“Did Miss 1962—your grandmother—did she know Brett?” I asked, as we stepped through the ballroom doors, back to the scene of the crime.
“I’m sure she ran into him—Gram said everyone in town came to the pageant.” Mina’s eyes were piercing as she looked at me. “Regardless, do you think anyone actuallyknewhim? Or Presley?”
The way Mina asked the question made me wonder how she felt about Brett. She was a woman about my age with long black hair and a willowy frame. Her profession kept her behind the lens of a camera, and for however long, her subject had been Brett Brinkley.
Had she felt some sort of connection to him?
“Lee and I…” Mina glanced in the direction of the person who’d pulled her away earlier to look at some footage. Her shoulders relaxed as she made some sort of decision. “We were on the show. Well, noton iton it. Lee was the jib operator, and I was basically a glorified gopher – did some off-screen, behind-the-scenes work, acted as an assistant, that kind of thing.”
The fifty-something-year-old man was crouched in the corner. His expression was difficult to read from this far away, but he seemed concerned. Mina went silent for a few seconds as she processed our situation. Then, she turned back to me, more pensive as she spoke.
“Years ago, I worked as an extra on this police procedural that never actually made it past the pilot, but in the episode, the detective had a piece of dialogue that stuck with me. He said something like, ‘In the court of law, you’re innocent until proven guilty, but in the interrogation room, it’s just the opposite.’” Mina squinted, considering her line of reasoning. “I think you’re right. I think the sheriff sees us as suspects, along with everyone else.”
I wanted to argue with her, but my defenses sounded so ridiculous:
But I’m his girlfriend—or at least someone he’s been dating.
I attempted CPR—even though it didn’t work.
I helped him solve his last big case—and then left town.
Nope, none of those would hold water.
With the overhead lights on and the reunion attendees quickly tiring, we appeared a rather motley crew. Charlie stepped onto the third step of the stage, projecting loudly enough to be heard, while the deputy remained on the floor, her frame facing the crowd as if acting as a kind of bodyguard for him.
My former classmates and their plus-ones stared back at him with crossed arms and narrowed eyes, and I realized that to at least two-thirds of them, Charlie was an unknown quantity.
“Folks, I realize that tonight has been tough,” Charlie began. “Brett was not only a member of the class of 2015 but also a good friend to many of you over the years.”
I noticed Joe, still behind the bar, frowning, which made me wonder even more about what kind of friend he’d been to Brett. Yes, Brett had been buddies with Joe throughout high school, and yes, dating Lacy had gotten Brett admittance into a lot of social circles, but were these people Brett’s friends?
“His death was sudden,” Charlie continued. “Over the next few hours—and into tomorrow—we’ll be conducting a full investigation of the events.”
“You think someone in this room murdered him?” Will Hurt, Valerie’s husband, called from the back. I was surprised she’d let him speak.
“Not necessarily,” Charlie answered, putting out a steadying hand. “But the body does show clear signs of something beyond a mere choking incident.”
“Like what?” Joe asked.
Once again I saw that Presley was standing only a few feet away from Joe. My eyes trailed to her, and from my angle I spotted a red light from a camera just over the woman’s shoulder. Mina’s partner, Lee, was filming the sheriff’s speech.
“I can’t get into those details right now,” Charlie answered.
I wondered if he’d noticed the camera, but since he hadn’t shut it down, probably not. Despite the uncertainty I was feeling about our relationship, I didn’t want something caught on tape that shouldn’t be public information. I started along the back wall toward Lee as Charlie continued to address the crowd.
“As I was saying, I know that some of you have lost someone very important to you.”
“Tell them about Brett’s body,” Presley interrupted. Joe stood behind her now, his hand extended to her shoulder as if he were gently pulling her back. “Tell them about the signs of foul play.”
“As I said, I can’t go into specifics right now but”—Charlie’s attention flickered to me as I scooted along the periphery of the crowd, but it didn’t linger—“as soon as we have any more information from the official?—”
“He was killed,” Presley cut in, her tone certain. Joe did pull her back this time, but not before she ground out three final words: “By someone here.”
Silence descended and the entire room seemed to hold a collective breath. I was the only one moving an inch, but even I paused, realizing that Presley had apparently either changed her mind about herbisnonna’s supposed curse, or now believed that there’d been some kind of human help involved in carrying it out.
“We don’t know for sure that Brett was killed,” Charlie corrected, breaking the silence. His tone had taken on a slight edge that others not attuned to his voice might not even hear.
“We all saw what happened,” Valerie called to Presley. “No one touched him.”
