I wondered suddenly if Brett had recently gotten wind of Presley and Joe’s plan and decided to take matters into his own hands by embarrassing her before she could embarrass him.
“I was going to get even with him for everything he did to me in our first semester of college, planting steroids in my locker, getting me kicked out.” Joe stood behind the one chair in the room, his knuckles white as he gripped the back of it. “Brett changed the course of my life, totally for the worse, but then Presley and I happened to meet whenBig Romancecame to The Rose for the home visit. Brett was talking strategy that morning with Mr. Finch, so Presley stopped by the Morning Brew where I was dropping off a batch of coffee I’d roasted. It was like love at first sight, but Presley… she was afraid to leave him.”
She was afraid for two entire years? I wasn’t an expert on relationships, but to me, that sounded more like Presley leading Joe on rather than actual fear.
“Why would she be afraid?” I didn’t ask the real question, which in my mind was,How could Brett have anything worse on her than a sex tape?
“Brett was manipulative, threatening, vindictive. Presley thought that if she left him, then she would lose her public persona, her business, and…” He hesitated as if trying to believe the words coming out of his mouth, “… opportunities.”
“Opportunities?” I asked, still suspicious of this reasoning. I caught Aunt DeeDee’s eye and saw the skepticism on her face as well. Presley Lombardi may have been a victim but she was also very much playing two lovers against one another.
“Advertising deals, future reality TV gigs, product partnerships,” Joe answered, losing momentum as he spoke. He hung his head as he realized how he sounded – like a classic case of a cuckold. All three of us could see it.
“And you’re still sure that Presley didn’t have anything to do with Brett’s death?” I asked, trying to tread gently so as to not overwhelm him with the realization that seemed to be settling across his brow. Surely, we could all see that Presley had more than one motive—feeling threatened by her own boyfriend, the potential publicity that could come from a TMZ-worthy announcement of her tragic loss, and perhaps even secretly wanting to be with Joe. For the cherry on top, Joe had just confirmed that Presley had had opportunity to slip the diamond in his drink by taking Brett’s glass to him.
The question remained, though, of how the diamond might have ended up in Presley’s possession.
Joe shook his head, but he didn’t defend Presley this time. Instead, he let his eyes fall to the floor for several beats.
I knew well the struggle of whether or not to trust your own perception in a relationship, so I felt for him. Fortunately for me, I never expected Charlie to be on the wrong side of a murder investigation.
Joe looked straight at me. “Presley is a very spiritual person,” he said, seemingly apropos of nothing. “That’s why I really don’t think… oh God, have I gotten this all wrong?”
I glanced from Joe to Aunt DeeDee as I tried to parse out his meaning: Presley was a good person, a spiritual person, so surely she couldn’t also be a killer.
“Listen, this is the real reason that I don’t think Presley killed him.” Joe stopped, seeming to carefully consider his next words. “She said she… she wants to contact Brett.”
“Contact him?” I repeated.
Next to me, Aunt DeeDee went rigid. She was a fairly liturgical kind of Baptist, but she believed enough in the woo-woo supernatural that she’d forbidden me from playing with Ouija boards at sleepovers. She wouldn’t even let me go to the palm reading booth at the county fair when I was thirteen. Contacting a dead man was certainly not on Aunt DeeDee’s bucket list.
Joe swallowed hard. “Presley told me that she wants to do a séance. Tonight. She wants to ask Brett who killed him.”
I laughed out loud before I could stop myself, but then I realized that he was dead serious.
TWENTY-NINE
“You’ll obviously need to conduct it or lead it—or whatever you call running a séance,” Aunt DeeDee said matter-of-factly, sounding less like my aunt than I’d ever heard her.
“This from the woman who made me burn a pack of tarot cards someone gave me in sixth grade?”
Aunt DeeDee gave me a look that said this ask was completely different. “You know this isn’t the same.”
Do I though?
“It’s exactly because you know it’s a load of hogwash that you have to do it,” she explained. “Maybe Presley—or whoever the murderer is—will reveal themself.”
I blinked at my aunt, the woman who hadn’t wanted me to trick or treat when I was five years old because Halloween was “the devil’s holiday.” She and Momma had gotten in a disagreement that was less a fight and more a bemused discussion before they’d compromised. Aunt DeeDee would take me to the church’s fall festival, where sweet old ladies handed out lollipops taped to a book of Psalms, and then I would trick or treat with Lacy around town. Momma had indulged Aunt DeeDee, figuring that any child would like double candy.
“You do realize that I have no idea how to conduct a séance,” I said.
Aunt DeeDee waved away that excuse. “Fiddlesticks. You sit in a circle, light some candles, and wave your hands around while mumbling to summon the dead. I would do it, but no one would believe me.” Her eyes lit with an idea. “You can use the Vampire Room.”
“Oh, Lord,” I breathed, wondering if it was some kind of twisted fate that I’d discussed this very room with Savilla last night in front of her to-scale dollhouse.
“Language, dear,” said my aunt.
The irony was almost too rich.
