Maid of dishonor, p.8
Maid of Dishonor, page 8
The car’s engine clicks and ticks in the silence as if saying, but…
I clear my throat. “It’s clear that I need to do some soul-searching and figure out where these feelings are coming from. In the meantime, we need to talk about what we want to ask Betsy. Do you think she killed Kate?”
“Betsy?” Jenna’s eyes widen.
“Yeah, I know. It’s weird to think of her doing that to Kate. They arrested her for crossing the police line, but honestly, this is the first time I’ve thought that she might’ve been the one who killed Kate. Why would she do it? It doesn’t really make sense, does it?”
“I don’t know,” Jenna says. “When Jeff called and said that they had Betsy in custody, it did cross my mind for a second that she might’ve done it. Then, I shrugged it off because it seemed so far-fetched. But why did she return to the crime scene?”
“What’s her motive other than Kate replacing her as London’s maid of honor?” I ask. “Betsy was irritated in the moment, but I think she was happy to have the out.”
“Right,” Jenna says. “She couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”
“Do you think Kate and Betsy knew each other before coming to Hemlock?” I ask.
“I don’t know that much about Betsy,” Jenna says. “I guess it’s possible. Stranger things have happened. Could they have run into each other at the hotel before Kate was…” Jenna’s voice trails off, and she swallows hard.
I touch her arm. “I’m so sorry this happened to Kate. If you don’t feel like going in and talking to Betsy with me, I can take you home and come back.”
My daughter takes a deep breath. “No. We’re already here. I think it’s important that both of us talk to her. One of us might pick up on something the other misses.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “I don’t mind taking you home.”
“No, I’m fine. If nothing else, I’ll do this for Kate. So, come on. Let’s go in there and ask Betsy why she broke into Gracewood Hall last night.”
*
~ Jenna ~
Inside the police station, it takes Ina Gerardi, the Hemlock Police Department front desk manager, a while to ascertain if Betsy Rutt wants to see us.
“Is the chief in?” Mom asks.
“Nope, hon, sorry,” Ina says. “He’s out at Gracewood Hall where that murder happened last night. Such a shame, isn’t it? Guess I don’t have to tell you that since it’s Gigi’s place.”
Mom and I nod.
“I can remember a time not so long ago when people in these parts used to sleep with their doors unlocked and their windows wide open.” Marge Harney walks up behind us to join us at Ina’s desk. It was as if she materialized from out of nowhere.
“What’s the latest, ladies?” Marge has a habit of clicking her tongue at the start of every sentence. “Have they caught the killer yet? It’s so unnerving. I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night.”
“I don’t know, Marge,” Mom says. “Gracewood Hall is still considered a crime scene.”
“Sakes alive.” Her hand flutters to the neckline of her ocher cotton jersey dress. “Maddie, I thought you, of all people, would have the inside scoop since you’re engaged to the chief.”
Mom’s mouth flattens into a line. I know she’s thinking about how Jack won’t tell her what’s happening.
As a commanding officer of Hemlock’s illustrious gossip brigade—the vehicle that gathers and disseminates all the latest Hemlock happenings to any who will listen—Mrs. Harney gets most of her munition from stealth maneuvers like this.
And from asking shameless questions.
The running joke around town is what the gossip brigade can’t ferret out, they make up, which is always a concern.
“Your poor, poor mama,” Marge says. “Such a shame that this had to happen at her new home. How is Gigi holding up?”
“She’s doing well, considering,” Mom says. “She’s staying with me for the time being.”
“You’re a good girl, Maddie,” Marge says. “What a terrible welcome home for her. If it were me, I’d have to take to the bed until all this was settled. It’s too much. That’s what brings me in today. Ina, I want to start a neighborhood watch group. We can’t be too careful these days. Can I count on your support, ladies?”
“Of course,” we all say.
“The Ladies League meets soon,” I add. “Why don’t you ask to have the topic put on the agenda.”
