Dead on the Delta

Twenty-four



You can throw your purse anywhere. My mother’s out for the afternoon, so no one’s going to care,” Libby says, smiling at me across the island in the Camellia Grove kitchen.

It really is big enough to be an island. A tribe of hunter-gatherer pygmy people could have flourished there unnoticed by man. The oak fixture is twenty feet wide and eight feet deep, and boasts an intimidating slab of granite that would make the room feel weighed down if it weren’t just as enormous. The kitchen is three times the size of my house, with a ceiling that arches forty feet in the air.

I feel like I’ve wandered into the bowels of a medieval castle. I had no idea the kitchen was so immense. All the other rooms in the plantation—the ones I saw on the walking tour when I was a kid—are small and cozy, with tiny beds for tiny people who weren’t raised on a steady diet of multivitamins and bovine growth hormones.

“It’s okay, I’ll hold on to it. Otherwise I’ll lose it.” I re-cross my legs, and drum my fingers lightly on the oak table, trying to pretend I’m not crawling out of my skin.

So far I’ve been here ten minutes and have yet to see any sign of Deedee or Percy. Or James. He’s home, if the BMW in the driveway is any indication, but apparently choosing not to come greet the company. Libby met me at the door and led me straight back to the kitchen, where she’s still baking, though four dozen muffins of various flavors sit cooling on the countertop. It must be her version of stress relief, though one has to wonder what she does with all the goodies. She certainly isn’t eating them. She looks even thinner standing up than she did in the van.

“Oh, me too. I can never keep up with a purse.” She tucks a wisp of blond hair back into her ponytail and grabs her oven mitts. “I even have a hard time with my car keys. I like the kind that click on your belt loop, but Mother says those are tacky.”

“Your mom sounds a lot like my mom.”

“Really?” I catch the surprised look on Libby’s face before she bends to retrieve her latest batch of muffins. I know I don’t fit the Southern belle stereotype, but I did take the time to put on my fancy dress … for nothing.

I’ve also wasted time, furthered the pissed offed-ness of the FBI, and risked almost certain doom, also for nothing if I don’t find some way to make this cozy afternoon take a turn for the worse. I need True Crime Confessions, not Muffin Making Musings.

“So where’s your mom?” I ask. “Charity work, or liquid lunch with the ladies with a side of Botox?”

Libby laughs as she rises, clutching a pan overflowing with super-sized muffins. She switches off the oven and joins me at the table, setting the muffins on a cooling tray near the tea steeping in a rose-patterned pot. I have to admit they smell pretty damned good. My stomach grumbles, reminding me I missed second breakfast and lunch.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Mother doesn’t tell me where she’s going. I think she’s afraid I’ll try to tag along.” She rolls her eyes. “As if I’d willingly submit to such torture. Her friends are horrible.” Libby smiles, an easy grin that relaxes me and puts me on edge at the same time.

She’s so different than she was out in the swamp. Of course, grief is a weird thing. It comes and goes, and then you find yourself laughing and feeling horrible for it, for being alive when the person you love is dead. Libby doesn’t seem to feel particularly horrible, but maybe she’s just happy to have some time with a female close to her own age.

“I’d rather stay home.” She pours two cups to the brim with smoky amber liquid. “Cream or sugar?”

“Yes, both, please. Lots of sugar.”

“So … I hate to be rude, but I’m just dying to know who the police have in custody.” Libby stirs the tea and then passes my cup over before lifting her own—no cream or sugar—to her lips. “Were you able to find out?”

“I was.” I stall, sipping my tea, casting surreptitious glances through the picture window. I keep expecting to see Deedee run down the flower-lined path, but so far, not so good. Where is she?

More importantly, where is her mother?

“But you don’t think it’s the right person.” Libby’s cup clatters back into its dish.

“No, I don’t. He’s a friend of mine. It looks like he might have gotten in trouble with some drug stuff, but I’d bet my life he has nothing to do with the murder.”

“I knew it.” She sighs. “I knew they wouldn’t be able to find the killer that fast.”

“I’m sorry. I wish I had better news.” I wish I could tell her my suspicions, maybe even ask for her help, but I can’t trust Libby.

No matter how nice she seems, she’s a Beauchamp, and her loyalty lies with her clan. Percy helped raise her, and there’s a chance Barbara or James orchestrated Grace’s death or even killed her themselves. I highly doubt that Libby would help put one of her own away, especially her brother. She seems pretty attached to him, despite the bossy older sibling routine.

