Page 78 of She Doesn't Have a Clue
She turned to a lounger behind her where there were, sure enough, a stack of fluffy white towels. She took one and handed it to Richie.
“What are you celebrating?” Kate asked. “Rebecca’s untimely demise?”
“Don’t be macabre,” Richie said, wiping his face. “I mean, yes, but it’s tacky to say it like that. With Rebecca out of the way, the family trust stays where it belongs: in the family. Cassidy and I managed to convince Ken to delay the whole homestead donation business a few years, so she can have more time and money to dedicate to all her little charity causes.”
“And so you can get your inheritance?” Kate said dryly.
“Yes. Ken has graciously promised to intercede with the board on my next inheritance request,” Richie said primly, “and I promised Steven I’d cover his debts with Rico so he doesn’t get his legs broken. With interest, of course. I’m not the fucking charity lover in the family.”
“A prince among paupers,” Steven said to the ceiling.
“Hand me the bottle, will you?” Richie said, snapping his fingers. “And the glasses?”
Kate turned to the lounger and the table beside it, where a bottle of red wine and two glasses waited. She started to hand them to Richie, who put his hands out to take them. But when he held his hands up, there were red blisters along the pad of his thumb on both hands. Kate snatched the bottle back and set the glasses down with a clink, snagging Richie’s hands.
“Hey!” Richie protested. “What the hell?”
“Youwerethe one sabotaging the house all weekend,” Kate said, letting him go. He splashed back into the water, coming up spluttering. “You cut the generator fuel line and sabotaged the windows in the ceremony room!”
Richie sniffed. “You can’t prove anything.”
“It was my idea,” Steven said placidly, running his hands through the water and spinning in circles. “I also shut off the main water line down here earlier. The inspector won’t be so willing to approve the historical designation after they’ve spent all weekend not showering or pooping, whoever they are.”
“But this one made me do all the dirty work because he’s got delicate wrists,” Richie said, rolling his eyes.
“I have carpal tunnel from all the contracts I’ve written up for your aunt over the years,” Steven said primly. “She insisted on handwritten first drafts, said she didn’t trust email for contracts. I don’t even think she owned a computer.”
Kate knew for a fact she did, and someone had used her drowned body to access the family fortune on it. But if Steven was lying, he was either doing a really good job at it, or a really bad one. He spun around in lazy circles as Richie paddled their drinks back out to him, his wine sloshing into the pool water and swirling like drops of blood. Which reminded Kate that she was standing in the real scene of the crime. And Richie had lied to her about Rebecca leaving on her own.
“You said Rebecca was here last night,” Kate said.
“So what if I did?” Richie asked, struggling to remount his pizza slice. He finally managed it, ungracefully, before swirling dramatically and eyeing her. “Oh, you’re doing, like, a detective thing, aren’t you? ThatJuliette woman warned me about you snooping around like you’re a real whatever her name is. Nancy Grace.”
“Nancy Drew,” Kate said flatly. “And I happen to know Rebecca didn’t leave here alive, because she drowned. Which means somebody dragged her body upstairs while somebody else was dragging Kennedy’s unconscious body to the wine cave.”
Richie snorted. “Several eyewitnesses will tell you Steven and I were down here when Ken had her little spill. They would have noticed Aunt Rebecca floating like a turd in the middle of the pool. If Auntie R drowned down here, she did a good job of pretending she was fine when she left. Well, except for puking in the changing room. Woman can’t hold her champagne.”
Kate frowned. “What champagne?”
Richie waved at an alcove on the opposite side of the pool. “Take a towel with you and mop it up, will you? It still smells like ass in there.”
Kate skirted the pool, the water and the lamps throwing disorienting fractures of light in her path. Twice she almost stepped into the pool because she couldn’t see where she was going, and she had to turn on her own flashlight to find her way to the alcove that she realized was a separate room with teak cabinets and stacks of fresh towels. The floor looked like it had been cleaned recently, but Richie was right about the distinct tinge of vomit in the air. It was sharp and acrid, same as Kennedy’s the night before.
Kate poked through the cabinets filled with swimsuits, cover-ups, and leather sandals. But the last cabinet had a carefully folded garment in a bold floral print—Rebecca’s rehearsal dinner dress. And tucked behind the dress was a champagne bottle, the label gold with black writing. A doll-size wedding dress hugged the neck of the bottle wearing a red sash, the wordsFor the Brideprinted in a florid white script.
Kennedy’s personal bottle of Dom Pérignon.
Rebecca had gone to the bar to get her own bottle of Dom at the rehearsal dinner, but apparently she’d swiped Kennedy’s instead. She hadn’t been feeling well, same as Kennedy. And she’d thrown up, same as Kennedy. And Kate knew from her research for Loretta book three that abrinpoisoning could also cause foaming in the respiratory tract if a lethal dose was ingested. Rebecca had obviously been in the pool last night, but what if Richie had been telling the truth? What if Rebecca really had left the pool room after not feeling well last night?
Kate dashed out of the locker room to the edge of the pool where Richie and Steven had consolidated to one slice of pizza, their limbs entangled. Kate imagined it was only a matter of time before their party got R-rated again. “Hey!” she said, loud enough to snag their attention. “I need a glass.”
“So go to the kitchen and get yourself one,” Richie said.
Kate looked around until she spotted a long-handled pool net mounted on the wall. She took the net and wielded it in Richie’s direction, knocking his wineglass out of his hand and scooping it up with the net despite his protests. She rinsed it out and brought it to the locker room, shaking the water out and setting it in front of her flashlight. She poured the remaining contents of the champagne bottle into the glass, a thick trail of white powder lumping around the opening of the bottle. And there, in the glass, a single shard of black and red.
“The champagne glass was a red herring,” Kate whispered, disappointed in herself for falling for the oldest trick in the book. It wasn’t the glass withBrideetched on it that had done Kennedy in; it was the whole damn bottle. And now Kate knew how Kennedy had been poisoned, and she finally had the answer to the questionwho killed Rebecca?
“Rebecca killed herself,” Kate whispered.