“Jenna Bell, you’re not only lovely but also one smart cookie.” Marge sighs. “That’s probably why you’re still single. Guys get intimidated when a young lady has looks and brains.”
I have to bite the insides of my cheeks to keep a straight face or from blurting about how, in that one sentence, she’d set our gender back decades.
“Are you still going with Val’s nephew … what was his name?”
“His name is Ian McCoy,” I say.
“Yes. Isn’t he a lawyer out of Asheville or some such? I think I heard that somewhere.”
“He is,” I say, sticking to the bare minimum.
“That’s good. If he’s a professional, he’s probably secure enough in himself.” Her eyes sparkle. “Maybe we’ll hear wedding bells sooner rather than later. Aren’t you in your thirties by now?”
I freeze. I’m sure a stupid grin is plastered on my face.
“Marge, why don’t you stop by the house sometime soon,” Mom says. “I know Gigi would love to see you.”
Thanks, Mom! You are a goddess among mothers for getting her off my case.
“I will do that,” she says, dropping the subject of my spinsterhood like it’s old news. “Ina, be a dear and give me a stack of these brochures so I can hand them out at the next Ladies League meeting.”
Ina complies, and Mrs. Harney tucks the pamphlets inside her purse. “I’d better run. I need to get Lawton’s dinner cooking. You tell Gigi I’ll call on her soon.”
“I’ll do that, Marge,” Mom says. “I’m sure she’d love to see you and catch up.”
We watch the glass door close behind her, and we look at each other and laugh.
Mom seems more relaxed now. I’m sure it’s thanks in part to Mrs. Harney’s antics, but it’s probably because she knows Jack isn’t here right now. I’m breathing a little easier, too. After the way they left things last night, I’m sure he won’t be very happy that we were here talking to Betsy. Even though she broke into Gracewood Hall, which is totally our business.
We’re here to talk to her and decide whether to press charges.
Yep, that’s our story, and we’re sticking to it.
And if we ask Betsy a couple of questions that lean more toward Kate’s murder … what can he do? Arrest us?
While we’re waiting to go back and talk to Betsy, I text London. “How are you holding up?”
She answers, “#freeLondonBrinks”
“Did the police arrest you?”
“OMG NO! h8 my life stuck in hemlock prisoner of the system #freeLondonBrinks #missedflighttocabo #AHHHHHHHH”
I start to tell her that it could be a lot worse than being stuck at the Hemlock Inn. The police can’t force her to stay unless they arrest her, but I decide against saying too much. That’s Ian’s department. The last thing he needs is me planting ideas in London Brinks’s hard head.
“I saw your livestream yesterday.”
She answers, “GR8 huh?!!!!”
I blink at the words. I’m not sure G R 8 is how I would describe it—like it was an award-worthy documentary.
I type, “I’m sure your heart is in the right place, but be careful. You told a murderer you’re coming for them. You might be in their crosshairs.”
“cnt stp thnkng bout K8 have platform wanna do g00d lets bring dwn K8s killer together gotta bounce TTYL #whokilledkate
I hold out the phone to Mom. “Look at this.”
She reads the text conversation and shakes her head. “She does not live in the real world.” Mom hands me back my phone. “Did London kill Kate?” she asks. “Maybe she lashed out at Kate after she refused to change the toast? She had a champagne bottle when she went downstairs. Maybe she didn’t intend to kill her. She might’ve had an angry outburst.”
“Yeah, but the champagne bottle was only half-full, and London was pretty lit. I don’t know if she’d have the strength or the aim in that condition. I guess we’ll have to wait for the lab results to come back. Time will tell.”
About twenty minutes later, an officer appears to take us back to talk to Betsy. He checks our purses and phones. He instructs us to walk through a weapons detection system and finally buzzes us through the security door separating the lobby from the offices and holding area.
We follow him down a linoleum hallway lit by buzzing fluorescent bulbs that bathe everything in a ghoulish green glow. We are ushered into a room where Betsy is waiting behind a thick wall of bulletproof glass.
