Royally In Trouble Page 28

  Frannie reached into her bag. “I’ve got beef jerky!”

  “Seriously?” I glared at my aunt. “All your years of CIA training and that’s your strategy?”

  “You’d be surprised how many times I got my way with a Slim Jim.”

  A light mist of rain fell on my patent yellow shoes. “Two-and-a-half—”

  I never got to three.

  Shots rang out from a cracked front window, and before I could throw my hands up and surrender, Sylvie yanked me by the arm and pushed me into a run. “Go! Get back to the van!”

  “Heads down, girls!” Frannie bellowed. “We got a live one!”

  I swear I heard my grandmother laugh. “Crazy jack rabbit’s got a shot gun!”

  My breath came in jagged gasps, and time moved slower than my legs.

  “Oh, glory!” Frannie breathed like a charging rhinoceros behind me. “Oh, sweet Lord, help me. My lady lungs are about to explode. I don’t wanna die doing exercise!”

  “Get off my land!” yelled the voice presumably behind the firearm.

  I didn’t want to die here either—out in the middle of nowhere, among mosquitoes and rusted windmills. Another shot cracked, and a bullet plugged a utility pole not ten feet away.

  “He’s a crap shot, if I ever saw one.” Frannie gulped air.

  Hands extended like I was crossing a finish line, I finally reached the van, diving behind the vehicle only seconds before Frannie and Sylvie did the same.

  We huddled against the dirty back bumper, my chest rising and falling in shock and stark fear.

  Frannie sank to her haunches. “You hit my van, Peele, I’m gonna charge in that house and pull that shotgun out your fat nose! You haven’t seen mad until you seen hit-my-party-wagon mad!”

  “You got five seconds to get in that dadgum van and get the heck off my property!”

  “We just want information,” Sylvie yelled.

  “That’s not what I want,” I whispered. “Not anymore. I’m good. I don’t need answers. Information is overrated. Let’s go home. Who’s with me? I’ll buy ice cream.”

  “Nonsense.” My grandmother leaned over the edge of the car like a woman with a death wish. “I know all about you, Murphy Peele. And I do believe you’re involved in a custody dispute with your ex-girlfriend.” Sylvie took her place at the pitcher’s mound and wound up her arm. “You want to add three charges of attempted murder to that rap sheet?”

  I tugged on Sylvie’s shirt. “Get down!”

  But she didn’t comply. “He’s lowered the gun. He’s either got a terrible aim or he never meant to hit us anyway.”

  I really wasn’t in the mood to stay and analyze the options.

  “You hear me, Murphy?” Sylvie’s voice could carry across a field, through a holler, and into the next county.

  “You leave my daughter out of this!”

  “You came at my Paisley with a four-thousand-pound vehicle. And I’m supposed to believe family is precious to you?”

  “I did it for my daughter.” Despite the mist, birds sang in the nearby thicket, completely oblivious to the wild West showdown below. “I wasn’t gonna hit that woman with my car.”

  Frannie reentered the fray. “You could’ve killed her!”

  “Lady, I raced cars at the speedway for fifteen years. I could’ve thrown a quarter in the road and missed it by a centimeter.”

  “Why?” I hollered. “Why come after me?”

  “Money!”

  “You’re selling your farm,” Sylvie said. “You’ll have money coming out your ears.”

  “That deal stalled out the day that Hudson guy up and got murdered.”

  “Who paid you?” It was all I wanted to know, then I thought it would be quite smart of us to jump in the van and hit the dirt road at speeds best reserved for action flicks and cops in pursuit.

  “You start talking or we’re calling the cops on your little hit-and-run. That’ll be a nice cherry on top of your assault charge,” Sylvie threatened. “Are you hearing me, Peele?”

  “I don’t want no trouble.” His bravado deflated with every word. “I never wanted trouble. I just want my daughter back. And yeah, I committed assault. If my ex-wife’s boyfriend lays a hand on my kid again, it’ll be more than his nose I break.”

