The Begonia Bribe (15 page)

“Look, I don’t wanna poop on your party,” Annie said, her serious tone cracking Cam into laughter, “but I have another sixteen-hour day tomorrow.”

“Why are you open on Saturday?”

“Downtown art festival. I can’t
not
be open. I can only be open eleven to three, but there is still the baking that has to get started at eight and then this silly pageant thing in the evening. You need anything that doesn’t require time?”

“A hug?”

“Done!” Annie threw herself at Cam. Cam was five inches taller, but the two weighed about the same. This gave Annie an advantage in body slamming, so Cam toppled with Annie over her.

“Um . . . do you two need anything else? A third, maybe?” the waiter asked.

Annie sat up laughing and held a hand up for a high five.

Cam sat up, mortified.

Annie laughed for another five minutes after the waiter had been sent away, Cam leering at her. Finally through, Annie rose.

“We have work tomorrow. Are you coming or not?”

Cam had hoped to hear from Rob, but hadn’t, so she rose and followed Annie out to the car.

* * *

I
t hadn’t meant anything to Annie, so Cam hadn’t pursued it at the table, but when Cam got home, she pulled up the list of past contestants again. One year in particular sounded alarm bells. Jessica Benchly had edged out Olivia Quinn to win the Miss Roanoke pageant among teens in the late ’80s. That same year, Nelly’s Nursery had offered a scholarship very like the one they were currently offering, and Jessica Benchly, pageant winner, had won that, too. That meant at least Jessica had some gardening knowledge.

Cam wanted to see what Nell remembered. The woman seemed a standard “early to bed, early to rise” sort, so Cam dropped an email to her that she’d like to take her to breakfast. She expected to have her call in the morning, but the woman surprised her by ringing her cell immediately.

“I heard about how you solved that last murder case,” Nell said without preamble. “Do you think I know something about this one?”

“Ms. Norton! You’re up!”

“Who could sleep when a second murder happens at a children’s pageant?”

That was a fair point, and Cam mumbled something to that effect. “You know, the thing is . . . that last murder . . . I was only able to figure it out because I also collected a lot of information that didn’t end up mattering. You don’t know what’s important until the pattern emerges. So I don’t know if you know anything important or not, but I hoped maybe we could have breakfast together so I could just check out a few things.”

“I’d rather have a few glasses of wine with you now, if that works. Tomorrow is the only day this week I might sleep in, and it just helps me to think there is no alarm to answer to.”

“Of course! Should I meet you in the Hotel Roanoke bar?”

“How about Table 50—fewer prying eyes. The hotel is hosting so many pageant folks . . .”

Cam understood. It was true; they had a better chance of privacy elsewhere.

“That sounds perfect. Twenty minutes?”

* * *

C
am wished it wasn’t so humid, though the night-blooming jasmine she passed cheered her—a sure sign of a careful gardener, as it really was too fragile for a zone seven. A midnight walk should have woken and refreshed her, but mostly it just made her feel damp. She was relieved to step into the air-conditioning of Table 50.

Table 50 was a nice restaurant, one of the few favorites she and Annie agreed was cool. Cam loved the artistic presentation and Annie liked that they purchased the majority of ingredients locally, much of it from the farmer’s market practically outside the door. Sadly, the men in their lives didn’t quite appreciate these points because portions were attractive, rather than generous. So it was usually a girls-only splurge. Cam looked around. It was dark colors and low light, but still looked and sounded cheerful, containing a mix of date couples and happy larger groups. It didn’t look like Nell was here yet.

After about ten minutes, Nell walked in with her husband. He headed to the bar to take a stool as Nell joined Cam at her table.

“Are you sure he doesn’t want to join us?”

“Quite sure. We’ve been married forty-three years, and he is prone to unwanted advice, which only creates friction. We’ve learned when a subject is touchy we should approach it on our own, and then share once a decision is made. It’s made thirty-seven of our forty-three years significantly easier. I’m just too hardheaded to want advice, and he is too opinionated not to give it. He does have a fairly peaceful response, though, once a thing is already done.”

