Now it’s me shaking my head, trying to figure out why a woman who is allergic to cats would want to have a box full of kittens nearby.
That day back at the Marblehead Lounge comes to mind.
“Oh my God”—a dull laugh pumps from me—“the day you touched Fish at the lounge, your eyes immediately teared up. Your face was red and swollen instantly and it looked as if you had been crying.”
A flood of relief hits her. “That’s right. I’m allergic, remember? There’s no reason on earth why I’d be asking for a box full of trouble.” She makes a face at the kittens. “No offense.”
“But there is a reason,” I say. “You needed them that day to help manufacture tears because you knew there wouldn’t be any otherwise—not for Ember. In fact, I did see you take a kitten out of the box once the alley was filled with people. You held it to your cheek for just a moment, and soon thereafter it looked as if you were sobbing. But you weren’t sobbing. You weren’t sorry in the least because you did it. You fed Ember donuts that were laced with strychnine—something you must have easily procured.”
A choking sound comes from her as she begins to dart her gaze at the crowd as if looking for the quickest escape.
“How dare you accuse me of killing my own stepdaughter.” Her voice shakes as she says it. “Bizzy, you are badly mistaken. You have my word, I would never do that.” Her chest begins to heave with her every breath.
“But you did do it, and your word is useless. You said Warner was in Africa, and yet Flint said he’s been in Tuck’s Harbor all along, convalescing. He said the poor man only has months to live. Which one of you is telling the truth? I’m sure a few simple phone calls can help me determine that.”
She blows out a breath as her eyes widen.
“Don’t you dare go spewing these lies. I’m going to sue you. There’s no proof that I did this to Ember. Why in the world would I want my own stepdaughter dead?”
“Because in a few months when Warner does pass away, your gravy train comes to an end. You said you were fine with Warner leaving his entire estate to Ember—that was your way of proving you weren’t a gold digger.”
“I did say that.” She presses her hand to her chest as she takes a step back toward the crowd. “And I’m not a gold digger. Flint told you that, didn’t he? Bizzy, he’s the one that poisoned those donuts. I saw him with Ember those last few minutes. You have to believe me. I can testify against him. We can put him away together. He’s done something horrible in his past. He’s not as innocent as everyone thinks he is.” My God, I have to hook her in. This cannot go sideways for me. She pulls her purse in close.
“Flint slept with an underage girl during one of his campaigns a few years back,” I tell her. “That’s hardly a reason to speculate he killed Ember. But then, maybe his motive is just as strong as yours. I suppose that’s for a jury to decide. But, nonetheless, you’re going to have to head to the sheriff’s department. If you’re innocent like you say you are, then there won’t be any problem for you. We’ll find a deputy right now, and you can tell them everything you know about Flint.”
She shakes her head in horror. “No. I don’t want to go near the sheriff’s department.” Not now, not ever. “Not today anyway. It’s Thanksgiving, Bizzy. You’ve probably been up for hours. Your mind is on overdrive, overwhelmed with your responsibilities at the inn. I forgive you for this. I’ll head to the sheriff’s department first thing in the morning if that makes you feel better. Let’s just both enjoy the parade and a good dinner. I won’t take this personally.” She backs up another notch as she says it.
“I’m sorry, Marigold, but I don’t believe you. You’re lying now like you’ve been lying this entire time. In fact, there was no ghost, was there? You were wreaking havoc at the inn all on your own. You weren’t afraid of staying alone in that drafty old mansion of yours. Warner hasn’t been there in months. You specifically came to the inn to start chaos, to keep this town on edge, to keep the deputies looking everywhere but where they should have been. You destroyed Suds and Illuminations that night after Ember was killed because you most likely had a key. And once you were done there, you went over to my sister’s shop and wrote the word killer on her window to create another diversion. You spilled red bubble bath in through the slit in Willow’s front door, didn’t you? You were set to terrorize because, in a way, you wanted to pin this all on Ember herself, didn’t you?”
Her breathing picks up as ripe anger takes over her features.
“Yes,” she bites out the word, and Sherlock barks in response to her confession. “I wanted to blame it on Ember because it was all her fault. If she wasn’t so stubborn, and hard to get along with—threatening to have me thrown off the grounds as soon as her father bit the big one—I wouldn’t have told her to have at the entire estate. I knew I’d get rid of her before that ever happened. And Warner—he grew so sick so fast. It felt as if I only had minutes to get rid of that ridiculous brat. Believe me, I did the world a favor. I did my homework. The strychnine was easy to procure. I have