Even though I was born and raised in Hemlock, I’ve only seen this side of the police station once. That was when I was the chief suspect after my ex-boyfriend was murdered. Thanks to some quick thinking on Mom’s part and solid reasons why-not, I wasn’t a suspect very long.
I hope with all my heart that’s the case for Betsy… If she didn’t murder Kate.
“Did you bring my bracelet?” Betsy looks worn out.
She has dark circles under her eyes. Her brassy hair looks limp and greasy. Her pale skin appears grayer than when she wore the chartreuse maid-of-honor dress.
“What bracelet?” Mom asks.
“The bracelet that got me arrested,” she snaps and then seems to check herself. “It’s my charm bracelet. London wouldn’t let me wear it with my bridesmaid dress. I took it off and left it on the shelf in the changing room. After London kicked me out of the wedding, I was so angry, and in such a hurry to leave, I forgot that I’d left it in the bride’s room. I don’t think you were in the room when it happened, but right before London threw a fit over the nail polish, she made me take off my bracelet and wear the one some jewelry designer made for her wedding. She said there would be no jewelry in the wedding unless a sponsor provided it.” Betsy rolls her eyes.
She seems awfully calm for a person who spent the night in jail.
“You trespassed through a designated crime scene and set off the alarm system at Gracewood Hall for a charm bracelet?” I ask.
“Yes. My grandmother gave me that bracelet. Every charm means something special,” she says. “I wanted it back. I had no idea that someone had been murdered.”
“Even though the place was covered in crime scene tape,” Mom deadpans.
“I thought the crime scene tape was one of London’s publicity stunts. She’s so tacky she’d totally do something like that. Look, I’ve told the police all of this. They said they’d check out my story and see if the bracelet is where I left it. Spoiler alert—it will be there. Yet, they’re taking their sweet time verifying that my story checks out.”
“Well, they did arrest you for trespassing on a crime scene,” Mom says. “They’re probably checking your alibi. You do have one, don’t you?”
“For the record, I didn’t do it,” Betsy says. “I’ve never met the dead girl.”
I wince.
The fact that Betsy skirted the question about her alibi doesn’t escape me.
“Okay, but why did you break into Gracewood Hall? If you wanted your bracelet, you could’ve popped in last night while the rehearsal dinner was going on or come by today to pick it up.”
“I didn’t want to risk seeing London,” she says. “After she kicked me out of the wedding, she also banned me from all the festivities. Nice, huh? Anson is my brother. She pulls this, and they’re not even married. Can you imagine what she’ll be like after they make this legally binding?” Betsy rolls her eyes again. “If they make this legally binding,” Betsy says. “Big emphasis on the if. They’re not married yet.”
I slant a glance at Mom. I know she’s wondering the same thing I’m wondering. Would Betsy stoop to murder to stop her brother from marrying London?
Betsy has a motive. Her sister-in-law-to-be is a monster who kicked her out of the wedding and seems to have her brother cowed. Plus, she’d broken into Gracewood Hall.
I make a mental note to add it to the list.
“I was supposed to go home today,” Betsy says. “I booked a flight that was leaving at nine o’clock this morning. Then I realized that I’d left my bracelet in the dressing room. I had to get it last night. I had no choice.”
I have so many questions, but Betsy is on a roll, so it’s best to let her keep talking.
“I knocked on the door at Gracewood Hall, but no one answered. So, I walked around to the back of the place to see if anyone in the building could let me in. I tried all the doors, and one was open. So, I went in.”
She shrugs.
That seems awfully convenient. I glance at Mom, but she’s wearing her poker face, and her gaze is pinned on Betsy. All I know is the police secured the premises before Gigi and I left. It’s unlikely they’d leave a door open.
“Why didn’t you ask a family member to get it for you?” I ask.
“Ugh, my parents. They’re so mad at me. Even if I could get out of here today, which I can’t, I would have to go before a judge on Monday. But before all this happened, I didn’t want to ask my parents to get the bracelet because that would’ve been another reminder that London had kicked me out of the wedding. Things are tense enough. I didn’t want to ruin my brother’s wedding by drawing more attention to the fact that their future daughter-in-law is a bee-otch.”
