Strawberry Tartlets and a Dead Starlet (12 page)

"You were in her room a lot, weren't you?" I point out.

"I was her bodyguard."

"What does that job entail exactly?" I go on.
Say it. Just tell me you were messing around with your client.

"Uh." Presley glances at me with a suspicious grin. "Okay. If you really want to know, it's a whole lot of standing around, shoving people, and basically keeping your eyes open."

"That's it?"

"Poppy, what is it?" He raises his eyebrows. "I saw blue crab beignets on the menu, and you didn't say a thing."

I'm hoping that the perfect way to ask him about his relationship with Lacy Leigh will just come to me, but it doesn't. Ever since the morning that we found her dead in Presley's hotel room, my life has been one big whirlwind of lies and confusion. The citizens of Gator Bay aren't who I thought they were. And to top that all off, Presley isn't who I thought he was either. I guess he's not the same guy I met in college, even though I hoped he would be the moment I saw him again.

"Presley," I respond as calmly as possible. I push aside the memory of our kiss under the stars, which is dancing around in my head. It was only proof that we used to have something. "We've known each other a while."

"True."

"Be honest," I continue. "Was something going on between you and Lacy?" I study the look on his face as I wait for him to respond. He keeps his expression steady, but then he looks away.

"It's not something I'm proud of," he admits.

My heart pounds.

He has been lying to me.

"Presley," I scold him. "You should've told me right at the beginning."

"I couldn't," he mutters. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you. But everything else I said was true. Those strawberry tartlets really were meant for me. I just know it."

"So the whole stalker, room swap thing," I go on. "Was that even true?"

"Yes, it's true," he quietly responds, glancing around the restaurant. "Lacy really was freaked out that someone had been following her. She didn't just spend the night in my room if that's what you're thinking."

"Well." I sigh. "How you spend your free time is none of my business."

"It was one time before we even got to Gator Bay, and it was a mistake," Presley says sincerely. "I knew the position was temporary, and so did Lacy. I've never gotten involved with a client before, but she was…"

"Lacy Leigh Nichols," I finish.

"I was going to say a little too
forceful
for my taste." Presley leans back as our waitress comes with our drinks. Presley doesn't touch his sweet tea. "She came onto me again when we arrived at Magnolia Harbor, but I shot her down. I figured the worst she'd do was fire me, and I'd just catch a plane home a couple of days early."

"And I assume that the police know none of this?" I conclude.

"No." Presley shakes his head. "I thought it would make me look guilty if I admitted that we were once romantically involved. I panicked."

"It's only a matter of time before Detective Sugars figures it out," I comment.

"Maybe he will, but maybe he won't?" Presley leans in closely, lowering his voice. "I didn't kill her, Poppy. I swear."

"I believe you," I lie. But part of me remains confused. He's lied to me before. I have no way of knowing if he's lying to me again. I cling to the only shred of evidence that still stands in his favor. He couldn't have pushed Frankie overboard, and he couldn't have been driving the black sedan. I saw him in the hotel right before I left for the mini-mart.

There's still a chance that Bree is wrong.

"I'm hoping that when I get home things will go back to normal."

"I don't think it works that way," I mutter, remembering the many times that trouble has shown up at my doorstep no matter where I lived. Trouble even followed me home all the way to Oregon once.

Presley and I sit in silence until our food arrives. I do my best to avoid eye contact, and he does the same. I can't help but feel stupid for thinking that the two of us might have had a shot together. I wanted it to be just like old times.

Our waitress prepares our table by laying down more newspaper. She dumps a deep pot of boiled crawfish, potatoes, and corn on the cob in a heaping pile in front of us. I expect Presley to dig in as soon as our waitress leaves, but he doesn't. Instead, he waits for me to make the first move. Unfortunately, my appetite is gone.

"Go ahead." I give him permission. "Don't let it all go to waste."

"I'm sorry, Poppy." Presley finally makes eye contact with me, not the food he ordered. "I hope you'll be able to forgive me someday."

