Strawberry Tartlets and a Dead Starlet (4 page)

"Thank you," he breathes. "I don't want to sit around and hope I'm wrong. I have no clue where to even start."

"You can start by telling us everything Lacy Leigh did yesterday," Bree says, weaving herself back into the conversation.

"That's going to be a tricky one," he confesses. "There were a lot of things she hid from me. You know, since I wasn't one of her regulars."

"Have you ever deveined shrimp before?" Bree asks.

"What are we making?" I observe the collection of ingredients on the counter.

"Since Gilly doesn't seem to have anything prepared, I thought we could go with something simple and Southern." She takes a deep breath. "Po'boys and Cajun fries."

Presley raises his eyebrows.

"Are you sure that's gourmet enough for Cherie?" My eyes dart to the amount of potatoes Bree is placing next to the stove. "Remember when she called your old-fashioned sugar cookies a catawampus plate of disaster because the sprinkles weren't evenly distributed?"

"We're not feeding Cherie. We're feeding cops."

"Good point," I agree. "In that case, start the fryer."

A tray crashes to the floor as Frankie enters the kitchen. She smooths her hair when she sees Presley washing dishes. The three of us had managed to pull off lunch for fifteen people in record time, and there was still no sign of Gilly. Frankie loosens the bun on her head, letting dark curls frame the sides of her face.

"Oh, I didn't know you were in here," Frankie says as she observes Presley's dishwashing skills.

"Just trying to be useful," he responds.

"Wait." I study the two of them. "You two know each other?"

"We met yesterday morning when I brought Lacy her breakfast," Frankie replies.

"Of course." I pick up the tray she knocked over and wipe it clean. "Lunch is ready to be served. Bring Mr. Wheeler his lunch first before he has a meltdown on the internet."

"Oh, that's the least of his problems right now." Frankie smiles. My eyes fixate on the scratches on her wrists. Scrapes she attempted to hide when I had asked about them. "Haven't you heard the latest?"

"We've been in the kitchen all morning," Bree points out, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead. Running a fryer on a hot summer day is like being baked in a giant oven.

"Mr. Wheeler went on a rampage along the beach not too long ago," Frankie informs us. "Something about having everyone arrested for trespassing or something like that? Anyway, he's been going on about that nest of sea turtles he found, saying that swarms of people are going to delay the babies from hatching. He's threatening to have all the photographers arrested."

"He can do that?" I ask, knowing that, if he could pull it off, Mr. Wheeler would be saving Cherie the trouble.

"I guess he can if any of them breach the turtle nest," Frankie answers. "He's not in his room."

"Okay, then start with the Masons," Bree continues.

"Sure." Frankie giggles. "Those two haven't left their room all day. I doubt they even know what's been going on. Newlyweds."

"Good." Bree arranges her lunchtime special on a large serving tray. "Then they won't mind a casual lunch since Gilly isn't here to make his specialty blackened grouper."

"I'm on it." Frankie snags the first tray and promptly leaves the kitchen as Bree arranges serving platters to be placed in the dining room for practically half of the police department.

"You know, I was surprised when Frankie and Lacy Leigh seemed to hit it off yesterday," Presley comments. "The two of them talked like old friends."

"Lacy Leigh grew up here," I remark. "It's possible that they already knew each other from their school days."

"Which points to the fact that there's a town full of people with motives," Bree says. "The police have their hands full."

"Unless she was murdered on accident," Presley argues.

"Okay." Bree wipes her hands on her apron. "Why don't you start by telling us everything that happened? Start with breakfast the day before yesterday."

"I ate at my hotel in Dallas," he answers. "Scrambled eggs, sausage, bacon, two pieces of burnt toast, a bagel…"

"You still eat like a college football player?" I blurt out. "How are you not three hundred pounds?"

"It's a gift." Presley shrugs.

"A gift that middle age will steal from you," Bree mutters.

"Anyway," Presley continues. "I met Lacy Leigh in Dallas, and I flew with her to New Orleans. She met with a few people. Meetings from what I understood, but all I did was monitor the entryways. From what I saw, she stayed in her hotel room all night, and we left before sunup to come here on Saturday morning."

"Right," I respond. "Gilly made a fuss about his eggs Benedict with brioche."

