Also by

Caleb Wygal

Myrtle Beach Mystery Novels

The Brass Key (Short Story Prequel)

Death on the Boardwalk

Death Washes Ashore

Death on the Golden Mile

Death on the Causeway

Death at Tidal Creek

Death on the Back Nine

Myrtle Beach Burns

Lucas Caine Novels

Moment of Impact

A Murder in Concord

Blackbeard’s Lost Treasure

The Search for the Fountain of Youth

Copyright © 2025 by Caleb Wygal

Visit the author’s website at www.CalebWygal.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
products of the author's imagination or are used fictionally and are not to
be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations,
organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

Published by Franklin/Kerr Press
1040 Dale Earnhardt Blvd. #185
Kannapolis, North Carolina 28083
www.FranklinKerr.com

Edited by Lisa Borne Graves
Cover art and design by Mibl Art
Author Photo by Jennifer McGowen/Small Seed Photography

Printed in the United States of America

FIRST EDITION
Hardcover ISBN: 979-8-3485-6036-2

Fiction: Cozy Mystery
Fiction: Amateur Sleuth
Fiction: Southern Fiction

Contents

Dedication

Prologue

1. Chapter One

2. Chapter Two

3. Chapter Three

4. Chapter Four

5. Chapter Five

6. Chapter Six

7. Chapter Seven

8. Chapter Eight

9. Chapter Nine

10. Chapter Ten

11. Chapter Eleven

12. Chapter Twelve

13. Chapter Thirteen

14. Chapter Fourteen

15. Chapter Fifteen

16. Chapter Sixteen

17. Chapter Seventeen

18. Chapter Eighteen

19. Chapter Nineteen

20. Chapter Twenty

21. Chapter Twenty-One

22. Chapter Twenty-Two

23. Chapter Twenty-Three

24. Chapter Twenty-Four

25. Chapter Twenty-Five

26. Chapter Twenty-Six

27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

30. Chapter Thirty

31. Chapter Thirty-One

32. Chapter Thirty-Two

33. Chapter Thirty-Three

34. Chapter Thirty-Four

35. Chapter Thirty-Five

36. Chapter Thirty-Six

37. Chapter Thirty-Seven

38. Chapter Thirty-Eight

39. Chapter Thirty-Nine

40. Chapter Forty

41. Chapter Forty-One

42. Chapter Forty-Two

43. Chapter Forty-Three

44. Chapter Forty-Four

45. Chapter Forty-Five

46. Chapter Forty-Six

47. Chapter Forty-Seven

48. Chapter Forty-Eight

49. Chapter Forty-Nine

50. Chapter Fifty

51. Chapter Fifty-One

52. Chapter Fifty-Two

53. Chapter Fifty-Three

54. Chapter Fifty-Four

55. Chapter Fifty-Five

56. Chapter Fifty-Six

57. Chapter Fifty-Seven

58. Chapter Fifty-Eight

59. Chapter Fifty-Nine

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the author

For my son Colin, thank you for making me feel young again and for inspiring a certain character in this book.

Prologue

“That ain’t pretty,” newly minted Detective Mike Dame said to his new/old partner Battles. Everyone only referred to him by his last name. The big, burly former patrol officer, with soft eyes and dark skin, gave off the vibe “Battles” was all a person needed to know about him.

“Agreed,” Battles commented in a solemn tone.

What wasn’t pretty was the body lying on the kitchen floor. The two detectives were called after the victim’s husband arrived at their home in Seagate Village near Market Common after doing a closing shift at the SayeBrook Target and discovered his wife’s body. Since her husband called 911 after midnight, Dame and Battles got the call to investigate. The new lead detective for the MBPD, Lamar Jones, would be brought in first thing tomorrow. With the travel season winding down, the number of active investigations the department handled dwindled. Thank goodness. It had been a long summer.

The victim’s name was Bonnie Loudermilk, fifty-four, and a concierge for a timeshare company. She arrived home that afternoon after several flights from Maui. From one paradise to another. Except for Bonnie, this little slice of paradise was coated in red.

Two officers on patrol were the first to respond. The Crime Scene Unit would arrive shortly. Officer Nichols consoled the grieving husband, Kirk, in the living room while O’Brien secured the crime scene.

Dame responded to several calls in Seagate Village, next to Market Common, during his career. Originally built in the 1950s to house members when the US Air Force Base used to be nearby, the homes were built to withstand anything Mother Nature could throw at them. Each duplex or single-family dwelling had built-in bomb shelters to withstand most things man could lob at them. The quiet, sidewalk-lined community was home to many retired couples having returned to the same addresses they lived in while serving in the military.

Calls to Seagate Village were rare. Dame considered it one of the safest places to live in Myrtle Beach, not for the type of people who lived there, but for the solid construction of the homes and overall design of the neighborhood.

Not today, he told himself.

The white cabinetry and gray counters were all old, but the stainless silver appliances were newer. The dishwasher was still running. A subway-tiled backsplash lined the kitchen on three walls. The window over the sink looked out onto a narrow backyard. A streetlight illuminated a line of pine trees separating their property from a bike park and Kings Highway. The Loudermilk residence lay on the perimeter of the neighborhood. The two-basin sink held a dirty plate, bowl, fork, spoon, and a plain, clear glass on the right side. On the counter sat a half-empty bottle of Coastal Estates merlot.

Bonnie lay face down on a polished parquet floor. Her arms were splayed in either direction while her legs were curled. She wore a navy skirt and white shirt—forever stained red.

She hadn’t been home long before she was killed.

A pool of blood spread out underneath her. Some sprayed onto the Formica countertop before she fell. Sharp, clear shards were scattered on the wood floor where a wineglass fell from the victim’s hand. Burgundy wine mixed with red blood.

A wooden knife block with a wine glass sticker on the front sat on the counter next to the electric range. A white oven mitt covered with a design of red and pink flowers laid on the counter in front of the knives. The rack was full except for the biggest knife it could contain.

It was no mystery where the missing chef’s knife was located. It was currently sticking out of Bonnie’s back, above her right shoulder blade.

Chapter One

The past eleven months went by in a whirlwind. Here's how it went down. Gina and I spent eight of them on St. Grant's Island in the Caribbean with my old buddy/murder suspect, Antonio Bianchi. During that time, I communicated with the project leader on the total rebuild of my home that had burnt down and engaged in weekly Zoom calls with Winona and Margaret, who took the roles of running my two bookstores. Business was booming.

I finally finished writing a second mystery novel. My agent and publisher were pleased with the outcome, despite it arriving in their inboxes late. They understood the delay after I showed them the news reports that came after solving Autumn's murder. I surprised them with the third novel five months later. Most of my writing took place while lying in a hammock strung between two palm trees on a white sandy beach with blue water. Not a terrible place to gain inspiration. They didn’t complain about that book coming way ahead of the deadline.

During this time, Gomez and I spent the entire time together getting to know each other. I’d gotten used to calling her Gina instead of Gomez. We tested our compatibility to see if the sparks still flew when we weren't investigating murders. They did. More than did.

Sure, we had our growing pains. She’d been single most of her professional life, only moving in with her former rat of a fiancé, Lucien, in the months preceding me whacking him in the face with Moby Dick. Independence was in her DNA and cooperating on even the smallest tasks with me was troublesome for her. She was used to doing everything on her own.

On the flip side, my laid-back nature sometimes irked her. Gina was always on the go. I may not have been born in the South, but I’d developed the habit of being on Southern Standard Time. I didn’t get in too much of a hurry to get anywhere or to get things done. It would get done when it got done. I’d get there when I arrived.

I also had the habit of making jokes when it wasn’t appropriate. She was still displeased when I grunted during Moody’s funeral. It was my way of paying my respects. I’ll admit that my timing could have been better.

These were facets of our personalities we’d get used to. Not deal breakers.

Over those months, Gina was still recovering from being tied up in her attic and shot in the left shoulder, both because of Lucien but not at the same time. I’m no expert, but she displayed several symptoms of PTSD. She was jumpier than before. Loud, sudden noises caused her not only to jump, but she’d also get this fearful look in her eyes afterward, even if it was just a car backfiring. I'd comfort her when I’d come into a room and see her crying because she was having unwanted, recurring memories of what Lucien did to her. I’d get a pang in my chest every time I saw her this way and did what I could to comfort her.

I’ll always cherish our shared time on St. Grant’s Island in the wake of my home burning down, but life must move on. My house was completed. Gina's sister, Lynn, came down from New York with her son, Timmy, and emptied the condo Gina shared with Lucien. At least, she took all of Gina’s belongings and moved them to my newly built home. She called one of those junk removal businesses and hired them to dispose of Lucien's belongings. He'd be in prison for at least the next decade. He wouldn't need them. Good riddance to bad rubbish, both figuratively and literally.

We landed at Myrtle Beach International Airport on a steamy Wednesday afternoon in early August. In a reversal of roles, my brother, Bo, was there to greet us. He'd squandered the fortune he'd earned when he cashed out of his role at Uber, where he'd been one of the early programmers for the ride-sharing app. He bought a mansion fronting the thirteenth hole at the Torrey Pines Golf Club in La Jolla, California. Along with that, he purchased fast cars, traveled the world, and spent money like it was nothing. He didn't work for two years and came to Myrtle Beach last year for an ill-fated golf weekend, when he revealed to my parents and I that he didn't have enough money to cover his debts and was forced to sell everything.

Bo moved into my parents' upstairs after that. His house eventually sold at a steep profit over his original purchase price and currently had padding in his pocket. After helping Gina and I figure out who murdered my late wife, Autumn, through his computer wizardry, he'd started offering his computer research skills to private detectives.

We spotted Bo as Gina and I lugged our carry-on luggage down the stairs from the terminal. She could only carry a light bag over her left shoulder, since it was her right side that was weakened from the gunshot.

Bo stood in the same spot I had when I waited for him to arrive from Cali last year at the Visit Myrtle Beach kiosk. As he'd spent much of his time since I last saw him behind a computer building his business, he'd put on weight. Before last year, it had been a decade since we'd last seen each other. Then, he was in great shape. Now he looked like he was long overdue for a gym visit. Judging by his pale complexion, maybe getting out and walking on the beach would do him a world of good.

"Clark!" he called when he spotted us, waving his hands like he just doesn't care.

I didn't see the need to make an audible greeting from fifty feet away. Instead, I raised my hand to show him I'd heard him. Gina would have too, but she was squeezing my right hand and held the strap of her satchel with the other.

We descended the stairs amid a throng of former passengers, all in a rush. With her lips held tight to lessen the likelihood Bo could read them, she murmured to me, "We're still keeping it a secret, right? Are you sure?"

I tilted my head in her direction. "Yeah. For now. We'll let everyone know when the time is right."

"If you say so. Just wanted to confirm the plan."

The "plan" she's speaking of? That would be our little secret.

Chapter Two

It was an odd return to Myrtle Beach. Not much had changed, but then again, it was like everything was fresh. Bo drove and took care of my Jeep while I was gone. Gina and I were crammed in the backseat, holding hands. Hers was warm and smooth. She stared out the window and chewed a nail as the runway for the airport streamed by out the passenger side windows. Even though she hadn't voiced it, I could tell she was anxious about our return. I'd learned not to pry. If she wanted to tell me her thoughts and fears, she'd voice them. I am the same way. We both had traumatizing moments in our lives and kept our inner monologues to ourselves. She hadn't talked about the conversations she had with her therapist about what Lucien had done to her, and I would not press it.

For his part, Bo left us alone. He told us when we landed that Mom and Gina’s sister spent the last three days getting the new house ready for our return. Mom had a good eye for decoration, so I trusted her. That was a talent Autumn had been so skilled at, among many. She decorated our house and Myrtle Beach Reads in beachy motifs. I hadn't touched either since her death. The decorations in the house burnt in the fire, but Autumn’s touch would always be present at Myrtle Beach Reads. The builder of the new home had kept me updated with pictures and videos throughout the construction. It was one thing to see how the home looked on a screen. It would be quite another to experience it in real life.

I'd looked forward to seeing my new residence the most since departing St. Grants. A close second was seeing my babies: Myrtle Beach Reads and its younger sister, Garden City Reads. Both did well in my absence. Margaret showcased her experience as a lifelong head librarian in running the bookstore on the Boardwalk. Not to be outdone was the young, savvy Winona with Garden City Reads. My friend, Chris, had been instrumental in helping me open the second location. If business kept thriving, I might tap him to help with a third.

Yes, I was excited to see my family again, too. The pain in Dad's hip got progressively worse since I was gone. Frequent trips to the VA hospital down in Charleston resulted in an upcoming appointment with a surgeon to see if surgery might improve matters. According to Bo, Mom held steady with her health.

Gina didn't have any immediate plans upon our return. She'd been given a full retirement package from the MBPD for getting shot in the line of duty by one of their own. The shoulder where she got hit might never be the same. The injury limited the range of motion in her right arm. She didn't have to work if she didn't want to. She grew up wanting to follow in her dad's footsteps of being a police officer and later a detective. There was no other career path. For now, she'd told me, she was content to be alive.

After what happened to us, I didn't blame her.

As we drew close to Surfside Beach, Lakewood Campground and its enormous neighbor, Ocean Lakes, passed by on our left. Traffic was heavy. Tourists going willy-nilly on rented golf carts were everywhere. On the frontage roads, sidewalks, and Kings Highway itself. After living within walking distance of this area for the last chunk of my life, it never ceased to amaze me to see the "cool" dads and moms cradling a baby in one hand and driving an open-air golf cart with the other. I'd heard stories and the gory details about what happens when families like that get involved in traffic accidents. I never understood why the police didn't patrol this area more to deter dangerous driving like that. My mind got off its soapbox.

We hung a right at the big stoplight where 544 ended at Ocean Lakes and cruised into my neighborhood a minute later.

"You ready?" Bo said from the driver's seat.

I craned my neck, searching for the new house. "You bet."

The house Autumn and I’d bought together and then was burned down by a pair of Molotov cocktails thrown by Lucien had been a single-story, bright, and beachy-blue home with green shutters. It was built around the time I was born. The color scheme was the most appealing aspect to the home on the outside. The inside had been completely redone before we’d moved in.

I'd picked out a floor plan like the one we had before and asked the builder to keep a similar exterior paint scheme. The house was the right size. The new home couldn't be much bigger than the old one because of the lot limitations. My neighbors—and the county inspectors—might get annoyed if I ignored the setbacks on the house and expanded the footprint. No one wanted to be close enough to be able to open a window and ask their neighbor for a cup of sugar and have it handed to them across a narrow gap. Besides, the house size was not too big, not too small, but just right.

We pulled onto the street that ran in front of my home. The neighbor with the pristine lawn and landscaping on the corner had gotten a big new Dodge Ram pickup while I was gone. It looked sharp.

While I was busy admiring his new ride, Gina was admiring our new house. Yes, our new house. We're going to be living together.

Chapter Three

She gasped, breaking my idle fascination with the truck. I secretly hoped to be the first to see the new house. She won.

Which was fine, since the home appeared much better in person than it did on a screen. The old palmetto tree still stood in the front yard beside the driveway. The builder installed all new landscaping and sod. The lawn, shrubs, and plants almost looked as good as the neighbors’ landscaping did, the one with the new truck. His lawn was the envy of the neighborhood.

I admit, my eyes got dewy at first sight of the new place. It was like someone replaced my old home with a new model that had a similar outside appearance, but with cleaner lines and new equipment under the hood. Every detail, from the windows to the siding to the front door. Everything was familiar, but it was all new.

"It's beautiful, Clark," Gina said from beside me.

I nodded. I didn't trust my voice to not break at this moment with a response.

Mom and Dad waited in rocking chairs on the front porch. Rocking chairs I didn't have before. Chris MacInally and his wife, Erin, stood on the lawn. Chris held a large, gift-wrapped box in his enormous hands. The key members of my bookstore staff—Karen, Margaret, Winona, and even the tall, lumbering Humphrey—were with them. Humphrey still lived with his parents around the corner. It was because of them he came to work at Myrtle Beach Reads after graduating high school. Everyone was waving, smiling, and/or jumping up and down on our arrival.

The sight of all of them caused the dew in my eyes to form into drops and run down my face. I swiped them away. Bo was ready and reached a tissue back to me. I used it to dry my face. Gina squeezed my hand.

There were two other people present I had never seen in the flesh. The woman held similar features to Gina, except a few inches shorter and a few years older. She had dark hair cut to her shoulders, green eyes, and wore a yellow tank top and denim shorts. The other person came up to just below her shoulders. His head was covered in shaggy brown hair, freckles, and the same green eyes as his mom. He wore black shorts, yellow Crocs, and a Minecraft t-shirt. It didn't take Detective Poirot to deduce that this was Gina's sister, Lynn, and nephew, Timmy. He wasn't due to start second grade at his school in New York until the end of the month.

The Jeep, my Jeep, came to a stop in the driveway. Several other cars were in the driveway and parked on the street, but they'd left a spot at the front of the driveway for us to park. Bo climbed out, leaving us in the backseat. He went around to the back cargo hold and retrieved our luggage. Chris came and helped.

Gina and I turned to face each other, holding hands between us.

"You ready for this?" I asked.

The corner of her lips curled up. Her eyes lit with amusement. She gave a little throaty laugh and said, "In the words of Clark Thomas, ‘I was born ready.’"

We emerged from the car. To my delight, no one leapt off the porch and rushed to the car to greet us. They gave us our space. I've never been the touchy-feely type, and neither had Gina. We'd grown closer during our time together, venturing into touchy-feely territory with each other, though.

Light shone through scattered clouds. The temperatures cooled to the low eighties, signaling a change of season around the corner. Birds chirped. The smell of fresh cut grass carried through the air. A soft breeze rustled the trees. Sunlight glimmered off the small lake in the center of the community. We couldn't have asked for a better afternoon to return to the Grand Strand.

Gina walked up to her sister and nephew and gave them big hugs. I stopped and admired my new home. Mom stepped off the porch and approached me and wrapped her arms around my waist. Her head only came up to my shoulders, so that was as high as she could go.

"So glad you're back, safe and sound, Clark," she said with a squeeze.

I returned the hug. "It's great to be back," I said and meant it.

Mom broke the hug and took a step back. "I hope you like what I did inside."

"I'm sure I will." I smiled. "You didn't have to, but I appreciate everything you did."

"Erin came over and gave advice. She has a brilliant eye for decorating. Lynn too."

When I was trying to lie low after Lucien burnt down my house, Chris offered to let me stay in his Market Common penthouse, which he shared with Erin. Most of the house was decorated in bachelor style, but Erin had tastefully decorated the guest bedroom. It was a bright contrast to the rest of his residence.

"I've seen an example," I said. "I'm sure she does."

"You should also thank Chris and Bo. They did all the heavy lifting."

"I will."

Mom turned and glanced at Lynn and Timmy. "She brought Gina's things and stashed them in the guest bedroom."

I hadn't discussed the living situation with mom. She was a traditionalist and believed that a couple should get married before moving in together. Which is what Autumn and I had done.

She cast a wary eye at me. I knew what was coming. With everyone still on the porch, I explained the situation. That placated her. She might not have been happy with what I told her, but it is what it is.

She led the way.

There were hugs all around. Margaret commented on my tan, which I had to admit was deeper than ever. That's what nearly a year in the Caribbean will do to a person. Karen commented on my weight. I'd lost more and was in the best shape I'd been in since I played baseball for Coastal Carolina. I went running along the St. Grant's coast nearly every morning at Gina's urging. She'd been a runner in high school and college and still ran like a gazelle with her long legs.

Eventually, I made my way over to Gina, Lynn, and Timmy.

Lynn extended her hand. "Hello, I'm Lynn. Gina has told me so much about you."

Her hand was cool. "Pleased to meet you. She hasn't talked about you too much, but maybe later you can tell me all the embarrassing stuff she did growing up."

Gina slapped me on the shoulder and said to her sister, "No, you won't."

She might have been joking, but I wasn't sure.

Lynn grinned and leaned toward me. "I got lots of stories."

Gina stood behind and to the side of her sister, placing her hands on Lynn's shoulders. "And none of which you'll ever hear."

Lynn mouthed, "We'll talk."

"Well, it's great to meet you. Thanks for coming down and taking care of your sister's belongings."

"It was no trouble at all," Lynn said and peered down at her quiet son. "Right, Timmy?"

He stared up at his mom and aunt—it was odd to think of Gina as an "aunt"—not sure of what to say.

I took the initiative. "So, you're the handsome young man your aunt has told me about."

The little boy tried to smile. A sudden thought crossed his mind. He looked at me and said, "Did you know you should only run away from the female mosquitos?"

I knitted my eyebrows. That was an interesting conversation starter. Lynn snickered.

"No, I did not know that," I said. "Why should I only run away from female mosquitos?"

"Because they're the ones that drink your blood," he stated.

I looked to Lynn for guidance.

"Timmy reads lots of books. Nonfiction mostly. He'll tell you all sorts of interesting facts. Isn't that right, Timmy?"

"Sure is," he answered. Then to me, "The girl mosquitos bite because they need our blood as a source of protein for their eggs."

"Fascinating," I said to the boy, and it was. As I learned on St. Grant's, mosquitos were the bane of Gina’s existence. She couldn't go from the house to the car without getting bitten. Having a lake behind our house gave the pesky bugs a damp ecosystem here where they thrived. "How do I know which ones are the males and which ones are the females?"

His face scrunched together while trying to come up with an answer. He used his left hand to imitate the flight of mosquitos. "Because the males fly about in crazy patterns like this." His hand swirled every which way. "While the girls come straight at you like this." His hand darted at my forearm, where he pinched it in one sudden motion.

"Oww," I said, instinctively moving my arm out of harm's way.

"Timmy," Lynn cautioned. "That wasn't nice. Apologize."

He stared at his shoes. "Sorry."

"No, it's okay," I said. "You were just demonstrating, right?"

"Yeah."

I held out my arm and showed him where he had pinched. There was a spot in the center turning slightly red. "Look, no blood. We're good."

He smiled, grateful to not be in trouble. "Thanks!"

We all went inside where Mom had made refreshments. Someone had gone around the corner to Roma Ray's Italian Bakery and gotten sweet treats, and, of course, there was coffee. Mom had sent Bo over to Benjamin's Bakery to grab a bag of freshly roasted beans. I already considered myself to be a coffee snob, and my time on St. Grants did nothing to diminish that. The volcanic soil produces the best coffee beans on this side of South America.

Later, after most of the guests departed, Gina and I were in the kitchen, cleaning up. Lynn and Timmy were in the living room, watching an episode of Bluey.

Gina had been . . . different . . . since what happened. More guarded. Cautious. This was our first night in our new home together. The start of a new life. We'd spent every day together for the last eleven months, but that was in a different world. She hadn't asked me about her sister staying here beforehand. It didn't bother me. I viewed it as her wanting something familiar around. A buffer of sorts, if that's the right word. Whatever she needed to feel safe, I would make sure she had it.

"It's great that your sister can be here," I said as I put a clean glass into a cabinet.

Gina was wiping crumbs off the counter. "Yes, it is. I hadn't seen her since Timmy was a baby. He didn't know who I was."

"Makes sense."

She wadded up the dirty paper towel, tossed it into the trashcan under the sink, and came to stand close to me.

We touched our shoulders. Our backs were to her sister and nephew.

"Look, Clark. Lynn's done a lot for me. Especially traveling all this way to help get my things in order."

"Agreed. She must be a special sister."

Gina peeked over her shoulder and back at me. "Yeah, she is. I was a mess when Dad died. We'd already lost Mom a few years before. Lynn was close to Mom. I was closer to Dad. Lynn saved me from falling into a deep depression."

I never met either of her parents, but what little I'd been around her sister, I understood. Lynn seemed to be softer and more caring. Gina had a hard edge that came from her upbringing and job. They had softened since what happened but were still there.

"Yeah. Seems to be that way. I'm more like Mom. Bo is more like Dad."

"I can tell."

"Look," Gina said in a low voice. "Lynn is a huge Dolly Parton fan."

Like Timmy with his random "Fun Facts," which he told me several throughout the course of the afternoon, the mention of Dolly Parton was another swift change of subject I didn't see coming.

"Okay," I intoned.

She chewed her bottom lip before continuing. "You know the Legends in Concert, right?"

"Yeah. The one by Broadway at the Beach."

"That's the one. Anyway, they have concerts almost every night with celebrity impersonators. I've never been to a show there, but heard it was always a good time. The cast changes every couple of months, so there's almost always something new for when tourists come back to town."

"Let me guess," I said. "Right now, Dolly Parton is one of the performers?"

"Correct."

"And you want to take your sister to see a show before she goes home?"

"I think it would be a pleasant surprise and my way of saying ‘Thank you.’”

"Then that's what we'll do tomorrow."

"Also," Gina said in a lower voice. "Lynn got an acting degree at University. She made nothing of it and used her business degree to earn a living instead. However, one of her friends and classmates did."

"How so?"

Her eyes bore into mine. "She's Dolly."

It took me a moment to register her words. "You mean the same Dolly Parton performer currently at the Legends Theater is the same person Lynn went to school with?"

"She is. We were friends too. Lynn would let me hang out with them on weekends. I was never into the whole theater thing, but there were super talented people involved. I enjoyed being around creative people."

"That's quite a coincidence," I said. For the record, after investigating a slew of murders, I hated coincidences. They were never a good thing in a murder case.

"Yeah. She and I are friends on social media. I couldn't believe it when I saw her listed in the show lineup. I sent her a message, telling her I wanted to surprise Lynn, and she said it would be great to catch up with an old friend."

"Are you going to tell Lynn who Dolly is or let her figure it out?"

"I think it'll be our little secret for now."

In a playful manner, I touched a finger to her lips. "Like our other secret?"

She laughed. "Yeah, like that one."

"What about Timmy? Would he come too?"

It was obvious she'd forgotten about that little detail. "Oh, right. It's supposed to be family friendly."

"I didn't know if he'd be out too late and could stand the loud music."

"Good point." She chewed her lower lip. My knees quivered at the sight. "Maybe someone in your family could watch him?"

The gears in my brain spun. "Actually, I have another idea, but yes, let's get tickets. Sounds like fun."

Gina gave me a peck on the lips.

After uncovering Autumn's killer and helping to solve six other murder investigations, I'd hoped to put all that behind me. Like, maybe a long break from the Grand Strand would wash away that phase of my life. I'd be quite happy if I never had to be involved in another murder investigation.

Little did I know that Gina's request to take her sister to the Legends Theater was the start of more. So much more in the worst way possible.

Chapter Four

The next day, I visited both bookstores, spending time in each. Lynn took Gina to the car dealership with Timmy in tow. It wasn't until we had a month left on our stay in St. Grants that we realized Gina wouldn't have a car when we returned to Myrtle Beach. Her beloved Camry ended up in a lake in the events leading up to us leaving. She loved the car so much that Lynn braved the 501 traffic through Carolina Forest and took her up to Sparks Toyota to get a new one, almost identical to her old Camry. Except she had texted me a photo, and this one was a green-blue color called "Ocean Gem."

Despite the travel season winding down, both stores were busy. The locations for each helped. The Myrtle Beach store was at the southern end of the Boardwalk. Foot traffic wasn't as heavy there as it was closer to the Bowery, Ripley's, and the Sky Wheel, but we still managed. Having two other bustling shops and a new fancy restaurant called Culinary Passport in our Shops on the Boardwalk strip helped draw tourists in.

Garden City Reads was in a similar, heavily trafficked area of that beach. It was around the corner from the pier in between the arcade and Garden City Coffee. Winona did a commendable job in not only running that location but also growing it. She had partnered with the neighboring businesses to build a network of support. She built a display of menus and coupons from the surrounding businesses, and they likewise handed out 10% off coupons for Garden City Reads.

In the middle of all this, I went online and bought three tickets to the concert at the Legends Theater for tonight. It was a simple process. I asked Bo if he wanted to go with us, but he studied the lineup and said none of it interested him. He was into 90s heavy metal and rap music. I wasn't sure that the theater catered to the Ozzy Osborne/Notorious BIG crowd. Bo might have tagged along had the theater offered any of their ilk in the lineup, but it was not to be.

I had a creative and slightly risky idea for how to keep Timmy entertained while we were at the theater. Gina didn't care for my idea at first, but I asked her before contacting my, albeit brief, ex-girlfriend Andrea. Her daughter Libby and Timmy were roughly the same age, and I figured they could have a nice playdate. It took convincing, but Andrea gave in.

She and her ex-con husband, Owen, rekindled their lost love since we'd been gone, and moved back in together at Paradise Hideaway. I'd followed through with my offer of helping him get work. He'd spent several years serving time in a Missouri prison for second-degree manslaughter. While inside, he'd taken classes to become a carpenter and electrician. I had called people I knew in the construction business and hooked him up. At first, they were reluctant to take on a recently released convict, but after I laid out what happened, my friend at one of the area home builders agreed to interview him. He passed the test and was soon doing electrical work at a new subdivision on Carolina Forest Boulevard.

I met up for dinner at Nacho Hippo in Market Common with Andrea and her family. Timmy loved the corn dog he’d ordered off the kids' menu. Gina and I split a Hipponachomus piled high with chili, taco beef, shredded chicken, queso, and lettuce. After being out of the country eating a different cuisine for so long, we went all-in on our return Stateside. I hoped my stomach wouldn't make me regret it later. Gina justified the enormous plate by eating most of the lettuce. I didn't complain. I'm more of a carnivore.

As the sun fell in the sky, we dropped Timmy off at Andrea’s. She lived within walking distance of the restaurant. After her uncle forced her to spy on me, I should never have spoken to her again, but eleven months and a new girlfriend made forgiveness come quickly. She and I exchanged awkward smiles while Gina remained in the car with Lynn.

Once I returned to the car, the three of us took Farrow Parkway to the 17 Bypass toward Broadway at the Beach. They sat in the back seat and continued to catch up on old times. I didn't hear them talk about anything from their childhood that would embarrass Gina, but I was sure something would eventually slip through. I wasn't sure why I wanted juicy gossip about her childhood, but it might stem from her being so tight-lipped about it. She rarely talked about her mom and dad. As part of getting to know her, I wanted a glimpse into her childhood.

The Gladiator Games Colosseum and the Hollywood Wax Museum passed by on our left as we came to and drove past Broadway at the Beach. We turned on 29th Avenue N before taking a quick left on Hollywood Drive past the Carolina Ale House.

The Legends Theater didn't start out in its current form. The building was originally the home to a sports-themed restaurant called the All-Star Cafe before going out of business. A rowdy nightclub moved in. Their parties were legendary. Not quite Studio 54 in New York City legendary, but enough so that the authorities eventually shut them down.

As the front of the theater faced the Bypass, we entered the parking lot at the rear of the building before driving around to the front. A replica of the 1974 Dodge Monaco Police Interceptor, or "Blues Mobile," from the Blues Brothers movie, was parked on the right side of the theater. It was one of the most famous police cars in cinema history, complete with a massive speaker attached to the roof of the car. A couple of early fans were having their picture taken with it. An LED sign below the Legends logo on the Bypass side flashed the names of tonight's performers, including Dolly.

Palmetto trees were scattered around the lot in beds. Their leafy fronds swayed in the slight breeze. Their shadows lengthened with the setting sun. We arrived half an hour before the start of the show. The parking lot was already mostly full. Tourists and locals moved through the lot on their way to the front entrance. A massive diamond shaped sign facing 17 displayed the Legends Theater name. Ten-foot-tall images of Dolly Parton and Michael Jackson were plastered high on the exterior wall to the left of the theater sign. Elvis and Madonna adorned the side of the wall on the opposite side. The tall building had a mostly tan exterior. Rust colored rectangular sections accented the building design. Tables with red umbrellas peeked out from above a hidden patio on the left side of the building.

Lynn wore a Dolly Parton T-shirt and jean shorts. Gina didn't have any music clothing, but wore a green top and khaki slacks. After the fire, I only possessed the clothes on my back and in my travel bag. I'd bought a few items on St. Grants but was still in the process of replenishing my wardrobe. I’d slipped into Hot Topic inside the Central Grand Mall earlier this afternoon and picked up an Aerosmith t-shirt for tonight's occasion. The show the Legends Theater was hosting tonight was a "Best Performers" lineup to celebrate thirty years in the Grand Strand, which included Dolly Parton, Elvis Presley, Michael Jackson, Tina Turner, Steven Tyler, and the Blues Brothers. I grew up as a big Aerosmith fan, and theirs was the first concert I’d attended. They had been playing in Charleston, West Virginia, about an hour from my childhood home in Proctorville, Ohio, on my eighteenth birthday. Dad bought my friends and me tickets for the occasion.

He wasn't the real thing, but I'd heard that this Steven Tyler impersonator was supposed to be dead-on perfect. I supposed that's what the Legends Theater was going for with all their performers: For two hours, they looked and sounded so much like their real-life counterparts that you thought you were watching the real thing. I'd never been to a show here, but I was looking forward to seeing how close they came.

Lynn had been giddy with anticipation all day. It pleased me to see Gina with her sister. It brought out a different side of her I hadn't seen. Having Lynn here was comforting to the mentally and emotionally recovering new love of my life. Seeing Gina happy and not having past events on her mind made me happy.

We climbed out of the Jeep. Lynn ran up to the side of the building below Dolly's image. She'd handed Gina her phone before her feet touched the pavement. She wanted a picture below her idol. Lynn would be in for a treat later.

Gina took several photos of Lynn in various poses below Dolly. Vehicles arrived and fans of all ages entered the building. An air of anticipation and the aroma of buttered popcorn reached out to me here on the cement stairs leading to the entrance. I'd just gorged on nachos, but that addictive smell still made me hungry.

We'd been able to keep the secret that Lynn's friend was going to be performing as Dolly Parton. It was Gina's job to make sure her sister didn't get a good look at a program or any posters on the door in case they displayed Dolly's real name.

I held open the door for Lynn and Gina to enter the spacious lobby with tall ceilings. Concert posters decorated the walls. A timeshare concierge stood behind a desk in an alcove on the right side of the entryway. She was tall and slender with short blonde hair. I was sure she was there to lure someone in for a timeshare tour, as much for recommending activities for tourists. The people here for the show avoided her. She wore a baleful expression that would keep most people away. If I were her manager, I wouldn't be happy seeing her expression and body language this way.

A gift shop featuring Elvis and Dolly shirts at the front was on the right side of the open area. Trinkets such as mugs, hats, bottle openers, and refrigerator magnets lined the shelves. A middle-aged woman with blonde hair, pink top, and polka dotted sandals stood out front helping customers.

People stood in line at the ticket counter at the rear of the lobby. I purchased tickets online this morning so we could skip the line. Entryways to the auditorium stood on either side of the ticket counter. Several attendees wore fanny packs. We stayed to the left and got in line at the snack counter. Lynn surprised me and bought me a Landshark lager on tap. Now, this was my kind of place.

Fans flowed into the auditorium doors. Signs displaying the lettered sections that lay inside were above the auditorium gates. It so happened that our entrance faced the snack bar. I took my beer and followed Gina and Lynn inside. I'd already had the tickets ready to show the usher on my phone before we entered. Because this was a special occasion for Lynn, I'd secured center seats, three rows back from the stage.

An usher wearing a red shirt with the Legends logo and black pants with dark hair, glasses showed us to our seats. Gina and Lynn led the way down the aisle. We squeezed past a handful of people who were already seated.

We sat down in comfortable chairs, and Lynn leaned across Gina and said to me above the din, "Clark! These are such great seats. Thank you!"

"You're quite welcome." I took a sip of beer from the clear plastic cup. "I may not be as excited as you are, but I still wanted good seats."

"Well, these are great seats," she repeated and sat back.

Gina squeezed my arm as a silent way of commending me for my labor-intensive deed. That is, tapping the screen of my phone a few times to purchase tickets. Then she leaned over and held a conversation with her sister.

I took the time to look around the cavernous auditorium. Different shades of purple carpet covered squares hung on the theater walls. I wondered if the soft surfaces were to enhance sound quality. Half-moon wall sconces and lights high overhead lit the theater under a black ceiling. Large screens on either side of the stage displayed a program showing various 80s music videos and pop culture commercials. It kept the crowd entertained while they waited for the show to begin. A sound and lighting board was near the back of the theater in the middle. Two technicians sat in wait for their work to begin. I assumed all the test checks were done prior to the audience being admitted.

As we got closer to the start of the show, the eagerness in the crowd was palpable. The theater could seat six hundred people. Most of the seats were filled, and people were still coming in.

Band members assembled on stage. The drummer, with a black ball cap on backward, and a bass player with long blond hair, prepared on the left side. A drum kit lay behind plexiglass panels to soften the percussive noise. A theater logo was painted on the front of the large, round bass drum. On the opposite side was a guitarist with short sandy hair wearing jeans and a plain blue T-shirt. The keyboard player oozed style and flair, wearing thick, gold-rimmed sunglasses stood next to him. Three separate elevated platforms of varying heights rose from the stage behind the main level. Two of equal height stood on either side of the highest level at the top of blue-lighted stairs in the middle. The layout would give the performers room to move around and entertain fans at different angles.

A sound technician with long gray hair pulled back in a ponytail came out and checked the equipment at the front of the stage. Satisfied all was ready, he stepped over to a microphone in the front center of the stage.

He looked out over the auditorium. The crowd went silent. The tech leaned close to the microphone and said, "Quite a crowd we have here tonight. Anyone interested in hearing your favorite hits from Dolly, Elvis, Steven Tyler, Tina Turner, and the Blues Brothers here at the Legends Theater?"

The crowd went wild.

He smiled. The lights went out, casting the theater into pitch darkness. Gina jumped in her chair at the sudden change, as did others.

The screens hanging above either side of the stage played a video, introducing the theme to tonight's show "The Best of the Legends.”

Then a spotlight in the top rear of the concert hall lit, casting its beam on none other than Tina Turner standing on the left side of the stage.

The show was about to begin.

Chapter Five

"Tina" was stunning in a slinky silver sequined dress that fell to her mid-thigh. Voluminous honey-colored curls cascaded down to her shoulders. From where we sat, she looked exactly like Tina Turner. Then she spoke with the same raspy voice known the world over with a hand raised high in the air in welcome.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the Legends Theater in Myrtle Beach!" The crowd went wild. She continued, "Tonight, we have a truly ‘Legendary’ show for you. Some of the most iconic names in music history will join me on stage for an incredible evening of music, singing, and dancing. Oh yes! We're going to have you up out of those seats, singing and dancing the entire time."

More cheers came from the crowd. I clapped in understated enthusiasm.

"Get ready to be thrilled by the King of Pop, Michael Jackson!" The crowd erupted. I continued clapping. He wasn't who I was here to see, but the rocker deep inside of me appreciated songs with great riffs like “Thriller” and “Beat It.” Tina wasn't done as she continued to work the fans into a froth. "Prepare to be rocked by Steven Tyler, be charmed by the one and only Dolly Parton, and sway to the timeless tunes of the King himself, Elvis Presley!"

By now, many in the crowd lost their minds, and the music hadn't even begun.

Tina waited with a demure smile for everyone to collect themselves. She was eating this up.

She raised the microphone to her lips. "But first, let's kick things off with a bang! Please put your hands together for the dynamic duo who always bring the house down—the Blues Brothers!"

Then, all at once, the spotlight on Tina shut off and another lit on the far side of the stage as the lights came back on in the theater, albeit dimmer than before the show. There, in the spotlight, stood Jake and Elwood Blues, wearing dark suits, black ties, and white shirts. Polished black shoes shone in the stage lights. Their iconic black fedoras were tilted just so and dark sunglasses gave them an air of mystery and coolness.

The keyboardist played a few notes before the drummer and bass player kicked in with, “I Can't Turn You Loose.” Jake was a dead ringer for Dan Akroyd. His voice carried the same cadence and mid-western accent. He echoed Tina's opening lines. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the Legends Theater in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina! Well, here it is, the mid-2020s going on 1985. You know, much of the music we hear nowadays is this pre-programmed electronic noise. You don't get to hear musicians practicing their craft anymore. By the year 2030, blues will only exist on old CDs in your public libraries. So, ladies and gentlemen, while we still can, we're going to knock your socks off with a rousing performance here tonight!"

Three gorgeous dancers wearing black sequined suits joined the Brothers on a platform at the top of the stage to sing backup on “Everybody Needs Somebody to Love.” Gina got out of her seat, clapping and swaying along with the music. I stood up and joined her. She was smiling and having fun. For me, it was great to see the events from last year far from her mind. She needed distractions at this time in her life. Right now, that was Jake and Elwood. They finished their twenty-minute set with “Soul Man.” I sang along too.

They left the stage to a standing ovation. If I managed this show, and wanted to make sure the crowd was enthusiastic from the get-go, the Blues Brothers were the perfect opening act.

Tina came back out and went right into “Higher.” The dancers/backup singers remained with her but disappeared when the song ended.

Next came Michael Jackson. While this performer's face wasn't as close to a near-perfect match as Tina, Jake, and Elwood, his voice, dance moves, and wardrobe would have fooled anyone. He played the B-songs: “Bad,” “Beat It,” “Black or White,” and “Billie Jean” before ending with “Thriller.” The dancers did a quick wardrobe change into black leather bras, semi-concealed by stylish black leather jackets, and black leather pants. When he strutted to the left side of the stage, lowered his head, and put his hand on his hat, everyone knew what was coming. Perhaps the most famous dance move in history—the Moonwalk. This guy did it to perfection. An overenthusiastic fan in the section to our right might have fainted. Her husband had to help her get back to her feet.

The crowd never calmed down because our hostess, Tina Turner, came out and wowed the audience with a perfect rendition of the theme song from the James Bond movie, Goldeneye. She sang and danced on the left side of the stage. While she was way over there, a technician brought out a microphone stand wrapped in a dozen multi-colored scarves. I knew who the next performer would be. He was not the Steven Tyler, but he was the next best thing.

Gina grabbed my arm when she sensed my excitement. I turned my head and gave her a brief smile. I could stare into her green eyes all night, but she'd have to wait. Lynn jumped up and down, and somehow her ever-present sunglasses remained perched on top of her head.

Tina vanished as her song ended. The stage was cast into darkness. Then a hypnotic bass line began an intriguing tone, joined a moment later by the shaking of maracas. The bassline continued as the guitarist strummed an almost voice-like sound. The atmosphere was laid back, but electric at the same time. When the bass drum kicked in, there he was, right in front of me. Steven Tyler. Tall, thin, long dark hair with a few blond pieces framing a long face with a two-day-old beard.

I'll confess, I went nuts. It was time for “Sweet Emotion.” While the band wasn't of the same caliber—although the Legends Theater house band was fantastic—this "Steven Tyler" could have stepped in for the real frontman and few could have told a difference. The dancers had changed costumes again. Although there weren't as many songs as possible in this set they could provide backup vocals on, the three women provided extra depth and emotion on “Cryin'” and “I Don't Want to Miss a Thing.” The set finished with what is perhaps Aerosmith's signature song, “Dream On.”

Although they didn't play my favorite Aerosmith song, “Livin' on the Edge,” I was happy to experience several of my other favorites. “Janie's Got a Gun” and “Love in an Elevator” might have been too risqué for this crowd.

Our hostess with the most-ess returned with another song, “What’s Love Got to Do with It?” before announcing a short intermission.

The two biggest acts were still to come. Dolly Parton and the King.

Chapter Six

The lights went up as the dancers and band members filed off the stage. The drummer, who wore a backward black ball cap, worked up an impressive sheen of sweat during the first part of the show. Intermission might be a good time for a quick backstage shower if they had those back there. Gina and Lynn led the way out of our row.

I took the time to scan the crowd while we waited our turns to get out of the aisle and noted the diverse cultures and age groups here tonight. Caleb and his red-headed wife, Tasha, sat at a private table near the back in a roped-off section. He hadn’t seen me in the throng. I wanted to thank him for helping me nail Autumn’s killer, but I didn’t see a way to enter the VIP section. They might have a private entrance. Most everyone else in our commoner’s area of the theater was standing up and making their way to the exit at the rear of the auditorium. There was even what appeared to be a newborn baby in the row behind us. She was a tiny cutie who apparently slept through the entire thing.

The speakers made a dull thudding noise. I turned to see stage technicians remove Steven Tyler's microphone stand and adjust the music equipment at the front of the stage, hidden from the audience's view by a raised section. Curtains hung on either side, serving as stage exits. In a hurry, the guy carrying the scarved microphone stand in one hand used his other to pull back the curtain.

When he did that, for the briefest moment, I glimpsed the area directly backstage on the right side. It was a narrow hallway. There was a partially visible door on the opposite wall that wasn't too far away. There was a flurry of motion as various shapes crossed paths, going back and forth. Just before the curtain closed, someone came into view, wheeling a tall clothing rack. A white jumpsuit hung from the top bar. Gems adorning it glittered in the dim backstage light.

The curtain closed, and I returned my attention to the receding forms of Lynn and Gina. She'd whispered to me on her way that they were heading directly for the bathroom. I'd asked if they wanted anything from the snack bar, but they declined. Plans were in place to go to Insomnia Cookies at Broadway at the Beach after the show for a late-night snack. The smell of popcorn infusing the air for the past hour did its job. Now, I wanted a bag and a refill.

I made my way to the snack bar and got in line. The line for the women's bathroom stretched almost to the other side of the entire theater lobby. Lynn and Gina were near the back. It would be a while before I saw them again. I made it to the counter and ordered my popcorn and a Landshark refill. Three people were behind the counter. One woman took orders, while another grabbed popcorn and snacks and took them to the left side for pickup. A slender man wearing a shimmery blue suit with graying hair served as the bartender, expertly pouring drafts with an acceptable amount of head.

I'd seen him floating around the theater since we entered the building. His manner of dress and regal bearing caused me to wonder if he owned or ran the entire Legends Theater. If so, it was nice to see someone of his stature rolling up his sleeves and getting down in the trenches with the rest of his workers.

After receiving my beer and popcorn, I drifted over to the gift section. A middle-aged woman with shoulder-length blonde hair, pink top, black slacks, and polka-dot sandals took care of the looky-loos and shoppers. The display took up a corner of the lobby. Various T-shirts depicting the cast, including Elvis and Dolly, hung from the walls and a support wall next to the register. Other trinkets and items like mugs, pictures, fedoras for the Blues Brothers and Michael Jackson fans, Elvis-style sunglasses, tote bags with Dolly on the cover of an October 1978 Playboy, not to mention bejeweled butterflies for sale, and themed candles from Lucid Coast were on display.

While I tried on the King's sunglasses, the gift shop hostess came over. Her name tag read "Vicki." She placed a finger on the side of her cheek, "Well, sir, those sunglasses are a perfect fit for you."

I curled my lip. "Thank ya. Thank ya very much."

It was a poor impression, but it made her smile.

"I've heard worse." She snorted and walked off to help someone else. I guess she didn't think I was serious about making a purchase.

She was right.

I took my beer and popcorn and walked to the other side of the lobby. The door and front windows glimpsed heavy traffic crawling past on the Bypass. The moon shone in a cloudless night sky. Palm fronds on the trees scattered around the parking lot fluttered.

"Excuse me," a female voice called from my left.

The woman at the Wyndham counter waving a hand in my direction. The last thing I needed was to be accosted in the middle of the intermission by someone trying to lure me into touring a timeshare.

I pretended not to hear her and walked in the opposite direction back to the auditorium.

"Clark! Clark Thomas!" the woman said.

That got my attention. It'd been almost a year since I'd been gone, but I'd built up somewhat of a reputation before I left Myrtle Beach. Knowing I wasn't random prey, I smiled and stepped over to her counter. No one else stood within ten feet of us. Her badge identified her as "Barbara."

"Hi," I said.

She had large blue eyes and a narrow mouth. I couldn't tell if she was near or past retirement age.

"Sorry to be a bother, but I thought that was you," she said. "You've been gone a while, haven't you?"

"I have."

"Yeah, it was pretty big news about what happened. Made the national news and everything."

That was another thing, and maybe a good reason to have been out of the country for as long as we were. When Gina and I sorted out what happened to my late wife, Autumn, and two other deceased detectives, it created a stir, not just in the Grand Strand, but nationwide. My face was all over the news for a week, but died down since I would only give the one interview to Taylor Maresca of WBTW. I've never been one to seek headlines for any good deeds I've done, and that one was the biggest of all.

I faked a smile. "Yeah, I'm aware of that."

"I'm sure you are," Barbara said. "I hope everyone is well."

"As good as can be."

"All of that isn't why I called you over here."

It was a rarity before we left town, but someone would occasionally recognize me from the first book I wrote. Reviews were mixed, but I was confident that my second book, Death of a Gladiator, would be better than the first.

To my surprise, or maybe it shouldn't have been a surprise, Barbara called me over to her for another reason.

Murder.

Chapter Seven

Barbara. Tears came to her eyes. Whatever it was she wanted to tell me must have been of a deeply personal nature.

The attendees were keeping their distance from her concierge booth, therefore giving us a modicum of privacy.

"It's my friend," she said. "Bonnie Loudermilk."

When I didn't give the slightest recognition to the name, she continued, "Bonnie worked with us. We're Wyndham concierges."

"I'm familiar with what you do," I said, noting her use of past tense when speaking of her friend. "You help tourists find things to do while trying to get them to commit to a tour of one of your resorts, right?"

"That's the gist of it. For someone like me who's technically retired, I still get to work and be around people and make a little money. Yeah, I'm here for the show tonight, but mostly I'm here during the day when the only people who come into the building are here to purchase tickets."

"Not a high-stress job, I take it."

"Not really. I get a stern talking to if I don't get people to sign up for tours." She waved her hand like she was batting the subject aside. "It's part of the gig."

Sensing time was running short as people in the lobby thinned out and made their way back to their seats, I said, "Tell me about Bonnie."

"She worked with me here, mostly in the evening during the shows. She was supposed to be here tonight."

"But you're here instead. Where's Bonnie?"

A tear fell down her face. "Someone killed her the other night."

My immediate reaction was one of sympathy and sadness. The next thought was, Not. Again.

I fumbled for the words. "What happened?"

"One perk of the job is that our bosses will send us to new resorts during their launch phase to help train the new staff. We're their first guests. We take it easy on them while they get experience for when the bullets fly. Bonnie had just landed from a flight coming back from Hawaii. She got home before her husband. He got off late that night and found her on the kitchen floor with a knife sticking out of her back."

"Do they know who did it?"

Her lips formed a thin line. "I'm not sure. I don't know her husband, but Bonnie and I were more than work acquaintances. We were friends. All I know is the police still haven't arrested anyone."

My investigative curiosity was piqued. "Can you think of any reason someone would do that to her?"

Barbara shook her head. "No clue. Bonnie seemed like the nicest person."

It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out why Barbara assumed I would be interested in this. "I haven't heard about this. I returned home yesterday after having been out of the country for nearly a year and hadn't turned on the news."

I didn't mention anything about seeing the story on social media because I hadn't. I shunned Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, and other platforms like the plague. I'm old-fashioned. It was something my publisher wanted me to be involved in to help market my books, but they recognized after a while that I was no good at it and didn’t post often enough to be relevant on any platform. They hired a remote assistant that I chatted with weekly to run my author accounts. Winona took over the social media accounts for Myrtle Beach Reads for the same reason.

"Knowing what you've done in the past," Barbara said, "I figured you might be interested."

I gave her a tight smile. She was hurt and looked to me for answers. For help. "Thank you. It is interesting and I hope they find who did it, but I'm trying to put all that behind me and focus on my bookstores and writing."

I didn't mention Gina because I wanted to keep my personal life personal.

"Oh, okay," Barbara said.

I placed a consoling hand on her arm. "I'm sorry about your friend."

"Thank you," she said.

I walked away toward the auditorium entrance with my beer and popcorn. After spending most of the last year in the Caribbean, away from death and murders, I hoped to stay away from ever getting involved again.

Little did I know that the subject was about to become unavoidable.

Chapter Eight

After intermission, Tina Turner performed a mini set, including “The Best,” “Proud Mary,” and ended with her iconic “Addicted to Love.”

