“Perfectly.”

  They took their wine out to the living room, where they sank into the overstuffed sofa.

  “I’ve been thinking about Crowley’s murder some more,” Monica said as she took a sip of her wine before placing the glass on the coffee table. “I did some investigating online.”

  Greg grinned. “What would Miss Marple have made of Google, do you suppose?” He cradled his wineglass in his hands. “What did you discover?”

  Monica told him about the articles in the Times-Picayune about Beau Belair.

  “So Jacy really had been a rich summer tourist at one point.”

  “There’s more. Roger Tripp is the grandson of Jacy’s late husband, and it seems he was quite disappointed when the family inheritance went to Jacy instead of to him.”

  Greg whistled. “That puts things in a whole new light, don’t you think?”

  “Yes. And although nothing was ever proven, Roger was convinced that Jacy had had a hand in his grandfather’s sudden death.”

  “Sour grapes at losing the inheritance?”

  “I don’t know.” Monica reached for her wineglass. “According to the articles, the police did look into Tripp’s claim, but Beau had been cremated, and there wasn’t enough evidence to warrant going any further.”

  “So Roger obviously holds quite a grudge against Jacy. That supports our theory that he’s trying to frame her for Crowley’s murder. He certainly had enough reasons to hate Crowley as well.” Greg put his hands on his knees and started to get up. “How about I start our steak? I don’t know about you, but I’m starved all of a sudden.”

  They went out to the kitchen, where Greg lit the broiler and rubbed the steak with garlic and some seasoned salt. Monica leaned against the doorjamb watching him. She was suddenly overcome with a rush of affection that surprised her.

  Monica told Greg about the conversation she’d overheard between Roger and Jacy—where Roger had been demanding money for something.

  Greg stopped with his hand on the refrigerator door. He spun around toward Monica. “Do you think he’s blackmailing her?”

  “That’s what it sounded like to me.”

  “All the more reason to try to pin the murder on her then.” Greg brought a salad out of the refrigerator and carried it over to the table in the dining area.

  Something was niggling at the back of Monica’s mind, but she couldn’t get hold of the thought. She felt as if she was missing something—something important. A clue? Or the meaning behind a clue? The harder she thought, the more elusive the information became. Perhaps it would come to her later.

  Greg grilled the steak and heated the mashed potatoes while Monica whisked dressing for the salad.

  “Would you like a refill?” Greg pointed to her nearly empty glass.

  Monica held it out. “Yes, please.”

  They carried their glasses and the food to the table. Greg held out a chair for Monica and then sat down opposite.

  They chatted companionably through dinner—mostly about books, but also about themselves. That elusive thought still haunted Monica, but whenever she felt she was about to grab it, it floated away again.

  They were clearing away the dishes when Monica finally realized what was wrong with the conclusions they’d drawn about the murder.

  She was so startled, she exclaimed, “Oh!”

  “What is it?” Greg turned in alarm. “Are you okay?”

  “I thought of something. It’s been nagging at me all night.” Monica ran through everything in her mind. It made sense. “We’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick, as they say.”

  “How so?” Greg closed the dishwasher and leaned against the counter.

  “I don’t think Roger Tripp is trying to frame Jacy. I think it’s the other way around—Jacy’s trying to frame Roger.”

  “Whoa! What makes you think that?” Greg asked as he refilled their wineglasses. He gestured toward the doorway. “Shall we go sit down?”

  They sat on the sofa and Monica began to explain her theory—piecing it together in her own mind as she went along.

  “First there’s this button from Jacy’s coat—the coat she claims was stolen.”

  “The button you found in Roger Tripp’s restaurant.”

  “Yes. So obviously we—I—thought Roger was the one who stole Jacy’s coat with the intention of covering up his part in the murder and, coincidentally, incriminating her.”

  “So what’s wrong with that theory?”

