Chocolate Macaroons and a Dead Groom (Poppy Peters Mysteries Book 2) (17 page)

When he mentions her name, our eyes meet.

"So you know her?" the man questions.

"Who? Cira?" I force myself to speak casually, but my tone of voice changes when I say her name out loud. All I can think about is the last time I saw her. The look of desperation in her eyes. "She worked in the kitchen. I worked in the kitchen. We were bound to run into each other."

"Did she talk to you about the wedding?"

"The usual chatter," I answer. "Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Poppy," the man finally asks. He narrows his eyes and steps close enough for me to feel the steam of his breath. All the muscles in my torso flex. "What happened to Lord Dovington? I know you know."

"What?" My voice is soft and almost childlike.

"Do you know who the killer is?"

"No." I swallow hard.

"Hmmm." He raises his hand, and I flinch. He rubs the side of his chin.

"You think I'm lying," I mutter.

"I
know
you're lying." He grabs my arm so tight that I let out a cry. I feel his fingers compressing the bones in my forearm. He could snap them in half if he really wanted to.

"Hey!" My shouting echoes through the dressing room, but it makes no difference.

We're alone.

The bald-headed man drags me through the door and down a long hallway until we reach another room. This one is smaller. This one is darker. This one feels like more of a storage closet than a room. He pushes me inside. I slam against shelves of cleaner and latex gloves. I clutch the side of my shoulder. It throbs like it's been whacked with a rolling pin.

The door slams shut.

I'm trapped.

My heart races as I feel my way through the dark, desperately pounding on the door hoping it will magically open. It's no use. The door is locked, and I can't see.

Something hits the opposite wall.

If it's a rat, kill me now.

"Hello?" the voice is low and soft. I recognize it. "Poppy?"

"Yes," I answer, raising my eyebrows in disbelief.

"It's me…" The woman steps forward and takes my hand, guiding me to an empty corner. "It's Cira."

The last time I saw Cira she held back tears and blamed it on allergies.

Now I know she was lying.

About everything.

I can't see her face clearly. The only light in the closet is faint, and it's coming from underneath the door. Cira hugs me like an old friend. I hug her back, feeling the bones protruding from her back. Her long, black hair hangs wild and stringy.

"How long have you been in here?"

"It feels like years," she answers. Her voice is quiet and strangely monotone. It's like the fire in her has been drenched with ice water. Like a caged animal accepting defeat.

"Cira." I hold her by her skeletal shoulders. "You have to tell me everything that's going on. Otherwise, we'll have no hope of getting out of here."

"Oh, we're never getting out of here. I heard them talking. They can't risk letting us free."

"Who are
they
?" I ask.

I can't make out her expressions through the dark shadows in between us. Cira doesn't reply. I hear her slow and steady breaths as she sits on an overturned bucket. The closet has just enough space for the two of us to sit and wait.

But I'm not much of a waiter.

I glance around the room, seeing blurry outlines of shelves and mops. My eyes move to the light coming from underneath the door. I bend down, looking for moving feet. Maybe even a security guard pacing the hallway. I don't see anything. I rub the back of the door and the neighboring walls, hoping for a light switch. My heart soars when I find one.

"It doesn't work," Cira says from her corner. I flip the switch repeatedly, disappointed that it does nothing. "They must have taken the bulb out."

I jiggle the door, attempting to loosen the lock.

"Tried that," Cira comments as soon as I pull the door handle hard enough to make noise.

"What about the ceiling?"

"It's too dark to tell what's even up there," she answers.

She's already given up.

"So you're just going to sit here?" I ask. My entire face feels warm as I search my brain for ideas. If only I knew how to make a deadly weapon out of a mop handle and cleaning products. I guess I'm at the mercy of Detective Berry and Detective Casey.

"They'll let us out eventually," she responds. "But only to move us somewhere else."

"Is that what they did to you?"

"No, but they have to." She kicks her foot against the floor. "I think there's a performance going on tonight."

I tug at a strand of my hair.

"Cira, you know where we are?"

"Of course," she responds. I hear a sniffle. "I've danced at the Palais Garnier before."

"Then you know you're way around?" I'm hopeful again.

"Sí." Her voice doesn't sound as upbeat as mine.