There were only two performers left, and they'd saved the best for last. I figured that, as much as everyone adored Dolly, Elvis would close the show. Lynn sensed this as well. She turned to Gina and grabbed her by both shoulders.

"She's next!" I heard her scream as the final chords to Tina's last song faded.

Tina stood on the left side of the stage. She bowed to her adoring fans. "Whew. Thank you. You're amazing, Myrtle Beach! You know that?" She paused while the crowd cheered in agreement. Whoever was playing the role of Tina had a knack for showmanship and kept the crowd engaged.

She smiled from ear to ear and raised the microphone to her lips. "Well, guess what? The show's not over yet. Now, it's time to welcome a true living legend to the stage. She's a country music icon, a brilliant songwriter, and an amazing performer with a heart as big as her voice. Okay everyone, let's give it up for the one. The only. Dolly Parton!"

Tears were already in Lynn's eyes. I didn't know how she was going to make it through the set without collapsing in hysterics.

The spotlight went out on Tina. The drummer struck a symbol. A low note on the piano began tapping a steady rhythm. Then the other spotlight hit on the next performer, Dolly Parton. Her blonde hair was pulled up into a thick ponytail. Locks of hair fell over her face. She wore a low-cut, red sequined dress with a slanted hem, which started above her right knee and ended below her left, and matching red heels. This Dolly was—ahem—gifted in the same manner as the real one. She possessed a built-in balcony she could sing from.

The audience was clapping along before she sang the opening line of “9 to 5.”

Lynn. Went. Nuts.

As Dolly performed the song, she held a microphone and crossed from one side of the stage to the other. She'd wave, smile, and blow kisses when taking a breath in between verses. The dancers were dressed in white dresses with a matching design to Dolly's red dress. They joined their voices with Dolly during the chorus.

If I thought the Tina character was a great show-woman, then whoever this Dolly was must have been her teacher. Her smile, personality, stage presence, and voice were absolutely electric.

When the first song ended, she stood in the center of the stage. She took a deep breath. Her bosoms heaved. I had to duck from two rows back. The thought made me laugh to myself.

She stared out over the crowd. "Whew! Thanks, y'all. It means a lot coming all the way to Myrtle Beach from Pigeon Forge, Tennessee." She stopped, considered, and delivered the same line she probably had every night since she arrived three months ago. "We like to say that Myrtle Beach is the Pigeon Forge of the East Coast, but you know what? After being here and seeing your smiling faces, I think it's the other way around."

This drew a roar. I clapped. I've never been to her hometown, but I'd heard many of the same attractions here are also in the Pigeon Forge and Gatlinburg area around Dollywood.

Dolly laughed to herself and peered down at the fans in front of the stage. When she noticed Lynn, she gasped and stood up straight. Raising the microphone to her lips, she said, "Oh my goodness. Lynn. Lynn Gomez. Is that you I see down there?"

Lynn gave Dolly a closer inspection, trying to peer beyond the hair, makeup, voice, and costume.

"Wait a second," Lynn shouted. By now, the auditorium was silent. "Susan? Susan Carson! Is that you?"

Staying in character, Dolly cocked her head to the side and gave a conspiratorial smile. With a wink, she said, "I'm not sure who Susan Carson is, but she must look fabulous if you're getting her confused with me. Catch up with me after the show. I'd like to hear more about this Susan Carson."

With that, Dolly returned her attention to the band and dancers and nodded her head that she was ready before launching into “Jolene.”

Gina turned to Lynn. Over the music she shouted, "Surprise!"

Her sister's eyes widened. "You knew about this?"

"I did. I'll tell you about it later."

Lynn and Gina embraced. "Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you."

"No, it's my way of saying thank you for helping collect my things while we were gone."

They hugged again and broke from each other so they could go back to enjoying the show.

Dolly/Susan ended the set with a rendition and sort of farewell to the crowd with a rendition of “I Will Always Love You” that gave Whitney Houston a run for her money.

Amid a standing ovation and blowing kisses to the crowd, Dolly pointed at Lynn and mouthed the words, "Let's catch up."

Lynn gave her a thumbs-up before Dolly left the stage.

The energy before the last act was different from the other times Tina gave the introduction after Dolly's heartfelt closing ballad.

After the dancers and Dolly disappeared through the stage right curtain, Tina returned. "Let's give it up one more time for Dolly Parton. Wasn't she amazing?"

The question had the intended effect of re-energizing the crowd, setting the stage for the headlining act.

When the cheers and applause died down, Tina took a deep breath. "Our final performance tonight needs no introduction. He's simply, the King." She bowed before turning and gesturing to the top of the stage.

There he was. Elvis Presley. Back from the dead. (Allegedly)

In a much more convincing accent I tried earlier, Elvis tilted his head to look down at Tina on the far end of the stage. "Thank ya. Thank ya very much."

Look, I'm not one that gets star struck. I've met famous people in my day, like the time actor Chris Pratt appeared at my friend Marilyn's comic book shop on the Boardwalk to promote one of the Marvel movies or when Sandra Bullock was briefly in town shooting a movie and came into Myrtle Beach Reads for a coffee and a book to read. Those were cool experiences. They were the real thing.

Even being aware in the front of my mind that this lookalike standing on stage in front of me with the greased hair and satin gold suit was a talented actor and musician, the back of my mind couldn't grasp that THE Elvis Presley was right there. I've never owned an Elvis album but was obviously familiar with his music and movies. Mom would have loved this.

This guy matched Dolly's stage presence ounce for ounce. He exuded confidence, swagger, and charm.

He raised the microphone. "I've been listening to you all and my amazing friends who graced this stage before me tonight. You sound like a fantastic crowd."

A loud cheer erupted from us. Yes, "us.” The entire crowd. I was more than clapping in my typical reserved manner. I was into it now.

Elvis's mouth formed the quintessential crooked sneer. "What do you say? Let's get our hands clapping and those feet moving? Here we go, you Hound Dogs!"

Before we caught our breaths, Elvis sang the opening line to one of the most famous rock songs ever.

The hits kept coming. The dancers danced and sang. The band played every beat with expert precision. The entire crowd joined along with “Hound Dog,” “Jailhouse Rock,” “Love Me Tender,” “Suspicious Minds,” “Can't Help Falling in Love,” before he ended on a high note with “Burning Love.”

It was a perfect way to end the main part of the concert.

All that was left was a musical medley featuring all the performers.

It was then that I found myself right back to where I never wanted to be again.

In the middle of a murder investigation.

Chapter Nine

In the closing medley, the backup singers were the first ones to appear. They'd gone through what I estimated to be their dozenth costume change since the show began. They sang a few verses of KISS's “Rock and Roll All Nite” before assuming positions on my far-right side of the stage. Then Tina came out, new costume, and did a few lines of Elton John's “Crocodile Rock.”

The music kept going while she introduced each member of the band, starting to the audience’s left with the drummer. Each time their name was called, the crowd cheered. They took a brief bow and played a briefer solo on their chosen instrument. They had to have a versatile range to play the wide variety of songs performed each night. A pattern developed among these closing ditties. Each had the word "Rock" in the title.

Tina next gave way to the Blues Brothers who harmonized the chorus line to Bob Seger's “Old Time Rock & Roll.” Steven Tyler sang “Rock You Like a Hurricane.”

In quite a shock to my senses, and possibly as homage to Elvis, Dolly was next and did her own shortened version of “Jailhouse Rock.” As each icon finished their part, they moved to different parts of the stage.

The band played on while everyone waited for the King to appear, transitioning into the drumbeat leading into Queen's “We Will Rock You.” The audience, dancers, and impersonators clapped in the signature rhythm.

The time it took for Elvis to appear seemed like a longer interval than his stage partners. When he did, he was wearing the bejeweled white jumpsuit, gold-rimmed sunglasses, white boots, and an enormous gold belt buckle that would make a professional championship wrestler jealous.

At first sight of him, it was easy to see that something was different and very wrong from when he'd been on stage less than ten minutes ago. All the makeup in the world couldn't disguise a blue complexion. With unsteady movements, Elvis danced on from the stage’s right side.

The chorus line of “We Will Rock You” is timeless and almost universally known. First, he slurred his words. Then he sang a different, unrecognizable tune. He came to the center of the stage, in between everyone else. Beads of perspiration filled his forehead. He coughed.

Suddenly, he dropped the microphone. The band and audience stilled. He coughed again. His face contorted in pain.

Someone from the stage wings shouted, "Call an ambulance!"

Elvis doubled over and vomited on the stage before collapsing to the floor. His skin turned an alarming shade of blue.

He labored to breathe.

Tina and one dancer rushed to his side to see if they could help. They rolled him on his side where he faced in our direction and tried to administer aid.

Elvis's eyes were wide open. Unfocused.

His breath grew shallow.

He opened his mouth to speak but stopped.

The musician's entire body convulsed. His eyes closed. He lay still.

Tina placed two fingers on his wrist, waited a second, and gasped.

She looked up at her musical partners with a ghostlike expression. "I think he's dead."

Chapter Ten

Acollective hush came over the crowd. Everyone, me included, was too stunned to move for a moment. Tina and the tallest of the three dancers crouched by Elvis’s side. The band and performers watched and hoped Elvis would open his eyes. We all did. The other members of the band and cast who weren’t watching were seeking comfort with each other. No one left the stage or auditorium. Besides the activity on the stage, the auditorium was deathly silent.

The in-house medic rushed out to the stage and attended to Elvis. Being a trained first responder, Gina climbed over the two rows in front of us and pushed herself up on stage.

The well-dressed man who poured me a beer at the snack counter during the intermission ran up to the stage and grabbed a microphone from one of the dancers. He looked down at Elvis. His face paled as he turned his attention to the audience.

Holding up a hand, he said into the microphone, “My name is Mr. Woodlock, and I’m the theater manager. Considering events here, there will be no meet-and-greet in the lobby with the cast. I ask you all to please file out of the theater in a calm manner, out of respect for Mr. Westhale.”

“Westhale” must have been Elvis’s real name. Many had already departed, not wanting to stick around to see what they did with a possibly dead body. I mean, he appeared dead to me. With such close seats, I saw the light go out in his eyes. I hoped I was mistaken.

The medic opened a large plastic case and was preparing to use a defibrillator on Elvis.

Mr. Woodlock concluded with, “Please keep him in your thoughts and prayers this evening. Thank you for coming.”

With that, he was done, and turned to see if he could help.

I put an arm around Lynn to steady her and guide her to the exit. Like many, she was in shock. Unfortunately, Elvis wasn’t the first dead person I’ve encountered. At least, I hoped he wasn’t dead. I wished this was a thing of the past, but something in this universe was conspiring against me. At least Elvis’s collapse didn’t appear to be caused by ill intentions.

As we were sitting in the middle near the front, Lynn and I were two of the last to exit the auditorium. The attendees took Mr. Woodlock’s instructions to heart and were exiting the building in an orderly manner.

I guided Lynn to a cushioned bench on the wall shared by the auditorium and sat down with my arm around her. She still hadn’t spoken.

Two uniformed police officers rushed into the theater. I spotted a squad car through the front windows sitting out front with its lights flashing. A red MBFD ambulance pulled up behind it.

A tall, well-dressed woman with dark eyes, auburn hair, and gold rings on every finger directed traffic. She held a black walkie-talkie in one hand. She thanked people for coming as they passed by her. She oozed affluence and style.

She directed the first responders to the stage before spotting Lynn and I on the bench as the last of the people exited the theater. Approaching us, she said, “I’m sorry. I’m going to have to ask you to follow the others out to the parking lot, considering the situation inside.”

I looked up at her from our seat. “We have someone still in there.”

She held up the walkie. “Mr. Woodlock told me everyone was gone.”

“It’s my sister,” Lynn said with a sniffle. “She’s on the stage.”

The woman gave her a confused look. “Funny. I know every employee’s family. You don’t look familiar.”

“No, her sister wasn’t part of the show,” I clarified. After unfurling myself from around Lynn, I stood up. “Her sister is a former detective for the MBPD.”

Now that I stood on her level, the woman looked me up and down. Recognition lit in her eyes. “My goodness. You’re Clark Thomas, aren’t you?”

It was always odd to have a total stranger know your name. The price of small fame, I guess. “Yes.”

She reached out with her empty hand and put it on my shoulder, intruding on my personal space. “My goodness. I’m Mrs. Woodlock. I loved your book!”

I was dumbfounded. It was unusual for someone to recognize me from my books instead of from the news. My cheeks warmed. “Oh, thank you. I have another one coming out soon.”

She’d gotten distracted from the weight of the moment and wanted to talk about books. Territory I was much more comfortable in. “What’s it called?”

“Death of a Gladiator.”

“That sounds fun.”

It wasn’t fun living through the Conner West case with the Gladiator Games Dinner Show, but retelling the story from the eyes of my fictional self—with a tiny bit of embellishment—was quite fun. “I think it’ll be.”

She held my eyes for a moment before remembering what was going on. “Hold on.” She raised the walkie to her mouth and pushed a button. Static crackled from the tiny speaker. “Mr. Woodlock.”

Crackle. “Yes. Is everyone gone?”

“Not everyone. There are two remaining. One of them is Clark Thomas.”

“I know.” Crackle. “His partner just left the stage.”

“How does it look?”

“They’re still working on him. Doesn’t look good.”

The door beside us opened. Gina appeared. I’d seen that look in her eyes before. I didn’t need to ask the question. Lynn did. “Were they able to help him?”

Gina set her lips in a hard line. “They were able to get his heart beating, and he’s breathing with help.”

“Oh dear,” Lynn said. “That’s good.”

Mrs. Woodlock clutched a hand to her chest. If this current cast was ending their summer run this week, that meant they’d likely been here for three or four months. Enough time to form bonds—if there were bonds to be formed. Whoever played Elvis had that effect on Mrs. Woodlock. I’d never seen her before two minutes ago, but sometimes it was okay to hug and comfort perfect strangers. This was one of those times.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Tears cascaded down her cheeks.

Lynn cried.

My eyes watered.

“What do you want me to do?” Mrs. Woodlock asked Mr. Woodlock. I didn’t have their first names yet.

“My friend Susan is Dolly Parton,” Lynn said to Mrs. Woodlock.

Mrs. Woodlock's protective demeanor of the theater melted. She said to her husband via walkie, “The woman with Clark says she’s one of Susan’s friends.”

“Tell them to go wait for her at the cast entrance.”

She lowered the walkie. “Hear that?”

I spoke for us. “We did. Thank you.”

***

Outside, we followed the sidewalk around the side. A row of hedges hid the seating area I'd spied on our way in before the show with the tables with umbrellas. Cars were parked along the side of the car park, facing away from us. An alcove leading to a blank metal door was centered in between them. This is where Mr. Woodlock instructed us to wait for Dolly, er, Susan.

Recessed lighting on the side of the building and a light pole kept this area well-lit in the darkness. A camera was mounted on the side of the building, pointing in the direction of the door. A reassuring setup to deter random, crazed fans from doing something harmful to the performers.

Brake lights on two of the cars glowed red. One backed out and pulled away before the other tagged along. I was sure they were grateful to leave the theater on this night. The door popped open, and a man who I recognized as the drummer with the backward hat, tight black t-shirt, and tighter blue jeans exited alongside one of the dancers. Makeup still caked her face, but she wore a gray pair of cotton shorts and a white Coastal Carolina t-shirt. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a ponytail. There was no friendly conversation. No chatter between the two. They weren't speaking to each other but numbly going through the motions of going home.

Gina mentioned after we exited the building that Mr. Woodlock told everyone backstage we were going to be waiting, so they passed by without speaking. The drummer at least nodded. The dancer kept her head down, not wanting to, or perhaps unable to talk.

I didn't blame them. I wouldn't know what to say either. They went to separate cars and joined their departing coworkers.

I would have said, "Great job tonight," or offered other mundane praise about their performance, but it seemed pointless.

Gina and Lynn stood together. Something about the lighting caused a scar on her cheek to stand out. I idly wondered how she got it as we waited.

It made sense that the band and dancers were the first to leave. I figured it would take all the icon impersonators longer to get out of their costumes and makeup. The door opened again, and a woman and man walked out together. For the woman, the wig was gone, as was the sequined dress, but the heavy makeup remained, identifying her as Tina Turner.

The man was dressed down in a plain black t-shirt, black shorts, and flip-flops. Otherwise, he could still easily be mistaken for the real Steven Tyler. They spoke in somber tones as they passed us.

"Steven" glanced at me and said "hello" in a raspy/gravelly voice almost identical to the real McCoy. My knees became weak, and I about fainted. It was a stupid reaction to a close encounter with someone who was a trained stage performer and so close to the tragedy ending the show, but the fanboy in me couldn't help it.

They walked to the line of cars along the trees and climb into the same late model Hyundai sedan. Not a car Steven Tyler would drive in real life, but I reminded myself that he wasn't Steven Tyler. They drove off together.

Two men who matched the physical descriptions of the Blues Brothers were next in line. One was tall and slender, the other shorter and stockier. Gone were the black fedoras and sunglasses. The chubbier one stared at the ground. The taller one gave us a tight smile and bid us "good evening" on his way past. No one was in the mood to talk, and I couldn't blame them.

They joined Steven and Tina at the minivan. The taller Blues Brother hit a button on his key fob. The lights flashed and the van doors unlocked. They climbed in and sped away.

The long-haired sound technician and two other men we hadn't seen before were next. The manager muttered, "such a tragedy" as they stepped past us.

A few minutes later, the door popped open again, revealing a woman of average height, average brown hair, average waistline, above average face, and way above average bust line. This had to be Dolly, er, Susan.

She'd removed all her makeup so none of it would run. She came out the door with a tissue in one hand, a pocketbook slung over her right shoulder, wearing a white Kathy Mattea t-shirt, sobbing, and Lynn immediately came to the rescue, enveloping her in a comforting embrace.

"Oh, Susan," Lynn said, "I'm so sorry that happened."

Susan returned the hug and sobbed into Lynn's shoulder.

Gina and I stood to the side, holding hands, feeling like intruders in this private moment.

Four cars remained in this area of the lot. Two SUVs, a hatchback, and a silver GMC truck. My Jeep was parked around the front.

After Lynn and Susan shared how great it was to see each other after all these years, we agreed to meet at the Waffle House near the airport on Kings Highway.

While my stomach prepared for topped and covered hash browns, my brain was telling me I was about to go down a rabbit hole from which there was no escape.

Chapter Eleven

When I was in college, my friends and I spent many late nights and early mornings at the Waffle House near campus. My order never deviated, no matter the time of day. Coffee, pecan waffle, and hash browns—topped and covered.

Lynn rode with Susan in her truck on the way here. Gina and I came alone in my Jeep. We said little about what transpired. What was there to say? It was horrible.

We left the Legends Theater as the first news van arrived. The last thing I wanted was to be on camera talking about a tragic event the week we returned home. I did that enough in the year before we left. There were nice local reporters in the industry. I hoped the only times I would have to speak to them again would be when we had an event happening at one of the bookstores, or if someone interviewed me for one of my books. That was a scary thought, but in this age of book promotion, my agent and publisher told me in no uncertain terms that I needed to put myself out there.

I held the door open for Lynn, Susan, and Gina and allowed a large Hispanic family to exit before I stepped inside. I can’t remember the last time I set foot in a Waffle House. I was pleased to find that almost nothing besides the workers inside had changed. The same flooring, wooden red seating lined up in a row beside a half-wall separating the dining space from the kitchen, laminated menus, the hushed conversations of the customers, the rarely played jukebox in the corner, and the swirling aromas of bacon, sausage, potatoes, and waffles were all present. It felt like home.

We settled into a booth at the end. The one next to us was likewise empty, creating a buffer for our coming weighty conversation. There were seven other customers inside: a family of four with a young boy and girl, an older couple sitting at a booth side-by-side on the other side of the diner, and an older gentleman sipping coffee by himself perched on a barstool.

Before I had both cheeks on the seat, a worker with short reddish hair and a bright smile came over to us. The half wall separated us from her. She wore a black ball cap with the Waffle House logo in bright yellow on the front, a denim shirt under a black apron, and bright red lipstick. She radiated joy. Just what we needed.

“Evening,” the woman said with absolute glee. “I’m Debbie, and I’ll be waiting on y’all tonight. Can I get you started with drinks?”

Susan and Lynn ordered unsweetened teas; Gina asked for water with lemon. I ordered decaf coffee. Debbie thanked us and stepped away to prepare our drinks. She seemed efficient enough.

Lynn sat next to Susan with an arm draped over her shoulder. This might be their first meeting in a long time, but the familiarity, coupled with the night’s events, made it seem like they’d never been away from each other for long.

Susan grabbed a napkin from the silver dispenser and held it to her nose.

“I can’t believe it,” she mumbled to herself.

“I can’t either,” Lynn said to her. “Are you close?”

“Yeah. You could say that.” Susan sniffled. “When you work in as close quarters as we did nightly for four months, you get to know one another well. It’s crazy too because Roger had just seen a doctor for his yearly exam and to get medication refills. The doctor gave him a clean bill of health.”

Now wasn’t the time to mention to Susan that even the fittest marathon runners can drop dead at the snap of a finger.

Even though Gina hadn’t used her detective skills in over a year, it didn’t stop her from asking probing questions. “Did Roger live in the area to have his own doctor?”

“No,” Susan answered. “He was from Tucson, of all places. Because of our lifestyle of living in areas far away from home, we’ll go to the clinics inside pharmacies for most things. It’s all we need most of the time.”

“And when you don’t?”

Susan’s answer would have to wait. Debbie returned with our drinks and placed them before us. Since we’d ate a large meal before the show, Lynn and Gina ordered dessert. A slice of pecan pie for Lynn and chocolate pie for Gina. Susan hadn’t eaten since lunch and asked for a burger, done medium-well, and fries. I ordered the usual meal from my college days.

Debbie scribbled down our orders and turned to the two cooks and shouted them in Waffle House jargon only trained staff and CIA code breakers understood.

After Debbie set off to help a family who settled into the booth next to us, Susan answered Gina’s previous question.

“What do we do when a more serious medical situation arises? Thankfully, we have great healthcare coverage with Legends. Take Tara, for example.”

“Who’s Tara?” Lynn asked.

Still shaken by the incident at the theater, Susan ripped open a fake sugar packet with trembling hands and dumped it in her tea. “She plays Tina Turner.”

“Gotcha.”

“Anyway, Tara is the most upbeat and positive person I’ve ever met.” Susan picked up a spoon and stirred her tea. “Last year, she was diagnosed with breast cancer and took time off. Our insurance through Legends paid for her entire treatment.”

“Goodness,” Lynn said. “I’m glad she’s okay.”

“Yeah.” Susan sipped her tea. “Tara’s a go-getter and didn’t let it get her down. She vowed to fight from the initial diagnosis and remained positive the whole way, no matter how difficult the chemo sessions were on her.”

“I would have never thought she’d gone through that recently after seeing her tonight,” Lynn said.

“That’s Tara.” She set her tea down. “Legends takes care of us. I’m so fortunate to be in this job.”

“Great to hear,” Lynn said.

I sat here in my little corner, content to listen. I’d only met Lynn yesterday and Susan twenty minutes ago. The conversation about the lifestyles of these entertainers fascinating.

Like a light switch, Gina fully switched into her old role. Detective Gomez had more questions. “How did you know Roger saw a doctor recently? Did he tell you?”

She wasn’t grilling Susan like she would a suspect, but she wanted to dig. It was her nature.

Susan smiled for the first time since sitting down. “You’re the same Gina Gomez I remember, always wanting to learn more.”

“That attribute made her a skilled detective,” I volunteered.

Gina squeezed my arm under the table. “The more things change, the more they remain the same.”

“To answer your question,” Susan said, “yes. He told me. And to answer the question I know is coming, yes. We dated off and on. Myrtle Beach isn’t our first stop at one of the Legends Theaters together.”

Considering Susan and Roger had a history together, Lynn said, “I’m so sorry.”

Susan reached out and squeezed Lynn’s hand on the table. “Thank you. We haven’t been together since we got here. We dated twice several years ago, once while we were on a cruise ship together and another when we were in Hawaii. I’ve been with Legends since 2017, but the run this summer here in Myrtle Beach was the first time we’ve seen each other since before Covid.”

After taking a sip from my mug (the Waffle House coffee flavor is another thing that hadn’t changed), I asked Susan, “Were there any sparks this time around?”

“No,” she answered. “Not that he didn’t try.”

“Did he have a family?” Gomez asked.

Debbie returned, balancing five plates on her arm, and set down our orders before us. My pecan waffle and hash browns topped with chili and covered in cheese looked and smelled the same way I remembered it. My stomach growled despite the last of the Hipponachomus being digested inside it.

“No,” Susan answered, and then took a big bite of her juicy burger. “Mmm. That’s good.”

“I’ll say,” Gomez said. Her fork clinked on the plate as she cut off another bite of chocolate pie.

“Mmmhmm,” Lynn agreed with her mouth full of pecan pie.

While they were on their opening bites, I was already halfway through my waffle after topping it with butter and syrup.

“Roger was single,” Susan said. As she nibbled away at her burger and fries, she explained Roger played Hamlet in his high school drama club and went to the School of Music, Dance, and Theater at Arizona State University in the early nineties. After school, he drifted to Vegas and took on whatever gigs he could get before landing a role in an off Broadway play in New York. He acted and sang in various musicals but never in a leading role.

“As the run of one play was ending, he was approached by a Legends talent scout based at the Mohegan Sun Casino in Connecticut. The scout liked what he heard and asked Roger if he’d ever considered playing a dead musician.”

Susan took a bite, swallowed, and continued. “He was tall like Elvis with natural blond hair like the real Elvis.”

“Didn’t he dye his hair black?” Gomez asked.

She picked up a fry and pointed it across the table at us. “Yup. Roger did the same thing. He’d grown up as an Elvis fan, so with his training, it wasn’t too difficult to make the transition. He became one of the best Elvis impersonators on the planet. Certainly, the best with Legends.”

“Such a shame,” I said. "I hope he pulls through."

“Amen,” Susan said. “He’s been with the company since the early 2000s. Traveled all over the world.”

“Any kids?” Lynn asked.

“Not that he was aware of,” Susan answered with a half grin. “He had some wild times early on.”

We didn’t need her to fill us in on the details. From the way she let on, it sounded like she could tell use showbiz stories for hours.

I was more interested in their lifestyle. “Did you all ever get together outside of the theater?”

Susan considered as she finished chewing a burger bite. “Yeah. Sometimes. Mr. and Mrs. Woodlock put all of us up at the Myrtlewood Villas near the theater. They give each of us a two-bedroom apartment. I don’t stay over there, though.”

“Why not?” I asked.

She picked up a fry, shoved it in her mouth, and said, “I need to back up a bit before I get to the reason. Lynn and I were Dolly Parton fans from the time we were little girls. As we got older and our bodies changed, I ended up being gifted similarly to Dolly.”

She puffed out her prodigious chest, nearly hitting Gina in the face from across the table. Not really, but her point was definitely made clear.

Lynn filled in the blanks. “We grew up in the same neighborhood and went to drama school together. We were best friends throughout. I did nothing with my degree, but Susan was determined to, right?”

“That’s right. I knew since I was a little girl that I wanted to be on stage. There were all kinds of opportunities after graduating, but I had to be careful.”

I asked, “How so?”

“There are a lot of predators in this business, especially for a young woman like me who appeared a certain way and was shaped a certain way.”

I got her drift. Hollywood and the entertainment industry were famous for scandalous “casting couch” stories.

Susan continued. “I wasn’t going to let myself fall into some traps I was offered. Went to Branson, Missouri. Got a few jobs as a backup singer. It was great for a long time. Then I got, what was for me at the time, a dream job of a narrator at the Dixie Stampede back before Dolly Parton’s name was added on.”

“When did that happen?”

“2018, I think.” Susan stopped to compose her thoughts. “I performed in the role for years until I heard about a Dolly Parton impersonator contest being held in Dollywood. I figured since I knew all her songs, was a good singer, and bore a resemblance, I’d go for it.”

“Did you win?” Gomez asked.

“No.” Susan smiled. “Came in second.”

A chill passed down my arms. It might have been the AC kicking in over our heads, though.

“That’s awesome,” Gomez said.

“Thank you,” Susan responded. “Mr. and Mrs. Woodlock attended the contest and approached me with a job offer at its conclusion. I didn’t hesitate to snap it up. I can’t describe the feeling I get to put on Dolly’s wigs, makeup, and costumes and sing her songs, and to know I was pretty darn good at it, to boot.”

She grew quiet for a moment. I pictured her mentally replaying her journey in her mind. She came back to the present. “Another idea I always found so romantic was to have my own RV and travel the country, staying in campgrounds. I took my winnings from the contest and bought a tow-along camper to take with me to shows.”

“You drive it everywhere?” Lynn asked.

“Yep.” She snickered. Our conversation helped distract her from what happened earlier. “Well, as many places as I can. I couldn’t take it to my runs in Australia or Hawaii.”

Lynn set her fork down. “Do you have it with you here in Myrtle Beach? The camper?”

“Yeah. Got a spot near the beach at Ocean Lakes.”

“Right around the corner from where I live,” I said.

Susan glanced my way. “Really?”

“I can walk to the front gate at Ocean Lakes from my house in about five minutes.”

“That close, huh?”

I nodded.

Susan continued with a bemused smile. “We’ve been close by the entire time I’ve been here.”

“Not the entire time,” Gina said and then explained how we’d been away and returned yesterday.

“Wow. Quite a trip,” Susan said.

Gina squeezed my hand. “I’ll say. We both needed it.”

“Sounds like it.” Susan finished her burger. “Getting back to what you asked. Yes, we’d get together outside of the theater. Group cookouts, parties, and such. We did a few days ago, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh?” Lynn prodded.

Susan’s face darkened. “Yeah, I got everyone a pass to get into Ocean Lakes. We sat around the fire, had dinner, told stories, and played some music. You know. A good time.”

“Except your expression doesn’t reflect that,” Gomez noted.

“Yeah. Something bad happened.”

Gomez tapped the edge of the table with her index finger. “What’s that?”

“I don’t own much, mind you, doing what I do. All my possessions are in my camper. When I was in Dollywood, I bought a pair of oven mitts. There’s nothing special about them. It was just a reminder of that trip and experience. Kept them on hooks in my mini kitchen.”

“What about them?”

Susan clinched a fist. “Well, it was the oddest thing. After everyone left, I noticed that their hooks in the kitchen were empty. I searched all around but didn't find them.”

“Did someone steal them?” Gina asked.

“That’s what it looked like to me, and I’ve been blazin’ upset ever since.”

***

With all that happened this evening, we forgot about Timmy. He was fine. Andrea was annoyed when I didn't return her urgent text messages asking where we were. My phone was on Silent and didn't check it until we paid the check at the Waffle House.

We parted ways with Susan. She headed back to her camper at Ocean Lakes. She seemed to lead an interesting and lonely life. She was upset by her missing Dolly Parton oven mitts. On the surface, it's not something I would get mad about. She didn't have many worldly possessions. The missing oven mitts were a reminder to her of a special event in her life. A bit of personal nostalgia. Once I put myself in her shoes, I understood after losing all my possessions, and those from my childhood, because of my home burning down last year.

When I picked Timmy up at Andrea's, he hugged Libby goodbye. Her husband, Owen, stood behind them.

Timmy took one step out the door and turned to Andrea, holding up a little index finger at her. "Did you know arches are weaker than buttresses, like in old church designs and the Burj Khalifa? The taaaalllllest building in the world."

Before Andrea answered, he lowered his finger, turned around, and marched past me on the walkway.

Andrea's mouth hung open like she couldn't believe what she'd just heard.

I shrugged. "That's something he does, apparently."

She watched him with wide eyes. "Yeah. He said a few things like that this evening. It was . . . interesting."

In the short time I'd spent with the young boy, I found him to be very interesting and endearing. "Indeed. Thanks again. Sorry it took so long."

Andrea uncrossed her arms and held up a hand. "No, don't worry about it. I understand now that I know what happened. It sounds horrible."

"It was," I agreed.

Andrea and I shared a brief romantic history. She owned Coastal Decor next door to my bookstore. We saw each other regularly and became friends, even though she'd spied on me at the behest of her uncle.

Lynn, Gina, and Susan agreed to meet the next day for lunch. I was due for a long day of work. I wanted to check out my store on the Boardwalk and see how things were looking before driving down to Garden City to the new store.

I tossed and turned most of the night. My mind raced. After what happened to my wife, Autumn, and someone poisoning her tea, I considered every death suspicious. Even though Elvis nearly died right in front of me, I still had a nagging sensation that something was off…

Chapter Twelve

Gomez still got a sharp pain when she moved her repaired shoulder a certain way. She conditioned herself to withhold her cringe reflex from Clark to not alarm him. It still bothered her every day. Sometimes it was painful. Other times it wasn't. No matter the pain level, her right arm didn't move the same way as it did before getting shot.

She'd been excited to return to Myrtle Beach, but apprehensive because she didn't have a place of her own to come home to. She'd shared places with a man before and knew from experience that there was always an awkward period where you learned new things about the person you lived with and how they went about their days and lives.

After spending eleven months with Clark in St. Grants, she had a feeling about how domestic life with him might be. But their time in St. Grants was spent in vacation mode. Coming back to Myrtle Beach meant it was time to get back to day-to-day life.

She was glad Lynn was there the first night, to provide a buffer of sorts. To make it easier for Gomez to settle into her new, shared life with Clark. Truth be told, the events that happened before she and Clark flew away from Myrtle Beach affected her as much mentally as they did physically. She'd made plans to speak with a police psychologist, paid for by the MBPD. She hadn't been right since her former fiancé, Lucien, had tied her up and locked her in their attic. Gomez had a measure of vengeance when the judge sentenced him to a long stay in prison.

Since being tied up and left with little means of escape—a rusty nail sticking out of the attic wall ended up being what she used to cut the ropes binding her hands—she didn't enjoy being alone. If Clark was going to spend his days at his bookstores, then she was going to have to find some way to not be by herself.

That was another reason she was glad Lynn and Timmy were here.

With her out of the police force, Gomez faced an altogether new life. Clark had offered to let her work at one of his stores if she wanted something to do. With the MBPD funding her early retirement, it meant she didn't have to work if she didn't want to. Idleness wasn't how Gomez operated. Her dad Severino, a detective himself, had instilled in her a work ethic that drove her to always be making a difference.

That ethic might be in the genes too. Her grandparents had immigrated from Italy and opened a small grocery store in lower Manhattan. It proved successful, but had to sell when the building was demolished to make way for a new skyscraper a few blocks away from the Empire State Building. They moved across the East River into Hoboken, New Jersey.

Despite her efforts to move on like her grandparents, Gomez couldn’t shake the nightmares that kept her up at night. She would often wake up in a cold sweat with her heart pounding. She was always on edge. Every opening of a creaky door or walking into a shadowy room caused her mind to crash back to being tied up in the attic. What happened gnawed at her daily, but the sleepless nights and shadow jumping now occurred less.

Last night was an exception. Gomez had a fitful night of sleep. This time, it wasn’t because of troubling nightmares or sounds awakening her in the middle of the night. She blamed the tossing and turning on the events at the Legends theater and the late evening dessert at Waffle House. Something hadn’t sat right with her. It wasn’t one thing either. There was something about the way Roger fell to the stage floor that nagged at her. She’d seen something before or after his collapse that seemed off, but she couldn’t put a finger on it. Her attention to detail had slipped during the past year. She was out of practice.

After they had picked up Timmy and returned home, Gomez comforted Lynn. She'd never seen someone collapse like that before, and after the endorphins of the event wore off, she was a mess. In all likelihood, most everyone there who saw what happened to Roger was suffering from some trauma.

The gravity of what occurred the previous evening still weighed on everyone. There was no word on if Roger had survived the night.

Lynn had called her work and asked for an extra week off to calm her nerves. How much of that week she needed for the purpose versus the extension of her extended vacation was debatable. Either way, Gina was happy to have Lynn and Timmy around. They’d always gotten along well, but Gina’s professional life took her to the Grand Strand while Lynn took a position in a dentist’s office and worked her way up to manage the practice. She’d put nearly two decades of work into it and had racked up weeks of vacation time. She and the lead dentist had a good working relationship, and he had no issue with her continued absence.

Lynn was a single mom who never revealed who the father was. Gina had never met Timmy’s dad, but had a sneaking suspicion the boy might have been the product of a secret inner office romance. Timmy had the dentist’s eyes.

But that was none of her business.

Lynn had, disappointingly to Gina, turned into one of these moms who always had a cell phone in her hand.

Today was an occasion where Lynn’s social media use turned out to be a good thing. She’d gotten onto the Myrtle Vegas Facebook Group and searched for places for her, Gina, Susan, and Tina Turner/Tara Mabelah to have lunch together. After a little discussion, they chose Cantina Imperfecto in the Grande Dunes area.

All Lynn needed to read was that the place was touted for its authentic Mexican food in an upscale establishment.

The hostess seated Lynn, Tara, Susan, and Gina at a table in a large, closed off area near a well-stocked bar. A big screen television on the wall showcased drone footage of the mountains in Mexico. An elegant chandelier hung from the ceiling above a clientele consisting mostly of retirees or ones close to it in age.

The four women were the youngest in the room. From her days as a member of the MBPD, Gina remembered this cross-section of Myrtle Beach leaned toward the upper-middle class. What appeared to women’s club was gathered at a round table, enjoying lunch and margaritas. Doctors, attorneys, and their spouses engaged in lively conversations at the various tables. For a weekday afternoon, the restaurant buzzed. Aromas of roasted meats, vegetables, and cheeses added to the ambience.

Tara met them here after riding a bike over from her villa in Myrtlewood. She didn’t have a vehicle and arrived at the airport for her summer run at Legends. She’d bought an electric bike at Pedego in Market Common after settling into her villa. She planned on selling it before she left town.

Gone was the Tina Turner makeup and wig. Tara’s normal hair was black, streaked with gray and tied back in a ponytail. She wore only a light amount of makeup. Her dark complexion didn’t call for much but she had a natural glow. She wore a purple fitness tank top over tight fitting black athletic pants. She adorned herself with handmade jewelry. Rings on every finger. Dangly seashell earrings and a gaudy necklace.

Susan had on a flowery blouse and tan slacks over black sandals. Like Tara, she’d tied her hair back. The two performers spent so much time every day getting their makeup and outfits perfect for their show that they didn’t put nearly as much effort when going out in public as themselves. Since they weren’t dressed like their stage personas, no one would recognize them. They were a pair of attractive women.

“This place is gorgeous,” Tara said to Lynn after getting settled. “Great choice.”

“Thanks,” Lynn said. “People on Facebook raved about it, and it’s been a while since I had Mexican.”

“I think this place opened while we were in the Caribbean,” Gina said, “and knowing how much Clark likes to eat at all these different places, if I tell him the food is any good, we’ll be back here in a couple days.”

They ordered margaritas all around. Susan and Tara ordered from the same section of the menu. A mango salad for Tara and a taco salad for Susan. Lynn had a burrito bowl with shrimp, and Gina got the tampiqueña. If Clark were here, she figured he’d order a quesabirria taco meal. She smiled to herself, imagining Clark taking care of Timmy. He’d volunteered for the babysitter role this afternoon, so she and Lynn could have lunch with Tara and Susan.

After the waitress departed their table to deliver their orders to the kitchen, Tara asked for them all to hold hands while she said a brief prayer for Roger. Then they sipped their margaritas.

Lynn held one of Tara’s hands and noted her jewelry. “Your rings,” she said. “They’re beautiful.”

Tara wiggled her fingers to show off her display of jewelry. “When I travel, I love going to local markets and seeking local jewelry makers.” She put a finger on one of her earlobes. “I actually got these from the Sandy Mart at Ocean Lakes where Susan is staying.”

The other three women at the table complimented Tara on her choice.

Susan lifted her salt-brimmed glass filled with a green frozen margarita. “Been a long time since I had alcohol in the middle of the afternoon. Cheers!”

They clinked glasses.

“Might as well since the show’s been cancelled tonight,” Tara said. “But today only happens once, and I choose to make it amazing.”

“Any idea when you might start back up?” Lynn asked.

“Probably just off today,” Tara said in her smoky voice. “They sell most of their tickets in advance and don’t enjoy giving refunds like they’ll have to tonight. There’s usually four performers and a host who does songs in between. Like me this time. We have five for this show run since this was supposed to be a greatest performers' series. Mr. Woodlock will presumably go to a normal show lineup and have Susan be the closer and cut out all the Elvis songs.”

“I hadn’t thought about that,” Susan said. “Makes sense.”

Tara leaned forward. “To be honest, I’m not mad that there’s no show tonight. This hostess thing takes a lot out of me. It’s a drag.”

“How so?” Lynn asked.

Tara creased an eyebrow. “Well, I’m first on stage, which means I must be dressed and have makeup perfect before the curtain goes up. Then I do my introduction, song and dance, before going backstage and changing into my next outfit. Once that’s done, it’s my job to get the racks of clothing moved from the makeup rooms to backstage.”

“What about the stage manager?” Gina asked.

“He’s busy directing traffic onto and off the stage.”

Gina shifted into her old role. “And the backup dancers? Couldn’t they do it?”

Susan snorted. “Them? Those poor girls do the most work. They’re on stage more than anyone else. They have enough time to come off and change costumes before going back out.”

“They barely have enough time to catch their breaths,” Tara said.

“We know Susan had been around Roger before,” Lynn said to Tara, leaving out any mention the two had been an item, “but do you know Roger well?”

Tara set her glass on the table. “For a time back in the nineties, I did. We ended up doing several runs together in Las Vegas, but I hadn’t seen him in over twenty years before coming to Myrtle Beach.”

“How does that work?” Gina asked Tara.

“How do you mean?”

“Well, you say you’ve been with Legends for three decades.” Gina motioned at Tara in a way to let everyone know her next words would be about her appearance. “You’re still beautiful and all, but it makes sense that you don’t look the same now that you did then, right? I mean, makeup can do wonderful things, but making someone look half their age isn’t one of them.”

Tara’s face pinched briefly. Lynn jumped in and explained that her sister used to be a detective, so she was often blunt.

“Ah,” Tara said, softening a bit. “Like Roger was with Elvis, I’m fortunate that Tina Turner had a long and storied career. I went to the Kansas School of Pharmacy and worked in the field before I changed careers and got into this. My parents paid for me to go to school for it, and I tried, but my heart wasn’t into it. I lived for the stage and jumped at the opportunity to join Legends when the role of Tina Turner was offered. I played a younger version of her when I first started and gradually aged her as I” —she gave a tight smile— “aged too.”

“Okay,” Gina said. “So, you created certain stage personas based on how she appeared through the different eras?”

“Correct,” Tara confirmed. “All of us who’ve been around must operate that way. It’s the only way to stay in this business. We sign five-month contracts for each venue. Sometimes I’ll be in the same place with someone who we had performed together the season before, or every couple of years. With Roger, it’d been twenty. Just the way it worked out for both of us.”

“Do you enjoy it?” Lynn asked. “You must to have been doing it for so long.”

Sitting beside each other, Susan and Tara shared a knowing look. “Absolutely. To entertain fans the way I do as THE Tina Turner night in and night out gives me a feeling I can’t explain. You only know it if you’re up there on stage.”

“That’s the truth,” Susan said. “I haven’t been around this business as long as Tara, but I get chills every night at the response when I first step on stage.”

“Amen,” Tara said. “We’re great examples that a person can be anything or anyone, but always the most important thing is to be kind. I live for the theater life. I’ve done Vegas once and won’t go back there.”

Gina recalled Susan had said the same. She had to press, “Why not?”

Tara stirred her drink with a straw. “Too many bad memories. I had an engagement that didn’t end well. Had to deal with Roger and his ego, and all these creepy old men propositioning me to boot. No thanks.”

From the moment Tara sat down, she radiated positivity despite the events of the previous evening. Gina wasn’t so sure she’d have the same outlook if she were in Tara’s shoes.

“Since you got to see him again,” Gina said to Tara, “were you close?”

Tara leaned forward over the table. “You want to know the truth? I hated the guy. When I first worked with him, he was snorting cocaine on the side and had this diva attitude like he owned the place. He was self-centered and self-righteous the entire time we were in Vegas together. The show had to revolve around him. He was the big ticket. Everyone had to cater to his needs. He was into drugs, women, and everything. I couldn’t stand to be near him. Yeah, he’d changed since the last time I saw him, but that didn’t mean I had to like him.”

Her answer took everyone but Susan aback.

Tara’s features softened. “A couple of years later, I got married and gave birth to two amazing daughters. Roger’s antics were the farthest thing from my mind.”

To Gina, it suggested that Tara was a religious person, so she wasn’t surprised Tara would be turned off by Roger’s off-stage conduct.

A server arrived at the table and delivered their food. After oohing and ahhing over the looks and smells, they dug in. To Gina, the quality of the food lived up to Lynn’s pre-meal hype. “This is fantastic,” she said. Everyone agreed.

“Back to Roger,” Tara said between bites. “He had reformed. Gotten clean. Humble. Found religion. He attended church here every Sunday. He came off as a changed man.”

“But you still didn’t care for him?” Gomez surmised.

“Nah,” Tara answered. “After the way he was in Vegas, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t have wanted to see him dead, though. I didn’t hate him that much. I don’t know if he had family, but he’s leaving a hole with Legends. He was the best Elvis we had.”

Something Tara said and what she learned from Susan at the Waffle House last night wasn’t tracking for Gomez. “Hold up. I’m trying to get this straight. So, Tara, you were around Roger in Vegas in the early-2000s?”

“Correct,” Tara answered.

“And Susan, you and he did a run together there in the 2010s?”

“Mmm hmm,” Susan hummed as she sipped through a straw. “It was mostly physical and a matter of convenience for us, especially when we did the cruise ship together.”

“Talk about close quarters,” Lynn said, eliciting a chuckle from Susan.

“Then somewhere in there, he straightened out,” Gomez said, ignoring her sister’s humor. It wasn’t a question.

“Apparently,” Susan said, “I hear he was also the highest paid performer in the company.”

“I’d heard that too.” Tara leaned forward over the table and lowered her voice. “He’d somehow gotten a lifetime contract if he performed at a high level a while back with a big buyout. I heard he was trying to get a raise from Mr. Woodlock and Mr. Woodlock was having buyer’s remorse because of it.”

“Look,” Susan said in a conspiratorial tone, “I know Roger’s in a bad way right now, and might be fighting for his life, but what did Mr. Woodlock expect when you strike a deal with the devil. That’s the way Roger is. Enough is never enough.”

Gomez tried to filter Tara's and Susan’s comments about their dislike of Roger. Tara admitted he had changed for the better. Susan’s view of him soured at some point, despite the turnaround in Roger’s life. To forgive is one thing. Forgetting is another, if a person wronged you in the past.

Gomez asked, “Did he try to be your friend?”

“Not too much. I mean, we were friendly with each other and all, but I only saw him outside the theater once the other night when we had the gathering at Ocean Lakes.”

“I see,” Gina said.

Tara pointed a gold fork across the table at Gina. “I’ll tell you though. Someone who might step into his place is Peter. He’s been Elvis in other places, but Roger was better, so he took that role here.”

“Who’s Peter?” Lynn asked.

“Oh, you know him better as Michael Jackson.”

Chapter Thirteen

The day held several “firsts” for me. This morning was the first time I showered in my new house. I took my time in the shower seriously. It was an opportunity to unplug and let my mind wander under the scorching hot water. The new shower was a massive upgrade over my old one. I’d sprung to have one of those immersive waterfall shower heads installed and three body sprayers on the shower wall. It was like stepping into a whole-body hot tub. In a word: heaven.

That was something I’d looked forward to for months before arriving home. I wasn’t looking forward to the “firsts” that would come this afternoon. Me, being the supportive man I am, volunteered to watch Timmy while the girls ate lunch together. I didn’t have many friends with kids—unless Andrea’s daughter counted, but I never babysat her alone. Although I’ve always wanted a kid, I didn’t have any firsthand experience in taking care of one. Much less a seven-year-old boy who seemed smarter than me.

Timmy’s booster seat was still plugged into the back seat of my Jeep, so I bid the ladies adieu and Timmy buckled himself in after they pulled out of the driveway. Lynn handed me a backpack full of snacks, band aids, hydrocortisone cream, wet wipes, and books before leaving along with a carrying case filled with LEGOs before we parted ways. I felt prepared for the afternoon physically. Mentally, it was different. At least Timmy was potty trained. I hoped.

He seemed fine to be separated from his Mommy and paired with someone he’d met two days ago. I learned that he and I had a few things in common throughout the morning. We both enjoyed science topics. He was quietly reading a National Geographic book about astronomy in the back seat while I drove along Kings Highway past the airport. We both liked sports. He was a Mets fan, so I engaged in a little trash talk between his team and the Atlanta Braves. It fascinated him to learn that I played baseball at Coastal Carolina. He played on a Pee Wee League t-ball team in their hometown in New Jersey.

Most of all, he liked LEGOs. I loved them and had been playing with them for as long as I can remember. He was in awe when I showed him pictures of the LEGO sets I had on display in my home office before the fire. Now they were all melted plastic buried somewhere in the landfill in Conway, along with most everything else from that home.

That was something else I wanted to restart now that we were back and getting settled in. The problem was that LEGO retired many of my favorites I used to have. It would cost a fortune to get them off eBay if I wanted to go in that direction, or more practically, I could start from scratch.

Gina had trouble sleeping last night. I did too. The events at the Legends Theater kept running through my mind. The entire scene left me unnerved.

Another niggling part of the evening came during the intermission and talking to Barbara, the Wyndham concierge about her friend Bonnie being murdered two days prior. With Gomez off the police force, and me not getting involved in any murder investigations, I wasn’t aware of who would investigate. Before, the responsibility fell to Gina and her partner, the deceased Phil Moody. That the police hadn’t made an arrest forty-eight hours after Bonnie’s death led me to believe that there wasn’t a clear-cut perpetrator. If they were relying on forensics to narrow down the suspects, it could take weeks.

Most of the investigations I’d been involved with didn’t rely on processing evidence in a crime lab. That type of science was beyond me. My investigations mostly involved talking to witnesses and suspects and analyzing the crime scenes to determine who had probable cause.

The reason I became involved in carrying out my little amateur investigations was living through having my wife, Autumn, die at her desk and the sense of loss that took three years to move on from. I would never get over it, despite getting closure. I hated to see a murder victim’s family searching for answers. It was easy for me to put myself in their shoes.

Knowing Bonnie had a husband forced to deal with the loss clutched at my heartstrings. I’ve been there. In the middle of the night, I’d wondered if they had kids too.

As we came to the stoplight near the airport where Farrow Parkway ends and Ocean Boulevard begins, Timmy said to me from the back seat, “Did you know that when the Titanic sank in 1912, there were no stoplights? Cars just crashed together like this." I glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. His small hands mimicked two cars colliding. "Like Boom! They were invented in 1914. At first, they only had red and green lights. Yellow lights were added a few years later."

I smiled. “No, I did not know that.”

I bought him a Happy Meal from the McDonalds near the airport at the drive-thru window. I stared at the menu for a few long minutes, unable to decide, but eventually ordered a Happy Meal of my own, except with the six-piece nugget instead of four. The toy was associated with the latest Pixar movie which delighted Timmy.

Lynn had shared a “Timmy Music” playlist on an app called Spotify I had to download and create an account for. It was filled with music from the Super Mario and Minions animated films, along with a few random songs from Queen, like We Will Rock You. I must say, I kind of liked it.

Twenty minutes into my time babysitting Timmy, I already felt more like a kid again. It was refreshing.

Besides Andrea’s daughter Libby, I've spent little time around kids Timmy’s age. My time being associated with Andrea and Libby was short-lived, but I don’t remember her knowing or being able to comprehend the “fun facts” Timmy kept saying. Either this kid was some sort of genius or possessed an exceptional memory. I watched a car pass on my left and considered it could be both with Timmy.

