3. 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.
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The City of Magnolia Heights Medical Examiner’s Office was, in Bunny’s opinion, the architectural equivalent of an unenthusiastic handshake. All concrete and fluorescent lighting, as if designed specifically to remind visitors that mortality was not only inevitable but thoroughly bureaucratic.
“Coffee?” Fenelope offered, holding out a paper cup from the vending machine in the hallway.
The liquid inside could generously be described as brown water with ambitions.
“I’d rather drink formaldehyde.” Bunny muttered, then winced at her own tastelessness given their surroundings.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. If I had to guess, the formaldehyde here is probably fresher,” Fenelope took a sip and grimaced, “Though not by much.”
They sat side by side on molded plastic chairs outside the coroner’s office. Just two women cordoned off to the world’s coldest office, dressed in wrinkled clothes, at 8 AM on a Sunday. Bunny felt crusted over. Her face smelled like a bagel. The past weeks existed in her mind as a series of disconnected tableaus: paramedics pronouncing the man dead at the scene. Police cordoning off the Egyptian Room. Glen Valentino’s face, a study in controlled panic beneath a veneer of commanding presence. Carissa Levinson comforting a visibly shaken Adrian. Another vomiting fit. The donors being escorted out in hushed, horrified clusters. Three press releases. Two ten-second interviews on Fox 5. One funeral. It was like the world’s most fucked-up Twelve Days of Christmas.
And then the questions.
Endless questions from detectives who seemed particularly interested in why Glen and his ex-wife had been seated together, how much alcohol had been served, and whether anyone had noticed anything unusual about Harold Finch’s behavior before his fall.
“For someone who claims to be utterly exhausted, your leg hasn’t stopped bouncing since we sat down.” Fenelope observed.
Bunny forced her knee to still.
“Sorry. I keep replaying it in my head.”
“There was nothing you could have done.”
“Wasn’t there? I could have put Glen at literally any other table. I could have—”
“Harold Finch was three times over the legal limit,” Fenelope interrupted, “He tripped and hit his head. It’s tragic, but it’s not your fault.”
“Then why are we here?” Bunny asked, gesturing to the sterile hallway.
“Why did they call us in at dawn on a Sunday if this was just a tragic accident?”
Before Fenelope could answer, the door to the coroner’s office opened. Dr. Elaine Cashler emerged, a tall woman with silver streaks in her dark hair and the brisk efficiency of someone who had seen everything and found most of it tedious.
“Ms. Wilde, Ms. Beaudoin. Thank you for coming in so early. Please, come into my office.”
They followed her into a surprisingly comfortable space; walls lined with medical textbooks, a desk cluttered with files, and a potted plant that had clearly outlived several colleagues.
“I’ll get straight to the point.” Dr. Cashler said, settling behind her desk.
“Mr. Finch’s initial cause of death appeared to be blunt force trauma resulting from his fall. However, the toxicology report has revealed something rather unexpected.”
Bunny felt a chill that had nothing to do with the building’s overzealous air conditioning.
“Unexpected how?” Fenelope asked, her voice perfectly steady.
“We found elevated levels of hyoscyamine, atropine, and scopolamine in his system.”
Bunny blinked.
“I’m sorry, is that supposed to mean something to us?”
“These are the primary alkaloids found in atropa belladonna,” Dr. Cashler explained, “More commonly known as deadly nightshade.”
“Are you saying he was poisoned?” The words fell from Bunny’s mouth like stones.
Dr. Cashler held up a cautionary hand.
“I’m saying he had these substances in his system at levels well above what would be considered therapeutic. Whether they were administered with malicious intent is not for me to determine.”
“But they could have caused his fall?” Fenelope pressed.
“These compounds can cause disorientation, dizziness, and blurred vision. Particularly when combined with alcohol. So yes, they could certainly have contributed.”
Bunny’s mind raced.
“Couldn’t it be accidental? Maybe he was taking something?”
“Belladonna derivatives are used in some medications,” Dr. Cashler let up, “But not at these concentrations. And Mr. Finch’s medical records don’t indicate any prescriptions containing these compounds.”
The implications hung in the air like cigarette smoke, acrid and inescapable.
“The police have been notified, of course,” Dr. Cashler continued, “They’ll want to speak with you again, as well as all of your guests. I understand many of them are prominent individuals.”
“That’s one word for them.” Bunny muttered.
Fenelope shot her a warning glance before turning back to the coroner.
“Thank you, Dr. Cashler. Is there anything else we should know?”
“Just that I wouldn’t make any travel plans in the immediate future. Either of you.”
As they exited the building into the harsh morning sunlight, Bunny felt as though she were moving through gelatin. Everything slightly slowed, slightly distorted.
“Belladonna,” She said finally, “Like in those period pieces where the ladies put drops in their eyes to look more attractive. And occasionally murdered their husbands.”
She paused.
“Though I imagine that was considered a secondary benefit.” She finally muttered.
Fenelope remained silent, only offering an unenthusiastic simper.
They reached Fenelope’s sleek Audi, but neither made a move to get in. She’d driven them to the coroner’s office from the Fox, and both dreaded the trip back.
“So what do we do now?” Bunny asked, “Call everyone who was at the gala and say, ‘Sorry about the dead guy, also did you happen to notice anyone slipping poison into his drink?’”
