Chapter 8

Whoa. Jane jolted with realization. "You suspect Christopher of being the killer." She trudged to her seat and plopped down. But that was preposterous. Wasn't it?

"He certainly fits Lucy's description of the killer." Conrad stated the words flatly, then sighed. "But no. He would've had to be in two places at once, killing Hannah while buying groceries with three other firemen."

Hmm. A thought occurred to Jane. She remembered what Christopher had said. How the call had come in, mentioning an unconscious woman, and it had frightened him because he'd believed it was his girlfriend Maggie. He'd gone running. "Did the anonymous caller, who is probably the killer, give a description of the unconscious woman?"

"They mentioned a dark-haired female, but no other details."

On the run, Lucy wouldn't have taken the time to describe Jane's hair color to the 911 operator. Right? And why mention that particular detail unless on purpose?

What if the caller hoped to lure Christopher to the Treasure Room? Perhaps Jane had been nothing but bait, and the killer had stuck around to strike at Christopher upon his arrival, but Lucy blew the plan to smithereens. A total possibility, especially as the caller gave the very detail needed to convince Christopher that Maggie was the victim.

Or perhaps the killer liked the idea of pitting Jane's ex against her fiancé?

The fireman should go through his mortal enemies list STAT. Did Donnie Eggerson have a beef with him? Although, considering all the connections to certain book club members, that might be the better place to start. And since significant others were always the first suspects, Jane turned her attention right back to Maggie. Up the suspect list she climbed.

Did the mechanic hope to hurt Christopher by hiring a hitman to play this game? Get Christopher out of the way because she'd fallen in love with someone else, maybe? What better method of discarding him and gaining sympathy from others than losing him to a game of murder? But why choose Hannah, a close friend, as the first victim? A simple matter of opportunity?

An interesting line of supposition.

"While I don't suspect Mr. Wellington of murder at this time," Conrad said, picking up their conversation, "I do suspect him of being in love with you." He sat and picked up a pen. "Tell me about your relationship with him. You're ready. I see it in your eyes."

She was ready. And now, at least, she understood what was going on here. Her darling was jealous, and he'd expertly hidden it during his interaction with Christopher. How adorable was that?

"I met him fiveish years ago when I accidentally started a small fire at the Garden. There was more smoke than anything," she added in her own defense. "I hadn't yet gotten over my sadness from Grandma Lily's passing. I let memories get the better of me while cooking. My oil caught fire."

Fearing the worst, she'd called for help. By the time the professionals arrived, she'd already put out the flames. Even still, in had raced Christopher, tall, dashing and decked out in his uniform. He'd returned the next day and offered to repair the damage. They'd talked, and yes, flirted. He'd asked her out, but she'd said no, too afraid of the curse to take a chance. But he'd proved persistent and hadn't given up.

"We hit it off and remained in touch on and off for a year and a half or so," she continued. They'd occasionally chatted on the phone and exchanged silly facts. Every so often, he'd asked her out again. One day, she'd realized they could see each other as long as she didn't fall in love with him. Keep her feelings under control, and the curse had zero power. Finally, she'd said yes. "Eventually, we went on an official date." Then another and another.

"Did you love him?" Conrad's voice remained unworried.

"No." Though it had been difficult to resist at times, especially when Christopher had smiled with his easy appeal. "I liked being with him and thought he liked being with me, too. He never requested more. Then, only a couple months into being exclusive, he came over, accurately accused me of being emotionally unavailable, something he'd never complained of before, and broke up with me."

Relief glittered in Conrad's beautiful amber eyes as he reclined in the chair and rubbed two fingers over the dark stubble on his chin. "I bet he fell for you, and instead of being a man and telling you how he felt, he tried to get you to chase him by breaking up with you."

"Doubtful. He began dating someone else pretty quickly."

"Another childish ploy," Conrad said. "Did you stay in touch?"

"Other than a few texts asking how I was doing or running into each other in town, no. We even stopped waving at each other a whole year before I met you."

"Thank you for sharing with me."

"You're welcome. But what makes you think he still loves me?" After all, Christopher had a potentially wonderful girlfriend who may or may not have participated in a murder. "Other than your raging jealousy issues, of course."

A corner of Conrad's mouth twitched. "I happen to know firsthand a guy never gets over you."

Jane snorted. "He's had plenty of time to win me over, yet he never even tried. So give me a reason that isn't Conrad Ryan specific."

"I did. But here's a second one. If he's anything like me, seeing you fall in love with another man when you didn't fall for him riled him up."

She waited to hear more. Like, say, how Conrad had found a secret love letter. Or someone had called to reveal Christopher had created a shrine and spent the past few years waxing poetic about her amazing amazingness. Or maybe Maggie had come in to complain of the fireman's incessant obsession with a former flame. But nope. Silence.

