the clothes, and there it was, hanging from a hanger, looking rumpled, as if hastily shoved inside and forgotten.

I restrained myself from touching the white Monroe dress, just in case it was needed for evidence later. I carefully lifted the hanger and pulled it from the closet where I had better light. Other than its rumpled state, the dress looked pristine. There were no telltale pumpkin stains or smudges on it as far as I could tell. It looked like Margaret had been telling the truth and she'd simply changed because she didn't want to wear the same costume as a murdered woman.

But if that was the case, why did she have a spare costume at the ready?

I looked back into the closet and checked the other articles inside, including peeking into some of the dry-cleaning bags. I couldn't find any other costumes, though there were some dresses extravagant enough for a queen. I supposed it was possible she'd bought two costumes just in case she spilled something on the first, or perhaps had a planned costume change during the evening. It was something I'd have to ask her the next time I saw her.

I shoved the Monroe dress back where I found it and then did my best to push the other clothes back where they'd been. I doubted Margaret would realize I'd been snooping, but figured it would be best not to take any chances.

My next stop was at the long dresser where the jewelry box had been. Had Margaret removed it once she realized the jewelry was missing? Had someone else? I opened a few drawers and peeked inside, feeling like a thief, even though I wasn't planning on stealing anything. There were boxes inside, but all of them were full. I was pretty sure Paul still had the set Reggie had attempted to steal, so where was the box? And did it even matter?

I turned and glanced around the room. There were other drawers and dressers, including the bedside nightstand. And I hadn't bothered looking under the bed, though it was often a place people hid things they didn't want people to stumble across.

I felt guilty about my snooping and didn't think I could bring myself to go through more of Margaret's life. There was nothing in here that pointed to a reason for Jessica Fairweather's murder, so why keep poking around? It wasn't like I'd read Margaret's diary if I were to find it.

I started to walk away when I noted a framed photograph lying facedown atop the dresser. A box of tissues sat on it, mostly obscuring it from view. I removed the tissue box, set it aside, and then picked up the photograph.

It was of Margaret and Howard Yarborough, dressed as if they'd just come from a party. She was wearing a tight black dress and diamonds that sparkled in the light. He was wearing a tux, white hair parted at the side. They were both smiling, and I had the impression that the smiles were genuine. These weren't unhappy people. They stood close together, her arm tangled in his own. I couldn't imagine the rumors were true and she'd killed him for his money.

Of course, jealousy and greed often made people do strange things. This photograph could be a few years old, and had been lying facedown with something sitting atop it. You didn't treat treasured memories that way. Could someone else have done it? Or were things between Margaret and her husband tenser than it appeared.

I started to set the photo back down, but paused. Something bothered me about it, something I couldn't put my finger on. Margaret looked much the same as she did now, though the stress wasn't as evident on her features. Howard, with his white hair, his pointed, beaklike nose, was the one who was causing the pinging in my mind. I stared into his dark blue eyes and tried to figure out what it was.

Had I seen him somewhere before? He very well might have come into Death by Coffee a few times. But if he had, I sure didn't remember him. I tried to make out what was in the background of the photo, but the lights were too bright, and with how the focus had been on the couple, it was too blurry to make out, anyway.

I placed the photograph back where I'd found it, replaced the tissue box, and stood staring at it, head buzzing. There was definitely something about the photo of Howard that had my brain running triple time.

I peered around the room one more time, hoping something there would jog my memory. There were no photographs or portraits on the wall, nothing that hinted that Howard ever lived here—other than the horror movie decorations.

“I'm going to hate myself for this,” I muttered to myself as I started for the bed. I pet each of the Persians and then got down on my knees. I might not have wanted to keep snooping around, but the photograph was pointing me somewhere, and I needed to figure out where and why.

I lifted the comforter and leaned down to look. Other than a toy mouse, there was nothing beneath the bed.

A gentle cough brought me flying to my feet in a flurry of damp hair. A middle-aged woman dressed in the waitress outfits that all the female help was wearing stood just inside the doorway, a disapproving frown on her face.

“Sorry,” I said meekly. “I was looking for my shoes.”

