Strawberry Tartlets and a Dead Starlet (18 page)

"Why do I get the feeling you're not telling me something, Poppy?" Presley leans against the bathroom door, and his voice travels through the wood as if he was in the room with me.

"Does it matter?" I answer back.

"Of course it matters. I'm in as deep as you."

"So you still think that those strawberry tartlets were meant for you?" I ask. "Even after talking to Raymond?"

"Yes," Presley sighs. "I think so."

"But…" I turn on the shower and attempt to quickly rinse myself off as we're talking.

"But." He pauses. "I do think it's a little odd that Frankie is the one cheating death right now and not me. All this time, I thought the killer would want to finish me off. I sleep with one eye open every night. It's exhausting. I'm not sure what I believe anymore."

"I know that it's frustrating," I reply, drying myself off. I do my best to get dressed as fast as I can in a new pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Despite the looming hurricane, it's still warm and humid outside. "The truth will come out." I take one glance in the mirror and open the bathroom door. Presley almost falls over. "It always does."

It isn't long before Bree returns, and the four of us stand in the lobby weighing our options. Bree nods at me discreetly, which I assume means that there's no sign of Cherie or Muffin. Out the window, I notice the wind shift from a friendly summer breeze to a bitter ocean draft. If the wind is picking up that means the storm is getting closer.

"Presley, I think you should drive Frankie to the storm shelter and wait for us there," I instruct him.

"What about you two?" Presley raises his eyebrows. Frankie shrugs as if leaving us behind is no big deal.

"We'll catch up," Bree assures him.

"Are you sure?" Presley stands firm.

"Yes, we're sure," Bree responds.

"It's fine, Presley. We just have a few things we need to take care of first. That's all."

"In the kitchen," Bree adds, holding up her finger. Her voice wavers slightly. She's a horrible liar.

"We can wait," Presley insists.

"Come on," Frankie chimes in, nudging his arm. "Chances are the storm will bypass here anyway. They usually do."

"I'm not leaving until you tell me what you two are up to," Presley says. "Spit it out or we stand here until the sirens go off."

"You've got to be kidding me." Bree rolls her eyes and takes a step back. "We were almost eaten by alligators, and you're still coming back for more? Just go. We'll fill you in later."

Presley looks to me for approval. I nod, knowing that four people are more likely to get caught than two. Reluctantly, Presley heads for the door. Frankie trails along behind him, and Bree exhales loudly.

"Let's get this over with," Bree mutters.

"Agreed."

Cherie's office is near the kitchen, but I've only seen it a handful of times. The door is usually shut, and Cherie spends most of her time in the lobby or inspecting bedrooms. Hattie Mae uses the office as her own personal lounge when she visits the inn. The rest of the time, the office is empty.

Bree runs her hand over the door as if all of our answers might be waiting just inside. She tries the doorknob, but just as we both suspected, it's locked. I shrug and jiggle the doorknob, but it still won't budge.

"You don't happen to have a spare key, do you?" I ask.

"I looked through all the drawers at reception, and I couldn't find anything," Bree responds. "I was hoping you could just work your magic?"

"And what magic is that?" I shake my head. "Does this room have a window?"

"I think so." Bree reaches into her pocket and hands me a credit card. I wrinkle my nose.

"I think now is hardly the time for—"

"It's for the door," she interrupts me. "Hey, it works in the movies."

I stare at the hunk of plastic. The credit card trick is one that I've actually seen done before, but not by me. A fellow classmate named Cole used it once to help me break into our instructor's office.
Long story
. If only Cole was here now. There are times when I wish he was.

"Fine, I'll try it." I jam the card in between the door and the door frame. It's a lot harder than Cole made it look. I attempt to slide the plastic so that it presses down the lock. Bree is right. This works in the movies, but it doesn't work in real life. At least not for me.

"Darn it," Bree mutters.

"Maybe this is a sign?"

"Yes, a sign that we're unprepared," Bree agrees.

"Maybe it's a sign that we're looking in the wrong place?"

"Where else would Cherie be hiding something?" Bree asks. "Her house? She barely spends time there. No. If anything fishy is going on, the evidence has to be on the other side of this door."