At first Cam thought this dynamic made them sound poorly matched, but the more she thought about it, the more it seemed they’d done well to figure out such a simple solution.

“That never would have occurred to me.”

“No. It’s the very desperately arrived at conclusion of two people who love each other but can’t manage to live together. It took quite a while to figure it out. Now, what are these questions you wanted to dig into?”

The waiter brought over a bottle of wine, even though nobody had checked on their table. Cam and Nell looked to Mr. Norton, and he smiled and waved at them. It was a cabernet sauvignon, drier than Cam would have chosen, but it was probably best if Cam only sipped, and this would ensure she did.

“How many of these pageants have you done?” Cam asked.

“Oh, dozens over the years, but not very many Young Misses. I know it’s the first time in Virginia—the other two were in Georgia.”

“Well, I’m actually only interested in Virginia, but the age of the contestants doesn’t matter. Are there people helping with the pageant this year who you remember—either who have helped before or participated in other pageants?”

“Oh, honey, I don’t think you’ve met a postmenopausal memory! I recognize a lot of people, but that may not have anything to do with pageants. Can you ask anything more specific?”

“Okay, let’s start at the supper party, and we can go person by person. The judges—Telly, Clancy, and Barbara—had you met any of them before?”

“Well, I’d met all of them, though I only consider Clancy a friend. He and Byron were fraternity brothers many years ago, so I’ve known him since I was pinned to Byron in college.”

Cam definitely wasn’t comfortable following that answer with the ladies’ underwear line of questioning, so she went the other direction. “And Clancy’s date, Jessica Benchly?”

“Oh, I’ve met Jessica separately on several occasions.”

“Since she wasn’t formally with the pageant, I wasn’t sure where to find out about her.”

“Well, to start, she
should
be formally with the pageant. She was Miss Virginia at some point. It was a year I offered my scholarship and she won that, too!”

That last piece was one Cam actually knew, but she felt it was important to let Nell establish herself as the expert.

“And was that . . . stiff competition, or pretty easy to judge?”

“Easier than today—the age range in these younger girls seems so much bigger, and it’s hard to tell what is judging on merit, what is merit for age, and what is strictly cuteness of presentation.”

“The toad idea?” Cam asked, without revealing she knew Lizzie.

“Wasn’t that fantastic?” Nell chuckled and took a drink.

“So the year Jessica was in, this woman was in, too. Do you remember her?” Cam pushed the picture she’d printed from the pageant website of Olivia Quinn at Nell.

Nell frowned and pulled a penlight from her purse to look closer. “I do know her. She threw quite a fit, if I remember right, at losing to Jessica, both rounds. In the green scholarship, she lost for a great idea that was already being implemented—before the internet, see—but she may very well have thought she invented it, composting kitchen debris—something I learned about from West Coast gardeners in the mid-’80s—and I think she was third runner-up in the main contest.”

“She’s also a police officer who has been investigating this murder case . . .” Cam said.

“Is she? I don’t think I’ve seen her since. I doubt I’d recognize her.”

Cam didn’t think there was a reason to mention the romance with Barry Blankenship. It didn’t really seem relevant at the moment. She was also a little confused. If Jessica were involved, she would have thought Jessica and Olivia were working together because of Olivia’s apparent role in framing Mindy, but this made it seem more like they would be rivals.

One thing it meant was that Barry Blankenship had traded his early-thirties wife for an early-forties version, which, based on what Cam had seen of Barry, didn’t seem consistent.

* * *

C
am thanked Nell for the conversation and Mr. Norton for the wine and headed out. The moon was bright, so she didn’t worry about her walk home. She was just glad to finally be getting to bed.

C
am regretted at least one of the glasses of wine from the night before. It wasn’t that she was hung over, but she’d woken up with a wild hair related to the investigation—several things she felt she needed to look into. It meant a full day, so it magnified the irritation with the dry mouth that plagued her. She wished Annie was giving her a ride, if only because she would have had an excuse for a fatty breakfast. Instead, she ate oatmeal like a good girl, and it didn’t erase any of the pressure in her head.

