10. Death Wears a Jade Mask

A Bunny Beaudoin Mystery

When a wealthy donor drops dead at her charity gala, Fox Theater fundraiser Bunny Beaudoin finds herself thrust into a murder investigation that threatens everything she's built. Teaming up with enigmatic private investigator Dash O'Neill, Bunny discovers the victim was poisoned—and he's not the killer's first target. As bodies pile up and the theater's reputation hangs in the balance, Bunny and Dash navigate a web of secrets, lies, and dangerous attraction. Between dodging a suspicious police chief and uncovering a conspiracy that reaches the highest levels of Magnolia Heights society, Bunny must decide how far she's willing to go for justice—and whether she can trust the mysterious man who's stolen her heart. In a world where everyone has something to hide, the deadliest secret might be falling in love with your partner in crime.

✨Prefer a more immersive experience? Listen to the audio version above for a tandem read ✨

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“Your honor, I’d like to enter into evidence that you are absolutely cheating.” Bunny declared, pointing an accusatory finger at Violet across the vintage mahjong table between them.

The balcony of Violet Havendish’s apartment was an urban oasis that defied its modest square footage. The apartment itself bore the fingerprints of someone who collected experiences. A vintage film projector sat beside stacks of Criterion Collection DVDs, their spines creating a rainbow of cinema history across the bookshelf. The kitchen counter held three different coffee makers: a French press for contemplative mornings, an espresso machine for her husband’s cocktails, and a battered drip coffee maker that had survived two moves and countless late-night grading sessions.

Fairy lights wound around the wrought iron railing, casting a gentle golden glow that blurred the edges of the surrounding Almond Court buildings. Potted herbs and flowering vines created the illusion of a secret garden suspended three stories above the bustling neighborhood. The Sunday evening air carried a promise of summer; warm enough to sit outside comfortably, yet with enough spring coolness to make the lightweight throw blankets draped over the backs of the chairs a thoughtful precaution rather than a necessity.

“How can I possibly be cheating when you’ve won the last three games?” Violet countered, tucking a strand of jet-black hair behind her ear, “Besides, this is a game of skill, not luck.”

Violet had inherited her grandmother’s mahjong set the same year she’d started teaching. Twenty-six and terrified, standing in front of her first classroom of bored eighteen-year-olds, she’d kept the ivory tiles in her desk drawer like a talisman. Her grandmother had been the only adult who had ever asked what Violet thought about things. Not what she wanted to be or what she planned to do, but what she actually thought. The old woman would shuffle the tiles between her fingers while Violet talked, the clicking rhythm becoming the soundtrack to Violet’s childhood confessions. Its ornately carved legs supported a playing surface inlaid with mother-of-pearl designs that caught the lights from above. Now the set lived on her coffee table. The ivory-and-bamboo tiles clicked satisfyingly as Violet arranged her hand.

“Which is exactly my point!” Bunny exclaimed.

“No one develops this level of skill without some kind of bargain with the mahjong gods.” She harumphed, looking at her tragic but beautiful losing hand.

Violet laughed, the sound mingling with the distant bass line drifting from the wine bar around the corner. She wore relaxation like a favorite sweater, comfortable and uncomplicated. It was a stark contrast to the buttoned-up film studies professor persona she maintained at the women’s college. Her hunter-green robe was printed with large white cranes and banana leaves, the velvet catching the breeze as she reached for her drink. Monday through Friday, Violet Havendish was a carefully constructed performance. She wore blazers with elbow patches not because she liked them, but because they made her look older than her thirty-four years. She spoke in measured sentences, referenced obscure European directors, and never let her students see her eat anything messier than an apple.

The performance had become so natural that she sometimes forgot it was a performance. She’d catch herself using her professor voice at the grocery store, explaining the semiotics of cereal box design to the teenager at the checkout. Riley claimed it was sexy, the way she could shift into academic mode, but Violet knew better. It was armor, plain and simple. Her grandmother– who’d made it up to the twelfth grade – would have hated it.