"More theories." I hand her the card, disappointed. "None of this actually matters unless we find some hard evidence."

My stomach leaps as a hand nudges me out of the way. Presley waltzes up right behind us and doesn't hesitate to force the office door open the same way he had the morning of Lacy Leigh's death. With one loud thud, the office comes into view.

"You're welcome," Presley responds. He gestures towards the door.

"Where's Frankie?" I let Bree enter the office first.

"She went on ahead of me. You didn't really think I was just going to leave you two here on your own, did you?" A discouraging expression crosses his face.

"I guess not." I try not to smile.

"Hey, guys," Bree calls. "Take a look at this."

Cherie's office looks the way I expect it to. All the furniture is white, and the walls are the color seafoam. There's a spot for everything at her desk. There's even a treat jar stocked with snacks just for Muffin. Bree is standing next to a shredder. She pulls out tiny strips of paper and squints in order to read them.

"Garbage?" I question her.

"What does that look like to you?" Bree hands me a tiny strip of paper. It's too narrow to make out any words, but the top of the paper has a piece of a colorful logo that jogs my memory.

"I'm drawing a blank." I hand the paper back. "Look, we could just take it all with us and piece it back together, but that would take days. It's probably just private customer information or something."

"But those colors," Bree continues. "They look like the logo from that rental place next to the airport. You and I had to rent a car when we first got here, remember?"

"Give me that." I stare at the strip of paper again. Sure, the colors match from what I can tell. But it's still impossible to know for sure.

"If this is what I think it is then…" Bree's eyes go wide as she turns on the computer.

"Then Cherie could've been driving that car that almost hit Frankie," I conclude.

"Exactly." Bree begins typing at the computer.

"Doesn't Cherie also arrange transportation for lots of your guests?" Presley points out.

"He's got a point," I respond.

"Password," Bree mutters. "Password. Password. Password." Bree glances around the office and tries a few password combinations.

"Try
Muffin
," I tease.

Bree types it in as fast as she can. My jaw drops when the screen changes to a cluttered home screen. A portrait of Cherie and Muffin sitting together on a fancy armchair makes up the background. I wrinkle my nose.

"Cherie and Muffin," I mutter. "Now there's a relationship I'll never understand."

"Check the security footage from the night of the murder," Presley suggests. "That'll tell us all we need to know."

Bree searches the desktop until she finds a folder with archived security footage. She skims through the dates and chooses the night Lacy Leigh was murdered. A view of the lobby pops up, as well as a view of the back patio and side door. The only places cameras were installed were at each entry point on the main level. Bree speeds through a day worth of movement.

"Nothing," Bree comments. "No one leaving. No one new entering the hotel."

"Exactly." I fold my arms. "No sign of Millie's big brother, Dave. The police definitely have the wrong guy."

"But the paper said they found all sorts of evidence in his apartment." Bree shrugs.

"It could have been planted," I suggest.

"Hang on a second." Presley leans in closer to the computer screen. He points to an empty folder in the corner. "Why is everything on here labeled except this one?"

"No idea." Bree attempts to click on it, but another password pop-up appears. Bree tries a variety of different combinations, but none of them work. "Think she'd be dumb enough to use
Muffin
again?"

"Try it," I respond.

Bree tries it, but shakes her head when the word
Muffin
still doesn't work.

"What does Cherie love just as much as that cat?" I throw the question out there. Bree and I glance at each other, undoubtedly arriving at the same conclusion.
Hattie Mae
.

"Hattie Mae's birthday," Bree comments. "I'll never forget that cherry-chip sponge with almond icing." Bree types a few things and takes a deep breath when she's finally able to crack the code.

The screen changes, and more security footage appears.

But something is off.

"What?" Bree gasps.

The three of us glance at each other, unsure of what we're looking at. Bree plays a video of the two of us setting up cupcakes in the dining room. But there's no camera in the dining room. None that I'm aware of anyway. Shivers move up and down my spine. A strange feeling creeps over me—the kind I get when I feel like someone's watching me.