“It’s all right.” Libby fetches a pair of tongs from the counter and plucks two muffins from the tray, placing one on each of our plates. She sits, and slathers the top of her muffin with butter before scooting the dish and tiny silver knife toward me. “The muffins are strawberry rhubarb. Sweet cream butter cuts the sourness. Makes them a piece of heaven, if I do say so myself.”

“Sounds great.” I slather away, watching Libby break her steaming muffin open with her fork from the corner of my eye. I expected her to be more upset, or afraid, or … something.

“I have a confession to make,” Libby says, keeping her eyes on her muffin. “I knew who they had in custody. They told me this morning when I took a sample of Grace’s hair by the station.”

My fork hovers between my plate and my mouth. She lied to me, and I had no clue. She’s good. Really good.

“I’m sorry, Annabelle,” she says, big blue eyes meeting mine. “I just … I wanted to talk to someone so badly and you’ve always seemed so nice.”

“Nice?”

She smiles. “You’re authentic, and I’ve known so few authentic people. Even James. He used to be so wonderful, but since he went away to school … he’s just … ” Her gaze drifts back to the table and one narrow shoulder lifts in an embarrassed shrug. “Anyway. I wanted to try … I wanted to be your friend. I should have just asked you over for tea, but I was afraid you wouldn’t come. I figured you’d think I was too boring and pathetic to spend time with.” She digs into her muffin with a vengeance, shoving two forkfuls in her mouth and chewing with her eyes glued to her plate.

Aw, man. Now I can’t be mad. She isn’t boring. She is a little pathetic, but not nearly as pathetic as I’ve felt today. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m glad you asked me to come. I … I could use a friend too.”

“You could?” Libby asks with her mouth still full of muffin. Very unladylike. I like her more already.

“I could. It’s been a rough couple of days.” Said the a*shole to the girl with the murdered sister. God. I suck at this girlfriend stuff already. “I mean, not as rough as it’s been for you and your family, not at all,” I hasten to add, “but there have been some—”

“Rough is rough. I understand, I—”

My phone rings, making us breathe twin sighs of relief. I slide my purse off my arm and crack it enough to get my hand inside, hoping my gun is still covered by the makeup bag I threw in at the last minute. “Sorry, I need to check this. Just in case.”

“Sure, no problem.” Libby waves her hand a few too many times. She still seems nervous. I’ll have to reassure her that we’re cool.

After I make sure this is someone I don’t want to talk to. Between work, the police, ex-boyfriends, and the FBI, I can’t imagine anyone I’d pick up for, but it’s good to know who’s sniffing around. It’ll give me an idea how much time I have before someone tracks me down.

I find the phone and pull it out in time to see Dr. Hollis’s name on the screen. Wow. A friendly professional call. Who woulda thought?

“It’s about my cat. One second.” I tap the green button. “Dr. Hollis, hey! Thanks for taking a look at Gimpy, I—”

“Hi, Annabelle, I hate to interrupt.”

“You’re not interrupting. I’m so glad you called. I’ve been worried.”

“I’m sorry. I should have called to get your consent before the surgery, but there wasn’t time,” she says, her voice tired. “I felt Gimpy’s situation was serious enough that I needed to operate right away. If for some reason you don’t feel you can cover the cost, I’ll completely—”

“No, no, no,” I say, heart beating faster. “Whatever it cost, it’s fine. I’ll pay it. But what kind of surgery was it?”

“His bowels were impacted. An X-ray showed several foreign objects lodged in his intestines. I was concerned they might burst if the obstructions weren’t removed immediately.”

“Oh, God. It’s because he eats weird stuff all the time.” I find myself getting sniffly thinking about how adorable it is that Gimpy’s a freak who eats plastic fly lures instead of Meow Mix. Who knew I could fall so hard for a stupid cat in just a few days? “I’m going to have to watch him more closely, I mean … assuming … ”

“He came through just fine,” she says. “And I think he’ll heal nicely. He’s obviously a fighter.”

“He is. He’s a bastard, but I really like him,” I say, earning a laugh from Dr. Hollis. “Thanks for taking care of him.”

“No problem. I just wanted to call and fill you in,” she says. “I’ll wash up the things we pulled from his stomach and save them for you.”

“You really don’t have to.” Ew. Souvenirs from my cat’s innards pretty much top the list of things I can live without.

“Are you sure? There’s a heart-shaped hair tie that looks like something my little girl would miss if our cat ate it, and a really nice turquoise ring.”

“Oh …” Oh. Ohhhhh. “Yes, please save those things. And don’t wash them, if that’s okay. Just stick them in a plastic bag the way they are.”

