For Whom the Bluebell Tolls (11 page)

“They didn’t get a name?” I asked.

Amber Lee shook her head.

“Did he have an accent?”

“They didn’t mention one.”

“Probably Marco, the cameraman.” I figured if he had an accent, they would have mentioned it, since they got his lunch order down to the minutest detail. “This puts him in town near the church. Did they have anything else to say about him?”

“Not really. Said he kept to himself—although my burger was excellent.”

She waited, obviously enjoying the rapt attention of her audience before she dropped her bombshell.

“But then I went to the beauty parlor. Or salon, or whatever they’re calling it these days. I had no sooner sat in the chair, before it all came out. It seems that Gary’s orientation was all a big act for the camera. He was straight, and . . . wait for it . . . he was secretly married. To Gigi Welch.”

Oh, Mrs. June. The secret’s out. But they didn’t hear it from me.

A small nosegay bouquet wasn’t going to make it all better, so I went for a large vase full of gorgeous purple Dendrobium orchids (
love, nobility, beauty
). Not that orchids would make it all better if Mrs. June lost her job over the revelation of Gary and Gigi’s secret marriage. And not that I had anything to do with the word getting out. Unless someone overheard my conversation with Mrs. June and repeated it.

So first thing in the morning, I was marching the flowers up the sidewalk toward the municipal building that housed police headquarters, as well as most other government doings in Ramble, and almost literally ran into Rita Watkins, the mayor’s wife. She burst out the door, letting it close behind her. When we met midway on the sidewalk, we did one of those little dances where you try to get out of the way, but whichever direction you step, the other person steps the same way. After four or five of these side-to-side steps, she brushed past me without a word of greeting or help for the florist struggling with the large arrangement.

I was about to set the vase on the stoop when the door flew open again. This time the mayor rushed out and chased after his wife. He didn’t verbalize a greeting, only a gruff nod, but at least I was able to get an elbow in the door before it closed. Now, why were they in such an all-fired hurry?

Mrs. June buzzed me in and oohed and aahed over the flowers while one of the officers seemed to take forever to gather his equipment from a nearby desk. When he headed out, she leaned closer to me. “Orchids, Audrey? What did I do to merit orchids?” She raised an eyebrow. “Or what did you want me to do? Because there’s not much I wouldn’t do for orchids. Legal, that is.”

“Mrs. June.” My words stuck in my throat. The police department was her whole life. She’d been working there ever since her father was the chief, and I knew she had no plans to retire until they carried her kicking and screaming from the building. I swallowed and tried again. “I don’t know how it happened, because I didn’t tell anybody. But I wanted to give you a heads-up that”—I lowered my voice to a whisper—“word of Gary and Gigi’s marriage is getting around town.”

I studied her face for any look of worry or concern. It was a quick study. She threw her head back and laughed.

“And here I was fretting that it could mean your job!”

“It might have, but the leak has already been discovered and traced. Seems Bixby was so proud of his revelation that he told the mayor.”

“The mayor?”

“Who told his wife. Who mentioned it to half a dozen people. I mean, what good is it to be the mayor’s wife when you can’t deliver dirt every now and then?”

“Is that why Rita and the mayor were running out of here just now?” I asked.

“Oh yeah. Big blowup. I guess someone from the hair salon sold the information to a group of reporters that just arrived—staying at the bed-and-breakfast. A whole ‘undisclosed source close to the investigation’ thing. Now Bixby has egg on his face, and the mayor is doing damage control. I think he’s taking his wife over to the Ashbury to apologize personally to Gigi.”

“That has to be galling.”

A sly smile crept across Mrs. June’s face. “Yes, terrible, isn’t it? Wish I could be a fly on that wall.”

I couldn’t resist a giggle and a dip into her candy jar.

She shook her head. “But I think what’s got the chief so worked up is getting to the crime scene last. He’s the most experienced investigator we have. He’s spitting fire that he wasn’t there earlier.”

“But Lafferty was there first, I guess.”

She shook her head. “Because the chief was guarding the Ashbury so Lafferty could break for lunch. When the call came in, Lafferty rushed straight to the scene of the crime. He contaminated who knows how much evidence in the church bell tower, but the chief was stuck at the Ashbury until he could find someone to replace him. What a mess. He was not a happy camper. He’s been playing catch-up since.”

