Abandoning Jane, Tiffany shouldered through the sea of mourners. She poured and downed a drink at the wet bar in the corner. Then poured another. And another. With every gulp, more fury vibrated from her slight frame. The alcohol appeared to fuel fires of rage inside her.
A pretty, glassy-eyed brunette approached Jane. Someone she recognized from high school. An older woman who’d been a few years ahead. Abigail Waynes. No, Abigail Waynes-Kirkland now. “I’ll show you where Tiffany keeps the casseroles, desserts and…whatever that is. The fridge is currently full, but we’ve set some ice chests.”
Abigail didn’t wait for Jane’s response, just plowed forward, escorting her into the kitchen. Foil-wrapped dishes covered every available surface.
“Oh, wow, that’s a lot of food.” Available for the guests, too? Jane’s mouth watered. She’d forgotten to eat breakfast.
“So,” Abigail said, propping her hip against a counter and crossing her arms. “The good ole doc and the corpse collector. Did he give you his famous vitamin D injections in his exam rooms, too?”
What! In his exam rooms? “He never…I never…not with him, I swear!” With great effort, she managed to squeeze her culinary delight between what looked to be mango salsa and lasagna.
You’re here to investigate. So investigate!
Jane nibbled on her bottom lip before asking, “Did you receive his, um, injections?”
The brunette gave her a wouldn’t you like to know eye roll before sauntering off.
The answer was yes. Jane would very much like to know. Had Abigail slept with the doctor or not?
Before following the other woman, Jane jotted a handful of names found on cards next to some of the dishes and added a few observations in the trusty notebook.
Multiple confirmed affairs.
Spouse upset. Or faking.
Look into Abigail’s romantic history. Is she on or off again with her husband? What causes their breakups?
Get recipe for mango salsa.
After retracing Abigail’s steps, she returned to the lion’s den. The alcohol had hit Tiffany with a vengeance.
She stumbled about, liquid splashing from the rim of her glass. “Did you not hear me?” she shrieked. “Anyone who slept with my husband can walk herself out of my house before I make her crawl out!”
The room erupted in a symphony of protests.
“I didn’t! Only kissed him a little. But so did Stacey!”
“I would never! Not again.”
“Don’t look at me. I told Tiff he was only using her for her money and she should kick him out. And not so I could snatch him up!”
Women glanced around the room, some glaring daggers, others trying to blend into the background. Jane casually added another handful of names to her notebook. If her list of suspects kept growing like this, she’d soon need another notebook. Or several dozen of them. If she didn’t know a name, she described the face.
One spectator’s reaction intrigued her more than any other. That of Emma Miller. A pretty nurse with a slender build and hair too light to be brown but too dark to be blonde. Jane recognized her from the clinic website. Emma worked with Dr. Hotchkins, so she wasn’t someone Jane had dealt with. Dr. Garcia worked one side of the office, and Dr. Hotchkins had worked the other.
Cheeks red, eyes wide, Emma hurried from the room. Hmm. An action born of guilt or a need to escape the fireworks?
Jane gave chase. Too late. From the porch, Jane watched as a sobbing Emma sped down the driveway.
Drats! Well, no matter. Jane would call and make an appointment at the clinic. Wasn’t like Emma could avoid her there.
With a sigh, Jane decided to return home rather than rejoin the party. Er, wake. She slid into the hearse, but she didn’t hurry off. Once again, the fleur-de-lys symbols caught her attention. Had the five cars been vandalized or had the girls hired an artist? Was this connected to the case? Or was she grasping at straws?
Better safe than sorry. Jane exited and logged the license plate numbers of the tagged vehicles before heading home. Rolex greeted her from the living room couch. After offering him the requisite snuggles, she got to work, walking the grounds to shoo away any lookie-loos hoping to catch a glimpse of the murder site. Outside of a holiday and a tour, the cemetery rarely received more than three guests. Today, that number was doubled.
When she returned to the cottage, she stopped by the kitchen for a drink of water and caught sight of Special Agent Ryan’s business card, resting beneath an apple magnet on the fridge.
Why not call him and share what she’d learned?
Yes, why not, Jane? Investigators solve more crimes when they share information.
Unable to conjure a good reason not to share, she dug her cell phone from the pocket of her dress. For some reason, her fingers tingled as she dialed his number.
He answered on the second ring. “Special Agent Ryan.”