“Really? Are you—”

“I’m very sure.” I’m very sure at least one of those objects is a piece of evidence. It has to be Grace’s missing hair tie, the companion to the one tangled in her braid when her body was found. Washing it could remove prints or other physical evidence. I’m not sure if fingerprints or blood or DNA can survive a trip through a cat’s digestive tract, but better to play it safe than sorry.

“Okay, will do. You can pick those up anytime, and Gimpy will be ready to go home in a day or two.”

“Thanks so much, Dr. Hollis. Talk soon.” I end the call and clutch my phone to my chest, more rattled than I’d like to admit.

Gimpy ate Grace’s hair tie. That would explain how cat hair and Grace hair ended up on the refrigerator. The cat could have carried it back to the Breeze trailer and rubbed it off onto the fridge. Evidence like that will make it harder for a jury to convict Fernando. Assuming he makes it to trial, which I’m not going to. I’m closing in on the killer. I can feel it in my gut.

“Is your cat going to be okay? Is it something serious?” Libby asks.

“He had to have emergency surgery, but Dr. Hollis said he’s going to be fine.” I reach for my purse, but my phone rings again before I can dump it inside.

I glance down at the screen. Hitch. Probably wondering where the hell I am. “Must have checked all the bars in town already,” I mumble, before turning off my ringer and shoving the phone back into my bag. Let him leave a voice mail.

“The bars? Is that the doctor again?”

“No, just … someone I don’t want to talk to. Not an emergency.” Yet. Once he and his partner find me, however … Shit. I’m running out of time. “Libby, I need to ask you a favor.”

“Sure, but you have to try your muffin while you ask. I’m dying to know if you like it,” she says with a nervous swallow, as if my enjoyment of her muffin is the fragile thread connecting her to something resembling good self-esteem. “They’re best when they’re warm.”

“Absolutely. They smell great.” I grab my fork and stab a hunk of fluffy, steamy goodness. “I was just wondering if you’ve seen Percy recently. Like, in the past hour or so?” I slip the bite between my lips, and my taste buds do a happy dance. Libby was dead on—the sweet cream butter tames the slightly sour rhubarb into pure fantasticness. I stab another bite, and then another, cursing myself for waiting twenty-eight years to try rhubarb.

“Good?” she asks, uncertainty lingering in her eyes.

“Very. These are amazing. You should bake muffins professionally.” What a dumb thing to say. She doesn’t have to do anything professionally. She has a trust fund. But thankfully, Libby doesn’t seem to think I’m a dweeb. On the contrary, she seems flattered. Really flattered.

“Thank you so much. I’m so glad you’re enjoying it.” She draws a shaky breath, pinches at the skin on her empty ring finger, and watches me take another bite. My praise has nearly moved her to tears.

Yikes. She’s going to have to toughen up if we’re going to make this tea-and-muffin thing a friendly habit. She’s just a shade or five too emotional for my taste. She brings out the anxious in me, making me wish my tea was tempered with something more serious than cream and sugar.

“Or Deedee. Have you seen her?” I ask. “Percy or Deedee, either one would be good.”

“No, I haven’t seen Percy or Deedee today.” Libby says. “Did you need to speak with them? I can put out a call over the intercom system. Percy usually has Saturday afternoons and Sundays off, but—”

“No, that’s fine … I … ” I finish chewing and set my fork down, knowing what I’m about to confess isn’t something best said with my mouth full.

“What is it? Is something wrong?” Libby asks, leaning forward, wide eyes glued to my face. I must look as stressed as I feel.

“I don’t know how to say this, but I … I think Percy might have something to do with Grace’s death. If I’m wrong, I will apologize to her and you and everyone else a hundred thousand times, but … ”

I fill her in on my suspicions, leaving out the part about her brother or mother potentially being involved. Still, it isn’t easy stuff to say. Even dancing around the subject of Grace’s personality quirks and potential issues with Deedee makes me squirm. By the time I finish, my throat feels like it’s closing up from exposure to pure Awkward.

“So … yeah.” I tap a toe beneath the table. “I don’t know if the police took a look at Percy’s shoes, but it might be worth a gander to see if they match the prints outside Grace’s window. And they should probably search the barn if they haven’t already.” I snatch my tea and take a long, thoughtful drink, watching Libby over the rim of the cup.

“I’m overwhelmed.” Libby stares down at her hands. “Percy has been a part of our family for years. And Deedee and Grace were good friends.”