  “Another button from that coat was found in Tempest’s shop—Twilight. Crowley was killed with an athame Tempest claims must have been stolen from her shop because she didn’t sell it to anyone.”

  “So Roger stole the athame—”

  Monica was already shaking her head. “If Roger was the one who took it, why would he bring Jacy’s coat with him to the shop? He wouldn’t want to be seen with it, don’t you think? He’d have stashed it in his car or gone back to the restaurant with it first.”

  “So you think that—”

  “Yes. Jacy stole the athame. And the button fell off her coat while she was in the shop.”

  “But you found the other matching button in Roger’s restaurant.”

  “Yes. In the ladies’ room. Jacy was being too clever for her own good. Why would Roger have brought the coat into the ladies’ room? Why would he even go into the ladies’ room?”

  “To clean it?”

  “Possibly. But not while wearing Jacy’s coat.”

  “True.”

  “Jacy wanted me to find that button and draw the conclusions I did—the wrong ones. She must have noticed I was headed toward the restrooms so she dashed in ahead of me and dropped that button into the toilet.” Monica snapped her fingers. “Another thing. I noticed a perfumed scent in the ladies’ room. I thought it was some sort of room spray but it was Jacy’s perfume. She was wearing a lot and the scent lingered even after she’d left.”

  Greg frowned. “If all that is true, then Jacy had to have killed Preston Crowley, and what motive would she have had for that?”

  “Crowley had a diamond ring in his pocket when he died along with a receipt for the ring from Bijou. The police had it examined, and the diamond was fake.”

  “Hmmm,” Greg murmured. “And the day before he was murdered I saw Crowley coming out of Bijou looking like a volcano about to erupt.”

  Monica fiddled with the stem of her wineglass. “My guess is he had had the ring appraised independently, discovered it was nearly worthless and went back to complain. Since he left in such a fury, I’m guessing he didn’t get any satisfaction from Jacy. Plus the ring was still in his pocket.” Monica turned toward Greg. “Crowley probably threatened to go to the police, and Jacy couldn’t let him do that. I imagine there’s more than one fake gem in her shop.”

  “A scheme she must have cooked up to make the money she needed to pay Roger the cash he was demanding.”

  “And remember the day of the book club? I think it was Phyllis Bouma who said Jacy had lost most of the money left to her by her husband. She probably thought this crooked scenario was the only way she could stay afloat.”

  Greg ran his hands through his hair. “Jacy had to know Crowley was supposed to ride in the sleigh with Miss Winter Walk at the start of the festivities. She knew exactly where to find him—and also that practically everyone else in town would be lining Beach Hollow Road.”

  “She must have paid Candy to lure Ryan away from the horse and sleigh long enough for her to murder Crowley. And she murdered Candy to keep her from talking, poor thing. I doubt she would have put two and two together anyway. Who knows what Jacy told Candy? She must have had quite a surprise when she and Ryan discovered the horse and sleigh gone.”

  “I suppose we should go to the police?” Greg suggested. “Or do you think they’re on the same path?”

  Monica cupped her chin with her hands. “I don’t know.” She twisted around to look at Greg. “The problem is we don’t have any proof. This is all conjecture.”

  “You’d think someone would have seen Jacy on the village green. Surely not every single inhabitant of Cranberry Cove was on Beach Hollow Road.”

  Greg’s words caused something to click in Monica’s brain. “Tempest!” she blurted out. “She was going to perform her Imbolc ceremony on the green. She said she’d set everything up for it—candles, bells, noisemakers and who knows what all.”

  “Does Jacy know that?”

  “I don’t know, why?”

  “Because if she does, Tempest could be in danger.”

  Chapter 27

  Monica left Greg’s apartment with conflicting feelings—contentedness from having spent such an enjoyable evening combined with a niggling worry about Tempest and her safety. Would Jacy remember that Tempest had been on the village green attempting to hold her springtime ritual? Or was Monica worrying for no reason?