“You didn’t want to ruin the wedding?” Mom asks. “Why not? You’ve made it clear that you don’t like London. Wouldn’t this have been the perfect opportunity to seek revenge?”
“You think I would take revenge by killing someone?” Betsy recoils, her eyes huge. “I’m vegan. I don’t kill. Period.”
That might be her best defense. I want to believe her, but—“You didn’t answer me a moment ago when I asked you if you have an alibi for earlier in the night when Kate was killed.”
“I was in my room at the Hemlock Inn. I ordered up room service.” Betsy shrugs. “The hotel has security footage. They should be able to confirm that I left when I said I did. If Gracewood Hall had cameras, you’d already know I was telling the truth.”
She’s right, but we can’t go back in time.
“How do you know we don’t have security cameras?” Mom asks.
Good question. That’s why she writes the mysteries, and I tag along.
“The police told me when I asked them to check Gracewood Hall footage. Look, I’ll tell you exactly what I told the police. I took an Uber to Gracewood Hall around eleven thirty last night. I figured the dinner would be over, and everyone would be gone since the wedding was the next day. The driver’s name was Rupert. He was there when the police arrived. They’ve already interviewed him.
“Speaking of the police.” She grimaced and seemed to shrink into herself. “They said the breaking and entering charges were up to you as the property owner. I just wanted my bracelet. Thinking about it now, I know it was a dumb thing to do, but I thought I could get in there and get out without upsetting anyone. I didn’t mean any harm. You have to believe me.”
When neither Mom nor I say anything, Betsy leans in and puts her hand on the glass.
“Crossing a police line is a misdemeanor, but breaking and entering is a felony,” she says. “I’m not too proud to beg. Please don’t press charges.”
An officer enters the room. “I’m sorry, ladies. Your time is up. I need to escort Ms. Rutt back to her cell.”
Betsy says something, but we can’t hear what she says. It appears that they must’ve turned off the two-way microphone. As the officer cuffs her, Betsy throws us a terrified, pleading glance.
As the officer who ushered us in helps us retrace our path down the green-lit linoleum hallway, I say, “It was kind of mean to leave without the promise that you’ll not press charges.”
When Mom doesn’t answer me, I ask, “You’re not pressing charges, are you?”
“It’s not up to me. It’s Gigi’s decision since she’s the property owner. However, I’m inclined to think that as long as the police don’t charge her with Kate’s murder, then Gigi won’t press charges.”
I hadn’t thought of it but… “That is true.”
We walk in silence the rest of the way. As we approach the exit, my phone sounds a text notification. Hoping it’s Ian, I check.
“Oh, my gosh.” I stop in my tracks.
It’s not him, but it’s a close second.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asks.
“Nothing is wrong,” I say. “In fact, everything just got a whole lot better.”
“What do you mean?”
I glance around to see who’s within earshot.
I don’t want to chance it, so I say, “Let’s get in the car and I’ll tell you.”
When we’re safely tucked inside Mom’s RAV4, she asks, “What’s going on?”
“Hold on, a second. I need to make a call.”
I place a call to my friend Greta Finster. In college, she was simply known as Finster, the computer genius.
“Hey, Fins,” I say. “I got your text. Do you have something for me?”
“Indeed, I do.”
“Hold on, let me get a pen and paper to write on.”
I jot down the information Finster has for me.
“Thanks, friend. I owe you big time.”
After I hang up, Mom asks, “What’s going on?”
“Finster found out the name and the address of the guy who drives the silver Honda.”
Chapter Seven
~ Maddie ~
We now know that the silver Honda owner’s name is Greg Paulson. He lives in Greenville, South Carolina.
We don’t know if this is the guy who was following Kate and, if so, why he was tailing her.
We can’t do anything with the silver Honda information—yet—but we are close to the hotel. So, we might as well make the most of our time.