We hung a right onto 5th Avenue N past Pizza A La Roma and drove two blocks to Flagg Street before pulling into the parking lot behind the Shops on the Boardwalk. Timmy and I chatted while we finished our Happy Meals in the Jeep. This part of Flagg Street was quiet, with the occasional passing car or golf cart. Most of the traffic was on Ocean Boulevard one street over.

White clouds covered the sky. They weren’t thick enough to keep the sun from shining down. It was warm enough for shorts and t-shirts for both of us, even though his body was still acclimated to a more northern climate. Lynn dressed him in a swim shirt with dancing sharks on it and a neon pair of swim trunks in case we made it across the street to the beach. A plastic pail filled with sand molds and a shovel were stowed in the rear cubby.

After I thought about it, this might be a fun afternoon after all.

Boy, was I wrong.

Chapter Fourteen

It felt like coming home again when I walked into my bookstore. The way the aroma of coffee blended with the smell of new and old books put me in my happy place. Besides the new books on display, the store had changed little. New releases were still up front to draw prospective readers in. The coffee bar, manned by a lumbering Humphrey now sporting a man-bun, was on the left side of the store, halfway back. He’d gone full-barista hipster since I last saw him.

The store held a collection of tables and chairs in the center for people to sip their coffee or road warriors to get work done on their laptops. Many of them were currently occupied. That area lay between the coffee bar and book counter where Karen was handing a receipt to a couple of tourists who with a full shopping bag of books. More books and a kid’s area were beyond that.

I took a deep breath, luxuriating in the mixed smells of books and coffee.

With Timmy’s heavy backpack slung over my shoulder and a travel case of LEGOs in the other hand, I said to him, “Welcome to my store, Myrtle Beach Reads.”

Timmy had his book tucked under his arm. “Nice, Mr. Clark.”

“I think we might be able to find you something to read. We also have a Thomas the Train table where the kids’ books are, if you’re interested.”

He looked up at me. “Do you have a children’s philosophy section?”

“Um. No, we don’t.”

“I heard mom talk about a guy named Play-Doh and thought he might be interesting.”

We stepped inside to allow the tourists to leave the store. It gave me an opportunity to work out what Timmy was talking about. “Oh, you mean Plato.”

“Yeah!” Timmy smiled. “Did he like toys?”

I tried to picture what sort of toys a future Greek philosopher might play with as a child and all I could come up with was sticks and rocks. “Probably, but the Play-Doh you’re thinking about wasn’t invented until a couple thousand years after Plato died.”

“Oh,” Timmy said, disappointed. “I like Play-Doh.”

I tousled his hair. “We used to keep some back there and other toys for tourists to get their kids when they visit Myrtle Beach. I can see if we still have any.”

“That’d be neat.”

After saying hello to Karen and Humphrey, I got Timmy situated. He played at the train table after seeing it. There were a couple of other kids playing there too, and he wasn’t in the least bit shy about joining them.

I walked around the store, noting any minor changes. Miss Margaret and Karen kept the store running while I was gone, and it looked as good as ever. I noted new releases from Susan M. Boyer and T.I. Lowe in our ever-popular Southern Fiction section, and Margaret expanded the romance area, with new titles from Kelly Capriotti Burton and Lisa Borne Graves.

I grabbed my laptop from the office and took a seat with a cup of coffee made with beans from Grand Strand Brewing where I monitored Timmy and dug into the financial reports for both stores. Sales were strong. Customers were happy. That’s all I could ask for.

With my back to the front door, I couldn’t see when people walked in. A bell above the door would jingle when it opened. I normally faced the front when sitting out here so I could observe patrons coming and going. The direction in which I was sitting now left me feeling exposed. Like Lucien or one of former Mayor Rosen’s cronies might sneak up and slip a knife in my side.

Rosen warned me when the police slapped handcuffs on him that he could still get to me from prison, to which I’d countered that he probably had enemies in there too. It was an irrational way to think. I had to be constantly on my guard.

Case in point. A woman cleared her throat next to me, startling me from my reverie.

“Excuse me, Clark.”

I turned to find Vicki and Barbara from the Legends Theater standing over me. They were here to try to and suck me back into territory I’d never wished to go again.

A murder investigation.

Chapter Fifteen

“We hate to bother you,” Vicki said.

I’ve found when people use that phrase, it’s mostly a false statement. They want to intrude. They might feel bad if they inconvenience you, but not enough that it stops them.

However, I’m a nice guy who, truth be told, wasn’t exactly knee deep in important work. I was mostly keeping my eye on Timmy and reading reports about recent trends in publishing. Romance was up. Again. At least my favorite, cozy mystery, was up due largely to Richard Osman. If only my books were as good as or got the recognition he did, then I could buy a yacht and set up port in St. Grant’s.

Since we’ve been back, I’ve already seen a problem with my life. It wasn’t a bad problem to have, though. Quite the opposite.

Right now, two grieving women were asking for my attention. So, instead of sitting here, staring into the distance contemplating the meaning of my life, I smiled and said to Barbara and Vicki, “No problem. You’re not bothering me. Pull out a chair. Go grab a coffee or tea from the counter. Tell Humphrey you’re my guests.”

A long time ago, I’d established that if I was going to chat with someone in the store over coffee, I wouldn’t charge them for their drinks. We were all friends here.

Vicki and Barbara parted and pulled out the chairs on opposite sides of the table, leaving an open spot across from me where I could see Timmy playing. He’d already told a few interesting facts to customers passing by him. Seeing the baffled looks on their faces of this little boy educating them with obscure facts about the American Revolution and the architectural design of the Petronas Towers in Kuala Lumpur gave me great amusement.

After Barbara and Vicki were seated, I didn’t feel the need to ask them what they were here for.

“Are you still worried about your friend, Bonnie?” I asked.

Their eyes met across the table. Barbara turned to me. “We were hoping you could help. She was a dear friend to us and everyone in the theater. She’d do anything for anyone.”

Last night, I was so focused on making sure Gina didn’t have any trouble mixing with the sizeable crowd, and on the show itself, I didn’t make note that the people working in the theater's front seemed distracted. Like they’d rather not be there. It made sense after I learned about Bonnie’s murder.

“I noticed a general malaise among the staff last night,” I said.

It was true. Although I’d never been to the Legends Theater before last night, I would have thought the people who worked there would have been super upbeat. Having the recent death of a coworker and friend hanging over them like a wet blanket would explain the overall mood. I hadn’t mentioned this to Gina nor she to me. No doubt she spotted different things too that escaped me.

“We’ve all been hit hard with Bonnie,” Barbara said. “What happened with Roger last night absolutely crushed us.”

I wrapped my hands around the warm Mickey Mouse mug on the table in front of me. “I understand they canceled the show tonight.”

“Yeah,” Vicki said, “they did. Everyone is too heartbroken and shaken.”

“Meanwhile, Bonnie’s murder remains unresolved,” Barbara added.

“Look,” I said, holding up both hands, “I know I’ve helped with this kind of thing in the past, but I was hoping to put it all behind me.”

“We realize that,” Vicki said. “We’re not wanting you to get involved. Since we don’t know Bonnie’s husband, we can’t get any information.”

“I understand,” I said. “You have to be patient. Sometimes these investigations take time. Weeks or months even. It’s not like TV or the movies where they get these things wrapped up in two days when there’s no clear suspect.”

“Your Murder on the Boardwalk book was based on the first time you did a case?”

I saw where she was going with this. “It was.”

“That only took, what, three days for you to figure out?”

I tried not to blink. “It did.”

“We’ve read about the other ones. In the news. They didn’t take very long either.”

This time, I suppressed a groan. “I get that. In all those instances, there were obvious suspects, and I was there at the beginning. Bonnie died three days ago. I’m sure they’ve already processed the crime scene and interviewed her husband and neighbors.”

“They talked to us too,” Barbara said.

“Were they looking for motives?”

“They were,” Vicki said.

“Were there any?”

“None that we know about,” Barbara answered. “They asked us not to talk about it to each other, but we couldn’t help it. Some of us talked.”

“That’s a problem,” I said.

Vicki crossed her arms. “How so?”

I took a drink of coffee before answering. “Let’s say one of you is the killer. What if during your gossip sessions a subject comes up, say a past argument between Bonnie and a coworker the killer wanted to keep quiet? What’s to keep the murderer from striking again to keep the person with that knowledge from talking or remembering something in the future?”

Vicki and Barbara turned to each other with newfound fear on their faces.

Barbara turned to me. “W-we hadn’t thought of that.”

“Can either of you think of a reason someone would want to kill Bonnie?”

“No,” Vicki said. “We were close friends. If she had secrets, we’d know about them.”

“Not if she wanted to keep her secrets secret,” I said. The table was quiet for a moment while Humphrey ground another batch of beans. The aroma of the fresh coffee carried across the store.

These women were hurt. They loved their friend and were only asking for information. It didn’t seem like they were asking me to start an investigation, although they might have liked that. It occurred to me I might be able to help.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket. Barbara and Vicki smiled at each other for the first time since sitting down.

“Let me make a few calls,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Chapter Sixteen

If I was going to get in touch with someone in the Myrtle Beach Police Department seeking insider information, I had two options. Neither might work, but they were my best chances.

When I first met these two, I was chasing Shelly Garland on the Boardwalk trying to figure out why her fiancé abandoned her when Officers Dame and Battles clotheslined me to stop my pursuit. For all they knew, I was a creep chasing a pretty blonde in public. After a few initial uncomfortable moments on my end, they became helpful. I’d seen them while on two other cases when Gomez took them into her confidence while operating outside of police protocol, and then I confided in them when I was running for my life while trying to figure out what happened to Autumn.

I hadn’t contacted either of them since we left town. Dame was like a big kid trapped in a forty-year-old body. He was smart, and his youthful sense of humor was always present. Like his partner, Battles was also sharp, concise, respectful, and built like a tank. He and I connected on a more emotional level. Like he understood what I was going through, even if he wasn’t. He’d helped me through a couple of rough patches.

On two separate occasions, they’d drawn outside the lines to help me. If anyone could help me get information on what happened to Bonnie, it would be them.

With that in mind, I tried Battles first with Vicki and Barbara watching. Timmy was safely playing at the table still. He was using wood blocks to make a small city on the wooden surface with train tracks going around and through the city efficiently.

I hit the button to call Battles. If he was going to answer my call, I figured he’d do it by the second ring. He was efficient.

I was wrong. He picked up on the first ring.

“Clark. Long time, man. To what do I owe the privilege of this call? Are you back in town?”

I pressed the phone against my ear to drown out the surrounding noise. “Yes. Got back two days ago. How are ya?”

“I’m good. Busy.”

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” I was hoping he’d tell me yes.

“Not at all,” he said. “Dame and I just left a crime scene.”

I didn’t hear sirens coming through the tiny phone speaker. “Is it an emergency?”

“No, we’re following up on a case.”

“Gotcha.”

“Is there a reason you called, or did you just want to say hello?”

I glanced at Barbara and Vicki. “Yeah. I have a reason. Do you know anything about a Bonnie Loudermilk? She was murdered over in Seagate Village a couple of days ago.”

Battles didn’t answer right away. His and Dame’s voices came through the phone as they engaged in conversation. He came back. “You have impeccable timing.”

“How do you mean?”

“We just came from her neighborhood.”

My spine tingled. “Are you working on her case? I thought you two were patrol.”

“We’ve been promoted,” Battles said. “We’re detectives now.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“Thanks. After Moody died and Gomez left the unit, Dame and I stepped in and underwent training. Bonnie Loudermilk is the first murder case we got called out on. We’re not in charge of it. That goes to the new lead detective.”

“Who’s that?”

“Lamar Jones.”

The name didn’t ring a bell. I didn’t know everyone who worked with Gomez. “Does he have a partner?”

“Not yet. He’s operating solo for now.”

I looked at Barbara and Vicki and said into the phone, “I have two of Bonnie’s best friends here. They work at Legends. One of them, Barbara, used to work alongside Bonnie as a concierge.”

“Yes. We’ve spoken to her. Does she have something new to tell us?”

“No. They’re concerned about their friend and hoped to get an update. They don’t know Bonnie’s husband and there hasn’t been any news to come out about the case.”

Battles breathed into the phone with a long sigh. “I can’t really talk about it. You know that.”

“I do.”

That didn’t stop Battles from continuing. He trusted me to not spread the inside scoop beyond Vicki and Barbara. “There’s not much more to tell besides what we’ve released to the press. Someone stabbed the victim sometime between ten and eleven that evening, according to the coroner’s report. The husband, Kirk, came home from his job at the Sayebrook Target and found her there.”

When one half of a married couple gets murdered, it’s normally the spouse who is the prime suspect. That wasn’t the case here. Battles explained at least a dozen coworkers and CCTV footage from Target and the shopping center parking lot confirmed Kirk was in the building. Their first action was to detain him because he claimed to have found her body. The coroner’s report put Bonnie’s time of death at around the same time Kirk was straightening up the housewares department at Target, which exonerated him.

“Besides him,” Battles said, “we’re having problems finding suspects. She seemed universally loved. They weren’t wealthy. Nothing appeared stolen. She’d just gotten off a plane from Maui, came home, and got stabbed.”

I closed my eyes. “What a way to go.”

“No doubt.”

“Was there anything odd about the scene?”

“I can’t really comment on that.”

“Which means there was.”

“You’re correct,” Battles said, “but I can’t let you in on it.”

Not that I wanted to be in on it. But Battles telling me there was at least one oddity at the crime scene got my juices flowing. I wanted to kick myself for even thinking that way, but I couldn’t help it.

“I understand,” I said, my eyes shifting between Vicki and Barbara. “I’ll let you get to it. Thanks for humoring me.”

“No problem, sir.”

“Remember, if you ever want a cup of coffee in my store, it’s on me. Thanks for everything you two did.”

“There’s no need to thank us. Just performing our responsibilities.”

***

After ending the call, I relayed to Vicki and Barbara everything they hadn’t heard. They weren’t enthused about the lack of progress, but thanked me for trying. I told them I’d let them know if I heard anything.

After they left me at the empty table, I grabbed another cup of coffee for myself and a juice and cookie for Timmy. I asked him to join me at the table for an afternoon snack. He grabbed a National Geographic book about birds and sat down beside me. I watched him while he nibbled at his cookie and sipped his juice. He was a handsome young man who bore a slight resemblance to Gina.

As I drank my coffee, I reflected on my conversations with Vicki, Barbara, and Battles, pondering what might be odd about the crime scene at Bonnie’s house. My brain stirred with many scenarios and possibilities. I hated it, but the last hour got the amateur detective in me wondering.

Timmy broke me from my thoughts. Without looking up from his book about birds, he said, “Did you know? There are eighty-six LEGO bricks for every person on Earth?”

I blinked rapidly. “No, I did not know that, Timmy.”

With that, he went back to reading his bird's book while sipping juice.

I asked a question I already knew the answer to. “You like LEGOs, right?”

He looked up at me with the straw of his juice box sticking out of his mouth. “Uh-huh.”

“I know somewhere with tons of LEGOs. What if I took you there and bought you a set?”

He smiled from ear-to-ear in a way only kids can. The way that makes an adult’s heart melt.

I had a plan I regretted much later. Why did I keep dragging myself into these situations?

Chapter Seventeen

Start of Text Messages

Gomez: I have a bad feeling about all this with Roger. Something my gut is telling me.

Clark: Uh-oh. What is it?

Gomez: That his heart attack and collapse didn’t occur due to natural causes I can’t place my finger on why I think that.

Clark: Trust your instincts. I’ve stumbled onto something else that happened recently to someone at the Legends Theater.

Gomez: What’s that?

Clark: A concierge that worked there was stabbed to death earlier this week.

Gomez: That’s quite a coincidence, and you know how I feel about them.

Clark: I do. I’m the same way. Should you tell someone about your gut feeling with Roger?

Gomez: It’s not my business. He really could have collapsed because of a heart attack.

Clark: That’s what I thought for two years about Autumn, remember? We know how that turned out.

Gomez: I do. I’ll think about it. How are you getting along with Timmy, Uncle Clark? 😂

Clark: Great! He’s easy. We’re going to Target.

Gomez: Have fun.

Clark: I hope so.

End of Text Messages

Chapter Eighteen

Gomez and the ladies wrapped up their lunch at Cantina Imperfecto. Near the end of the long meal, Susan and Tara received a text message from Peter Avis, better known to Gomez and Lynn as Michael Jackson. Since they weren’t having a show tonight, the performers and a few members of the band were getting together at his place.

Lynn, Susan, and Tara indulged in two margaritas a piece to go along with tequila shots. Gomez held herself to the opening margarita before switching to sweet tea. A beverage she missed on St. Grants. She could tell all three women were a little tipsy, which made her feel safe as being the designated driver. Since Tara was in no shape to ride her e-bike three miles back to her villa at Myrtlewood, she left her bike chained to a rack outside the restaurant entrance. Gomez promised to bring her back later in the day to retrieve it, but if they were going back to her place for more drinks, she didn’t see that happening anytime soon. Maybe Tara could hitch a ride with someone else.

Susan and Tara rode in the back seat, singing and slurring old Elvis tunes, while Lynn joined in from the front passenger seat.

They passed the entrance to the defunct Swaying Palms Golf Course along the way. Their investigation into Zach Lawson’s death uncovered a loan sharking scandal among members, a rental house on the other side of the 11th hole where members used to have affairs and other sordid misdeeds. The SWAT Team and FBI came in and closed the course. Now, a year later, it was still closed, but Gomez heard a wealthy investor was eying a purchase to restore it to its former glory.

Farther south on the Bypass, the Myrtlewood Villas were inside of a golf course which they are named after, that ran along the bypass amidst tall loblolly pines. Verdant fairways and greens comprising several holes lined the highway. Men and women were in various stages of play. Some were riding or sitting in white golf carts with the Myrtlewood logo on the side. Others were preparing to hit their ball or putt. One poor guy had hit an errant shot and was searching for his lost ball near the shoulder of the road.

Gomez turned right and into the entrance to the golf course and villas. The new car smell overpowered the alcohol on their breaths and the lingering aroma of fried tortillas on their clothes.

She waited to allow a foursome on golf carts to cross over the entrance road.

“It’s up here on the left. Villa 219,” Tara instructed from the back seat.

Gomez liked to have her seat as far forward as her legs would allow. It was her habit from the pre-GPS days when she liked to be as close to the windshield as possible to see where she was going. That habit allowed Clark to figure out that she was not driving her previous Camry, which Lucien crashed into a pond to make it seem like Gomez had gone missing.

They passed the clubhouse where golfers were arriving and departing before meandering along to the villas. The apartment buildings were nestled among the pines, palms, and rolling fairways, providing a tranquil setting. They surrounded a large lake with fountains spewing water to keep the mosquitos down. A woman in a yellow kayak paddled along the side of the lake.

The bottom level of the villas was made of brick. Light yellow siding made up the rest of the outside walls. Each villa had a balcony. Several were enclosed. Puffy, but harmless, clouds drifted across the sky. The car swept past a pool, complete with a lazy river.

“Doesn’t look like too bad of a place to stay,” Lynn said to Tara.

“No, it’s not. The Woodlocks generously put each of us up in our own two-bedroom villa. Besides the times I’ve done stints on the cruise ship or in a casino, this is the nicest place I’ve stayed with Legends.” Tara jabbed Susan in the side with a finger. “My friend here wouldn’t know it, though. She always brings her camper.”

Susan twisted away and laughed. “Not every time. They won’t allow my fifth wheel on the cruise ship.”

“I bet you would if you could.”

Susan continued giggling. The alcohol had affected her. “Yeah, you’re right. I would.”

Tara pointed. “We’re grouped together right over there.”

“I see it,” Gomez said and navigated the car to an empty spot near Tara’s place.

They climbed from the car and shuffled up a flight of steps to 219, across the walkway from Tara’s place. She knocked on the door. It opened a moment later to reveal a man of average height, a handsome face, and slim features underneath a Buffalo Bills hat. Out of costume and makeup, he bared a slight resemblance to Michael Jackson. Then again, makeup can make almost anyone look like a famous person.

With a beer bottle in one hand, he forced a smile and hugged his friends. “Hey Tara. Susan. Who’s your friends?”

Tara introduced Lynn and Gomez like they’d been buddies since second grade.

“Any friend of Tara and Susan’s is a friend of mine. Come on in.”

He hugged Lynn and Gina as they entered, perpetuating his statement of friendship.

“Thanks for having us,” Gomez said, feeling intruded upon by the contact. She wasn’t a hugger to begin with and less so after what happened.

Lynn echoed the sentiment.

“Have you heard anything about Roger?” Susan asked Peter.

He shook his head. “It doesn’t look good. He hasn’t spoken or opened his eyes since he fell on stage.”

Susan’s shoulders slumped. Lynn rubbed the small of her back.

“Go on in,” Peter said, stepping aside to let them in. “Drinks are in the fridge. Pizza is on the way.”

“We just ate,” Susan said, “but we’ll be happy to raid the fridge.”

Peter’s villa resembled most vacation rentals where Gomez had been before. A short hallway with tile flooring opened into a combined kitchen and living room. Partly open doors to their right hinted at a bathroom in between two bedrooms. A generic chandelier hung above a glass dining room table separating the kitchen from the living area. The members of the band and two of the three dancers were already there. They made their greetings, grabbed beers from the fridge, and settled in.

As this was a solemn occasion, the voices were hushed, interspersed with the occasional laugh. A trash can at the end of the kitchen counter was already full of empty bottles and paper plates. Gomez wondered if the wastebasket contents were a result of today or had accumulated over time.

A knock on the door a few minutes later welcomed two men, each carrying a case of cheap beer. One tall. The other was short and stocky. The Blues Brothers, minus the sunglasses, black suits, and fedoras. They were dressed in t-shirts, shorts, and flip-flops. Susan introduced Lynn and Gomez to Landon Pry (Jake) and George Lathser (Elwood).

Gomez overheard Peter ask them where their wives were. The question surprised her. She hadn’t stopped to think that these performers had families. It was a reminder that their stage personas were a role they played for two hours a night. All had lives outside the theater. Since Susan and Tara were single, Gomez assumed they all were without thinking about it. The prospect of them having families and kids hadn’t seemed important.

The pizza came, and everyone but Gomez, Lynn, and Tara dug in. Susan shocked them by grabbing a slice.

At one point, Gomez found herself speaking to George and Landon in the corner of the living room. Landon was the taller of the two. George was short and shaped like a pear. She leaned against the wall with a water bottle in her hand. The two men were on their third or fourth bottles of brew. She’d spotted them taking tequila shots earlier.

“Susan tells me you were in Vegas with Roger a long time ago,” she said, not sure of who was who at this point. “I bet you have some wild stories.”

Landon grimaced and took a swig from the bottle.

“You wouldn’t believe half of what goes on in Sin City,” George said. “I wasn’t with Landon and Roger back then.”

Gomez asked, “Oh, the two of you weren’t always partners?”

George grunted, reminding Gomez of the habit her former partner Phil Moody had, causing a pang of sadness. Landon’s eyes narrowed. His muscles tensed as he clenched his fists. The surrounding air was charged with hostility.

“I didn’t join up with Landon until a few years later,” George said. “Mr. Woodlock paired us together.”

Their physical response to her previous question suggested to Gomez that there was more to the story of how the two of them got together. She placed that thought in the back of her mind. “What was Roger like back then?”

“He loved the late nights, the glitz, the glamour.” George leaned forward and held a hand up to shield half his face so others nearby couldn’t overhear. “Drugs and women got him into a lot of trouble.”

“Interesting,” Gomez said. “Susan said he was a big church goer and enjoyed helping others. But she also said he was greedy. I can’t make him out.”

George glanced across the room at Susan, who was engaged in conversation with the house drummer. “Susan hasn’t been around as long as we have. I’ll give him credit. He sobered up and changed. He was a completely different person this time around.”

“How long had it been since you’d seen him before coming here?”

Landon and George shared a look. Landon answered with a look of nostalgia and regret in his eyes. “Not since my brother Joseph died.”

There it was. The missing bit of information. No wonder Landon reacted the way he did. Gomez understood and held a hand to her chest. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“It was tragic. Been a long time since then. This summer season in Myrtle Beach is the first time I’ve seen Roger since then.” Landon waved his hand like he didn’t want to talk about it, which Gomez was happy to do.

Landon cleared his throat. “Yeah, my brother, Joseph, and I were with Roger out there. Joseph, uh, died while we were there.”

With the villa already taking on a funeral parlor ambience, Landon didn’t want to keep talking about the tragedies in his life. Being a good partner, George took Landon elsewhere, away from Gomez and the depressing conversation.

Over the course of the next hour, Gomez nursed a bottle of water, abstaining from more alcohol. She wasn’t a big drinker, and the margarita at the Cantina was enough for one day. The mixture of a full belly and alcohol brought on a midafternoon malaise in her. During their time getting to know each other on St. Grants, Clark had a ritual every afternoon around this time: his hallowed 3:30 coffee.

As she spotted a Keurig machine in the kitchen's corner, she was about to ask Peter if she could brew a cup when a tall man with long black hair stepped in from off the balcony. He approached Peter, who was standing along the wall engaged in deep conversation with one of the blonde dancers, and asked him a question.

Peter nodded and pointed toward the coffeemaker. The man thanked him and touched Peter’s arm as he walked toward Gomez and the kitchen’s direction.

He stopped when he got close to Gomez. She was partially blocking his entrance to the galley kitchen.

“Well, hello,” he smiled and said in a voice with a raspy edge with a gravelly undertone. “Did heaven send an angel to be with us today?”

Although she wasn’t as big of a fan of Aerosmith as Clark, the man in front of her sounded the part and almost looked the part. She assumed the other performers spent a lot of time in the makeup chair before shows to transform into a Legend. This man needed little of that. He was almost a spitting image of the real Steven Tyler.

Her cheeks warmed at the same time she inwardly rolled her eyes. Even though the same line had been directed to her several times in her life, she wasn’t falling for it. Even so, Gomez’s heart fluttered in a fangirl way. “I don’t know about an angel, but I’m here.”

The man took a step back to get an up-and-down view of Gomez. “You sure are. I see you don’t have a drink in your hand. Could I interest you in coffee out on the balcony?”

Since they’d arrived, Gomez felt like an outsider, which she was. Everyone had been friendly to her, but her only connection with any of them was through Lynn and, to a lesser degree, Susan. Even Lynn was a stranger to everyone except Susan. Coffee and fresh air sounded good to her.

“I was going to ask if I could make a cup of coffee myself,” Gomez said to the man.

He stuck out a hand with long fingers. “Victor Sage.”

She shook it. “Gina Gomez. Nice to meet you.”

Chapter Nineteen

After brewing themselves a couple pods of Donut Blend coffee, Victor led Gomez through the villa and out to the balcony, closing the sliding glass door behind them. Peter’s place faced the parking lot with a fairway running alongside it. It wasn’t quite a golf course-front view, but for free housing, there were worse places to stay in Myrtle Beach. She’d seen plenty of those.

Since being held captive by her former fiancée, Gomez was reluctant to be around groups of people. On St. Grants, the only times she was around anyone besides Clark, Antonio Bianchi, and his fiancé, Dominique, was when they went to restaurants. Even then, there weren’t many people there.

Antonio somehow discovered a hidden gem in the Caribbean that hadn’t been taken over commercially by tourism. It reminded her of Saint Marie. The fictional island on the BBC show Death in Paradise—except on St. Grants most of the white people were wealthy Americans rather than affluent Brits. The lack of murders on St. Grants was a refreshing change for Gomez.

She didn’t even think about her anxiety when she got the idea to take Lynn to see her old friend perform as Dolly Parton. She realized afterward that she wasn’t bothered by the crowd and hadn’t thought of strange people closing in on her. Progress.

Wicker chairs creaked under their weight. A glass side table rested between them. Birds twittered in the oaks beyond the balcony. Palm fronds swayed in the breeze. The balcony was hidden in shadow, with the sun shining from the other side of the building. A foursome passed by on the cart path a few feet from the edge of the parking lot.

Gomez was relieved to be out of the crush of people gathered in the villa. Where the Legends Theater was more open, Peter’s apartment was enclosed. The low ceilings didn’t help.

By coming out here, she was away from the safety of her friends. She could take care of herself. She was well-trained, but no amount of training can prepare you for someone you trust turning on you. It was a trait gained from experience.

Here she was with a tall man with long, dark hair. He didn’t show any visible tattoos. No random facial piercings. He didn’t give off a vibe of being untrustworthy. Victor had an easygoing manner. Like he caught waves in his life and went where the current took him. With a warm mug in hand, Gomez was as close to comfortable being with a male stranger as possible this point in her life.

After they took their first sips and take momentary reflection on life upon doing so, Victor said, “I observed two things about you, Gina Gomez. Three actually.” To Gomez’s surprise, Victor also seemed observant.

She raised the mug to her lips. “Oh? What’s that?”

He raised a long finger and followed it with two more. “You had a bottle of water in your hands. I hinted that you weren’t joining in with everyone else. You’re gorgeous, baby, but despite not wearing a ring, you’re off limits. Am I right?”

Gomez blushed and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. She didn’t miss the navy pantsuits she wore every day as a detective. She loved being able to express herself in casual, everyday clothes. She’d worn a nice blouse and shorts to lunch today, but that was because of who she was going with and where they were going. She didn’t know how Victor discerned that she was off the market, but she didn’t want to go down that road. “I’m not sure about the gorgeous part, but thank you.”

“No problem, baby.”

Her nose wrinkled. “Don’t call me ‘baby,’ and we’ll be okay.”

Victor leaned away from her. “Ooo. This one bites. I like it. It won’t happen again. I read you loud and clear.”

Gomez noticed Victor’s obvious effort to avoid calling her “Baby” at the end of what he said. “Thank you.”

“I saw that you’re the only one not drinking,” Victor said, “because I’m not either.”

It went to show that you can’t judge a character by their appearance. Gomez took Victor to be a party animal at first glance. “You don’t drink?”

“Not as much as I used to.” He lifted the mug to his plump lips, stared into the distance, and drank. “I went to some dark places. It wasn’t just drinking. I liked the nose candy too, if you know what I mean. I quit that and, over time, learned how to moderate my drinking. No more hard stuff, and when I drink beer, I only drink one.”

From her time as a member of the police, Gomez knew all-to-well what Victor was referring to. Cocaine. It was odd that he would get right to discussing his inner demons after first meeting her. “Takes a lot of self-discipline.”

“It does. Roger set me straight. He’d been where I was ten years earlier.”

“Yeah, Tara said he’d grown up.”

“I haven’t seen you around,” he said. “How did you know Roger?”

“I didn’t. I’d never seen him before last night.”

“Then how did you get in here?”

“My sister Lynn—”

“The one with the sunglasses on top of her head?”

“Yep.”

“I spotted a resemblance.”

“Yep, she’s my sister.” Gomez took a drink of coffee, trying to read his thoughts. “And before you ask, yes, she’s single. Yes, she has one son. He’s seven.”

That put him off. “Ah. I don’t mix well with kids, no matter how hot the mama is.”

Victor’s old-fashioned way of speaking about women put Gomez off, making her glad she wasn’t single and a target. Although Victor didn’t seem like the long-term relationship type, she said, “Lynn’s visiting. Lives in the Hudson Valley of New York.”

“Ah. What do you do for a living?”

“At the moment? I’m retired.”

“You seem too young to be retired.”

“Tell that to the bullet that hit me in the shoulder when I was on duty.”

Her statement caused him to sit up in his chair and look at Gomez differently. In a manner suggesting he was trying to guard himself, he leaned in. “You a cop?”

“Not anymore. I used to be a detective with the Myrtle Beach Police Department.”

“Wait a minute,” he said. “You’re the one who came up on stage last night after Roger collapsed, right?”

“Correct. Even though I’ve been off the force for a year, I’m used to helping in emergencies. Part of my DNA.”

For the second time, Victor regarded her in a different light. “No kidding? I wouldn’t have guessed a pretty thing like you for a cop.”

“You’d be surprised,” Gomez countered, not taking his statement as a put down on her former career.

“I bet I would.” He took another drink. “So, you’re used to asking questions and interrogating suspects, right?”

“I used to be.”

“That’s cool.” Victor stared into the parking lot. To Gomez, he could be pondering the condition of his friend, or, from the way he bobbed his head absentmindedly, had La Cucaracha playing in his head. “This might sound crazy…”

In Gomez’s brief time knowing Victor, she had no way of telling what he considered crazy. It could have been anything. Despite that, she wasn’t prepared for what he was about to say.

He leaned close like a moment ago when he asked if Gomez was a cop. “If you would have asked my opinion last night after what happened to Roger at the end of the show, I would’ve sworn someone tried to murder him.”

Chapter Twenty

Gomez wanted to move the conversation away from her and focus on him and his cast mates. Victor’s admission should have astonished her. Although, at this point, it didn’t. Her investigative intuition had been raised since Roger hit the ground last night.

She tried to control her voice. “What makes you believe that?”

Victor shrugged. “I haven’t been around as long as the others, but I’ll tell you what.” He cocked his head back to indicate his fellow co-stars inside. “He didn’t have many friends in this cast.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. He and I got along. Roger pulled me under his wing when we were in Waikiki together. I owe my being here to him.”

She didn’t want to delve into the details of Victor and Roger’s relationship. What she wanted to learn was why Victor would think the others didn’t like him.

“Sounds like it was good that he came into your life,” she said.

“It sure was.”

“Why didn’t the others like him?”

“I don’t know all the details,” he said in his raspy voice. “Don’t want to know. Apparently, the two guys who play the Blues Brothers weren’t always paired together. The guy who plays Jake, Landon, had a brother who died when all of them were in Las Vegas together in the mid-2000s.”

“That came up when I met them earlier. How did he die?”

“They’ve never really talked about the ‘how’ of it, just that they blamed it on Roger.”

“Could the brother have overdosed?”

Victor’s shoulders dipped. “That’s the only thing I can figure. Who knows? Could have been a car accident. I mean, if Roger had something to do with his death, then he’d have been in jail otherwise, right Ms. Police Lady?”

Gomez suppressed a grin. “Not always, but if you say Roger helped you because of his past experiences, then a friend overdosing and dying when you were with him would make you want to turn your life around.”

“Sometimes other people’s rock bottoms are deeper in the Earth than yours.”

Gomez hoped she’d hit rock bottom because of the actions of her former fiancée and not by her own doing. She might never forgive herself for being so wrong about Lucien. She’d always trusted her instincts, but he turned out to be a wolf in very handsome sheep’s clothing.

“True,” she responded. She liked to let suspects talk on their own without her urging. They tended to chatter without realizing what they were saying. Sometimes it led them to make incriminating statements. Not that Victor was a suspect. At this point, there were no suspects because there was no crime. That didn’t keep Gomez from following her intuition.

“I wasn’t around,” Victor said, “and by the time I latched on with the company, it was all way in the past.”

“How long have you been with Legends?”

“Going on ten years, now.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“Absolutely, baby.”

She allowed him that one baby. “Landon lost his brother, but is still with the company?”

“Yeah, he plays a great Jake. Mr. Woodlock had another cast member, this George guy, floating around playing Roy Orbison and matched the two up to become the Blues Brothers.”

“I’m surprised Landon didn’t quit the business after he lost his brother.”

“Me too, but you never know what makes a person tick. I’ll tell you from my experience, many of us,” he held a hand to his scrawny chest, “always wanted to perform and we’re up there living our dreams every night.”

“It’s rare when a person can live their dreams.”

“That’s the truth.”

Gomez wanted to scratch the surface of what happened last night without giving Victor an inkling of this bad feeling she had. “How did Roger seem last night before the show?”

“He seemed like his normal self. It wasn’t like he was quiet, maybe more reserved than normal, maybe. Call time—when we’re all supposed to be in the building—is at 6:30. Usually Peter gets there earlier than everyone else because he has to do the most to become Michael Jackson. He might not look it, but he’s one of the most talented impersonators we have. That dude can be MJ, Prince, and believe it or not, Elvis too.”

Gomez recalled Peter’s spot-on performance as the King of Pop. “I can see him being Prince. He can do Elvis too?”

“Oh, yeah. He and I were together in Melbourne for a stint a few years ago where he was Elvis. With enough face paint, Peter can transform into anyone. That’s who he prefers being, but when Mr. Woodlock arranged our crème de la crème lineup, Peter was relegated to Michael Jackson because he wasn’t as good as Roger. Besides, Roger was a one-trick pony. With him, it was Elvis or nothing.”

“Can you be anyone besides Steven Tyler?”

He circled his head with a finger. “I can do Vince Neil from Mötley Crüe.”

Gomez leaned away from Victor for a better look. “I can see that. Wasn’t he the one Steven Tyler wrote the Dude Looks Like a Lady song about?”

Victor snickered. “Sure was. Steven made fun of Vince Neil’s hair band appearance only to look more like a lady himself as he got older.”

“Like the pot calling the kettle black.” To get the conversation back on the track she wanted, she said, “So, Roger appeared fine before the show?”

“Mostly. Besides Peter, we all came in around the same time to get ready. There was a pregame show to an NFL Preseason game playing at one end of the changing room. The drummer, dude named Nelson, was the first in the house. He always is. Leads the band and makes sure their instruments are in check. The sound guys were there too, but they never come backstage.” Victor sipped his coffee while we viewed an egret take flight.

“What do you do when you arrive?”

“I make sure my costumes are clean and are hanging where I need them. Do a little makeup.”

“Doesn’t seem like you need much.”

The corners of his plump lips curved upward. “You know, the real Steven Tyler lives in Waikiki. Has a big beach house there. Hangs around town. I was out there one time with Legends and walked out of a coffee shop onto the sidewalk and some locals mistook me for him.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Gomez said. “What else do you do to prepare for the show?”

“I take care of my voice. That’s the biggest thing. The looks will only get me so far, but if I don’t sound like Steven Tyler, I can’t be Steven Tyler. Ya know?”

“Makes sense.”

He gestured at his throat. “You should have heard me in college. I didn’t sound like this. Took years for me to mold my voice this way.”

“Really? I didn’t know that was possible.”

“Oh yeah. I take care of my voice during the day. I fast, watch Japanese anime at my place, and drink a cup of herbal tea after I arrive at the theater. After I finish the tea, I go outside and around back where I warm up my vocal cords.”

“How do you do that?”

Victor gave Gomez a knowing grin. “I sing Queen songs at the top of my lungs for fifteen minutes.”

“Queen?”

“Definitely. Freddie Mercury had this incredible range with his voice. Some of their songs really stretch the vocal cords, so I belt them out. It’s great.”

“Do you ever sing any Aerosmith songs during warm up?”

“During my second warm up.”

“Second warm up?”

“Yeah. No one else does this, but I’ve found it to be a big help. There’s a science behind it. I’ll go upstairs into the mezzanine and belt out Aerosmith verses for another fifteen minutes after I have my first costume on. I’ll do that right before the show begins.”

“You wait until after the show to eat?”

“I do.”

“What do you eat?”

“I go to Hooters.”

Gomez blinked. “Hooters?”

“Yeah. They have half-price apps after ten. I go. I eat. Have a couple beers. Maybe pick up a woman and take her back to my place.”

It was a loaded answer Gomez tried to process on the fly. She couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not, but the way his eyes didn’t waver caused her to believe he was telling the truth.

“That’s interesting. While you’re upstairs warming up, what are the others doing?”

“The band does their sound check. The backup singers do it with them. They sing as much as the rest of us when it’s all said and done, if not more.”

Gomez reflected back to last night’s show. “They are on the stage most of the time.”

“Yeah,” Victor said, “Those girls are super talented. The band is too. The dude who plays guitar, Clive, is as good as anyone out there.”

When she was with Lucien, he used to enjoy taking her to see live music. There’s a vibrant music scene among local bands in the Grand Strand. Her ex played guitar, so he was always searching for local bands with talented guitarists.

“There’s a local guy named Matt Parker,” Gomez said. “He’s fantastic.” She’d had a difficult time getting Lucian out of her mind, but he might haunt her for a long time after the trauma he put her through.

“Oh yeah,” Victor said, “I’ve seen him and the Deacons on the deck at the House of Blues. He’s fantastic. Anyway, I don’t know what the girls do on their side, but the guys kinda hang out backstage until it’s time to go on. We’ll hang out in the quick-change area behind the stage after we’re done until it’s time for the closing medley.”

“And nothing seemed out of the ordinary last night?” Gomez pressed.

“Nope. Normal night.”

She didn’t see a way to get farther along that line of questioning, so she backed up to Victor’s initial comment that got this ball rolling.

“You said you thought someone might have murdered him.”

Victor held her eyes. “That was my knee-jerk reaction in the moment until the paramedic said it looked like a heart attack.”

“I hope that’s the case, but sometimes your first reaction is the correct impulse.” She leaned closer to him. Close enough where he’d be able to smell her perfume. “Who did you picture as the killer?”

At first, Gomez assumed Victor was dancing around the subject, but she patiently waited for him to get to the point. “I grew up watching wrestling on TV. There was this one guy, Ric Flair, who had all the style and swagger in the world. He had a saying.”

“What’s that?”

“Remember what I was telling you about Peter being Elvis elsewhere?”

“I do.”

“I’ve talked to the guy. He’s driven like no one else I’ve ever met. He’s younger than Roger but knew that if you were the top Elvis guy, you can go anywhere you want in the world and get the most tail after shows.”

His frank statement didn’t phase Gomez. She’d heard creepier.

He continued, “You’d be surprised at the number of these old biddies in town on a girl’s weekend who offers us their room keys.”

“No, I wouldn’t. You’re the next best thing to the real thing, and probably the object of many women’s fantasies.”

“It’s crazy. I don’t take any of them up on offers.”

Gomez considered the premise of meeting one of these fake celebrities after a show and the mental gymnastics that went along with propositioning one of them with the husband back at home in Tennessee or somewhere. She cleared her throat. “You were saying, about Peter?”

“Oh, yeah. It wasn’t no secret to any of us that he’d have rather come to Myrtle Beach as Elvis and not Michael Jackson. He didn’t hide it from Roger either.”

“What would Roger say to him?”

Victor studied his fingers. “It was weird. Roger was usually the nicest guy, but something about Peter rubbed him the wrong way.”

“Did they ever get into any fights?”

“They about came to blows the other night when we were all at Ocean Lakes for that get-together at Susan’s RV.”

Chapter Twenty-One

“Did you know? A plane needs to be going 55 knots before it can take off. And they’re not watertight. They’ll sink if they land in water.”

“No, I did not know that,” I answered, peeking at Timmy sitting in the back on his booster seat, looking out the window. He’d told me this tidbit of information like it was running on a secondary stream of consciousness in his little/big head. His legs were kicking against the bottom of the backseat. They weren’t long enough to reach the floor. I made eye contact with him in the rear-view mirror. “I don’t even know how fast a knot is. Do you?”

“No.”

Apparently, Timmy didn’t know all.

We were going up Dick Pond Drive toward Target. The raised go-kart tracks of the Fun Warehouse passed by on our left before reaching the stoplight by Chick-Fil-A. Besides the aeronautical briefing from Timmy, he’d remained quiet during our brief trip from the bookstore to here. The time allowed me to gather my thoughts about what I was getting myself into by prying my way into a murder investigation.

The entire time we were in the Caribbean, I vowed to myself that never again would I do something so stupid. It almost got Gina and I killed the last time. It was best to leave it to the professionals. One part of my brain told me I should never have tried to learn who’d killed Paige Whitaker on the first case I was a part of.

The other part took heart at seeing friends and family members coping with the sudden loss of a loved one. From having been through it in the period after Autumn’s death, I could place myself in their shoes. I had the intense urge to help people suffering through similar ordeals.

When Vicki and Barbara came to my store earlier to speak to me, I couldn’t help but feel the familiar tug. Besides, it wasn’t like I was really going to do anything. My goal in going to Target now was to speak to Bonnie’s husband’s co-workers to see if anything was amiss. I didn’t really think it would come to anything.

Then there were the oddities at the crime scene Battles hinted about. What were they? I found the whole idea of mysteries and puzzles intriguing enough that I would do stupid things to assuage my curiosity.

We crossed under the 17 Bypass overpass and hung a right into the Sayebrook shopping center. The busy intersection held a line of cars that never seemed to move piled up on this side to a large roundabout. We wound past Crumbl Cookies, Moe’s Southwest Grill, and Bob Evans before the street curved into the Target parking lot. Tat two-hundred-yard stretch of pavement was enough to make anyone hungry.

If you’ve been in one Target, you’ve been in them all: bright lights, team members wearing red and khaki, neatly arranged aisles and trendy clothing. Autumn used to love coming here. Gina hadn’t mentioned ever coming in here, and I wondered if she was a Target fan. Half of the decorations and knick-knacks in my former house came from this store. I’d worked at a different Target location just after college. It was what gave me my retail background that eventually translated into running Myrtle Beach Reads.

I followed Timmy as he meandered through the Dollar Spot section across from the customer service desk, looking for cheap toys. Right now, it was filled with items for back-to-school.

After Vicki and Barbara left my store, I did a quick Facebook search for Bonnie. I still hated the app and despised social media in general, but it had its uses. I’d found her profile in no time, despite there being several Bonnie Loudermilk's on Facebook. She didn’t seem to have any privacy settings engaged in her profile. Hers was the only one who’s About information indicated that she lived in Myrtle Beach and worked at the Legends Theater. What nailed it was checking her friends list and spotting both Vicki and Barbara. No one shut it down in the wake of her death. I wasn’t sure if you could.

I found Kirk, Bonnie’s husband, in her About section. He hadn’t updated his profile since before Covid, but it was still online. The profile picture was of him and Bonnie standing together on a beach near a pier. He looked like a man in his late-forties/early-fifties who still lived in his parents’ basement playing video games all day. The picture of him on the beach might have been the only time he got outside that year with skin so pale. He had unruly curly brown hair, an unkempt, bushy beard, and looked like he lived on a diet of Twinkies and chili cheese fries.

I instantly felt sorry for the man, knowing he’d lost his wife to a brutal murder.

The reason I suggested coming to look at LEGOs with Timmy was because Barbara mentioned Kirk ran the toys department. I figured if I found someone working in the department, or near there, maybe they could provide me with information.

One thing I remembered from my Target days was that the break room contained a fountain of gossip. I couldn’t imagine being three days past Bonnie’s murder and it not being the topic of conversation throughout the store.

Timmy and I marched past the greeting cards and housewares department in the middle of the store before coming to the toys department near the back. We avoided two well-dressed, but smarmy looking young men standing near electronics offering to help guests (Target employees never call their customers “customers”) but were actually hawking cell phone plans. No thanks.

We ducked behind the rear aisles near a wall running half the length of the store. The first part of the aisles contained Toys for younger children before coming to the LEGO section. Target expanded their selection to three rows because of the increasing popularity of the building blocks. LEGO had many lines on offer. Friends, Space, Ninjago, Harry Potter, Jurassic World, Batman, Super Mario, and my favorites—City, Technic, and Creator Expert.

I had a thing for buildings that apparently Timmy shared. He walked right past the sets meant for kids of his age group.

“Don’t you think you should be looking at these?” I asked, pointing to several Disney themed sets.

“No,” he answered. “Mom lets me get the Architecture sets, but I don’t see them here.”

I used to have a few of those before my house burned down, reducing them to balls of melted plastic. They came in primarily black boxes and allowed builders to recreate famous landmarks and city skylines on a miniature scale. The recommended age for them was twelve plus. Timmy was seven.

“If you say so,” I said, scanning the aisle for that collection. “I don’t see them here either. Maybe they’re on the next aisle.”

Timmy walked to the end of the row and turned right. I followed. As the little boy started to go down the next aisle, he stopped.

I was rounding the corner, but hadn’t gone far enough to see what the next lane held. “What is it?”

He pointed. “Him.”

I popped my head around the endcap to see what he was talking about. A worker in red and khaki sat on the floor in the middle of the aisle. He was putting together an open box of LEGOs. It looked like a sports car of some sort.

Several of his coworkers were gathered at the other end of the aisle, giving him a wide berth.

The man was bawling as he put together the small, brightly colored pieces and appeared to be having a breakdown.

I didn’t blame him.

The man on the floor was Bonnie’s husband, Kirk.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Iheld Timmy by the shoulder to keep him from going down the aisle.

“Hold up,” I said.

For once, he had nothing to say.

A woman clad in red and khaki with bushy curly brown hair, blue eyes, glasses, and brightly colored Hoka running shoes broke away from her co-workers, tip-toed around Kirk, and approached Timmy and me.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “Can you go around to a different aisle? We’re having a bit of a situation here.”

Instead of complying straight away, I said in a low voice, “Is he Bonnie Loudermilk’s husband?”

She turned to look down on Kirk and back at us as another Target worker arrived with a white pocketbook slung over her shoulder as she shouldered her way through the gathered workers. She had short red hair and a look of authority. Her name tag marked her as “Therese.” She told the gathered team members to get back to work before crouching down beside Kirk.

The woman’s name tag who approached Timmy and I identified her as “Tammy.”

Tammy backed us around to the LEGO aisle we’d come from. “Yes, it is,” she said when we were out of earshot of Kirk and Therese. “Do you know him?”

“No,” I said, then stretched the truth slightly, “but I know people who worked with his wife.”

“Then you know what happened,” Tammy said.

The upshot of someone working here and having a nervous breakdown on the sales floor was that at least the store wasn’t busy. Meaning fewer looky-loos like me who might stumble upon Kirk. It also meant I could trust Timmy to stay in the aisle and look at LEGOs by himself without me worrying about a crazy person snatching him.

I’d come here under the premise of talking to Kirk’s coworkers to see what they knew, but I didn’t expect to see the man himself.

“Yes. It’s horrible. Shouldn’t he be on bereavement leave?”

Tammy glanced to her left, toward Kirk and Therese. The seven-foot-tall aisle of toys stood between us.

“Yeah,” Tammy said with a distinct Southern accent. “Kirk is the team-leader of toys and sporting goods. I run the next section over, domestics. It’s no problem for me to run both while he’s gone, but he’s so devoted to his job and loves toys. We can’t keep him away. Therese is our HR manager and informal psychiatrist. She’s great about comforting us when things like this happen.”

“Oh man,” I said. I understood Kirk’s position. Befallen by tragedy, he goes to the one place where he feels comforted and supported. That’s what I would do with my bookstore following Autumn’s death. I even spent the night there more times than I’d like to remember. Margaret and Karen were my support system. My parents didn’t move here until six months after Autumn’s death. “He’s probably here because this is where he feels at home. He can’t go home because everything reminds him of his wife.”

“Probably so,” Tammy said. “And it’s a crime scene, too. He can’t go home right now. He’s been staying with me while the police do their thing.”

“Does he not have any family?”

“Not much. He’s an only child. His parents are in a nursing home in Wisconsin, so they can’t travel, and he can’t leave town right now.”

“What about Bonnie? Did she have family?”

“Just her mom. She’s in the same nursing home as Kirk’s parents. Kirk and Bonnie were high-school sweethearts.”

“Did they have any kids?”

“They didn’t.”

That ruled out matricide and filicide. Unless Bonnie’s mom escaped from the nursing home in Wisconsin, traveled a thousand miles to Myrtle Beach, murdered her daughter, covered up the crime, and returned to a rocking chair by a fireplace with her needles and yarn back in the home with no one noticing.

“So, it was basically him and her by themselves?”

“Yeah. It’s a cute place they own. I don’t know if I could ever live there again after what happened.”

“Agreed,” I said. Tammy seemed like a talker. A bored worker who would rather do anything besides folding towels to Target brand standards. If Kirk was staying with her, maybe she learned inside information about the investigation. “I’ve read about what happened and spoken to Bonnie’s friends at the Legends Theater.”

Tammy held a hand to her chest. “Oh, yes. It was so unfortunate about Elvis. I’ve loved Elvis my whole life.”

“I was there when it happened.”

“Get out!” Tammy exclaimed, then lowered her voice. “I bet that was traumatic.”

