Mistletoe Murder (Dewberry Farm Mysteries Book 4) Page 14

  "Lucy!" she said. "Did you find anything out?"

  "I don't know," I said. I'd never seen Mandy look so exhausted and frazzled. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, dark circles ringed her eyes, and her face looked almost gaunt.

  "Come in," she said. "I was just finishing the story on what happened at the Market last night. I can't believe someone killed Julie... she was so young. I still don't think it could possibly be true."

  "I know," I said, feeling a bit relieved. She sounded genuinely upset.

  "It's like someone has a vendetta against Rosita's," she said as she slumped back into her desk chair. "I need to talk to you anyway; you were there when they found her, weren't you?"

  "I was. It was pretty shocking." I paused. "I was surprised not to see you there."

  "I would have been," she said, "but I was trying to find the mayor. She got in touch with me about the ticket you found tucked into the frame of the painting; she was hoping I could find out more about it. Honestly, though, I'm still more worried about Isabella. Do you have anything new?"

  "Nothing direct," I said, not yet willing to share. "Do you have any idea why anyone would have wanted to kill Julie? Did she and Randy know each other?"

  "She worked at the restaurant, and I'm sure they interacted... she must have known something. Or seen something. That's all I can think of." She thought about it. "No. I have no idea."

  "Did Randy hang out at the restaurant a lot?"

  "When he and Isabella were in town, he liked to raid the cash register after hours," she said. "He'd go over and act like a business consultant to my parents. They were polite, but they just rolled their eyes behind his back."

  "Nice," I said. "It's like he never grew up."

  "Exactly. My poor sister," Mandy said. "I'm glad she won't be indicted for the second death, but I talked with Deputy Shames this morning, and apparently, Rooster's too busy trying to fix things up with Lacey to pay much attention to a murder investigation."

  "Is she pursuing it at all?" I'd left her a message about what I'd learned at the Stones' house today regarding Sparky. I didn't expect anything to come of it—it wasn't like there was a last name or anything—but you never knew.

  "She said she is, but who knows?" Mandy shrugged. "I tried to talk with Randy’s sister, but she shut the door in my face."

  "Why?"

  "Because she thinks anyone associated with Rosita's is bad luck," she said. "I can see that."

  "Maybe I can make some headway," I said, thinking maybe all my gift fudge might end up going to other causes. "Any other news?"

  "Nothing," she said, looking hopeless.

  "Where does Julie’s sister live?"

  "She's on the outskirts of Buttercup; her name is Caitlyn. She and Julie shared a trailer there."

  "Do you have the address?"

  "Right here," she said, reaching for a scrap of paper on her desk and handing it to me. "Let me know what you find out, okay?"

  "Of course," I told her.

  I pulled up outside Caitlyn and Julie’s place less than a half hour later. The trailer, although old, was well kept, with a tidy wreath on the door and a small pot of pansies at the base of the steps. Although pansies meant spring to me, in Texas they were cool-season annuals; even after all these years, it was still strange to see their bright purple and yellow faces next to Christmas decorations.

  A young woman I presumed was Caitlyn answered the door almost immediately, her eyes swollen from crying. She was wearing a worn bathrobe and pink socks, and her hair was piled in a loose bun that looked like she'd slept on it. "I'm so sorry to bother you," I told her. "I'm Lucy Resnick. I came to say how sorry I am about your sister, and to see if there's anything I can do to help." I offered her the box of fudge. She took it absently and waved me in.

  Although the outside of the trailer was tidy, the inside was not. Dirty dishes had piled up in the sink, and clothes were piled on the back of the couch.

  "The place is a mess," she said tonelessly. "I just don't have the energy."

  "I understand," I said, sitting down on an empty spot on the couch. "Do you have family in town?"

  "No," she said. "They live in the Valley… they’re coming up tonight. I'm all alone now. I don't even know how I'm going to pay the rent now that Julie is gone." Her face crumpled, and she started to sob.