She had just rinsed her bowl when her doorbell rang. She answered, confused as to who could be there so early.

“Dylan!”

“Quick! I shouldn’t have this. It’s Jessica’s camera. Copy the memory to your computer. I have to get this back.”

Cam was totally confused, but too curious to refuse, and so turned on her laptop. As soon as it was going, he stuck a memory card in the side. It uploaded, she copied its contents, and then he pulled the card back out and stood. He almost bolted out but stopped long enough to give her a very lingering kiss on her hand. She took a deep breath and by the time she looked up again, he was gone.

She was way too curious to let this slide, so she sat and opened the file. Clancy Huggins in three different ladies’ dresses.

“Okay, then. I see a tit for tat,” she said to herself. “No wonder Clancy didn’t want the pictures of Telly getting around . . .”

She frowned at the screen. That was all it meant to her—that both men cross-dressed, given the chance. But it potentially gave Clancy Huggins a motive, provided these pictures were older, though they were also a lot milder.

Cam had to stare at them a while longer before it registered where Dylan must have spent the night to be in possession of Jessica’s camera. He’d been with Jessica Benchly at the end of the night prior, and this morning he was in a hurry to look like he’d not been gone and he had
her
camera.

It was smart, as it gave someone else at least a hazy motive to murder Telly Stevens, and lent a story to the earlier facts, but Cam also knew it would never hold up—stolen evidence never did. That wasn’t her real issue with the matter, though. Sure, it was distasteful to have embarrassing stolen pictures on her computer, but she was fighting very hard not to feel jealous about Dylan and Jessica.

And there was another layer not sitting right with Cam. Clancy Huggins had been nothing but decent, and she didn’t feel right bringing something like this into the case without giving him a chance to explain. She looked up his number on her computer and pushed it into her phone.

“Hello?” He sounded confused.

“I hope I didn’t wake you, Mr. Huggins. This is Cam Harris and . . .” She wished she’d rehearsed, but there was no way to make this less awkward. “Somebody anonymous,” she lied, “sent me some pictures. They thought they might be related to the murder investigation, but I’m not so sure. I wondered if you might talk to me.”

“Off the record?”

“Of course.” She was hardly likely to go public that one, or rather, two, of the Little Miss Begonia judges liked to wear women’s clothing. She’d either keep quiet, or pass the photos to Jake, and Jake alone.

“I was headed down for breakfast. I’m at the Hotel Roanoke if you’d like to join me.”

“Jessica’s not with you?” She kicked herself when it came out, but he seemed nonplussed.

“Jessica is a notoriously late sleeper. I doubt anyone will see her until noon.” He laughed.

“I’ll see you in about twenty minutes, then,” Cam said as she hung up.

She hoped she managed to sort what she wanted to say before she got there. She left a message for Evangeline that she’d be late checking in, and then began walking.

* * *

S
he arrived a little more quickly than expected and found Clancy waiting out front, fingering a philodendron that sat in a pot. She wondered if he was worrying about the poisonous properties it had—it was something that had crossed her own mind more than once when she passed the plant. They hardly needed more murder weapons growing nearby. He greeted her, led her inside, and then raised a finger to the girl at the station. She smiled and picked up two menus. Clancy held his elbow out and Cam took it, feeling very bad for the questioning she was about to put him through. Clancy Huggins was clearly a very nice man.

He gave non-verbal clues as he sat that told Cam to wait on questions. She kept quiet as he ordered, only ordering coffee and a fruit plate herself. She wished she were hungrier, but the oatmeal had stuck, so, even if the bacon smelled good, she had to pass.

“You don’t want to eat anything?”

“Oh, I wish I hadn’t eaten already, but I did. I had oatmeal before the morning visit that caused me to call you.”

“And I wish we could trade. My doctor would be pleased if I were too full of oatmeal to eat an omelet; surely your cholesterol rating is better equipped to handle three eggs with the Santa Fe fixings.” He smiled kindly. “So what’s all this about?”