I wanted to say that I’d seen worse, which I had, but didn’t want to wade too far into the deep end. “It was certainly unexpected.”

“Kirk got me tickets through Bonnie to see the show this past summer,” Tammy said. “It was fantastic. I even met Elvis and got pictures taken with him. Seemed like a super nice guy, and boy was he handsome.”

“He definitely looks like the real Elvis.” I twisted my head to check on Timmy. He held a trash truck building set from the LEGO City collection in his small hands, studying the back. I turned back to Tammy. The clock in my head told me I needed to get down to business before Tammy got called back to work. “Has Kirk talked any about the investigation?”

“Not much,” Tammy said. “I don’t know what he’s been told, to be honest. He was here the night Bonnie was killed, but they haven’t entirely ruled him out as a suspect.”

“Because it’s the husband who murders his wife in most of these instances.”

“Unfortunately.”

“They’re not going to tell him all their findings in case he’s trying to cover something up.”

“Makes sense.”

I was glad she wasn’t trying to pry into how I knew of such things.

“He said one thing,” Tammy said.

The hair on my arms stood on end. Battles said there was something odd about the crime scene he wouldn’t reveal to me. Maybe Tammy knew what it was.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“He said it was weird.”

I stuck a hand in my pocket to keep a casual appearance and hide my anticipation. “What about it?”

“It looked like she’d come home and was sharing a bottle of wine in the kitchen with someone when she was murdered. He thought she might have been having an affair.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Gomez left Victor on the balcony. He sounded content to be near the Legends’ co-talent, but not to associate with them. If he was staying clean and they weren’t, an illustration her dad used to drill into her and Lynn rang true.

He helped put away some bad people, so he spoke from experience in seeing people go down the wrong path. Her dad used the illustration of two sheets hanging side-by-side on a clothesline. One was pristine white and had just come out of the wash. The other was caked in dirt. If the wind blew and the two sheets came into contact, he would ask them if the clean sheet would rub off on the dirty one? The answer was always “no.”

Victor wanted to be near the people he worked with because he was a stranger in town, as they all were, except for the band and dancers. They were his support system. His presence here today was as much for them as it was for him. The clean rubbing off on the soiled.

A nagging suspicion in the back of her head grew after speaking to Victor.

Back inside, Gomez found Lynn engaged in conversation with the Blues Brothers, Landon and George. All three had their phones out and were showing off pictures of their kids. Peter sat on the sofa, with his arm around one of the dancers, the tall brunette. Everyone else was in the same basic spots as before. The trashcan overflowed with empty beer bottles and red plastic cups. Half of the pizza was gone. Three greasy, empty boxes lay on the floor next to the trash. Gomez wondered if the people at Legends hired a cleaner to come in for their stars.

She drifted over to the kitchen and studied the Keurig, trying to determine if she wanted another cup of coffee. Clark would have. She worried that his constant coffee drinking was the reason he had high blood pressure or his constant involvement in murder investigations was the culprit.

Peter came up behind her and asked, “Are you going to use that?”

Gomez was so lost in thought that she hadn’t noticed him extricating himself from the dancer and walking into the kitchen. They were the only two in it.

“I was thinking about it,” Gomez answered, “but I think I’ll pass.”

Peter smiled with perfect, gleaming white teeth. “Feel free to do so or grab yourself a drink from the fridge.”

“Thanks.”

She wondered how to broach the subject of Roger with Peter and make it seem natural. She was used to questioning suspects in situations where they knew they were suspects. Not that she regarded Peter was a suspect, as there was no murder. It was like her entire thought process was a game based on reality; except she was the only one playing.

Fortunately, Peter solved the problem for her. “So, you used to be a cop?”

“I was. Spent fourteen years with the MBPD. The last five as a detective.”

“That’s what your sister said. Why did you quit?”

Gomez had a flash of annoyance and stepped into his space. “What makes you think I quit?”

His head drew back out of possible embarrassment or fear that the woman in front of him could beat him up. He blubbered, “No, no. I wasn’t implying you quit because you’re a woman. Your sister didn’t say why. I figured you’d done it long enough and were ready for something else.”

“Oh.” Gomez drew back. It wasn’t a memory she wanted to repeat but felt like the man deserved some explanation because of her response. The entire thing was a sore subject. “It turned out that my ex-fiancée was involved in illegal activities and tied me up in our attic.”

The whites of his eyes showed. “Goodness. What happened?”

“I escaped and shot him.”

Peter’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he regarded Gomez in a different light. She might be tall and attractive, but she had an edge to her he wasn’t expecting.

“I’ve never met anyone who killed another person.”

That was a loaded statement considering the suspicions raging through Gomez’s mind regarding the people in this room. She set him straight. “He’s in prison serving a long punishment, but he’s not dead. We exchanged gunfire. I got him. He got me.”

“Are you okay?”

Gomez indicated her shoulder. She no longer wore tank tops. Only shirts with sleeves to cover up the bullet scar. “Mostly. Bullet got me there. Had to undergo surgery and rehab.”

Peter whistled, not knowing what to think.

With Victor’s mention of the argument between Peter and Roger fresh in her mind, she asked, “Are you close to him?”

“No, we weren’t close. He was a talented man, that’s for sure.”

“Susan tells me you can play several different musicians. You must be pretty talented.”

He flashed his pearly whites. “Thank you. I can do Prince and Elvis too.”

“Do you think you’ll take over for Roger if he can't come back?”

“I don’t know. It’s too early to tell. There hasn’t been a discussion. Not that there’s been time for it.”

Gomez surmised from the way Peter answered, nothing would make him prouder to be the Elvis headliner for Legends.

“How did Roger seem last night before the show?”

“Seemed fine to me. His normal self. We watched some NFL in the changing room before the show, talking about Arizona and Chicago’s chances at making the playoffs this season.”

“When you say “we,” do you mean all of you guys?”

“Except for Victor. That dude keeps largely to himself. The rest of us have a fantasy football pool we’re in.”

“Interesting. Did anything change with Roger during the show?”

Peter placed a hand on the counter. “Honestly, it’s so chaotic that I didn’t pay attention to him or anyone else in the ten, fifteen minutes before the start of the show until he hit the floor on stage.”

“I guess you have to be focused, right?”

“Yeah. We’re playing famous characters, so we’re acting and performing as well. I have to get into character, get into the King of Pop’s mind, if you know what I mean.”

That sounded like a scary place to Gomez, but she didn’t voice her opinion.

“On second thought, you know, there was one thing during the show that seemed odd.”

Gomez held her cool despite a chill working its way down her spine. “What’s was it?”

Peter turned and glanced at Susan in the living room, and said in a lower voice, “It was Susan.”

“What about Susan?”

He scratched his head. “So, all of us guys, except for Roger, are the first three acts. Except for Tara. She’s present throughout the show.”

“Okay.”

“So, Landon and George go first, followed by me, then Victor.”

Gomez reminded herself of the personas. Landon and George were the Blues Brothers, Peter was Michael Jackson, and Victor was Steven Tyler. “I’m with you.”

“Right behind the stage, there are two racks of costumes and dressing rooms for the guys and gals to do a quick change. We hang around there after we come off. Our makeup room is down a hall out of view.”

Gomez tried to picture it. “So, what was this with Susan?”

“When I came offstage, I had to go to the restroom, which is near the makeup rooms, before going back to the quick-change area behind the stage. It was odd. When I came out of the restroom, Susan was coming out of our makeup room.”

“What was she doing in there?”

“Beats me. I didn’t say anything to her.”

“Did she see you?”

“I'm not sure. It’s pretty close quarters back there.”

“What do you think she was doing in your makeup room?”

“Beats me.”

The dancer who Peter had his arm around held up her empty beer bottle. “Peter! Bring me another one of these.”

“Be right there,” he called to her. He turned to Gomez. “It was just something odd I noticed.”

He grabbed two more beers and left the kitchen.

Before Gomez collected her thoughts, Susan broke away with a mostly empty beer bottle perched between two fingers from Tara and came over to Gomez on wobbly knees.

“How are you doing?” Gomez asked with a note of concern.

Susan wore a concerned look and glanced back at Tara. Gomez picked up something there. Like maybe something had occurred between the two while she was out on the balcony with Victor.

“Me?” Susan slurred. “I’m okay. A little buzzed, to be honest. Ready to blow this popsicle stand?”

She had a glazed look in her eyes and a slight slur to her voice. Gomez worked foot patrol on the Boardwalk years ago when she was a rookie with the MBPD and encountered every type of person imaginable. If she were still on patrol and came upon Susan in her current state with an open container, slurred speech, and reeking of alcohol, Gomez would have escorted her downtown in the back of a patrol car for public intoxication. Which was okay in a private residence, but her deeply ingrained police training caused her to view the world in a certain way.

Several others in the villa were inebriated as well, but they appeared to be here for the long haul.

Having seen Susan’s backward glance at Tara, Gomez asked, “Is Tara okay?”

“I’m not sure,” Susan responded. “There’s something about her that seems, I don’t know, off.”

“Like what?”

“I can’t quite place my finger on it.” She glanced at the front door.

Being the stranger here, Gomez hadn’t been comfortable the entire time. Lynn had wandered off almost the moment Peter had greeted them, leaving her on her own. It reminded her of some of those high school parties they used to go to together. Gomez was only invited because Lynn hung out with the cool kids. When they’d get to someone’s house, Gomez would have that adrenaline rush of doing something her friends in her class wouldn’t have access to. The rush would soon fade because Lynn would go off with her friends or a boy and leave her alone in a corner where the upperclassmen tried to hit on her.

This had the same feeling, except for the being hit on part. Never mind her circumventing any advances from Victor out on the balcony.

Now, Gomez had the keys. Lynn had usually taken Gomez to parties as her designated driver. That hadn’t changed. She wasn’t scared of disappointing her older sister by saying she wanted to leave. Susan was ready to go, and so was she.

“Wanna get out of here?” Gomez asked.

Susan nodded.

“Let me grab Lynn and we’ll go.”

“Okay.” Susan rested a hand on Gomez’s shoulder. “I don’t think I’m ready to go back to my camper yet.”

The Myrtlewood Villas were a mile away from the Legends Theater. A troublesome sense screamed at Gomez to go there and view it as a crime scene, if for no other reason than to assuage her fears that Roger’s collapse wasn’t because of natural causes.

“Do you think anyone is at the theater? Can you show us backstage?”

“Yeah. Mr. Woodlock practically lives there. Besides, we left in such a rush last night that I forgot to take something with me. Wouldn’t hurt to go grab it.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Gomez grabbed Lynn while Susan went to tell Tara they were leaving. They met out at Gomez’s car a few minutes later, minus Tara. She told Susan that someone else would take her back to Cantina Imperfecto to retrieve her bike later. Judging by her current state, Gomez hoped it might be tomorrow.

They took the short drive from the Myrtlewood Villas to the Legends Theater at the edge of Broadway at the Beach. The parking lot of the Carolina Ale House next door was full. Normally at this time of the afternoon, a few scattered theater workers would already be parked at the side of the theater. That wasn’t the case today. The only car in the lot was a classic silver Aston Martin DB5, similar to the one Sean Connery drove in the James Bond movie, Goldfinger.

“Great,” Susan said from the back seat. “Mr. Woodlock is here like I figured.”

She called him and asked if he would meet them at the employee entrance.

Gomez pulled around to the side and parked in the shade under an oak tree. Gomez noted that the side door of the theater was hidden from view to anyone passing by on the 17 Bypass.

Mr. Woodlock was waiting for them with the metal door propped open. Even though there was no show tonight, he still wore a black three-piece suit with white pinstripes, white shirt, and gold tie. It made for a dashing look with his graying hair swept back and a bright smile. Coupled with the spy car out front, he gave off the debonair vibe of someone draped in mystery.

“Come on in ladies,” he said, holding open the door.

They entered an oddly shaped area to the side of the stage right. A hallway branched off and angled away off to their right. Gold records and autographed photos from many of the real legends graced the taupe painted walls. Lights high overhead cast a dull illumination. The theater was eerily quiet.

After Susan told Mr. Woodlock that she was here to retrieve something she’d forgotten last night and to show Gomez and Lynn around, he said it was fine if they did so quickly. He excused himself after asking Susan to let him know when they were leaving, then disappeared down the hallway to his office.

“This takes me back,” Lynn said, taking in their dim surroundings.

“Yeah,” Susan agreed. “There’s not much difference here to theaters in Branson, Vegas, or back home. Makeup rooms. Changing rooms. Wardrobe. Showers. Laundry. Equipment. It’s all here like it would be anywhere else.”

The investigator in Gomez wanted to see it all. “Can you show us around? I’ve never been in this part of any theater. It’s all new to me.”

Susan glanced down the hall to where Mr. Woodlock retreated. “Can’t hurt. It’s not like there’s a show tonight.”

She guided them around a corner to the left of the back entrance to the makeup rooms. “The men’s side is here on the left and ours is on the right.”

A red curtain at their entrances kept away prying eyes. She led them to the ladies’ side and swept back the curtain for them to enter. She flipped on a light switch. It wasn’t the neatest of spaces, because it was packed with makeup cases, wigs, shimmering boots on shelves, jewelry, undergarments, and other accessories. A large screen television sat on a stand at the far side of the room. There were six cubbies with makeup counters. Round bulbs switched off at the moment framed the mirrors. Shelves above the mirrors held hats and footwear.

It was easy for Gomez to make out which spaces were for Susan and Tara, because of the signature wigs displayed on mannequin heads. Blonde Dolly Parton wigs for Susan and bushy Tina Turner ones for Tara. She assumed the other nooks were for the backup dancers.

A tall garment rack filled with costumes separated the room. Susan explained that the ones that can be dry cleaned get taken once a week on the only day the theater is closed. Mondays. The rack had wheels so it could be pulled to the quick-change area directly behind the stage during shows.

“This is where we come in and transform ourselves into our onstage personas. It doesn’t take me long, but Tara can be here a few hours before the show starts. Same with Peter being Michael Jackson. Excuse me a minute,” Susan said. She stepped around the costume rack to her makeup station in the middle of the far wall. After poking around, she announced, “Here it is.”

She came back around to Gomez and Lynn, holding up a debit card. “I ordered something online while I was waiting for the show to start last night and left my debit card on the table. I’ve been paying for everything with my credit card since last night.”

“Oh,” Lynn said. “If you would have told me, I would have paid for your meals. You could have paid me back.”

Susan patted Lynn’s arm. “No, that’s okay. I hate to be indebted to friends. I’ve seen it cause problems around here.”

This was fine, but the detective in Gomez wanted to poke around. While Lynn and Susan chatted, Gomez perused the room while trying to make it seem like she was curious and not trying to uncover evidence. Not that there was a crime committed last night. It was a hunch she was playing out, trying to keep herself sharp. She wasn’t going back to the MBPD, but she had to find something in this new stage of her life to keep her occupied—an in between.

She regarded this afternoon like an undercover case. Poking around and asking questions when others didn’t know why she was doing it. Under that premise, Susan’s reasoning for coming here to “retrieve something she’d forgotten” could easily be to cover up evidence. Susan could have held her debit card in a way that kept it from their view when she reached under her station to allegedly retrieve it, but was instead pocketing an incriminating item. Before that, something passed between Susan and Tara back at Peter’s place. Whatever it was made Susan want to bolt.

On top of all that, Gomez already had potential motives for two, possibly three, of the performers.

She walked over to the rack and leafed through the garments. She kept the rack between her and the other two so they couldn’t see what she was doing. Tara’s Tina Turner costumes hung on one side, and Susan’s Dolly Parton ones were on the other. Susan’s dresses were longer and had more decoration, while Tara’s was sleeker and shorter. As the clothes hangers squeaked when the dresses they contained were moved, Gomez tried to find hidden pockets, or anything sewn into linings.

She found none and turned her attention to the makeup stations. The accessories on Tara’s counter weren’t as ornate as those on Susan’s. Some of the handmade jewelry Tara purchased in her travels mixed in with those authentic to Tina Turner. An elegant pair of seashell earrings caught Gomez’s eye. They were next to the necklace tree where a silver necklace with a pendant hanging on the end containing sand. She pictured herself on a date with Clark, wearing that set. It was more her style compared to the glitzy jewelry on Susan’s desk, although the ornate diamond necklace hanging at the back would go well with the ravishing green dress she wore to the fashion gala that Clark still talked about to this day. None of the jewelry or accessories seemed out of place.

On the other side of the room, she heard Lynn tell Susan in a low voice, “This is just something she does.”

Gomez surmised her actions hadn’t gone unnoticed, but Susan hadn’t made a move to stop her.

She hated herself for the question she was about to ask Susan because it was a steep departure from anything she would ever want to do. “Hey, Susan?”

“Yes?”

“I’ve always wondered how I would look as a blonde. Can I try on one of your wigs?”

Susan chuckled. “Sure, go for it.”

“Oh, yeah,” Lynn whistled. “I bet Clark would like to see that.”

She and Susan had a good laugh at that, and the suggestion made Gomez smile. She reached out and pulled a blonde wig with long, cascading curls off the fake head pedestal and examined the underside of it. She didn’t find any evidence of tampering or anything hidden underneath. That was all she wanted to achieve here, but to keep up the guise, she put on the wig and looked in the mirror.

Gomez took one look at how ridiculous she looked and laughed hard.

Lynn and Susan came around the garment rack and took in the absurd sight.

Lynn whistled a catcall while Susan laughed and said, “Now that’s sexy.”

Gomez looked at herself in the mirror and stroked the long, fake hair, twirling the curls between her fingers. She had to admit, the color looked good on her. The style wasn’t right, by far.

“Want me to take a picture and send it to Clark?” Lynn asked.

“Sure,” Gomez said, handing over her phone.

Lynn snapped a quick photo and returned the phone before Gomez returned the wig to the mannequin head.

“Anything else in here you want to look at?” Susan asked Gomez.

She glanced at the other side of the makeup room. “Well, since I looked so good in Dolly’s hair, what do you think I’d look like in Tina Turner’s hair?”

“Only one way to find out,” Susan said. She plucked a spiky wig off Tara’s station, handing it to Gomez.

She took it and examined the underside. Finding zip, she slipped the wig on. They had a good laugh before she removed it and tried on a black wig with long hair. There was nothing out of the ordinary about the hairstyle nor evidence that anything could be concealed underneath. Gomez modeled it in front of the mirror.

Lynn laughed. “It’s like when you used to have long hair when we were kids. You looked good that way.”

Susan agreed. Gomez put the wig back in its place, and they left the dressing room.

Susan started to lead them away from the makeup rooms down a hall leading to an area behind the stage, but Gomez wasn’t done where they were. A shower room stood between the two makeup rooms. She poked her head in there, but it was spotless.

“Let me show you this way,” Susan said to Gomez and Lynn, gesturing ahead at a set of three steps leading to a higher elevation. The sounds of Elvis classics came from around the corner of the hall leading to Mr. Woodlock’s office in the opposite direction.

“Hold on a second,” Gomez said. “Mind if I peek into the men’s area?”

Susan shrugged. “Sure. None of them are here. Don’t guess it would hurt. As a matter of fact, I’ve never been in there either. Might be interesting to see how the men keep their part.”

She edged past Gomez, leaving Lynn trailing the two, and pushed through the curtain into the men’s makeup room. It had a similar setup to the ladies’ side. Ornate, bedazzled costumes hung from a long rack in the center of the room. A black large screen sat silent at the far end. Hats, sunglasses, fedoras, wigs with men’s styles, various types of shoes on shelves above the makeup tables, sparkly jackets Peter wore as Michael Jackson, and ornate, and multi-colored scarves favored by Steven Tyler were the only differences. Each station had stacks of makeup cases containing foundation, powder, eyeshadow palettes, pencils, hair gels and sprays, brushes, wipes, and everything else a person needed to become someone else.

It was easy for Gomez to ascertain which station belonged to which performer, except for the Blues Brothers duo. They had similar accessories. Peter’s station had a mannequin head wearing a fedora with the King of Pop’s fake hair hanging from it.

Gomez was mostly curious about Roger’s section. She drifted over to it to find three pairs of sunglasses in their display cases at the back of the desk. Two belt buckles were also on display. A large silver one looked like it had been tossed on the surface. The other was made of gold and more ornate. It lay in a special wood display case with a glass lid.

She reached out to touch it, but Susan stopped her before she could. A gold buckle larger than both of her hands spread out sat in the middle of a wood display case atop purple velvet. The rest of the belt encircled it. The buckle didn’t shine like the silver one next to it. Gomez chalked it up to its age, but it seemed like it needed a good polishing.

“Don’t touch it,” Susan said. “That’s a special one on loan from Graceland. Elvis wore that at the special concert he did in Honolulu in 1973 that was broadcast all over the world.”

“It’s beautiful,” Lynn commented.

“And worth about as much as you and I make in a year combined.”

“Pretty cool,” Gomez said and moved on and stepped to Victor’s station next to Roger’s. Hooks with scarves hanging from them hung on the wall along both sides of the mirror. A display case for multiple rings sat in the back corner of the vanity.

She spotted a slip of paper tucked under the bottom edge of the jewelry stand. Susan and Lynn were on the opposite side of the makeup room. The rack of clothes separated them.

Gomez took a quick glance to make sure Susan couldn’t see her. She leaned forward and slid the paper out from the ring stand. It was a folded sticky note.

She opened it to read a hastily scrawled message in blue ink:

The next payment will be the last . . . as long as you stay clean. Slip up again and everyone knows your secret.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Trying to find a random home without knowing the address in Seagate Village near Market Common was a pointless endeavor. A maze of sidewalk lined streets intersected, ran parallel to each other, and sometimes dead-ended without notice.

The homes were all on one level and built to withstand anything. The neighborhood never flooded even during the most torrential of hurricanes. Oaks and palmettos lined the streets. Each of the single-family homes or hundred duplexes looked similar to each other, with few differences. Some duplexes were larger and boasted nicer porches.

It was one of the most pleasant neighborhoods I've been in during all my years in Myrtle Beach. The only saving grace to conquering the maze of streets at present was the road circling the entire development. Bonnie’s address wasn’t given out by the media, but I studied the crime reports in the media and had a clue where she once lived. I had no intention of trying to break into the place—at least not with Timmy tagging along.

He sat in his booster seat, studying the back of the box of LEGOs I’d bought him as a thank you for coming along on my little fact-finding tour. I liked Timmy. He was endearing, cute, funny, smart, and about all you could ask for in a seven-year-old. From the way he talked with his random facts, I’d figured Timmy to be about ten. Lynn set me straight with his age.

After Autumn died, I learned from her mom that she had been pregnant with our first child. Her mom said Autumn was going to break the news to me that upcoming weekend. It would have been our first, and only, child after being married for fifteen years. I’ve spent many nights wondering what our child would have been like. A boy or girl? I didn’t have a preference. Each had their strengths, although I’ve been told potty training a girl is much easier than a boy. A plus for girls in that column. I had the feeling Autumn would have been a cloth diaper kind of mom, and since she worked a nine to five at the courthouse, it would mean I would get stuck spraying the poop off. A guilty part of my conscience believed that I dodged a bullet there, but I would have happily done it if it meant Autumn and the child were still alive.

I shook my head to break myself out of the sad daydream. Timmy and I didn’t share the same blood or genes, but he reminded me of myself at his age—except he’s probably smarter. I couldn’t rattle off facts and dates like him. Then again, I didn't have the magic of YouTube and Google to help me out back then. I wouldn’t change a thing about my childhood with Bo, growing up in Proctorville, Ohio, but it would have been nice to watch Transformers and Duck Tales on demand instead of on a specific channel on a set day and time.

I’ve driven through Seagate Village several times as a shortcut between Kings Highway and Market Common but hadn’t fully explored it. In the Myrtle Beach News article about Bonnie's murder, in a photo’s background—beyond a line of tall loblollies—I was able to make out a small, covered shelter that I recognized. From the highway, it lay to the right of the Harley Davidson dealership and at the corner of Seagate Village. I’d never stopped there but was aware of what looked like a small park with various obstacles for mountain bike riders.

I’d checked Google Maps before leaving the Target parking lot to be sure. I’ve seen the sign for the place dozens of times but never paid attention to the name. The little area was the Jack O. Walker East Coast Greenway Trailhead and the Andre S. Pope Mountain Bike Skills Park. I wasn’t planning on going to it, but it helped me triangulate Bonnie and Kirk’s house. As close as I could figure, it lay near where Juniper Drive and Pampas Drive come together in a sharp curve. If looking at a map above the community, it would be in the lowest left corner.

The homes looked so similar that it was easy to get cross-eyed trying to pick out one that looked different. However, the police made this simple.

Theirs was the one single-family home in this section of the neighborhood, where the front porch and door were marked by crisscrossing, bright yellow crime scene tape. I slowed the Jeep to a stop on the opposite side of the street.

Timmy sat behind me on the passenger side. He looked up from the LEGO box and turned in the same direction I was. “Looks like something bad happened there.”

For a moment, I felt a pang of guilt for bringing him to a crime scene. I’d been so caught up in my line of thinking that I failed to think that perhaps this wasn’t the best place to bring an innocent seven-year-old.

“Yeah,” I said. “Something very bad happened here.”

Not much made it past this precocious young fella. “Is this where that man on the floor at Target lives?”

“It is. Not sure he’ll ever live there again.”

The street was quiet. No cars were on the road. A few were parked on the street. There was a woman with short dark hair and glasses walking toward us on the sidewalk with a small black dog with pointy ears on a leash. The dog’s tongue hung from its mouth. The dog’s master's gaze was fixed in the same direction as us.

A soft breeze blew, rustling the palm fronds and loblolly limbs. Clouds above drifted toward the ocean to our left in the same direction as Bonnie’s house. I tapped my thumb on the steering wheel, not knowing what I expected to accomplish here, especially with Timmy in the backseat.

The house design was a mix of brick and light blue wood siding. A front porch sheltered the front door. The mountain bike park lay behind the property, separated by tall pines. The edge of a shed peaked out from the right side of the house in the backyard. Many of the houses had tall white fences enclosing the property. The Loudermilk’s did not.

As my mind tried to play out the sequence of events leading to Bonnie’s murder, Timmy went back to studying the LEGO box, and the dog walker walked past my vehicle.

“Stay there,” I instructed Timmy, leaving the engine running. “I’ll be right back.”

When he didn’t look up from the box, I opened the door and stepped around the front to meet the woman. She appeared to be in her mid-fifties, with dark eyes and a longish nose. Her pace hesitated when she saw me.

“Excuse me,” I said.

She stopped. The dog ran a lap around her feet, wrapping the leash in a loose loop around her ankles. Its tail wagged as it stared up at me. The woman asked, “Can I help you?”

“Yeah. Maybe. Do you live near here?”

“I wouldn’t be walking my dog on this sidewalk if I didn’t.” She spoke with an Appalachian-born accent. She pointed back over her shoulder. “Back that way. Why?”

I tilted my head at the Loudermilk house. “Did you know Bonnie?”

The woman glanced at the house and back at me. “Not well. I’d talk to her at the mailbox cluster.”

Down the street on the right side stood a small shelter with dozens of mailboxes. It made it easier for the Post Office to deliver mail in large neighborhoods like this to put most of it in a centralized location. There was an identical mailbox cluster at the other end of the neighborhood near the entrance.

“She seemed friendly enough,” the woman said. “Shame what happened.”

“It is. I have friends who were close to her. I never met her myself.”

Her left eyebrow dipped. “Then what are you doing here?”

“Good question.” And it was. What was I doing here? I didn’t want to get involved in things like this anymore, but my natural curiosity and desire to help people who had their loved ones ripped away from them drove me forward. That resolve was strengthened after seeing Kirk sobbing on the floor at Target. “I sometimes help the police in cases like this.”

It was at this point that locals in the area would recognize me from the news stories. It was a weird sensation. This woman didn’t seem to know who I was. Refreshing. “Oh, okay.”

“What’s your name?”

“Betsy Kreiger.”

“Were you around the night Bonnie was killed?”

The color didn’t drain from her face, but it came close. The hand holding the leash clutched tighter. The dog yipped. “I was. Mema and I were out walking around the time she was supposedly—”

The woman didn’t finish the statement. She didn’t need to.

"Has anyone from the police department interview you?"

She scrunched her brow. “If you are working with the police, wouldn’t you know the answer?”

Uh oh, my brain warned. I tried to think of a response and how to do it without lying. “When something like this happens, they don’t immediately call me. It’s usually only if they’re having trouble closing a case. I learned about her murder this afternoon.”

The woman managed a snicker. “What? Have you been under a rock?”

“No, I’ve been out of the country since last year and landed the other day.”

She regarded me. “Oh, okay. Well, to answer your question, I saw something that evening.”

The hair stood up on my arms. “What did you see?”

“It was dark. We have the streetlamps on the poles and everything. They keep the sidewalks and streets lit at night.” She turned and pointed in the direction I had driven to this spot from. “Mema and I were back that way, and I heard a woman yell. Then a guy with long hair came running out of the house.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

She shook her head. “No. We were too far away. He was maybe like your height.”

“You’re sure it was a guy?”

“He sure moved like a man. That was my first impulse.”

That opened several possibilities if the murderer came from someone connected to the Legends Theater. “Okay. Did he get in his car? Did you see what kind it was?”

“No, he didn’t. There was no car. He ran around the corner of the house and disappeared.”

The bike park didn’t have a parking lot. The only way to access it would be by foot, bike, or golf cart, of which those were plentiful and silent—if the cart runs on battery. If the murderer ran in that direction, he could have run next door to the Harley Davidson dealership or to the disused car wash next to it. If I kept up this line of inquiry, I’d check and see what time the motorcycle place closes on weeknights and go talk to them.

“And that was the last you saw of him?”

“It was.”

“Did you call the police?”

"I didn't. I heard a police siren out on the highway and thought they were coming." She twisted the leash and stared at the ground, perhaps replaying the events in her mind. "I was scared and had to run back home to leave for work. I'm a nurse at South Strand Medical Center."

The siren she heard could have been for several reasons. I hate to think that it was coincidental, but I doubted the police would respond within a matter of seconds to a domestic disturbance. I didn't voice this opinion. "Have you spoken to the police since then?"

A flash of annoyance crossed her features. "They came and woke me up the next morning after I got home from work."

I bobbed my head for a few seconds, trying to think of another question to ask. I couldn’t. “Hey, thanks for humoring me. Have a great day.”

She untwisted herself from the leash and moseyed away on the sidewalk. The dog yipped at me one more time before getting in step with her master, tail wagging. She called over her shoulder as she strained at the leash, “You too.”

I turned and regarded Bonnie Loudermilk’s house one more time playing out the course of events Betsy just said. With Timmy here, I would not go near the house. If I did, and the police cruised by and saw me, they could arrest me for hindering a police investigation. There were too many people behind bars who might have a vendetta against me because I was the reason they were there. The last thing I needed was a shiv in my back.

The murderer didn’t park their car in the driveway or on the street. That left open the possibility it could have been someone who lives in Seagate Village. An angry neighbor maybe. Unless they came on foot and cut through there. The entrance to Myrtle Beach State Park lies across the highway from here. The Harley dealership was also within walking distance, as was the shopping center containing the Big Air Trampoline Park on one side and a Food Lion on the other. All were conceivably within walking distance of the Loudermilk’s house.

With so many possibilities, it left the question: Where did Bonnie’s killer disappear to?

Chapter Twenty-Six

The note shook in Gomez’s hand. If there was, in fact, foul play involved in what happened to Roger, then this could be evidence. If Roger was the author of the note. It looked like a male’s handwriting. It was crude, with jagged edges and corners, as opposed to a female’s style of script which tended to have more elegant flow and curves. The slant of the writing suggested the person who wrote it was right-handed, which wasn’t particularly helpful.

She would have worn gloves if she knew the contents of the note before she picked it up. If it turns out to be evidence, now her prints were on it.

Gomez used her cell phone to snap a picture of the note and tucked it back to where she found it, before shuffling around the room. Her heart pounded at a quicker pace after the discovery. It was the first indication that her suspicions might not be for nothing.

She swept past Pete and the Blues Brothers’ nooks, performing the same cursory search for clues. Finding nothing, she joined Susan and Lynn in the hall.

“That was interesting,” Lynn said.

“I’ll say,” Gomez agreed, not clueing her in on why she had that opinion.

“I figured it would be untidier since they’re men,” Susan said. “Didn’t look much different than ours.”

“Do you know if they all got along?” Gomez asked Susan.

She cocked her head to the side. “You mean, besides the lingering resentment over the death of Landon’s brother?”

“Yeah, there is that.”

Susan tapped her bottom lip. “I mean, I think they did as well as you can figure. Did you notice that Roger’s station was in the opposite corner from Landon’s?”

“I did,” Gomez answered.

“Mr. Woodlock arranged it that way.”

“Makes sense.”

As Susan led them up the short flight of stairs to the back of the stage, Gomez asked, “What about Victor? Did anyone have any problems with him or vice versa?”

“Don’t think so. He keeps to himself a lot. Not sure why.”

At the top of the third stair hung a dry erase board on the wall. Gomez slowed to check it over. Various announcements were stuck to it with magnets. Written at the top were the words Mr. Woodlock’s Thoughts and Notes. Underneath that on the left side was a piece of paper posted with last night’s date printed at the top. Gomez surmised that there would be no updated sheet today since the show was cancelled. Several bullet points with comments about the expected crowd last evening were below the date, as well as listings of who was in charge of the front of the theater, back of the theater, concessions, and the stage manager. There were no names beside the assigned duties, only initials. Under that was the weather forecast for the next two days.

Then there was an inspirational quote from Mr. Woodlock typed in a larger, bold font.

“Sometimes your heart needs more time to accept what your mind already knows.”

Next came three events from music history on last night’s date before Mr. Woodlock signed it at the bottom.

On the other side of the board was a fantasy football sign-up sheet. A quick scan told her all the men had signed up and a few of the ladies.

Susan continued around to the back of the stage, showing Lynn and Gomez where a solid door led out to the auditorium, the stage right entrance, and quick-change rooms. Those were directly behind the stage and used for costume changes during the show. The men’s and women’s rooms were separate. Curtains were draped across the openings.

Gomez pushed back the curtain on the women’s side to find a darkened room. Ambient light from the hall gave her a limited view. She glimpsed a white stool with a pair of panties lying on top. Another makeup table was on the other end of the darkened room. Costumes, boots, shoes, and other accessories lay tossed about on the floor.

The room beyond the women’s quick-change area contained all the electrical equipment used to run the show and monitors displaying live security camera feeds. Gomez noted that none of the screens showed the area behind the stage, only the lobby and exterior. Interesting.

On the wall opposite those curtains was a rack holding ten microphones. Each was labeled with names. A first-aid kit and a box of latex gloves were attached to the wall. Next to them was a bookshelf containing a stray wig, a pair of boots, and a pair of sunglasses worn by the Blues Brothers.

Susan stopped in front of the microphones and waved her hand in a circular motion at the area between the quick-change rooms and the wall next to her. “We bring those rolling racks with the costumes out of the makeup rooms and wheel them here for easy access during the show.” She placed a hand on a shelf. “Accessories go here. We didn’t do too much straightening last night after the show because of what happened.”

“Understandable,” Lynn said.

Gomez studied this section and tried to picture the costume racks taking up space in it. Her gaze swept back and forth from the quick-change room to the costume rack to the stage entrances on the left and right. She imagined the chaos occurring during the fast-paced show with the cast and crew running here, there, and everywhere.

Susan opened a door beside the microphone stage and showed them a dark room with steps leading down. “There’s not much to see, but here is where they can get under the stage to wire for sound, lights, and such.”

Lynn leaned close to Gomez.

“Look there,” she said to her sister. She pointed at a mess of wires running from the control room and across the hallway floor before disappearing down the stairs leading under the stage. “Tripping hazard if I ever saw one. This wouldn’t have been allowed when I worked in the theater.”

Gomez followed the tangle of cables with her eyes. Were they a clue? Lynn was correct. Something about it didn’t sit right with her, but she couldn’t pluck what it was out of the air.

“What’s that?” Susan asked, not having been privy to their hushed conversation.

“Oh, nothing,” Lynn said.

Gomez wondered if her sister was suspicious as well, which might explain why she mentioned the cables.

Susan seemed to accept this. Neither guest poked their heads through the doorway. Susan closed the door and moved on with the tour, leading them to the side of the building opposite the employee entrance. A flight of stairs led up to the top of the theater.

“We can go up there if you want,” Susan said, “but only the spotlight guys and Victor go up here.”

“Why Victor?” Lynn asked.

Gomez knew the answer. “He comes up here to warm up his vocal cords during the first part of the show.” She turned to Susan. “Right?”

Her mouth hung half-open. “Yeah. That’s right. How did you know?”

“My chat with Victor on Pete’s balcony.”

Susan cast a side-eyed glance at Gomez. “If you say so,” she said as she emerged on stage left, or the right side of the stage for those in the audience.

There wasn’t much more for Susan to show them. Gomez almost moved forward as Susan and Lynn were getting far ahead of her on the tour. She stopped as something out of place in the men’s makeup room clicked in her mind.

“Hey Susan!” she called ahead.

Lynn and Susan stopped and broke off their conversation.

“What’s up?” Susan said, retracing her steps to Gomez. Lynn fell in step behind her.

“I think I saw something in the room where the men get ready. Something odd,” Gomez said.

Susan snorted. “Yeah. There’s a lot of odd things about that place.”

“No,” Gomez said.

Her serious tone wiped the smile off Susan’s face. “What is it?”

“I’m not sure,” Gomez responded, “but I might have seen something that belongs to you.”

Susan and Lynn shared perplexed looks.

“It might be an item you thought was lost.” Gomez turned and led them back to the men’s makeup room and flipped on the light switch. Lynn and Susan followed on her heels.

The former detective went straight to the back corner along the right side of the room and stopped, pointing at an object on the floor beneath one of the Blues Brothers makeup tables.

“Does that belong to you?”

Susan gasped.

The object Gomez pointed to was long, thick, soft, and mostly white. Its design was a paisley pattern with pink butterflies in between.

Susan said, “Yes. That’s one of the oven mitts someone took from my camper.”

No one moved to touch it as Gomez tried to fit this circumstance into place. She led Susan and Lynn here. They sensed she was now in control. They didn’t know what Gomez was in control of, but the mood had changed.

Then two things happened ten minutes apart.

First, Landon and George of the Blues Brothers duo entered through the employee entrance.

Six hundred seconds later, the new lead detective of the MBPD, Lamar Jones, along with two officers in uniform, banged on the doors at the front entrance of the Legends Theater.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

How Landon and George made it to the theater in one piece, Gomez would never know. Both were so plastered they could barely stand. They’d later find Landon’s silver family minivan parked sideways with one wheel up on the curb along the edge of the parking lot.

They entered through the cast entrance. The taller Landon had his arm around George, and they sang vulgar Irish ditties together. Mr. Woodlock peeked out of his office to see who was causing the commotion but returned to it after not saying a word.

Landon threw back the curtain to the makeup room and regarded the women clustered around his and George’s makeup stations. A sober person might have been surprised. A drunk Landon and George had other ideas.

“Lookee at who’s waiting for us,” Landon slurred to his partner.

George grinned from ear to ear and rubbed his hands together. His eyes were bloodshot. “Oh yeah, Landon. We’re going to have a good time now! Hey ladies!”

While their comments were crude and suggestive of them wanting to have inappropriate fun, they didn’t approach Susan, Lynn, and Gomez. They remained at the entrance to the room.

“George!” Susan exclaimed. “You’re a married man. With two little girls to boot. I’m not touching you or your partner with a ten-foot pole whether you were hitched or not.”

Landon put on a pained expression and came to his partner’s defense. “Now, now. He said we were going to have a little fun. He didn’t say what kind of fun, did he?”

Up close, Gomez noted that Landon and Dan Akroyd, the actor/comedian who played Jake Blues, could have been brothers in their looks, voices, and mannerisms. George didn’t resemble the late John Belushi as much, but it wasn’t a stretch to picture him in that role. Their intoxicated state might make this more difficult, or the alcohol acted as a truth serum. Every drunk was different.

Susan crossed her arms. “No, he didn’t say what kind of fun, but we all knew what he meant.”

George guffawed and slapped his leg. “You couldn’t prove that to my wife in a court of law.”

“You come near me,” Susan said, “and your wife will be the last thing you have to worry about.”

Gomez stepped between them to diffuse the situation. With outstretched hands and palms facing both parties, she said, “Now, now. Let’s calm down. No one’s having any of that kind of fun here.”

At that moment, the sounds of someone beating on the front doors of the lobby echoed through the theater. The five people in the makeup room ignored it.

Landon seemed to be the brains of their outfit and the first to come close to sobering up. He looked at his partner, “She’s right. You don’t want to mess with her. You remember what happened the other night at Ocean Lakes.”

George’s guffaw transformed into a boozy chuckle. “Oh yeah. She let Roger have it.”

The statement caught Gomez’s attention. She glanced at Susan to gauge her response, but the Dolly Parton impersonator’s facial expression didn’t change.

Without prior planning, George and Landon put their arms down to the sides and lowered their chins to their chests side by side. In a solemn tone, they said, “May he recover soon.”

Gomez found their ability to think and act as one fascinating. Could they be that much on the same page after working together for years?

“What are you all doing in our dressing room?” Landon asked.

“Susan was giving us a backstage tour,” Lynn said.

The vibrations of pounding footsteps out in the hall coming from the direction of Mr. Woodlock’s office reached them and receded as they heard the metal door leading to the auditorium from backstage open and close.

“And you wanted to see how us menfolk got ready? Gotcha,” George said.

The detective in Gomez would not let the two men think that their being here, hovering over their stations when they randomly entered the theater was a coincidence. She pointed. “Which of you has this station in the corner?”

Susan and Lynn stepped aside to give George and Landon a better view.

Landon raised his hand. “That’s mine. Why do you ask?”

“Yeah,” George said. “If you want a pair of our sunglasses, they sell them in the gift shop.”

“No, it’s not that,” Gomez said, and briefly wondered how she would look in a pair of them. She backed up to the wall. The big screen TV was behind her. She bent her knees and pointed at the vibrant colored oven mitt below the makeup table. “How did that get there?”

Landon walked across the room and bent forward to see what Gomez was pointing at. His eyebrows knitted. The effects of the alcohol ebbed. He straightened and said to Gomez. “Beats me. Never seen that before.”

“Susan said it was stolen from her RV,” Gomez said.

Landon opened his mouth, trying to compose an answer. He glanced at George and back to Gomez. “I don’t know what to tell you. Someone must have put it there.”

As he reached out to grab it, a deep voice called out from the changing room opening. “Don’t touch that! Hands off! Back away!”

Everyone turned to see a man with a diamond stud earring in his left ear wearing a gray dress shirt, black tie with red polka dots, black slacks, black leather belt, and brown shoes. He had a shaved head and bushy neck beard flecked with gray. His eyes were the most intense black and pierced anyone whose gaze they fell upon. They demanded obedience.

The aspect of his appearance that stood out the most was the full-size gas mask covering his face. The accompanying police officers wore the same covering. They also wore rubber gloves and plastic protective booties. Only the lack of full rubber suits kept them from looking like they’d just stepped out of a nuclear radiation zone.

Everyone who was already in the room moved to the other side of it.

Except for Gomez.

She stuck a hand casually in one pocket and gave a curt wave with the other. “Hello, Detective Jones. Long time, no see. I’d ask you what you’re doing here, but I think I already know the answer.”

George, Landon, Susan, and Lynn turned to Gomez in surprise.

If Jones was alarmed to see Gomez there, he didn’t show it. He tilted his chin and said, “You’re right. Roger Westhale was murdered. We need everyone out of here, pronto.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Lamar Jones entered the MBPD after spending most of his working career in the force in Pittsburgh. His wife was an English professor at Pitt University and recently accepted a position at Coastal Carolina. Jones was formerly the lead detective at a busy precinct in the Steel City and welcomed the move to Myrtle Beach where life on the crime solving front promised to be quieter. He was approaching retirement, and the years of walking the streets in uniform and later chasing down suspects caught up to him.

The position he accepted here was supposed to be part-time. Gomez had bent Jones’s ear to get his experienced viewpoint on particularly tough cases. Before she left the department, he didn’t seem to have any aspirations to move up.

What she learned about him was that he demanded your attention and cooperation. He hadn’t been able to assign orders, but Gomez’s staff quickly learned to listen when he spoke and lean on his position.

She knew full well that after her departure and her partner Phil Moody’s death, a gaping hole was left in the investigative unit. Jones must have stepped up to the challenge. Gomez envisioned the police chief, Sue Miller, approaching Jones to take over for her.

He’d told her about the number of cases they’d have to work in Pittsburgh daily. It wasn’t near as much as in Myrtle Beach. Gomez supposed even taking over as lead detective of the MBPD would be a breath of fresh air compared to that.

Now she faced him with her sister and Susan, trying their best to hide on the other side of the makeup room. Officers Nichols and O’Brien stood behind him, waiting for directions. They wore masks over their faces and gloves on their hands. Gomez had worked with both and knew them to be competent at their jobs. George and Landon tried to keep themselves upright.

He said to Gomez, “I know you were here last night. What made you think he was murdered?”

“It was the way the scene played out, for starters,” Gomez answered, unconcerned with how he knew her whereabouts the previous evening. “He was the show headliner at the end and seemed to have all the energy in the world. Then, when they began their closing numbers, he didn’t appear well anymore. Was it poison?”

Jones’s eyes darted to Susan and Lynn before answering. “Yeah. Ricin.”

Gomez crossed her arms. “Ricin? That’s not an everyday poison. You only hear about that being used in assassination attempts.”

“That’s what I said,” Jones agreed and turned his head to take in the four others who were already present. “We’re taking this with extreme caution. I’m here to get the ball rolling. The FBI is sending in agents to run the investigation. SLED is going to assist. The MBFD are on their way to contain the scene, and the National Guard in Columbia is sending in their big hazmat team to shut this place down. I must get everyone out of the backstage area. Now.”

Lynn and Susan didn’t need to be told twice. George and Landon did.

“You heard me,” Jones said to them. “Get to the auditorium. Now!”

As they rushed from the room, Gomez took one last look around. She’d poked and prodded, tried on wigs, and moved things around. She felt the overwhelming urge to wash her hands.

The hazmat team had bigger plans for Gomez.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The news of Roger’s murder and the post-apocalyptic appearance of the authorities sent everyone already at the Legends Theater into a state of shock.

Except for Gomez.

Jones’s revelation that Roger died of poisoning did not surprise her. That ricin was the cause, did.

Outside the building, police and firefighters worked on securing the perimeter. A long line of yellow police tape blocked off the Legends parking lot from the Carolina Ale House next door. A fire truck blocked the entrance and exit at the rear of the building. No one entered or left unless approved by the fire marshal.

A male and female member of the team accompanied everyone to the appropriate restroom to oversee a scrub down of their hands and exposed skin. A more thorough decontamination would occur later once the National Guard arrived.

A member of the MBFD’s hazmat team roped off an area behind the sound boards. This section was filled with comfy tables and chairs facing the stage. Gomez, Susan, Lynn, Landon, George and Mr. Woodlock were ushered there after thorough hand washings, where they were provided with masks and gloves like the ones Jones and the other police officers wore. Their phones were confiscated and told they’d be returned after sterilization.

No one who was already there spoke. No one knew what to say. They followed suit. Gomez didn’t figure any of them had heard of ricin was or its dangers. They may have heard of it, but she recalled studying it from her days as a detective. The cases she took on as a detective changed every day, so she always thought it best to be prepared.

“Prepare for the worst. Hope for the best,” her dad taught her as a kid.

From what Gomez recollected, ricin came from castor beans and was a highly toxic protein. It could cause injury, or in this case, death if inhaled, ingested, or injected—or through the smallest of cuts or broken skin. The onset of symptoms depended upon how the toxin entered the body. The unfortunate person exposed to ricin could die within 36–72 hours depending upon the dose and their health. In Roger’s case, death came much quicker. This meant they would have to figure out how the poison entered Roger’s body. A dozen questions sprang to mind she wanted to ask Lamar, but she didn’t know how far that would go since she was a civilian. The police weren’t supposed to share information about ongoing murder investigations with those outside of the police force. Technically, they weren’t supposed to talk about cases outside of their unit.

This rule was put in place to protect privacy, ensure sensitive information doesn’t get leaked, which might hinder the investigation and lead to misinformation. It was also there to protect the integrity of the investigation.

Of course, those rules were bent or ignored every time Clark became involved. He had a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She gave him credit, even without years of training, he had the ability to put pieces of murder investigations together she and her former partner Moody missed. Clark possessed this huge imagination he used in his writing that allowed him to see angles she didn’t.

Now that she was no longer part of the detective unit and they’d been out of the country for nearly a year, Gomez assumed the status quo would be put back in place. She wondered if Jones would be more lenient with the rules based on her old position and her knowledge of what was now a murder case involving Roger Westhale.

Gomez and the others were told to remain in the cordoned off area while the hazmat team sealed off the backstage and stage area. A fuller search would begin once the National Guard arrived. They were better equipped to handle such matters, although Gomez suspected that the fire chief would disagree. Protocol was protocol, no matter how much it stepped on your pride.

The situation had a sobering effect on George and Landon. They stood straighter, and although they said little during the process, the words they did say were more intelligible than when they first arrived. The normally calm and collected Mr. Woodlock seemed unsure of what to do with his hands as he waited for instructions.

They were told to stay six feet apart in case one of them was contaminated.

“What happens if they find traces of the poison?” Susan asked Gomez. Her voice was muffled by the mask.

“More than likely, they’re going to monitor all of us for symptoms anyway,” Gomez answered. “If they find it, then I would expect them to do a full workup on our blood and fluids to check if any of us has been exposed.”

“I hate needles,” Landon said.

Gomez turned to him. “Tough cookies.”

“I hope we’re going to be okay,” Lynn said. Her voice quivered.

Gomez’s intuition was to give her sister a big hug and try to comfort her, but that wasn’t allowed.

A slender blonde woman wearing a two-piece pants suit who Gomez didn’t recognize entered the auditorium wearing a mask, gloves, and booties. A lanyard with SLED ID hung around her neck. She pulled her mask down and gave a brief smile to someone she recognized, displaying a prominent pair of front teeth, resembling a beaver before sliding it back in place.

She was followed closely behind by two men. The first possessed a burly chest, square glasses, short black hair, and a neat mustache. His gray suit, white shirt, and red tie gave him a dashingly handsome appearance. Not a hair on his head was out of place. He cut quite a contrast between Clark’s relaxed style and demeanor, but both were attractive in different ways.

The other man was similar in height and stature. He had graying hair, blue eyes, and a serious demeanor. Both did. The other man wore a blue suit, white shirt, and yellow tie. Both wore FBI badges clipped to their lapels.

Landon muttered a curse when the trio entered. Did he do that out of the increased tension or if seeing FBI and SLED agents might make it more difficult for him to hide something? The situation grew more serious with every passing moment. They ignored the six sitting in the box seats and asked one of the firemen a question to which they pointed at the door to the left of the stage where Detective Jones had disappeared through.

Gomez’s role and life as a detective seemed like ages ago to her, even though it had been less than a year since she’d donned her characteristic blue work suit. All of this had that familiar feeling, but yet so strange at the same time. Of course, she was fortunate to not have to call in a hazmat team during her career. Bomb squad, yes. SWAT Team on multiple occasions. Hazmat, never.

It occurred to her that none of the people currently in the theater knew her as a cop before she was shot. Nor did they know how good of a detective she had been. They might see her wounded in the line of duty and retirement as weaknesses.That might work to her advantage. They might underestimate her, which was ideal, while possibly being in the same room as a killer.

The auditorium buzzed with quiet activity.

Then the National Guard arrived, and the gravity of the situation put everyone further on edge.

Chapter Thirty

Awoman wearing a bright yellow hazmat suit who appeared to be in charge approached them to say that they were setting up a decontamination unit outside the theater, where the six of them would be thoroughly cleaned and checked for any signs of contamination.

