“It was a pointed object. Not sharp like a knife. Something blunt.” The sheriff skirted out of my way and cocked his head. “The strange thing is that they found traces of mud and grass at the site of the wound.”
I hit the toe of my own boot against the ground a few times before an idea came to me. “How long do they think the object may have been?”
“Four to six inches.”
“Could it have been a shoe? Like a high heel or a stiletto? Something pointy, four to six inches in length, that would be in contact with mud and grass on the regular out here.”
He considered the possibility. “That’s a decent guess.”
“Which means the murderer would likely be a woman, right?” Savilla’s face came to mind again. So too did the gold heels she’d shown off on our first meeting, and the champagne heels she’d been wearing yesterday. Open-toed heels caked with mud.
As if to remind me of the fact that he wouldn’t draw aimless conclusions, the sheriff stated, “Just because the murderer used a shoe as the weapon doesn’t mean it was a woman. Around here anyone can get their hands on a high heel.”
“Except the mud and grass indicate that this shoe was worn recently.” I thought about how Lacy treated her footwear like they were precious gems. She wore them, cleaned them, and displayed them like works of art in her closet. “If the heel belonged to a contestant, it wouldn’t have had mud or grass onit—unless the woman had recently been out on the grounds and had no choice but to tromp through the dirt.”
“Perhaps,” the sheriff conceded.
“So, what do we do?” I asked. “Check everyone’s shoes for mud and dirt—and blood?”
“Scouring closets probably isn’t the way to go. I can have forensics dig deeper, see if they can more closely identify a specific plant or type of soil, but that will take days if not weeks.”
“Well, you know it wasn’t me because I don’t even own a pair of heels.”
“Like I said, anyone around here can get their hands on a high heel,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners as a curl fell across his forehead. I had to keep my hand from instinctively brushing it away, but in an instant, his brow furrowed as he refocused on the complexities of this case. “Now I’d like to figure out who did.”
TWENTY-FIVE
With her stepmother’s recovery expected and her father’s body discovered, Savilla Finch arrived back on-site and officially declared that the pageant would proceed as planned.
A gaggle of girls dressed in workout gear did not look like they were doing the scheduled interview prep as they lifted light weights and strolled the gardens. Summer was among them.
“At least the money is still up for grabs,” one woman, who I was fairly certain was named Piper, said as I trailed behind the three contestants.
“Winning is not about the money. It’s about being a role model,” Summer reminded the other two as she lifted a five-pound dumbbell over her head.
Maybe-Piper laughed as she halted and lunged forward, swinging her arms. “Spoken like someone who already has plenty of money.”
“We all have money,” said a third girl who marched in place. “But my actual concern is… do you think it’s safe to stay here?” I couldn’t see the woman’s face, but I could hear the fear underpinning her words. “I’ve been wonderingthatsince Mr. Finch disappeared… and now…”
Maybe-Piper jumped in again. “Someone is after the Finches, not us.”
The ladies went quiet, seeming to weigh the wisdom of the sentiment.
“But what if the killer is here? Among us?” the third girl asked, this time with a tremor in her voice.
“What if the killerisone of us?” Maybe-Piper laughed and turned to each of her compadres before noticing me listening in. “What if it’s her?” She pointed at me. “You know what they say: Families that steal together, kill together.”
Summer swatted at her hand. “Not funny, Piper.”
Definitely-Piper was joking, of course she was, but she now stared at me with a condescending smile. If I hadn’t overheard the conversation, I would’ve assumed her distaste for me sprang from the flyaways sticking out of my ponytail and the mud splatters covering my jeans, but it felt more personal than that. Like she knew that with my aunt in jail I was an easy target for laughs—or for compassion from the judges, which could be even worse. So maybe some of the contestants didn’t have a heart, but I reminded myself this had to be the exception to the rule.
Summer took her dumbbells and peeled away from the girls, who strutted to the other side of the garden where they set down their weights and began to bend into yoga poses. “She didn’t mean it. We’re all just nervous and trying to find a way to make all of this less scary.”
I attempted to shake off the comment. Did the other contestants actually think my aunt was guilty? And that I might know more than I was letting on? Or were they just jealous that I was performing surprisingly well despite no previous pageant experience? Was the pageant world that cut-throat? I couldn’t bring myself to ask the questions out loud.
“How are you feeling after… everything?” Summer asked.
“Ready to see Aunt DeeDee,” I answered. “You?”