Cam bit the inside of her cheek, looking for the right words.

“Mr. Huggins, I don’t know how to say this, except just to say it. I saw some incriminating photos of you this morning.”

“Oh,” he said, his coffee stopping just before his mouth.

“I’ve also seen sort of similar pictures recently of Telly Stevens.”

He sighed. “It’s a long story. Jessica thought . . . one-upping him on those photos would stop Telly from using them.”

“Using them, how?”

“Well, I suppose this will come out, and for my part, it’s really only shameful that I was so gullible. It’s ironic, really. I was contacted by a woman claiming to be putting together a fund-raiser for breast cancer—men in women’s shoes. Jessica took some pictures of me in various dresses. We then sent the pictures to the woman. Then a few weeks later, Telly and I were up for the same broadcast journalism award. A man claiming to have a duplicate file threatened to sell the photos of me to Telly so he could use them against me. I thought it would have ruined the fund-raising campaign. Turns out there was no campaign; it was all a trick. Jessica, as my good friend, without my knowledge, managed to get comparable pictures of Telly so that we had the means to keep him quiet. That was it. As far as it went.”

“He didn’t threaten to go public then?”

“No! He had more to lose than I did! My public is rather more liberal than his—public radio is very different from network television, and my pictures had been taken for the purpose of a campaign, or so I believed. And as a radio personality, people wouldn’t necessarily recognize me. Besides, the pictures of me have considerably more clothes.”

“What’s your relationship with Jessica?”

“I’m terribly fond of her.”

“It’s not romantic?”

He narrowed his brows, then said, “I didn’t say that.”

“It
is
romantic?”

“I didn’t say that, either. We’d really prefer it was nobody else’s business.”

“Okay. I’m sorry.” He really was sweet and she felt bad for prying. “Are you willing to share anything about the lingering look Telly threw at Jessica at the opening supper party?”

“I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but there is no denying the man was a letch.”

“Did you know Judith at all?”

“Of course. She was a producer, and I have done a fair bit of broadcast production myself, though she is . . . was . . . a much more broad programmer, whereas I’ve just done a few special series. Still . . . well-researched, accurate series, rather than the fluff Telly was known for . . .”

Cam thought that statement actually had to do with the award competition, but she didn’t bite. She wanted to pursue Judith. “What did you think of her?”

“We worked together smoothly a handful of times. Until Telly’s infatuation with Jessica, she was always very pleasant.”

“Why would that stop her being pleasant?”

“Jessica and I are very open about our friendship. I think Judith assumed I’d take sides.”

“Would you have?”

“I don’t see that sides needed to be taken. Telly was awful to both of them, and Jessica never asked for his attention. I think they might have been friends. But I think Judith meant to defend her husband no matter what.”

“Would that defense of her husband extend to . . . an illegitimate child?”

“Yes, I imagine it would. Was there one?”

Cam wasn’t sure he looked quite as clueless as his words, but she didn’t want to accuse him of lying, so she just went on.

“I think so, though as far as I know, it hasn’t been tested,” Cam said.

“Poor little tyke.”

“The little tyke in question is my age, or nearly.” This
did
appear to surprise him and she wondered if there were other little tykes. “I think he will land on his feet . . . unless somebody succeeds in framing him for murder, which they seem to be attempting.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I think you’re not the kind of man who lets an innocent man be framed. You seem nice.”

“Well, I really hope to not disappoint you on that point, Cam. I try to be nice.”

After just a bit more small talk, she left him to his breakfast and decided to brave the day.

* * *

S
he checked in briefly with Evangeline, but things seemed in order, so she decided to double-check on Petunia. It would be the pageant’s night for a sit-down supper, and it was quite a large group for Spoons’ typical capacity.

Nick answered. “Yeah?”

“Nick! Happy Saturday! How are you?”

“Oh. Hey, sis.”

Cam rolled her eyes, glad for the phone between them. She felt very much like she wanted to give a schoolmarm-style manners lesson.

“So are you guys okay for this evening?”