“All that education,” She used to say, “And they’re teaching you to talk like you’ve got a stick up your behind.”

But her grandmother had never stood in front of a room full of nineteen-year-olds who were paying forty thousand dollars a year to judge your every word.

“May I remind you that my grandma taught me to play when I was eight? I have a slight experience advantage.” Violet shot back gently, the memories of her family matriarch swimming in between tipsy joy and the evening warmth.

Their cocktails, a spring concoction Violet had dubbed the “Equinox Elixir,” glowed an improbable shade of pink in a plastic pineapple cup that could have come straight from a tiki bar. An edible flower and a tiny cocktail umbrella floated atop each one.

“God, these are ridiculous,” Bunny said, taking a long sip through a straw, “And dangerously delicious. What’s in them again?”

“Vodka, elderflower liqueur, dragon fruit, lime, and a splash of prosecco,” Violet recited, arranging her tiles with practiced precision, “Riley’s latest obsession is mixology videos on YouTube. I’m his willing test subject.”

“Lucky you.”

“Lucky me indeed. And lucky you,” Violet gestured toward the living room visible through the sliding glass doors, “Getting me all to yourself on a Sunday night. I love our little writing group, but sometimes I miss it just being us.”

“Same,” Bunny agreed, “Between work drama and, you know, playing at being a detective, I’ve been a terrible friend lately.”

“Nonsense. You’re investigating murder. I think that earns you a friendship sabbatical,” Violet reached for a tile, “Besides, you’re here now. And based on your thousand-yard stare when everyone else left, you’ve got some processing to do.”

Bunny sighed, leaning back in her chair and watching the fairy lights reflect in the windows of the building across the street. The writing group had been Violet’s idea, born from the loneliness of sabbatical and too many evenings spent grading papers while Netflix played unwatched in the background. She’d posted a notice on the community board at the bookstore. ‘Writers seeking writers for mutual suffering and wine,’ it read. She’d been surprised when seven people showed up to her apartment that first Tuesday.

Most had drifted away within months, intimidated by Violet’s polished prose. But a core group remained: Bunny, obviously. Blake Turner, an advertising copywriter with literary aspirations. And Margo Williams, a triage nurse who wrote poignant horror stories. They met monthly now, less about writing than about maintaining the fiction that they were all working toward something larger than their daily lives. But Bunny had been there before the group, before Riley, before Violet had learned to make her loneliness look like a choice.

“Lancaster met with me a few days ago,” Bunny began, her voice taking on the careful neutrality she’d perfected for delivering bad donor news, “Glen Valentino is dead.”

Violet’s hand froze over her tiles, her expression shifting from relaxed to alert in an instant.

“Dead as in… murdered?”

Bunny took another long sip of her cocktail before responding.

“Official ruling is pending, but Lancaster said it looks like he was poisoned first, then either someone shot him or he shot himself before the poison could finish the job.”

“Jesus,” Violet breathed, “That’s…”

“Yeah,” Bunny sighed, a flicker of defeat crossing her features, “That’s where my vocabulary fails me too.”

Bunny recounted the details Lancaster had shared: Glen’s housekeeper finding him in his office, the preliminary toxicology report confirming the same poisonous compound found in Harold Finch, the investigation suddenly accelerated by the death of one of Magnolia Heights’ most prominent citizens.

“So Carissa couldn’t have done it,” Violet concluded, connecting the dots with a quickness, “She’s still out of the country.”

“Exactly. And that’s not the only thing ruling her out,” Bunny leaned forward, abandoning her mahjong tiles entirely, “I talked to Mickey on the same day that Lancaster called me to meet. He told me that Donnatal, the medication we thought was in those tablets, doesn’t fizz in water. It doesn’t dissolve at all.”

Violet’s eyebrows shot up.

“But you saw the tablets dissolve?”

“Right in front of me,” Bunny confirmed, “Whatever Harold took, whatever actually killed him, isn’t what we thought it was.”

