someone who will stop at nothing to attain the goal.”
I mulled over the warning as Tinkie and Cece approached. They both looked shell-shocked, and I felt a rush of anger that we hadn’t been able to escape suffering and cruelty for even a week at a damn cooking school. Private investigators are often forced to confront hard things. And Cece, even though she was technically the society editor, was always in the thick of the news. But enough was enough. I’dcome to Greenwood to heal, not watch a lovely young girl become a human torch. And Tammy had made it clear she thought the incident was no accident.
“Are you okay?” Tinkie asked us. She was ashen.
“What happened?”
“No one knows for certain. The speculation is that the flames from the fire baton jumped and caught in her hair.” Cece tucked her notebook into her purse. “I’ve never seen anything like that before in my life.”
“What are the police doing?” Tammy asked. “This didn’t just happen. Someone made that girl burn.”
Cece, Tinkie, and I exchanged looks at Tammy’s tone. “His name is Franz Jansen, and he’s investigating,” Cece said. “Let’s hope this was just an awful accident.”
Tammy snorted and opened the car door and sat down.
“Tammy, this may be bad form, coming on the heels of that . . . event. But I promoed your pageant prediction in tomorrow’s paper. It’s too late to pull the story. Would you hazard a guess who’s going to win?” Cece asked.
“I can’t be certain.” Tammy swung her legs into the car so she faced straight ahead.
“Not even a guess?” Cece obviously didn’t relish pressing her friend, but she had readers who hung on her society column. She’d promised them something, and she had to deliver.
“It won’t be the hula dancer,” Tammy said. “Would you mind taking me home? I’ve got a splitting headache.” She closed the door, shutting us out.
“She saw something bad,” I told Cece and Tinkie. “She saw the fire and was about to tell me her vision when Brook ignited. She’s upset, and she thinks someone evil is behind all of this.”
“And she may well be right,” Cece said. “Would you take us to my car at the hotel lot? I need to get Tammy home. Tinkie, e-mail me your photos, if you don’t mind.”
__________
As we washed the makeup off our faces and prepared for bed, Tinkie was unnaturally quiet. Cece telephoned and told us Brook died en route to the hospital. Police Chief Jansen wasn’t labeling it a homicide, Cece said, nor was he calling it an accident. In the quiet luxury of the hotel room, Tinkie and I prepared for bed in a state of shock. The horror of Brook Oniada’s death made it impossible to relax.
“How did such an awful thing happen?” Tinkie plopped on her bed, her posture slumped. “Did you see her? She just stood there—all covered in flames. Like she couldn’t move or didn’t know enough to drop and roll.” She put a hand over her eyes. “I’ve never seen anything so awful.”
“Maybe it was an accident.” I didn’t believe it for a minute. Tammy had sensed malevolence and doom, and she’d been right.
“Let’s try to get some sleep.” Tinkie peeled back the covers and slid into the bed.
“Good idea.” I was reaching up to turn off the bedside light when the hotel phone rang. Tempted to ignore it, I finally grabbed it when Tinkie started to climb out of the covers to answer. She was so short she had to use steps to get in her bed, so it was easier for me. “Hello.”
“Miss Delaney, this is Hedy Blackledge.” Her voice shook, and I could tell she’d been crying.
The image of her standing on the stage while Brook burned would stay with me for a long time. “What can I do for you, Hedy?”
“I need your help.”
Now this was a strange turn of events.
“How?”
“I want to hire you and your partner.”
“For what?” I asked automatically.
“To prove I didn’t kill Brook. The police just finished questioning me,
I mulled over the warning as Tinkie and Cece approached. They both looked shell-shocked, and I felt a rush of anger that we hadn’t been able to escape suffering and cruelty for even a week at a damn cooking school. Private investigators are often forced to confront hard things. And Cece, even though she was technically the society editor, was always in the thick of the news. But enough was enough. I’dcome to Greenwood to heal, not watch a lovely young girl become a human torch. And Tammy had made it clear she thought the incident was no accident.
“Are you okay?” Tinkie asked us. She was ashen.
“What happened?”
“No one knows for certain. The speculation is that the flames from the fire baton jumped and caught in her hair.” Cece tucked her notebook into her purse. “I’ve never seen anything like that before in my life.”
“What are the police doing?” Tammy asked. “This didn’t just happen. Someone made that girl burn.”
Cece, Tinkie, and I exchanged looks at Tammy’s tone. “His name is Franz Jansen, and he’s investigating,” Cece said. “Let’s hope this was just an awful accident.”
Tammy snorted and opened the car door and sat down.
“Tammy, this may be bad form, coming on the heels of that . . . event. But I promoed your pageant prediction in tomorrow’s paper. It’s too late to pull the story. Would you hazard a guess who’s going to win?” Cece asked.
“I can’t be certain.” Tammy swung her legs into the car so she faced straight ahead.
“Not even a guess?” Cece obviously didn’t relish pressing her friend, but she had readers who hung on her society column. She’d promised them something, and she had to deliver.
“It won’t be the hula dancer,” Tammy said. “Would you mind taking me home? I’ve got a splitting headache.” She closed the door, shutting us out.
“She saw something bad,” I told Cece and Tinkie. “She saw the fire and was about to tell me her vision when Brook ignited. She’s upset, and she thinks someone evil is behind all of this.”
“And she may well be right,” Cece said. “Would you take us to my car at the hotel lot? I need to get Tammy home. Tinkie, e-mail me your photos, if you don’t mind.”
__________
As we washed the makeup off our faces and prepared for bed, Tinkie was unnaturally quiet. Cece telephoned and told us Brook died en route to the hospital. Police Chief Jansen wasn’t labeling it a homicide, Cece said, nor was he calling it an accident. In the quiet luxury of the hotel room, Tinkie and I prepared for bed in a state of shock. The horror of Brook Oniada’s death made it impossible to relax.
“How did such an awful thing happen?” Tinkie plopped on her bed, her posture slumped. “Did you see her? She just stood there—all covered in flames. Like she couldn’t move or didn’t know enough to drop and roll.” She put a hand over her eyes. “I’ve never seen anything so awful.”
“Maybe it was an accident.” I didn’t believe it for a minute. Tammy had sensed malevolence and doom, and she’d been right.
“Let’s try to get some sleep.” Tinkie peeled back the covers and slid into the bed.
“Good idea.” I was reaching up to turn off the bedside light when the hotel phone rang. Tempted to ignore it, I finally grabbed it when Tinkie started to climb out of the covers to answer. She was so short she had to use steps to get in her bed, so it was easier for me. “Hello.”
“Miss Delaney, this is Hedy Blackledge.” Her voice shook, and I could tell she’d been crying.
The image of her standing on the stage while Brook burned would stay with me for a long time. “What can I do for you, Hedy?”
“I need your help.”
Now this was a strange turn of events.
“How?”
“I want to hire you and your partner.”
“For what?” I asked automatically.
“To prove I didn’t kill Brook. The police just finished questioning me,
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