And Death Goes To . . .. Laura Bradford

themed charades Carter has up his sleeve, your grandfather will have forgotten everything.”

      I think I managed a placating smile.

      And I know I grabbed the basket of rolls and pointed Andy toward the butter.

      But as I followed him back out to the table, I knew the chance of my grandfather forgetting what I’d said was slim to none for two simple reasons. One, my grandfather forgot nothing. Ever. And two, the sadness in his eyes as I returned to my seat and encouraged everyone to dig in for dinner was impossible to ignore no matter how hard I tried.

      Still, I tried…

      I talked about my meeting the next day with a potential client—a microbrewery out in St. Charles County.

      I prompted Mary Fran to share some of the more funny stories about Rudder and the rest of the pet store gang.

      I quizzed everyone on their feelings about the last episode of the newest, yet incredibly addicting, reality TV show, Suburban Warrior.

      And I encouraged Carter (with the help of a few effective under-the-table kicks) to do what he did best—entertain.

      Occasionally, when I snuck a peek at my grandfather, I saw him nod at something that was said. A few times, he even spoke when addressed. But the mischievous sparkle that was as much a part of my grandfather as his love for me was noticeably absent. And it was my fault.

      Somehow we made it through dinner and dessert. But it was while eating the chocolate cake I’d purchased from Tara’s Tasty Treats that I gave into my guilt and slumped back against my chair.

      “Still thinking about what you said earlier?” Mary Fran asked. “About Cassie?”

      Realizing she was talking to me, I forced myself to focus just as Carter snapped-to on my left.

      “When she first came out, I was mesmerized by her hair. But then, when she turned, it was all I could do not to stand up, march on to that stage, and smack her upside the head for that one ombré strand that just threw it all off.” Carter set his coffee cup down on the table and made himself breathe. “I mean, why? Why!”

      Andy pushed his own cup into the center of the table and reached for a cookie from the tray Mary Fran had brought. “Cassie is the one who handed out the last award, right?”

      “Yes, that’s the one.” Mary Fran, too, took a cookie and shook it at me. “Tell them what you came up with while we were talking at the pet shop this morning.”

      Grateful for the opportunity to step away from my guilt, I seized on the conversational gem I’d been handed—a gem that would surely appeal to my magnifying-glass-packing grandfather.

      “Okay.” I pushed my empty dessert plate off to the side and, with the help of the elbows I probably shouldn’t have on the table in the first place, rested my chin atop my hands. “So there are two reasons Lexa’s ad might have started to play on that screen at the top of the spiral stairs. Either the tech crew responsible for running the videos last night pressed the wrong one… Or they pressed the right one and the wrong winner was called.”

      Sure enough, I saw my grandfather’s eyebrow cock upward.

      Phew…

      Sam set down his glass of milk at the far end of the table. “Wait. Each presenter comes out carrying a sealed envelope with the winner’s name in it, right?”

      “Yes.”

      “So then the only way the wrong name could be called is if the wrong name was put in the envelope—from like a miscount or something, right?”

      I used the index finger of my free hand to dab up a chocolate smear from my plate and then licked it off with my overeager tongue. “That would be one way, sure, but it’s not the only way the wrong name could be said.”

      When I verified all eyes (including my grandfather’s) were on me, I filled in the blank with the same realization I’d shared with Mary Fran at the pet shop. “The presenter—which in this case was Cassie—could’ve simply called a different name than what was on her card.”

      No one said anything for what had to be a good thirty seconds but, eventually, Carter spoke, his eyes round with intrigue. “So you think Ms. Ombré-Strand read the victim’s name even though the real winner was the other woman?”

      “It’s certainly a possibility.”

      “But I thought we were looking at the category as the target,” my grandfather said, pushing his chair back from the table, and heading toward the same piece of paper he’d jotted notes on after the party at my agency.

      “It’s certainly a possibility, but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s not.”

      “Think this idea that Cassie made it so Deidre was on the platform when it collapsed is a theory you should raise with the police?” Andy asked, as he, too, pushed his chair back. But unlike my grandfather, Andy didn’t stand. He merely hiked his left ankle onto his right knee and tented his fingers beneath his chin. “It certainly seems an avenue worth exploring.”

      My grandfather looked up from his notes, his eyes finding and then abandoning mine before doing the same with Ms. Rapple. I looked at Ms. Rapple to gauge her reaction, but her attention was focused on Gertie, her brows furrowed in something that looked a lot like worry. Before I could inquire though, Carter took a turn with my latest supposition.

      “If Ms. Ombré Strand—”

      “Cassie. Cassie Turner,” I corrected.

      Carter swept his hand in my general direction. “Semantics. Anyway, if Ms. Ombré Strand called Deidre’s name in error just to get her up on that platform, there would have to be something pretty big there between them. Because if she was just angry she hadn’t been nominated and she was railing against that, she wouldn’t have cared who was on the platform when it gave way. But if you’re right, and she intentionally changed the real winner to Deidre, there had to be a reason. Something big. Something that would drive a seemingly successful person in their own right to retaliate against someone else via murder.”

      “Carter’s right,” my grandfather said.

      Carter grinned at Sam. “That has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

      But I was focused on my grandfather and the fact that while he was finally looking me straight in the eye, it felt different. Hollow, even.

      I shivered.

      “Do you remember hearing any scuttlebutt about the two of them?” Mary Fran stood, gathered up everyone’s dessert plate, and handed the stack to Sam. When he took the hint and carried them into the kitchen, she moved on to the forks and spoons, handing that pile to Carter. “Any sort of run-in, bad blood, salacious rumors, et cetera?”

      “About Deidre? No. She wasn’t the type.”

      “You sure of that, Tobi?”

      The sound of my name—my given name—on my grandfather’s tongue caught me by surprise. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d called me Tobi, instead of Sugar Lump. I just knew I didn’t like it one little bit.

      “Am I 100 percent sure? No. But I’m up for changing that if you are.”

      Andy held his hands up in the air. “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Do I need to remind the two of you what the job of the police is?”

      I met and held my grandfather’s gaze. “No. But I could have been on that platform just as easily as Deidre. And while I can’t say I knew her super well, I know she didn’t deserve to die the way that she did.”