“So… someone switched the pills,” Violet mused, absently rearranging her tiles, “Or doctored some of them. Or–”

“Or a hundred other possibilities,” Bunny finished, “Bottom line: we’re back to square one. Carissa’s alibi is ironclad for Glen’s death, the pill theory is shot, and Lancaster is in full crisis mode because one of the city’s wealthiest residents just died under extremely suspicious circumstances.”

She picked up a tile without looking at it, then immediately discarded it.

“Meanwhile, Dash disappeared shortly after our interview with Mickey. He texted that something urgent came up, but went radio silent after that. Lancaster pulled me aside and told me not to talk to him until she’d cleared some things up.”

“Cleared what up?” Violet asked, frowning.

“She wouldn’t say. Just that there were ‘concerning developments’ regarding his involvement that needed verification.”

A breeze stirred the fairy lights, sending shadows dancing across the table. Somewhere below, a car alarm chirped twice as someone unlocked their vehicle.

“So where does that leave you?” Violet asked, claiming the tile Bunny had discarded.

“Honestly?” She sighed, unable to stop the frustrated welling in her eyes. She dabbed at them with the back of her palm, embarrassed and angry with herself for reacting so childishly.

“Vi, I have no idea,” She began, her voice cracking, “I’m not a cop or a PI. I’m in way over my head.”

“You’re selling yourself short.” Violet said, handing Bunny a napkin and fixing her with the intense gaze that had intimidated generations of film students.

Bunny looked away, ignoring the painful lump in her throat, unable to match the intensity in her friend’s eyes without triggering water works.

“It’s noble, Bun. I get it. You love the theater. You love your work and find what you do meaningful,” Violet continued, “You’re very fortunate because not that many people can say the same about their jobs. But you can’t keep setting yourself on fire to keep them warm.”

“But–”

Violet cut her off with a raised hand.

“You’ve uncovered more in a few days than the police did in weeks.”

“Only because people talk to me,” Bunny demurred, “And now I don’t even know if I trust one of the two people I’ve been investigating with.”

Violet set down her cocktail, her expression serious but kind.

“Let me channel my inner film professor for a moment.” She adopted a slightly deeper, more authoritative tone that Bunny recognized from the guest lecture she’d once seen Violet deliver.

“What’s the one thing every great detective in classic cinema has that the police don’t?”

Bunny considered this, playing along despite her tears.

“Quirky personality traits, a tortured back story, and substance abuse problems?”

“Besides that,” Violet rolled her eyes, “They have perspective. They see patterns because they’re not bound by departmental procedures or professional myopia, like your good friend Lancaster.”

Bunny considered this for a long moment, absentmindedly twirling her cocktail straw as the painful lump in her throat subsided. Film analysis had ruined Violet for real life in some ways. She couldn’t watch a movie without dissecting its structure, couldn’t have a conversation without noting the subtext. But it had also taught her to see things others missed. The way people’s stories changed in the retelling, the significance of what they chose not to mention. Her students thought she was psychic because she could predict plot twists, but it was just training. Years of studying how narratives worked, how directors misdirected attention, how the most important information was often hidden in plain sight. She’d been doing the same thing with Bunny’s theater crisis for weeks, watching her friend circle around something she couldn’t quite name. The investigation had given Bunny purpose, but Violet suspected it was also giving her an excuse to avoid dealing with whatever was really wrong at work.

Or whoever.

“By the way,” Violet’s voice cut through the comfortable silence as she casually laid down her final combination of tiles, “Mahjong.”

“Unbelievable,” Bunny groaned, throwing her hands up in mock despair, “I demand a rematch and another one of these preposterous cocktails.”

“Your terms are acceptable.” Violet replied with a grin, already gathering the tiles for another round.