Her eyes traveled down to my borrowed sneakers before returning to my face, skepticism heavy.

“These aren't mine,” I said. “Margaret gave them to me to wear since mine are soaked.”

The woman sighed. “I don't care.” She stepped aside, a clear indication I was to leave. “Mrs. Yarborough wished for me to make sure you were okay, and to invite you back to the party.”

“Thank you,” I said, knowing I'd been caught but hoping the woman wouldn't tell. She looked bored, and really, not the type to tattle. It wasn't like she'd caught me with an armload of jewelry.

“Uh-huh.” The woman tapped her foot as she waited for me to go.

I took a moment to grab my phone and keys from the bathroom counter and then hurried out of the room, leaving my dirty clothes behind. I made my way back to the ballroom, hoping that, once there, I'd figure out what had bothered me so much about the photograph, and whether or not it had anything to do with Jessica Fairweather's murder.

19

“Here we go again.” Buchannan leveled a glare my way. “Is there something I can help you with, Ms. Hancock?”

I almost turned and walked away, not wanting to deal with Buchannan while I asked Mrs. Yarborough a few questions. For whatever reason, the man despised me, and the feeling was mutual. He thought of me as an annoyance, someone who couldn't keep her nose out of other people's business. He'd accused me more than once of inserting myself into an investigation and mucking things up.

And I guess he had something of a point, but come on! How am I
not
supposed to get involved when the murders are happening around me, sometimes in my very own store? And while he might think I'm screwing things up with all of my nosy questions, I've actually helped out. Two murderers were behind bars because of me. Without my interference, they very well might have gotten away with it.

Of course, Buchannan thought otherwise. If he could get away with locking me into a cell and throwing away the key, I was pretty sure he'd do it.

“I have a few questions for Mrs. Yarborough,” I told him, doing my best to sound as if I had every right to be interrupting whatever he'd been saying to her.

Buchannan scowled at me. “Does this have anything to do with the murder investigation? Because if it does . . .”

“It doesn't.” I paused, not quite able to follow through with lying to the police, even if it
was
John Buchannan. “Well, not really.”

His eyes narrowed at me. “Ms. Hancock . . .”

“It will only take a minute,” I said, hurriedly. “I'm not trying to butt in. Mrs. Yarborough was kind enough to let me use her bathroom to clean up, and I want to thank her.” Along with asking her a few choice questions, of course.

Buchannan eyed me up and down and a grin inverted his scowl. “I'm not sure the new outfit does what you were hoping for.”

“Ha, ha,” I deadpanned, but blushed anyway. I wish I could have forgotten about the horrible outfit Margaret had left for me, but it was kind of hard considering I was wearing it. “Just a minute,” I said. The next came out with some difficulty. “You can listen in if you want.”

“It's okay, John,” Margaret said, resting a hand on his wrist. “If it will help, I'll answer anything. This whole mess has put a damper on my party, as well as my husband's memory. I want to put it all behind me as fast as I can.”

John?
I thought, watching as his eyes softened and his entire posture relaxed when he turned his attention back to her. I don't know what it was, but it seemed like older women always erased some of his harsher edges.

Buchannan glanced at me and then sighed. “All right,” he said. “But if you go too far, I'm going to step in.”

“Works for me.”

He snorted and crossed his arms.

I did my best to ignore him as I turned to Margaret. “First of all, thank you for letting me use your facilities. I feel much better.” Despite my still-damp hair and ugly clothing.

“It was no problem, dear.”

I gave Buchannan a sideways glance. “You told me earlier that you and your husband . . .” I trailed off, uncertain I wanted to air her dirty laundry in front of my arch nemesis, but it couldn't be helped. I told him he could stay. “That you slept around.”

She nodded, not a bit perturbed. “We did. It was a mutual agreement, let me assure you.” She smiled at Buchannan. “Many young men have crossed my bed.” And then she winked at him, causing his face to turn a deep crimson.

“How many of these people are here tonight?” I asked, pressing on. I wasn't convinced their sex life was the reason Jessica Fairweather was murdered, but right then, it was really all I had to go on. Maybe a name would jump out at me, or somehow tell me why Howard's photograph had pinged something in my mind.

