Polished Off (10 page)

“When did you last see her alive?”

Stella thought for a moment. “About half an hour before the talent show started, maybe? She walked past my room with one of the girls and her mother. They seemed to be arguing.”

“Mrs. Metzger, I’ll bet,” I said.

The look Dillon gave me said he didn’t want my input. “Any idea how your nail file ended up in Ms. Faye’s neck?” he asked.

Stella gasped and a hand went to her own neck. “No! I mean, I left all my stuff in the room before I went out to watch the show. I didn’t lock the door or anything—it’s not like we had keys—so anyone could have . . .”

“Any idea who did?”

“No!” Stella seemed appalled at the thought.

“You went out to watch the talent show . . . then what?”

The
snick-snick
of the purse clasp opening and closing came faster. “My husband . . . I met up with my husband, Darryl, and we went for a drive. Just around, you know, talking.”

Dillon nodded. “And later? Where were you when my officers came to your house about ten thirty?”

“At my mom’s,” Stella whispered.

“You spent the night there?” Dillon kept his voice neutral.

“Yes. Jessica—my daughter—and I have been staying there for a couple of weeks.”

“And your husband?”

“He was at the house.”

Dillon shook his head. “No one’s been at the house.”

“Then where’s Darryl?” Stella asked, leaning forward. Her purse tumbled off her lap, spilling its contents. “Oh, no!” She bent and began trying to shovel wallet, lipsticks, coins, and other purse detritus into the bag.

“Let me,” I said, gently nudging Stella upright. I dropped to my knees and patted the carpet in search of stray coins.

“You haven’t been in touch with your husband?” Dillon asked. I couldn’t see his face, but I heard the skepticism in his voice.

“I tried to call his cell,” Stella said, “but he hasn’t answered. Where could he be?”

She looked at me as I straightened, her face tight with worry. I put the purse back in her lap and squeezed her hand before reseating myself.

“That would be the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, wouldn’t it?” Dillon said. “Especially since I understand he had a relationship with Ms. Faye. A sexual relationship.”

Stella jumped two inches, dumping the purse off her lap again. She started to cry and I glared at Dillon. He didn’t have to hit Stella with it out of the blue like that. I stood to put my arms around Stella, hugging her and the chair awkwardly. Something from the purse made a crunching sound under my foot and I saw I’d pulverized a plastic container of breath mints. Drat.

“You don’t have to answer any more questions,” I told Stella. I’d learned a thing or two about legal procedure while married to Hank. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

Stella lifted her tear-blotched face to look at Dillon, who sat calmly behind his desk. I wondered how many years it took to become insulated to the violent human emotions—fear, anger, grief—that cops encounter almost daily. And what cost did that deliberate damping of sensitivity carry? A crow flew past the window, casting a shadow that obscured Dillon’s eyes for a moment.

“H-how did you know?” Stella asked.

She sniffed and I hunted on the floor for the packet of tissues that had spilled from the purse. She took it and blew her nose on a tissue, her gaze never leaving Dillon’s face.

“A witness mentioned it,” Dillon said. “When and how did you find out about the affair?”

I gave him credit for effective interviewing technique; startled by the way he divulged his knowledge of the affair, Stella had lost her opportunity to play dumb and say, “What affair?”

Stella squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. “Ten days ago.” She told him about Darryl’s confession and said he’d been planning to break up with Audrey. I didn’t detect even a hint of doubt in her voice.

“But he didn’t?” Dillon pushed.

“No. It was too chaotic last night. He was going to tell her today. Then, well, we were going to talk again.” Stella’s lips tightened and I could see the hurt in her eyes, but she had control of herself again. “I don’t know where we stand right now.” Her pain and confusion were almost palpable.

I thought I caught a hint of sympathy in Dillon’s eyes before he jotted some notes. A lawn mower coughed to a start outside the window and I watched as a shirtless man began pushing it across the square of lawn behind the GBI building. I cleared my throat and looked ostentatiously at my watch.

