I was grateful not to be left on my own, even if my new companion was Jemma. My thoughts turned to Dr. Bellingham then—how he’d smiled and flirted coquettishly with Jemma only moments ago. He was quickly becoming my top suspect in whatever was happening here, but how would he have had access to Mrs. Finch this morning? How could he have been down there preparing to meet with us and at the same time doing whatever had been done to the pageant owner’s wife?
The medics rushed the gurney down the hall. Summer led Savilla away while Jemma followed me into the Finch apartments, and for a fleeting moment I imagined Jemma attacking me from behind. But I was being dramatic, silly with the lack of sleep and ongoing intrigue.
We crossed the threshold into the silver and magenta sitting room at the front of the residence.
“I’ve never been in here,” Jemma marveled.
White powder from fingerprinting marred the furniture, and shattered glass had been splintered across the floor. “What do you think happened?”
“It looks like she was enjoying a morning aperitif that didn’t settle well,” Jemma speculated.
“That’s an understatement.”
Just then a figure came from one of the back rooms. Charlie Strong.
“Good morning again, ladies,” he said by way of greeting. His eyes still had bags underneath, but he seemed to be making an effort at some sort of nicety. “Sleep well?”
“With my aunt in jail at your directive? Nope.”
“Your aunt is in jail because she’s a suspect to theft and possible kidnapping—or murder,” he reminded me. “Unless you’d like to confess something?”
I couldn’t tell if he was joking, but either way, I didn’t appreciate the question. “Hilarious, Sheriff.”
“I’m nothing if not a tease,” he said dryly before his tone shifted and his expression grew more concentrated.
I decided to focus on the real issue. “So, what happened here this morning?”
“Savilla woke up, got dressed, and then found her stepmother unconscious. She called the ambulance, who informed me.”
“And after you arrived, she came to look for me at the morning tea,” I finished for him.
“Right. She thought you might have some insights to share with me.” He considered the general layout of the apartment and any clues it might offer, and I couldn’t tell how he felt about me—or Jemma—actually being here.
I cleared my throat. “I’m… I’m sorry I was a little curt earlier. I had no idea you were dealing with… this.”
His eyes darted to me. He was either confused by the apology or unwilling to accept it, because he didn’t say anything.
“Well, it looks as if whatever was in Mrs. Finch’s glass was the problem,” Jemma said, before extending her hand to the sheriff, never missing an opportunity to make a good impression. “I’m Jemma Jenkins, long-time contestant and”—she paused as if the word was hard to get out—“friend of Dakota.”
The sheriff nodded in acknowledgement, but he didn’t shake her hand.
I would’ve laughed if the situation hadn’t seemed so ridiculous. My beauty pageant nemesis was now on the case, trying to outwit the handsome but grumpy sheriff with me. What a riot.
The sheriff addressed me. “Savilla mentioned that you were up here last night, serving Mrs. Finch drinks.”
“Am I a suspect now?” I choked out the words.
“Whether we like it or not, everyone is.” He inhaled deeply, tired or frustrated or both. “But I was asking because I’d like your perspective… as an insider, as a person who was with the victim only hours ago.”
I didn’t have to give him this information, but maybe if I shared what I knew, he’d give me something in return. I squatted down and put a finger to the pale pink carpet, which had been drenched in spatters of brown liquid. I lifted my fingers and sniffed. “It’s whiskey, the same thing she was drinking last night.”
“Here’s the bottle,” Jemma said, reaching toward the end table, almost grabbing the container and putting her prints all over it.
The sheriff held out a hand to stop her. “Right, but Savilla said her stepmother didn’t usually drink except for a glass of wine with dinner.”
I thought of the three glasses Mrs. Finch had downed yesterday and wondered how much of an anomaly that had actually been. I moved closer, to scan the contents of the decanter without touching anything.
The books in front of the bottle had been removed and stacked neatly on the end table just as I’d done, and I could see the row of mixers—ginger, lemon, sweet vermouth, grapefruit juice—except… My eyes roamed back over them.