“Quite a few, actually.” Margaret glanced into the ballroom, as if looking for them.

“Would you mind writing the names down?” I asked.

Buchannan's embarrassment had passed. Instead, he looked interested in the conversation. “Does Officer Dalton know about this?”

Both Margaret and I nodded, though she was the one to answer. “It is common knowledge, really. Most everyone here has spent time with a few people in the room.” She shrugged dismissively. “It's natural to seek out the influential for companionship, even if it is for only a few hours.”

I wasn't so sure about that, but hey, whatever floated their boats, right? “The list would really help,” I said. “Maybe someone on it could tell us more about Jessica, and whether or not she was involved with Howard in any way.”

Margaret gave me a smile that was just this side of condescending. “I'm sure it will be a waste of time, dear. None of the men I've been with would know anything about that, let alone hurt the poor girl.”

“But the woman your husband was with might have a reason,” I said. “And perhaps someone saw something one late night that would lead to catching the killer. You know, like boats passing in the night?”

She rolled her eyes. “If you say so,” she said. “But I find it highly unlikely. And as I said before, I don't know all of their names, just the ones who have come asking for handouts since his death.”

“Any would help.”

She sighed, clearly put out. “Let me get it for you. I'll be right back.” She turned and strode down the hall.

“You should let me handle this,” Buchannan said as soon as she was gone. “You shouldn't be the one asking these questions.”

“Paul sent me.” It was a lie, sure, but he had asked me to help earlier, so I was just extending my assistance. “I'll take him the list as soon as I have it.” And had a chance to peruse it for a name I might recognize.

Buchannan looked skeptical but didn't press. He appeared contemplative. I think it was the first time I ever did or said anything he didn't immediately dislike. If he kept it up, he might actually start to like me a little.

Margaret returned a few minutes later, a piece of paper in hand. She handed it to me. “As I said before, I don't know how this will help. Everyone on here is here tonight. I left off anyone who isn't present, or with us anymore.” She looked past me, as if remembering a long-lost love, before sighing. “I should mingle.” She started away.

“Mrs. Yarborough, wait,” I said. She turned to face me slowly, as if she'd considered pretending not to have heard and walking away. “I have a few more questions.”

“I really am busy, dear.”

Buchannan's eyes narrowed at that, as if he found the reaction suspect. I took it more like she was annoyed at being asked so many questions. It was a common reaction most people had when I was around. Go figure.

“It will only take a sec.”

Margaret's sigh was more of a huff this time. “Fine,” she said, waving a dismissive hand at me. “Ask your questions.”

My feathers ruffled a bit at that.
Let it go, Krissy.
Some people were just like that. And I
was
asking her some pretty personal questions.

“You said earlier that you changed your costume because you didn't want to be seen wearing the same thing as the victim.”

Margaret nodded. “That's right.”

“It's totally understandable. I know I wouldn't have wanted to be seen in the same outfit.”

She frowned. “Is there a point to this?”

“I was just wondering; why did you have a spare costume on hand?”

She seemed surprised by the question. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I only had the one outfit,” I said, lamenting the condition of the Holmes costume. I might have felt uncomfortable in it before, but it had been far better than what I was wearing now. “Yet, you had a second on hand. Why?”

Margaret didn't answer right away. She eyed me, as if determining whether or not I was accusing her of something. To be honest, I wasn't sure if I was. I was curious, and maybe just a little suspicious. Chances were good I was reading too much into it.

“It was a spare,” she said after a moment. “Howard had asked me to wear it to this year's event. He was going to wear something to go with it. It was decided on last year and I bought the dress then, certain I was going to wear it.” She looked down at her Audrey Hepburn dress. “When Howard passed, I no longer wished to wear it. Then I saw the Marilyn Monroe outfit and decided to make the switch. I kept the other outfit because it was far too late to take it back, and it could serve as a spare in case something like this happened.”

“A murder?”

“No, dear,” she said with a wry smile. “Someone else wearing the same thing. It happens more than I would like, so I thought it would be a perfect backup. I only wish that officer would give me back my jewelry so I could complete the outfit.”