The two women played two more rounds of mahjong before deciding to call it. After Bunny left in a flurry of apologies for her tears, Violet sat on her balcony finishing her cocktail and thinking about friendship. She’d read somewhere that most people’s social circles peaked in their twenties, then gradually contracted as careers and families took precedence. At thirty-four, she was supposed to be settling into a smaller, more selective circle of intimates. Instead, she felt like she was still auditioning for the role of someone worth knowing. Riley’s affection felt earned through cocktails and film recommendations. The writing group tolerated her because she provided wine and intelligent feedback. Even her students’ respect was contingent on her performance as Professor Havendish.

But with Bunny, she could just exist. They could argue about movies, share the kind of mundane observations that no one else would find interesting. Bunny had seen her cry over bad reviews, had helped her move apartments twice, had never once made her feel like she needed to be more interesting or less intense or anything other than exactly who she was. Which was why, as she gathered the tiles and carried their empty glasses inside, Violet made a mental note to be more direct next time. Bunny was drowning, and all the Hitchcock metaphors in the world wouldn’t help if Violet was too afraid of seeming pushy to throw her a rope. The friendship was strong enough for honesty.

It always had been.

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The pale glow of her laptop screen cast ghostly shadows across Bunny's living room as she drafted and redrafted her email to Lancaster. Mr. Darcy snored softly from his spot on the couch, blissfully unaware of his owner’s midnight wrestling match with professional boundaries and murder investigations.

“How exactly does one phrase ‘I’d like to snoop around a dead man’s mansion’ in a way that sounds reasonable?” She muttered, deleting another sentence.

She settled on directness:

Chief Lancaster,

Given my professional relationship with Glen Valentino and my familiarity with donor patterns, I think I might notice things in his home that could be helpful. Rich people arrange their spaces in ways that tell you a lot about them. I see it all the time during home visits for major gifts.

Not saying that I know more than your team! Just offering an extra set of eyes from someone who knew him in a different context.

I’m free whenever works for you.

Sincerely,

Bunny Beaudoin

She pressed send before she could second-guess herself again, then immediately regretted it. Too forward? Too presumptuous? Too obviously a thinly veiled attempt to stick her nose where it didn’t belong? Her phone buzzed almost immediately, making her jump. Lancaster’s name flashed on the screen.

“Do police chiefs ever sleep?” She wondered aloud, answering with trepidation before picking up.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Beaudoin,” Lancaster’s voice was crisper than midnight air, “I was just about to call you.”

“Wait, what? You were?” Bunny blinked back in surprise.

“Elaine— Dr. Cashler suggested it might be… helpful… to have someone familiar with the victim present during our secondary sweep. Your angle about donor habits isn’t completely ridiculous.”

The backhanded compliment was delivered with such precision that Bunny almost missed the fact that she’d gotten exactly what she wanted.

“Thanks, I guess. What time should I—”

“Nine AM. The address is 47 Lantern Hill Drive. And Ms. Beaudoin? Come alone.”

The line went dead before Bunny could respond.

She set her phone down slowly, processing the unexpected turn of events. Mr. Darcy lifted his head, giving her a look that somehow managed to convey both sympathy and judgement.

“Now don’t you go judging me too, young man,” She told the dog, “It’s not like I woke up one day and thought, ‘You know what would spice up my fundraising career? A murder investigation!’”

Mr. Darcy harrumphed skeptically before settling back to sleep. Bunny found herself oddly unable to follow his example. She paced her small living room, mind racing with possibilities of what she might find tomorrow. Glen Valentino’s home, his private sanctuary, could reveal sides of the man she’d never truly known. Or it might just confirm what everyone already knew: that he was a rich jerk with expensive taste who pissed off the wrong person. What she needed was a plan.

What should she even look for beyond the obvious? She grabbed a notepad and started jotting down random thoughts about Glen, his relationships, and how the heck she’d gone from writing donor thank-you notes to being invited to a murder scene by the chief of police. Sleep eventually claimed her somewhere around 3 AM, her notepad filled with scribbles and question marks, and a growing sense that she was way out of her depth.