“Even after the incident with the rabbits?” More throat closing, so bad I have to swallow hard to get my tea down. Blergh. This is scarier than I thought it would be. How am I going to successfully interrogate Percy or James when even saying things like this in front of Libby freaks me out?

“Who told you about the rabbits?”

“I can’t say. I promised I wouldn’t.”

Libby nods slowly, graciously accepting that I can’t betray a confidence. “All right. Well … things were tense between the girls after that. But Grace apologized. She was just … having a bad day.”

“Killing defenseless animals seems more serious than just a bad day.” I keep my voice as gentle as possible.

I remember how hard it was to hear anyone say anything negative about Caroline after her death. Knowing she couldn’t defend herself made me ten times the protective sister I was when she was alive. Before our camping trip, I would readily agree with people who called her a stuck-up, spoiled ice princess, even though I knew the snob act was just that—an act. It was our shitty family that made Caroline the way she was.

Libby probably has similar reasons for defending Grace, but at this point I need her to cut the bull and be straight with me. Lies aren’t going to help us discover if she has a killer living under her roof.

“Listen.” I work my jaw, trying to get my throat to relax. “I know she was your sister, and you were close, but—”

“We weren’t that close. Not at the end. But I loved her very much.” Her fingers worry the skin where her ring usually sits.

Her ring … her ring. She’s missing a ring. Dr. Hollis found a ring … inside a cat who lived in the bayou and ate a dead girl’s hair tie …

“I’m sure you did.” I stare at the white band of flesh and wonder things I don’t want to wonder. “Um, I know this is a little off topic, but have you lost a ring?”

She looks up, surprised. “Yes, I did. I lost it while I was potting flowers, but I can’t seem to find it.”

“Really? What did it look like?”

Her fingers still. “It was turquoise,” she says. “My birthstone.”

Turquoise. Just like the one Dr. Hollis pulled from Gimpy’s stomach. There’s a chance Gimpy found his way inside the gate to where Libby was doing her potting and scarfed the ring down along with a few petunias, but my gut knows better. My gut knows Gimpy swallowed that ring because it was dropped outside the gate, probably near Grace and the heart-shaped hair tie that drew his eye. Maybe it slipped off in the rain … while Libby was wiping her fingerprints off her sister’s dead body.

I swallow—trying to think of some gracious way to excuse myself and make a run for the police station—then swallow again. Or at least I try to swallow. But the liquid in my mouth simply sits there for a few seconds before finally trickling down my swollen throat.

It isn’t emotion that’s choking me up; it’s some kind of allergic reaction. My tongue tingles and itches and my throat keeps squeezing tighter and tighter, until my next breath leaks out with a wheeze.

“It was Grace’s, too. She was born two days after my birthday. She was so beautiful.” The tears in Libby’s eyes spill over, leaking down her pale cheeks. “I really did love her. She was everything I ever dreamed my daughter would be.”

Oh. Smack. Literally, I would smack myself in the face for not at least suspecting that Grace was Libby’s if I weren’t in the middle of choking on my own tongue. Barbara Beauchamp didn’t just happen to adopt a girl who eerily resembled her older children; she adopted her own granddaughter, keeping the girl in the family while sparing herself the shame of a pregnant unwed teenage daughter. Libby must have been only fifteen or sixteen, and scared to death.

A part of me feels for her. The rest of me fears her. I have to get out of here. I have to tell Hitch and Cane that there’s a damned good chance Libby is the killer.

I set my tea back in its saucer and bring a hand to my throat and then to my lips, trying not to panic when I feel just how inflated my face has become. Shit. Shit! If I remember my rare food allergies, some people are as allergic to rhubarb as I am to shellfish. I must have hit the allergy jackpot. It’s just my luck that I decide to try a new food capable of sending me into anaphylactic shock only minutes before I figure out my new best friend is a murderer.

I fumble with my purse, but my hands are also swelling, making it impossible to open the simple latch.

“Annabelle? Are you okay? You look—”

“Call … 911 … ” I gasp, praying she’ll understand me.

“Let me help you,” Libby says, pulling my purse from my lap.

For a second I consider snatching it back, but think better of it. So Libby’s going to see my gun? So what? She’s seen it before and I don’t have time to waste concealing the fact that I’m concealing a weapon. It’s getting harder and harder to breathe. I’m guessing I have fifteen or twenty minutes before my throat closes up completely.

Libby grabs the phone, lifts it high above her head … and smashes it down onto the table with enough force to shatter the glass. Then she turns back to me with frightened eyes, as if I’m the one who just destroyed a choking woman’s property. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you, Annabelle. I really did want to be friends. I promise.”