  “Gonna be hard to spend any daddy-daughter time from behind bars,” Frannie shouted.

  I edged around Frannie and peered beyond the van. The only sight I got of Murphy was a faint shadow in a shattered window. “How about you tell me who put you up to playing Fast and Furious through downtown Sugar Creek, and I don’t press charges.”

  A tedious minute ticked by before Peele responded. “What else you got?”

  That snaky little capitalist. I consulted my team. “Don’t negotiate with terrorists, right?” I whispered.

  “Honey,” Frannie said, “whoever said that has clearly never needed something from a terrorist. Offer him something else.”

  “I’ll give you a fifty percent discount on your next wedding!”

  Hyena laughter followed. “Lady, I ain’t never getting married again.”

  Sylvie and Frannie watched me as if waiting to see if I’d select the right wire to snip to deactivate this bomb. “I bet your daughter would love a big birthday party.” I knew I was on to something when my grandmother smiled with pride. “Pony rides. Princess makeovers. Bouncy castle. Wouldn’t she love that?”

  “That’s for rich people!”

  “But free for you,” I countered. “Just think—you could give her the birthday party of her dreams. I’ll even throw in a taco truck.”

  “I want some of those Disney princesses there. Big poufy dresses. Lots of pink crap.”

  Pink crap it was. “Done.” Henry was going to kill me. “Now who paid you?”

  “I don’t got names.”

  Oh, for crying out loud. “Then the deal’s off and—”

  “I’m telling you the truth,” came his rushed reply. “She asked me to take out the red-headed pop singer, but I don’t kill people. I can sure take money and pretend I do. That lady paid me in cash. Had long, black hair. Glasses. Curvy gal. Mad as a rabid coon at the mention of Trace Hudson’s name.”

  “Why was she mad?” Frannie asked.

  “Who cares?” he hollered back.

  “Lord, have mercy.” Frannie turned crazy eyes to Sylvie. “Can I take him down? Just barrel through this mosquito-infested yard and tackle Peele like he’s a pansy wide receiver, then throw in a few well-placed tazes to his Kibbles and Bits—”

  “No.” I shushed my aunt. “Peele,” I called over Frannie’s rumblings. “If I go to the police, you’ll be facing attempted murder. I know that’s not what you or your daughter want. Now why was this woman so mad at Trace? It’s important.”

  I heard him curse, then spit. “’Cause Hudson told her he was moving out of state. Wasn’t staying to work the faire in town.” He coughed like a man who smoked at least a pack a day. “Yeah, well, Hudson jacked me up, too. Now I don’t know when this land will sell.”

  “Let’s go,” Frannie said. “These legs haven’t squatted this much since I went undercover as the bottom half of the George Washington mascot at a Nationals game.” With a wince, Sylvie pulled herself from her squatted position. “We’re getting in this van now, Murphy Peele. You’re going to put that shotgun away and let us leave without incident, you hear?”

  “I want that princess party!”

  I almost felt for the guy. “I won’t let your daughter down.”

  I was the first into the van, while Sylvie and Frannie played it calm and cool.

  But then Frannie threw it in drive and peeled out of there, gravel flying.

  She didn’t stop until we reached the Sugar Creek police station.

  Where we climbed out and filed inside.

  And told them if they wanted to find who’d sent a knife through the heart of Trace Hudson.

  They only had to ask his wife.

  43

  “It’s
still not too late to cancel. I can tell everyone outside to come back tomorrow.” Thirty minutes now remained until show time, and I’d spent the last hour backstage, talking to Nathan Moore—about the franchise deal and about postponing the show.

  “I can hardly process it all.” Surrounded by the immediate cast and crew, Nathan sat in a chair, attired in full Renaissance regalia, and looking as if he’d lost his whole world. “I need all of you to believe I knew nothing about any deal with Heartland Amusements. Just the idea makes me ill. To think Trace had that up his sleeve and we didn’t even know.”

  “I’d like to believe Trace would’ve come to his senses,” Angela said. “He wouldn’t have sold us out.” She patted at the moisture pooling in her eyes. “Or moved away.”