“So when did Bixby get around to questioning Brad?”

Mrs. June looked at her watch. “About twelve minutes ago.”

“No!”

“Yep. He came in this morning to find Brad sleeping on top of the conference table. Frankly, I think Bixby plumb forgot he was here. He messed up, trying to play like the big boy cops, and he knows it. I think it will end up working in Brad’s favor. His mama and her people are voters, too. You don’t do that to a native son. Not that the chief gets elected directly, understand. He’s appointed by the mayor. And I’ll bet he’s going to get an earful.”

The door to the conference room banged open, and Bixby’s over-friendly voice filled the corridor. “Again, I am so sorry. Not quite sure what happened there, but thanks for voluntarily coming in to give your statement.”

Mrs. June whispered to me. “I bet he threw me under the bus. Like I was supposed to keep reminding him.”

“I’ll set Brad straight. Don’t worry.” I winked.

“Just to be sure, I reminded him twice this morning that he has that Pinkleman kid still at the detention center. But I think they’re letting him go right after breakfast.”

“At least he had a meal and a place to sleep.”

Soon Brad rounded the corner, carrying a coffee with a doughnut balanced on the lid of the thermal mug. His clothes were rumpled, his hair mussed, and he had a double dose of a five o’clock shadow. He looked bedraggled and sleepy-eyed and sweet. Like the Brad I used to know, the struggling videographer living with his mother in a town where not much happened worth taping, not the ambitious young man who dumped me for a career in reality television.

“Audrey, I . . .” He stroked the stubbly growth under his nose as if rubbing it would make it go away. The movement jostled his coffee, sending several drips to the floor.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bixby said. “Our receptionist can clean that up.” He nodded to me. “Miss Bloom.” Then he backed into his office and closed the door.

Mrs. June rolled her eyes.

“I can’t believe you spent the night in the conference room.” I picked up a small stack of napkins from the table housing the department’s coffee, tossed them on the few drips from Brad’s cup, and wiped up the mess with my shoe. “Didn’t he tell you that you were free to go?”

“Apparently he missed that part.” Brad set down his coffee and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “I need a shower and a shave.”

“Would you like me to run you home?” It was only a couple of blocks from the shop to the municipal building, but I’d taken the CR-V to transport the flower arrangement I’d made for Mrs. June.

“Actually, I’m staying at the Ashbury with the crew, but if it’s not too far out of your way, I’d love a ride.”

Soon we were buckled in. I glanced at the clock and decided to make a pit stop back at the shop to pick up the new bouquets for our shoot. I also grabbed my change of clothes and makeup case.

Brad craned his neck when I put the flowers in the back. “I thought you already finished that segment.”

“Not with Henry Easton.”

“Easton’s here? Is he taking over for Gary?”

“Yes, he arrived last night—”

“I’ll bet Gigi and Tristan have been trying to get in touch with me.” He scrubbed his face with his hands. “Bixby kept my phone.”

“Probably because it had Gary’s text on it.”

Brad drained the rest of his mug. “I hope they have coffee out. And something better than this doughnut.” He banged it on the dash. “That’s one thing your boyfriend does well.”

“He does a lot of things well,” I started, then held my tongue.

“Sorry.” He drew in a breath. “I mean it.” He rolled down the window and tossed the doughnut outside.

“Brad—” I started.

“What? It’s biodegradable. Maybe the birds can digest it better than I can.” He smoothed a wrinkle out of his pants. “So what have I missed?” His tone was artificially cheerful. “If Easton’s here, I guess the show’s still on.”

“They made that announcement while you were locked up.”

“I wasn’t locked up.”

“Detained, then,” I said.

“As Bixby explained it, I wasn’t even detained. I was asked to come in for questioning. And stayed there voluntarily.”

“You like sleeping on conference tables, then?”

Brad wagged his eyebrows in a teasing gesture. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

I gripped the steering wheel just a little bit tighter as Lafferty waved me through. We rolled into the Ashbury parking lot past the group of gawkers, which at the moment contained a couple of news crews. I left the CR-V running to keep the flowers cool and fresh, but locked it. And then checked my purse for my extra key, which was thankfully there. I walked with Brad into the inn, with my change of clothes dangling over my arm.