“Great,” George muttered.

Gomez figured a good hosing down would sober the two men up.

Seven National Guardsmen and women entered the theater carrying thick handheld yellow devices with digital screens and a sensor probe sticking out of the top. A low buzzing noise emanated from the units, causing Susan and Lynn to cover their ears. Each of them had a communication device clipped to their hips, with wires connecting to the breather units.

They spread out over the auditorium in a pre-arranged and organized pattern, scanning each row of seats and tables, swarming from the back to the front of the theater. Gomez recognized these devices as multi-gas detectors. Ricin might not be a gas, but they could still detect any dust or residue from the toxin.

Six of the hazmat team members disappeared through the door to the left of the stage. The seventh member approached the six stragglers gathered behind the mixing board.

She instructed them to stand in a line, still six feet apart. All conversation ceased. Nervously, Gomez stood and took a place behind Lynn. Susan stood behind her at the end of the line. The three men, led by Mr. Woodlock, were at the front, followed by George, then Landon.

The yellow device buzzed in the National Guard officer’s hand as she waved a wand over Mr. Woodlock, from his head down to his toes. The pitch of the buzz never changed. The tech tapped on the screen twice with her latex gloves and motioned the theater manager to stand to her left.

He did as instructed. His shoulders sagged in relief.

To Gomez, if the National Guard tech found traces of ricin on any of them, that didn’t necessarily mean they were the murderer. It just meant they were exposed to it at some point. She was acutely aware that she’d touched almost everything in the men’s and women’s makeup rooms. She shook her head with the fear that it would be found on her. If it was, then she was comforted because these people were well-trained and had the proper solutions to neutralize the toxin before it could infect her.

The device blipped when the hazmat person scanned Landon. She told him to stand on the right, away from everyone else. George joined Mr. Woodlock in the “safe zone” a moment later. They were told to remain six feet apart.

Gomez kept her eyes on Landon after ricin had been detected on him. His eyes remained wide, unblinking as he wrung his hands. Was it a sign of guilt or fear that he might have a deadly toxin coursing through his veins at this very moment?

Lynn came next and made it out clean. She cried with joy, but that didn’t mean she was out of the deep end yet. They would all be checked for symptoms, regardless of whether the scanner found ricin on them. She stepped over to where Mr. Woodlock and Landon stood.

Gomez kept this info to herself. She was next.

She couldn’t make out the hazmat woman’s face behind the plastic mask of her hazmat suit. “Raise your arms out to the side,” she told Gomez in a muffled voice.

Gomez complied.

The tech waved the sensor wand, first at Gomez’s head before moving down her body. The sensor droned as it was run along her left shoulder and down that arm.

When it came to the right side, the constant buzz remained level at her shoulder and down to her elbow.

As the wand approached her right hand, it changed in tone. The hazmat woman hesitated and lifted her eyes at Gomez before moving forward with her task. Gomez’s heart pounded. Sweat trickled down her back.

The tone increased to higher octaves as it reached her fingertips before reaching a crescendo.

“Stand over to the right,” the tech said in a detached tone.

Gomez took a deep breath.

She’d been exposed to one of the deadliest toxins on the planet. One that had no antidote.

Chapter Thirty-One

My phone rang with an 843 number on the display. The local area code. The number belonged to Myrtle Beach Police Chief, Sue Miller. I hadn’t spoken to her since the aftermath of finding Autumn’s killer. Before that, she ordered me to go home and stop working on the Zach Lawson case. That didn’t happen. I still found his killer and got shot at. Good times.

That was the case where Gina went around the Chief and called for help in arresting the killer. At the time, she did it because she didn’t trust Miller, who was an appointee of the former mayor. We had our deserved trust issues with him. After the mayor went to prison, an internal affairs investigation was launched into Miller’s actions during that ordeal, and it turned out that our fears were unfounded. Miller was on the up and up. Gina wasn’t used to her style of management. What she expected and what Miller did clashed. It turned out to be a misunderstanding.

Did Battles or Dame tell Miller I was poking around at the Bonnie Loudermilk case? I was in no mood to get a scolding. If she wanted me to back off investigating Bonnie’s murder, she’d leave a voicemail or send out a couple of patrol cars to track me down.

I hadn’t heard from Gina in a couple hours, but she was out with her sister and Susan, so I wasn’t waiting with bated breath. She needed to have some fun. A girl’s day out. It had just been me and her together for almost every day during our stay on St. Grants. Sure, Antonio and his lovely fiancée Dominique were there in the same villa, but they gave us our space.

After spending three years in the wake of Autumn’s death by myself, I’d gotten used to being alone. There were days in the Caribbean that, while I relished establishing a romantic relationship with Gina, I also needed time to myself. She did too. It didn’t happen often. She’d take a run on the beaches or go shopping with Dominique. I’d play golf with Antonio, sit my butt in a chair on the beach sipping fruity drinks, or lounge at one of the plentiful cafes on the island, doing what I do. Drinking coffee, worrying about my bookstores, and writing or reading books.

It was a restful time. Now, we were back to reality, and there was a seven-year-old in the backseat. This was the first time Gina had seen her sister in years. Timmy was a toddler the last time Gina visited them in New York. If I went too much longer without hearing from her, I’d have to figure out dinner for the little man and me.

Timmy and I were on our way back to the bookstore, riding up Ocean Boulevard. Blue skies baked sunbathers on the beach. Seagulls squawked. The ocean’s waves sparkled in the sunlight.

Miller was calling me. Strange. Must be important.

I tapped the button on the steering wheel to accept the call. “Chief Miller. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”

She let out an audible groan before answering. If you’re going to step into the ring with me, you better know your opponent. Here, she had to put up with my offbeat humor. I tried to stay serious only when necessary.

“Clark. Nice to speak to you again after all this time.”

“Same here. Still keeping the peace and putting bad guys away?”

“You know it.”

I waited for her to get to the point and suspected that she might ask me to help Dame and Battles with Bonnie’s case.

I was wrong.

“Look, Clark,” she said. “We’ve had to detain Gomez.”

I clutched the steering wheel with both hands. Timmy perked up in the backseat. I responded, “Excuse me? What for?”

Miller made another groaning noise before answering. “Maybe ‘detain’ isn’t the proper term.”

“Then what is?”

“It seems as though Roger Westhale didn’t die of natural causes. Someone poisoned him.”

My foot involuntarily pumped the brakes, causing the car behind us to toot its horn. Not wanting Timmy to hear this macabre conversation, I pulled to the side of the road. The car previously behind me honked as it sped by on my right. The driver gave an angry gesture after I almost forced him to rear-end me a moment ago. He had been driving right up on my bumper, anyway. I never saw the point in hurrying when on this stretch of road. I’d get there when I’d get there. If you try to get in a hurry on Ocean Boulevard, you’re asking for frustration. Stopping to allow pedestrians to cross the street or having to slow down for tourists crawling up the street in rented golf carts were part of the equation.

I snatched my cell phone from the passenger seat and turned off Bluetooth to disconnect our call from the car speakers. Now Timmy could stare out the window at the ocean in bliss and not worry about having to hear something that would strip away his innocence, which reminded me to be careful of what I said to Miller.

It took me a moment to parcel out what she said and to fit it in with what I knew. “I was afraid it was something like that.”

“What makes you think that?”

“The suddenness of his death and the fact others at the theater may not have liked him. I figured this call would be about Bonnie Loudermilk.”

“Bonnie Loudermilk? No. I have two detectives working on the case.”

“Doesn’t it seem like too big of a coincidence that she and Roger were both murdered and worked at the same location?”

“I’ll agree it is coincidental, but they worked in separate areas of the theater. The only time she would see him would be after shows when attendees met the cast in the lobby.”

The one thing when working on a murder investigation, or any other type of a criminal case for that matter, was to look for things that appeared coincidental. If they seemed like they should be unrelated, they often weren’t. The key was to find what linked them.

Just as I was about to lose all confidence in Miller over what was obvious to me, she said, “It’s an avenue we’re going to investigate. Don’t worry, though. Between Battles, Dame, Lead Detective Jones, SLED, and the FBI, we have the situation covered.”

“Good.” A big truck passed by, shaking my Jeep. The momentary pause in the conversation made me latch onto something Miller said. “Wait. The FBI?”

“Yes. And the National Guard is here from Columbia to lock down, decontaminate, and try to find any signs of ricin.”

My voice raised an octave. “Ricin? Isn’t that like anthrax?”

“No, they’re both dangerous substances, but different in their origin and how they attack the human body. However, both call for a biohazard lockdown. The fire department contained the scene until the Guard arrived.”

“What does this have to do with Gomez?”

“She was backstage at the theater when Detective Jones arrived. She’d been poking around back there.”

“What about her sister and the other woman with them?”

“We’re going to have to quarantine all of them for the time being. The theater manager, Mr. Woodlock, was also there. He’s in the same boat.”

My skin paled before asking the next question. “Are any of them showing signs of poisoning?”

“Not at this point. We’re taking extreme precautions with anyone who might have been exposed.”

There was a hesitation in her voice. There was something she wasn’t telling me. My voice took on a serious tone. One that wouldn’t be denied. “What is it?”

She blew out a breath. “Gomez has been exposed to ricin. Traces of it were found on her hands.”

The world came to a halt. I clutched the steering wheel with my left hand so tight that my knuckles went white.

I took a few deep breaths. My heart sank. Timmy stared out the window, oblivious.

When I didn't respond, Miller said, “She’s been sterilized. They’re going to keep her under close monitoring for the next forty-eight hours.”

“Was anyone else exposed?”

“As soon as we learned Roger Westhale had been poisoned by ricin, we sent a detective, two uniforms, and the fire department to the theater to lock it down. When they arrived, they found Gomez, her sister, the theater manager, and four others backstage.”

It made sense that they might be at the theater. Miller hadn’t answered my question. “Were any of them exposed or showing signs of a reaction?”

“No one is showing symptoms, but they found ricin on the woman who plays Dolly Parton and Landon, one of the Blues Brothers.”

I closed my eyes, imagining the horror that Gina, Susan, and Landon must be going through. Then my mind flicked to my late wife, Autumn, and how she’d been snatched away from me by her sudden death. I pictured the way Roger collapsed on the stage and envisioned that happening to Gina. After losing Autumn, I couldn’t lose Gina. I wouldn’t know what I would do. She and I were just getting started. It was a fear I tried to shake.

I stared out the windshield. A family of tourists with two little kids were passing by on the sidewalk to my right. We had stopped in front of the OceanScapes Resort. The place where I investigated my first murder. A gentle reminder I did it to help a poor victim’s family find closure. It was how I met Gina.

I took another calming breath and tried to refocus. What was happening with Gina, Susan, and Landon was out of my control. I’m sure they were in capable hands.

What I could control were my words and actions. “What about the other people who work at the theater? Are they going to be checked? What about those in attendance last night? I was there.”

“I heard. How is it you always seem to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

“It’s an unfortunate skill I have, I guess.”

“Seems like it. Anyway, we’re rounding up everyone who worked there last night, just in case.”

“How long will it be before Gomez can leave?”

Miller made a clicking sound. “Like I said, we’re going to have to monitor and maybe quarantine her for a couple days. We may have to question her to see what she knows. See if she’ll help.”

“After what happened before we left, I don’t know if she’d want to cooperate. She didn’t exactly leave the police force on good terms, you know.”

“Yes. I realize that all trust was broken. We’ll just have to sway her.”

During our time after her former fiancée shot her, during rehab, and then our escape to the islands, Gomez didn’t want to think or talk about her old job. She felt betrayed.

“Good luck with that,” I said.

“Yeah. I’ve given Detective Jones instructions to win Gomez over, but I doubt he’s going to.”

“Why?”

There was a pause before Miller answered. “Jones didn’t like the way Gomez operated. He came from a bigger city where he held her position.”

“Ah. So, he thought he could do it better?”

“Exactly.”

“Can he?”

“The jury is still out, but he has a high arrest rate.”

“What now?”

“I have to hope Jones follows orders and tries to establish a rapport with her to see what she knows.”

Spoiler alert. Detective Gomez wouldn't have a choice in the matter.

Chapter Thirty-Two

In short order, they were ushered outside through the front entrance and led around to the rear of the theater. The building lay between them and the busy highway. The Guard had constructed a decontamination zone in the lengthening shadows.

Waiting for them were three tents. Two smaller. One much larger. Hoses ran underneath the two similar tents while a mass of wires ran underneath the big tent. All were enclosed. Gomez couldn’t see what was taking place inside of each. The hoses going to the two similar tents showed to her that this was where they would be sprayed down.

A stout, matronly woman named Sharon in a hazmat suit and tinted glasses took Gomez and Susan to the left side tent. Landon was ushered into the right one. Everyone else had to wait on the pavement for their turns to prevent cross-contamination.

Susan, Gomez, and the hazmat member entered through a flap on the tent, which was quickly sealed behind them. Another woman in a hazmat suit was already inside. She held out two specially marked hazardous waste disposal bags. One for Susan, one for Gomez. They were instructed to strip naked and place their clothes inside to prevent further spread of contaminants.

“That was one of my favorite blouses,” Susan said.

The similarly statured hazmat team member, also with tinted glasses behind the clear plastic face covering of her radioactive bunny suit, introduced herself as Carla, gave Susan a mournful look through her plastic visor. “Sorry. It’s pretty, but it might have ricin on it.”

“I understand,” Susan said.

Gomez had likewise worn one of her favorite outfits to their ill-fated girls’ afternoon out, but she understood that incinerating their clothing was necessary. Along the way, Sharon and Carla kept a running dialogue going to keep Susan and Gomez at ease. Gomez could tell tht they were moms and possibly grandmas with their caring and nurturing dispositions.

The tent was completely enclosed. Even the floor was draped in ripstop nylon. Two separate shower units stood at one end. Each had multiple showerheads and drainage systems preventing the runoff from getting into the city water system.

To no one’s surprise, Susan sang in the shower. Not a Dolly Parton song, but “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor. It broke the tension, and even Gomez had a laugh.

When they were done, Carla handed them clean clothing. The shirt, panties, and pants they gave Gomez all had a loose fit. In Susan’s case, the extra-large shirt still strained at her upper body curves.

This was not an experience any of them wished to repeat.

They weren’t allowed back inside the theater. After they were properly hosed down, the six were taken to the larger tent beside a mobile command center brought in by the National Guard. It was essentially a large, modified bus.

The big tent had areas set up to monitor the six. It resembled a field hospital the military might use on the battlefield, complete with medical equipment and beds. The other side of the tent held testing equipment, computers, a printer, and other devices Gomez was unfamiliar with. Utility lamps lit the interior. All of this had been set up in a matter of minutes, impressing everyone.

Gomez, Susan, and Landon were scanned again for indications of ricin. They were clear this time and allowed to be with other members of the sextet. Ricin wasn’t contagious, so they didn’t have to worry about infecting others if they had the poison inside of them. It was a minor relief.

Detective Jones waited for them alongside the SLED and FBI agents. They conferred in quiet whispers. It was clear to Gomez that Jones was relegated to being in the investigation's background until given instructions.

Clark had mentioned working with Major Paulson of SLED after his house was set ablaze. Gomez wondered if she was the same agent. She had blonde hair tied in a ponytail. She was thin and of average height.

The ID badge clipped to the breast pocket of the FBI agent with the yellow tie and graying hair identified him as Todd Hunter. The other agent’s creds identified him as Jason Miller. The sunglasses they wore when they first arrived at the theater were off. Todd didn’t wear eyeglasses. Jason wore a pair of gray glasses with a smart rectangular frame. He had dark, darting eyes suggested to Gomez that not much slipped by his notice, much like Clark’s insightful blue eyes held a perceptive glint, reflecting a mind that never missed a detail.

While they waited to be interviewed, Gomez, Lynn, and Susan clustered together as much as the prescribed social distancing was allowed. It reminded Gomez of the tense days of the Covid outbreak. Also, not an experience she wished to relive.

Agent Hunter spoke with Mr. Woodlock first. Miller took Susan over to a contained area away from everyone else with a table and two chairs. Paulson spoke to the performers one by one, starting with Susan. Landon and George sat in uncomfortable plastic chairs, awaiting their turn to be interviewed. Since Gomez and Lynn were the outsiders to the theater, Detective Jones handled their witness interviews.

The agents and Jones continued to wear their breathing masks, booties, and latex gloves. The six freshly sanitized witnesses wore their National Guard issued baggy clothes, with no protection.

Gomez waited patiently while Lynn spoke to Jones at a small table. Bottles of water and packs of crackers had been provided.

While that went on, a medical tech in a hazmat suit came over to Gomez and took her vitals.

“Just making sure your systems are running well,” she explained while she used a hand pump to take Gomez’s blood pressure. “We’ll do this every so often until you are out of the danger zone.”

“How long will that take?” Gomez asked.

The tech cocked her head to the side. “About forty-eight hours.”

“What about my sister?”

“Which one is that?”

Gomez pointed at Lynn.

The tech glanced her way and back at Gomez. “They didn’t find traces of it on her, so she’ll be free to go later this evening.”

That was a relief to Gomez. She was sure that by this point, Clark was ready for a break from Timmy. She was curious to learn how they got on together. Clark was a big kid, after all. She grinned at the thought, despite everything going on. She wanted to talk to him. Assure him she was okay and see what adventures in babysitting he had.

“Would it be possible to make a phone call?”

The tech shook her head. “You’d have to ask the people in charge.”

“Right.”

After Gomez checked out as normal, the tech moved on to Landon.

While everyone else was otherwise busy, Gomez needed to stay busy, not think about what-ifs about the ricin. She ran through the events of the last twenty-four hours in her mind. Coming to the theater. Watching the show and seeing Susan’s reaction to seeing Lynn in the audience to Roger’s collapse during the finale.

As Elvis, Roger had seemed fine during his twenty-plus minute set as the headliner. He graced the stage with energy and charm as befitting his character. She estimated that between his closing song and reappearance on stage in a new costume for the closing act was about fifteen minutes. The thing with ricin was that the onset of symptoms could take minutes or hours depending on how it entered the body. Roger might have been exposed to the toxin at any point during the day up to taking the stage before his collapse. It depended on the way he was exposed to it.

Gomez never met him, but from speaking to the other cast members, it wasn’t apparent that anyone was aware of Roger’s movements before he entered the theater last night. At least, not that had surfaced.

One event that was talked about was the get together at Susan’s camper at Ocean Lakes. Two things stuck out to Gomez. One was Susan’s stolen oven mitts. One of which had been recovered at Landon’s makeup station. Maybe he put it there because he was waiting to return it to Susan after the show and never did because of the confusion of what happened at the end. Traces of ricin were found on Landon. The oven mitt may have been the source. She also considered the possibility someone else stashed it there to implicate Landon.

It was possible Susan made up the entire thing about her prized possessions. That meant either Susan or Landon could have been the one who poisoned Roger. If so, she had to figure out what the oven mitt had to do with it. The killer may have used it to handle the ricin. The thick oven mitt would have been a clumsy way to deal with a potentially deadly substance. It could be done, but it wouldn’t have been Gomez’s first choice. The person dealing with the ricin might have assumed that the thickness of the oven mitt offered enough protection to handle it as a tradeoff to possible fumbling of it.

If the oven mitt had anything to do with the murder. Gomez was sure from her encounter with Landon and George this afternoon that alcohol would have been part of the equation at Ocean Lakes the other night. They might have been sauced and saw it was a practical joke to steal the oven mitts from Susan’s RV.

Which left the question: Where was the other oven mitt? Susan said they came as a set.

As much as she hated to break it to Lynn, Gomez had Susan at the top of the suspect list. Ricin was found on her. She and Roger got into a heated argument at the shindig the other night. They had an ill-fated romantic relationship in the past. Gomez wasn’t sure what the argument was about, but it was something she wanted to learn.

With the FBI, SLED, and the guarded Detective Jones handling the case, Gomez wasn’t sure if they would be forthcoming with any details to her from the witness interviews. It was part of civilian life she had to get used to now that she was back in Myrtle Beach. She wasn’t sure she liked it, but there was no going back to the MBPD. Not after what happened.

What happened didn’t stop her natural curiosity and training from taking over.

While she had Susan at the top of her suspect list, followed by Landon, matters were about to get worse for the Dolly Parton impersonator.

Much worse.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Mom had chicken tenders waiting for Timmy when we arrived. It was one of my dad’s favorite meals anyway, so it was easy for Mom to kill two birds with one stone. I wasn’t particularly hungry, for once. Usually, investigations increase my appetite. It might be that my brain is working overtime, and my body says “FEED ME” to keep it working at a high level. That’s assuming I can think at a high level to begin with.

Timmy had finished reading the book we’d brought in the Jeep and grabbed the program guide to the Legends Concert from last night that was left lying in the back seat. The new LEGO set sat on the living room floor, waiting for Timmy to finish his dinner. He was leafing through it while munching on chicken. Dad was watching a Braves’ game on the big screen.

I’d sent Gina a text message asking for an update but hadn’t heard back. After the events that transpired leading us to stay out of the country for so long, I was getting anxiety from not having heard from her in so long. I trusted she knew how to take care of herself, that she was with friends, and would be fine. Truth be told, because of her police background, she was better equipped to handle herself if worse came to worst than I was.

Mom and I sat at the table with Timmy and watched him eat. A plate of large chicken tenders with a side of tater tots with a blob of barbecue sauce sat in front of me on the table. I picked one up and dunked it in the Sweet Baby Ray’s before shoving it in my mouth. Perhaps I was hungrier than I thought.

“What have you two been up to?” Mom asked.

I didn’t want for Mom and Dad to know I was nosing my way into another murder case, especially doing it with a seven-year-old in tow. “Driving around. Looking at things.”

“I’m sure you’ve wanted to see all the changes going on in Myrtle Beach since you’ve been gone so long,” Mom said.

“Yeah. So many new neighborhoods have popped up.”

New housing was part of the locally growing economy. It came with the territory. For those such as myself who have lived in the Grand Strand for a few decades, it took getting used to. Some lamented it. Others welcomed it. Mom and Dad bought into one of the newer neighborhoods near me when they moved down here from Proctorville, Ohio, following Autumn’s death.

“Yup,” Mom said. “Timmy, has Clark taken you anywhere fun today, like the amusement parks, putt-putt, or to the beach?”

Timmy looked up from the Legends’ guide with his little fist wrapped around a tender. “No. Just to his bookstore, Target, and some old neighborhood.”

“That sounds boring,” Mom said. “I’m sorry. I figured Clark would want you to have fun on your boys’ afternoon outing.”

Before I could jump in and defend myself by saying how I’d never had to watch a kid before by myself or how I had a business to run that I hadn’t been in for nearly a year, Timmy smiled.

“Oh. It’s okay, Mrs. Thomas,” Timmy said. “I had a blast. He has a cool bookstore. He even took me to Target to get LEGOs.”

“Well, that’s nice,” Mom said. “Clark used to play with LEGOs when he was a kid.”

“And as an adult,” I added.

Mom gave me a sad expression. “Yes. I’m sorry about the sets you had in your office at home that got burnt up.”

“More like ‘melted.’ They’re replaceable,” I said.

“It was cool and weird at the same time!” Timmy said.

“What was?” Mom asked him.

“The bald guy on the floor at Target crying and building LEGOs!”

Mom sought me for an explanation.

“Have you heard about a woman named Bonnie Loudermilk?”

She shook her head.

I leaned toward Mom and said in a low voice so Timmy couldn’t hear. “She was killed a couple of days ago in Seagate Village. We found her husband having a nervous breakdown at Target.”

Her shoulders sagged as her eyes narrowed. “Let me guess, you finding him there wasn’t an accident?”

Mom is the person who got me into reading mysteries when I was a teenager, starting with Arthur Conan Doyle and John Grisham. She’s a ravenous reader and was a stay-at-home mom when Bo and I were kids. If she wasn’t cooking or cleaning, I can’t remember a time when she didn’t have a book in her hands.

I’ve bounced ideas off her in all the cases I’ve been part of. Periodically she pointed me in the right direction and has given me the inspiration to crack the case. Sometimes it only took speaking aloud about a case to her that made me realize a lead, a sounding board. She was a murder mystery aficionado and saw right through me.

“I’d be lying if I said it was accidental.” In whispered tones, so hopefully Timmy wouldn’t hear, I gave her the nutshell version of how Bonnie was murdered, how her two friends at the theater came to me, and what I’d learned.

“I feel so sorry for her,” Mom said when I was finished. “What a cruel way to die.”

“Tell me about it.”

“The police don’t have any suspects?”

“I’m not sure. If they do, they’re not telling me.”

“I guess since Gina doesn’t work for them anymore, you’re not going to be in the loop.”

“Not that I want to be.”

“That’s how your dad and I prefer it.”

“I know.”

Despite her not wanting me to deal with Bonnie Loudermilk, Mom couldn’t help herself. She loved helping solve a good mystery. “You say the woman in Seagate Village described someone rushing away from Bonnie’s house?”

“Yes, a man supposedly. Her husband was confirmed to be at work that night. Bonnie had just gotten off a plane and arrived home. It was dark. The neighbor didn’t get a good look at his face. He didn’t get into a car on the street and drive away. There’s a bike park, state park across the street, and the Harley Davidson dealership nearby he could have gotten to with no one potentially seeing him.”

“It might have been anyone.”

“The two women I spoke to at Legends about Bonnie said she was the nicest woman and a help to everyone. They couldn’t think of a reason anyone would want to kill her.”

From the corner of my eye, I noticed Timmy looking in our direction. I’d tried to keep my voice down while talking to mom, but that proved difficult. During the past year, she had to get hearing aids. She couldn’t hear my whispers, so I had to add some tone to my voice while discussing Bonnie.

What I didn’t stop to think about, and this was hard for me to accept as I got older, was that my hearing wasn’t what it used to be. I didn’t possess seven-year-old ears anymore. Ones that hadn’t been dulled by age.

Timmy took the Legends show guide he’d been reading and flipped it around where we could see it. On the page was a photo of the entire current cast, backup singers, and the band standing together on stage.

“What are you showing us, Timmy?” I asked.

“Seems simple to me,” he answered in his sweet, innocent voice.

“What does?” Mom asked him.

He turned between Mom and me with a chicken tender clutched in one hand. With the other, he pointed to the picture. “If that lady walking the dog told Mr. Clark she saw a man with long hair running away from that woman’s house, then there’s only two guys with long hair that work at the theater.”

Mom and I stared at Timmy. I’d quickly learned the boy was smart. He pointed to the page again with a little, stubby finger. “This guy and this guy.”

The two men he pointed at were the guitar player and my hero, Steven Tyler.

Chapter Thirty-Four

It made so much sense. Aspects of investigating a crime are finding suspects, evidence, and motives. A detective questions witnesses and suspects to get a picture of what occurred. They use evidence to corroborate those stories and follow up on leads as they come. Throughout, they’re trying to whittle down and eliminate suspects through the process of elimination.

Timmy had just whittled down the suspect list to two. I didn’t know anything about the guitar player or even what his name was. I pulled the program guide to me and read the caption which listed everyone pictured from left to right. The guitarist’s name was Clive Zahn. Steven Tyler’s real name was Victor Sage.

“I’m full,” Timmy announced, placing the remains of the chicken tender on his plate. He’d eaten all the tater tots and most of the chicken. Running around today must have made him hungry.

“Can I get you anything else?” Mom asked him.

He twisted his lips in thought. “Do you have any herbal tea?”

That was the last thing either of us were expecting him to ask. Most kids wanted dessert.

“Um, yeah,” Mom said. “What would you like?”

“Do you have Earl Grey?”

Mom blinked twice. “Yeah. I think so.”

“With agave sweetener?”

“If I have it, yes. If not, would you like some Coca-Cola?”

Timmy looked at Mom like she’d insulted him. “No. Mom doesn’t allow me to drink pop.”

“Oh, okay. Let me see what I have.” Mom got up from the table and gave me a bemused look as she passed by where Timmy couldn’t see it. We were both aware that Earl Grey wasn’t technically considered “herbal tea,” but it was cute that a kid Timmy’s age was still asking for it in a precocious way. She went into the pantry where she found a few tea bags of Earl Grey. Thankfully, they weren’t custom blends from former Mayor Sid Rosen. I wouldn’t have to worry if these were going to poison Timmy.

She put a tea kettle on the stove and started to heat the water when my phone rang. It was Detective Battles calling.

“Hello,” I answered.

“Clark,” Battles said. “What are you doing?”

His tone suggested that he wasn’t asking about my current location and if I was having dinner or not. His voice conveyed the message that I was about to be admonished for something.

I already had an idea what it was for.

“Right now? I’m over at my mom and dad’s house in Surfside. What are you up to?”

He ignored my question. I didn’t expect an answer. “Did you speak to a woman in Seagate Village earlier?”

Busted. There was no reason to lie. If Battles was asking the question, he already knew the answer. “I did.”

He grunted. A trait he must have picked up from the late Detective Moody. “You and I both know you weren’t randomly driving around that neighborhood talking to strangers on the street.”

“True. If you’re talking to Betsy who was walking her dog the night Bonnie was killed, then you’ve discovered that she might have seen the killer running out of the house.”

“Yes. Detective Dame and I were canvassing the neighborhood, trying to speak to everyone we had missed. We finally spoke to the dog walker, Betsy Krieger. She wasn’t home the first two times we knocked on her door.”

“So, you know the person she thinks she saw fleeing had long hair, right?”

“Yes.” Battles was sharp and had already figured out what Timmy did. “If the killer was someone who worked at the theater, then that would leave two possibilities.”

“Have you spoken to either of them?”

“Yes. Both. The guitar player was home with his wife and kids at the time of the murder.”

“Then that only leaves one.”

“It does.”

“Then it sounds like you’ve solved the case, Detective Battles. Congratulations.”

In his flat tone, Battles said, “Negative. You’re speaking of Victor Sage, correct?”

“Yes, the Steven Tyler impersonator. It had to be him, right?”

“Again, negative.”

“How do you know it wasn’t him?”

“He was at Hooters that night.”

I laughed. “Hooters? You’re not serious.”

“You know me. Would I joke about something like that?”

“No, I guess not.”

“Victor goes to Hooters after every show. They have half price appetizers after ten o’clock. He goes there, eats, and tries to pick up women.”

Battles’ story about Victor sounded like something the real Steven Tyler might have done at a similar age.

“Are you positive it was him at Hooters?”

“Yes, sir. We spoke to the manager on duty and the waitress. Got him on CCTV too. He was definitely at Hooters that night.”

“Could he have killed her and then gone to Hooters?”

“That’s a scenario we’re working on. It’s a possibility.”

I didn’t respond right away. I needed a moment to process. Apparently, Battles had called to get on me for interfering with a case. At least, so I’d thought. But he wasn’t doing that. Instead, he was giving me information pertaining to the ongoing case, which he wasn’t supposed to do according to police procedure. As I’ve found in the past two years, they would sometimes break protocol with me if they needed help or advice.

Now that Battles had opened up on their investigation, there was a question I had that I was hoping he would now answer.

“When I spoke to you about this earlier, you said there was something odd at the crime scene, but you weren’t going to tell me about it.” I didn’t ask a direct question, hoping he would relay the info on his own.

He did.

“Yes. We found an oven mitt at the scene that didn’t belong in the house. Bonnie’s husband didn’t know its origin. We figure the killer used it to grip the knife and dropped it there.”

My mind shot back to our late-night breakfast at Waffle House last night.

I said, “I think I know where it came from.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

They gave Gomez a towel to dry her hair. After Agent Paulson and the two FBI men grabbed the suspects they wanted to speak with, Lamar Jones had to settle for speaking to her. Having more experience in solving crimes than the three higher-ranking agents combined, he’d be aware of the pecking order, but he wouldn’t be happy about it.

What he didn’t know, before sitting down with his former unit boss Gomez, was that she’d already done some pecking herself. He could think about her "civilian research” as a leg up on the competition. The three investigative units were supposed to pool their resources with the FBI leading the way, but it would give Jones immense satisfaction if his small department solved the crime before the big boys.

Gomez took all this in while studying Jones’s body language as he sat down across from her at a small folding table in two uncomfortable metal folding chairs. He placed a bottle of water on the table in front of Gomez. She wasn’t used to being the one answering questions.

Jones rubbed a hand across his shaved head and turned to see what Paulson and the FBI were doing before turning back to Gomez.

Before he asked his first question, Gomez wanted to steer the conversation. She wasn’t a typical witness—the idea was awkward and unnerving.

“Look, Lamar,” she said. “We both know you’ve been relegated to the bench. The FBI has taken over. Even SLED reports to them. Wouldn’t it feel great, and be a perfect entry on your resume, if your department got the credit for solving this case instead of them?”

He stroked his goatee. “I agree. It would. My concern would come with the backlash of going around behind their backs.”

“They might not like that part, but we all know the most important thing here is to catch the killer and secure the ricin. Who cares if you do it before the Big Boys?”

Jones studied her. “When you went behind Chief Miller’s back to catch the guy who killed Zach Lawson, I thought you may as well have committed treason. I was glad you left the department.”

“Thanks,” Gomez said, sarcasm dripped in her tone. Clark’s sense of humor was rubbing off on her, and she wasn’t even aware of it.

“I’ve always done everything by the book, down to the letter. After being put in this position, I’ll have to say,”—Jones hooked a thumb over his shoulder—“these guys rubbed me the wrong way. Someone else can bring them coffee and fluff their pillow.”

“What are you going to do?”

His eyes bore into Gomez’s. “Catch a killer is what.”

“Good. I was hoping you’d say that.”

“Right now, we have people going out and rounding up the rest of the cast, band, performers, the stage manager, audio technicians, lighting guys, and anyone else with backstage access.”

“That’s a lot of people.”

“Tell me about it. Its gotta be done for their safety.”

“It’s also possible one of them is the killer.”

“If that person isn’t already here.”

Gomez glanced across the tent at Susan, Landon, George, and Mr. Woodlock. “That’s a distinct possibility.”

The idea made Jones shudder and switch subjects. “How’s the shoulder?”

Gomez rubbed where she’d been shot. “Not great. Hurts like the dickens most days. I can’t raise my arm above my shoulder on others. I never know how it’s going to be when I wake up in the mornings.”

“Have you tried picking up a gun?”

“I haven’t since we returned to the States. I could grasp one before I left, but there was no way I could hold one level and steady, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Jones’s lips compressed. “Sorry.”

Spending time at the firing range and being a sure shot were things police officers took pride in. It was more than a physical limitation. It was career-ending with the police force and an immense blow to her confidence. Her inability to fire a weapon made her disconnected from the detective she once was and a stark reminder of the life she could not reclaim.

“It is what it is,” Gomez downplayed. “Thanks for asking.”

Now that the ground rules were understood in both parties, Jones asked Gomez to run him through what happened. From the show last night to now. “At what point did you think there might have been more to Roger’s collapse?”

Gomez rubbed her arm and clasped her elbow. “Really, it was from the moment he dropped. You and I are both the same way. We’re trained to see all possibilities.”

“Agreed.”

“Yes, it was a horrible thing to see. I’m sure it’ll stay with many in attendance at the theater for a long time. We were near the front of the stage. It was obvious as soon as he returned for the closing song that he wasn’t right. His words were slurred. He was drenched in sweat and was in a lot of pain. Then he turned blue.”

“Yeah. That’s what all the witness reports say. What made you think there was more to it?”

“Because it looked different than a heart attack. I didn’t know what it could have been, but it seemed off. Especially with how he was moving and singing on stage five minutes before. It was this nagging feeling I had.”

“I understand. I would have felt the same way.”

“After the show, we took Susan to the Waffle House over by the airport. She and my sister Lynn were best friends in high school and college. They hadn’t seen each other in years, but still wanted to catch up, despite everything. During the meal, she mentioned how Roger had just seen a doctor, and everything checked out.”

“Even healthy people have heart attacks.”

“That’s what we said.”

“But you were still suspicious. Why?”

Gomez held a hand to her stomach. “Just a hunch.”

“I get those too. Go on.”

“She said they dated in the distant past and hadn’t seen each other in a long time due to how Legends shuffles the performers around.”

“Do you think she asked not to be put together with him?”

“It’s possible. Then she told me that a few days before, the cast got together at her camper at Ocean Lakes to hang out. Spend a little time together before they all go their separate ways.”

“That’s right. Their summer run in Myrtle Beach is ending.”

“That’s what Susan said. It got me thinking that it seemed a little convenient for Roger to collapse and eventually die so close to their last show. If I’m one of his cast mates, I’d wait until the last night to poison him so I’d on a plane to the other side of the world while the investigation is ongoing.”

“Unless we tell them to not leave town.”

“True.” Gomez ran a hand through her still damp hair. “I’m not an expert on ricin, but it seems like a person could get poisoned then die and no one would ever know unless a blood test was done.”

“Because the initial effects make it look like a heart attack.”

“Bingo. Whoever did this was probably hoping the cause wouldn’t be discovered.”

“If that’s the case, then someone is shaking in their boots right now.”

“They could be,” Gomez said. “I’m thinking whoever did this is a shrewd thinker. They would have come up with contingencies in case that happened and will try to frame someone else.”

“Which makes our job even more difficult in trying to separate actual evidence from the fake.”

“The thing about trying to plant evidence is it can backfire and get you caught.”

“Let’s hope that happens here.” Jones wiped away condensation from the side of the water bottle. “What else did Susan say?”

“That’s all I can recall. Before we parted ways, we arranged to meet at Cantina Imperfecto for lunch today. Tara joined us.”

“Was it good? I know my wife talked about us going there.”

“It’s phenomenal.”

“Noted. I’m still getting my feet on the ground here. Which one is Tara?”

“Tina Turner.”

Jones cocked his head. “I can see that. Even without the makeup and costume. Talented.” He scribbled into his notepad.

“They all are. After meeting them, some more than others.”

“Did your lunch with Tara and Susan reveal something that kept you thinking Roger was murdered?”

“Yes. It was the first time I’d uncovered possible motives.”

“Tell me about them.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

“Let’s see.” Gomez folded her arms on the rickety table and leaned forward.

Jones bent in, literally on the edge of his seat.

Gomez started counting off each motive by forcefully tapping a finger on the edge of the table. “Peter Avis made it no secret that he wanted to be Elvis. They say he’s super competitive.”

“Who’s Peter?”

“Michael Jackson.”

He wrote this into his notepad. “Go on.”

“He and Roger got into an argument when the cast got together at Susan’s RV at Ocean Lakes the other night.”

“Know what the fight was about?”

“Negative.”

“We’ll find out. Continue.”

“Roger used to be big into drugs and led Landon’s brother to OD and die in Vegas.”

Jones whistled. This was all new to him. “How long ago?”

“A couple decades. Landon hadn’t seen Roger since then, till this Myrtle Beach stint.”

“Which one is Landon?”

“One of the Blues Brothers. The one with the makeup station where we found one of Susan’s missing oven mitts.”

“Interesting,” Jones muttered. His gaze swept across the inside of the tent as if something flitted across his mind like he’d just learned of a new puzzle piece and was trying to put the pieces together. It had to have had something to do with her mention of the oven mitt. She made a mental note of this.

Once Jones quickly wrote down his thoughts, whatever they were, he said, “Go on.”

Gomez jabbed a third finger on the table.

“Roger also allegedly got into it with Susan that night too. They had a history together.”

“What kind of history?”

“Romantic, but not necessarily in love kind of thing.” She gave him a stern look, hoping he would catch her drift without having to delve further into the topic.

“Oh,” Jones said in a knowing tone. “Gotcha. How did you learn all of this?”

Gomez smiled. “By asking questions.”

“Interesting. Know what they fought about?”

“I don’t.”

Jones made another note. “Got it.”

“Victor told me Roger didn’t have many friends among the cast.”

Jones raised his eyebrows while looking down at the notes he’d taken. “Doesn’t appear so.”

“They also said Victor keeps to himself.”

“Why?”

“Like Roger, Victor was once heavy into drugs. So much so that Legends threatened to fire him if it continued. Now he says he’s clean. Doesn’t associate much with the others because he wants to stay that way.”

“Like he’s implying that some of them aren’t clean.”

“That’s my thought. My sister used to be in theater, and she had some crazy stories about her fellow actors.”

“What about Mr. and Mrs. Woodlock? Learn anything about them? Would they have had a reason to murder Roger?”

“No, Susan let on like they mostly kept to themselves. Mrs. Woodlock would deign to speak with the common folk more than her husband. Also, Roger had a lifetime contract with a big buyout and was demanding more money.”

“Hmm. Can’t pay the man if he’s dead.” Jones poised his pen over the pad. “What else do you know?”

Gomez could have mentioned the blackmail note she found at Victor’s station. In truth, the note might have been from anyone. If it would have been from Roger, that would have given Victor motive to kill him. She didn’t know why she held that bit of information back, only that her intuition told her to. She didn’t get as far as she did without listening to her gut, and right now, it was telling her she could only trust Jones so far.

Which, she had to admit, could be over lingering trust issues she had with the department.

If Lamar was as good of a detective as his bluster let on, he’d figure it out.

***

Jones dismissed Gomez after a few other questions before turning his attention to Lynn.

A technician in a bug suit took Gomez to a corner of the tent where they’d set up an area in which to monitor her and Susan. One of the FBI men split off from the other after receiving a message from the National Guardsmen processing the scene backstage. The Fed was in a hurry. Gomez surmised that the message must have been important.

While the Guard and other authorities scurried around the tent or remained stationed in front of glowing laptop computers, Gomez tried to make sense of it all.

With the note for Victor fresh on her mind from the tail end of the conversation with Jones, she wished she had her phone on her. She’d taken a picture of the note and the fantasy football sign-up sheet on the bulletin board. If she had it, she could have compared the two. As it was, the phone was being decontaminated. Knowing what the forensics technicians were capable of, she figured they might be breaking into their phones and searching for evidence. Which was illegal without a warrant, the Fourth Amendment assured that.

The cynical side of her believed if that’s what they were doing, the suspects would be none the wiser. If nothing illegal was found, then they’d have their phones returned to them. If they did, then they could invent a reason to not return a phone until a search warrant was issued. It wouldn’t take long for that to happen on a case like this.

She couldn’t think of the last time she’d been left on her own with nothing to read or look at. Certainly, before the department issued her a smartphone. She was never a big reader like Clark or his late wife, but she dabbled in Patricia Cornwell and Kathy Reichs novels. None of those were on hand.

More than anything, she wished Clark was here. She missed him. Needed him. They’d grown close in their short time together. Occupying the same home with a retired insurance salesman and his fiancée for months meant she spend most of her time with Clark, exploring a new relationship. She spent the first few months in a state of shock and emptiness. Shock at being shot by her ex-fiancé and jumping right into a romantic relationship during her recovery.

Gomez had grown fond of Clark during the year prior. At first, she viewed him as this nosy bookstore owner who wouldn’t stay away from a murder investigation. Then he amazed her by solving not just that case, but several others. She’d spent a lot of time with him on those. Observed how he operated, how he thought and processed data on the fly. He amazed her. Clark might have missed his calling by working what was essentially a retail job. She wondered how far Clark would have gone if he had joined the police academy out of college or applied for a government analyst job.

She would have liked to have been a fly on the wall today while Clark looked after Timmy. Clark had enough of an imagination, with a little bit of a kid still inside of him, that she figured he and her nephew probably got along well.

Gomez wondered what they had done in all their travels together.

Knowing Clark, who knows what kind of crazy things they got into?

A technician led Susan to her corner of the tent and placed her in a chair six feet away from Gomez. They weren’t allowed to embrace. Sympathetic smiles would have to do.

Susan ran her fingers through her damp hair and leaned toward Gomez. “That’s a shower I’ll never forget.”

“Tell me about it. At least we’re clean.”

“Agreed. I think it sobered Landon and George up pretty quickly.”

“That and the situation we’re in.”

They were quiet for a moment. Susan had obviously been running the day’s events through her mind, trying to make sense of it all. “What do you think of them finding my oven mitt under Landon’s station?”

“Do you think he stole it from your RV?”

Susan’s eyes searched the ceiling of the tent before leveling at Gomez. “I’ve been trying to think back to other night at Ocean Lakes. I can’t remember him going into my RV the entire time.”

“What about his partner, George?”

Susan’s lips puckered. “I think he did.”

“Their makeup stations are right next to each other,” Gomez said. "It’s possible George stole the set of oven mitts and one of them ended up in Landon’s hands.”

“Then where’s the other one?”

“Beats me.”

“Why would it be here at the theater?”

“Maybe they were going to give it back to you.”

Several emotions danced across Susan’s face. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Not much of it does now, but maybe it will if they figure out who killed Roger.” Gomez couldn’t think of an easy way to lead into the topic that had been bugging her. “Someone told me they saw you leaving the men’s makeup room during the show.”

A subtle squint appeared in her eyes, signaling suspicion. “I know what you’re getting at. You’re trying to figure out if I somehow poisoned Roger.” She laughed. “No, I needed makeup. A specific blush. I was out, and I knew from being with Roger for a year that he used the same exact one. I’d waited until all the guys were out of there before sneaking in. I’d done it that night as well as the two shows before. I had to reorder. It should arrive in the mail tomorrow.”

Gomez tried to laugh along with Susan, showing sympathy at running out of makeup at a bad time.

The tent flap opened. Technicians ushered in Victor, Peter, Tara, and Mrs. Woodlock. The tent’s interior, despite being cavernous, was starting to feel cramped to Gomez. Last night, her recently acquired aversion to being around large groups of people ebbed during the concert. Now, here in this tent, it was returning due the ratio of people versus space.

Her conversation with Susan kept her mind off it.

“Tell me about the argument you had the other night with Roger.”

Susan clutched a hand across her chest. A tear streamed down her face. She didn't ask where Gomez learned of the quarrel “Now you’re really going to think I killed him.” Before Gomez could say something, Susan said, “You know how they say you should be nice to everyone, because your last words to them might be your last?”

“I do.” Gomez tousled her wet hair, trying to act nonchalant. “What was it about?”

“About the last time our paths crossed.”

“You said it had been several years since then, right?”

“Yeah. It had been. As I already told you, he and I were an item for about a year.”

Gomez recalled their former conversations: Roger’s former drug use and his righteous reformation into becoming a churchgoer.

“Like Victor, he straightened up his life?”

Susan’s eyes widened. “How did you know that?”

“He admitted it to me on Peter’s balcony. Said he kept to himself because he didn’t want to be tempted by anyone else in the cast. He didn’t point any fingers, though.”

“Don’t tell no one, but he was probably talking about Landon and George.” Susan held two fingers close together, pressed them to her lips, and did a sharp inhale. “If you know what I mean.”

“I get it,” Gomez said. “So, what happened between you and Roger?”

“He had this high and mighty spotless image.” Susan breathed a heavy sigh.

Gomez placed a comforting hand on Susan’s shoulder. “But there were cracks, right?”

“Old habits die hard. Roger wanted to be in control of everything and everyone.”

“Did he try to control you?”

“You bet. Tried to get me to stop drinking, swearing, and join his church.”

“You’re a strong woman. You weren’t having that.”

“Dang skippy. That led to problems between Roger and I.”

“Is that why you broke it off?”

“No. I broke it off with him when I caught him in bed with a set of big Elvis fans. Twins.”

Now it was Gomez’s turn for her eyes to widen. “Oh.”

Susan waved a hand in dismissal. “All in the past. I’ve moved on.”

“What happened the other night? You mentioned people regretting the last thing they ever say to another person.”

Susan turned to Gomez, tears welling in her eyes. “That night, he propositioned me. Said it might be the last time we ever saw each other outside of a theater. He wanted to be the last one to go that night. He said to me, ‘If the RV is rockin’, don’t come a knockin’, and I want to be rockin’ with you all night long.’”

Gomez stifled a laugh. “What did you say?”

“I told him to leave. That I never wanted to see him again, and I wished he’d die.”

A knot formed in Gomez’s throat. Susan’s wish came true two nights later.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

My older brother Bo lived on the second floor of my parents’ home. He’d always been smarter, cooler, more athletic, and better with the girls than me while growing up. He was excellent with computers, and that knowledge earned him a stint with the NSA as a data analyst at Quantico.

He then took his talents to Silicon Valley, where he latched on with a small startup that eventually became Uber. Bo designed the framework that allowed the app to track their drivers. He sold out. Earned millions. Bought a mansion on the Torrey Pines Golf Course in La Jolla, traveled the world, and blew his millions. In a nutshell, that’s how he’d ended up living with our parents.

Like I mentioned, he’s brilliant with computers. I couldn’t have solved the mystery of how Autumn was murdered without him scraping the internet with a program he designed on the fly to track down and sort various real estate transactions and news stories in the Caribbean.

Since Gina and I left for St. Grant’s, Bo has been busy establishing a new business, helping private investigators using his computer skills. That’s growing, from what he told me via text messages. He’d even consulted with several police departments on cases. Before moving in with my parents, he filed for bankruptcy and sell his house. That netted him a massive cushion he’d been able to, for lack of a better term, not blow. As my parents were getting older, having him upstairs made it possible for him to help with many of the tasks associated with home ownership, like mowing the lawn, changing light bulbs, hanging curtains, moving furniture, etc. In other words, all the things they used to ask me to do for them.

I left Timmy with his LEGO set and climbed the two flights of stairs to the bonus room. The lights were turned down low. A projector cast a dazzling display of stars and colors on the ceiling. Two tall, thin LED lamps glowed blue in the corners near the front window. A leather sofa, chair, and walnut side table made for an elegant arrangement.

Bo sat with his back to me at his computer desk. Three large screen monitors spread out before him. A set of fat headphones was clipped to his head. On the left screen was a web browser with a tab displaying a map of some downtown in Middle America. The right screen displayed reams of data in motion. The center screen showed a live feed where a camera was pointing at the upstairs window of a darkened home. Silhouettes of two adults having adult fun were visible behind the curtains. A high-powered computer tower sat underneath the desk. Its surface glowed blue.

With the headphones on, Bo didn’t hear my approach.

I crept up behind him and pulled the earpiece off his right ear. “There are websites that make it significantly easier to watch people do that, you know.”

Bo jumped in his chair and hit a button on the keyboard, causing all three screens to go black.

“Clark! You scared the snot out of me!”

I shrugged. “Sorry, not sorry.”

“What are you doing? I’m working here.”

“If you say so.”

He pointed at the screens. “I have a client who is staking out the wife of his client, trying to catch her in the act of cheating.”

“Looks like she was engaged in something like that.”

“That’s the thing. There’s a party going on at this house. I’m trying to figure out if that’s her in the bedroom with the guy she’s suspected of cheating with.”

“Where’s your client?”

“At the party. He’s undercover.”

“Seems like a wild one.”

Bo rubbed his face and tapped the earpiece covering his left ear. “We have ultra-sensitive microphones listening in on the house. I’ve heard things I’ll never unhear.”

“Better you than me,” I said.

“Comes with the territory. Many of the cases I contract on are more interesting than this. Like, they involve gambling, embezzlement, falsifying records, etc. But right now, this is the one I got. You just came up here at a bad time.”

I nodded at the screens. “Not a bad time for them. Congrats on the business, by the way.”

Bo groaned. “Thanks. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Yeah. Did you hear about the stabbing in Seagate Village earlier this week?”

“How could I not? It was the day before you got back. Don’t tell me you’re involved.”

“Uh.”

He shook his head. “I thought you were going to stay out of stuff like this, Clark. You were almost killed the last time.”

“Believe me, I would rather not, but that’s how these things go. I somehow get lassoed in. This time, the victim’s friends wanted me to get them some information because they wanted to know what was going on.”

“Let me guess. In doing so, you’ve learned something.”

“Yeah. Did you hear about the Elvis impersonator who collapsed on stage last night?”

“I did.”

“He died.”

“Jeez. That’s sad.”

“Tell me about it. It turns out that someone exposed him to ricin.”

“What? That’s crazy. I learned all about ricin during my time in DC. That stuff is stupid dangerous.”

“Well, someone was stupid enough to use it to kill him.”