"He's not like you," she said. "He wasn't willing to slay the dragon."

Conrad's features softened. "Also, I'm not raging with jealousy. Not totally. I trust you implacably."

"Wow." Jane feigned a horrified expression. "Lying to us both. Not concerning your trust, but the jealousy." She tsked, tsked. "This calls for a severe punishment. Perhaps the worst I've ever dished to you or anyone."

The corner of his mouth began twitching again. "If you revoke my casserole privileges, I will revolt."

"Oh, no. I'll not be letting you off so easily."

"Easily? Sweetheart, that's the worst thing someone can do to another person."

"You're soon to learn otherwise," she said, lifting her nose high in the air, going for an aura of pure snob. She stood and smoothed the sides of her dress. "Soon you'll long for the days of missing my southern smothered chicken. Just know this will hurt you far more than it hurts me. I'm forbidding you from attending the book club meeting with me. I'll go with Beau, but you will stay home."

Conrad's eyes narrowed in an instant. "No. We go together."

Jane had known he would insist. With the threat of danger magnifying each day, he refused to let her out of his sight without a battle royale. And she needed to be out of his sight for a bit.

"Nope," she told him. "Not this time. You weren't invited. I was. Without probable cause to attend, you'll be trespassing." Boom! Legal speak always got the job done. "I'll go with Beau, as stated." The sheriff's smoldering intensity and ferocious sense of authority was guaranteed to intimidate the guests and stifle conversation. "Besides, you'll be busy looking into a fireman named Donnie Eggerson. There's something about him…"

"Jane," Conrad growled.

"Take your lumps, darling." She sashayed to the door, paused and looked over her shoulder to blow him a kiss. "I'll spill everything when I return."

* * *

Jane walked side by side with Beau, ready for anything. She'd had a productive day. She'd done more writing and managed to pry chapters three and four from her innermost being. After a while, words had flowed once again, the book really coming alive.

A cool evening breeze ruffled the hem of her midi A-line vintage skirt in olive green that screamed writer. She paired it with a white buttoned top and knitted scarf for an extra Bohemian flair. Of course, Beau ruined her look with khakis and a lightweight turtleneck rather than the berserker chic costume she'd suggested.

"You looking for a job in a bank?" she teased.

He swung his truck keys from his index finger. "I can always turn around. Conrad even suggested it."

She looped her arm through her best friend's. "I'm just surprised by your attire, is all."

"I know how to go undercover, too. I call this look professor lite," he said, and she snorted.

"Always take my advice when it comes to undercover fashion. I'll never steer you wrong."

They approached Maggie's front door. The mechanic lived in a craftsman not too far from Conrad's, but it had undergone several remodels to make it more modern, including the addition of a large garage. Maggie must enjoy tinkering with cars at home, too.

Before knocking, Jane straightened Beau's neckline. "When the time comes to create a distraction, start reading the first chapter of your novel."

"That will be difficult, considering I didn't have a free moment to do any writing."

"Nope. No excuses." She rapped her knuckles against the raised panel of the solid wood door. "You can make it up as you go along."

"Come in," several people called in unison.

Beau opened the entrance and motioned Jane forward. Head high, she marched inside. He joined her in the foyer, and she scanned the crowd. Abigail Waynes-Kirkland sat in a straight-backed chair, holding court as only a queen could. She conversed with Christopher and Maggie, who appeared casual and not at all like a killer and her unwitting victim.

The fireman had his arm wrapped around the mechanic's waist, his fingers draped over her hip. A possessive hold Conrad often used with Jane. Proof her ex wasn't hung up on her. Clearly, he adored Maggie.

A handful of people Jane didn't know interacted here and there. Ashley Katz hadn't arrived yet. Still planning to come? Maggie's home was comfortable, a mishmash of different furniture styles, exactly how a woman in her twenties who'd inherited various pieces from relatives and slowly replaced them with ones she bought herself as she could afford them would look. A small table had been set up with a tea service in honor of Hannah.

Jane's throat tightened as she thought of the slain woman, known for giving crafters and artisans a place to showcase their wares.

Another table provided snacks. From vegetables and dips, to stuffed mushrooms, to spinach and feta pinwheels. Not to the level of a Jane and Fiona spread, but certainly respectable. She would sample everything to be sure, of course.

"Oh no, you don't," Beau said, pulling her to his side when she attempted to motor over. "As long as I'm reading from my nonexistent novel, you're not focusing on food rather than people."

Good call. Because she spotted Donnie Eggerson filling a plate with finger foods. Once again, he stared at Jane and smiled as if he imagined mounting her head on his wall like a prized deer. This time, she stared back.