"Frankie delivered breakfast," Presley goes on. "And then Lacy Leigh said she wanted to go visit her aunt who lives in town and that she didn't need my services."

"How long was she gone?" Bree asks.

"She missed lunch," he clarifies. Bree raises her eyebrows.

"But Gilly made her a portion," Bree adds. "He was adamant about using the good silver."

"Yeah." Presley flashes her a twisted smirk. "I ate it."

"But Gilly made you a tray too," she points out.

"I ate that too," Presley confesses.

I cover my mouth to stop myself from laughing. The look on Bree's face is priceless. She looks at Presley as if he had just smashed a dozen perfectly good chocolate cakes for no reason.

"
Men
," Bree huffs. "I really don't understand them."

"Lacy was back by dinnertime, right?" I ask. "Or did you eat on her behalf again?"

"No, she had come back by then." Presley glances down at his loafers. "But that's when the paranoia that someone was stalking her set in. Eventually I gave in, and we switched rooms for the night."

"Was that before or after Frankie brought up the tea and tartlets?" I ask.

"Minutes before, I'd say," Presley answers. "The trays were left by the door."

"As is the nighttime policy, so as not to disturb the guests," Bree cuts in. "Cherie usually checks each hallway before closing up every night."

"See what I mean?" Presley grabs a spare fry from a serving dish. "No one knew
I
was in Lacy's room except Lacy."

"Jump back to the paranoia part." I glance down the hallway, watching for Frankie's return. "Did Lacy Leigh tell you
who
she thought was stalking her or
why
?"

"She never said a name," Presley replies. "All she said was that someone told her to leave town, and she felt as though her life was in danger."

"But according to Cherie, Lacy Leigh was supposed to be here a week," Bree states. "Do you really think she would've changed her plans so suddenly?"

"I guess we'll never know." Presley shakes his head.

"Why was Lacy here in the first place?" It's a question I'd been wondering since she first showed up at the beginning of the year.

"Beats me," Presley answers. "I don't ask questions. I just do my job. Maybe her usual body guard, Chance
The Hammer
Munrow, knows why? I assumed it was to see family or something."

"Sounds like we've got a lot of studying to do," I comment. "And I know just the person who can tell us the latest gossip around town. He's lived here his whole life."

Footsteps jog toward us, and Frankie enters the kitchen with a wide smile on her face. She grabs the serving tray nearest to her and pauses. Bree takes a deep breath.

"What is it?" she asks.

"The Masons really know how to have a good time," she giggles. "That's all I'm saying."

"Well, then it's a miracle they answered the door at all." Bree places a hand on her hip. "Now check Mr. Wheeler's room, and make sure he hasn't snuck back in for lunch. Then you can help us lay out the spread for Detective Sugars and all of his men."

"Cherie has really gone out of her way to butter them all up, hasn't she?" Frankie murmured.

Frankie jumped suddenly, nearly dropping her tray. A faint jingle echoes through the room as Muffin enters the kitchen unannounced. Frankie's expression goes sour. Like Bree, Muffin keeps a close eye on her too when she's cleaning the rooms upstairs.

"And this would be?" Presley stares as Muffin does a complete walk-through.

"Muffin," I say quietly. "She thinks she's the manager around here." Muffin's beady eyes look up at me. "She's Cherie's cat, and don't let her catch you out of bed after hours."

"There you are, my sweetheart." Cherie makes kissing noises as she enters the kitchen. Her light-blonde hair is perfectly in place, and her cream-colored blouse is wrinkle-free. There are times when her fair complexion and innocent, southern stare reminds me of her mother Hattie Mae. Then Cherie opens her mouth. Her looks may be as sweet as honey, but her words are usually bitter. "Mama has been looking for you."

Muffin runs to her owner.

"Ma'am," Frankie whispers as she quickly exits the room to check on Mr. Wheeler.

"What's going on in here?" Cherie examines Bree's impromptu lunch idea.

"Lunch is served," Bree responds.

Cherie strolls to the nearest counter and picks up a heavily seasoned french fry.

"Hmmm." She takes a tiny bite, leaving zero indication on her face as to whether or not she approves. "I guess this will have to do. Bring the food out, and then you girls can have some time off before dinner. But do keep in mind that Detective Sugars wants us all to stay within city limits."