Bo laced his fingers and tapped his thumbs together. “What does this have to do with the woman in Seagate?”

“She worked as a timeshare concierge in the lobby of the Legends Theater. She and Elvis—his real name’s Roger—knew each other.”

“You think their deaths are connected?”

“It’s too big of a coincidence for them not to be. I mean, sure, there could be no connection, but for them to have happened so close together, and the fact they worked at the same place, tells me they likely aren’t.”

I sat down on the comfy couch. Bo swiveled in his chair to face me. The look on his face reminded me of the invigorated expression he had when I asked him to look into some illegal overseas accounts during my last case. He found it “cool” to be helping his little brother with an investigation.

With his current client forgotten about, he asked, “What do you need me to do?”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

With Detective Lamar Jones and Gomez on the same page, he was more forthcoming in sharing information. Gomez told him everything she could think of, minus the blackmail note on Victor’s station. From the beginning, she agreed with Clark’s suspicion that these murders were related. She was sure their search would uncover it. She saw it, and she hadn’t been engaged in a thorough search.

Jones came back with two cups of coffee in Styrofoam cups. He handed her one, which she accepted with thanks.

“What’s happening?” she asked, being fully aware that this wasn’t a social call to catch up on old times.

They met at the small table and chairs where they had first spoken in the tent. Susan passed the time by singing to herself. The Blues Brothers stared at the floor, pondering their current circumstances. Lynn wrung her hands in worry. Victor socially distanced himself twice the distance away than advised from the others, while Peter engaged Tara in idle conversation. Mr. and Mrs. Woodlock sat close together, holding hands and speaking in low voices. Other hazmat technicians and personnel went about their business, leaving the newly decontaminated to themselves.

Jones blew on the surface of his coffee before sipping. His face blanched as he set the cup on the table. “Still too hot.”

Gomez took a drink of hers and held his gaze. “Nah. It’s fine.”

“I’ll give mine a minute to cool down.”

Gomez tipped her head toward the theater. “Did they find it?”

The “it” in this instance was obvious to them both.

“Yes,” Jones answered.

“Where?”

“Several places.”

“That’s scary,” Gomez commented and repeated her question, “Where?”

He looked across the tent where the others were gathered. “In both the men’s and women’s makeup rooms and behind the stage where they bring the racks of clothes for quick changes. Trace amounts in all instances.”

“They haven’t discovered the source yet?”

He shook his head, then angled his eyes to the corner of the tent with the suspects. “Negative. They’re obtaining search warrants for each of their residences and vehicles.”

“Whoever did this is too smart to leave ricin out in the open.”

“Agreed. If we found it, it wouldn’t be a leap to think it was planted there by the real murderer.”

“Whoever did this had to have been planning it for a long time.”

“We have motives for all of them.”

Each of their backstories flew through Gomez’s head. “Some of them are stronger than others.”

“True, but sometimes it doesn't take much to make one person want to kill another. It just depends on how deranged the person is. Everyone has different morals and consciences, too.”

They turned to take in the six suspects, not including Mr. and Mrs. Woodlock, in the tent's corner.

“You said you have motives for all of them,” Gomez said.

Jones turned to face her. “Uh-huh.”

“Tell me about Mr. and Mrs. Woodlock.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

This was a case where there were two sides to the story. Two stories, as a matter of fact. One story was Bonnie Loudermilk. Why would somebody kill her? Who would kill her? Then there was Roger, aka the Elvis impersonator. Same goes for him. They worked in the same theater but were seemingly unconnected to each other. She worked in the lobby. He performed on stage. Their daily working lives wouldn't cross paths very often.

What was their connection?

Through Bo’s help, we may have found it. That part confirmed my suspicion. Instagram is a social media platform where people share their lives through pictures. We found Bonnie’s Instagram profile. It turned out that she was friends with many of the performers who performed at legends theater, both the current cast and former cast. She had other friends as well, but it seems like she was tight with everybody. Barbara and Vickie were correct. Everybody had loved Bonnie.

She and Roger were “friends” on Instagram. In searching through their posts, we found where they frequently commented on or “liked” each other’s photos.

There was a recent photo Bonnie shared that raised my antenna in light of hearing about Roger being poisoned with ricin.

The picture sent us down a rabbit hole of searching through each of the cast member’s profiles. All were on Instagram. Some participated and posted more than others. It might have been a contract obligation, like with my publishing contract, to maintain a social media presence. Roger was more of a lurker. He rarely shared photos, but we could tell he spent time doom scrolling through pictures, liking and commenting along the way.

The question was, did they know what they were looking at?

I left Timmy with Mom, Dad, and Bo. The little boy came upstairs while Bo was doing research and hacking for me. His “research” both confirmed my thinking, but left more questions than answers.

Timmy saw Bo’s computer setup and started asking him questions about games. Timmy had gotten into playing city building games like Sim City and Cities Skylines. Bo used his supercomputer for gaming as well as his work that took him to dark places in the metaverse. Within minutes, Bo downloaded a game (illegally) for Timmy to play. I took that as my opportunity to leave him there for a while so I could meet up with Gina.

It was going to be difficult for that to happen with her under quarantine. I called Chief Miller and told her what I’d discovered about Bonnie Loudermilk and how what happened to her was integral in Roger’s murder. When I told her I needed to see Gina, at first, she said no. I played the “you owe me at least this for helping your department several times” card. To which, she relented and said she’d make a call to the FBI agents heading up the scene.

As I cruised past the bustling Broadway at the Beach and approached the stoplight where I’d turn right to get to Legends Theater, the edge of the parking lot was visible. With all the Army green military vehicles with gigantic wheels and the flurry of activity, it resembled the edge of a war zone.

Chapter Forty

After getting clearance to enter the barrier at the stoplight leading into the Legends section, I parked in the Carolina Ale House lot where I was directed. While Broadway at the Beach across the street was still busy, this entire section had been evacuated. The Ale House, Rioz Brazilian Steakhouse, the Sheraton, and everyone near Paradise Circle had been cleared and roads blocked.

I navigated through several officials as technicians and investigators scrambled over the scene to the largest tent behind the theater.

It was an awkward reunion between Gina and me. Although I’d signed a stack of release forms and donned a hazmat suit, I wasn’t sure I was completely safe from ricin. My quick research showed that it was one of the top five deadliest toxins on the planet. Hence the need to put clamps on the area.

We didn’t hug and certainly didn’t kiss. The clear plastic covering my face made that impossible. I held out my gloved hand, which she grasped. I didn't feel the warmth of her skin, but it was comforting for both of us.

I couldn’t hide the emotion. My lips trembled. “I’m so glad you’re safe.”

She released my hand and didn’t reply with a “thank you” or “me too.” Instead, she came back with, “You’re an idiot coming here like this. You know that, right?”

There was no use in arguing. “I know, but I had to see you, talk to you, and make sure you’re okay.”

“Clark, we both know I’m trained to take care of myself more than you.”

“No amount of training can help if you’ve got poison inside your body.”

Her shoulders fell. “I’m just glad it isn’t. I’m not showing any signs, and my bloodwork came back clear. Apparently, I touched something backstage that had ricin on it.”

“Any clue as to what it was?”

“No. They haven’t said. Detective Jones ran in there a few minutes ago at the urgent call of someone.”

“Sounds like they found the source.”

“That would be my guess.”

Lynn got up from her seat and approached us. “Clark, where’s Timmy?”

Her tone wasn’t exactly kind. I’d only met the woman the day before yesterday, and didn’t have a good grasp on her sense of humor. Under normal circumstances, I would have made a stupid joke about Timmy waiting in the car, but these weren't normal circumstances. She was worried about her son.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “He’s at my parent’s place playing computer games with my brother.”

She gave a relaxed sigh. “Has he been good today?”

“The best,” I answered. “Timmy is so easy to hang out with. He even knows how to use the bathroom all by himself.”

“Well, yeah.” Lynn placed a hand on her hip. “He’s been potty trained since preschool.”

My inexperience with kids showed. I was sure Lynn would get a full report from Timmy as soon as they saw each other again. Whenever that was.

“He’s a great kid. We had fun. Took him to my bookstore and then Target and bought him a LEGO set.”

She asked a few questions a mom would ask any near stranger who was tasked with watching over their precious child for an afternoon. I answered. Gomez seemed impressed that I’d held my ground with a seven-year-old. I’ll admit, I was too.

We stood there in a corner of the tent where the other performers and theater running crew waited. Everyone else was seated, making me feel awkward. Well, more awkward. I was the only one wearing a blue astronaut suit.

“Come over here,” Gina said, and led me away from Lynn to the corner, out of earshot from everyone.

“Crazy day?” I said when we were alone.

She ran a hand through her still damp hair. “Not quite the craziest, but this is up there.”

Considering the situation, that we were in a quarantine tent, and I was wearing what I was wearing, her statement reflected just how crazy the days leading up to our extended Caribbean vacation were.

“I hear you. Your intuition was correct in your text messages earlier.”

The last time I heard from her was after she’d left Cantina Imperfecto and was on her way to the Myrtlewood Villas.

“Sometimes I hate it when I’m right.”

I put a gloved hand on her elbow. “Yeah, but sometimes your being right saved others.”

“Thanks.”

With the pleasantries over, I knew Gina wouldn’t want to beat around the bush. When it came to crime, she was all business—even if she no longer had a job in the field. Not that she wanted one. I think.

I asked, “What made you first think there was more to Roger’s collapse last night than met the eye?”

“First thing was that it didn’t simply look like he’d suffered a heart attack. Sure, some of his symptoms and motions were visible to us and made it look that way, but it nagged at me the rest of the evening and overnight that something didn’t seem right.”

“Could you put your finger on what it was?”

“I never did, specifically, but afterward, talking to Susan and then with Lynn and Tara at lunch today, it occurred to me Roger rubbed several cast mates the wrong way. Both recently and in the past.”

“How so?”

Gomez listed each point. “First, he used to be full of himself and deep into drugs back when he first came onto the Legends scene. He was an alpha performer from the start and made others take notice. These people didn’t relish working with him because of his elitist attitude. Tara specifically. She said she hated working with him and was glad she hadn’t seen him in the twenty years before they arrived together in Myrtle Beach this past spring. Then he went off drugs, got religion, and changed his life.”

“No one would murder him over being a prima donna, would they?”

“Maybe not because of that, but because of things he did then.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Twenty years or so from what they told me.”

“A long time to be carrying around a grudge.”

“True, but they claim his drug use led to Landon’s brother overdosing and dying.”

“Oh, man. Really?”

“Yeah. Apparently, Landon’s brother, Joseph, didn’t do any of that until they all worked together in Vegas. Roger got Joseph to party with him after shows, and one night, he had too much.”

“How horrible. Do you think Landon wanted revenge?”

“It’s possible.”

“Who else?”

“Let’s see. Roger and Susan had a nasty breakup and were seen arguing two nights before his stage collapse. She told me her last words to him that night were that she hated him and wished he would die.”

A lump formed in my throat. “Wait a second. . .”

Gomez held up a hand. “It gets worse. Peter Avis noticed Susan leaving the men’s dressing room during the show. He supposedly had this intense jealousy of Roger over being Elvis. He wanted nothing more than to be the top dog. They say he’d do whatever it took. How far would he take it? I don’t know, but it’s worth mentioning.”

“Romantic problems and jealousy. Solid motives. Who’s Peter Avis?”

“Michael Jackson.”

“Oh.”

“There’s more.”

My eyes bugged. “More? Did everyone have a score to settle with Roger?”

“Seems like it. Here’s another thing. Someone was blackmailing Victor. Your Steven Tyler hero.”

“Who would do such a thing?”

“I don’t know, but I found a threatening note tucked under the place where Victor gets ready for shows, saying that his next payment will be the last as long as he stays clean. Victor told me he’d been reprimanded for drug use and was trying to keep his nose clean.”

“Did he mention anyone specifically he was trying to avoid? Like, could someone else be using and Victor knows about it?”

“Possible. What if it was the same person blackmailing Victor?”

“Why would they do that? If the blackmailer is doing the same thing and outs Victor, can’t Victor turn around and point the finger at that person?”

“He could, but depending on who it is, would Victor be believed? That person may use but have a squeaky-clean reputation. Victor’s word versus theirs.”

“A drug test would clear things up.”

She scratched the side of her neck. “Not one hundred percent of the time, it wouldn’t. Those things can be evaded depending on what they’re abusing and how far in advance they get notified about the test.”

I haven’t had a drug test since I was hired at Target during the mid-2000s. I’ve never done drugs, so it was never an issue. Having to defeat one of those tests was certainly not on my agenda. I’ve only personally hired half a dozen people since Autumn and I started the bookstore, and we didn’t test anyone. Not that bookish people don’t do drugs. We trusted our judgement during the hiring process. “Oh. Didn’t realize that. What about the other Blues Brother? The one who isn’t Landon.”

Gomez’s green eyes shifted to glance at George speaking with his brother from another mother. “Not sure about him. They told me they paired George with Landon after Joseph died. The two actual brothers performed together until Joseph OD’d.”

“Then, George had nothing to gain with Roger’s death because he’d already gained a jumpstart to his career.”

“Yeah. Twenty years ago.”

“So, we’ve talked about who might have wanted to murder Roger.”

“Which was almost everyone,” Gomez added.

“Seems like it. Motive is all well and good, but how could it have been done?”

Gomez leaned against a tent pole, crossed one leg over the other and crossed her arm. “We both know ricin is not something you can go down to that area off 501 and Grissom and slip someone a Benjamin to get. Know the area I’m talking about?”

“No.”

“Good,” she replied. “It’s best if you don’t. Anyway, that takes planning and either someone with the knowledge to make it or learning how to do it yourself. If they have a flimsy motive, I can’t see anyone going to that much trouble.”

“Then there’s Bonnie Loudermilk to consider. She was killed differently, but these murders must be connected.”

“I concur,” agreed Gomez. “If we’re going back to motives, who would want to kill her in such a vicious manner?”

I pulled out my phone and held it up. “I have a few leads.”

Chapter Forty-One

“Everyone seemed to like Bonnie,” I said. “I talked to Chief Miller and Battles about the crime scene. She was murdered sometime between ten and eleven that evening after getting off a plane coming from Hawaii. Her husband said nothing was stolen. She had no known enemies and was a joy to be around.”

“Then why kill her?” Gomez asked.

“That’s what no one could figure out. You know your former workmates had to have canvassed Bonnie’s neighbors to see if anyone saw or knew anything, right?”

“Of course,” Gomez said without a doubt about the thoroughness of the MBPD.

“I spoke to someone they hadn’t yet.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Who?”

“A neighbor that lives up the street. Apparently, she was out walking her dog that night and spotted somebody running from Bonnie’s house.”

“How come no one has spoken to her yet?”

“She was scared and didn't call it in. The woman said she heard a siren out on Kings Highway behind Bonnie's house right after the person disappeared behind the house. She was scared and assumed the sirens were for what happened at Bonnies. Since then, she’d been working and hadn’t been home.”

“What did she see?”

I told Gomez what the dog walker had said, and she found it very interesting.

“Tell me about it. Look, I still don’t know this for sure, but Bonnie might have been murdered over something she brought back with her.”

“That would explain why her husband said nothing was stolen. She might have brought back something he didn’t know about. Let me guess. Castor berries.”

I pulled out my phone and showed her the picture from Bonnie’s Instagram I had discovered.

The picture depicted Bonnie on a trail winding through a Hawaiian jungle. Several others from a tour group were pictured ahead of her. A rushing stream lay to the right with a waterfall visible in the distance.

“Wow. That’s beautiful.” Gomez leaned closer, focusing on the photo. “Wait a second. That bush on the left side. Is that—?”

“It is,” I confirmed.

On the screen, a cluster of tall plants bordered the side of the path. The castor plant had vibrant purple stalks with broad, star-shaped leaves. It reminded me of a pot plant if it needed a diet. Between the leaves were green stalks in the shape of a Christmas tree, but with spiky green balls instead of pine needles. Bonnie’s focus when taking the picture wasn’t the castor plants, so a person wouldn’t notice them if they weren’t looking for them.

“Are those spiky balls the berries?”

“Yeah. At least, the protective layer. The actual bean is underneath. I did a quick search. It wouldn’t take no more than two or three to kill someone. Those spikes irritate the skin, obviously, but someone could have advised Bonnie to wear gloves or use a thick paper towel to pick them off the bush. I think one of them saw this photo, recognized the castor plant, and asked her to bring back some berries.”

“And then they killed her upon delivery.”

“Right. To cover up the evidence.”

“How did she know to pick those berries? Who told her to do it?”

“The better question is: How did the person get her to do it without arousing suspicion of their potential lethality?”

“Let me see that.” Gomez held out her hand. I gave her the phone. She tapped on the screen. “Hmm. I’m looking for the people who hearted or commented on the photo.”

“That was the first thing I did when I figured out what the plant was.”

She tapped twice on the screen. Did a sudden intake of air and turned to take in all the suspects. “All of them did.”

“Look who commented, telling her to be careful around them.” Clark gestured at the screen.

Gomez’s finger slowly swiped up on the screen. With another sharp intake of air, she said, “Two did.”

At that moment, a technician not wearing a hazmat suit entered the tent carrying a small, open box. He walked over in our direction, and like a peanut vendor at a baseball game, he held up the box and shouted, “Cell phones! Get your cell phones right here! Fresh roasted and sanitized! Get your cell phones!”

Everyone tried to rush the man. For many, cell phone withdrawal is a real thing. Seeing the crazed looks in their eyes made me glad I wasn’t one of them.

He held the box up high as Susan and Peter tried to reach in at the same time. “One at a time, please.”

In an ungentlemanly gesture, Peter nudged Susan’s hand away so he could get his first. She flashed an angry look at him, which he did not notice. One by one, they retrieved their phones, with Victor being the last of the group. The technician proffered the box to Gomez. Hers was the last one in it.

“Thank you,” she said to the man as he walked away and left the tent.

“Do you think they hacked your phone, or just sanitized it like they said they were going to do?”

“I have my rights.” She bit her bottom lip and cast a side-eye at the FBI agents. “But I wouldn’t put anything past them.”

“And another thing,” Clark said in a lower tone.

Gomez turned her attention away from the suspects who attacking the cell phone basket like a flock of carrion over fresh roadkill, to face me. “What’s that?”

“One of Susan’s oven mitts was found at Bonnie Loudermilk’s place.”

Gomez opened her mouth like she had something important she wanted to tell me, but the two FBI agents, Miller and Hunter, burst through the tent flap, followed by SLED agent Paulson and Detective Jones close on their heels. They made a beeline straight for Gomez.

She handed me my phone, leaned close, and whispered in my ear, “Divide and conquer.”

It took a moment for me to register her words. She’d seen the new parties enter the tent, but she must have seen a clue in their body language before she said those words to me.

They were here for her.

She didn’t have time to complete her thought before they pulled her away, but from the look on her face, the news about the oven mitt might have changed everything.

Now I was left to wonder why.

Chapter Forty-Two

Clark tucked the phone up the hazmat’s sleeve as Miller and Hunter got to them. Detective Jones and Paulson waited behind them like servants awaiting orders. Gomez had told Clark stories about dealing with the FBI. Some detectives would get star struck when speaking to a Fibbie for the first time.

In Gomez’s dealings with them throughout her career, she never felt that way. In fact, they tended to show an air of mutual respect. The FBI investigates heavy, important cases involving terrorism, cybercrimes, government corruption, civil rights, white-collar crimes like securities fraud and healthcare fraud, and violent crimes. During the tail end of her career with the MBPD, Gomez interacted with an FBI task force over organized crime in Myrtle Beach stemming from the Tidal Creek murders and had gone to a conference in D.C. covering the topic.

Gomez recalled speaking to Agent Miller once. She found him to be of keen intellect and analytical ability. It was her first time meeting Hunter, but his eyes and body language suggested he and Miller were of similar intelligence.

She could tell that Clark was slightly nervous. He was shifting his weight from one leg to the other and couldn’t figure out what to do with his hands. Poor guy. This wasn’t his field, and he may be mesmerized in meeting FBI agents.

Agents Miller and Hunter introduced themselves, minus the polite handshakes.

“We’ve heard about your exploits,” Hunter said to Clark. “Quite impressive.”

Clark was at a loss for words, which was a rarity in her experience with him. “Thank you.” He stopped. Pondered, and then asked the lead FBI agent, “You wouldn’t happen to be related to Chief Miller, would you?”

“There’s a lot of Millers in this world.” Miller leveled his eyebrows. “She’s not a member of my clan.”

“Gotcha,” Clark said.

“And Gomez,” Agent Hunter said, choosing to ignore Clark and move forward, directing his attention to her, “we’ve likewise heard about your accomplishments with the detective unit here in Myrtle Beach, and you’re to be commended. I’m sorry to hear about your injury and the events preceding it.”

Gomez involuntarily reached to grasp her injured shoulder but managed to lower her hand halfway to it. She didn’t like to be reminded of being shot. “Thank you. I was just doing my job.”

Agent Miller echoed his partner, “Commendable. Detective Jones told us you were at the show last night, spent the afternoon speaking to the cast, and were backstage when he arrived.”

“That’s true,” Gomez said. “Lynn, my sister, went to school with Susan and they were catching up on old times. I was along for the ride.”

“Then you’re in a unique position to help us. We understand you were poking around in the makeup rooms,” Hunter said.

“I did. The whole thing last night left me suspicious, and I was gathering information in case those suspicions played out.”

“Her Spidey sense was tingling,” Clark said.

The agents cast a side-eye at him and his attempt at humor during this serious time. They didn’t know Clark like she did.

“Mr. Thomas,” Miller said. “Can you go wait over there with the others while we speak to Gomez?”

Clark opened his mouth, but no words came out. He wasn’t used to being summarily dismissed.

“It’s okay.” Gomez placed a comforting hand on his hazmat-suited arm and tilted her head toward him, trying to convey a silent message. “Go mingle.”

Clark looked from agent to agent to agent to detective and back to Gomez. “Sure thing.”

He left the group and joined the others.

Once he was out of earshot, Miller said, “Follow us.”

***

They led Gomez back inside the theater and led her through the lobby into the auditorium. Members of the National Guard were busy checking for traces of ricin with handheld scanners.

Gomez followed, trying to take in everything.

“Have you discovered the source?” Gomez asked.

“Not yet,” Agent Hunter answered, “But we’ve found traces.”

“Where exactly?”

“Follow us,” Miller said.

Miller said, “Look, we have every tool at our disposal, from the local level on up to the Federal.” He squared Gomez with an earnest look. “But right now, after speaking with Detective Jones, you’re our most valuable tool. They say you’ve talked to all of them and been poking around back here.”

“Which is where you were exposed,” Hunter added.

“Exactly,” Miller said. “Agent Paulson and your former boss with the MBPD speak highly of you. We’ve spoken to colleagues who have interacted with you. They all say the same thing. You have excellent instincts and a clear rate on violent crimes. If you’re up for it, we’d like to use you on this case.”

“Thank you,” Gomez replied and bit on a fingernail. “I have to give credit where credit is due. My clearance rate during the year leading up to me leaving the force wouldn’t have been nearly as high without Clark.”

Miller smirked. “The bookstore owner? What does he know? Has he had any type of training?”

“As far as I know,” Gomez responded, “his only training has come from reading and writing mystery books.”

Hunter laughed. “Yeah, like that’s real life.”

Miller stifled a laugh, but Paulson cut into the conversation. “It’s true. I met Clark the day before he took down the mayor here in Myrtle Beach. He’d spent an entire year trying to solve the mystery of what happened to his wife. He’d uncovered clues, tracked down evidence, and confronted the people involved. Heck, he even helped them catch the guy who murdered the mayor’s partner in crime. Clark may not know what he’s doing as far as how we’ve been trained, but I’d have him on my team any day.”

Hunter studied his partner. Agent Miller was the AIC, or Agent in Charge. It was his call.

Miller glanced from Gomez to Paulson. Detective Jones stood in the background and chose to remain silent. He hadn’t been around for long before Clark and Gomez took down the mayor.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Miller said at length. “Too dangerous to have a civilian on this type of case.”

“I’m a civilian too,” Gomez reminded him.

“Yeah, technically,” Miller said. “But all of us know you’re not an ordinary civilian.”

Gomez hadn’t expected Paulson to come to Clark’s defense. She made a mental note of that. She also didn’t think that Clark would get any consideration about being tapped to help on this case. Miller was right. With a deadly toxin like ricin now involved in this case, it was too dangerous for Clark. She had to look out for his best interests too, now that they shared a life together.

Despite what happened before she left, getting shot by a coworker who was also her fiancé, she missed this. Investigating. Sifting through clues. Interviewing witnesses and suspects to determine motives and alibis, to ultimately catch the killer. That's what she lived for.

Gomez missed it but never wanted to work for them again.

She had a nagging sense that she’d missed something the first time she was backstage, or something she saw that seemed like it belonged was not supposed to be there. She sighed to herself. Or it could just be that she was out of practice, and nothing was as it seemed.

The main auditorium carried an eerie silence. Soundproofing on the theater walls masked the voices and noises on the other side of the two sets of double doors leading to the lobby and from those working backstage. The lingering aroma of popcorn still permeated the air.

Agent Miller stopped shy of the metal door to the left of the stage that led to the dressing rooms and said to Gomez, “I want you to run us through your backstage tour.”

Hunter added, “Your sister said you were even trying on wigs, which she saw as way out of character for you.”

There was no point in hiding her surreptitious search of the makeup rooms for evidence. Gomez had agreed to work with them with what she had found. She could mask her intentions earlier when they were getting the tour from Lynn, but not from these seasoned investigators.

“I was looking for spots in the wigs where ricin could have been concealed,” Gomez said. In a flash of scenes running through her mind, she recalled the moments of horror at seeing Lucien pointing a gun at Clark through the bookstore window, before exchanging fire and getting shot in the shoulder and how she feared at that moment that her life would never return to normal. Susan and Lynn’s reactions to her wearing the wig snapped her back to reality, reminding her that despite the betrayal and pain she carried in her shoulder, she still held the power to captivate. Clark reminded her of her beauty every day. His way of trying to heal invisible wounds with his words.

Hunter and Miller glanced at each other.

“Smart,” Miller said. “We didn’t find any traces of ricin on the wigs.”

“Where did you find them?” Gomez asked, thinking about all the things she touched.

“We’ll tell you,” Hunter said, “but first, we want you to show us everything you touched.”

The last vestiges of her in the Dolly Parton wig faded. She gestured toward the door. “Lead the way.”

Hunter opened the door for her. “No, you lead the way. We’re here to see what you saw as you saw it.”

Gomez stepped through the door with Agents Miller, Hunter, and Paulson on her heels. Detective Jones took up the rear. She led them down the hall, past the makeup rooms, and to the side employee entrance before turning to face them. She made eye contact with Jones first with the conversation about the big boys shouldering their way into the investigation on his home turf fresh in their minds. He nodded. She nodded back.

“Mr. Woodlock met us here with the door open,” Gomez said. “Susan had sent him a message saying we were stopping by. That she needed to retrieve something she forgot in the ruckus from the previous night.”

“What had she forgotten?” Miller asked.

“Her debit card.”

Miller and Hunter’s eyes momentarily flashed to each other before the lead agent returned his attention to Gomez. “Got it. Continue.”

Gomez would not let that look pass. “Was there something else she forgot?”

“Not that she has said,” Hunter replied.

“But you believe there may have been something else?”

“We do.”

“Like what?”

“Ricin.”

Chapter Forty-Three

Ifound myself with nine virtual strangers.

It appeared as though the first round of questioning with the suspects had ended. If they had been cordial with each other before, now they kept to themselves. I'm sure they were all asked the same question. A question I often asked suspects. A form of “Who do you think did it?”

Now they eyed each other, wondering if anyone pointed the finger at them. They were for sure told not to talk about it with each other.

Two murders of people from two walks of life who had been brought together under one roof: the Legends Theater. That was all they had in common. At least on the surface.

Roger entertained. Bonnie helped others find entertainment as a concierge. I hadn't heard of them hanging out in the same social circles. They may have or at least had spoken to each other inside the theater.

The only person here I knew was Lynn, and I’d only met her a few days ago. I’ve never been a social butterfly, so this challenged my comfort zone. Speaking to such talented people gave me the slightest bit of stomach flutters. Not to mention the Woodlocks, who came off as this super rich, erudite couple. I may be wrong, but I heard that Mr. Woodlock not only ran this Legends Theater, but the entire company.

Not only was Roger the biggest name as Elvis with the company, but also one of the longest tenured performers. It made me wonder if he and Mr. Woodlock had a falling out. They were sure to have crossed paths before this run in Myrtle Beach. Yes, it was possible Roger was murdered as revenge over a past event, but something could have occurred during his run here in Myrtle Beach that brought this about.

Woodlock had ultimate access to the theater, meaning he has access to wigs. He could have brought the ricin in at any time and planted it on Roger’s things. Bonnie could have brought him the castor beans from Hawaii, and he murdered her upon delivery. Had Mr. Woodlock gone straight home after turning off the lights and locking up at the theater, or did he make a detour toward Market Common?

I looked around at the different people gathered here, noting the motives that had come to light. I’d just joined the club here, so it was possible Gomez either didn’t have all the information herself, or that there were secrets still under wraps.

Landon and George spoke to each other across a six-foot gap. They had the red-eyed look of two people facing severe hangovers tomorrow. Gomez said the two men had both been plastered upon arriving at Peter’s villa, and they continued to pound the alcohol while there. Landon might have had the biggest motive of all. Roger’s actions led to his brother’s death. Did Roger force the drugs up the brother’s nose? Doubtful, but from the way Gina talked, it sounded like the brother hadn’t been involved in that vice before meeting Roger.

Landon’s partner, George, may not have had a known motive, but of everyone here, the two could have worked together to pull off both murders.

Susan didn’t like Roger. They had a bad falling out as a couple and apparently the gathering at her RV the other night included a heated argument with Susan telling Roger she hated him and hoped he would die. The anger after he left could not have faded, leading her to sprinkle poison all over Roger’s station during the show?

Tara chatted with Susan and Lynn. Like Susan, she’d spent runs with Roger during his drug using days where he thought himself higher than God until he found God and straightened out. It was possible he’d done something either then or now to Tara she couldn’t forgive.

Victor was keeping to himself. He sat in a chair as far away from the others as possible. His head was down and bobbing up and down like he was running a song through his head or did a line of cocaine before coming here. After hearing about the note at his station, it could have been both. If he was having to pay blackmail money to Roger to keep his drug use secret, that could be a powerful motive.

As the saying goes, “two people can keep a secret if one of them is dead.”

Peter also kept to himself. Gina said he had the ambition to be the best, to be Elvis. Had that desire led to him wanting to be the man?

It was with these thoughts in mind that I entered the breach. I had one thing going for me. No one knew me, and besides Lynn, it was possible I’d see none of these people again after leaving this tent.

It was time to ruffle some feathers. Divide and conquer.

I’d come up with a cover as my way of engaging in conversation with each of them. After each show at Legends Theater, attendees had the opportunity to meet the cast. The performers entered the lobby where they would take up a station far enough away from each other that there was room for fans to meet their heroes, or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

With the chaos surrounding Roger’s collapse, I didn’t get that opportunity. Now I would.

Susan, Lynn, and Tara were the closest. I started with Tara with Lynn as my gateway.

“I gotta tell you,” I said to Lynn, “that boy of yours is about the smartest kid I’ve ever met.”

“Tell me about it. Did he give you any Timmy Facts?”

I chuckled. “Oh yeah. I learned about the Burj Khalifa, airplanes, and a bunch of other stuff.”

Tara and Susan followed our back-and-forth. Lynn remembered her manners. “Oh. Tara, this is Clark. Clark, Tara.”

There was no shaking of hands as we were required to keep our distance, and Susan had been exposed to the toxin. My plastic suit could be off-putting as well.

“Nice to meet you,” I said. “I wish it were under better circumstances.”

“You and me both,” Tara answered with a smile.

Susan glanced to the side and said, “If you’ll excuse me, I want to go check on Victor. See how he’s doing.”

Since I’d already spoken to Susan at the Waffle House, I didn’t see the need for her to be in on this conversation, anyway. In fact, I was hoping to speak to Tara alone. I always found it best to question witnesses and suspects by themselves. They tended to be more open and not try to hide comments from their family or friends who might have a connection with a case.

Susan walked away. Lynn remained, letting her engage with the solitary Victor alone. I turned to Tara.

“I know this isn’t the time or place,” I said, “but I really enjoyed the show last night before… You know.”

Tara blinked twice. My comment seemed to transport her to a better place than this smelly tent. She smiled and touched a hand to her chest. “Why thank you.”

“You looked and sounded like the real Tina Turner. You have so much energy.”

“It’s amazing that she does,” Lynn said.

We turned to her. She explained, “It’s just that you said you went through breast cancer treatments last year. I’m not sure if I’d have your same level of pep if it were me.”

“That’s how I’m wired,” Tara said. “I believe my positivity and family helped me get through it.”

I noted the wedding ring on her left hand. “Is your family here in Myrtle Beach?”

“I have two little girls and a charming husband. They usually travel with me, but not this time.”

“That’s a shame.”

“It is. They would have enjoyed spending the summer in Myrtle Beach, but they’re getting ready to start middle school next week.” She frowned. “That’s how kids are. They reach their teen years and suddenly they don’t want to hang out with mom anymore—even with the beach perk.”

I didn’t really know how teens were since I’d never been around one. I might be able to speak about second graders after spending the day with Timmy, or little girls like Libby, but now wasn’t the time. I should have left all this up to the authorities, but by now, it had become second nature to talk of murder. I couldn’t help myself, and I had the feeling that with all the heavy hitters assembled at the theater, this case might get figured out soon, if the authorities hadn’t already figured it out. That was the thing about me, I liked to finish first. I pressed forward, but didn’t want to seem like I knew more than any other person who attended the show last night.

“Did you know the guy who played Elvis well?”

“Roger? Not really. We’d performed together before a long time ago, but I hadn’t seen him in a long time before coming here. I barely knew him, to tell the truth. He was nice to be around this time.”

Which left the implication that Roger wasn’t so nice to be around before. I already knew this, but Tara didn’t know that.

I let her comment hang before switching direction. “I’m super fascinated by how you all put on your shows. You served as kind of like the hostess, correct?”

“Yup. I’m usually one of the first performers here and run around like a chicken with my head cut off during the shows.”

“I’m wondering, a performer dropped on stage like that so suddenly. Did anything seem odd with Elvis last night during the show or before?”

“No, the only oddity was seeing Susan go into the men’s dressing room during the show.”

I glanced at Lynn to gauge her reaction to hearing that her friend was sneaking around minutes before Roger collapsed. By this point, she had to have known Susan and Roger were seen arguing a few days before and about their past broken relationship. Lynn’s expression didn’t change.

“Why did she do that?” I asked Tara.

“Beats me. Didn’t ask. No time to. She was probably after something for one of them. I thought nothing of it because it’s always so chaotic.”

“But…that would bother me. What do you think of it now, knowing what happened?”

Tara hadn’t considered this angle from the way she straightened. She pressed a hand against the side of her face. “Oh, that’s not good. Could she have snuck in there to poison Roger?”

Before I responded, Tara’s phone rang. She glanced at the screen and back to us. “Excuse me. It’s my husband calling.”

She stepped away, leaving Lynn and me to ourselves.

Lynn was still processing what Tara said about seeing her friend Susan sneaking around and the implications involved.

“Do you think Susan could have done it?” she asked me.

“I hope not,” I answered, “but if what Tara said is true, Susan has a lot of explaining to do.”

The alarm bells were ringing frantically in my head, begging the question: Did Dolly Parton murder Elvis Presley?

Chapter Forty-Four

Gomez asked, “You think Susan came back to grab the toxin?”

Miller and Hunter’s eyes met. Hunter answered, “That’s the premise we’re working with.”

In her career, Gomez had learned to not be surprised by anything. She tried her hardest to become emotionally detached from cases. That became complex when she learned that her former partner had been in on what happened to Clark’s wife. Now, she would have to ignore her feelings to fully consider her older sister’s best friend in school a suspect. What she’d learned to this point in the case pointed to Susan as a suspect, even though it was a challenge to admit that to herself. Gomez remembered when Susan used to come over for slumber parties with Lynn when they were kids. An image of Lucien briefly entered her mind. Trust no one. She crossed her arms. “Based on what?”

“She had a previous relationship with the victim that ended badly,” Miller said. “She was seen sneaking into the men’s dressing room during the show.”

“To which there could be a simple explanation for,” Gomez countered.

“Don’t let your sister’s friendship with Susan cloud your judgement,” Miller said.

Gomez recalled when she first suspected her former fiancé might have been involved in the murder and subsequent cover-up surrounding Clark’s late wife’s death. She didn’t believe it at first. Couldn’t believe it. She lived with the man. Trusted her life with him. She’d come around to the fact Lucien was involved when it was too late. It almost cost her life and Clark’s. She’d learned the hard way from that mistake. The wound becoming a scar that would last forever. She wanted to overcome it.

“I can compartmentalize,” Gomez said. “I’ll admit it’s possible Susan did this. Go on.”

Miller crossed his arms and stuck up the thumb on his left hand. “She and Roger had a fight two days prior to his death, which may speak to her motive.”

“If so, how would she have gotten her hands on something like ricin so quickly? It’s not your run-of-the-mill poison.”

“That’s what we’re trying to determine,” Miller said. “But it's only part of it. If we can find the source, and the source belongs to Susan, then we’ll put her under the microscope.”

“I think you’re jumping ahead here,” Gomez said. “There are others with motive.”

The corner of Agent Miller’s mouth tugged upward. “Trust me. We know.”

Hunter tipped his head toward the command post tent where everyone waited. “All of them had plausible reasons to kill the victim. We haven’t discounted anyone yet.” He paused. “Did Mr. Woodlock seem upset when you arrived with Susan and Lynn?”

His abrupt change of subject didn’t throw off Gomez. She recognized the interrogation routine. “No. He said he’d been working in his office all day. I could tell he’d been busy and maybe we’d interrupted something, but he didn’t throw us out.”

“Noted,” Hunter said.

Detective Jones’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and announced, “Detectives Dame and Battles have arrived. I’m going to go speak to them and see if we can connect what happened to Roger and the stabbing victim from the other night who worked here.”

No doubt, Miller and Hunter were aware of the situation. Miller said, “Take Paulson with you.”

“I’m going too,” Hunter announced.

Miller nodded his approval. The four of them disappeared around the bend in the hall, led by Hunter like a bull. The metal door opened and clanged shut, leaving Gomez with the two FBI agents.

“What now?” Gomez asked.

Miller motioned at the makeup rooms. “Give me a tour of your tour.”

Being asked to lead, albeit briefly, was something Gomez missed. As the lead detective for the MBPD, she oversaw assignments and investigations in her unit. The role of leading a team hadn’t hit her until Miller asked her to lead the way.

As they rounded the corner and hung to the left, Miller said, “We removed the curtains covering the entrances to the makeup rooms to have them tested for ricin. They’re outside right now. The hazmat unit should have finished the rest of their scans by now.”

LED lamps had been erected throughout backstage, casting the normally dimly lit area into full brightness so nothing could be overlooked. Every light in the building shone. The door to the shower/laundry room between the two makeup rooms was held open by a yellow doorstop. The once spotless appearance was now tarnished. Towels, washcloths, panties, men’s speedos, and more littered the floor where a laundry basket had been overturned. The globe lights above everyone’s makeup desks glowed. The costume racks in the center of each room had been removed.

“All the costumes are outside being tested,” Miller remarked.

“That’s going to take some time.” If Gomez had known Roger’s cause of death before coming to the theater, she wouldn’t have touched anything here. By that time, if ricin were suspected, they wouldn’t have been able to get in the parking lot. She wished that had been the case. Then none of them would be in this mess.

“We started on the women’s side,” Gomez said.

Miller tipped his chin. “Show me.”

They entered the makeup room. The Tina Turner and Dolly Parton wigs remained where Gomez left them. All the makeup, jewelry, and accessories on their tables had been moved about, but she detected nothing missing. It was all there. They wanted to leave the scene for her as untouched as possible while scanning for deadly substances. There was one addition to the room.

Gomez stepped into the room and muttered “Uh-oh” when she saw it. Miller stood to her right. The space seemed bigger without the tall garment costume rack in the center.

He held out an arm and stopped her, pointing at the new addition. Bright yellow caution tape with the biohazard symbol and the word DANGER printed on it ran from the floor to the ceiling, isolating Susan’s spot. The desk was covered in plastic sheeting to prevent the spread of ricin. The whole setup screamed, “stay away.”

“You found it in Susan’s space,” Gomez said.

“Yes. We found a dusting across the top there on the left side and on her seat.”

Gomez craned her neck. Susan’s spot would have to be the farthest away from the door. The right side held cases and trees for her jewelry and necklaces. To the left was where she kept her makeup and brushes. Wigs stood on stands at the rear of the desk, separated enough so Susan could see in the mirror from her chair.

“Remind me why you came here to begin with,” Miller said.

“Susan forgot her debit card at her table.”

“At least that’s what she told you.”

Gomez turned to him. “Yes, knowing what we know now about her confrontation with Roger at Ocean Lakes, she could have been after something else and flashed her debit card as proof that she found what she was after.”

“It's possible she already had it in her palm when she went back there, but she was here to pick up the ricin.”

“If the card is what she came for, where did it go? They had us strip naked and took our clothes. Wouldn’t you have found it on her?”

He raised a brow. “Oh, we found the card.”

“But you say you haven’t found the source?”

“Correct.”

“You said the hazmat team completed their scan. If Susan had it, it would have been found.”

Miller cupped his chin. “Good point. Carry on.”

“By this time, I already suspected someone here had it out for Roger.”

“There’s that keen perception we were told about.”

Gomez’s lips tightened. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you.” She took a deep breath, recalling her first entry to this room. “I didn’t want to alarm Susan or Lynn, so I kept the costume rack between us while I perused the other side of the dressing room. I must have been exposed when I went through her station.”

“There was somewhere else, too.”

“Where?”

“Before we leave here, is there anything else you want to show or tell me you noticed?”

Gomez gazed around the room. Her sharp eyes trying to recall anything she might have missed the first time or forgot to mention to Agent Miller.

“No. Not here.”

Miller crooked a finger. “Come with me.”

He led Gomez to the men’s side where, likewise, the garment rack was gone. This room appeared dirtier than the women’s side, from the carpets to scuff marks on the walls.

Unlike the women’s side, where one area now featured biohazard warnings, there were three such spots on the men’s side.

Victor, Roger, and Landon’s stations displayed enough fluorescent markings to rival the Vegas Strip.

Which is where Gomez figured this all began.

Chapter Forty-Five

Besides Susan, Lynn faced a similar situation to me. The only person she knew in the tent was her old friend Susan. Lynn filled me in on their activities this afternoon, leading up to coming to the theater. Her perspective enabled me to fill in a few blanks from the quick conversation Gina and I held about the same subject.

“So, you’d met quite a few of them,” I said.

Lynn and I stood alone off to the side.

She looked at them and came back to me. “Yeah. I ended up speaking to most of them. Especially Tara over lunch.”

“What’s her deal?”

Lynn raised and lowered her shoulders. “She seems like an amazingly talented woman, coming off a battle with breast cancer.”

“That’s a relief and dreadful that it happened to her at the same time.” I didn’t have anyone in my family who had to fight that disease, but mom survived two bouts with squamous cell carcinoma in her mouth and throat. The rigors of those treatments were eating away at her jaw structure. More and more, she was having to resort to a liquid diet since it was too painful to chew. “Glad she made it through.”

“Yeah,” Lynn agreed. “She’s about the most cheerful person I’ve ever met. One of a kind.”

“What about the others?”

“Landon and George were drunk the whole time we were at Peter’s. I tried to keep my distance after George grabbed my tush when I got too close.”

I glanced at George. He’d broken off the conversation with Landon and was sitting back in a metal folding chair with his arms crossed and head lolling to the side. His eyes were closed. A line of drool hung from the corner of his mouth. Landon leaned forward like a dead man in his seat, likewise in a state of sleep.

“George is wearing a wedding ring,” I noted.

“Yeah,” Lynn said. “That’s what was so disgusting about it. Both guys have families here with them. That’s why one of them drives a minivan.”

“What about Victor? Talk to him?”

“For a moment. Supposedly, there’s drug use among the cast he doesn’t want to be associated with.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “The two sleeping beauties over there.”

“I’m not sure, to be honest.”

Susan reentered the chat. “Victor is being Victor. Doesn’t want to talk about what happened.”

“Has he spoken to the authorities yet?” I asked.

“He has.”

“Maybe he has nothing to say because they told him not to say anything.”

“They told me the same thing,” Susan said. “I tried not to, but it’s hard to talk about anything but that.”

“I know what you mean,” Lynn agreed.

“It’s the six-hundred-pound gorilla in the room,” I said. “Everyone knows it’s there, but no one can talk about it without getting the person mad.”

Susan cocked her head to the side. “What’s the gorilla stand for in this case?”

I stared at her dead in the eye. “More than likely, the killer is here among us.”

***

I left them with that comment and moved away. A loud noise coming from the direction of the med techs on the other side of the tent startled George and Landon awake as I neared them.

Landon groaned and covered his ears. “Ah! That’s loud!” Then he rubbed the top of his head. “Oh, no. The headache is already here.”

George kept his head tilted toward the ground. He blinked hard several times, trying to clear away the buzz. “My vision is blurred.” Then he grabbed his stomach and searched the vicinity. He got up and rushed to the corner of the tent to a trash bin. He bent over it and started retching.

I twisted my mouth. I enjoyed the occasional adult beverage as much as anyone, but I hadn’t been so drunk that I threw up since college. I hit the bottle after Autumn’s death, but never to that extent. These guys appeared older than me, which I would find embarrassing to be seen in public like this. I glanced to the side to find Mr. and Mrs. Woodlock shaking their heads disapprovingly. I wondered if the theater had a public conduct policy. If so, these two guys were stepping all over it.

Landon seemed the less ill of the two as he watched his partner lose his lunch. After speaking with Gina, Landon was the one I wanted to speak to more. This might work out.

I stopped. “You okay?”

He squinted at me. The glare of the lights blinded him. He covered his eyes with an arm and opened and closed his mouth several times. “I’m thirsty.”

After spending the day with a seven-year-old who spoke in short sentences and relied on me to give him sustenance, hearing this from a man closing in on fifty gave me little hope for mankind. I’d spotted a mini-fridge near the computers when I came in and noticed techs carrying plastic bottles of water. “Give me a sec.”

I rushed over and popped open the fridge. In the briefest instant before the door opened, envisioned it containing vials of radioactive sludge and antidotes. It was a normal looking white fridge like the one I had in my dorm room twenty years ago. There weren’t any biohazard labels or warnings on it.

To my relief, it was stocked with bottles of water. I grabbed one without asking and took it to Landon.

“Here you go.” I reached out the bottle, which he accepted with one eye open.

“Thanks man.” He twisted the cap off and drank half the bottle in one gulp. He covered his mouth to stifle a burp and made a disgusted look. “Ugh. There’s the pizza I had for lunch.” He blinked hard and said to himself, “Or was that breakfast?”

“Better?” I asked.

He took another sip of water and took stock of himself. George was still bent over the trashcan in the corner. Landon turned his way and said, “Ol’ Georgy can’t hold his liquor like me. I try to warn him not to keep pace.”

“You do this often?”

“Only when our wives let us go out and play.”

“Seems like an odd day for a play date with what happened to your coworker last night.”

He squinted his eyes at me again. “You sure don’t have a good bedside manner, coming at me with comments like that and all.”

It was a reminder that we didn’t know each other. He’d never seen me before, unless he picked me out of the crowd from last night. That seemed like forever ago at this point. Besides, with me standing next to Gina and Lynn, he’d be dumb to be checking me out instead of them if he taken the time to scan the crowd in front of him.

People dealt with tragedy in their own ways. Some mourned. Others drowned their sorrow in alcohol, like I did in the months after Autumn died.

“Sorry man. Given the gravity of the situation, that wasn’t what I was expecting you to say.”

Landon batted a hand. “Don’t worry about it. I understand where you’re coming from.”

“Were you close to Roger?”

“Are you with the hazmat team here?”

I’d forgotten what I was wearing. I almost said the hazmat suit I was wearing was to protect him from me, but I didn’t want to confuse the guy. This wasn’t a time for jokes, as much as I wanted to crack one.

“No.”

“The Feds? I’ve already talked to them at length once.”

“I’m definitely not with the FBI.” I had a momentary twinge of mental annoyance over being cast aside so quickly by Agents Miller and Hunter. Right now, it was best to be honest without being overly honest. “No, I’ve worked with local law enforcement here on murder investigations. Just wanted to ask a few quick follow-up questions. There’s no one else around us who can hear what you say.”

Not that I knew what Landon had already been asked, but I had an inkling from experience and from what Gina told me about Landon and Roger’s shared past.

He nodded, and I sat next to him. This way, we could keep the volume of the conversation down and give it a more private feel despite being in a tent big enough for a carnival.

“What do you want to know?” He brushed the hair out of his eyes. “Look, they already knew I lost my only brother because of Roger. I’d purposely tried to not to commit to any show runs since then if I knew Roger was going to be involved.”

“Why this one? Why now? A jury might think it was because you’d brooded long enough and wanted revenge.”

He sat back in the chair, aghast at what I was implying. “Look, the first thing I did when I arrived in Myrtle Beach was to seek Roger out and tell him I’d forgiven him for Joseph’s death. Roger didn’t make the choice to take the drugs. My brother did. While Roger influenced him, it was my brother’s ultimate decision to have too many snorts. Are you suggesting I poisoned Roger? I’d never heard of the rice poison before an hour ago, much less where it comes from.”

Ricin wasn’t related to the grain, but I wasn't going to correct him. It sounded like an honest statement suggesting his innocence.

“No, I’m not suggesting you did. I’m telling you how it appears to us. What will help your situation is if you have information that leads to figuring out the killer’s identity.”

“I gotta be honest. I still had a tremendous buzz when they were talking to me. I can’t remember what I said, much less if I made any sense.”

“That’s why I’m asking follow-ups. We want to cover our bases.”

“I’m feeling better now.” He took another sip of water. “Go ahead. What would you like to know?”

When Gina and I chatted about her day and everything she had learned about the performers, there were several points concerning Landon I wanted to cover. I asked about the most pressing one first, in case our conversation got cut short. “We’re trying to track everyone’s movements backstage during the show last night. I understand you saw Susan sneaking out of the men’s makeup room.”

“I did.”

“When was that?”

Landon rubbed his jaw. “It was while Victor was on stage. She was next up.”

“Followed by Roger.”

“Correct.”

“Where was everybody else?”

“Tara and the backups were in the quick-change room behind the stage. George was outside smoking a cigarette. I had just taken a leak in the bathroom in between the makeup rooms and saw her leaving ours.”

“What were you going to do next?”

“Join George outside and take a drag.”

“Did Susan seem like she was up to something?”

“Yeah. I mean, kinda. It was weird to see her coming from our room.”

“Did she notice you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What did you think she was doing in there?”

“I had no clue then Roger collapsed, and it made me think maybe she had something to do with it.”

I stared at him long enough to make him uncomfortable. I didn’t do it on purpose. I was trying to come up with what to say next.

When I didn’t talk, he stammered, “I shouldn’t have been surprised. I don’t know what all went on with Susan and Roger in the past, but man, they couldn’t stand the sight of each other. Almost as much as Tara hated Roger.”

My mind drifted during Landon’s last comment, thinking about the evidence and testimonial threads linking Susan to Roger’s murder. The tail end of what Landon said mentally grabbed me by the throat to get my attention.

Lynn had said that Tara was one of the most positive people she’d ever met, full of enthusiasm and a great vigor for life after her bout with cancer. At lunch, the detective in Gina had picked up on Tara’s resentment of Roger stemming from their time together in Vegas.

“What was Tara’s problem with Roger?”

