Engaged in Trouble (Enchanted Events Book 1) Page 5

  “We do now.” I explained our new service.

  “So today was the first day for the beverages—and it was your idea.”

  “Yes.” And clearly a stupid one. “Do you think someone bashed her on the head with a champagne bottle?”

  “Miss Sutton, how did you feel about Sasha Chandler?”

  “I only met her yesterday.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “I wasn’t a fan, but nobody in the office seems to be. She was quite unkind to everyone who encountered her.”

  “Who else had access to the champagne bottles?”

  “Everyone on staff.”

  O’Hara jotted some notes on a legal pad. “Under what circumstances did you meet Sasha Chandler?”

  “I assisted her and her bridesmaids with their dress selection.” I explained in detail everything I could remember from the day before.

  “And you walked out of Sugar Creek Formals for coffee because you were upset with Sasha?”

  “No.” I watched him scribble something else on his paper. “Not at all. I just thought all the ladies could use—”

  A knocked preceded the door opening and a woman with extra-frizzy hair stepping inside. “You said to let you know when Detective Ballantine is here, sir.”

  “Right. Thanks, Marge.” O’Hara gathered his notebook and stood. “You stay here, Miss Sutton. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Those few minutes turned into thirty, then forty-five, the seconds ticking on a wall clock like death knells. If this delay was a stalling tactic to wear me down, it was working. I needed to pee, I was in serious need of caffeine, and I wanted my grandma. Left alone with no one to talk to but brooms and mop buckets, fear slipped into the seat beside me and presented frightening scenarios for my consideration. Did they think I had hurt Sasha? What if they wanted to arrest me? What if they locked me in a cell and threw away the key?

  When the door finally opened again, I straightened in my seat, my nerves buzzing. In walked Chief O’Hara with another man behind him.

  “Miss Sutton, this is Benton County Detective Scott Ballantine.”

  Detective Ballantine shook my hand like he meant it, then sat down, his beady brown eyes watching me behind rimless glasses.

  “Is there anything you’d like to tell me, Miss Sutton?” Ballantine asked.

  I looked to Chief O’Hara. “I don’t know what else I could possibly say.”

  “Well, let me tell you something,” Ballantine said. “Sasha Chandler was murdered in your shop today.”

  Murdered. The unreasonable part of my brain had hoped the obvious hadn’t been true. “I’m truly horrified to hear that.”

  “Had you made any threats toward Miss Chandler?” Ballantine asked.

  “No, of course not.”

  Detective Ballantine pushed a button on his phone, and my voice filled the small space. “Sleep lightly. I’ve spent a lot of years thinking of how I’d repay you, how I’d get you back for all the damage you caused.”

  “I didn’t threaten Sasha,” I said. “In anger, I said that to my former fiancé—”

  “Did you or did you not use the words, ‘Pretty soon I won’t be the only one who regrets you ever opened your mouth to all those tabloids’?” Ballantine removed his glasses. “Sounds like a threat to me. Sounded like a threat to the ten good people of Sugar Creek who came to this police department to report it. Five of them already have it on YouTube.”

  Everyone was a paparazzo these days. “I did threaten Evan. But I meant I’d let the air out of his tires or write a ‘lonely man seeks circus clown’ type of personal ad on his behalf. I sure didn’t mean I’d kill his fiancée.”

  “Who served her the champagne?” Ballantine asked.

  “I did. It’s my job.”

  “You must’ve spoken to her while she was in your shop,” Ballantine said. “What did you say?”

  I carefully recreated my conversation with Sasha. “So you see, she’s the one who was antagonistic.” I regretted my words immediately, as the energy in the room shifted. The two men suddenly looked like leopards who had just sniffed an unsuspecting gazelle. “I certainly didn’t harm Sasha after our heated discussion.”

  “What did you do?” Ballantine asked.

  “I went looking for someone else to take care of her. No one could—or would. Then . . . then I went outside.”

  Ballantine frowned. “Why? It’s blistering hot out today.”