  As Monica walked toward her car, she passed Twilight and noticed that the lights were on above the shop. Tempest was obviously still up. Should Monica try to warn her to beware of Jacy? Would Tempest believe her or think she was overreacting?

  Monica hesitated for several minutes, standing on the sidewalk and staring at the lit window above Twilight. Through the crack in the curtains, she saw a shadow thrown up against the far wall. Two shadows. Did Tempest have company? Monica had an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t want to disturb Tempest, but on the other hand, she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life wishing she had done something.

  The cold was beginning to penetrate her jacket, and her fingers were numb inside their gloves. She might be risking making a fool of herself, but it wouldn’t be the first time. She pressed the bell alongside the door that led to Tempest’s apartment.

  Monica stamped her feet and clapped her freezing hands together as she waited. And waited. Maybe Tempest hadn’t heard the bell? Monica had heard it peal inside the building so she knew it was working. She pressed it again and stood back so she could see the lit window up above.

  One of the shadows on the far wall froze at the sound of the doorbell. Monica waited, expecting Tempest to throw the door open at any minute, but the door remained firmly closed.

  Monica didn’t like this one bit. Something was going on. She was fairly certain Tempest wasn’t seeing anyone, so it wasn’t as if she and a man were holed up in the apartment together, oblivious to distractions.

  Monica paced up and down in front of the building for several minutes before retrieving her cell phone from her purse. She pulled off her right glove and quickly pressed the buttons for Tempest’s telephone number. She stood for several minutes with the phone crammed against her ear until Tempest’s voicemail came on. Monica hesitated but then clicked off the call. What point was there in leaving a message? If Tempest was in trouble, it would do no good. And if she wasn’t, the message would sound terribly foolish in the morning.

  Monica was about to stow her cell back in her bag when it rang, startling her to the point where she almost dropped it.

  “Hello?” she said breathlessly, recognizing Tempest’s number on the screen. “Is everything okay? I rang your bell but—”

  Monica’s words were greeted by a deep, throaty laugh that didn’t sound at all like Tempest’s.

  “Well, well, well. I knew you were clever the minute I met you. But Mama always said there was such a thing as being too clever for your own good.”

  The voice that oozed over the telephone line was southern in origin and dripping with sweetness like honey dribbling from a spoon.

  “Jacy!” Monica exclaimed. “What are you doing? Where’s Tempest? I want to speak to her immediately.”

  Jacy laughed again—the same throaty laugh with which she’d greeted Monica.

  “Then why don’t you come up?”

  “I can’t. Not . . . not right now,” Monica stuttered.

  Jacy’s voice hardened, the sweetness and the laughter completely gone. “I’m going to come down and let you in. I expect you to cooperate or something very bad will happen to your friend.”

  Monica’s hands suddenly got even colder. She turned to look over her shoulder toward Book ’Em, where she could see the warm glow of the light in Greg’s apartment above. She tried willing him to look out the window but his curtains remained firmly closed.

  Monica briefly contemplated bolting to her car, locking herself in and calling for help, but just then the door to the building was flung open and she was facing the business end of a small gun pointed steadily toward her chest.

  Too late now. Monica looked longingly toward her Focus, which was parked only a few feet away.

  “Upstairs.” Jacy jerked the gun toward the stairwell.

  Monica started up the steps acutely conscious of the gun pointed at her back. Her legs were shaking and she was almost to the top when she lost her footing and stumbled briefly. The thought crossed her mind that she could fall backward, taking both her and Jacy down the long, dark staircase, but then she was mounting the top step and it was too late.

  The apartment was similar to Greg’s—a galley kitchen and a living/dining area. The ceiling was draped with fabric, with a chandelier dripping with crystals in the center. A coat tree that looked like real tree branches stood next to the sofa. Hanging from it was the long black cloak Tempest often wore around town, which scandalized the local population who favored simple outerwear like parkas or car coats. Tempest herself was in a royal blue caftan and was sitting on the plump purple velvet couch. The light in the room was shadowy, but even so, Monica could see the frightened expression on her face. Jacy motioned for Monica to join Tempest on the sofa.