“Do you not know?”

“Know what?”

“Tara was engaged to my brother Joseph when he died.”

Chapter Forty-Six

Iwalked away from Landon with my mind whirling.

Landon’s revelation that the Tina Turner look-alike was engaged to Landon’s brother shook everything up. Having her future husband snatched away because of Roger’s influence would have enraged me and left a hole in my heart. I’d know more than most. Joseph’s death took place a long time ago, though. Long enough for Tara to have gotten married and have two teenage daughters.

Also, what had Susan been up to in the men’s makeup room? That could explain her actions, but it seemed suspicious considering Roger’s collapse on stage. The entire time I was talking to Tara and Landon, I’d noticed Peter speaking in hushed tones on his freshly sanitized cell phone. The others had sent text messages or called loved ones, letting them know they were okay.

Peter said, “Love you too,” into his phone and ended the conversation as I passed him on my way to talk to Victor.

I would have skipped speaking to Peter if he was still on the phone and hoped I’d have time to come back to him. I didn’t want to interrupt his call. Now the opportunity presented itself.

“Hey man,” he said to me.

I stopped. “You’re Peter, right? The guy who does Michael Jackson.”

A thousand-watt smile appeared on Peter’s face. Even in this bizarre setting, he appeared to appreciate being recognized. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

“You were great last night.”

“You were there? I thought all of you just got here from Columbia today.”

He had me confused with being a member of the National Guard hazmat team. It was understandable considering how I was dressed.

“No, I’m here asking supplemental questions.” Since I’d already taken this course with Landon, I told him I worked with the MBPD and was asking follow-up questions. It wouldn’t be an outright lie if the two parts of that sentence were taken independently. “Trying to get a picture of what took place backstage during the show.”

“I read you,” Peter said. He had a soft voice hinting at a wide singing range. Like how Michael Jackson sounded. “I told them my story already.”

I held out a hand. “This won’t take long.”

He considered this. He could have told me to go dive off a cliff and ignore me if he wanted to leave it at that, but to his credit, he played along. Maybe he was bored and looking for someone to speak with.

He might have chosen the wrong conversationalist.

“Go ahead.”

“Thanks,” I said, pondering how to start. “I want to get this out of the way first.”

“What’s that?” he asked, crossing his arms.

“We’ve learned that you had a rivalry going on with Roger. That you’re a very driven person who doesn’t mind stepping on people’s toes. That you would have much preferred to be Elvis than Michael Jackson.”

He stared up at me with his mouth working back and forth. His perfectly arched eyebrows lowered. “Look, I’ll be the first to admit it. I love being Elvis more than anything. But to say I murdered him over that? That’s bull man. This was the one place where I’m not going to be Elvis, because as much as it pains me to admit it, Roger was better. I knew coming in I would not be Elvis. That’s not what Mr. Woodlock offered. I admit that I have the ambition to be the top performer with the company. You know what comes with being the headliner everywhere I go? Money. Pure and simple, but I didn’t murder him so I could ascend to the top of the totem pole. I wasn’t too much of a fan of Roger. I thought he was a fake; you know?”

“No, I don’t know. Care to enlighten me?”

“His rocky history is no secret. We all know he’s had his bumps and clashes with others over the years.” He stood up and drew close to me so others couldn’t hear. In a mocking tone, he said, “That he found Jesus and straightened out. Yeah, he might have kicked the drug habit, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still ruthless. He got to the top of this game through talent, yes, but also through cunning. It’s no secret that he didn’t play well with others.”

“Like how?”

He glanced at Victor before returning to me. “Like, he had something on Victor, man. Don’t know what it was, but he treated Victor like he was his dog. Fetch this, fetch that. Victor was always doing his bidding, but none of us knew why he would do that. It had to get on his nerves.”

“You were one of the first up, right?”

“Right after Landon and George.”

“What was going on backstage before and after you went on?”

“It’s chaotic man. Everybody is running around, either getting ready to perform, or changing costumes. Especially Tara and the backups. They go through several costume changes during the show.”

“How does that work?”

“The backups are running and in out of the quick-change area. It’s right behind the stage. They have multiple outfits. Sometimes more than one per performer. I know the girls change twice for my set. Once before I go on, and halfway through when we do Dangerous.”

“And you wore three outfits yourself, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. Two for the set. One for the finale. We have two racks in our dressing room. One for me and one for Roger. Victor, Landon, and George only wear one outfit, so they don’t need one. The girls have two racks as well. One for Susan and Tara. Tara is not only running the show on stage, but it’s her responsibility to make sure everyone’s costumes are in place behind the stage when they’re needed.”

“Isn’t there a stage manager?”

“There is.”

“Shouldn’t that be his responsibility?”

“Naw. We are the stagehands as well. He’s too busy making sure everyone hits their cues, along with the audio and lighting part. He’s mostly stage left. The makeup rooms where we keep our costumes are all the way on the opposite side. That’s why Tara runs that part.”

I tried to picture the chaos that occurs backstage during shows based on Peter’s description. He might have revealed a crucial piece of information. If this was the case, then Susan wasn’t the only woman who could have been in the men’s makeup room minutes before Roger’s death. Could that have been the moment she set her plan to murder Roger in motion?

“Does Tara go into your makeup room to get your clothing racks?”

“No. We bring them into the hall before we go on. It’s her job to run down and grab them so she can put them behind the stage.”

“Then she wouldn’t have been in your dressing room last night?”

“There would have been no reason for her to.”

“Did you see her go in?”

“No, but I saw Susan do it.”

Chapter Forty-Seven

There she was again. Susan. Everything about what happened to Roger seemed to circle back to her. They had a shaky past and a recent argument. She told Gina that her last words to Roger were that she hoped he was dead. Peter was the second person to mention seeing Susan sneaking around during the show.

I stood near the corner of the tent, watching everyone, while attempting to assemble the pieces of the puzzle in my head.

If Susan murdered Roger, where did that leave Bonnie? We’d yet to uncover any clues linking her to the former concierge. The one connection I could make was that it was a five-minute drive between Ocean Lakes and Seagate Village. The trip might have gone faster than during the time of night when her murder took place. Of all the performers, Susan was the only one who lived away from the theater. Mr. Woodlock had put everyone else up at the Myrtlewood Villas, where they were clustered together. If one of them were sneaking around after the show that late, they took the risk of being seen by the others in bloody clothes. Being away from them all, Susan could have gone back to her RV, changed clothes, and dumped them in one of the many trash receptacles scattered around Ocean Lakes. A forensics team might find traces of Bonnie’s blood in her RV if it came to it. Susan could have disposed of the clothing and washed herself raw, but if she wore the clothes inside the small domicile, then traces of blood had to be somewhere there.

What I couldn’t get my head around was the Bonnie element. Why would Susan murder Bonnie and then Roger a few nights later? I hesitated when the thought occurred to me. It made much more sense if two people were involved.

I peeled away from the corner and approached Victor. He hadn’t moved from his seat, nor made eye contact with anyone. He looked and sounded like one of my childhood rock idols; I started taking shallow breaths. Blood rushed through my ears.

When I was discussing the case at Mom’s house at the dining room table, and talked about the person the dog walker in Seagate Village had seen the night of Bonnie’s death, it was Timmy who astutely pointed out that, of all the people in this tent with me, only one person fit the woman’s description.

Victor.

Before I reached him, the tent flaps parted ways. Waning sunlight streamed in with orange hues. Agents Hunter and Paulson, Detective Jones, and the two newest detectives on the MBPD, Dame and Battles entered the tent.

They scanned the tent’s interior until Battles spotted me. He said something, and they turned my way. With my heart rate already speeding along as I prepared to talk to Victor, it increased again, threatening to pound a hole through my chest.

Hunter crooked a finger, motioning for me to follow them outside the tent.

Before I talked to Victor about Roger and last night’s events, I changed course to follow my summoners.

I was tiring of wearing this hazmat suit. It was like being in my little bubble on a foreign planet. All the locals breathed open air, while I was confined to smelling my deodorant, shoes, and whatever chemical residue was left over from cleaning the suit after its previous use.

The flap closed by the time I reached it. They waited for me outside. I used an arm to draw it aside so I could exit. I turned, and with fingers clumsy from the mitts over my hands, zipped it back up. The flurry of activity transpiring when I’d entered the tent had died down. With the initial scans of the theater complete, they awaited the full results.

Once outside, I peeled off the suit and hung it on a rack next to the tent entrance and took a deep breath. The air smelled of rubber, vehicle exhaust, and an alpine fragrance emanating from the tall pines surrounding the area. I almost missed smelling myself inside the suit.

My phone buzzed. I took it out and squinted at the screen. It was a message from Bo with an Instagram link attached. I sent him a TY.

I tapped the URL, and the app opened on my phone to a specific photo. The app was preloaded on the new phone I’d purchased after my other one busted during my last investigation before leaving for St. Grant’s. If it weren’t for that, I wouldn’t bother with it. Winona ran the social media accounts for both bookstores. I didn’t have a personal Instagram account but was signed in under the separate store ones. Since I’d last been on there to check the notifications for Garden City Reads, that’s the account I used to open Bo’s link.

The caption read:

Takin' a little break from the spotlight to bask in the natural beauty of Branson! 🌳✨ There's nothing like the great outdoors with these amazing friends. After all, even Dolly needs a moment to soak up the scenery and enjoy some fresh air. 🌟🐦

#NatureLovers #BransonAdventures #LegendsTheater #DollyParton #FreshAirAndFun #BackToNature

The tagged location was Table Rock State Park. I switched over to the maps app to see where it was. The park was located to the southwest of Branson, Missouri. I wondered if Andrea knew of this park with that being her home state and all. Legends had a theater there.

Someone had taken a picture this past spring of Susan with two of her fellow cast mates. In the background was the edge of a pine forest alongside a placid lake. Sunlight streaked through the trees. The photo showed blurred images of sunbathers and lake swimmers. Susan stood between them. They all wore smiles and sunglasses. All appeared content. The man on Susan’s right was of average height, possessing short, dark curly hair and a slender build. It took a moment, but I recognized him as Peter. The man on the other side was tall, skinny, and had long, dark hair. It was Victor.

Bo sent me this picture for a reason. Susan said the cast members at Legends cycled in and out of the various theater locations throughout the year on five-month contracts. With so many theaters under the Legends umbrella, it was possible she might not see these friends for several years. Like here, where she hadn’t seen Roger in years. For others, decades went by without crossing paths with old friends.

Or in this case, enemies.

It wasn’t the performers in the photo's focus Bo wanted me to see. It had to have something to do with the background. The scenery. I squinted and found it. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end.

I was still putting together the pieces, but one thing was clear.

This all began by a lake outside Branson.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Like Clark, Gomez was trying to work through everyone’s movements during the show. From an outsider’s perspective, the entire production could resemble controlled chaos. Performers in costume, partial costume, backup singers, and stage crew rush this way and that to bring audiences an entertaining experience every night.

There are no cameras backstage because of privacy concerns. The backup singer/dancers are constantly changing costumes, either in the quick-change room or out in the hall behind the stage.

The hazmat team discovered traces of ricin in three places, but not the source. If the murderer was intelligent enough to pull off obtaining and/or producing an illegal substance like ricin, then they were smart enough to not leave a bottle lying around containing it. Gomez would call it into question if they did. Why would a killer plan this out to the smallest detail and make the error of leaving the smoking gun somewhere that implicated them?

Traces of the toxin were found at Susan, Roger, Victor, and Landon’s stations, but not the source. One of Susan’s allegedly stolen oven mitts was found under Landon’s makeup desk, covered in ricin. As one member of the opening act, Landon had a long break between coming off stage and reappearing later for the grand finale. Enough time to implement his plan to murder Roger. A man whose actions led to Landon’s brother’s death. If it was him, why leave the mitt at his station? In the calamity of what ended the show and the rush to get all the performers out the door, Landon might have forgotten about grabbing the mitt before leaving. If so, it made little sense to Gomez why he didn’t get back in until after she, Lynn, and Susan left Peter’s villa to come here. If he’d realized his mistake, he should have been trying to get back in as soon as possible. They didn’t make it a secret as to their next destination.

He could have been so hammered that he wasn’t thinking straight. Landon may have realized after they left Peter’s what they might find.

Ricin wasn’t something typically tested for during an autopsy, which was why its use as a murder weapon could go undetected.

That brought a question to mind. Gomez was well aware this was the reason no one suspected that Clark’s wife was poisoned. Her death was made to look like a heart attack. She had a pre-existing medical condition which made her cause of death appear natural.

She and Agent Miller stood at the entrance to the men’s makeup room. She asked, “What made the ME check for ricin? That’s not normal for someone who appeared to die of a heart attack. Did they find something?”

“Your local medical examiner must be good at her job. She noticed unusual nasal inflammation during her initial exam and requested a toxicology workup. She thought it might have been cocaine, or coke laced with fentanyl, but it led her to discovering ricin.”

“Got it. She is good. I’ve worked with her before in the past.”

Gomez tapped her foot and regarded this men’s makeup room side in a new light, knowing where they discovered traces of ricin. Warning signs and tape covered Landon’s spot in the back corner. Roger and Victor’s stations were side-by-side against the far wall opposite the entrance. The hazmat team didn’t bother segregating each one individually. One large plastic sheet was taped into place,covering their spaces. A biohazard sign was taped to the middle of the opaque plastic for good measure.

“Explain to me where they found it over there?”

There wasn’t much need to refer to the toxin as “ricin” every time. Everyone in the vicinity of the Legends Theater now knew any reference to “it” meant ricin.

“It was all around the case where Roger had the belt buckle on loan from Graceland. We traced it from there in a line to Victor’s side.”

Gomez continued to tap her biceps with a finger. “Which suggests Victor or someone else set the source of it on his station, got what they needed, and reached across to sprinkle it on the belt buckle.”

“We believe they used the oven mitt to do it and stashed it under Landon’s station.”

“Isn’t that a little clumsy? Pinching the powder between the thumb and finger parts of the oven mitt?”

“Doesn’t mean that wasn’t how it was done. The powder was all over those two specific areas of the glove.”

“Noted. Susan said those mitts were stolen from her RV.”

“That’s what she told us.”

“But you don’t believe her?”

Miller turned to Gomez. “In light of hearing about her fight and history with Roger and her sneaking in here during the show, do you believe her?”

“I don’t believe anything until I know it’s the truth.”

Miller smirked. “You’re a shrewd customer, alright.”

“I’m not sure what you mean, but I’ll take it as a compliment.” Gomez turned back to the makeup room. With her experience and from what she learned while dating a lead forensic technician, she knew her next question might be for nothing, but it was worth asking. “So, Susan, Victor, Landon, or someone else comes in and dusts the belt buckle with the powder using the oven mitt. Have they pulled prints off the mitt?”

“We have someone working on that right now.”

“Your answer to all of this could be inside that mitt.”

"If anyone besides Susan’s prints turns up there. Even if no one else’s does, that still doesn’t preclude any of them from using it. They could have been wearing gloves inside the mitt. Even if we can get the prints, it's tough to have them admitted in court. They have strict standards, but I can assure you that we’re following them here.”

“It’s worth testing. What about the other glove Susan said was stolen? They came as a set allegedly. It was found in Bonnie Loudermilk’s kitchen. Have you factored her murder into this?”

“We are now.”

“Did they find any prints on that mitt?”

“Only Susan’s.”

“And she’s staying near there at Ocean Lakes. Find traces of ricin at Bonnie’s place?”

“No, but I don’t think it was checked for that.”

“I think you’ll find traces of it or castor beans there.”

Miller cocked an eyebrow. “Traces, but not the source?”

Gomez pressed her lips together. “No, I believe she brought castor beans back with her from Hawaii and someone murdered her for them to cover their tracks.”

“What makes you think this?”

“From a photo in her Instagram feed Clark discovered. It showed her in the jungle a few days before she came back with a waterfall behind her. Castor plants were visible in the picture.”

“How did he know what castor plants look like?”

She hunched her shoulders. “Google, I guess. You really shouldn’t discount Clark on matters such as these, despite his lack of official training.”

Miller smoothed his mustache. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Have you had time to go over Bonnie’s call logs while in Hawaii?”

“As her murder recently came to our attention, no. We haven’t, but we will.”

Gomez folded her arms and tapped a finger on her biceps. “I’m not sure the murderer would have been dumb enough to call or text her from their personal phone. Keep an eye out for calls originating from this theater.”

They spent another minute in the men’s makeup room before leaving the same way they came in, passing the bulletin board.

Gomez stopped and studied the fantasy football sign-up sheet, focusing on the names, and specifically, the styles of handwriting. One looked familiar, but she wanted to be sure.

Miller walked a few steps ahead before realizing Gomez had stopped. He turned back. “Everything okay?”

Gomez held up a hand to him while she tried to focus. “Give me a minute.”

She dashed back to the men’s makeup room and flipped on the light. After navigating around the costume rack, she stopped in front of Victor’s station and reached out to grab the note before stopping. Her old crime scene training kicked in. She searched around Victor’s station but didn’t see what she needed before poking her head around at Peter’s side. Bingo. She grabbed a tissue from a box and returned to Victor’s.

Using the tissue to keep her fingerprints from getting on the note, she plucked it from under the ring stand and returned to the bulletin board. She unfolded the note and held it up to the fantasy football sign-up sheet, comparing handwriting.

The author of the note belonged to the third person on the list.

Except for one letter, she matched all the others. Four letters in the name on the board were used in the message. The small r was the same. As were the o, g, and e. The only letter not used in the threatening note was the first one in the name. A capital R.

A chill went down Gomez’s spine as she considered her next move.

Chapter Forty-Nine

Gina, Susan, and Landon remained at the theater to be monitored in case symptoms of ricin poisoning appeared. Gina was also helping with the investigation. This wasn’t how she wanted to do it, but I could tell before we returned to Myrtle Beach and talked about what she wanted to do with her life, now that she was no longer a detective with the police department, that she didn’t have taking up a new hobby in mind to pass the time.

She was born and raised to be a detective, like her dad. She talked glowingly about how he used to tell her about the cases he investigated when she was a little girl, leaving out names and gory details. It fascinated her that an outsider could walk into a crime scene and construct what happened by collecting evidence and speaking to suspects and witnesses. Every crime was a puzzle needing to be solved, and she lived to solve puzzles.

Gina did that every day for years. She didn’t close all the cases, but almost all. She got to experience the feeling over and over. Then it was gone as quick as the bullet that slammed into her shoulder, leaving a chasm in her life.

She wasn’t going back into law enforcement. The bullet made it so she couldn’t fire a firearm anymore. If she went back, she’d end up working behind a desk. She hated the idea.

When I came into the tent and saw her this afternoon and talked to her about these two murders, there was a light in her eyes I hadn’t seen since the fateful day months ago at my bookstore.

It made me feel good to be challenged to solve a murder, catch the bad guy (or gal), and see that the victim’s family got closure.

Gina lived for this.

We’d figure out how to use her talents as we embarked on this new life together.

There’d be time.

After we figured out who murdered Bonnie and Roger.

I took Lynn back to Mom and Dad’s and picked up a sleeping Timmy. He’d had an adventurous day and fell asleep on Bo’s couch while playing Mario Kart. I deposited them at my house and headed up Kings Highway.

It was after ten, and I had someone to meet. A person I had yet to speak with who might prove instrumental in solving this case.

***

There are two Hooters restaurants in Myrtle Beach. One at the North Myrtle Beach Mall, which was a misnomer. The mall was technically in Briarcliffe Acres. Long-time residents referred to it as the Briarcliff Mall.

That there were two of the notorious restaurants so close together might surprise tourists who paid attention to such details during their visits. A little-known fact was that the former owner of Hooters, Robert H. Brooks, lived at an enormous estate in The Dunes and died of a heart attack in his home in 2006. Geographically, his home sat between both restaurants.

I was headed for the Hooters located off 38th Ave N between the Spy Glass Mini Golf, a Neighborhood Wal-Mart, and another local favorite eatery of mine, Burky’s Grill. It was funny how businesses settled into the area with the mixture of places where kids and dads could have fun. Just maybe not in the same spot. For men who’d come to the Grand Strand for a guy’s weekend or to golf without their ladies, many of them ended up at Hooters.

I wasn’t sure if Victor would be here or not, but it was worth a shot. I wasn’t exactly going to knock on his door. Gina told me he liked to come here for half-price appetizers and women after shows. They may not have had a show this evening, but he’d had a day of possibly mourning the loss of a coworker, getting checked out by the hazmat team, and then questioned about a potential role in Roger’s murder.

If he was there, I’d go in with the same backstory as I did before when speaking to the others in the tent. I worked with the police and wanted to ask some follow-up questions. Like with the others I’d already spoken to, I was aware of what they might have asked him, but I had information they might not have. Sure, I could—and should have—told Battles and Dame what I learned from the dog walker in Seagate Village, but the way the two FBI agents blew me off ruffled my feathers.

Yes, I wasn't a trained detective, but it didn’t mean that I wasn’t competent. Agents Miller and Hunter had SLED agent Paulson with them. I met her after my house burned down. She had been impressed with what I’d done in solving previous cases and the work I’d done to that point in investigating a three-year-old cold case involving my wife’s death. A case where no one suspected that she’d been murdered. I wonder if Paulson went to bat for me after they gave me the cold shoulder.

Either way, it upset me even though it shouldn’t have. I can’t control what others do. Only what I do. And yes, it might be my ego talking, but I wanted to prove to them I could be helpful, even if it meant I could be arrested for hindering an investigation by withholding evidence and speaking to suspects.

Like Gina coming back and trying to figure out a direction in her life, it struck me after going to both of my bookstores and seeing how they were thriving without me, that maybe I wasn’t needed there. I could spend my time and efforts doing something else. Yes, my bank account kept growing without lifting a finger because of book sales. I could grab a chair and plop my behind on the beach every day and count the dollar signs.

But that wasn’t how I was wired. I had to be active in something.

Like now.

There were five cars parked in front of and beside Hooters. This was to be expected this late during the waning travel season. I wasn’t aware whether Victor owned a vehicle or if he grabbed an Uber to shuttle him from the theater or his villa. If Landon owned a minivan, I envisioned where he might drive them all from Myrtlewood to the Theater and back. Then Victor wouldn’t need a car. These performers came from all over the country. I learned many of them flew into the airport with only their luggage and costumes, grabbing rides whenever possible.

It was a clear night. The brightest stars twinkled above the light pollution. The air didn’t move. For once, the humidity didn’t bother me. The aromas of chicken wings from Hooters and burgers from Burky’s mixed in the air. I doubted I’d break bread with Victor if he were here. If he wasn’t, I might help myself to a platter of juicy wings for old time’s sake.

I walked in and as the door closed behind me, all three waitresses shouted, “Welcome to Hooters!” before going back to their duties. Two of them were at the rear of the restaurant near a serving window on the right-hand wall, hula hooping in front of camera and ring light casting a perfect glow on their shapely bodies.

At this time of the evening, the workers far outnumbered the patrons. The interior of the restaurant had shiny wood floors and shiplap walls with large screen TVs all showing various sports programming spaced three feet apart. Industrial wire lighting hung above the main area of the dining room. The lights glowed with red, blue, yellow, and clear bulbs. Upbeat light rock music played from the speakers. Most of the seating was high-top tables. Normal height tables lay mostly toward the back of the restaurant, away from the bar.

To my right was a three-sided bar with a brick accent wall past it. Liquor was lined up behind the bar on a counter. A small Red Bull cooler sat beside the hard liquor.

There, I spotted my quarry.

The hostess stand stood directly in front of the main entrance. A glass case underneath held various Hooters themed souvenirs and a calendar. I fought the temptation to buy Timmy a stuffed Hooters owl. Lynn might not appreciate it.

A perky young blonde with long hair and legs, wearing a low-cut white Hooters baby tee shirt and bright orange peekaboo shorts, hustled to the counter and flashed a wide smile.

“Hey dear. Is it just you? Table or booth?”

“No thanks,” I said. “I see who I’m here for.”

“Okay, dear,” she said as I headed right toward the bar.

I passed two older men huddled together at a table, watching a video on a phone. Loud music sounding like it came from a low budget TV show in the 70s blared from the unit’s tiny speaker. I couldn’t tell if they liked to jam to the tune or if their hearing aids needed turning up.

Victor sat on a stool at the corner of the bar on the opposite end of the restaurant. He had a good view of everyone, and everyone had a good view of him. A sweaty glass of water and a half-eaten plate of wings sat before him.

Our eyes met, and he glanced away. For Victor, it was slim pickings because of the scarcity of ladies in the building out of a Hooters’ uniform.

I walked to the bar, taking a spot, leaving a courtesy barstool between us. Close enough to talk without others hearing us. The bartender was at the other end of the counter, drying glasses from an under-counter glass washer machine.

“What took you so long?” Victor said as I settled in.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“I saw you talking to everyone else earlier. I felt left out when you didn’t speak to me.”

“You seemed like you were keeping to yourself.”

“I was trying to.”

He surprised me by launching the first salvo. I hadn’t expected that. I’d rehearsed in my head how I was going to go about this conversation on the way here. He’d thrown me off my game.

If Victor wanted to chat about what happened, several outcomes were likely. He could help me pin down the killer, could open more avenues for investigation, or say something to incriminate himself. I had Officers Dame and Battles on speed dial if the latter part of those scenarios came into play.

“Do you not like your co-performers?” I asked.

He sipped from the glass and answered, “It’s not that I don’t like them, but I like to lie low when I’m around them.”

“Gina tells me you come here after shows for the half-price apps and to pick up women. I wouldn’t call that lying low.”

He perked up. “You’re one lucky cat.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Your girl is one hot lady.”

My face reddened. It wasn’t meant as a compliment to me, but it was something men do when they acknowledge a guy has a beautiful partner.

“Thank you. If you know I’m with Gina, then you might know what we do.”

“She mentioned she used to be a cop. You too?”

“No, but I’ve helped her solve murders.”

He studied at me with a blank expression, as most people do when I mention that little factoid about myself. It’s not something you hear every day. He appeared to weigh his thoughts. Victor might not look, act, or sound like it, but I could tell he possessed a sharp mind behind the long hair and bangs. You can’t tell a book by its cover.

Was he sharp enough to plan and execute these murders? That was the question I hoped to answer by the time I left here.

He grabbed a tater tot off his plate and stuffed it in his mouth as the bartender approached us. She was tall and curvy, with long brown hair and expressive green eyes. Her smile revealed perfectly straight teeth and cute dimples on both cheeks.

“Doing alright, Victor?”

“Sure am, Savannah.”

She turned to appraise me. “Can I get you anything, handsome? Half priced appetizers right now. Dine-in only.”

My cheeks turned red again. After the day I’d had, I wanted a beer. Gina mentioned Victor didn’t drink, which explained the glass water in his hand rather than a beer bottle.

“Nothing for now. I’ll order wings if I decide to stay longer.”

Her lips curved downward. I understood why. If I didn’t get anything, then there wouldn’t be a bill. If there wasn’t a bill, then she’d get no tip.

I reached in my pocket, pulled out a Hamilton, and slid it across the bar to her. “This is to give us a few minutes of privacy.”

She reached down, plucked the $10 from the counter, and stuffed it down her shirt. “Let me know if you need anything.”

We watched her walk to the other end and greet three guys wearing golf polos who plopped down on stools while she spoke to us.

“That’s nice of you,” Victor said. “Tipping Savannah for just saying hello. I’m sure she appreciates it.”

“Know her well?”

He glanced in her direction. “Yeah. Sweet girl. Worked here for three years. Trains the waitstaff during the day and tends the bar at night. Divorced. Has a daughter. Lives with her mom. The daddy is locked up at a Correctional Center in Bennettsville. We chat when she gets bored.”

“Have you two ever. . .” I wiggled my eyebrows.

“No, never. Her little girl needs a daddy, and that’s not going to be me. I ain’t settling down anytime soon.”

“Others in your theater have families.”

“Yeah, but they’re older than me. I’m not even in my mid-thirties yet. I still want to have fun and not be bogged down by the old ball and chain, if you know what I mean.”

“I got married when I was in my twenties,” I said. “I hadn’t intended to, but the right girl came along.”

“I respect that.” He picked up a wing and tore off a chunk. Sauce dripped onto his plate. “We both know you didn’t come here to talk about relationships. You were asking questions to everyone else in the tent, so I know why you sought me out.”

“Why’s that?”

“You think I murdered Bonnie.”

Chapter Fifty

What I found most interesting about his statement was that he mentioned Bonnie and not Roger. I tried not to focus on the omission, but I would get to the Elvis impersonator later.

“What makes you say that?” I asked, trying to play it cool, but inside my heart was racing. I tried to collect myself. He’d already thrown me off when I sat down. He could be trying to keep me discombobulated to hide something. Like murder.

“Because she ratted me out.”

There he went again. Another surprise. If I played ignorant, he’d be able to keep me in the dark what it was Bonnie ratted him out for. But if I played along. . .

“Yeah, we caught wind of it,” I said, keeping the subject obscured.

He puckered his lips and swore under his breath. “How did you find out? Who told you? Must be Susan.”

The surprises kept coming. I felt like I stepped into an advanced physics classroom, thinking it was supposed to be an art class instead. None of what he was saying made sense. At least not yet.

“I’m not saying.”

He clinched a fist on the bar and tightened his lips. Took a cleansing breath and released the fist. “No matter. It is what it is. There ain’t nothing I can do about it. Does Mr. or Mrs. Woodlock know?”

Now it made sense about what he was referring to. I shook my head. “No.”

He breathed a sigh of relief.

I wasn’t letting him off the hook. Although I didn’t know why Victor was being blackmailed, I had an inkling. “Susan caught you using, didn’t she?”

“No. She didn’t. Roger did at the same time as Bonnie. Susan found out about it the other night at her RV.”

“Was that what they were fighting about?”

“Mm-hmm. He was telling her about this sudden influx of money he had and how he could take her anywhere in the world if she’d go with him. She asked him where the money came from. We all have a general idea of what each other makes. We get paid well. Roger made more than anyone, but she knew it wasn’t enough for him to be rolling in the dough.”

“And he told her?”

“He said it slipped. She had some choice words for him. She was red hot. Even though we don’t know each other well, we watch each other’s backs.”

“Even if it means one of you is using, and therefore violating, your contract?”

“Yes. Even then.”

“Let me guess. His sudden transfusion of money came from blackmailing you?”

“Probably so.”

“Here’s another guess,” I said. “Call it a strong hunch.”

“What’s that?”

“Gina told me about your conversation with her earlier and how you fast during the day and come here for cheap food in the evenings. Is it because you don’t have any money? Was Roger taking it all?”

He closed his eyes, breathed in, and nodded. “He only left me enough to pay bills and eat. There’s no extra.”

“When would the blackmail have ended?”

“When we went our separate ways.”

“How did you know he’d keep his mouth shut?”

“I didn't. I had to trust him.”

“Could he be trusted?”

“Roger? No, but what was I to do? Once he and Bonnie caught me, it was out of my control.”

“How did he and Bonnie catch you?”

“A couple of weeks after we arrived. I warm up my voice twice on the night of the shows. Once before it starts, and once again after Tara takes the stage. The first time, I go outside and do it. I go up into the mezzanine behind the stage the second time. No one can hear me up there because of the band playing.”

He looked away, embarrassed at what he was about to say. “I like to smoke a joint before I take the stage. To mellow me out, ya know?”

“Sure.”

“This was like the second night we played here. Roger saw me go upstairs the first night, and then again on the second night and was curious about what I was doing. He and Bonnie became friends the last time he played in Myrtle Beach, so they followed me up and caught me red-handed.”

“Weren’t you afraid you’d get caught?”

“Yeah. I was, but my anxiety overrides that.”

I wasn’t here to debate the rights and wrongs of smoking weed. I was here to find a killer.

Adrenaline coursed through my veins. He'd revealed the connection between Bonnie and Roger.

“So that’s where Bonnie comes into this. She and Roger catch you, and then both die.”

“Appears so.”

“Then why did you specifically mention that I might suspect you murdered Bonnie earlier and not Roger?”

He scratched the bar with his ring finger. “I’m not sure. I guess it would make more sense. Bonnie wasn’t going to say anything, but it was Roger who took advantage of me.”

“From my perspective, if Roger was blackmailing you over drug use, that’s a powerful motive for murder. And if Bonnie was aware of the situation, then that could come back to bite you as well.”

“Dude. You just described my last five months in a nutshell. I’ve lived in fear this entire time. If I lose this job, I’ve got nothing.”

“You could go out west or to Europe and start an Aerosmith or Motley Crue tribute band. The House of Blues packs the house with bands like that. I know some of them travel the country, selling out shows in small venues, even though they’re not the real thing. I saw you on stage last night. You do Steven Tyler so well that I’m sure you’d do the same.”

He leaned away and chewed on a thumbnail. His head bobbed up and down slowly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“But first.” I held up a finger. “You have to prove you’re not guilty of murder. We searched through your Instagram feed and found a picture of you, Susan, and Landon by a lake near Branson.”

“Yeah. That was from this past spring. What about it?”

“The toxin that killed Roger, ricin, comes from the castor plant. You were standing next to them in the photo.”

His mouth fell open. He pulled out his phone and tapped and swiped on the screen until he found the photo. He held up the phone and pointed at the plants in the background. “You mean this stuff?”

“Yes.”

Victor turned the phone for a closer look. “I had no idea what that stuff was. I thought it was just an ugly plant.”

He sounded genuine.

“Yeah,” I said. “Those prickly berries on there? They’re where ricin comes from. They’re extremely hazardous.”

“No way.” His large mouth hadn’t closed as he studied the picture. “That would explain it.”

“Explain what?”

“After I posted the photo, I saw Susan go back and pick a few. She was sick for a few days and missed two shows.”

I didn’t respond for a minute. Victor seemed to lose interest in the conversation and stuffed his face with wings and tots.

As I ran through the scenarios surrounding Bonnie and Roger’s deaths, Victor interrupted my thoughts with another bombshell.

“Oh yeah,” he said.

“Oh yeah, what?”

He crammed another tot in his mouth. “The other night. At Susan’s.”

“What about it?”

“Susan wasn’t the only person Roger got into a fight with. He almost came to blows with someone else.”

I leaned forward. “Tell me everything you know.”

Chapter Fifty-One

Ipaid Victor’s tab and left another generous tip for Savannah. He’d filled in a blank that cracked this thing wide open. Just not the blank I’d been thinking of.

Outside the restaurant, I climbed into the Jeep and called Gina and told her about my discussion with Victor. Gina told me to hang on until she walked away from everyone to a corner of the quiet tent for privacy. Miller had told her that her part in the investigation was finished. They could take it from there. She said they’d told her to go sit with Susan and Landon while monitoring them for signs of ricin poisoning.

Someone from the local PD went across the street to Broadway at the Beach and brought everyone burgers from Wahlburgers. They have good grub, but I’m not sure I’d want Marky Mark’s food as possibly my last meal.

Gina said the buzz had died down. The hazmat team finished scanning the building, uncovering nothing further. Now, their job was to sterilize the areas where they’d found ricin.

We discussed the ins and outs of both cases, telling her I’d figured out who did it and why, but I wasn’t going to hand the Fibbies the result on a silver platter after the way they brushed me off. I’d do it my way, which meant gathering all the suspects together. Since half of them were already in the tent or a mile down the road at the Myrtlewood villas, that shouldn’t be too difficult. She said she’d speak to the FBI agents and Chief Miller and get back to me.

I asked her how she was doing, and she said, “Fine, considering the situation.”

I ended the call and stared out the windshield at the Hooters entrance. Victor came out alone and stood by the front door, looking in both directions. I rolled down my window and called out to him. “Need a ride?”

He hustled across the parking lot and climbed into the passenger seat. “Thanks, man. Not much action tonight. Hard to catch a ride.”

“Do you normally grab a taxi to get back to your place?”

He grinned. “No. I’m usually in a cute filly’s car heading to her hotel room or my place.”

“Oh,” I said, putting the Jeep in gear.

“Know where I live?”

“Yeah. Gina told me.”

“Great.” He settled back in his seat and closed his eyes.

The long day for Victor was about to get longer.

***

Gina messaged me, letting me know they were going to go along with my plan. I called Battles and put in a request. He said he needed time to fulfill it, but he and Detective Dame would see me there with the guests they needed to pick up.

The next time Victor opened his eyes, we were parked in the Carolina Ale House parking lot next to the theater.

“What are we doing here?” he asked.

“I got a message from these folks. They said they needed to go over something with you. Shouldn’t take long.”

He hesitated before reaching for the door handle, looking out the window of the Legends façade rising above what looked like a war zone with tents and National Guard vehicles.

“I told them all I know,” he said.

“Don’t know what to tell you. I’m just following instructions. It’s probably something simple.”

“O-kay.” He opened the door and climbed out.

I joined him, and we walked across the parking lot to the big tent at the rear of the building. It was after midnight on one of the longest and most interesting days of my life. What started with dread at spending the afternoon alone with a seven-year-old I’d known for two days ended here. Truth be told, I greatly enjoyed my time with Timmy, and it gave me a glimpse of what it might be like to be a dad someday. I think I’d enjoy it.

The air was crisp. Cars hummed down the Bypass. City lights shined. Victor grew quiet as we marched.

Now, I understood what it was like for a farmer to lead a cow to the slaughterhouse.

Chapter Fifty-Two

Gina messaged me on my way here. She said when she told Agents Miller and Hunter about my request to gather everyone together, Miller joked that I thought I was some brilliant detective like Hercule Poirot or Sherlock Holmes. He said he’d give me a shot, though. If my help ended up with figuring out who did it, all the better. Then he could get back to his family in DC.

They’d found enough chairs for everyone to sit. Most were separated from Susan, Landon, and Gina because of finding ricin on them. They hadn’t outright arrested Susan or Landon because they’d yet to figure out how they did it. If they did it.

Only I knew the guilty party.

Scattered around the tent’s interior were the suspects. To the right side of the ricin crew were the Blues Brothers, Landon and George; Peter Avis, otherwise known as Michael Jackson; Tara Mabelah aka Tina Turner; the Dolly Parton impersonator, Susan, and Victor, a near exact clone of my Steve Tyler hero. To the left side sat Mr. and Mrs. Woodlock, Lynn, Bonnie’s husband Kirk, and someone else no one in the tent had laid eyes on before Battles brought her in—the wide-eyed dog walker, Betsy, from Seagate Village with her small dog, Mema, tucked under her arm.

Their entrance brought a murmur of anticipation.

Battles led Betsy and Mema to a chair off to the side.

I walked over and thanked her for coming. “You’re going to help us catch your neighbor’s killer.”

She held the dog in her lap. Mema’s eyes were closed. The harsh lighting glared off Betsy’s eyeglasses as she nodded. “Anything I can do to help.”

I squeezed her shoulder and strode to the front of the arrangement of chairs where Agents Hunter, Miller, and Paulson were gathered with Gina, Chief Miller and Detective Jones.

I came in on Miller as he spoke to the Chief in mid-sentence. “. . . and you trust him on this?”

The Chief glanced over Miller’s shoulder at me approaching. She looked back into his eyes. “Yes. Clark has experience in doing this and has helped us solve murders we otherwise would have needed help with from SLED.”

“Him doing this,” Paulson added, “freed up man-hours for us to concentrate on other important investigations.”

I stopped and stood beside Gina. Agent Miller said to me, “They’ve been hyping you up. I hope you got this right. This is unorthodox, but I’ll humor you.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Do you know who did it?”

He and Hunter glanced at each other. “Not yet, but we have a few we’re focused on. If you get this wrong—”

Hunter snickered. I gave him a dirty look.

Miller stopped, let the moment pass, and continued. “If you get this wrong, we’re hoping something good will come of your performance and the killer will put their proverbial foot in their proverbial mouth.”

It was clear they didn’t have high hopes in my ability. There was nothing to do but to prove them wrong.

I said, “Ready when you are.”

Miller gestured to the gathering. “You have the floor.”

I turned and walked over to where I was front and center. The two Millers, Gina, Jones, and Hunter spread out behind me. Gina stood diagonally to my left.

This was now the seventh time I’d stood in front or with a group of suspects and authorities to reveal a killer. It made me nervous every time. The first time I did this, I got it wrong and pointed the finger at a person who was confirmed to be thirty-five thousand feet in the air at the time of the murder. Everyone laughed at me. The guy I pinned the crime on was now one of my best friends. It’s funny how life works.

I glanced out at the people gathered in front of me. Everyone appeared tired. I felt it myself. I should’ve grabbed a coffee at Hooters.

“Hi everyone,” I said, projecting my voice so everyone could hear. “For those of you who I haven’t spoken to, my name is Clark Thomas. I own two bookstores and solve murders.”

It seemed like a ludicrous thing to say as the words came out of my mouth, but it was the truth. My introduction caused a few perplexed looks and shifting in seats. I paid close attention to the seat shifters.

Everyone's droopy eyes and glazed looks informed me that this wasn't the time to go into a long-winded speech. I’d try to keep this short.

“Three nights ago,” I started, “Bonnie Loudermilk was stabbed to death in her home in Seagate Village. It was late in the evening. Her husband was at work. They have no kids or pets. She had just gotten off a plane from Hawaii where she was checking out a new resort. Her job was as a concierge in the lobby of the Legends Theater for Wyndham. Everyone here knew her. She had no obvious enemies, nor did anyone witness the crime being committed.”

I shifted my eyes to Betsy off to the side. She and the dog waited patiently, although her foot tapped a steady rhythm on the pavement. I’d get to her.

“She was found dead on the kitchen floor. A glass of wine sat on the counter next to an open bottle. Another wineglass was upside down in the drying rack. An oven mitt with pink and red flowers sat on the counter next to it, in front of a knife block with an open slot. The missing knife was plunged into her back.”

A woman gasped. I wasn’t sure who.

“Let’s picture Bonnie’s evening. She gets off a plane at the airport. The sun is going down. She gets her luggage and grabs a taxi home. By then it’s dark. She gets a knock at her door. Someone knew when she’d be getting home. Bonnie lets the person in, and they open a bottle of wine to celebrate her return. Bonnie knew her killer well enough that she let the person into her house and have a glass of wine with. At some point, Bonnie turns her back. Her quote unquote friend uses an oven mitt she brought with her to grab a chef’s knife from the block and plunge it into Bonnie’s back.

“You know the saying. Only a rat would stab someone in the back. One of you is a rat.”

I paced from side to side. The motion helped me collect my thoughts while I talked and get views of everyone from various angles. My comment about rats stirred them up.

“How do we know the killer brought an oven mitt? It didn’t belong to Bonnie. It was stolen on the same night Susan had the cast over to her RV at Ocean Lakes. One of you left there and went straight to Seagate Village less than ten minutes away and committed murder.”

The celebrity impersonators cast suspicious glances at each other.

I sensed Gomez pulling out her phone and tapping on the screen.

“Then, two nights later.” I pointed toward the theater outside the tent. “Another murder was committed in this building using a highly toxic poison known as ricin. I was in the crowd a few rows back from the center of the stage when Roger Westhale collapsed and was taken to the hospital where he later died.

“The methods used in both murders are vastly different, but because they happened so close together and to two people who worked in the same building, albeit in different areas, there must be a connection. Coincidences in murder investigations are scrutinized with a microscope. Quirks like that don’t happen. There had to be a connection. One thing led to another.

“I never met Roger, but from the way he’s been talked about, he seemed like a devil with a god complex.” I paused.

The ones who had known Roger the longest, Landon, Tara, George, Mr. and Mrs. Woodlock, nodded in agreement with my assessment.

I continued, “He thought he should be treated specially when he first latched on with Legends in Concert. He had this mentality that everyone should treat him a certain way because of who he was on stage. I’m no psychologist, but he must have had this misplaced sense of self-importance because of the character he was playing.” Heads bobbed. “Am I right?”

“Hit the nail on the head,” Tara said.

I tipped my head as a thank you to her and walked a few paces to my left where Landon and George sat close together. “He was also a bad influence back then, into the Vegas scene with drugs, partying, and women. Isn’t that right, Landon?”

He sat up uncomfortably in his chair after being singled out. “Correct.”

“How so?”

“It was because of him that my brother is dead.”

Betsy was the only person in the room who wasn’t aware of this. In fact, she knew nothing except for what she saw while walking Mema the night of Bonnie’s death. She had such a sharp intake of breath that it caused a few to look her way.

“Sorry,” she said.

“No worries,” I said and turned back to Landon. “You and your brother, Joseph, were originally partnered with Legends as the Blues Brothers, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“Joseph came under Roger’s influence and went down a dark path, ending with an overdose.”

Landon’s eyes brimmed with tears. He sank down into his seat and sniffled. "Exactly."

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. The moment of emotion passed. “Thank you.”

“How long has he been gone?”

Landon glanced at the top of the tent. “Twenty years.”

“I can’t imagine,” I said. “Did you confront Roger about it after Joseph’s death?”

“I did. I wanted to kill him.”

His admission drew wide-eyed stares.

He proceeded. “I wanted him dead, but that’s not something I would have done. I believe in Karma. What comes around goes around, you know? I figured that all of Roger’s habits, antics, and backstabbing would all come back to him.” He spread his hands. “And it did.”

“How long had it been since you saw Roger again on this show run?”

“Since right after Joseph died.”

Mr. Woodlock spoke up. “I made sure when the organization scheduled the performers, that Landon and Roger wouldn’t cross paths.”

“Until now,” I said to him. “Why?”

“We wanted to have this All-Star ensemble this summer to celebrate the 30th anniversary of Legends in Concert in Myrtle Beach. I figured it had been so long that maybe they’d moved on. I called Landon when I first had the idea and talked to him about it.”

“That’s right,” Landon said. “I had to think about it for a while.”

“What made up your mind?”

“I’ve played here before. It was several years ago. I remembered that, although they housed us in close proximity, there was enough to do here that I didn’t need to be around Roger any longer than necessary. Mr. Woodlock told me Roger was going to close the show every night, and he agreed to let us go on first. That way, our time spent together in the makeup room would be minimal. I’d forgiven Roger, but I’ll confess that I hadn’t forgotten what he’d done to my brother. Mr. Woodlock threw a bonus our way for my troubles. I have a young family, and the extra money goes a long way. It’s more than I would have made at any other venue.”

“So, Mr. Woodlock did his best to make you comfortable?”

Landon looked across the tent at Mr. Woodlock, who nodded back at him. Landon said, “Yeah. Practically bent over backwards. That’s the way he’s always been.”

“That’s good of him and you for looking past Roger’s transgressions.”

“What can I say? I’m a forgiving person.”

“Were you at Susan’s RV the other night?”

“I was. Quite the shindig.”

“Can I tell you the evidence we've collected?”

He cocked his head and shrugged. “It’s your show.”

I ticked off the points. “Roger was involved in your brother’s death. You hadn’t seen him since then. You admitted moments ago that you hadn’t forgotten what he’d done.”

“How could I not?” Landon demanded, taking the slouch of his shoulders.

I found it amusing that Landon was all carefree and not taking this seriously. Until I suggested he held a deep-rooted motive to murder Roger.

“Oh,” I held out a placating hand. “I agree with you one hundred percent. If someone did that to my brother, I’d want revenge. It’s a natural reaction.”

Gina walked around behind me and said something to the agents. Paulson broke away, grabbed a tech, and they left the tent together. Gina remained on that side.

I continued with Landon. “You’re one of the few performers who came here in their own vehicle, giving you mobility. George and you were the first ones to play last night, meaning you had about an hour between stage appearances. Plenty of time to act out a plan.”

“Wait a second…,” Landon said.

I cut him off. “I’m not done yet. They also found one of Susan’s stolen oven mitts under your station, covered in ricin powder. You also said you were coming out of the bathroom when you saw Susan leaving the men’s dressing room during the show while Roger was on stage.”

“I did.”

“What if you made that part up?”

“Make it up?” Landon asked incredulously. “Why would I do that?”

“To cover up that you sprinkled ricin all over the belt buckle Roger was going to use during the final act.”

The members of the tent erupted in an uproar. Before the authorities closed on Landon, I held out my arms to stop them.

“But!” I shouted above the calamity. “Despite all of that, Landon didn’t do it.”

This caused more confusion in the tent. Agents Miller, Hunter, and Paulson watched with folded arms. Hunter whispered a few words to Miller, but didn’t interrupt the proceedings.

“Then who did?” Mrs. Woodlock asked.

“Susan and Victor were in on it together.” I pointed at both. Everyone in the tent spoke at once. Big Detectives Dame and Battles stepped forward and quieted the crowd.

“Thanks,” I said to them, and before Victor and Susan protested, I addressed the gathering, “Here’s how it went down.”

Chapter Fifty-Three

“When it comes to murder,” I said, “the motives vary, but usually fall into recurring categories. Money, jealousy, desire to be with another, mental illness, power and control, and revenge. In the cases of Bonnie and Roger, almost these came into play.”

I turned to Mr. Woodlock. “How far in advance do your performers know where they’re going next?”

He crossed one leg over the other and grasped both hands over his knee. “Usually six months.”

“By the time they get here, they know their next destination.”

“That’s right.”

“So, for these performers, they knew back in the spring they were coming to Myrtle Beach for this summer run?”

“Correct.”

“And sometimes they end up playing in the same lineup together, but in a different location back-to-back?”

Mr. Woodlock glanced at the tent ceiling while processing my question. “Yes. Like with this run, several of them played together before coming here.”

“You mean Landon, George, Victor, and Susan playing together in Branson this past spring?”

The four people I mentioned stirred in their seats after being verbally separated from the herd. Susan glared at me with crossed arms. She didn’t notice Lynn leaned slightly away from her.

“They did.”

“Thank you.” I clasped my hands together now that the table was set. “Let’s take Victor first.”

He raised his hands, palms out. “I had nothing to do with this, man.”

“So you say. You keep to yourself most of the time. Why?”

“I’m a private person.”

“You told me you didn’t want some of the others to rub off on you, correct?”

Victor’s eyes darted to look at Landon and George before returning their attention to me. “I’ve had my demons in the past, and I try to keep them there.”

“That’s good. Could your desire for solitude be because someone was blackmailing you over those demons who are still around?”

Mr. Woodlock twisted in his seat. “What is this?”

I ignored the theater manager and kept my focus on Victor.

“Roger caught you doing something you weren’t supposed to be doing here at the theater, and was having you pay him to keep quiet about it. We found an anonymous blackmail note at your station written in Roger’s handwriting.”

Victor worked his jaw. There was no sense in playing dumb. He admitted, “I had one payment left to him. Why would I kill him?”

“I didn’t say you murdered Roger.”

“Then why are you hassling me, man?”

“Because you murdered Bonnie.”

He leapt out of his chair and came at me. I took a step back, but Detective Dame took a big step toward Victor, causing him to pause in place.

Dame pointed. “Back in your seat.”

Victor hesitated, but didn’t take his eyes off me as he followed Dames’s command.

I outstretched a finger. “No, hold on. Don’t sit down.”

Dame turned to me. I gave him a confirming nod. The detective backed off a step, but still close enough that he could grab the lanky Victor if he tried to attack me. My heart pounded.

“I didn’t do it,” Victor said.

I turned to Betsy. “Was this the man you saw outside of Bonnie Loudermilk’s house the night she was killed?”

The poor woman clutched her pooch in her lap. "I need him to stand up and face the other direction."

Dame stepped forward and had Victor do as she asked.

While he faced away from her, Betsy nodded. “It was dark, but he looks like the guy I saw in the streetlight running around her backyard.”

“Oh no,” Mrs. Woodlock gasped, covering her mouth.

“Oh, yes,” I said. “Thank you, Betsy. You’ve already talked to the detectives on the way over here, but I’m sure they’ll still need a formal statement.”

She gave a tight-lipped smile and tipped her head to show agreement.

Victor jabbed a finger at me. “I wasn’t there! It couldn’t have been me!”

“Au contraire,” I said. “When you were in Branson, you, Landon, and Susan conspired to murder Roger knowing he was going to be here, but Bonnie had to fall to cover up the reason Roger was blackmailing you.”