  “I just needed a break.” I edited each word before releasing it in to this room of toilet paper and doubts. “I thought Sasha needed to cool down as well.”

  “How long were you outside?” Ballantine picked up his pen and twirled it between three fingers.

  “I’m not sure. Fifteen to twenty minutes, I guess. Probably too long to be considered good customer service.”

  “You must’ve been pretty upset.”

  I didn’t appreciate the detective’s tone. “I was outside the entire time. When I left the room Sasha was alive and barking orders. When I returned, she was—well, slumped over the cupcakes.” Surely Chief O’Hara didn’t think I’d committed murder. “Chief, you’ve known me since I was a kid. You know I wouldn’t murder someone.”

  “No one said we’re accusing you of murder.” His gaze flitted to the table then back to me. “But folks do change, though, don’t they? I do hear LA can be a mean town. How’s that music career these days, Paisley?”

  O’Hara was raking hot coals right over my heart, my pride. “The music career is fine.” Everyone knew it wasn’t. But how did I explain all the blood, sweat, and prayers I’d poured into its revival? The one that was always within my reach, but never finding its place in my hands? Nobody cared about how hard I’d chased it, how hard I’d worked. All they saw was that my career was gone, as if I’d opened a window and carelessly thrown it into the wind.

  But I cared. And now my failure was being held against me in a whole new way.

  “Evan Holbrook drug your name through the mud pretty good, didn’t he?” Detective Ballantine posed it as a question, but he already knew the answer. “Humiliated you in front of your family, the whole town. The press ran with his idea that you were living pretty high on the rock star life and had lost control.”

  “That wasn’t true.” My words sounded fragile, lifeless. “I’m here to run Enchanted Events for two months. Its success is vital to mine, so the last thing I want is someone dying in our place of business. And I certainly gain nothing from murdering anyone.”

  “Even for revenge? Even if it’s Evan’s intended?” Ballantine asked.

  I looked him square in the eyes. “Even if.”

  Ballantine considered this a moment before rising to his feet, his black shoes making a whoosh-whoosh as he and Chief O’Hara crossed to the door. “Miss Sutton?” Ballantine said.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Don’t even think about leaving town.”

  Chapter Seven

  “So Sasha Chandler is dead.” Sylvie plopped into the chair in front of me at her kitchen table as the sky dimmed outside. “What a day, huh?”

  More like what a nightmare.

  I took a long drink of iced tea, then pressed the cold glass to my cheek. “I don’t understand.” It was as though I was right back in the parlor. My heart had liquefied as the coroner wheeled her out and panic filled my every cell. “She’d been talking to me only fifteen minutes earlier.” Okay, twenty. I’d left her to her own devices for longer than necessary. “One moment Sasha was snipping at me, and the next she was nose-first in some buttercream frosting.”

  “Not a bad way to go,” Sylvie said. “Though I’m more of a ganache person myself.” She arranged some shortbread cookies on a plate, quirking a brow when I refused one. “Word from the underground is Sasha died from a blow to the head—most likely a nearby champagne bottle. You probably want to lawyer up.”

  “I did nothing wrong. And how can there be a murder here—in Sugar Creek? The town was one of Newsweek’s
top-ten safest communities last year.”

  Sylvie poured her special sugar syrup into her tea and stirred. “You know what that article was? Just one big invitation to criminals. Come on down to Sugar Creek. We make it easy for you.”

  “You’re the only one in town who even locks her back door.” And had a military-level alarm system, owned spy cams, was an early drone adopter, and probably had a secret bunker beneath the basement. “Murder does not happen here.” My head fell into my hands. “Why did it have to happen in a business I’ve just inherited and to my client?”

  “Have you called your folks?

  “Are you crazy?”

  “So you want them to hear about this on the news?”

  My parents, Matt and Ellen Sutton, were world class motivational speakers. They traveled the globe giving pep talks on how to lasso the world in sold-out arenas, and their followers were in the zillions. For birthdays my parents usually gave me some of their books, hoping some of their can-do principles would sink in. The last book, Sutton’s Signposts for Success, had entire passages highlighted for viewing pleasure. I’d have to check my collection to see if any of their tomes addressed finding a dead body.

