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With a press of a button, the door buzzed and unlocked, allowing Jane and Beau to pass through to a restricted area. The place was a maze, having been added onto and remodeled repeatedly throughout the years, but she’d been inside numerous times, traversing different conference rooms and even an interrogation space complete with two-way glass. And how could she forget the night she’d spent in a basement jail cell as a “guest” after demanding Sheriff Moore arrest her.
They stopped in front of a single elevator installed in the early 1990s. Beau jabbed the button, and Jane’s mind returned to her ex. Did a terrible fate await him, thanks to his connection to a possible killer?
“Poor Christopher,” she said and sighed.
“Why poor Christopher? Besides the fact that he lost you. That’s tragic.”
A smile bloomed, and Jane patted her friend’s shoulder. “It’s his girlfriend, Maggie. She’s involved somehow, I know it. She’s Abigail’s friend. And a mystery writer. Plus a frequent visitor at the Treasure Room. Factor in Abigail’s presence near the murder scene, at the exact right time, and boom, clear picture. Christopher even confirmed seeing the socialite at the grocery store down the street. Yes, she could’ve been in the area to attend the writer’s meeting, as usual, but the book club is probably nothing but a cover for her.”
One way or another, Jane would learn the truth.
“I’m confused.” Beau shook his head, amusement glazing his features. “Who exactly is your suspect? Abigail, who has an alibi, or Maggie?”
“Both. Clearly, they worked together.” A bell above their heads dinged, and the elevator door opened.
A grim-faced couple strode out. Mason Thorton, Hannah’s ex, who Jane recognized thanks to Conrad’s records, and none other than Abigail Waynes-Kirkland. The pair must not have confessed to the crime, considering they were walking away from a formal interview with the indomitable Conrad. No matter. He’d loosened the lid, now she would open the jar of trouble.
Mason stood tall and slim with jet-black hair despite being in his mid to late fifties, with weathered features taut from strain. The sophisticated Abigail stunned in a tailored, knee-length coat the same color as the shadows and made from the finest cashmere. Her dark brown hair wowed in a fancy twist, as sleek as her style, not a strand out of place.
Upon spotting them, Abigail drew up short, forcing Mason to stop with her. She tapped one pointed-toe stiletto against the floor. The two groups faced off.
Ding, ding, ding, let the showdown begin.
CHAPTER FIVE
Settings? Boring! Go ahead and skip.
Y’all Write Now–Advice for New Writers
by Tabby Paynes-Murksand
“Jane Ladling. As I live and breathe,” Abigail cooed, her fingers flying up to stroke what could only be called a statement piece. A necklace adorned with stones more suitable for a red carpet than a police station. Proof of her newfound wealth. “I must admit, I expected you to make an appearance sooner. You’re nothing if not predictable.”
Hmm. This was the second time she’d heard that particular insult. Compliment? “Hello, Abigail. I’m sure you remember my friend Beau. Is your ex-husband waiting in your getaway car, ready to speed you and your new companion away?”
“Landon moved to Texas months ago.” Flicking invisible locks over one shoulder, the socialite proclaimed, “This is Mason Thorton.”
Mason and Beau shook hands. Abigail settled a palm on the chest of Hannah’s ex, staking a claim while simultaneously displaying her numerous rings. Diamonds, rubies, sapphires and emeralds glimmered from platinum bands.
“He’s my fiancé,” Abigail added. “We’re getting married.”
What! Suddenly, Jane was rethinking her murder club theory. What if Mason had needed money, despite his “substantial” inheritance? Abigail must be going through his windfall fast. Perhaps he’d even helped plan the scheme to take out his ex and Abigail’s enemy at once.
“Nice to meet you,” Jane said with a nod, revealing none of her thoughts. “I wish our introduction happened under better circumstances. Hannah was a lovely lady.”
“She had her moments.” His gruff voice held notes of regret, grief, and anger.
All of which could be faked. Or a byproduct of his encounter with Conrad. Or stem from a realization that his new girlfriend was the worst. Or Mason was truly in mourning. Just because he and Hannah divorced didn’t mean they’d hated each other. Unless they had. But either way, Abifail was the weak link in their relationship. Jane comprehended the gold digger’s core motive for everything: more money.
She broadcasted an all-innocence expression at the other woman. “I’m told you write books. Is this a recent hobby or a long-term thing?”
Abigail’s eyelids slitted. “That’s an abrupt change of topic, but all right. I’ll move on and pretend you aren’t asking for a so-called investigation. To be honest, I was born an author.”
Jane would verify with Tiff. Not that she knew what an affirmative verification proved. That Abigail hadn’t used the club as cover? Or that she had a long con going? Maybe Jane should put the newly engaged “author” to the test. “Beau and I are both writing books, too.”
“Manuscripts,” Beau corrected without missing a beat.
“Yes, manuscripts,” Jane agreed with a nod.