Bree plays another video of a guest stealing bars of soap from Frankie's housekeeping cart. The sight of it gives me goose bumps. There are no cameras upstairs. According to what I've been told, this footage shouldn't exist.

"I can't believe this," Bree exclaims. "Cherie has hidden cameras all around the inn. How come we've never noticed this?"

"That's the point of a hidden camera," Presley chimes in.

"But where was this filmed?" Bree points at the footage in front of her. "How is it possible to install a hidden camera in the middle of a hallway?"

"Maybe the camera is hidden in the wall somewhere?" I suggest. But the more I look at Cherie's computer, the more my stomach churns like I've eaten a bad slice of custard pie.

"Just see if you can find anything around the time Lacy was murdered." Presley waits eagerly as Bree sifts through more footage—each video as spine-chilling as the next. It seems that Cherie has eyes all around the inn. Some instances even go as far as inside the guest rooms.

"Here's one." Bree pauses and plays footage from the night Lacy Leigh was murdered.

My heart pounds as I watch Presley's story play out on the screen. The footage shows Lacy at Presley's door. The two of them argue, and eventually Presley retreats to Lacy's room, and Lacy closes the door to Presley's room.

"I think someone else knew about the room swap," I say quietly.

"But…" Presley rubs his eyes and stares at the screen again, as if the security footage can't be real. "How? I saw nothing. I heard nothing."

"I guess it's true what they say in town," Bree comments. "Detective Sugars can be bought with a hot plate of biscuits and gravy. How could his team have missed something like this?"

"Because they weren't looking for it," I answer.

Presley takes a deep breath and paces around the office collecting his thoughts. He rubs his eyes again before nodding and dashing out into the hallway. Bree looks at me—wide-eyed. She turns off the computer, jumping to her feet.

"He's gone crazy," she mutters.

We follow Presley through the lobby, and up the main staircase. Wind taps on the windows, and this time it isn't as friendly. The sky is grayer than usual outside, and the palm trees out front are bending in the harsh, stormy wind.

Presley paces next to the door of his former guest room. He glances up and down the hall looking for signs of a hidden camera. His only options are a decorative table with a vase of magnolias and the wall. Presley dismantles the vase, flower by flower, and then proceeds to searching every inch of the wooden display table. He grunts, unable to find what he's looking for.

Next Presley moves to the walls. He knocks on section after section, but it doesn't help any. Presley grunts again as he hits the wall a little harder. My stomach churns as I think of what Presley might do when he discovers that there's no hidden camera anywhere near his former quarters.
Please, don't punch a hole in the wall.

"What does she do? Hide the camera in different spot every day?" Presley shouts out in frustration.

"I suppose now would be a bad time to tell you to relax?" I question.

"And I guess now is a bad time to point out I was right?" Bree adds. "If Cherie knew about the room swap—"

"Then she would have known where to send her poison tartlets," I finish. "But do you really think Cherie would risk it all just to stop Lacy Leigh from building a luxury resort right around the corner?"

"Magnolia Harbor is her life," Bree replies. "She said so the very first day we met her."

"But if Cherie is the killer, then that means she's the one after Frankie," I conclude. I gulp. "Presley, are you sure Frankie went straight to the storm shelter?"

"How should I know?" Presley attempts to cool himself off.

"Cherie isn't here either," Bree points out. "You don't think…"

Bree's suspicions aren't far from my own. If Cherie left the inn before us, she was definitely in a hurry. In a hurry to seek safety, or in a hurry to complete a task she can't seem to finish?

"We've got to find Frankie," I shout.

A violent wind slams the front door, grabbing our attention. High heels clang across the lobby floor, and the three of us slink out of sight as Cherie parades through reception. I cover my mouth to keep myself quiet. Bree does the same, but the sound of her heavy breathing only escalates when a disheartening sound fills the sky.

The storm sirens are blazing.

It's here.

Presley jumps into action. My chest tightens as I force myself to follow instructions to move away from the windows. But I can't help but stare at the giant waves on the beach. They tear into the sand like seagulls after a trash bag. The sight is both beautiful and horrifying.