  “If you become a prime suspect, I can make you disappear. You know”—my grandmother patted her wrinkle-less face—“get you some work done. This guy I know in Canada’s a real artist. He can make you look just like George Clooney.”

  “I don’t want to look like George Clooney.”

  “Your scars would be totally invisible. Get you a new identity, new passport. We could even arrange a husband and a few kids for you. Make it look authentic.”

  “Can I get a new grandma?” I didn’t even want to think about where a fake family would come from.

  We had shut down Enchanted Events for the day and rescheduled all our appointments. Henry assumed we’d be back open tomorrow, but really, who knew? Nobody at the office had a lot of experience with crime scenes and brides dropping dead. I doubted the Sugar Creek Police Department did either.

  “What if the police truly think I did it?”

  Sylvie bit into a cookie, then patted my hand. “You’re not going to prison.”

  “You don’t know that!” The hysteria in my voice sounded foreign, as if coming from someone else. “I just don’t understand how this could happen.”

  “The woman was a tyrant. She had a lot of enemies, I hear. The police will talk to all of them.”

  “Can we trust them to do that?”

  “A suspicious nature.” Sylvie nodded in approval “I like that. And the answer is no, we don’t trust them to handle the investigation themselves. That’s why we’re going to conduct one of our own.”

  “If it involves plastic surgery on my part, I’m not interested.” It still burned to think that I could even be considered a suspect. I was third-generation Sugar Creek. “How could anyone think I’d kill Sasha? I’ve been back in town three days. I haven’t had time to unpack my underwear, let alone plan a murder.”

  “They would assume you did it in a fit of passion. You did say she was egging you on.”

  “There’s a big difference between getting mad enough to take a walk and mad enough to pop someone on the head with a glass bottle. Oh, gosh, and poor Evan. I can’t stand the guy, but I certainly wouldn’t wish this on him.”

  “Don’t feel sorry for him. The significant other is often the culprit. For all we know, he’s a cold-blooded killer.”

  I contemplated Sylvie’s words and watched the next-door neighbor mow her grass in the remaining daylight. “Surely Evan couldn’t kill someone. But then again, I never suspected he’d dump me at the altar and run to the tabloids with fabricated stories, either.”

  “Steer clear of him,” Sylvie said. “I always knew he was trouble. Any man who spray tans that much can’t be of sound mind.”

  I reached for my grandmother’s hand and held it, taking comfort in the coolness of her skin, the ever-present gloss of her nails, and the strength that radiated from her bones. “What if the police get so focused on proving me guilty they fail to pursue other suspects?”

  She squeezed my hand. “That’s where Frannie and I come in. We won’t let them take you down, shug.”

  “I didn’t kill her, Sylvie.”

  “I know. And if we need to, we’ll prove it to the whole world.” She pulled me to her and kissed my cheek. “Or surgically alter your face and send you to my friends in Nairobi.”

  Chapter Eight

  We might as well have renamed the shop Murderers R Us.

  The Monday after after Sasha’s murder, Enchanted Events finally reopened its doors and resumed business. Cancellations from concerned brides came in like a rain of torpedoes, with nowhere to run to avoid it. With each phone call and email I worried I had single-handedly shut down the business just by coming to town. Outside our doors, reporters hid in cars and shrubbery, hoping to get first crack at an interview. Curious townsfolk peeked in our windows on their way to the diner to get their coffee and bacon. The gossip would be extra spicy today.

  “We need to serve the remaining brides-to-be with the same amount of attention and quality,” Henry said as he paced the office, where we gathered for our pre-opening meeting. “But there’s no time to dawdle. Don’t rush the clients, but do work fast because we’ve lost nearly a week. Help them make decisions. Steer them in the ceremonial way they should go. Also what do you say when asked about the investigation?”

  “We have no comment,” they chimed like a doomed church choir.

  Henry let his eyes rest on each of the four employees. “Does anyone have anything to say?”