Dillon arched one brow but didn’t look up from his notes for a full thirty seconds. When he did, he addressed Stella. “We might have more questions later, Mrs. Michaelson, but I think we can wrap it up for the morning. If you hear from your husband, tell him to contact us immediately. It’s important that we talk to him.”

“Okay,” Stella said, standing. “Oh, my stuff.” A lipstick rolled across the floor.

“I’ll get it,” I said, nudging her toward the door. “You might want to splash some water on your face.”

“Thanks, Grace.”

As soon as Stella was out the door, I turned back to Dillon, who had moved around to the front of his desk and was leaning back against it, arms folded over his chest. “She didn’t do it, you know.”

Dillon picked up Stella’s purse and held it open as I retrieved items and plopped them in. “It’s early days yet,” he said.

“I hope you know we’ll be talking to people,” I said, stuffing a hairbrush into the purse with unnecessary force.

“We?”

“Mom, Althea, and I.”

“Great. Violetta’s Vigilantes on the prowl again. Just what I need.”

I stopped in mid-bend, a Kathleen Woodiwiss paperback in my hand. “What did you call us? Violetta’s Vigilantes? It has a nice ring. But we’re not vigilantes . . . We just ask a few questions, keep our ears open.”

“Yeah. And it almost got all three of you killed just a couple months ago. Stay out of it, Grace.”

I waved away his grim tone with a flick of my hand, picking up a metal container of paprika. Why in the world did Stella carry paprika in her purse? “All I’m saying is don’t waste time and effort investigating Stella. She didn’t do it.”

“The affair gives her a strong motive,” he pointed out.

“It gives Audrey’s husband a motive, too,” I said. “Have you talked to him?”

“He’s the one who told us about the affair,” Dillon said. He plucked the paprika from my hand and stowed it in the purse. “I really do know how to do my job, you know.”

He looked at me from under his brows, his usually navy-colored eyes a tantalizing marine blue. His fingers grazed mine as he handed over the restocked purse and I felt a tingle all the way to my shoulder. From the sudden rigidity of his expression, I thought he felt it, too.

“I don’t doubt that,” I said a little breathlessly, “but your job is catching the killer and ours is taking care of Stella. So, you do your thing and we’ll do ours.”

“Just make sure your ‘thing’ doesn’t interfere with my investigation,” Dillon said. His manner wasn’t threatening, but I sensed the steel beneath the words. “And make sure Mrs. Michaelson knows that lying to protect her husband would be a very bad idea.”

Stella appeared in the doorway before I could answer. “Ready?” she asked.

I tore my gaze away from Dillon’s and handed Stella her purse. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

I HAD TO BREAK A FEW SPEED LIMITS TO GET BACK to St. Elizabeth in time. Stella said little during the ride, but she seemed more composed, less tense, than on the way to Kingsland. We stopped by her house to pick up replacement manicure supplies since the gear she had at the Oglethorpe was trapped behind crime scene tape or stuck in a police evidence locker. She sat up straighter, peering through the windshield as we approached the small brick house, but her shoulders slumped by the time she returned to the car, manicure kit in hand.

“He’s not there,” she said. “I’m worried about him.”

I wanted to ask if she thought Darryl could know something about Audrey’s death but decided Stella would take such a question as a vote of no confidence.

The St. Elizabeth Marina sits just inside the Satilla River before it empties into the St. Andrew Sound. A variety of boats—from deep-sea vessels and ferries decked out with numerous radars and antennas to smaller pleasure and fishing craft that traveled up the river to sleek sailboats—rocked gently against the tire bumpers padding each slot at the dock. A park with greenery, fountains, and a gazebo popular for weddings stretches in front of the marina and runs for a couple of blocks on either side of it. In the summer, food vendors park their vans along the sidewalk so tourists can enjoy a hot dog or ice cream as they stroll along the water. The scents of briny water and baking mud told me it was low tide.

