McKeon handed the story back to Bryce Waters who gave a little background on the award show and its founding father, Shamus Callahan, before breaking back to the scene and a segment obviously taped in the immediate aftermath of the accident. One by one, Matt McKeon asked onlookers about the moments leading up to and following Deidre’s fatal fall, and one by one they gave the only answers they really could….
“It was awful.”
“One minute she was so happy, and the next she was dead!”
“I-I just can’t believe it.”
“I’m so thankful her children weren’t present.”
And on and on it went.
When the reporter tried to get a statement from the late Shamus Callahan’s widow, Mavis, the seventy-year-old woman simply burst into tears before being escorted to a waiting car by her daughter-in-law.
I tried to swallow over the lump I felt forming midway down my throat, but it took more effort than I could give at that moment. Instead, I glanced at my grandfather and noted the same general shock on his face that I felt on my own.
“Wow.” I know it was a lame thing to say under the circumstances, but in addition to giving me more time to process everything we’d heard thus far, my one word summation fit.
Grandpa Stu cupped his hands together, brought them to his lips, and exhaled. “I can’t imagine someone wanting to kill anyone, let alone someone with such a genuine smile.”
And it was true. Deidre may have been quiet by nature, but when she smiled, her face, her eyes, her entire being lit up like a Christmas tree—or a bazillion Christmas trees as was the case when she’d stepped onto the stage to receive the coveted Golden Storyboard from Cassie Turner just a little over four hours ago.
My grandfather was right. If what had just been reported on the television was true, why would someone have done that to Deidre Ryan of all people? And, even more importantly than why, who?
“What do you know about them other folks you were up against tonight?”
“For the award? It was Deidre, Ben Gibbens, Lexa Smyth, and me. Why?”
“It’s one of the biggest motives.”
This time, there was no pause followed by understanding. Instead, I started clueless and remained clueless. “You lost me, Grandpa.”
My grandfather closed the fingers of his left hand around his chin and rubbed it slowly, pensively. “Sure, there are the usual suspects in a situation like this—revenge, greed, money, hatred, et cetera. But jealousy is on that list, too.”
“List? List of what?” I asked.
“Motives for murder.” Grandpa Stu let his hand fall back to his lap as he scooted forward and off the couch. “Every episode of Detective Time comes down to one of them on that list, and last week’s murder was on account of jealousy. Like this one.”
“You mean Deidre’s?”
“Of course.”
“But that’s assuming what they just said on the news is even true.”
“Someone killed her,” my grandfather said as he moved around my living room in a sort of aimless fashion. When he reached my drafting table, he stopped and made his way back in my general direction. “And seeing as how she was receiving her award when she was killed, jealousy makes the most sense, don’t you think?”
His words hit their mark. “Wait. You think someone killed her because they were angry she won?”
“People have killed for far less than that.”
On its own, it was a point I couldn’t argue, but in terms of what happened to Deidre, I could. “First of all, I know Ben and Lexa. I know Ben probably a little better, since my time at Beckler and Stanley overlapped with his, but I’ve seen Lexa at plenty of industry workshops and events. Granted, I’m far from a fan, but branding her a killer is a bit much. Especially when none of us—myself, included—knew who the winner was until the moment Cassie opened the envelope and announced Deidre’s name.”
“So maybe the motive wasn’t jealousy at all. Maybe it was something else,” my grandfather huffed, clearly not happy with the possible error in his initial theory. “Either way, someone had to know this young woman was going to win, right? A committee? A group of judges? Family members of the winner tasked with making sure their loved one attended? The M.C. or the one who handed the award to that woman in the first place?”
I pondered my grandfather’s list, moving through it point by point. “I imagine the foundation committee knew, sure. The judges—usually retired ad execs and other notables in and around St. Louis—go without saying. But I’ve never known a nominee not to come to the award show.”
“And the M.C.?”
“Carl Brinkman. He’s one of the local news anchors. Channel Five, I think. I’m not sure what motive he’d have to tamper with an award show platform.”
My grandfather stared at me as if I’d grown a second head (which I checked via my hand, just in case). “Maybe his job at the station is in jeopardy—I mean, I found him kind of stiff at times this evening.”
“So you think he killed someone because he’s stiff?” I asked.
“No, to save his job by being on scene when a major story broke.” My grandfather tapped his chin and then made a beeline back to my drafting table where he secured a piece of paper and a pen and began to write with gusto.
“What are you doing, Grandpa?”
“Writing down theories the way they do on Detective Time.”
“You can’t seriously think Brinkman did it? I mean, first of all, it’s a stretch. Second of all, you have no reason to think his job was in jeopardy. He’s had the anchor chair the entire time I’ve been here and I’m pretty sure they tout his longevity with the station in their promos.”
He silenced me with a wave of his hand, jotted down a few more things, and then pointed the pen at me. “Tell me about the other one—the one who handed our victim her award.”
Our victim?
Uh oh…
“Cassie Turner. And Grandpa, the cops will figure this out. It’s their job.”
“A job we just happened to do better than they did when that body dropped onto your feet in that house last fall, and when that woman died on the set of that commercial back in January.”
I wanted to argue, but I couldn’t. Still, the meaning behind his words landed like a grenade at my feet.
“No, no, no.” I held up my hands, surrender like. “We are not getting involved in this, Grandpa.”
“You’re already involved, Sugar Lump.”
It was my turn to stare at him as if he’d grown two heads. “How on earth do you figure that?”
“Maybe this young woman was the target. Maybe she wasn’t.”
“Meaning?”
“Maybe the category was targeted rather than a specific winner.”
“The category?” I echoed as I sat up tall. “You think someone targeted the category?”
My grandfather’s seemingly nonchalant shrug was busted by the smile creeping across his face. “It’s the most coveted award of the night, isn’t it?”
The most coveted award…
This time, when I looked at my grandfather, I didn’t really see him. Instead, I saw the wisdom in what he was saying. Yes, there was a chance Deidre was targeted, but the notion that it was the category that was targeted, rather than a specific person, made a whole boatload of sense, too. Maybe even more so.
“Now