“I guess.”

“That’s not very convincing.”

The phone crackled and Nick whispered. Cam thought maybe he’d stepped outside.

“Okay, so Petunia’s not doing so hot. She’s got that . . . morning sick . . . but all day long. She’d kill me if she knew I said so, but we could use a little help.”

“I’ll be there.”

Cam was now familiar with the wave of guilt that washed over her. While Petunia was pregnant, Cam would need to be more attentive. She should have thought more about morning sickness, but her only friends who’d had babies lived far away, so she hadn’t been through this before.

* * *

S
he arrived at Spoons a little after eleven. She’d taken the time to go home and change into restaurant-worthy clothes—no bare shoulders, no toeless shoes—and then came back toward town to join Nick and Petunia without Petunia being warned.

When Cam arrived, Petunia’s face soured briefly, then she sprinted toward the bathroom and Nick came over and hugged Cam.

“She’s miserable. I can’t get her to go home, but she spends half her time in the bathroom or washing up from being in the bathroom, so we really appreciate the help! Erm . . . even if Petunia says we don’t need it.”

“I’ve been Petunia’s sister for thirty years, so I know what she’ll try to do here. Thanks for letting me help you,” Cam said.

“If she asks, you just had a hunch.”

“I got it. How can I help most?”

“Chicken?”

“What?”

“That’s what keeps sending Petunia out. We’re doing stuffed breasts for supper, but it’s raw chicken at the moment, and everything about it sets her off—the texture, the smell, the sight.”

Cam felt her own stomach turn. She wasn’t vegetarian, but almost, for this very reason. Raw meat was repulsive.

“It’s half a breast, sliced this way,” Nick showed her how to split them into thin, wide half breasts. “Then spread this paste on it, roll them, and stick in a toothpick.”

The mixture for inside smelled of prosciutto, rosemary and garlic, and she thought maybe hazelnuts. Nick had put a few spinach leaves under the mix and a sprinkle of crushed roasted red pepper over when he showed her how to prepare them. She was willing to bet the rolled half breasts would be delicious, cooked. At the moment, though, a little gross.

“You have a nut allergy alternative?” Cam asked. She knew hazelnuts were actually a seed, but she didn’t think complicated explanations would help the night go any more smoothly.

“Did them already,” he said. “That will be the first batch to bake. They’re in the walk-in already.”

Cam turned to eye the gleaming walk-in refrigerator. A grant from a foundation heavily supported by Evangeline and Neil Patrick had bought that recently, which ironically caused Nick some grief. Cam knew, though, Nick wouldn’t blame the fridge for that. He was just glad for the state-of-the-art business support to keep his fresh things fresh.

“Got any gloves?” Cam asked, eying the chicken breasts suspiciously.

Nick pointed to a box of thin kitchen gloves, and Cam pulled two out. The chicken would still feel gross, but at least she’d be protected from the slime.

“Show me one more so I don’t screw it up,” Cam said.

Nick did, slicing the breast the long way and setting half aside, layering the stuffing mixture, and then rolling the whole thing.

“Okay! I think I can manage.”

Her first effort wasn’t as nice as Nick’s, nor the second, but by number three, she thought she had it. Cam heard water run around the corner, and Petunia returned from the bathroom.

“That bimbo Jessica!” she shouted. “You know my body was happy with plain old nausea until I saw her puking her guts up! Oh!”

Petunia had walked around the corner. She seemed to have forgotten Cam was there.

“What are you doing here?”

“I just knew you had a busy day, so I thought I’d offer to help a little.”

Petunia narrowed her eyes, suspicious as always.

“Jessica who? Benchly?” Cam asked.

“That prom queen at that party of yours.”

“She was sick?”

“Yeah. When we were delivering food, I found her puking behind a gardenia. Got her dumb life story. I haven’t been able to walk past a gardenia without puking since—stupid cow! That used to be my favorite smell!”

“And her life story was?” Cam said, hoping to get Petunia back on point.

“Blah, blah, blah, baby daddy, couldn’t handle it, something something.”