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Lantern Hill Drive wound through the most exclusive neighborhood in Magnolia Heights like a lazy river of privilege. Homes here weren’t merely houses but statements; architectural declarations of having arrived at a level of wealth where taste was optional but square footage was mandatory. Bunny parked Dusty between a police cruiser and a sleek black Lexus SUV, feeling like she’d brought a water pistol to a tank battle. As she stepped out, the morning air carried the scent of freshly mowed grass and old money.

Number 47 stood apart even in this rarefied company. A sprawling Greek Revival mansion with imposing columns and perfectly symmetrical wings extending from its central structure. The kind of home that seemed purpose-built for charity galas and passive-aggressive dinner parties, not crime scenes. Lancaster waited on the front steps, arms crossed.

“You’re early.” She observed as Bunny approached.

“Hello to you too,” Bunny deadpanned, “It’s an occupational hazard, an old habit. When you’re late to a donor meeting, you might as well set their check on fire in front of them.”

Lancaster’s expression didn’t change, but something that might have been a microscopic hint of amusement flickered briefly in her eyes.

“We have approximately two hours before Valentino’s lawyer arrives with the executor of the estate. Let’s not waste time.”

She turned without waiting for a response, leading Bunny up the marble steps and through the massive oak doors into the foyer.

“The body was found in the study,” Lancaster said, her voice dropping slightly as they entered the house, “We’ll start there and work our way through the main living spaces.”

“What exactly am I looking for?” Bunny asked, trying not to sound too eager.

Lancaster paused at the foot of the grand staircase, turning to face her.

“Sometimes people who aren’t cops see things differently. You knew Valentino in a specific way. Maybe you’ll notice something we missed.”

Still pretending like this was all your idea, huh? Bunny thought. It wasn’t exactly a vote of confidence, but she would take it.

They moved through the mansion with methodical steps, Lancaster providing matter-of-fact descriptions of the scene as it had been discovered three days earlier. The study was surprisingly modest compared to the rest of the home, just a walnut-paneled sanctuary that felt more lived-in than showroom-perfect.

“The gun was found here,” Lancaster indicated a side table next to a high-backed leather chair, “It’s registered to Valentino. His fingerprints were the only ones on it.”

“So that points to suicide.” Bunny said.

“On paper, yes. But suicide doesn’t typically follow belladonna poisoning.”

Bunny moved carefully around the room, taking in the details. Bookcases with books that looked actually read. A collection of old-timey medical instruments in a glass case. A single framed photograph of a younger Glen standing proudly outside what looked like his first office building. They moved through the house room by room, from the huge dining room set for one, through the spotless kitchen that looked like staff used it but Glen rarely did, to the hallway filled with expensive-looking art.

“He had good taste, I’ll give him that,” Bunny observed, pausing before a small ballet painting that looked out of place among the bigger, showier pieces, “Though it feels kind of like he bought them because he was supposed to, not because he loved them.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, see how all the most expensive-looking pieces are where guests would see them first? It’s like when donors put their name on buildings. It’s not about the art, it’s about what owning it says about them.”

They worked their way upstairs, through bedrooms and guest rooms that were impressive but boring. The walk-in closet in the master suite had enough fancy suits to dress every board member Bunny had ever met, all organized with crazy precision.

“He was really anal about organization,” Lancaster observed, “Everything in its place.”

As they headed back downstairs, Bunny noticed a door slightly ajar off the back hallway.

“What’s through there?”

“Service areas. Staff quarters, laundry, storage.”

Bunny pushed the door open wider, revealing a hallway that looked nothing like the rest of the house. Here, the walls were painted boring beige, the floors covered in practical vinyl instead of fancy rugs.

“Mind if I take a peek?”

Lancaster gestured for her to go ahead, following close behind. The hallway split off into different rooms: a big laundry room, a small staff break area with a coffee maker and mini-fridge, and at the end, a door labeled simply “Supplies.” Bunny pushed it open to reveal a large storage closet. Shelves lined the walls, stocked with cleaning supplies, light bulbs, and maintenance supplies. One corner held paint cans, stacked neatly by color, and beside them, drop cloths and brushes.