  I hurried over and offered her a hug. She clung to me as if I were a life preserver, and I stroked her hair and murmured until the sobbing subsided.

  "I'm so sorry," she said. "I'm just... not myself."

  "Of course not. You just sit down there, and I’ll make you a cup of tea," I directed, sensing she needed someone to take care of her.

  She shrugged, which I took for assent. As she curled up in a chair, I put water on to boil and began tackling the mound of dishes.

  "You don't need to do that," she said.

  "I like to be busy," I said. "I'm happy to do it. In the meantime, if you're up for it, maybe you can tell me a little about your sister."

  "Why?" she asked.

  "As you probably know, the sheriff is a little bit occupied at the moment," I told her. "I used to be an investigative reporter in Houston. I'm hoping I can shed some light on what happened."

  "You think you can find out who did that awful thing to Julie?"

  "I can try," I said as I rinsed a plate and put it into the dishwasher. "Do you have any ideas?"

  She shook her head. "I just have to think it had something to do with Rosita's," she said. "I mean, the first one happened in the parking lot, and Julie worked there."

  I grabbed a handful of silverware and dropped it into the dishwasher basket. "Did she mention anything to you about anything she saw or heard at the restaurant?"

  "She called me the night Randy Stone died," she said. "She was late coming home; she said they'd made her work overtime. She had to get off the phone quickly; she was a little preoccupied the next couple of days. Upset."

  "Do you think maybe she saw what happened?"

  "I don't know," she said. "She was just... upset about something. Maybe just that he died in the parking lot. I asked her about it, but she said it was nothing."

  "Was she friendly with anyone in particular at the restaurant?"

  "Not really," she said. "I mean, she was friendly to everyone, but no one she really thought was a friend. She didn't like Isabella much, though; she thought she was too bossy."

  I wasn't surprised Julie wasn't a fan of Isabella. I imagine it must be hard to like the wife of a man you're infatuated with.

  "Isabella just rolled into town about a month ago, and started coming in and telling everyone how to do their work; she made my sister scrub down all the bathroom floors just last week. Julie said it was disgusting." That sounded like the kind of job you'd give your husband's mistress. Did Isabella know about Randy and Julie? I wondered with a sinking heart. "It’s just not fair… she was so young. She didn’t do anything wrong!" Caitlyn rocked back and forth, hugging herself. “She'd only been working there a few months. She was going to go back to school for an accounting degree; we were sharing rent so she could save money."

  "Did she have a boyfriend?"

  Caitlyn shook her head. "I know she was interested in someone. I think it was someone at the restaurant. She was paying more attention to her makeup before she went in recently."

  "Did she say who?"

  "She told me I was imagining things," she said, "but I knew better. I don't know why she wouldn't tell me, though. Maybe if she had, this wouldn’t have happened." Her face crumpled, and she reached for another tissue. After a moment, she wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. “I don’t know. Maybe it was a customer or something."

  "Or maybe it was someone who was married, or was seeing someone else?" I suggested.

  "I wouldn't think Julie would do something like that," she said. I finished loading the last mug into the dishwasher and closed it, then reached for a sponge to wipe the countertops. "She was so focused on h
er future, on the life she wanted for herself."

  "But you thought she was seeing someone."

  "Or had a crush on someone." She was quiet for a moment. "Maybe she had a thing for Randy Stone. I was over there once, and he was really flirting with her."

  "Was he?"

  "It was about a month ago. He was a good-looking guy. I only met him once, but I could tell he was sleazy." Her eyes teared up again. "And now she'll never flirt with anyone again."

  The teakettle whistled, and I rummaged around in the cabinets until I found some herbal tea. "Is chamomile okay?"

  She nodded and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. She'd been doing a lot of that; there was a pile of crumpled, mascara-stained tissues on the table next to her.

  "I hate to ask this," I said as I put a tea bag into a mug and filled the mug with hot water, "but can you think of anyone who might have wished your sister harm?"

  "No," she said, shaking her head vehemently. "I just can't imagine anyone wanting to hurt her."