"You were saying about a mysterious phone call?" I change the subject. Mostly because I'm not sure what to say. Thinking of him and Lacy Leigh together puts a sour taste in my mouth. Besides, once Presley leaves, chances are we'll never see each other again. Unless I move back to Portland, but Portland is a big place.

"Yeah," Presley responds. "It didn't strike me as unusual at first, but I was thinking about everything yesterday. Lacy tried to get the person on the other end to call her back later."

"I'm sure she took tons of phone calls while she was with you," I point out.

"Everything was filtered through her assistant. That's the only person who called her besides this other dude."

"Dude?" I repeat.

"Yeah, the phone call was from some guy." Presley gazes off into the distance as if reliving the memory. "It was right before Lacy left to visit her aunt. She got a phone call and tried to act casual, but she told the man not to call her personal line."

"Did she say his name?"

"Once," Presley confirms. "I think the name was Raymond."

Lights flash in front of us as we drive back into town. The air between Presley and me is less awkward than it was at the Steam Room restaurant, but I'm still at a loss for words. Presley ate most of my portion, and I was thankful. I couldn't stand looking at food in front of me any longer. I just want to get back to Bree, my bedroom, and maybe a cup of decaf.

"Oh, great," Presley complains. He brings the car to a halt. "It looks like we might be stuck here for a while."

I look ahead of us. Police lights are flashing by the side of the road, and every car in front of us is stopped. I roll down my window, trying to make out what the fuss is about. An officer walks toward a tiny food stand near the main tourist shops.
Amberjack's.

My stomach feels even queasier.

"Excuse me for a minute," I say, unlocking the passenger's side.

"What?"

"I'll be right back," I reassure him. I open my door and set a foot on the concrete.

"Don't get out, Poppy. It's probably just an accident."

An accident is what I'm afraid of.

I ignore Presley's advice and hop onto the sidewalk. The closer I get to Amberjack's, the tighter I clench my fists. Police cars are parked right next to the fish and chips joint, and a crowd of onlookers watch as the police department searches through everything on the premises.

A man waits out of the way with a worried look on his face. He clutches his fishing pole in one hand and a backpack in the other. I walk towards him, but my mind pieces together the clues for me. The police must have found something on Dave—or Millie's stalker big brother, Benny. I don't know which he prefers nowadays.

"Archy," I shout. Archy takes a deep breath when he sees me coming. "Archy, what's going on?"

"They took Dave," he confirms—his voice quivering. "They just pulled right up and took him."

"Did they say why?" I ask.

"There I was mindin' me own business," Archy explains, "and the cops show up asking for a Benjamin Flinte." Archy shrugs. "And I says, there's no one here by that name. But turns out Benjamin is Dave's first name."

"What else did they say?"

"They said he was under arrest for…they said he was under arrest for the murder of Lacy Leigh Nichols," he stammers.

"What?" I gasp.

"It ain't true." Archy sniffles. "Dave would never hurt nobody like that.
Nobody
. The cops have got it all wrong."

"It's okay," I respond, placing a hand on his shoulder. "If they made a mistake, they'll soon realize it."

I jog down the street and towards Magnolia Harbor. It's faster than waiting in traffic and if I'm late for dinner prep, Cherie might pass out. The fresh air does my head some good. If Millie's big brother Dave really is the murderer, then that means he had to sneak into the hotel somehow and poison my tartlets without anyone seeing him.
Sorry for ditching you, Presley
.

But how would he have known that Lacy was in Presley's room for the night?

When I finally reach the hotel, I'm sweating too much for comfort. I enter through the side door—the way Cherie prefers. I head straight to Bree's bedroom and knock on the door. She's most likely reading in her room if she's not outside on the beach.

No answer.

I huff as I walk down to the kitchen, only to find Gilly and Ford having their afternoon snack of oysters and hot sauce. Ford slurps extra loud when he sees me.

"She's on the beach," Gilly says before I even open my mouth.

"Thanks."

A few seconds later, I'm outside again. I take off my shoes and let the sugar sand exfoliate the bottoms of my feet. Bree's umbrella is pink. She's sitting next to the shoreline in her swimsuit and cover-up with a book in her hand.