Something caught her eye. One of the paint cans wasn’t fully closed, its lid slightly off-center. She moved closer, looking but not touching.

“That’s strange,” She said, pointing to the can, “Kinda off.”

Lancaster followed her gaze.

“Housekeeping oversight?”

“Yeah, but in a house where the guy color-coded his socks? Where his books are alphabetized?”

“I suppose.” But in spite of her doubt, Lancaster stepped forward, pulling out a pair of latex gloves from her pocket, snapping them on. She carefully lifted the lid of the paint can.

“Not completely empty, but it’s been used,” She said, peering inside, “And it doesn’t smell like it was used recently.”

“Can I see the label?” Bunny asked.

Lancaster turned the can so she could read it.

“Federal White,” Bunny said, “Huh. I don’t remember seeing any white walls, do you?”

“Probably kept for touch-ups.”

“But there’s no white paint anywhere we’ve seen. Everything’s either wallpapered, beige, or painted in those dark colors.”

Lancaster set the can down, making another note in her small notepad.

“I’ll have the team check it for fingerprints, but it’s probably nothing. Maybe the housekeepers were planning to paint something.”

They finished looking through the rest of the service areas without finding anything else interesting, eventually ending up back in the grand foyer where they’d started. Bunny felt frustrated. She’d been so sure that seeing Glen’s home would give her some kind of insight or clue. Instead, she just had more questions.

“Thank you for your time, Ms. Beaudoin,” Lancaster said, in a tone that clearly meant ‘we’re done here.’

“That has the cadence of friendly conversation, but the machinations of a trap. I didn’t do anything to help, did I?” Bunny asked.

“Your observations about Valentino’s habits may be helpful.”

The faint praise felt pretty dismissive.

“That paint can is bugging me,” Bunny said, unable to let it go, “It just feels like the one thing that doesn’t fit.”

“We’ll check it,” Lancaster replied, not quite rolling her eyes but close, “Sometimes a paint can is just a paint can.”

Bunny couldn’t help the obvious look of disappointment on her face. She’d gotten the rare chance to see a murder scene and had nothing to show for it except some vague thoughts about a guy she already knew was controlling and image-obsessed.

“Will you guys be doing more searches?” She asked as they reached their cars.

“The investigation is ongoing,” Lancaster replied, in that way cops do when they’re not really answering, “Thanks for your help today.”

“If I think of anything else—”

“You have my number.” Lancaster finished for her, clearly done with the conversation.

Bunny watched the chief’s Lexus pull away before getting into Dusty. She sat there for several minutes, replaying everything she’d seen, trying to make sense of it all. That paint kept nagging at her, like a popcorn kernel stuck in her teeth. Federal White. No matching walls. Empty can. Slightly ajar in a house where everything else was pristine.

She started Dusty’s engine, pulling away from the mansion. The huge house grew smaller in her rearview mirror, still keeping its secrets despite her best efforts. As she drove, her phone felt heavy in her pocket. Lancaster’s warning about talking to Dash echoed in her mind, but so did the feeling that she was stuck. Carissa had an alibi for Glen’s death, the fizzing pills were still a mystery, and now Glen’s mansion had given her nothing except a weird empty paint can. At a red light, she made her decision.

She could not do this alone.

Found paint can. Doesn’t match. Thoughts?

She sent the cryptic text to Dash before she could chicken out, then immediately felt both guilty and relieved. His response came almost immediately:

Don’t text details. Need to talk in person.

Bunny stared at the message, her mind racing. Where could they meet that would be safe? The costume storage room was too isolated, too suspicious if they were caught. She needed somewhere public enough to seem innocent, but private enough for a real conversation. She toyed with her phone quickly as the light turned green:

Restaurant Overture? During slow time between lunch and dinner. 3pm?

The reply came seconds later:

Perfect. See you there.

Bunny put her phone away, her heart racing. This was nothing but a gamble. She’d just have to hope that a little paint was worth the risk.