"Okay, so this is what we'll do." I improvise based on our limited resources. We have to try something before we're moved somewhere outside of the city. It must be easier to hide in Paris than in a tiny hillside village. "I'll watch for feet, and as soon as someone walks by we'll pretend you've passed out or gone into shock or something…then I'll be waiting with one of these disinfectants…"

"Sounds ambitious, but you're forgetting one thing." She sniffles again. "What if there are two of them. Or five of them. What if no one comes, and they decide to light this place on fire instead?"

"Cira," I scold her. "You can't think like that."

The idea that someone would burn down a historic Parisian landmark just to silence us seems unreal to me. In my opinion, it would paint an even bigger target on the killer's back. I shake the thought out of my head. If I can survive a back injury, an obsessive mother, and pastry school, I can survive this.

"Why not?" She raises her voice.

"Because…" Before every performance, I used to visualize myself doing well. Taking center stage and outshining my cast mates. It gave me something to hold on to when I made a mistake. I've made way too many. In life and on stage.

"You may not think so, Poppy," she says, "but I deserve what's coming to me."

"What are you talking about?" I try the door handle again, hoping it somehow unlocked itself during the past couple of minutes. "We don't deserve to be left to die in a room where they store toilet cleaner."

"I do." She takes a deep breath. "I'm the murderer."

I'm stuck in a storage closet with a killer, and I'm contemplating sitting down and making myself more comfortable. Cira doesn't seem the type to kill someone, but what do I know? You expect a villain to be devilish with an extra dose of crazy. You don't expect her to be the woman you bonded with while working at a wedding. The girl who smiles. The girl who takes orders and does as she's told.

I can't fathom Cira's confession.

"Say that again," I reply. "I must have heard you wrong."

"You heard me right," she informs me.

"
You
murdered Lord Dovington?"

"Yes." She leans against the wall, looking up into the shadows. "You don't have to tell me what a horrible person I am either. I already know."

"I never said you were a horrible person."

"I'm sure you were thinking it," Cira adds.

"What happened?" Asking how Sam came to be at the bottom of a cliff with a diamond trinket in his mouth might not be the best idea, but I have to know. I have to make sense of this mess, or it'll drive me crazy.

"Are you sure you want to know?"

"We've got time." If she is a murderer, the least I can do is keep her spirits high above her danger zone.

"Well, they already think you know anyway." She sighs. "Which is why they won't let you go."

"What makes them think that?" I ask. I bite the inside of my cheek, hoping for more of this mystery to unfold. And most importantly, what the devil's food cake it has to do with me.

"I don't know. Last time we talked, I was sure I convinced him that you know nothing. Something must have changed."

"Last time you talked to
who
?"

Cira takes another loud breath rather than answering me. I glance around the closet, looking for a blinking red light or some other sign that we're being watched. She stays silent, and it takes all I have to keep my mouth shut.
Why is she so scared?

"Remember how I told you that I quit ballet?" she says instead. "I lied. I was fired. Shunned is more like it. No ballet company will even give me an audition anymore."

"I've heard a similar version of this story once before," I respond. I take it as a sign of good karma that I never got involved with the Dovingtons in the first place.
I must have done something to offend the universe right after that.

"Sam was handsome, rich…" She pauses. "He knew just what to say to make me feel like his queen."

"And then he dumped you?"

"No," Cira argues. "Dumping me would have been the civil thing to do. The Dovingtons are monsters. All of them." Her somber tone grows harsh. "He ran off with someone else. My understudy, of all people. I guess she gave him what he wanted better than I did because suddenly,
I
was out and she was
in
. From apprentice to principal just like that. She was given my solo without any explanation."

"I would've been furious."

"The worst part was the entire company seemed to figure it out before I did. I was a walking joke for months." Her voice is even harsher, almost like the very thought of Sam sparks a new fire in her belly.

"I'm sorry, Cira. From what I've heard, it sounds like he did similar things to all the women he slept with. Is that why you killed him?"

"I got over it after a while." She sniffles. "Got a job as a receptionist. Started over. But then he came back into my life and begged me to come back to him." Her voice quivers as if she's holding back tears. "I did, and…I wish I hadn't."

I'm afraid to ask what happened next.

"Repeat offender?"