I considered asking her about the whereabouts of the box the jewelry had been in, but decided that would give my snooping away. It wasn't important, anyway. She could have put it somewhere else, or perhaps Reggie had taken it and dropped it in the trash at some point. Just because I believed most of this story, didn't mean he'd been entirely honest with us.

Besides, after hearing her reason for having two costumes, I felt bad. It had to be hard, even now, to wear the Hepburn dress. It had to remind her of her husband, as did everything else in the house. Was it any wonder she'd turned the photograph facedown? It probably hurt too much to look at it.

“If there isn't anything else . . . ?” She motioned toward the ballroom, eyebrows raised in question.

“That will be all,” Buchannan answered for me. “Thank you for your time and cooperation.”

“It was no trouble.” She glanced at me and then gave Buchannan a curt nod, before sashaying into the ballroom.

“What was that all about?” he asked when she was gone.

“I'm trying to get all of the facts,” I said. “Officer Dalton asked for my help and I'm giving it.”

“I'm pretty sure he doesn't want you grilling the guests. What does her dress have to do with anything?”

I shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe nothing.” At least now I understood her reasoning better.

Buchannan chewed on his lower lip and then held out his hand. “Let me see that.”

I considered hurrying away without giving him the list but decided that while he was being civil with me, I should do the same. I handed it to him and waited while he read through the names.

“Does any of it mean anything to you?”

His eyes flickered up toward me, before going back to the list. “There are a lot of names here.”

“Any of them familiar?” I had yet to peek at the list and was curious.

“Some.” He frowned, as if coming across a name he didn't suspect. Then he surprised me by handing the list back to me. “Take it to Officer Dalton. Get his take on it.”

I nearly fainted. Was Buchannan actually accepting my help? I glanced upward to make sure the sky wasn't about to come crashing down on my head before taking the list.

I walked away, almost certain Buchannan's usual nature would kick in and he'd yell at me to get back there and hand over the evidence. Yet I made it all the way to the ballroom without him calling out to me. When I glanced back, he was gone, presumably to continue his own investigation.

Maybe he's not so bad, after all.
It was a thought I never imagined having.

I looked down at the paper in my hand. The list was indeed extensive, so much so, it was mind-boggling. I couldn't imagine sleeping with this many people, not in an entire lifetime. I didn't recognize most of the names, thankfully. There were a few that made my skin crawl, like Raymond Lawyer, and some that didn't surprise me at all. Nothing immediately jumped out at me, but I never truly thought it would. I didn't see Jessica Fairweather's name on the list, but I expected that, since Margaret already told me she didn't know if the girl had been with her husband or not.

Once through the list, I carried it over to Paul, who was standing only a few yards away, talking with Shannon, who didn't appear to be happy. Her arms were crossed as she listened to him, not meeting his eye. She looked hurt, perhaps even sad. I actually felt bad, as if it was somehow my fault, though I knew it probably had more to do with the investigation than anything.

I gave them a moment before approaching. “Paul,” I said. “I don't mean to interrupt, but I have something for you.”

He glanced at me before turning back to Shannon, as if to say something. She waved him off, and said, “Go. Do what you have to do.”

“I'll make it up to you,” he said. “I promise.” He turned to me with some reluctance and led me a few paces away. “What do you have?”

I handed him the list. “They're names of people Margaret Yarborough, uh, slept with.” My ears felt suddenly hot.

He eyed the page. “There are women's names here.”

“Those are Howard's.” Pause. “Before he died.” As if he wouldn't know that.

Paul read the list a couple of times before glancing up at me. “Do you think anyone here could have had anything to do with the murder?” He sounded as skeptical as I felt about the possibility.

“I don't know, but figured it would be a good place to start. We're getting nowhere otherwise.”

“No, I'm not,” he muttered, before sighing. “I should talk to Mrs. Yarborough.” He glanced around the room, spotting her almost immediately. “Thank you,” he told me.

“No problem.” He started to walk away, but I stopped him as another thought hit me. “Ask her about what Reggie said about hearing people arguing in her bedroom, if you haven't already. If it was her, maybe she can shed some light on what it was about. If not . . .” I left the rest for him to fill in.