  Monica’s knees almost gave out as she took her seat. Tempest shot her a sidelong glance before turning her attention back to Jacy . . . and Jacy’s gun, which was leveled at them with a remarkably steady hand.

  “Jacy, if you let us go, nothing will happen. We won’t say anything,” Monica said, in as soothing a tone as she could muster with her voice quivering so badly. “We can all forget this ever happened.”

  Jacy threw her head back and laughed, her chandelier earrings catching the light as they swung to and fro.

  “You must think I’m dumber than a box of rocks.” She pointed a finger at Monica. “I looked up that character you and that bookseller were talking about at the Pepper Pot.”

  “What character—”

  “Hercule Poirot. The librarian over at the Cranberry Cove Library was more than happy to tell me about him. I already suspected you’d been snooping around—especially when you asked about Candy—but that clinched it.”

  “Did you put—”

  “The voodoo doll in your apron?” Jacy laughed again—the sound had a hysterical edge to it. “We believe in voodoo down South. I had to send clear to New Orleans for that doll.” She jabbed a finger in Monica’s direction again. “Those spells can be mighty powerful.” She smiled and waved her gun at Monica and Tempest. “This is awful powerful, too.”

  Monica shrank back against the sofa cushions. She strained to hear any noises coming from outside, praying that Greg had sensed something was wrong and had called the police, but so far the night was quiet and still—no sirens in the distance or shouting voices, just darkness and silence.

  “You won’t get away with this,” Monica said, feeling as if she were reading from a bad television script.

  “I’ve already gotten away with more than you can imagine.”

  “Beau? Your late husband . . .”

  “He was starting to eye other women—younger women. All of a sudden I wasn’t young enough for him anymore. And of course there was the pre-nup. I wasn’t about to give up everything I’d worked so hard for.”

  “And Crowley?”

  “It was his fault for having that diamond appraised. I told him I’d give him his money back, but that wasn’t good enough. He insisted he was going to the police. He didn’t want the reputation of his precious Cranberry Cove ruined by someone selling fake gems, he said.”

  Monica shifted in her seat, and Jacy waved the gun at her. “Don’t get any ideas. This is loaded and I know how to use it.”

  “What are you going to gain by shooting me and Tempest?”

  “What do I have to lose?”

  Monica tried to ignore the gun pointed at her. “Was Tripp blackmailing you?”

  “Yes.”

  “So that’s why you tried to frame him for Crowley’s murder.”

  Jacy shrugged. “That was a nice touch, don’t you think?”

  “And you stole the murder weapon from my shop.” Tempest sounded indignant.

  Jacy started pacing in front of the sofa. “Everyone in town thinks you’re nuts, so I figured they’d be more than happy to have a murder pinned on you.”

  “There are some things I won’t stand for,” Tempest said, two bright spots of color appearing on her otherwise pale face. “And being called a nut is one of them.”

  Tempest started to push herself up from the sofa. Monica looked at Jacy and was horrified to see that she was leveling her gun at Tempest, her finger already on the trigger.

  Monica looked around frantically. The coat tree next to the sofa was within arm’s reach. She yanked Tempest’s black cloak off the hook and tossed it at Jacy, where it settled over her head obscuring her vision. Jacy batted at the material frantically, only succeeding in tightening the cape around her further.

  Seizing the moment of opportunity, Tempest lunged at Jacy, managing to knock her to the ground. Monica hoped the fall had knocked the gun from Jacy’s hand.

  Monica threw herself on top of Jacy, banging her shin against the coffee table as she went down. The sharp pain brought tears to her eyes and momentarily blurred her vision. Jacy was fighting ferociously against the fabric swirled around her.

  The gun went off so suddenly and the noise was so deafening that it took Monica several seconds to react.