"No problem," I agree.

Cherie scoops up Muffin and gently strokes her fur as she leaves the kitchen. Bree breathes a sigh of relief. I run my fingers through my ponytail. The fresh ocean air will do us all good, and I'm itching to start digging into Lacy Leigh's past. Maybe Bree and I can figure out who Lacy was so scared of?

"Coffee anyone?" I suggest.

"If it's
iced
coffee, I'm in," Presley answers.

*   *   *

The three of us are dressed like tourists. Bree is wearing her usual sun hat, and even in a Hawaiian shirt, Presley still looks like a Greek statue. I adjust my sunglasses as the three of us stroll down Gator Bay's Main Street filled with shops and places to eat—a portion of which lies next to a boardwalk.

"I had no idea you even owned a shirt like that," I say.

"A friend gave it to me as a joke." He runs his hands over the brightly colored tropical design.

"The joke's on him, I guess."

"Is it always this crowded?" Presley comments as a stranger bumps his arm in passing. The afternoon sun beats down on us, and my skin feels damp as though I've just jumped out of the shower.

"Only when the famous Lacy Leigh is in town," I reply.

Our walk into town wasn't a peaceful one. Cars and cameramen were lined up for blocks. Every news station in the area was on site trying to get the latest on Lacy Leigh Nichols. Word of her passing has spread, and I'd never before heard the phone at Magnolia Harbor Inn and Spa ring off the hook.

It'll only get worse.

"Why don't we just keep walking and never go back?" I tease.

"Because this boardwalk runs into a marsh," Bree responds. She grabs a tube of sunblock from her purse and slathers her arms in yet another layer.

"Would you rather make Cherie's wedding cake or end up as gator bait?" I joke. "This is all hypothetical, of course. I bet it's been years since Cherie has been out on a date."

"Is this a trick question?" Bree finishes rubbing sunblock into her hands and arms before eyeing an ice cream shop up ahead with a giant vanilla cone displayed on the roof.

"Ice cream before five?" I smile, knowing that sweets are her weakness in times like these. Either eating sweets or baking them.

"A girl can window shop, can't she?" Bree forcefully looks away. "I need more seashells." Since exchanging her habit of nervous baking for collecting beads, Bree tends to be more irritable than usual. Part of me wonders how long the bracelet making and seashell hunting can replace the pure satisfaction that comes with pulling a warm batch of cupcakes from the oven.

"Women and diets," Presley comments.

"Excuse me?" Bree's cheeks are rosy, but I don't think it's from the sun. "I am
not
on a diet. I'm simply trying to clean up my act. One sweet is better for me than three. But then again, I wouldn't expect you to understand. You eat everything in sight." Bree lifts her chin. A result of her new healthy initiative is that she's less curvy. But I miss the late-night cookie tests and her previous hobby she used to call Frankensweets.
I could really use a brookie right about now
.

"Not everything." Presley chuckles.

"If I ate as much as you do, you would have to
roll
me down the street," Bree says with confidence.

"How about we sit down for a bit." I lead the two of them to the tiniest fish and chips shack on the block called Amberjack's, mostly because I'm hoping to run into a local who might be able to help us. I take a seat next to a fan. Mist blows from the roof of the little shack, and the shade is a welcome friend this time of day, whether we're sitting indoors or outdoors.

"Ice water, please." Bree orders first, catching the attention of a man sitting near the other end of the food stand.

Archy grins when he sees me. Since I first started walking the beach every morning, I've always passed Archy with his fishing pole. Before long, I made it a point to always say hi. Now it seems that my neighborly efforts might do me some good.

"Archy," I call to him. "Did you catch anything this morning?"

"Nothin'," he answers. His hair looks like he went for swim even though the red flag is waving again today.

"Poppy," Bree whispers, "how did you know Archy would be here?"

"Dave gives him his yesterday's fish," I answer. "Archy told me once."

"Y'all heard the commotion in town?" Dave, owner of Amberjack's, brings out a basket of battered and fried fish. He hands it to Archy.

"Those two work at Magnolia Harbor," Archy says as he points to Bree and me. "If anyone knows the scuttlebutt, it's them."