  Time was ticking, and we’d hashed this topic enough for one night. “How about we reschedule the dinner theater for another time?” I looked to the small gathering of cast and crew for backup. “Everyone can go home and get a good night’s rest.”

  “We must carry on,” Angela said over the growing noise of an antsy crowd beyond the walls of the cast tent. “For Trace. No, you know what?” She found her first smile all evening. “We do it for ourselves. For our faire family.”

  “I’ve got two hundred hungry patrons to feed,” Rex grumbled. “I’m not throwing out all this fried chicken.”

  Frannie sniffed the batter-fried air. “I could provide a good home for some wings. It’s a confirmed fact my purse can hold at least forty-eight.”

  “They’re right, Paisley,” Nathan said. “We can’t stop the show now, can we? I’ll go mad if I have nothing to do but pace the floor at home. To quit is to admit defeat, and I won’t do that to Rebecca.”

  “She killed her husband—your best friend,” Angela said. “Why can’t you accept that?”

  “I know she’s innocent.” Nathan looked toward the tent exit, his eyes unfocused and clouded with shock and grief.

  It was a sold out dinner theater for this final night, with the proceeds going to charity. Any remaining tickets that hadn’t been purchased as of yesterday had been gobbled up this afternoon when news of Rebecca’s arrest for conspiracy to commit murder of yours truly hit the Sugar Creek gossip lines. With a bail as high as hers, it bought the police some time to get their final ducks in a row to add one more charge—the murder of Trace Hudson.

  “Everyone needs to know that I stand by Rebecca,” Nate said. “I will never doubt her innocence.”

  “My poor Trace.” Angela sniffed into a tissue. “Justice is coming soon.”

  Frannie wriggled into the space between Sylvie and me and did her best impression of a whisper. “I’m thinking about blessing that sweet banker with my shoulder to cry on. Is three days long enough to give him to mourn? I need a date for next Monday’s polka at the V.F.W.”

  “Paisley!” Cam burst through the entrance flaps, stumbled on an extension cord, and all but barrel rolled toward me. “Paisley, I got my phone back. Maintenance found it in some hay!”

  I consulted my to-do list of things I had to tackle before show time. I needed someone to replace a bulb in the set lights. The microphone packs needed the batteries checked. And where had I put that box of safety pins Angela requested? “That’s great, Cam.”

  “I’m not canceling the play.” Nathan stood with resolve. “Let’s just get this over with. One final performance for Trace—and for all of us.”

  Frannie nudged me with an elbow. “Look at that sexy phoenix rising from the ashes.”

  “We do need one more thing before we perform.” Angela crowned herself with the queen’s tiara.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “I can take over for Rebecca, but now we need an Anne Boleyn.” Angela was not subtle in her inspection of my form. “You could fit in my dress. Though the top might be a bit roomy.”

  “We’ll stuff it.” Sylvie pushed me toward the center of the group. “She accepts.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “We have no show without you,” Cam said. “My mom finally agreed to see the performance. Do you have any idea what a big deal that is?”

  “Paisley, think of the hungry children we’re helping,” Frannie added. “Plus, I call dibs on the video of your outtakes.”

  “You wanted to run a business.” Sylvie gave me a swat on the tush. “This is just part of the fun.”

  “But—”

  “My lady”—Cam placed a shimmery crown on the top of my head—“I believe your public awaits.”

  44

  Over the years I’d imagined my return to the stage a hundred times. It always involved visions of flowers at my feet, ecstatically screaming fans, and my singing to a sold out arena. It never involved me performing dinner theater and reading a few lines written on my hand, with my chest cinched up like a sixteenth century goose.

  And sure, I might’ve delivered my dialogue with all the passion of a monotoned meteorologist, but the good people of Sugar Creek would never be able to say I didn’t give my all. Frannie would later say I gave a little more than my all, as minutes before my exit, my dress suffered a wardrobe malfunction and it was nearly boobies galore.

  The stage lights hot on my face, I spoke my last words and slipped backstage.