He flushed and lost his smile, then ducked his head and scuttled off. Okay. So. Some time this evening, she should confront him. Had he heard about her appearance tonight and come to continue this game? Was he a writer, doubling his chances of being the killer? But then she caught sight of the mayor and his younger doppelg?nger. Must be Jacob Thacker, the son. The two tried and failed to hide the fact that they were watching Jane. She intended to question both.

"All right. Let's do this." She slapped a smile on her face and urged Beau straight to the hostess. If she ignored the Thackers, who oh, so clearly wished to speak with her, they'd come to her. Especially if she did something to set them off. Which she would totally do, if it proved necessary.

Game of cat and mouse? Bring it!

Oh! Was that artichoke dip at the edge of the snack table?

"Jane," Beau muttered.

Right. "So good to see you again, Maggie. Christopher," she greeted. She humphed at the remaining trio member. "Abigail."

The three repositioned to fully focus on her. Abigail sneered. Maggie double blinked at the war vet before clearing her throat and nodding at Jane. Christopher may have recoiled the slightest bit, as if he feared having his girlfriend clash with his ex. Afraid Jane might talk about his behavior during their breakup and scare the new love away? And look at her, plotting like a pro.

Maybe she was born to be a legitimate author, not just an undercover one?

"Good to see you too." With his free hand, Christopher pulled at his collar. He glanced between his ex and his current girlfriend. Oh, yeah. He definitely feared what might be mentioned about him.

"I'm glad you could make it, Jane," the mechanic replied, her tone neutral. She'd unpinned her fringe of bangs, and oh, they looked fierce. Plus, she now matched the description of the killer's heroine as much as Jane. The rest of her long dark hair was anchored in a low ponytail that positively oozed relaxed creativity. The cat-eye glasses were to die for. Were they prescription or added for a writerly flare?

Maggie's gaze slid to Beau a second time, then all but bounced off him to return to Jane. "Sheriff Ryan wasn't able to attend?"

"He's busy working on Hannah"s case." Also, he'd abided by the punishment because one, he believed in justice, even against himself, and two, he'd found no probable cause, despite his best efforts. Of course, he'd insisted Trick, Isaac and Holden stake out the place. They, too, were undercover as authors. "This is Beau Harden, my most beloved childhood friend. He's a struggling, unpublished author I've taken under my wing." She squeezed his arm. A signal to turn up the heat and win everyone over.

Beau, drat him, merely nodded a greeting, saying nothing.

"Aren't you unpublished?" Abigail asked.

"Only temporarily. You're flying solo, I see." Jane held her gaze. "No fiancé?"

Her majesty flipped her hair over one shoulder. "Mase wasn't feeling well."

Because he'd feared the worst–that his new girlfriend had killed his ex-wife? Perhaps guilt wouldn't allow him to celebrate the life of the woman he'd murdered. Or had he just needed a break from Abigail? All were good, plausible options, though the third was more of a certainty.

"Hopefully he recovers swiftly. So. How do you know Donnie Eggerson?" she asked Maggie. Why not dive into the deep end?

"I invited him," Christopher piped up. "After you requested information about his life, I realized he must be pretty lonely as the new guy in town and thought he could use a friend."

Well. That was very sweet. And logical, dang it. Jane switched her case-sights to the Thackers. To provoke the duo into approaching sooner rather than later, she darted her gaze in their direction before leaning in to whisper a "secret" to her hostess. "I'm so happy to see the mayor here."

"Oh. Um." Maggie smiled, uncomfortable by her closeness, and glanced at the Thackers, exactly as Jane had hoped. Then the mechanic focused on Christopher, as if asking, what even is happening, really selling the illusion of salacious gossiping. "Yes. Well. Mayor Thacker is a majority stockholder of the Headliner, so he's always interested in writers."

So Jacob was on the board of directors, and the mayor was an owner. Hello, connection to Hannah. How many book club meetings had the mayor attended on the hunt for new talent?

"Maggie mentioned you're writing a book retelling the different murders that have taken place in our town, including this one," Abigail said with a flourish. She sipped from her flute of wine. "Well, so am I. So is Maggie. So is Jacob, for that matter."

The urge to go home and write without pause until Jane reached the end bombarded her. If Abigail thought she would publish a bestseller featuring the Case of Cemetery Cat and Deadly Mouse—Murder in the Treasure Room? Invitation to Murder? Romancing the Gravestone? Grave Reviews?—well, she was sadly mistaken. Unless Abigail had written the original crime scene manuscript chapter, and this was a taunt.

Jane offered a tight smile. "How could I know what you were writing? You refused to say."

"Are you or are you not detective enough to find out?"

