We packed into our customary booth, overlooking the dancefloor. Friday nights at the club tended to get a little packed. Already, at least 2 dozen people danced below, their bodies pumping with the beat of a recent pop song release. I ordered my cider and sank into the cool soft surface of the booth, sipping the tart beverage.
“Where did all these people come from?” Raven crossed her arms and huffed. She’d been moody all evening. “I swear, every week it gets busier. Don’t these city folk have clubs of their own to overrun?”
“I like the crowds,” Blythe answered in a sing-songy voice. “It’s nice to know Uriville isn’t just a black hole. There’s life out there.”
I had to admit, I agreed with Blythe. As annoying as these trendy kids from the cities tended to be, especially when they drank all of my locally brewed cider, it was nice to get away from the typical Uriville citizen and their nosy ways.
Despite the tourist trap I worked for and this bustling club, Uriville maintained a small town atmosphere that made it impossible to keep a secret. Just the fact that it hadn’t already leaked around town that Grammy Jo was a suspect in Allen’s murder was nearly a miracle. Ian Larson had done a good job of keeping it under wraps. And that was the way it was going to stay.
Craning her neck to look over the booth, Blythe turned to us and huddled in closer. She’d put on a sparkly sequin top this evening that cut dangerously low. “Now that we’ve had a few hours to digest that scene this morning, what do you guys think?”
“I’m no longer sure Angie Pine did it,” Raven responded in a slow drawl. “I mean, sure, we have the letter and Laura’s word about the feud between them. But did you get a load of Andy?”
“Suspicious character,” Blythe said with a sip of her pink drink.
“Not just suspicious,” I looked over her head to make sure no one was listening, “but totally vocal about his hate for Allen. Did you hear him? He was glad that Mr. White was dead. That sounds like a confession.”
They bobbed their heads in agreement and we all sat silent for a moment, listening to the song change over the speakers. I thought about the painting I’d done yesterday morning with Mr. White and the dead rose. Did anything in that painting point to Andy Jenkings? He certainly looked like he was capable of murder; more so than Angie Pine. It was all so confusing.
“What could’ve happened to make all you pretty ladies so down?” Drew Warring slipped into the booth with a large amber beer clasped in his fist. “Have a bad day?”
I would’ve groaned at the cheesy hello, but I held my tongue. So far, Drew seemed like a pretty nice guy. Better than most of the men Blythe went after. He held himself tall like a military man and said things like “yes, ma’am” and “no, sir.” Not too bad in my book.
Blythe giggled and sidled up to him, her legs practically wrapping around his. “We’re just thinking about Mr. White. It’s depressing, you know? Plus, there’s a killer on the loose.”
For a brief second, I wanted to kick Blythe under the table. She didn’t need to tell Drew everything.
He groaned and smacked his forehead. “Seriously? I thought they already caught who killed him. That lady who runs the floral shop?”
“They don’t know that for sure,” Raven replied with a wave of her dark red manicure. “That’s just rumors. There could be other suspects.”
“Like who?” Drew’s eyes grew wide and he grinned, revealing a cute dimple in his right cheek. “Was it Colonel Mustard in the ballroom with the candlestick?
“Maybe.” I leaned forward a bit, my tongue suddenly loosened by the hard cider in my hand. “Mr. White wasn’t exactly beloved around here. He had a lot of people who hated him.”
He shrugged and yawned, as if suddenly bored by the conversation. “Well, I didn’t know Mr. White, but what kind of man has so many enemies? Sounds like he was pretty awful.”
Blythe took that moment to avert Drew’s attention to something funny on the dancefloor. I leaned back in my seat, running my fingers over the cool slippery surface of the glass in my hands. Maybe Mr. White had been pretty awful. Not even Grammy Jo liked him, and that said a lot. His murder could’ve been justified, for all I knew. B
ut that didn’t matter as long as Grammy Jo was on the line for it. We had to find the real murderer.
I looked up from my glass to see Ian Larson just coming up the stairs in a dark brown leather jacket and gray jeans. Despite the fact that he was obviously off duty, the shape of a holstered gun still hung at his side. His gaze met mine and he froze. In a sudden change of thought, he turned around and began to descend the stairs he’d just walked up.
“Hey guys, I got to run,” I told them, slipping out of the booth and not bothering to give an explanation for my hasty exit.
It didn’t take long for my feet to catch up with his. He had just rested himself on a barstool when I plopped myself onto the adjacent one, setting my glass down with a loud clink. “Going somewhere?”
He closed his eyes and pursed his lips. “I was trying to avoid an awkward moment.”
“Awkward? How could this be awkward?” I waved my hands about. “I mean, the last time you saw me, you basically accused my grandmother and me of killing someone. But I don’t see how that’s awkward.”
“Hazy…” His tone was filled with a warning. “I don’t want any drama. It’s been a long day and I just need to relax. Can you let me do that?”
Why was it that Ian Larson was the only person in the universe who still insisted on calling me by that name? It irritated the heck out of me, causing angry hives to burst along my collarbone. I scratched at them, willing them to go away.
“How can I do that when my Grammy Jo’s your number one suspect? It would kill Momma Tula if she found out. She’s so fragile right now.”
For the first time, Ian turned to look at me. “I’d heard she was holed up in your grandmother’s house. Is it really that bad?”