"Bree." I take a moment to catch my breath.

"You're back early." She tears herself away from her latest self-help book and studies me. "Oh, no. What happened? Why are you out of breath?" Her eyes dart along the beach, and she immediately looks over her shoulder. "Please don't tell me that Presley is going to show up any moment now with a kitchen knife."

"No," I protest. "No, this isn't about Presley." I tilt my head. "Although you were right about
some
things."

"I'm listening," Bree responds.

"The police made an arrest today."

"And?" Bree asks impatiently.

"They arrested Millie's big brother," I answer. "Who turns out to be Dave, the owner of Amberjack's."

"Why do I get the feeling you're not very happy about this?" Bree narrows her eyes.

"I'm not." I take a deep breath. "I think they've arrested the wrong man."

Bree hands me a cup of coffee and pulls out a notebook. The two of us sit on her bed with only a few minutes to spare until we're called back to the kitchen. Bree's notebook is decorated with an assortment of crushed seashells. It makes me smile just looking at it.

"Do you know what this reminds me of?" I ask.

"What?"

"Our first semester at pastry school." My smile grows wider as I think about that first moment Bree took out her notebook and began instructing me in the art of sleuthing. "But your notebook wasn't covered in seashells back then."

"Oh, yeah," she replies. "I remember that semester very vividly. So much that I can't seem to forget it."

"I wonder if things have calmed down now that we're gone."

"I'm sure President Dixon is relieved," Bree mentions. "Calle Pastry Academy got more press last year than it has in a lifetime." She opens her notebook to a blank page. "Let's get started before Muffin finds out we're not working."

"You know, I normally don't mind cats, but there's something about Muffin that really creeps me out."

"Ditto," Bree responds.

"Okay, let's start with Friday night."

"Friday morning," Bree argues. "Lacy Leigh arrived with Presley on Friday morning."

"And by then the two of them were…involved." I glance out the window.

"Frankie shows up late for work," Bree continues.

"Probably because she worked late on the cruise boat the night before," I add.

"Frankie delivers breakfast, and Lacy leaves, saying she's going to visit her aunt." Bree writes every word down on paper.

"But," I point out. "Lacy only went to Gracie's to borrow her car, and she stayed out until dinner. Meanwhile, you and I were here, and Cherie tried sweet-talking Mr. Wheeler and the Masons into cutting their stays short because Lacy likes to occupy the whole inn."

"Then, according to Presley, Lacy knocks on his door Friday night in a frenzy." Bree goes on scribbling. "She tells him that someone is stalking her and that she's too freaked out to sleep in her own room."

"And Presley can't stay up all night," I comment.

"So he suggests that they swap rooms just in case someone really is out to get her," Bree finishes.

"Then Frankie delivers the dessert trays and leaves one for Presley and one for Lacy." I watch Bree form a timeline, complete with details and assumptions we've made about the case up to this point.

"Saturday morning rolls around, and Frankie is late for work again."

"So I deliver breakfast," I respond, letting my mind walk through that horrible morning when I saw Lacy spread out on the floor like a discarded doll. "Presley answers Lacy's door. He knocks on his door, calls Lacy's phone, and then decides to kick the door in."

"And that brings us to the investigation." Bree takes a minute to assess her notes. "Suspects include the kitchen staff, obviously—"

"Mainly me," I gulp.

"Right," Bree says quietly. "There's Frankie too, but now someone is after her as well. Mr. Wheeler is too into his sea turtles to even notice what's happening, and the Masons are too into
other
things." Bree's cheeks turn a soft shade of pink.

"That leaves us with the theory that the poison was meant for Presley."

"But we have no motives and no suspects to support that theory," Bree points out.

"Then, of course, there's the arrest that was made today." I wrinkle my nose thinking about the look of distress on Archy's face. "I don't think it was Dave. How could he have snuck around the inn with no one noticing? Without
Frankie
noticing when she delivered the dessert trays?"

"Someone is lying to us." Bree shakes her head. "I agree with you, but that means someone in this hotel has been putting on a show from the very beginning."