Page 39 of She Doesn't Have a Clue
Kate leaned in, dropping her voice dramatically. “Kennedy was poisoned last night.”
Marla choked on her coffee. “After that whole oyster business?”
Kate shook her head. “There was no oyster business. Somebody tried to poison her.”
Marla blinked, trying to process Kate’s bombshell. “What makes you think that?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but hear me out,” Kate said, running through the events of the previous evening, including finding the sliver of rosary pea and Kennedy’s missing necklace in the lining of her suitcase.
“Are you shitting me?” Marla asked. “You actually found Kennedy’s necklace in your stuff? How the hell could it end up there?”
“The killer must have planted it,” Kate said dismissively, as if this sort of thing happened all the time. “Don’t worry, I got rid of it.”
“Got rid of it?” Marla said. “Isn’t that thing worth, like, a small European country’s per capita? Please tell me you didn’t chuck it down a trash chute.”
“Don’t worry about the necklace,” Kate said. “The important thing is thatsomeoneon this island is a murderer. Or a would-be murderer. And I’m going to catch them.”
“Valentine.” Marla sighed, draining her coffee and surveying the grinds along the bottom of the cup critically. “I really need another, and you do, too. Maybe then you’ll start making sense.”
“I know how it sounds!” Kate whispered as they moved toward the coffeepot.
“It sounds like you’ve imagined one of your books is real,” Marla said dryly, filling her cup. “Are you sure this isn’t some kind of, I don’t know, weird coping mechanism because of Spencer and Kennedy? I mean, really? Murder at a wedding? Besides, Kennedy is fine, right? If somebody really wanted her dead, they didn’t do a great job of it, did they?”
“That’s the other part!” Kate exclaimed, drawing the attention of a nearby couple in the pastry line. She gave them a hasty smile, lowering her voice. “Someone tried to kill Kennedyagainlast night. In her room. They tried to smother her with a pillow.”
Marla’s eyes went wide. “How do you know that?”
“Kennedy told me. She thought it was a bad dream, but I know a murder attempt when I hear one. Whoever is after Kennedy won’t stop until they finish the job, unless I catch them first.”
“How do you plan to do that?”
“By discovering the evidence they left behind,” Kate said firmly. “I’m pretty sure the poison was dumped in Kennedy’s champagne glass, which was missing last night. We find the evidence, we find the killer.”
Marla nodded along slowly, far less enthusiastic about the prospect of a murder investigation than Jake had been. Kate felt that old, aching longing for Jake. The absence of him loomed large in her life, even when she tried her best to pretend she’d moved on. But she couldn’t help Kennedy by mooning over Jake.
“We need to find that evidence,” Kate said firmly.
“‘We’? As in you and me?”
“I can’t interrogate our suspects while also looking for missing shoes,” Kate said.
“What about the hotstralian, why isn’t he here helping you?”
“He’s… occupied,” Kate said uneasily. “Besides, it could be fun! This house has plenty of inspiration for your feminist fairy-tale reimaginings.”
“This house is a nightmare of the patriarchy, but you might have a point.” Marla looked at her in consideration. “Sneaking around looking for evidence does sound a hell of a lot more fun than talking to any of these blowhards about stocks or legacy enrollment or whatever it is rich people blather on about. Plus, you’re not exactly Brenda Leigh Johnson when it comes to getting info out of people. You’ll definitely need my help with these interrogations. Fine, I’m in. How do we find this so-called evidence?”
Finally, the chance to show Marla that her “little detective stories” might actually prove useful in the real world. Sure, Marla wasn’t as handsome or effortlessly charming or deliciously distracting as Jake, but that was probably a good thing, right? Now Kate could really focus in on the investigation itself.
Of course, that meant she needed to figure out how to actually find the evidence.
Kate glanced across the breakfast room, spotting the wedding photographer snapping pictures of the pastry tower and getting close-ups of the bubbles popping in the mimosas.
“Oooh, the photographer!” Kate exclaimed, licking the butter and bacon grease off her fingers. She didn’t exactly sound—or look—like the expert she was hoping Marla would see her as. She cleared her throat, tempering the excitement in her voice. “I mean, we should talk to the photographer. Maybe he caught something in the background of the rehearsal dinner.”
“Lead the way, Loretta,” Marla said.
“Hi there,” Kate said to the photographer as she approached him.She gave a friendly, disarming smile. “Are you the wedding photographer?”