  “Paisley, you were awesome.” Cam met me with a bottle of water, his part complete until we resumed for the second act after intermission.

  “I was?”

  “I mean, there were a few rough spots, but nothing a few years of intensive acting lessons wouldn’t cure.”

  How kind.

  I slipped my phone from the pocket of my skirt and began checking the string of texts. Five were from work and three from Frannie. With a sigh, I opened Henry’s first.

  “Oh!” Cam reached into his pocket and produced his phone. “Here’s proof that I couldn’t have killed Trace.” Cam tapped on his screen until an image appeared.

  “Cam, I believe you.” I mentally rehearsed my ten whole lines for the final act.

  “But it’s video of intermission—the night Trace died.”

  Wait a minute.

  “Is Rebecca in this footage?” I grabbed the phone like it might disappear yet again. Cam could be holding evidence.

  “I don’t think she’s in it.”

  “Does it show backstage near the time of death?”

  “Not really.”

  My enthusiasm torpedoed in a depressing, downward spiral.

  But if you watch the whole way through, it’s me narrating almost the entire time.” He slid his finger and advanced the video, his image moving in a cartoon-like frenzy. “Here’s me giving the cast water as they exit the stage.”

  I glanced at the screen in hopes it would pacify him. “Uh-huh.”

  “And here’s me at the portable bathrooms.” He wiggled the phone. “Notice how un-murdery I look?”

  “Yep.” I gave it another cursory peek.

  Then glanced back again.

  “Let me see that.” Ripping the device from his hand, I reversed the clip. And watched it once more. “Oh, my goodness.”

  The scene played—a dim evening shot of a bustling crowd entering and exiting the bathrooms. And there in a crimson gown and matching gloves was a black-haired woman in glasses walking toward the tent—alone.

  But it wasn’t Rebecca Hudson.

  It was her sister.

  Melly—who’d lamented not being in attendance the night of the murder. Who was a member of city council and contacted by Heartland Amusements. And it was Melly who shared the same description as the woman who’d paid Murphy Peele to take me out of the picture.

  What if Nathan was right?

  What if Rebecca was innocent?

  Ida Alderson bustled in, her face flushed in the scant light. “Paisley! Frannie’s cupcake trailer is flooding.”

  “What?”

  “There’s water pouring out of it.”

  My mind choked and sputtered at the intrusion. “Get someone else to take care of it.”


  The woman wrung her hands. “Who?”

  Henry was working an engagement party. Alice was half an hour away. That left just me. “I’ll handle it during intermission.”

  “The water’s running over electrical wires.”

  Oh, for crying out loud!

  “Hurry, Paisley,” Ida said. “I think I saw smoke.”

  I needed two of me! “Cam, take your phone to Sylvie and Frannie. Tell them Melly Pittman was here the night Trace died. And call the police. Do you hear me?”

  Eyes full of alarm, Cam nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  I’d run more as an event planner than I ever did in L.A. when I paid for an overpriced gym membership. Now was no exception.

  Picking up my skirt by the hem, I took off in a sprint, the boots I’d borrowed from Angela cumbersome and slowing me down. The moon hid behind clouds, casting an ominous haze as I navigated the empty passageways of the faire. With only sparse fairy lights hanging from trees, I struggled to see more than a few steps in front of me, while apprehension crept up my spine.

  Frannie’s white trailer came into view, and I stopped a few feet away, as water seeped from the bottom of the closed door.

  A twig snapped behind me, and I whirled in a circle, staring into the shadows as if something might jump out and grab me.

  My phone rang from my pocket, and I startled at the intrusion, my heart slamming against my ribcage.

  My aunt’s face appeared on the display, and I didn’t even bother to say hello. “Frannie, did you see Cam’s video?”

  “What?”

  “The video. Did Cam show you his phone?” Static crackled. “Where are you?”

  “In the car—working. Paisley, I took another look at Trace’s bank accounts. He had a check deposited one year ago for three-hundred and fifty thousand.”

  “From who?”