I found a place to park at the back of a dirt lot across the street from the marina. We arrived at the waterfront to find unusual crowds and an air of anticipation. Throngs of people—tourists with sunburned shoulders and cameras looped around their necks, and locals with folding chairs and dogs on leashes—jammed the street, sidewalk, and decks of restaurants overlooking the water. Clearly, the swimsuit contest was more popular with the general public than the talent contest. Either that, or word had gotten around about the protestors’ invasion and Audrey’s death and the crowds had turned out hoping for another disaster.

As if my thoughts had conjured them up, I saw the protestors setting up their chairs, coolers, and signs within easy viewing distance of the gazebo where the swimsuit contest judging would take place. Althea was helping Dr. Yarrow unload placards from a tan van. I waved but she didn’t see me. The sunburned girl who had accosted me yesterday—Daphne—and her gangly, goateed cohort Seth were tag-teaming Tabitha when Stella and I walked by.

“Don’t you see what you’re doing to yourself?” Seth asked earnestly. His goatee waggled as he talked. “You’re sacrificing your self-esteem to conform to an arbitrary standard of beauty that is meaningless.”

Tabitha raised a supercilious eyebrow. “Meaningless? When I win the Miss American Blossom contest, I’ll be making six figures in appearance money. That might not mean much to you, but it does to me. And my self-esteem is just fine, thank you.” Wearing tight white jeans and a nautically themed tee shirt, she had a pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses pushed back on her head. Her green eyes glittered angrily as she tried to pass the twosome.

Daphne blocked the path with her body. “But you’re too thin,” Daphne said. “You probably have an eating disorder. This isn’t worth it!”

“Too thin?” Tabitha said incredulously. Clearly, the concept was foreign to her. “Look, Pudgy, I don’t want to be rude, but the only people who are against beauty pageants are the ones who are too . . . ordinary to be successful in them. So take your jealousy and your stupid slogans and get the hell out of my way.” She shouldered past the stunned college students and stalked toward the St. Elizabeth Yacht Club.

Stella and I watched as Seth put his arm around Daphne’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “. . . bitch . . . unenlightened . . .” drifted over to us.

Stella pursed her lips. “That was totally unnecessary,” she said. “That girl didn’t have to be so rude.”

I didn’t say anything. Tabitha had been brutal, but I could see where being told the choices you made were foolish could be wounding, too. And, I supposed, being attacked as “too thin” might rankle just as much as being called “too fat” to someone who was sensitive about it. Not that I thought “sensitive” described Tabitha.

Stella and I made our way to the St. Elizabeth Yacht Club entrance, where a big banner announced their support of the Miss Magnolia Blossom pageant. The SEYC had turned over its premises to the pageant for the swimsuit competition. “Yacht club” makes the facility sound grander than it is. A one-story wood building of weathered gray with a cupola at top, it has a bar and dining room with an expansive deck on the left end of the building, changing facilities, a game room, and the private docking area at the right end, with gas pumps and a small convenience store. A seventy-ish man in a red SEYC golf shirt directed us to the ladies lounge where the contestants were preparing. A somewhat upscale locker room, the lounge had wooden lockers in rows, shower stalls, toilets, and bulletin boards announcing regattas and sailing classes. Chaos reigned as the girls jostled for mirror space, brushed mascara onto their lashes and bronzer across their cleavage, and applied double-sided tape inside their bathing suits to keep them from riding up. At least, that was the only reason I could think of for Tabitha to stick tape inside her white bikini bottom.

As Stella and I entered the room, the girls swarmed us with requests for hair help—“make it look windswept and natural, like I’ve spent the day at the beach, but also like I could be headed to a hip club”—and pedicures since strappy sandals were the shoe of the day. We worked nonstop in the crowded quarters—I was tucked into a corner between banks of lockers—for two hours. The girls were more reticent than yesterday, subdued by the news of Audrey’s death. No one eyed Stella with suspicion, so I assumed they didn’t know about the nail file being the murder weapon. Word would get out. Interestingly enough, their suspicions seemed to center on each other. From just the other side of the lockers next to my “station”—out of sight but well within earshot—they speculated about who Audrey “had the dirt on” and was going to eject from the pageant. I was curling Elise Metzger’s hair and she sat silent in my chair, both of us listening.