"He asked me to come away with him." She stops and tries to keep her composure. At least, what's left of it. "I packed my bags. I took a leave of absence at work. I thought for sure he was going to propose this time. The things he said…I really thought he was going to propose."

"What happened?" I ask softly.

"Olivia dropped in, and he made me sneak out the back. The wanker just wanted a mistress. One he could manipulate into doing whatever he wanted in the bedroom."

"I'm not going to ask what," I comment, "but the kinkiness doesn't surprise me."

"After that I felt like my whole world fell apart a second time." Cira holds in more tears, but ends up gasping for air instead. She sniffles and buries her head in her hands. I take a few steps closer, unsure if I should console her or let Cira work through these emotions on her own.

She pulls herself together long enough to finish her story.

"That's when I was approached by them," Cira continues. "I was a given a job with Mary, I dyed my hair, and I planned the whole thing. I had every intention of killing him, Poppy. They told me all the horrible things he'd done to other women just like me."

"Who are
they
?" I ask again.

"You'll find out soon enough."

"So is that it?" My eyes dart to the light underneath the door. "Then you killed him?"

"He wasn't supposed to die that way." She finally breaks out sobbing, and this time I can't stand by and do nothing while she falls to pieces. I sit next to her and steady her shoulders.

"Relax, Cira. We'll figure this whole thing out." I check the light underneath the door again, hoping to see footsteps. I have to get out of here.

"It's already been figured out," she says through tears. "It's over. It's all over."

I have a hard time believing Cira's story. She's light. She's dainty. How did she manage to push Sam over the edge without him taking her down too? Maybe it was an accident? Either way, the woman next to me just confessed to murder, and yet I feel sorry for her.

"No," I say. "Detective Casey is a reasonable man. He can sort through all this."

"I don't want to spend my life in prison, Poppy," she replies. She takes a deep breath. "I think I'd rather die."

There's a thud in the distance, and I quickly bend down to look under the doorway. Footsteps are inching closer. It's time. I jump to my feet—chest drumming. I search through the shelves in front of me, feeling around for something small that will fit into my pocket. Something I can use at an opportune moment.

I can't find anything but trash bags and a pile of rags.

"What are you doing?" Cira asks.

"I can't do nothing," I blurt out.

"You can't beat these guys." She stands up, preparing for our transport to somewhere new. "I took my chances and ran for it as soon as I got the chance. I knew they'd probably knock me off to cover up their mistake. They found me anyway."

"I'm sorry about everything," I say, frantically searching. "But unlike you, I'm not ready to die."

The door opens, and the shelf in front of me is flooded with light. I squint, adjusting to the brightness. I can barely make out the names of the cleaners that I sprinkled along the ledge. I turn around and see the same bald-headed man. He's joined by another hired hand in a suit and of similar stature. They each grab the two of us with ease.

"Hey!" I shout.

The bald-headed man forcefully covers my mouth, and I lose my breath. My eyes go glossy as I realize that he could smother me in one swift movement. I have to cooperate.

"None of that," he barks at me.

We are dragged back to the dressing room I was thrown in earlier. There's no sign of movement anywhere. I look up and down the hall, hoping to catch a glimpse of an actor coming in for rehearsals. Maybe even a janitor or a stagehand? Places like this don't stay empty for long.

"Wait here," the bald-headed man instructs, throwing me to the floor. My side crashes into the hard flooring, and I wince from the shock. Pain surges through my spine—like pins and needles are tearing through my skin. Cira touches my arm.

"Let her go free," she shouts at him. "She's not part of this."

"She is now." The man chuckles and shuts the door.

Voices sound through the hallway as Cira attempts to help me up, but my back is failing on me. I let out a yelp as I stand and do my best to straighten it. My muscles go tense, and I try not to dwell on the pain.
It's only temporary. It's only temporary.

My mind games work but not because of me. I'm distracted when the real culprit finally enters the room. I know that face, and I should have pegged it as one of a crazy wedding killer from the beginning. I gulp as he haughtily takes a seat like we're in the midst of a business meeting.

"Cira," he greets her. "Poppy, nice to see you again. Please, have a seat." Cira helps me to the nearest chair.

"Mr. Biven," I respond. "I should've guessed it was the father of the bride."