Strawberry Tartlets and a Dead Starlet (19 page)

"Downstairs," Presley mutters. "Now."

"But Cherie," Bree argues. "She's—"

"You're going to have to pick your poison," Presley cuts her off. "Besides, Cherie doesn't know that we know anything."

The storm sirens make it hard for me to think. My brain keeps jumping to jaw-dropping scenes of houses being destroyed by tidal waves and trees being ripped from the ground like they're being picked from Mother Nature's vegetable garden.

A window shatters somewhere on the second floor, and it's enough to change Bree's mind. The noise of breaking glass echoes through my head until I can't think straight. I have to get somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe from the looming hurricane headed our way. I speed down the staircase and wait for Presley to lead us to the safest room on the property.

A conservative storage closet is Presley's first choice.

But it is otherwise occupied.

The three of us freeze—seeing the unconscious figure of Frankie. She's all tied up. I'm the first one to check for a pulse. I breathe a sigh of relief when I feel a faint heartbeat. Frankie is alive, which means that our worst fears are true.

Cherie is the killer, and she's somewhere in the inn.

The wind roars outside. The storm sirens are still blaring through the city, and Presley picks up Frankie and attempts to wake her up. Her eyes slowly open, but close again just as quickly. It's as if she wants to be awake, but can't seem to find the strength.

The three of us drop to the ground when debris hits the side of the hotel. It sounds like two cars colliding only feet away from us. I instinctively cover my head. All four of us won't fit in the storage closet. Presley nudges Bree and me until we're snuggly inside. He tries again to wake up Frankie, but he's faced with the same results. Frankie opens an eye and then sleepily closes it again.

"Sleeping pills are made of powerful stuff," a voice says in the distance. I clench my fists as Cherie approaches us from the other end of the hallway. I don't know whether to be afraid of her or the hurricane that could possibly tear the roof apart at any given moment. "Put her down."

"I'm calling the cops," Presley responds—a stern look on his face.

"Go ahead. They're all taking cover right about now. You'll have to wait until the storm passes before an officer will be able to get here." Cherie chuckles. Her usual, upbeat business-like tone of voice has disappeared. I'm not sure I know the Cherie looking back at me. First of all, she doesn't seem threatened by Presley's size. Not to mention, she seems to care little about the chaos swirling around outside.

"What have you done to her?" I leave the safety of the closet. My heart is pounding so fast, and I'm so anxious that I'm sweating. Regardless, I touch Frankie's forehead, pleased that she isn't ice cold.

"What do you care?" Cherie replies as if we're discussing menu options.

"This isn't funny, Cherie." I gulp, but having Presley by my side gives me strength. At least there are three of us and only one Cherie. "What did you give her?"

"Relax, she'll be fine." Cherie fixes a strand of hair that is out of place.

Another rumble blasts through the wind outside, and this time, mist flows through the broken window. A downpour of rain splatters the roof. It's difficult for me to hear anything else. With another gust of wind, flying debris cracks another window. I fall to the floor as it shatters, letting in more rain.

When I look up again, Cherie is gone.

"We're not safe here," Presley shouts over the sound of howling wind.

"What?" Bree shouts. She's practically curled up in a ball in the closet.

"The kitchen," I reply.

"Huh?" Presley shouts.

"Come on." I shout as loud as I can, but I can barely hear my own voice. I duck down low as I run down the hallway and toward the kitchen. The storage pantry will be big enough for the four of us, and it's completely free of windows and large furniture.

My eyes dart from corner to corner, hoping that I don't see Cherie's face glaring back at me. Rain hits the side of my face, and I see that various pieces of artwork have been shaken from the walls. I push aside debris and soldier on. When the kitchen is in sight, I make a run for it.

The storage pantry is partially stocked with dried goods and baking equipment. Nothing as dangerous as flying shards of glass. When Bree, Presley, and Frankie are all inside, I slam the door shut. The enclosure offers us a degree of silence. Presley sets Frankie down on the floor and instantly stands guard at the door.

"Frankie," I say, shaking Frankie's shoulders. "Frankie, can you hear me?" Frankie's head rolls to the side and her foot twitches.