Nick was pouring coffee behind the table and looked up with a smile. Then the smile drooped and he averted his gaze.

I guess my arrival with Brad in such a state didn’t look good. Take that, Mr. Free-to-date-other-people. But that attitude lasted only a split second. I didn’t want Nick thinking Brad and I were back together, so I said good-bye to Brad, who was then surrounded by other members of the crew. I headed over to the table and joined Nick behind it.

“Good morning.” I poured myself a cup of coffee.

“Audrey . . . I.” He sighed. “I guess when I suggested that it would be okay for you to date other people, I didn’t know you’d be so quick about it.”

“Look, I’m not dating . . . Brad spent the night at the police station, sleeping on the conference table.”

“He did?” Nick seemed to enjoy that information a little too much.

I looked around the room. “Has the mayor or his wife made an appearance yet?”

“A few minutes ago,” Nick said. “They found Gigi, then headed to one of the conference rooms and shut the door.”

I nodded.

“What’s that about?” he asked. “Something to do with the murder?”

“Well, I can tell you today, because it’s probably going to be on the news soon. Gigi and Gary were secretly married.”

“Married?”

His outburst turned the heads of several members of the crew, including Brad.

I hushed Nick. “I don’t think the crew knows yet.”

“But that would mean . . .”

“What?”

“It’s just that . . . that Easton fellow did everything but outright say that he and Gary were . . . close. Was that a put-on?”

I shrugged and grabbed a scone.

I was still chewing when the mayor and his wife strode down the hall and directly out the door. Rita was red-faced, but otherwise unreadable. Soon Gigi rounded the corner. When the din in the room didn’t subside, she put two fingers to her mouth and whistled. All eyes turned to her, including a sleepy-looking Easton, who had entered the room and was halfway to the coffee bar.

“I hoped we were done with surprise announcements for a while,” Gigi said, as the group gathered around her.

At the mention of surprise announcements, almost every set of shoulders in the room tensed. The crew had clearly reached their quota of surprises.

“Oh, hey, Brad,” Gigi said. “Nice of you to join us today.”

The group laughed—one of those laughs where nothing may be funny, but a tension-relief valve opens.

“Well, I don’t know how to say it but to say it. Gary and I had a secret, one we kept quiet for the good of the show. He and I were married. Happily so . . .”

The crew shared glances. I wondered if any of them had suspected. As I scanned their faces, I saw one smile flicker, ever so slightly. I studied the young man’s face. Strong, clean-shaven. Blond. His rapt attention was on Gigi.

“But because of the investigation,” Gigi went on, “that fact has become public knowledge. News outlets are going to start reporting on it. But I wanted to be the one to tell you. Gary and I . . .” She stopped to wipe a tear. “Now you understand that I didn’t just lose a co-host and a friend. I’ve lost my soul mate.” She swallowed.

I kept my gaze on the man. His jaw tightened ever so slightly at the words “soul mate,” and the rest of his face turned into a mask. The muscle-bound blond Adonis was obviously part of the crew, but I hadn’t seen him before.

“Please understand,” Gigi continued, “that our little subterfuge was only to forward the business. We love you all and trust you. Only we knew that once the secret got out, it would spread like wildfire, which is what is happening now. I . . .”

For once she didn’t seem to have a closing remark. The last word. She didn’t need to. The crew surged forward and enveloped her in a series of embraces. All except the blond man.

Nick whispered in my ear, “You called that one.”

While Gigi was still surrounded by the crew, Henry Easton walked over to the coffee table, shaking his head. I stuffed the remains of my scone in my pocket.

“Wish I’d seen that coming,” Easton said.

And somehow, his inference that he’d seen Gary in women’s clothing came to mind. Size sixteen.

“The fashion industry must be terribly difficult for a straight man to maneuver.” I chose a conversational tone.

Easton’s gaze caught mine as his shoulders went rigid. He added a lethal dose of artificial sweetener to his coffee before answering. “I suppose. Women who come into my shops, for example. They don’t want a man in the fitting room with them, ogling them, stuffing them into strapless dresses. If the man is gay, however, they don’t seem to care. And then there’s the stigma that straight men don’t know fashion. Perhaps it was convenient for Gary and his career to playact the stereotype.”