“Me?” she cries. “I would never!”
“You stand to gain the most from her death. No, Lydia, we have to tell them,” Travis says, cutting her off. “Taylor Grace was trying to regain control of her company.”
“Not regain control—she was trying to steal it from Willow! Willow did all the work,” Josie argues. “Taylor stole from her.”
“Well, now Willow gets the company scot-free,” Travis says nastily.
“Yeah, and all the debt,” Willow snaps. “It’s not like I’m making out like a bandit here.”
“Willow did it. She found the body. Why did you disappear from the party?” Lydia’s husband demands.
“I had to get the maple bacon twists.”
“Very convenient!” Travis shouts.
“I was about to go get them,” Josie argues. “Why are you so intent on blaming this on Willow, huh? Maybe you killed Taylor, and you’re trying to throw people off the trail.”
The husband sputters. “Me? I was at the party.”
“Were you?” Josie shouts.
“Just, please. Taylor Grace is dead. Can we do this another time? I can’t—” Lydia holds a fluttering hand to her head.
“You’re stressing her out.” Hollis comforts Lydia.
I glare at Travis, who doesn’t look sorry.
“Besides,” Nana says stubbornly, “everyone knows it’s always the wronged husband.”
The police look confused.
“Taylor Grace was having an affair. Don’t ask.”
They nod along.
“Bobby, are you investigating Damien?” I ask.
“No? He was the high school football championship team’s QB. He’s the nephew of the police chief. We can’t just go investigating him for no reason,” he protests.
“So you haven’t even questioned him?” I raise an eyebrow.
“He’s innocent until proven guilty,” he whines.
“You’re not even trying to prove guilt. You’re just letting him walk!” I raise my voice.
“Ding-dong, the bitch is dead!” Damien bursts in drunkenly, raising a glass as he stumbles around. “And I killed her!” He leans over like he’s bowing. Then he collapses on the floor of the café.
“Well.” Bobby flips his notepad closed. “Guess that ends both investigations. We have a confession, boys!”
19
WILLOW
“Idid what?” Damien groans next to me in the cell the next morning. We’ve spent all night crammed in a cell with a number of seniors who came for their annual holiday pilgrimage from Florida and were singing Christmas carols drunkenly. “I ain’t killed nobody.”
“Me neither!” I protest. “Damien confessed. Why am I here?”
“Didn’t,” Damien slurs.