"Maybe she'll pull out of it?" Bree says quietly. Her gaze falls on Presley. "You should never have let her go off on her own."

"How was I supposed to know that Cherie would sink her manicured claws into her?" Presley argues.

"Well, now we know you were wrong." Bree nods. "Lacy Leigh really was meant to die. Not you."

The three of us sit and wait. Bree watches Frankie intensely, focusing on the rising and falling of her petite chest, rather than paying attention to the ruckus outside. Rain pours even harder, and there's no doubt in my mind that Magnolia Harbor will have some cleaning up to do before it reopens. That is, if Cherie doesn't turn the inn into another crime scene.

The more time passes, the more my thoughts stop spinning out of control. Somehow Cherie knew about Lacy's plans to open a rival business. Cherie also knew Lacy Leigh's exact movements, including everything she requested from the kitchen. Poisoning those strawberry tartlets must have been easy for her.

I sit quietly for what feels like hours until the howling wind dies down. The rain clears up, and the sound of debris hitting the walls outside fades away. Frankie rolls her head again. She slowly opens her eyes, but has trouble recognizing her surroundings. She opens her mouth to speak, but has trouble mustering the words.

"Frankie," Bree shouts. "Frankie, blink once if you can hear me."

Frankie lets out a sigh.

"She needs fresh air," Presley replies. He opens the door just a crack, assessing the damage in the kitchen. "I think the storm has passed." Sunlight pours through the pantry as Presley opens the door wider. Kitchen equipment is scattered on the floor, and a table in the corner is overturned.

Bree and I do our best to help Frankie stand, but she's weak. She falls forward as soon as she attempts to take a step. Bree and I carry her out into the kitchen, but Presley stops us in our path.

Cherie is back, and this time, her weapon of choice is a handgun.

"Does your mother know about this?" Even in the face of death, Bree is still concerned with Hattie Mae's feelings. The two of us lean Frankie up against the counter as Presley eyes the gun in Cherie's hand. If Presley gets close enough, he might have a chance at disarming her.

"My mama would be proud of what I've done to keep this place running," Cherie responds. "She gave up everything she had to open Magnolia Harbor, and I'll do whatever it takes to make sure her sacrifices weren't wasted."

"Even kill a country music star?" I add.

"From the first moment that girl set foot in this town, I knew she was up to no good." Cherie clenches her jaw. "But of course, Lacy Leigh snaps her fingers and everyone in Gator Bay rolls out the red carpet, including my own mama."

"You followed her," I accuse. Cherie was jealous, suspicious, and paranoid. I think back to the moment Presley told me about Lacy Leigh's stalker. Lacy was right. She was being tracked and followed, but not by her old high school gawker. "Lacy Leigh was onto you. She knew she was being followed."

"If I hadn't, half the town would be run out of business, and the other half would end up working at that awful monstrosity she called a resort. I did some digging after her first visit to the swamps. It didn't make sense that she'd come all the way here after all this time just to visit a sad, old relative. When I found a copy of the paperwork in her guest room, it was enough to make me gag."

"You didn't have to kill her," I blurt out. My mind jumps to the hundreds of other ways Cherie could have handled the problem, including exposing Lacy's plans to the entire town. Though I doubt that would have scored brownie points with the out-of-town crowd.

"Oh, what do you know?" she snaps at me. "You're just a pastry chef and an average one at best."

"Take that back." Bree intervenes in my defense. "Poppy is an excellent chef. In fact, when the two of us leave, I doubt you'll ever find such a dynamic duo."

"I agree." Cherie points the barrel of her gun at me. "Both of you are past your expiration dates. The only thing holding me back from firing you is mama."

"At least one of you has good taste," Presley mutters.

"Shut up." Cherie points her gun at Presley instead. "Don't even get me started on you. You're the worst security guard ever, letting Lacy Leigh go and do as she pleased. If you had any common sense, you would have realized your every move was being watched."

"I wonder how many bookings you'll lose when word gets out that you have hidden cameras everywhere in the hotel," Presley responds.

"No one will find out if I can help it." Cherie takes a step closer to him—her gun held steady.

"Is that why Frankie can hardly walk?" I comment, pulling her attention away from him.