Ohhh. Nice one. Was this the reason Jane had received an invite? Either she pretended to have heard about the other woman's drivel, or she admitted to being a poor investigator.

"Perhaps I discovered you're the killer," she said to the other woman as sweetly as she was able, "creating a story for yourself."

Abigail glared, snapping, "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Christopher's eyes got wide. He gazed from woman to woman. Maggie pursed her lips. Jane opened her mouth to respond but paused instead. Was that… no, it couldn't be. But it was. Lucy stood in the far corner, near the snack table, waving Jane over to join her in the shadows.

She just stopped herself from doing a double take. Oh, wow. The former loan officer had drastically changed her appearance. Her friend had chopped off most of her hair and bleached the strands white. Or she wore a wig.

"Excuse me. I would love to try that artichoke dip." True statement. She shuffled away before Beau could stop her and made her way to Lucy. But dang it, so did Beau.

He kept pace directly behind Jane. "Why the hasty exit? You never back off from a showdown."

"I didn't back off. I postponed. There's a difference. And I specifically remember mentioning that artichoke dip."

He nodded, pretending to believe her. No matter. Jane was a woman on a mission. Her target had vanished, and she quickened her step. When she turned the corner, there was still no sign of Lucy. But there were signs on Maggie's walls directing guests to a bathroom. Was Lucy inside it?

In front of the door, Jane stuck out her arm. "I'm going in, and you're staying out."

"Jane—" Beau began.

"Period," she burst out, and he went quiet.

Triumphant, she slipped into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind her. Black and white square tiles covered the floor, a sharp contrast to the powder blue tiles on the walls. A pendant light cast the room in an amber hue, yet it was the stained-glass window that really transformed the space.

Lucy stuck her head beyond the curtain hiding a clawfoot tub and whispered, "Jane!"

Heart thumping, Jane turned on the sink. "What are you doing here?" she whispered back. "I've been so worried about you. And I'm glad you keep arranging our meetings, I am, but why not take the safer route and call?"

"My calls are being monitored, and I don't want to be tracked. Listen. I found a note Hannah wrote suggesting she'd provided Maggie with paperwork naming her the inheritor of the Treasure Room."

What! Jane's thoughts raced. The two had been that close? "Maggie hasn't come forward with it."

Which meant what? Hannah had changed her mind, or someone had lashed out because she refused to change her mind? Maybe Maggie planned to keep the information private until the investigation concluded, fearing she'd become a suspect as soon as she was named the Treasure Room's beneficiary. The mechanic could've grown tired of waiting for Hannah to pass naturally, so Maggie had taken matters into her own hands.

Maybe Maggie and Abigail had worked with Mason, Jacob, and the mayor. Motive abounded for each, so why not pair up for a common goal? Take out Hannah, and taunt/torment Jane before taking her out too. When everything blew over, Maggie could gain possession of the Treasure Room, and the entire group could enjoy a cup of tea together to celebrate a job well done.

"This case is getting more interesting by the day," Jane muttered.

"Do you have a clear lead?" Lucy asked, brimming with hope.

"Well, it's currently a six person tie between Maggie, Abigail, Mason, Jacob, the mayor, and a fireman named Donnie. Or all six combined. But I'm inching closer to pinning the winner, I feel it." In fact, she'd go back to the party and search for any hidden paperwork in between questioning each of her suspects. "Come to the Garden tomorrow. Conrad could use your testimony. Think of the immunity you could buy!"

Lucy pursed her lips, but she didn't automatically deny the request. "I can't promise. But maybe." She turned toward the window and opened the pane. Someone–Lucy herself?–had already removed the screen.

Before she could dive through the opening, Jane asked, "Hey, did you notice the killer's feet? Was he wearing shoes?"

"I think he was, yes." Lucy's brow wrinkled. "I mean, he must have. Right? I never once noticed his socks. Though, to be honest, I was distracted by the blood and violence."

Hmm. Not really a definitive answer. They'd try the question another way. "Did you escape through the backdoor of the teashop?"

"Yes. Why?"

Abigail hadn't seen her, then. "Did you lock the front door?" she continued.

"No. Why?" Lucy insisted.

The killer must have done it. "Did you spy a pair of men's dress shoes on your way out?"

"I think…no?" Regret and anger flickered over the former loan officer's features. "I don't know. So much of the episode is clear as crystal, but some parts are a blur of panic and terror. Now answer my questions."

A knock sounded at the door before she could. "Jane," Beau called through the block of wood.

Lucy climbed through the window without another word. With a sigh, Jane closed the pane.

"Jane?" Beau insisted. "If I don't hear from you in the next five seconds, I'm coming in. Period or not."

Deep breath in. Out. Okay. "Coming, Beauregard." Time to catch the mice at play.