  “I do.” I stepped forward. “I’d like to say that I didn’t kill anyone.” I hoped my face was as innocent as a heavenly angel’s. “That’s all.”

  Henry rolled his eyes. “Way to set the tone.”

  “We don’t think you did it,” Alice said. “Well, Layla and Mary do, but two out of four ain’t bad.”

  And didn’t that just warm a heart? “Thank you.” I gave a tight smile, even to Layla who stood in the corner, her arms crossed over her ample bosom, eyeing me as if I was picking my next victim. “Thank you all.”

  As soon as Henry flipped the Closed sign to Open, we were off on a race. I shadowed Alice, taking notes as she helped a client build her wedding website, a newly added service. Later I trailed Layla as she counseled a bride on suggestions for live music. I then pulled up my chair beside Henry at his computer as he reviewed the pros and cons of the local wedding venues, including our outdoor options. This was the part where I felt my skin tingle and my brain engage. I was intrigued by the logistics of the actual event and loved the idea of orchestrating the time, place, and details, watching them come together to create one magical ceremony.

  “It’s kind of like our concerts,” I said to Henry an hour later, as I picked at a ham sandwich.

  He speared a cherry tomato in his salad. “How so?”

  “We had to do a lot of our own stuff the first few years in the band. Jaz was never going to be bothered with any of that, so it was left up to me and Trina, our other bandmate. I helped pick out costumes, decorated to make our venues more intimate, created flyers for bulletin boards, and made sure everyone got where they were supposed to be on time.”

  “You were the unofficial manager,” Henry said.

  “Yep. Until Jaz’s older sister took over.” And that’s when things went south. “She still had me doing lots of grunt work to free up the queen’s busy schedule.” I pushed the dark memories aside and focused on a beautiful photo of a nearby glass chapel. “So, anyway, I may not have much experience planning weddings—especially a successful one—but putting on a show, I totally understand.”

  “I think you’re doing pretty good, Paisley.” Henry patted my shoulder. “Just don’t let anyone else die.”

  “Right. You do believe I’m innocent, right?”

  Henry hesitated a little too long for my liking. “Aside from your music career and th
e tabloids, I don’t know you. But I do know I sent you outside to cool off, and that’s what you did. Could you have come back in and hurt Sasha without our seeing it? Yes. But did you? I doubt it.”

  It was quite an impersonal theory. “Okay. It’s a start. But I want you to understand I’m not the erratic crazy woman the gossip sites have made me out to be the last few years. I’d never hurt Sasha. I’ve never physically harmed anyone. Well, minus one moment at the altar when I kicked Evan Holbrook in the squishy parts.”

  Henry almost smiled. “Our focus needs to be on Enchanted Events. We can’t lose any more business, Paisley.”

  We turned at the loud commotion coming from the hall. Heavy footsteps punctuated with yelling sent Henry and me surging to our feet.

  “Mr. Holbrook! Sir! Please stop!”

  Evan appeared in the doorway, hair disheveled, cheeks flushed, and eyes radiating a seething anger he directed right at me.

  “How could you?” He stepped inside the office, a hand-wringing Alice behind him.

  “You can go, Alice,” Henry said calmly. “We’ll take care of it.”

  “Were you really so desperate?” Evan’s chest rose and fell rapidly as if he’d sprinted there from Missouri. “Are you so bitter at your own life that you could take someone else’s? And ruin mine?”

  “Evan, I—”

  “I loved her, Paisley.” His voice broke and tears filled his eyes. “I loved her.”

  I walked to him, looking him right in his bleary eyes. “I did not kill your fiancée.”

  “You stood there on Main Street and threatened me. Did you have one of your rocker henchmen do it?”

  “No,” I said. “My posse’s been on an extended vacation for quite some time. Evan, I know you’re hurt and reeling. I’m sure you want answers.”

  “When we get the autopsy back, it’s going to confirm you killed her. The lab’s working extra fast on my behalf. You were the one who brought her champagne. You just couldn’t stand for me to be happy, could you?”