“What about the oven mitt found under Landon’s desk?” George asked. “I was with him the entire time, and he for sure wasn’t carrying around some girly oven mitt.”

“I’ll come back to that.” I took out my phone and brought up a photo. Dame had Victor sit down. I held up the phone, although none of them could see what the screen depicted. “Susan posted this photo taken this past spring at a park outside of Branson. Don’t she, Victor, and Landon look happy?”

“It was a good day,” George said. “I’m the one who took the photo.”

“Good work,” I commended him. “I like your use of subject.”

Miller stepped to my side. “Let me see that.” I handed him the phone. He studied and then looked up at Susan.

Agent Hunter joined us and stared at the screen. “Hold up. That’s a castor plant off to the side.”

Miller lowered the phone and stared at Susan, Landon, and Victor.

“It was Susan who used the mitt to sprinkle ricin on Roger’s Elvis belt buckle and then tossed it under Landon’s station to try to doublecross him.”

Susan jumped to her feet. “But how? Those mitts were stolen from me!”

I held up a finger. “That’s what you claim, but wouldn’t it also makes sense if you knew you were going to use one of those to handle ricin, that you used the set in both murders and then plant them to make it look like someone else did it?”

Susan stared at me with her mouth hanging open. She wasn’t the only one.

“You and Roger once dated, but recently you’ve hated him. Your last words to him at Ocean Lakes were that you wished he were dead. You got your wish. Victor needed Bonnie out of the way to keep his secret. Susan needed to draw attention away from her true motive for wanting to murder Roger, so she used Victor. Landon, didn’t you say you saw Susan sneaking into the men’s dressing room during the show?”

Landon glanced at Susan, who had a betrayed look on her face, before answering. If they were in on this together, this was his way out. “I did.”

“Ooohh,” Tara murmured. “I saw her coming out.”

I turned to Susan. “Care to explain that?”

Lynn leaned away from her old friend. People change over the years. Susan became a different person from the one Lynn knew growing up. Susan wasn’t the only one with a look of betrayal etched on their face.

Susan sucked in a breath. Her bosom heaved. “Yes. I know from our past together that Roger and I use the same shade of blush. I’d run out, and I wanted to borrow some before I went on. Nobody was in there.”

“Which is also the perfect time for you to dust ricin on Roger’s belt buckle or leave it there for Victor to do. Right?”

“In your dream world, that makes sense,” Susan admitted, “but that’s what it is. A dream. You’re making this up.”

“Wait a second,” Miller said. “If you say this started in Branson before they came here, how would Susan know there would need to be two murders? If, as you say, the event allowing Roger to blackmail Victor began here, there’s no way Susan could have been planning to murder Bonnie.”

My brain swirled in confusion. I’d talked myself into a corner. It made sense inside my head, but I was having problems relaying my thoughts logically.

Gina realized I was having problems and came to my side. I was looking at everyone looking expectantly at me, and I froze, unsure of what to say next.

Agent Paulson reentered the tent, causing everyone to look in her direction, including me. The technician was now wearing a hazmat suit. She carried a long pair of graspers that looked like something a blacksmith would use while working with a forge to take items in and out.

Clutched at the end was a long gold chain. At the end of it was a charm with sand in it.

Gina touched my wrist and whispered to me, “I’m sorry, Clark, but you got this all wrong.”

Chapter Fifty-Four

My face turned beet red. Heat radiated up my neck.

Everyone laughed at me, or at least that’s how I imagined it.

With the FBI present, no one was laughing now, although Agent Hunter smirked. I wished I could wash the grin off his face, but I had nothing. No answers. I’d proved them right. I didn’t know what I was doing. I’d rushed into this case after taking nearly a year off and falsely figured my aptitude for solving crimes hadn’t atrophied.

I racked my brain trying to figure out where I went wrong on the fly. Means, motive, opportunity. In my scenario, either Susan or Victor grabbed castor beans from the park outside Branson and brought them here. One of them could turn the beans into ricin. That was what killed Roger. Bonnie was stabbed with one of her own kitchen knives. There’s your means.

Motive? Susan already said she wanted Roger dead. Yes, she said that here at the end of their four-month run, but she’d had a nasty breakup with him the last time she’d seen him. Motive was easy for Victor. Kill Bonnie and Roger to cover up the blackmail and save his job. It went far deeper for Landon. Roger was responsible for his brother’s death. That’s about as solid a motive as you get. Yes, it took place a long time ago, and Landon hadn’t seen Roger since it happened, but a person can harbor that type of loss for as long as it took. When the picture on Susan’s Instagram feed was taken, Landon would have known he was going to see Roger again. I’m not sure what part Landon had in this, but if it had been discussed in his presence, it figured he might be apt to go along with it.

Maybe that’s where I went wrong, not figuring out how Landon helped. He said he saw Susan sneaking into the men’s dressing room. If he didn’t know about Susan and Victor’s involvement, then there wasn’t any way to say he wasn’t being honest. If he did, then something happened to their dynamic to cause him to betray Susan.

The dressing room is where the opportunity arose to poison Roger before the ricin effects manifested itself on stage. Bonnie was murdered on a Monday night, which was the only night of the week when no shows were held at Legends Theater.

Where did I go wrong? What did I miss? It all seemed to fit.

Then it hit me. I closed my eyes and compressed my lips. After I latched on to this thread between Susan, Victor, and Landon, I forgot about Bonnie’s trip to Hawaii. If she’d brought castor beans back with her, they’d be fresher. I had no clue if six-month-old castor beans could be made into ricin. Like most times with produce, the fresher the better.

That wasn’t all I’d neglected to take into consideration.

Everyone in the tent was whispering or talking among themselves at this recent development. I was frozen in place with Gina at my side.

She turned and nodded at Agent Paulson and the tech in the hazmat suit. Paulson had donned an air mask since leaving the tent. They kept their distance from the rest of us.

Gina leaned in close and said low enough so only I could hear. “Clark, I didn’t want to stop you because, until Paulson came back, I didn’t know you were wrong. I didn’t hear what you said about Victor because I was conferring with the agents. If I had, I would have stopped you. We know Victor was at Hooters at the time and night Bonnie was murdered. It couldn’t have been him.”

I looked over at Victor, who studied me with a quiet rage. Not only had I revealed his drug use, which could cause him to lose his job, but I’d also targeted him for being a murderer. In thinking about how good of friends Chris and I had become since I’d pulled the same move on him, I didn’t see the Steven Tyler impersonator and I having coffee together anytime soon. Not that he’d be in the Myrtle Beach area much longer anyway, with his show run and possibly his job ending.

“Why didn’t they stop me?”

“They were talking to me at the time.”

Now I felt like a bigger dummy. “Oh.”

“Look, you were your usual excellent self just now, putting all that together in such a short amount of time.” She leaned closer. She smelled nice and freshly sanitized. “I had an idea while you were talking that I checked into before sending Paulson backstage to look for confirmation.”

“That necklace is it?”

“It’s not the necklace itself. It’s what’s at the end of it.”

Chapter Fifty-Five

Gomez turned awkwardly to the performers and guests. They were ready for this show to be over.

Clark whispered, “Take the stage.”

He walked over and stood next to Dame and Battles at the side of the tent, as far away from the agents as possible. Clark got a red flush at the front of his neck when he was embarrassed. He was a fiery red now.

“By now, most of you know who I am,” she said. “I’ve seen Clark do this half a dozen times. That wasn’t the way I worked as a detective. I collected evidence, interviewed witnesses, and put together a solid case before issuing an arrest. I figure since you’re already here and are aware of the facts, you at least deserve to know what happened. The reason for both murders was revenge.” She turned to Bonnie’s husband. “I’m sorry, Mr. Loudermilk, but Bonnie was a pawn in the entire scheme.”

Kirk sat beside Betsy. They lived in the same neighborhood and had seen each other around. Kirk had no family. Without Bonnie, he was all by himself now. Betsy took one arm out from around Mema and clutched Kirk’s hand for emotional support. Tears tugged at the corners of his eyes, but he put on a brave face. He wanted to learn who killed his wife more than anyone else here.

Gomez spoke in an authoritative voice, loud enough for all to hear. “First, it couldn’t have been Victor who murdered Bonnie. They have video of him at Hooters on the night of Bonnie’s murder. Nor could it have been Landon or George. They’ve already told the FBI they were at the villas with their families, which was confirmed. Although as you’ll learn, it’s not conclusive evidence they weren’t involved, as scans showed signs of ricin on Landon.”

Victor breathed a sigh of relief. Landon and George, who were still clearing away the effects of a day drinking bout for the ages, understood that Gina halfway let them off the hook.

She swiveled to face Susan. Lynn sat next to her. “Susan, I’ve known you since childhood, and while the picture Clark painted of your involvement could be true, it isn’t.”

Susan clutched a hand to her chest. Lynn rubbed her shoulder.

“Oh, thank you,” Susan said.

“Don’t mention it,” Gomez said and raised her gaze to settle over the room. “I’m not going to draw this out. This is what I know, but I need some of you to fill in the blanks for the record. Landon, was Joseph seeing anyone when he died?”

His eyebrows bunched together. “Yeah, Tara.”

Everyone looked at her for a reaction like attendees at a tennis match. A hush fell over the tent.

“Excuse me?” Tara burst.

Gina ignored her for the moment. To Landon, she asked, “What was their relationship?”

“They’d just gotten engaged.”

Clark’s head snapped up from where he’d been staring at his feet. If he had been aware of this, he must have forgotten, which was rare for him. Because Gomez and Lynn spent the day with the cast, she would know things he wouldn’t. They’d compared notes when Clark arrived here, but there was no way they could tell each other everything they’d learned today. That was impossible in the short time they had to talk. Even if they had hours to talk, they might not have mentioned facts that seemed irrelevant then. Now that they were here, what might not have made sense earlier was crystal clear now.

At least to Gomez.

“While not as large of a motive for Tara as it was for Landon to murder Roger over his brother’s death, it’s still there and ate away at her for a long time. I don’t think she planned on murdering him when she arrived here to start the summer. Maybe she did, but didn’t know how she was going to do it. Using ricin wasn’t something she pre-planned four months ago. Instead, she saw Bonnie post a picture from Hawaii showing castor plants in full bloom. She somehow reached out to her and asked her to bring a few for a collection.”

“We have someone looking into it right now,” Agent Hunter said.

“Great,” Gomez said. “Shouldn’t take your tech wizards very long.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Clark tapped at his phone before placing it back in his pocket.

The Federal agents, Paulson, and members from the police department withdrew their phones and tapped on the screens.

Chief Miller was the first to find it. “Here it is. It’s the last picture Bonnie posted.”

She held up her phone for Miller and Hunter to see.

Miller glanced at the photo. His thumb played on his device for another second. “Got it.”

Gomez waited while the two FBI agents examined the photo.

“Got a lot of Likes and Comments,” Hunter noted.

“Looks like every person in this room ‘Liked’ the picture,” Detective Jones added.

“There were a few comments too,” Miller said. After two more quick taps and a scroll, he looked up. “None from Tara.”

“Makes sense,” Hunter said. “If she saw this photo and reached out to Bonnie to bring her a few of those berries knowing what she was going to do with them, she wouldn’t want her name associated with it.”

It pleased Gomez to see that everyone’s attention was focused on her and they were getting involved in her narrative. “Instead of being guilty by association, it’s more like she might be guilty by disassociation.”

Tara leapt to her feet. “I didn’t do anything!”

Detective Dame stepped over to her and pointed at her chair. “Sit.”

The Tina Turner impersonator shook with rage but complied with the command.

Dame turned to Gomez. “Please, continue.”

“Thank you.” Gomez pressed her hands together. “I studied various poisons and toxins during my old job. I recalled that ricin beans take two to three months to transform from flowers into beans that could create ricin. While Clark found a photo of Susan, Landon, and Victor near the plant, they were in full bloom. They wouldn’t have been useful for her needs at that time. She couldn’t have picked the flowers, put them in her pocketbook, and then use them to create one of the most toxic substances known to man.”

“I wouldn’t know how to do that anyway,” Susan said. “I can’t keep a plastic plant alive, much less a real one. I have a brown thumb.”

A smile skirted Gomez’s face. Susan’s comment broke the tension and allowed her to relax.

“Right. There is one person here who possessed that type of knowledge. Tara.”

“What are you talking about?” Agent Miller asked.

“It was right there in the Legends show program,” Gina said.

“What was right there?” Mr. Woodlock asked.

“Tara’s background. She graduated from the Kansas School of Pharmacy and worked in a compounding pharmacy.”

She let the comment hang in the air while the implications set in on everyone.

“She told me so earlier this afternoon over lunch.” Gomez locked eyes with Tara. “Should’ve kept that to yourself.”

Victor straightened to his full height in his chair. “Oooohh.”

“Oh, is right,” Gomez said. “This is one of those rare circumstances in a case where a coincidence is just that. A coincidence. Castor plants grow in many places. I can’t recall the exact states off the top of my head, but I’m sure Hawaii and Missouri are two of them.”

Clark’s phone signaled an incoming text message. He pulled it from his pocket and checked it.

“They are,” Miller said. “I boned up on ricin and its origins on the way here.”

“I figured as much,” Gomez said.

Clark stepped back into the fray, holding up his phone. “Tara sent Bonnie a message after she posted the photo taken in the Hawaiian jungle.”

“How do you know that?” Hunter said and gave a crooked smile. “Are you a hacker in addition to being a master detective, too?”

“I have a technical wizard of my own,” Clark said to Hunter through gritted teeth.

Clark wasn’t a violent person. Gomez heard about him getting this mad once before when he investigated the murder at the Swaying Palms Golf Course on the Intracoastal Waterway. One suspect made a crude comment about his dead wife, and Clark had to be removed from the room. Battles was the one who’d consoled him and told Gomez about the incident later.

He was clenching the fist not holding the phone with a tightened jaw.

“What did it say?” Miller asked, now taking Clark seriously.

This seemed to dispel the rage Clark was feeling after being slighted again by Agent Hunter.

Clark wouldn’t look Agent Hunter in the face and focused his response on the two Millers and Jones. Clark summarized, “Tara explained that she had a fascination with strange fruits from all over the world and found those plants in Bonnie’s photo. Tara asked if she could bring her a handful, but to be careful picking and transporting them in case they made her sick.”

“And Bonnie did,” Gomez said.

Kirk sniffled. “That was the type of person Bonnie was. She’d do anything for anyone.”

Dame remained near Tara to prevent further outbursts, but that didn’t stop her from speaking up. “There’s no way I could have murdered Bonnie. I was on a bus heading back to Myrtlewood. I couldn’t ride a bike all the way home that night. It was dark. I caught the bus outside of Ocean Lakes.”

“No, you didn’t,” Gomez said. “I checked the bus routes. Yes, there is a bus stop outside of there, but they didn’t have a bus running on the night of the party.”

Tara started to speak, but Gomez cut her off. “You might have caught a bus to get to Ocean Lakes, but you brought your e-bike with you. You told me earlier today that you ride it all over Myrtle Beach and use the transit system to get you to areas farther away from where you’re staying. When a bus picks you up, you attach it to the bike rack on the front of it and retrieve it when you step off. Easy. That’s what you did that evening after murdering Bonnie. Besides, your e-bike has a headlight. It might not be safe, but you could still ride it at night if you wanted to. However, there’s another bus that runs through Market Common on that night. My guess is that’s how you got home.”

“You know,” George volunteered, “Most of us rode over in Landon’s minivan that day. I wondered why Tara didn’t.”

“That was because she had somewhere else to be that evening,” Gomez said. “She knew when Bonnie was going to get off the plane and get home. She may have even gotten a message from Bonnie telling her when she’d be home and her husband was going to be at work.”

“We’ll find out,” Hunter said.

“Unless my source finds out first,” Clark said.

Gomez scowled at Clark with the unspoken order to keep his mouth shut. His comment didn’t help.

“Even so,” Gomez continued, “when the party broke up at Susan’s, she left on her bike. Everyone else thought she was going to catch the bus. She could have been worried that Landon and the rest of the crew would pass her on Kings Highway between Ocean Lakes and Seagate Village, but she’s been in Myrtle Beach long enough to understand that they’d probably take 544 coming out of Ocean Lakes and head toward the Bypass.”

Now that she was laying out what happened, Gomez relaxed and gotten more comfortable. She didn’t pace side to side like Clark did when revealing how a murder was committed, but her posture showed everyone that she was in charge of the show under the big top.

“After talking to Clark, I realized Tara didn’t enter Seagate Village at its main entrance across from the State Park. If you think of the layout of Bonnie’s neighborhood like it’s a square, then her house was in the lower-left corner. It is separated from the Harley-Davidson dealership by a row of trees. Next to it is a bike skills park and trailhead. It was dark, so she parked her bike there. If someone happened upon it, it would seem like someone forgot their very expensive bike in a place where bikes are supposed to be. I’ve been in that neighborhood before when I used to work on patrol. You can literally walk from the bike park to Bonnie’s house in about a minute.”

“Wait a second,” Jones said. “Didn’t our witness over there say the person she saw leaving the house had long, dark hair? Tara’s hair is short and light.”

“Have you been to the women’s makeup room? Did you see how many wigs they had?” Gomez turned to Tara and smiled. “Didn’t you tell me any of you can be anyone with the right amount of makeup and costume?”

“She did,” Lynn said. “At lunch.”

Gomez asked, “Did any of you notice if Tara brought a bag of some sort with her on the night of the party?”

“She carried a small backpack with her,” Susan said. “Brought a couple of bags of chips in it.”

“She always has that pack on her,” Peter said. “Takes it everywhere.”

“Right.” Gomez raised a finger. “She had it earlier at Cantina Imperfecto and later at Peter’s place. We parted ways, but I’m sure the bag isn’t too far away.”

All the National Guard staff and technicians stopped what they were doing and watched Gomez. Miller turned to the woman in charge. “Have someone on your team go grab that backpack.”

A tech was dispatched to get it.

“When she arrived at Bonnie’s,” Gomez said, “the pack contained at least three things. A wig and the stolen oven mitts. Tara may not have known what she was going to use to kill Bonnie and was smart enough to not carry around a knife or gun with her, but as she was going into someone’s home, she was sure she’d find something. I mean, we all have kitchens with knives or small heavy objects that can be picked up that can cave in someone’s skull.”

Gomez shifted her weight. “So, Tara uses her e-bike to get from Ocean Lakes to the bike park behind Bonnie’s. It probably didn’t take too long as they’re close to each other. She knocks on Bonnie’s door wearing the backpack. Both are weary from a long day, especially Bonnie, after getting off a flight that brought her halfway around the world. Bonnie lets her in, and they open a bottle of wine in the kitchen.”

“From the looks of it,” Detective Jones said, “the victim and the perp remained largely in the kitchen the entire time. There was a clean wineglass in the drying rack and the one Bonnie was holding when she was stabbed shattered on the floor.”

“Right,” Gomez said. The tent grew still. “There were no defensive marks on Bonnie. Bonnie knew the murderer well enough to turn her back on her. She might have been showing off the new oven mitt she’d stolen to Bonnie without telling her where it came from. She had to have an excuse to pull it from the duffle bag. At some point, she turned her back on Tara. She took the opportunity to slip the glove on, grab the biggest knife from the butcher’s block on the counter, and plunge it into her back.”

There was no immediate reaction other than open mouths as everyone pictured the scene Gomez described.

“Sound about right?” Gomez asked Tara.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tara said. “That’s utter nonsense. I was on a bus, I tell you!”

“Even if there had been an Ocean Lakes bus that night, there are cameras on every single one of them. We’ll know one way or another. I bet we’ll find you getting on the bus at Farrow Parkway near Seagate.”

Tara had no answer. She slumped in her chair as she slowly uncrossed her arms. With a tightened jaw, she avoided eye contact with Gomez and everyone else. Her eyes held a mix of resignation and fear of what was to come.

Gomez had referred to the police department with the possessive “we.” She had to get used to it being “them.”

“It all sounds logical from the evidence we have,” Agent Miller said to Gomez. “I’m sure once it’s processed, it’ll back up the picture you painted. What about Roger Westhale? Did she kill him too?”

“She did,” Gomez answered. “That’s where her stroke of genius comes in. Here’s how she did it.”

Chapter Fifty-Six

“The media likes to paint the picture that outside influences lead people to commit violent crimes or murder,” Gomez said. “Sure, there might be a kernel of truth to the mindset, but I’ve seen normal, educated, kind people snap and kill their friends and spouses. That reasoning doesn’t get to the heart of the matter and explain the myriads of underlying impulses that might drive a person to kill. My experience informed me that everyone had the deep-rooted capacity to kill. Hate, envy, greed, fear, jealousy, spite, or a complex combination of multiple emotions is all it takes to send Mrs. Cleaver over the edge.”

Gomez looked at Tara with a wan smile. “I had lunch with Tara today, along with my sister and Susan. I found her to be one of the most positive people I’ve met, imbued with an enthusiasm for life. She’d recently survived cancer treatments and has this amazing outlook on life.”

Tara’s eyes grew red with tears threatening to overspill their banks.

“But Tara,” Gomez continued speaking to the clamoring audience, “had something she couldn’t let go. Revenge. Revenge for the one she loved. She eventually got married and has two beautiful teenagers, from what I understand, but what Roger did to Joseph was too much.”

Gomez lifted her chin. “Tara is one of the smartest killers I’ve ever had to investigate. She was a Doctor of Pharmacy at one point. She had to be good at her job; otherwise, she’d be killing people left and right with the wrong medications. But she had this passion for the stage and for entertaining people that led her from wearing a white lab coat to the sequined gowns of Tina Turner at Legends in Concert.

“Maybe in the twenty or so years since Joseph died, and her life went on to have a husband and two kids, maybe what happened with Roger in Vegas slipped or went to the back of her mind. She was busy being a mom and a performer. Mr. Woodlock?”

The theater manager perked up at hearing his name. “Yes?”

“Didn’t Tara normally bring her family on the road?”

He looked over at her for a second before returning his attention to Gomez. “Yes. They home-schooled the girls, and her husband worked remotely from a computer.”

“Thank you,” Gomez said. “Except she didn’t bring her family for this run in Myrtle Beach. She said her kids were getting ready to start at a new school and wanted to stay home to prepare for it. Tara would have known in advance that Roger was going to be here. She’d see the man she held responsible for Joseph’s death. She may not have known she was going to murder him, but the thought might have been in the back of her mind.”

Tara crossed her arms and drew inward, like a child arriving at the principal’s office after misbehaving. She wasn’t helping Gomez, but she wasn’t disagreeing because she was hoping Gomez would make a mistake, and she’d be off the hook.

If so, Tara was wrong.

“Tara hadn’t met Bonnie before she arrived here, before the show run began,” Gomez said. “Although they work in separate areas of the theater, they became friends. All along, Tara had to be around Roger every day, on stage and off it. In her defense, she didn’t kill him right away, but waited until their time together here was about to end.”

Gomez held a finger to her lips. “In fact, I wonder if she would have murdered him at all had it not been for seeing Bonnie’s photo of her in Hawaii with the castor plants. Was that when you had your flash of inspiration?”

She directed the question to Tara, who stared back at her with narrowed eyes. She didn’t confirm or deny Gomez’s question.

“No matter,” Gomez said when Tara didn’t respond, “there it was. Her method for murdering the man responsible for Joseph’s death. She asked Bonnie to bring her some castor beans, brutally murdered her for doing so, and tried to frame Victor in the process with her disguise. Victor wasn’t the only person she tried to do that to, but we’ll get to that.

“So, Tara gets what she ordered from Hawaii, takes them back to her place, and uses her pharmacological training to turn the castor beans into ricin. That’s probably not something they taught in school, but she could figure it out.

“Since Tara was the hostess every night, she floated around backstage during the show with no one noticing her. Everyone else back there was focused on their parts of the show. She hid the oven mitt in her backpack. One of Tara’s responsibilities backstage as hostess was to see that the costume racks made their way behind the stage so the performers and backup dancers could grab them and the costume accessories, such as Roger’s belt buckle, for the quick-change rooms. When she went to retrieve the men’s rack, none of the other men must have been in the room. She stashed the other oven mitt dusted with ricin under Landon’s station. After all, if anyone had a motive to murder Roger, it was Landon. That was her first part of the frame job here at the theater. The second part was to add a little ricin dust on top of Victor’s station. Sure, Victor could have been exposed to it, but Tara wouldn’t have cared if there was collateral damage to accomplish her principal goal.” She glanced over at Victor, who was hanging on to every word. “Sorry, Victor.”

“Oh, no worries baby.” He held a hand to his chest. “I’m alive and livin’ on the edge.”

Gomez bristled at her calling him “baby” and gave him a curt nod. She pressed forward. “Susan accidentally helped Tara by being seen sneaking into the men’s dressing room during the show before Tara did. Since Landon saw Susan, Tara hoped that would throw anyone off her trail. When Roger came on stage at the end of the show and collapsed, a few things didn’t stick right with me. Sure, it looked like he had a heart attack, but something about his mannerisms before falling to the stage floor seemed different, and I still don’t know what it was.”

“Must have been your ingrained sense of questioning everything,” Clark said.

Gomez couldn’t bring herself to full agreement, but conceded, “Maybe. Anyway, it wasn’t so much his collapse as it was the first person who rushed to his attention.”

“Whoa!” Landon shouted. “It was Tara!”

“That’s right,” Gomez said. “Tara rushed to his aid. With her schooling, she’s familiar with first aid, even if she wasn’t a trained medic.” She raised her finger. “Here’s what got me. I didn’t think of this until a little bit ago. Tara already had rubber gloves on.”

She let the comment dangle.

“Why is that?” Agent Miller asked Tara.

No one believed Tara was going to say anything without an attorney present.

“I’ll tell you,” Gomez said. “Tara still had them on her. She hadn’t dusted Roger’s belt buckle before taking it and the men’s costumes to the area behind the stage. She didn’t want him to have time to spot a white powder coating the buckle and waited until the last moment when she put it on a shelf behind the stage. It’s cramped back there.” She pointed at the charm at the end of the necklace. “Did anyone notice her wearing that at the end of the show?”

“I did,” Mr. Woodlock said, looking cross. “It wasn’t what she was supposed to be wearing at that point of the show. Tina Turner didn’t wear those kinds of charms. It wasn’t authentic. I didn’t have time to say anything to her about it because of what happened.”

“It was a risk she took, going off-brand,” Gomez said, “but as chaotic as it is backstage, especially with everyone getting ready to take the stage, she got away with it.”

“Wait a second,” Clark said, and everyone turned in his direction. “I watched Roger as he was about to come on stage during the closing song. He raised his hand from his buckle to his nose and took a whiff. I remember it because he had this funny expression on his face, like his hand smelled like dog poop or something.”

“It would have had to have been a highly concentrated form of ricin for it to work that quickly,” Agent Hunter noted. “It usually takes four to eight hours for symptoms to kick in, unless it’s a potent dose.”

“We’ll check with toxicology,” Agent Miller said. To Tara, “Do you have anything to say to contradict what Gomez put forth?”

Through clinched teeth, all Tara said was, “I want my attorney.”

A noticeable air of relief settled on the tent’s inhabitants as Chief Miller had Detective Jones read Tara her rights and slap her in handcuffs.

Before they took her away, Gomez went over to Tara and got close to her. “Revenge is most fulfilling when the person you’re taking it out on knows who did it and why. You assumed revenge would plug the void you’ve had in you all these years. Roger died without knowing you were behind it. Instead of closure, all you get out of this is a hollow victory that ends up with you being in jail the rest of your life, knowing that Roger will never know he died because of you.”

Gomez’s words sank in on Tara. The weight of her actions pressed down on her with the realization that her revenge had been utterly meaningless. Her eyes reflected a cold hollowness where she’d expected satisfaction. A satisfaction that would never come.

She lowered her head and was led out of the tent.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Apolice cruiser whisked Tara downtown for booking.

Because of the late hour, everyone was told to go home. Arrangements were made to have their statements made early in the afternoon. Gina, Landon, and Susan would get checked over the next two days in case symptoms of ricin surfaced.

There was still a crime scene to process. The MBPD crime scene unit, now led by Kevin, arrived to aid the National Guard. The city lab wasn’t set up to handle everything this case called for, but the Mobile Command Center the National Guard brought with them could.

Agents Miller, Hunter, and Paulson stood with Gina and I outside the tent. Lynn was inside recounting her role in the day to an investigator. Hunter apologized to me for the way he acted toward me. I forgave him because that’s the kind of guy I am. Even so, I’d share his photo with my staff at the bookstore and have him blackballed from ever entering.

Just kidding.

While the five of us chatted about what went on inside the tent and theater, I couldn’t take my eyes off my wife. One thing I admired about her when we met was this quiet confidence she oozed. That attribute radiated from her during her part of the summation.

Yes, Gina and I got married on a beach while on St. Grant’s. That was the secret I told mom outside of my house when we first arrived back.

Hunter drew my attention. “Clark, you did a commendable job in coming up with that flawed theory in a short amount of time, without all the evidence we had.”

“Agreed,” Miller said. “For a guy with zero official training, that was decent. In many respects, it made sense, but you made a few mistakes.”

I kicked a small stone that skittered across the pavement. “Yeah, the biggest one being that I was wrong.”

Gomez crossed her arms and turned to the FBI agents. “Now that I think of it, you would have likely caught Tara eventually. I happened to be boots on the ground first and got a clear picture of the case before you had time to get forensics everywhere the case needed to go.”

Hunter’s tone was confident. “We would have. You’re right. You got here ahead of us and pieced it together before we got a handle on it. Bravo.”

She tried to hide her smile. “Thank you.”

Miller pivoted to Gina. “Mrs. Thomas—”

Gina held her hand out. “Let’s keep it at Gomez while we’re in this field.”

“Noted.” Miller paused at the sudden rebuke and recollected his thoughts. “Mrs. Gomez, we’re blown away at what you did in there. Have you considered joining the Agency?”

My heart jolted. It wasn’t something we’d ever discussed. I didn’t know how she felt about the subject. I had a momentary vision of the two of us living near Quantico and going to meetings at the Hoover Building in D.C. Not that I wanted that sort of life. I couldn’t tell if it was elation or fear.

Gina quelled my apprehension with a laugh. “No. Thank you, though. I might have considered it at one point, but after getting shot, I don’t see how I can work in the field.”

“There are other ways we could use you,” Miller said.

“What? And be chained to a desk? I appreciate the offer, but I’m going to pass.”

Miller and Hunter shared a look.

“Then what are you going to do?” Hunter asked.

“I’m not sure yet.” She cupped a hand to the middle of her chest. “Investigation is part of my soul. I live for it.”

“Like your dad?” Miller asked.

Frown lines formed on her forehead. “My dad? How do you know about my dad?”

“We’re the FBI,” Miller said. “We know everything.”

“Yeah, but why him? He’s been dead for years.”

Hunter glanced at Miller, unsure of how to respond. These guys were hiding something.

Miller’s broad shoulders rose as he took a deep breath and then lowered. “Don’t be surprised if you hear from us again.”

***

They left us where we stood to attend to business.

I was so embarrassed. I admitted it to her.

“That happens when you put yourself out there as you did. We shared a lot of intel that helped each other. Look at it this way, if you hadn’t mentioned the get-together at Susan’s RV, I might not have considered the bus routes.” She squeezed my hand. “We make a great team.”

“Just like old times.”

Before Gina and I could chat in private about what happened, Mr. Woodlock approached us to thank us for our role leading to a quick end.

“Are you worried about bad press because of this?” I asked him.

Mr. Woodlock was incredulous. “Bad press? Are you kidding? Do you see all the news vans out there?”

Cars, vans, and trucks from every local news station were parked along the berm on the Bypass in front of the theater, lighting up the side of the road in the middle of the night. As we looked in their direction, a CNN van pulled into the line. Two reporters from different stations stood in front of cameras and lights, recording clips that would be on every hour during the morning news and likely carry over to the noon and evening editions.

“Look, it’s horrible what happened here,” Mr. Woodlock said, “but more people are going to learn about Legends in Concert and what we do here over the next few days than any advertising campaign we can afford will accomplish.”

“You’re quite the opportunist,” I said.

With a frank expression, he said, “I must be to stay in business here for as long as we have. You know what kind of competition we face.”

“I was thinking about that,” Gina said.

“About all the theaters?” I asked.

“No, about the lengths someone like you would go to keep the show going.” She crossed her arms and directed her attention to Mr. Woodlock. His wife had long since gone home.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about or implying,” Mr. Woodlock said.

She said, “How long were you planning this summer anniversary run of the stars?”

He rubbed his jaw. “Oh, I don’t know. We discussed it last fall among the corporate board. Once we decided to do it, I came up with the list of performers.”

“Six months. Is that correct?”

“Well, yes, I suppose.”

Gina slowly raised her chin. “Ah. Not necessarily the timeline, but you were the one who brought these acts together.”

“That’s right.”

“You’ve been with Legends in Concert since the start, right?”

“Yes. I was in Vegas when we first opened at the Tropicana. I was the one who scouted Roger, Landon, his late brother Joseph, and later through the years, Tara and Susan.”

“Then you were aware of their collective history?”

Mr. Woodlock didn’t answer right away. She wouldn’t be asking these questions if she didn’t have a point. Not at two in the morning.

“I did, yes,” he answered.

“You created an atmosphere where you knew everyone else hated Roger.” Gina insinuated.

“I guess I did. I didn’t think about it that way.”

“You’re a terrible actor, Mr. Woodlock,” I said.

“I agree,” Gina said. “Is this what you wanted to have happen? Someone to murder Roger?”

He balled his fists and didn’t have an answer.

“Here’s the thing,” Gina said, “unless you wrote your intentions down, told someone, or put it in an email or text message, you’re going to get away with it. Even if you told your wife, she’s not legally obligated to testify against you if she doesn’t want to.”

The confident and debonair demeanor Mr. Woodlock oozed melted away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t have to stand here and listen to this. Good day!”

As he stomped away, Gina called at his receding back, “Like Tara, you have to live with yourself over what you created here.”

He paused in mid-step and continued marching toward the theater.

We watched him go.

Gina blew out her breath, expelling the frustration she held.

I put my arm around her. “You’re one amazing woman, Mrs. Gomez-Thomas, or whatever you want to be called.”

She melted into me. “You’re one amazing man, Mr. Thomas, or whatever you want to be called.”

“I’m whoever you want me to be.”

We stood there another minute as technicians, officials, the National Guard soldiers, and crime scene technicians moved about all around us.

“I’m ready for bed,” she said.

“Agreed. Let’s go home.”

“I like the sound of that.”

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Timmy ended up sleeping in the guest bedroom and my parents’ place. Mom said he was a cool customer about everything. Bo’s video games helped keep his mind off where his mom was.

Lynn, Gina, and I went back to my new home in the same place the old one used to be. Scant moonlight glimmered off the lake behind the house when we pulled into the driveway.

At noon, we reunited Timmy with Lynn at Mom and Dad’s over a late brunch. Lynn wasn’t needed to give a further statement because she didn’t have a role in the crime and told the detectives what she knew the previous day at the theater. Gina and I still had to go downtown to give our statements.

We found ourselves in a conference room at headquarters with Chief Miller, SLED Agent Paulson, and the three detectives, Jones, Dame, and Battles. Donuts, bottles of water, and stale coffee were provided.

They’d taken jurisdiction over the cases from the FBI. Paulson was here to provide support. She’d spoken to Gina before we entered the conference room in hushed tones. I suspected it was with a similar offer similar to Agent Miller’s, but closer to home. Much closer.

Jones led the discussion, retracing the order of events leading up to Tara’s arrest for both murders.

There were a few details about both murders that I’d yet to fill in, such as, “How come they didn’t find traces of ricin on Tara?”

“She knew how to clean herself so it couldn’t be found,” Jones answered. “It was part of her training and education.”

“Makes sense,” I said.

Paulson swiveled in her chair to me. “We checked all the trash cans in and around the theater and the dumpster out back. We’re not sure where they came from, but we found a pair of latex gloves in the dumpster with ricin on them.”

“They also found fibers from Susan’s oven mitts in Tara’s duffle bag,” Battles volunteered.

“Only Landon and Susan’s fingerprints were on the oven mitt discovered under Landon’s makeup desk. Landon’s prints weren’t found on the inside of the mitt. Only where he touched it when picking it up from under the desk.”

“Well, that about seals it,” I said. I was ready to spend a quiet afternoon with Gina in our house.

As I stood up, Jones tapped a pen on the table out of annoyance. “There’s something else. Tara was taking a drug following her cancer treatment. One of the minor side effects was suicidal thoughts.”

“Oh,” I said. “Do they have her on suicide watch at the jail?”

“They do, but there’s more to it than that.”

“Like what?”

Paulson and Jones locked eyes. Paulson did the talking.

“There’s another, unpublicized side-effect to that specific drug.”

I scratched my arm. “Aren’t they supposed to divulge all of those?”

“In almost every case, yes,” Paulson said. “But there was one instance during trials where a test subject had homicidal thoughts instead of suicidal.”

“Oh, and if they put that in the fine print, the drug would never sell,” I said. “How did the drug make it to market?”

“The drugmaker convinced the FDA that the one person was an outlier. That their newfound desire to kill someone didn’t spring from taking the drug,” Paulson said.

“At least the drugmaker gave you all that information,” Gomez said.

“They didn’t,” Paulson said. “The FDA pulled the drug last week after someone on it in Utah pulled a gun on their husband. Tara was in the middle of a three-month supply, so she was still taking it.”

“They’ll try to plead insanity,” I said.

“Likely so,” Paulson conceded.

“You mean, after all of that, Tara might get off clean?”

“If they find the drug was responsible for her committing those crimes, she’ll spend years in a psychiatric institution.”

“What about Bonnie?” I asked. “What’s going on there?”

Jones sipped his coffee and answered, “We obtained a warrant for her phone and had our crime scene guys get into the GPS data. Sure enough, on the evening of Bonnie’s murder, the data showed Tara going from Ocean Lakes to Seagate Village and Bonnie’s house. She was there for thirteen minutes before leaving the house, retrieving her bike, making her way to Farrow Parkway, and hopping on a bus back to Myrtlewood.”

“Okay then,” I said. “Got her pretty much dead to rights.”

“Seems like it,” Jones said. “Dame and Battles are still building the case. It shouldn’t be too difficult to prove her guilt. The drug interaction and potential insanity defense might lessen how much time she spends in prison.”

“Right,” Gomez said. “They could get a lesser judgement for diminished capacity too if argued and proven effectively in court.”

“That doesn’t seem right,” I commented. “Tara planned and carried out two intricate murders. One out of necessity. The other out of a desire for revenge, and she could escape getting the needle?”

“That’s how it goes,” Gomez said.

“Our job is to catch criminals and hand the case to the district attorney with a pretty bow on it,” Jones explained. “What happens after that is out of our hands.”

***

I still considered that goober Caleb as a goober, even though he played an important role in helping me uncover the evidence that ultimately led me to find Autumn’s killer. He and I have kept in touch since that day. He really seemed like a nice guy, though he was prone to making me feel awkward. I thought my social skills were lacking. This guy’s were almost absent.

However, he was generous and kind to a fault. Among the many surprises my new home held, Caleb left a new digital smoker and a bag of hickory wood chips on my new back deck overlooking the lake and a selection of Meat Church rubs and his own personal recipes as a housewarming gift. There was also a pack of chicken thighs in the fridge and BBQ sauce. I’d sent him a text to tell him how much I appreciated it. He sent back a message telling me he was glad Gina and I were safe and back home. He suggested trying a simple recipe for smoked chicken.

That evening, I followed the recipe with Timmy’s help. It didn’t take long, but I quickly became fond of the little guy. Lynn and Gina made sides of sauteed zucchini, grilled corn on the cob, and mac and cheese for Timmy. We sat on the deck at a picnic table and enjoyed our first home-cooked meal in our new house.

The evening weather couldn’t have been more ideal, with temperatures in the mid-seventies, low humidity, and scattered clouds. Geese honked around the lake. A majestic egret waded near the shore, searching for its own dinner. The overriding aroma of barbecue chicken hung in the air. Caleb might be a goober, but he knew his smoked meats. I might have to resign myself to having another coffee with him.

Getting the murderer wrong was a humbling experience for me. It wasn’t like it was the first time it happened, though. If I was going to screw it up, it brought me great joy to see Gina step into her old role as Detective Gomez and figure out the killer. After seeing and helping her through the lowest point of her life, this was something she needed. To feel like she belonged, important, and to make a difference.

I didn’t know where she would go from here, but as I watched her smiling and laughing with her sister and nephew, I was confident that Gina Gomez-Thomas was going to succeed in whatever the next chapter of her life brought.

And I was thrilled to be a part of it.

“This is sooooo good,” Timmy said with a full mouth after taking another bite of chicken.

“Mmm-hmm,” Gina said, “I agree, Timmy. Don’t you think Clark should do this every night?”

He looked at me and grinned. “I do, Aunt Gina. This is super delicious.”

“I’ll make it anytime you come here, Timmy,” I said. “It would be my pleasure.”

A few minutes went by as we enjoyed our food. Timmy had almost finished his plate. Gina was enjoying a mimosa. Lynn was working on an ear of corn, and I was enjoying an old-fashioned.

“Tell me,” Lynn said between nibbles of corn, “Gina didn’t give me all the details. You two got married on the island, right?”

“We did,” Gina answered.

“Tell me about it. It must have been romantic.”

Gina and I looked at each other and shared a laugh, trying to communicate with our eyes who would begin telling the story. From her expression, I got the hint that it should be me.

“Alright,” I said. “We stayed with my friend Antonio on St. Grants. He had a fiancé he’d met who grew up on the island who lived with him in a three-bedroom flat by the harbor. Gina and I were still exploring our new relationship.”

Gina giggled and bumped her left shoulder against mine. “It was going quite well,” she said. The mimosas had made her the slightest bit tipsy.

I put my arm around her with a laugh. “Yes, it was.” With Timmy at the table, I had to keep this G-rated, so I said to Lynn, “I’m a traditionalist and don’t believe in living together before getting married, if you know what I mean.”

Lynn grinned. “Uh-huh.”

“Since it was a three-bedroom place, that was no problem. Antonio and Dominique stayed in their room, and there were separate ones for Gina and I.”

“Until he told us he had friends flying in to stay with him,” Gina said.

“Oh.” Lynn sipped her drink. “Meaning one of you wouldn’t have a place to sleep so he could accommodate his guests.”

I shot a finger gun at her. “Bingo. I mean, the relationship was going better than I expected.”

Gina jabbed me with a playful finger. “Which means you thought about me before we were together.”

I tilted my side away from her at the stab. “I think that went both ways, even though you were engaged at the time.”

“I won’t deny it,” Gina said.

“Anyway,” I continued, “Antonio said I needed to give up my room for his guests and either crash on the couch or move into Gina’s room.”

For the most part of this adult conversation, Timmy acted like he wasn’t paying attention. Until then. He rubbed one index finger over the other like he was rubbing two sticks together to start a fire. “Oooooo, shamey, shamey.”

We had a good laugh at that. “Ha, ha,” I said to him, “hilarious. I’ll have you know I did the honorable thing and asked her to marry me.”

Lynn hadn’t stopped smiling at this romance story of her detective sister with an edge to her. “Go on.”

“To tell the truth,” Gina said, “I’d fallen in love with Clark even before I got shot. I didn’t know if it would ever be possible to be with him unless circumstances changed. Once it happened, he was great.”

I looked at her. “We were great.”

She rested a hand on my arm. “Yes, we were.”

“We got married in our bare feet on a sandy beach at sunset,” Gina said to Lynn.

Lynn clutched both hands over her chest and tried to contain tears. “Oh, how romantic. I’m so happy for you guys.”

Gina reached across the table and clutched Lynn’s hand. “Thank you, sis.”

“You deserve happiness,” she said.

Gina melted into my embrace. “I have it.”

Me too.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Early the next morning, we saw Lynn and Timmy off. A long road stretched ahead of them back to New York. I’d miss the little boy. Gina would miss both. They arranged to see each other more frequently.

“What are we going to do now?” I asked her.

“I’m still trying to figure that out. Getting involved in that investigation got my juices flowing, but I could never get back on the force. Not with my shoulder.”

“And besides, they’re paying for your early retirement. You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.”

“Oh, Clark. You know me. I can’t sit at home and do nothing.”

“You could take up a hobby.”

Her lip twisted. “Nah. Hobbies aren’t for me. The drive to investigate something is what I’ve been interested in all my life.”

“How about hanging your shingle as a private investigator?”

“And do mostly surveillance cases for people suspicious of their spouses cheating on them? No thanks.”

“There’s more to it than that. You heard Agent Miller. They might call on you for assistance again at some point.”

“Paulson told me the same thing.” She crossed her arms. “They don’t get involved in anything boring.”

“Bo tells me he’s been involved in some interesting cases helping PIs. You never know what kind of case you’ll get. You could call on him if you ever needed any computer type help.”

“True.” We watched Lynn’s car until it disappeared around the bend. We hadn’t gone back inside. “Would you help?”

I grabbed her arms and twisted her around to face me. “I’d do anything for you Gina Gomez-Thomas.”

Her mouth formed a crooked smile. A smile I got to know on St. Grants. A smile that made my knees weak and my heart pound.

“What about you?” she asked.

“What about me?”

“Your stores. They ran fine without you and will continue to do so if your staff remains in place.”

I was fortunate to have a low turnover among my employees. They got along and performed their jobs well. It was a dream for an entrepreneur. Her observation was dead on and something I’d considered since arriving home and going through the finances. Both bookstores were humming along.

“I’d thought about asking Chris if he’d like to help me open another store,” I said. “And there are the books to write. I’m under contract, you know?”

“I do. Maybe concentrate on that and let the stores run themselves and help me with cases if I need you.” She bit her lower lip in a way that made me tingly inside and traced a finger down my chest. “Right now, I only want you to concentrate on me.”

She took me by the hand and led me inside the house, locking the door behind us.

Now that Lynn and Timmy were gone, Gina and I would finally have our first alone time in the new house. I was definitely looking forward to that.

Epilogue

Apostcard-perfect fall day greeted Lynn and Timmy when they arrived in their driveway off a quiet neighborhood street in Poughkeepsie in the heart of Hudson Valley. After growing up in Hoboken with views of Manhattan across the river, Lynn moved away from the city to escape the hustle and bustle. She enjoyed her stay in Myrtle Beach and loved seeing that her sister was well and happy. Gina hadn’t always been the happiest of children, especially after their mom died at an early age. Their dad, Severino, raised them by himself and did the best he could while balancing his job as a detective. They had an interesting childhood, to say the least.

She put the car in park in front of a bright blue, two story Tudor style home. Wooden steps with a white railing led to a small covered porch next to a bay window. Another bay window was above the porch. That was Lynn’s favorite room in the house. It had a window seat where she had read to Timmy by lamplight almost every day of his life. She’d instilled a love of reading in him from Day One, and she was delighted he was now reading books on his own.

Timmy’s best friend, Enrico, was playing in the front yard next door when he saw them pull in. He ran over to the car and waited excitedly for Timmy to exit. They hadn’t seen each other in two weeks and had played with each other almost every day of summer break before they headed to Myrtle Beach.

“Mom!” Timmy shouted. “It’s Enrico! Can I go play with him?”

Her son had gotten to the age where he could help Lynn carry the lighter luggage and belongings into the house. It had been a long trip and Lynn hoped he would lend a hand, but she’d rather he played with someone his own age. Timmy played with Clark’s ex-girlfriend’s daughter, but Lynn sensed that Clark only put them together out of necessity. Besides Libby, the only playmate they’d found in Myrtle Beach was Clark.

“Go ahead,” she said. “Have fun.”

Timmy unstrapped his seat belt and hopped out to the car. Enrico had a new baseball bat he wanted to show Timmy, so they ran across the lawn and disappeared behind Enrico’s house.

Lynn climbed from the car, glad to stretch her legs. Timmy had fallen asleep in the backseat, a rarity nowadays, and had dozed for the last two hours before getting home. He needed to go burn some energy; otherwise, he’d be up way past his bedtime. He and Enrico could play for as long as his parents would let him.

She grabbed her handbag from the passenger seat and water bottle and climbed from the car. A woodsy aroma mixed with the neighbor’s cooking dinner greeted her.

Lynn ascended the steps to the front porch. The front door had a mail slot that the postal carrier used to deposit envelopes and thin packages. Two small boxes that couldn’t fit were tucked away from street view by a large potted plant in desperate need of watering.

The smaller of the two boxes came from a coffee roaster to which she had a monthly subscription. The larger package had a recognizable smiley face on the side. It looked like it had been reused a few times, but she knew from buying stuff off Etsy that a lot of small businesses reused their Amazon boxes. The box wasn’t too heavy or large. Lynn pictured a ream of copy paper inside.

She opened the door, walked across the living room to the kitchen, and set both boxes on the counter. All the surfaces needed a good dusting after being away for so long.

Lynn took another deep breath, taking in the familiar house smell. It was good to be home.

She set the box containing coffee aside and turned her attention to the other package. She ran a kitchen knife across the tape and separated the two flaps. They were stubborn, but finally popped free. When the flaps opened, the row of lights on a silver electronic device contained inside emitted a series of beeps that, to Lynn, sounded like the theme to the movie E.T. The lights started blinking red, moving from left to right. With each diode, the color spectrum changed from red to yellow and shifted toward green.

Lynn was transfixed and couldn’t take her eyes away.

The green light at the end flashed as the music finished.

Light moves faster than sound, even in close quarters.

Lynn didn’t hear the B-flat note that ended the theme song because the concussive force of the blast vaporized her before the sound could reach her.

To Be Continued…

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Acknowledgements

This book wouldn't have been possible without an idea from Karen Brigner and her husband Brian for allowing me full access to the Legends Theater and the amazing talent. They're the real-life counterparts of Mr. and Mrs. Woodlock. My son gave me their fictional names which are based on two LEGO figures he has who are the richest people in his brick city.

Fernando Castro (aka Freddie Mercury), Nellie Norris (Cyndi Lauper)—one of the most positive people I've ever met—also Brandon Jones (Michael Jackson), Isaiah (Prince), and OneGunn (Bob Marley), all took the time to give me an inside peek at their lives, on and off the stage.

Savannah at the Hooters depicted in this book was also a source of information on the ins and outs of the restaurant.

To auction winner Lynn Makris, I hope you enjoyed your character. Thank you for supporting Helping Hands of Myrtle Beach.

The usual suspects from previous books in this series also had a role in this. My editor, Lisa Borne Graves, whipped this manuscript into shape, while my beta reading team of Angela Barnhardt, Darren Bourn, Rob Ledger, Haley Mellert, Karen Polhemus, Jatana Royster, Pamela Dean, and my mom. Mike Dame was there for any police procedural questions I had. Dr. Stephanie Rose was once again my go-to for medical advice.

All mistakes are mine.

Photo by Jennifer McGowen/Small Seed Photography
Photo by Jennifer McGowen/Small Seed Photography

Caleb is the author of twelve novels, including the award-winning and critically acclaimed Death on the Boardwalk: Book 1 of the Myrtle Beach Mystery Series, which received accolades from Women’s World Magazine and won the Pinnacle Award for best Mystery (2021). The fourth book in the Myrtle Beach Mystery Series, Death on the Causeway, was the Readers' Favorite Gold-Medal Winner for Best Amateur Sleuth Mystery (2023).

Caleb is a member of the International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America. His two Lucas Caine Adventure novels, Blackbeard’s Lost Treasure and The Search for the Fountain of Youth, were both Semi-Finalists for the Clive Cussler Adventure Awards Competition. He was also a Mystery Writing Instructor with the Osher Lifelong Learning Institution at Coastal Carolina University.

He is also an occasional woodworker, rare golfer, reacher of things on tall shelves, beach walker, shark tooth finder, and stay-at-home dad. He is currently at work on the next book in the Myrtle Beach Mystery Series. He lives in Myrtle Beach with his wife and son (the munchkin).