  I walked over with the tea and set it on the coffee table in front of her, clearing a space first. "And she never said anything about Randy Stone's death, or knowing anything about that?"

  "No," she repeated. "Wait. She did say something about that night. That she never should have been there."

  "What did she mean?"

  "I don't know. Maybe she saw what happened to Randy. But why didn't she tell anyone about it?"

  "That's a good question," I said.

  Because if she had—if I'd waited at Rosita's five more minutes, or gone back to follow up—Julie might still be alive."

  I stayed an hour, taking care of Caitlyn and listening as she mourned her sister. My heart ached for the poor family; no one should lose anyone to a violent death, and it was harder when the victim was so young. I left Caitlyn my card and told her to call me anytime; I made a mental note to ask Quinn if she knew of a good counselor who might work on a sliding scale. I was worried about Caitlyn, and glad her family would be in that night; I hated to leave her alone.

  As the trailer receded in the rear-view mirror, I thought about the tangled web I was trying to unravel. Randy Stone was a smooth talker but a bad businessman... and wound up dead. The brother had disappeared fifteen years before. And then there was his sister, Jenna, and her husband. I didn't know much about Simon, only that something about him seemed familiar. And he had seemed a bit unsettled when I told him I had been a reporter in Houston.

  Why?

  As soon as I walked in the door, I went to my laptop and pulled up Simon Flagg’s name. The first few entries showed him as partner in a development company in Houston, which was exactly what I'd expected to see.

  But the third entry was something else entirely.

  It was a story from a Houston news station. local developer suspect in wife's disappearance, it read.

  Goose bumps rose on my arms as I clicked on the article.

  The news story was from about ten years before. Apparently, Corinne Flagg had "just vanished" during a weekend in Galveston. She was supposed to visit a friend, but never turned up; the last time she was seen was with her husband. There was no further information in that article, so I clicked back and found a few more.

  They all said essentially the same thing: that Simon and Corinne had been married for just over a year. Corinne came from a well-to-do family in the Dallas area. Together, they'd just purchased their first house and were planning on starting a family when Corinne just disappeared.

  I scrolled through multiple articles. Over time, the story had died. Corinne had never resurfaced. There were articles from time to time, appeals from the woman's parents to forward any leads, but no charges were ever filed and she was never found and, eventually, as I discovered from the Houston wedding announcements, Simon had remarried, this time to Jenna Stone.

  There were a few more recent articles about Simon Flagg. His firm had taken a few hits. They'd been sued a couple of times, and had recently filed for bankruptcy. Which explained why the Flaggs were spending so much more time in Buttercup. There didn't appear to be a firm anymore.

  Had Simon Flagg killed Randy Stone to make sure his wife inherited the ranch? Did he then kill Julie because she'd seen him do it?

  If so, the real mystery remaining was why they were sheltering Rhonda Gehring at the guesthouse. Although I was starting to have some ideas about that, too.

  I called the sheriff’s office, but Deputy Shames wasn’t there; Opal promised to have her call me as soon as she came on duty. Then I called Tobias: no answer. I put down the phone, not sure what to do next. I considered waiting before taking action, but I'd already waited too long once, and I didn't want another dead body. Serafine, after all, had warned that another death might be in the offing. After a moment’s indecision, I picked up the phone again, left a message for Tobias telling him where I was going, gathered a few things, and then hurried out to the truck. Whether Jenna Flagg wanted me there or not, I needed to talk to Rhonda Gehring.

  I didn't have an excuse for visiting the Stones—I'd already dropped off fudge—so I’d filled a little box of soaps and candles to take with me. If they caught me, I'd say I'd forgotten to drop them off earlier.

  The gate to the ranch was open, so I drove in, hoping I'd be the only one around. I'd thought about waiting until evening, but if I was right about Simon, I wasn't sure I wanted to take the risk that something else would happen. Besides, I had a feeling the Stones were more the shoot-first, ask-questions-later type, and at least in the daytime, they’d be able to see who I was.