"Frankie is the only one out there who knows that Lacy was planning something, aside from Raymond, the old gator hermit. I'll deal with him later." Cherie directs her gun back at me, and my stomach jumps. "I can't have anything floating through town that could get back at the inn. That's why I had no choice but to get rid of Frankie too. I tried, anyway."

"So you were there that night on the dinner cruise," I respond. I think of the splashing and sudden screaming by panicked guests. Frankie was lucky that she wasn't lost in the ocean. "And you were the one who tried to hit her with a rental car."

"Bravo, Poppy." Cherie doesn't even bother to crack a smile. "You would make a better investigator than Detective Sugars. It doesn't take much to butter him up."

"Only a fully catered meal," I answer.

"I still don't understand how you managed to find out about Lacy Leigh's and my room swap." Presley scratches his chin, paying little attention to the deadly weapon aimed straight at him. "I really thought those tartlets were meant for me."

"Another fun, little twist." Cherie smirks as if the whole situation were some kind of game.

Frankie opens her mouth and attempts to mumble something. I'm relieved to see that she's conscious, but I can't say for sure if she'll make it out alive this time. I don't know if any of us will.

"It's okay," Bree says, trying to soothe her.

"For heaven's sake, it's just a sedative," Cherie chimes in. "You three were supposed to find her here after the hurricane was over with a nasty blow to the head. You should have just stayed out of it." Cherie rolls her eyes the way I've seen her do many times before. Once when I denied Muffin entrance to my bedroom.

Muffin went everywhere that Cherie went, except for today.

My eyes go wide.

It's Muffin.

"Muffin," I mutter.

"What about her?" Cherie frowns as if I'm speaking ill of Hattie Mae. "She's with mama right now. Safe and snug."

"I would expect no lesser treatment for your partner in crime," I say loudly. I grab Bree and Presley's attention immediately.

"What are you hinting at?" Cherie keeps a scowl on her face. The subject of her dear cat Muffin is definitely a sore spot. I wonder if she would even turn herself into the police in exchange for Muffin's guaranteed safety.

"I'm saying you made Muffin do all the dirty work—roaming around, following everyone around the property," I explain. "The camera must be hidden in her collar somewhere. That's how you seem to know everything going on at the inn."

"Someone's got to," she confesses.

"No wonder that cat gives me the creeps," Bree utters out loud.

"Quiet," Cherie yells, pointing the gun at Bree and then back at me. "All of you just be quiet!"

"Put the gun down, Cherie." Presley takes a step toward her with his hands raised. My heart soars like a seagull scouring the beach for its supper. "You don't want to do this."

"Don't I?" Cherie aims her gun right at Presley.

"There's no way you can shoot all four of us and come off clean," he points out. "Think about the inn. Think about your mother. This isn't what she would want."

"She wants this place to succeed!" Cherie shouts.

"It
is
succeeding," I add. "We haven't gone a day without business since I arrived. Besides, you can't shoot us. Think of the mess it'll leave in here."

"I'm quite handy with a scrub brush," Cherie announces. "Much handier than Frankie, anyway."

"Cherie, put down the gun." Presley tries again to talk some sense into her. He fearlessly takes another step in her direction, causing the expression on Cherie's face to change to something much more serious. She grits her teeth—her eyes as wild as the hurricane that just passed over us.

Cherie is going to shoot him.

"Presley," I blurt out.

"It's okay, Poppy." Presley ignores my warning. "We're going to sort this all out."

"Yes," Cherie agrees. "Yes, we are."

Cherie fires her gun, and the sound pierces through my eardrums worse than one of Gilly and Ford's shouting matches. My first instinct is to drop to the floor, but I force myself to watch as Presley falls to the floor. He cries out in pain, clutching the wound on his shoulder.

High heels clang through the lobby as Cherie scurries away. A gun is more powerful than poison. I rush to Presley's side—old feelings are regurgitating back up, and I can't stop them. Maybe Presley really was the guy I met on the Oregon Coast all those years ago? The one who refused to see the faults in people.

"Presley," I gasp. I force myself to take deep breaths. The look on Presley's face is worse than seeing Lacy Leigh lifeless on the floor that horrible Saturday morning. "Presley, say something."