“Now,” Fenelope said firmly, “We let the police do their job while we do damage control. This kind of publicity could set our fundraising back years.”
“A man is dead, Fenelope.”
“And being sanctimonious about it won’t bring him back,” Fenelope’s tone softened slightly, “Look, I’m not saying we don’t cooperate fully with the investigation. But our priority has to be the theater.”
Bunny couldn’t find fault with her reasoning, but her boss’s ability to compartmentalize crises hadn’t blown over so well in the past. She recalled the mailing of perennials to a donor who’d fallen and broken her hip, a donation request attached to the back of the potted plant. I hate perennials! The expletive laden voicemail had said, and unsurprisingly, that once-recurring check for the Fox’s children’s theater camp never came again. Bunny sighed and shrugged.
“I guess you’re right, but–”
“Hello, ladies.” A deep voice interrupted their exchange.
Bunny turned to find a man leaning against a weathered Ford Bronco parked a few spaces away, and for a moment, her breath caught. He was tall– taller than most— with rich brown skin and the kind of broad shoulders that filled out his suit jacket in a way that made her forget what she’d been saying. His hair was cropped short, revealing sharp cheekbones and a jawline covered in close-cropped beard that framed full lips. His face carried the weathered confidence of someone who’d seen a lot– too much. His suit was off the rack but well-tailored, and he wore it with the casual confidence of someone who didn’t particularly care what anyone thought– which, perversely, made Bunny care very much what he thought of her standing there in wrinkled clothes outside a morgue at eight in the morning. She found herself straightening her shoulders and wishing she’d at least run a brush through her hair.
“Can we help you?” Fenelope asked coolly, decidedly nonplussed by the stone-cut man standing in front of them..
He pushed off from his car and approached, pulling out a badge.
“Dashiell O’Neill. Everyone calls me Dash. Private investigator.” He held out a hand, which promptly went unshaken by either woman, then balled it up and returned it to his pocket.
“Working for whom, exactly?” Fenelope’s voice could have flash-frozen boiling water.
“Currently between clients,” Dash admitted, “But I have a particular interest in Harold Finch.”
Bunny crossed her arms, trying to ignore how the movement brought her closer to him, close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne. Ambergris. Maybe cedar, too.
“And why is that?” Fenelope asked.
“Because his death makes three.”
“Three what?” Bunny asked, her voice coming out slightly breathy.
She’d been on edge for weeks thanks to the investigation, and the sudden interruption was a rather pleasant distraction. She found herself watching the way his mouth moved when he spoke, the precise way he formed his words, and had to force herself to focus on what he was actually saying rather than the rich timbre of his voice. Dash’s expression remained neutral, but something flickered in his eyes– dark, intelligent eyes that seemed to look right through her carefully maintained professional composure. A calculation being made about how much to reveal.
“Let me guess; they found something exotic in his system? Something plant-based, maybe?”
Bunny felt her heart rate accelerate.
“Why would you think that?” Fenelope pressed, her expression severe enough to warrant checking for snakes atop her head.
“Because the other two had similar findings. Nothing conclusive enough for charges, but enough to raise eyebrows,” Dash studied their faces, “I see the good doctor shared the tox screen results.”
“This is a police matter,” Fenelope said sternly, “If you have information, you should be talking to them.”
“Oh, I have. Extensively. They’re not particularly interested in what a PI thinks might be a pattern.”
His gaze shifted slowly, but not lazily, between them. Bunny suddenly felt uncomfortable and stodgy, like a school girl avoiding her crush’s gaze.
“But you two might be. Especially since your venue is now part of that pattern.”
Fenelope checked her watch in a dismissive gesture.
“Ms. Beaudoin and I have a theater to run. If you’ll excuse us—”
“Those are the toxins found in belladonna,” Dash called after them as Fenelope began steering Bunny toward the car, “Suggests someone knows their poisons. Someone educated. Patient. Methodical.”
Despite herself, Bunny turned back.
“Why tell us this?”
Dash shrugged, the casual gesture at odds with the intensity in his eyes.
“Because when the police eventually connect these dots, they’re going to look at everyone in Harold Finch’s orbit. Including the people who put him in the same room as Glen Valentino and his ex-wife.”
“Is that a threat, Mr. O’Neill?” Fenelope’s voice was dangerously soft.
“Consider it a professional courtesy.” He handed Bunny a business card.
“When you’re ready to talk—really talk—call me. Day or night.”
She might have imagined it, but she could have sworn that he hesitated to pull his hand back as she grasped the card. Just for a moment, they locked eyes before he peeled away and bounded to his car.
They watched him drive away, the Ford’s engine growling in the morning quiet.
“Well,” Bunny said finally, her voice coming out quieter than she’d expected, “That was enigmatic and mildly threatening. Do we call the police?”
Fenelope was silent for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, to Bunny’s surprise, she laughed; a short, sharp sound entirely devoid of humor. She squinted at the bright sunlight before pulling a pair of sunglasses from her bag and slipping them on with practiced confidence.
“What we’ve always done, Bunny,” Fenelope slid into the driver’s seat with elegant precision, “Protecting the Fox. Now get in the car. I have work to do.”
As Bunny settled into the passenger seat, still clutching Dash O’Neill’s card, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d just stepped off the edge of a very tall building.
And unlike Harold Finch, her fall was just starting.