  There were no cars in the driveway when I got there, thankfully. There was nowhere to hide mine, but I parked behind the barn so at least it wouldn't be visible to anyone coming up the driveway. What I was doing was dangerous; I was trespassing, and in Texas, that could be fatal.

  I hurried over to the guesthouse, shooting furtive glances at the main house, and knocked on the door. I could sense movement from inside, but nobody answered. "Rhonda!" I shouted, knocking again. "It's important. Please open up."

  Nothing... but I got a sense of waiting from inside the house. I knocked again: nothing.

  I wasn't going to leave. I had to talk to her. So I did the obvious thing; I turned the doorknob and pushed, praying whoever was on the other side wasn't holding a loaded gun.

  19

  The door was unlocked, and my instinct about the guesthouse’s occupant was correct. She wasn't holding a gun; she was holding a spoon and a half gallon of Blue Bell Peppermint Ice Cream. "What are you doing here?" she asked. She wore sweatpants and a pink Juicy sweatshirt, and was brandishing the spoon like a weapon.

  "I'm sorry to intrude," I told her, feeling adrenaline pulse through my veins, "but I think you may be in danger."

  She blinked, looking like a twelve-year-old. "How did you find me here?"

  "I saw you when I was here with Dr. Brandt."

  "Oh, I remember. I stepped outside and heard voices. I'm not supposed to go outside at all, but it's so hard to stay all cooped up."

  "Why can't you go outside?"

  "Nobody's supposed to know I'm here. It's part of the terms..."

  "Terms of what?"

  She dropped her eyes. "Nothing," she said.

  "I was worried about you when you left," I told her. "You could have left a note, you know."

  "This isn’t supposed to happen. I guess you’d better come in," she said. "Hurry, before they see you."

  I stepped into the little house, and she shut the door behind me. "Come into the bedroom," she said. "Quickly."

  "What are you afraid of?"

  "I'm not supposed to tell anyone I'm here," she said, grabbing my arm and pulling me away from the door, dragging me into a small bedroom. "There," she said, peeking through the plantation shutters. "You have to leave. I can't talk."

  "Why are you here?"

  She rolled her eyes. "It's a deal I made. I can't talk about it."

  "The six-month thing? Sadie at Shear Perfection
thought it sounded fishy."

  "You talked to Sadie?" she asked. "She wasn't supposed to say anything to anyone."

  "I wanted to make sure you were okay. How did you get out of the farmhouse, anyway?"

  "I called Jenna. She'd already talked to me. I left during the night and met her at the end of the road; she said she'd take care of me."

  "Why did she say she'd take care of you?"

  She backed away from me, and her eyes darted around the room.

  "Tell me what it is, and I'll leave."

  "No," she said, clutching the ice cream. "I can't tell anyone."

  I sighed. "Look," I told her, "I think you're in danger here. Jenna’s husband Simon was involved in the disappearance of his first wife. I think there's a chance he killed both Randy and Julie."

  "Who's Julie?"

  "She was a young woman who worked at Rosita's," I said.

  "Why would Simon kill Randy?" she asked, a furrow forming between her tweezed eyebrows. "It's not like he was jealous of me or anything."

  My eyes roved the room. The night table had a well-thumbed People magazine, an Us magazine, and what appeared to be an untouched copy of What to Expect When You're Expecting. "You're pregnant with Randy's baby," I said. "The Stones are going to claim it as their own so they can inherit the ranch."

  Her eyes widened. "What? How do you know I'm pregnant?"

  "I figured it out before I got here, but that kind of sealed the deal," I said, pointing to the book on the table.

  "Oh, no," she said, turning pale. The carton crumpled a little in her hand. "What if they find out you know?"

  "I'm not so worried about that," I said. "Here's the deal: I think Simon killed his ex-wife for money. I think he killed Randy so his wife would inherit the place. And I think he killed a waitress from Rosita's because she saw him do it."

  "What? Simon…" She shook her head. "But even if that's true, why would he kill me?" she asked.