4. 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 building that housed Dashiell O’Neill’s office might have been impressive in the 1970s, when wood paneling was considered the height of professional decor and smoking indoors was still patriotic. Now it was just another aging structure on 14th Street, sandwiched between a boutique selling overpriced vintage clothes and a coffee shop with more rules about ordering than the Geneva Convention. Bunny squinted up at the faded directory in the lobby. ‘O’Neill Investigations’ was listed on the third floor, the vinyl lettering peeling at the edges. The elevator doors opened with a reluctant groan that matched Bunny’s internal monologue. She stepped inside, jabbing the button for the third floor multiple times, as if her impatience might magically speed up the ancient machinery.
“Come on, you fossilized metal box,” She muttered, watching the floor numbers illuminate with glacial slowness, “I have regrettable life choices to make today.”
When the doors finally slid open, she was greeted by a hallway that smelled vaguely of furniture polish and desperation. A water cooler tragically gurgled in the corner. She followed the numbers on the doors until she reached 306, where a frosted glass door announced O’NEILL INVESTIGATIONS in chipped gold lettering. The overall effect was less “prestigious detective agency” and more “place where alimony checks go to die.” Bunny hesitated, her knuckles hovering over the glass. What exactly was she doing here? Following the advice of her screenwriting club friends to engage with a mysterious PI who essentially ambushed her outside a morgue?
Before she could talk herself out of it, she knocked.
“Come in,” called a voice from within.
She pushed the door open to find a surprisingly spacious office flooded with morning light. Large windows overlooked the busy street below, and while the furniture was hardly high-end, it was clean and well-arranged. A worn leather couch occupied one wall, across from a desk that had clearly seen decades of service but was meticulously organized. Behind it sat Dashiell O’Neill, looking exactly as he had outside the morgue, except now his sleeves were rolled up and his tie was loosened. The rolled up sleeves revealed muscular forearms marked with intricate tattoos. Traditional patterns that wrapped around his left arm and what looked like script in a language she couldn't identify curling along his right. Veins traced lines beneath his dark skin, and Bunny found herself staring at his hands as he twirled a pen around his fingers, noting the way they moved with precise economy.
Huh, she thought, No ring.
She forced herself to look up and meet his eyes, hoping he hadn’t caught her cataloging the details of his body like some sort of undergraduate with her first attractive professor.
“Ms. Beaudoin,” He said, rising from his chair, “I was beginning to think my card had found its way to your trash can.”
“It nearly did,” Bunny admitted, remaining in the doorway and fixing her face into a mask of impassable ennui, “Several times.”
“But you’re here now,” He smiled politely, gesturing to the chair across from his desk, “Coffee? It’s terrible but it’s hot.”
“I had enough terrible coffee at the coroner’s office to last me a lifetime,” She replied, but took the offered seat anyway, “I don’t even know why I’m here, to be honest.”
Dash resumed his seat, leaning back with the relaxed posture of someone who had all the time in the world.
“I’d venture to say it’s because you’re curious. And probably a little scared.”
Bunny bristled.
“I’m not scared.”
“You should be,” He said simply, “Harold Finch didn’t just trip and fall. Someone wanted him dead.”
“So you keep saying. What I don’t understand is why you’re so interested. If the police aren’t taking your ‘pattern’ seriously, why pursue it?”
He assessed her with clinical detachment and she fought the urge to fidget in her seat.
“I was hired to look into the death of Maurice Katz six months ago.” He finally said.
“The name means nothing to me.” She responded, casually glancing at her nails like she had somewhere better to be.
“It should. He was Glen Valentino’s legal counsel before he collapsed at a charity golf tournament. Cause of death was officially listed as cardiac arrest, but the tox screen showed unusual compounds. Plant-based.”
“Belladonna.” Bunny said, looking up from her nail beds with practiced indifference.
Dash nodded.
“Then, three months later, Catherine Winters, Valentino’s chief financial officer, suffered an ‘allergic reaction’ at a dinner party. Same compounds, different concentration.”
Bunny felt a chill creep up her spine despite the warmth of the office.
“And you think these deaths are connected to Harold Finch?”
“Three high-ranking executives in Glen Valentino’s orbit, all dead under unusual circumstances, all with the same poison in their system? I don’t believe in coincidences that spectacular.”
Dash reached for a file on his desk.
“The police think I’m chasing shadows. Maybe I am. But I’d rather chase shadows than ignore what’s right in front of me.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
“Someone is systematically eliminating people close to Glen Valentino. The question is who, and why.”
Bunny crossed her legs, the fabric of her dress shifting against itself. She caught him glancing down, moving his gaze from the Blahniks to her slightly exposed leg, and strangled down a smirk.
“And you think I can help you figure that out?” She asked casually, raising a single arched brow.
“I think you were there when Harold Finch died. I think you saw things– you know people, details, that might seem insignificant to you but could matter to the case.” He continued, moving along to the files on his desk as if she were nothing more but another weepy client asking him to use his professional license to see if her husband was still with his mistress.
“Is this where you give me the ‘civic duty’ speech?” Bunny asked, unable to keep the edge from her voice, “Because I’ve had enough guilt for one week, thanks.”
To her surprise, Dash smiled– a genuine expression that transformed his face from handsome-but-severe to downright appealing.
“No speeches. Just an opportunity to help catch whoever did this before they add to their body count. And,” He added, “to clear your venue’s name from any lingering suspicion.”
That last part hit home. The Fox had already suffered enough publicity damage; the last thing they needed was to be forever linked to an unsolved murder.
“Fine,” She sighed, setting her purse on the floor beside her chair, “What do you want to know?”
Dash pulled out a small recorder.
“Mind if I document this? For my notes.”
“If it keeps you from writing down ‘potential suspect’ next to my name, sure.”
He pressed record.
“Let’s start with who was at Harold Finch’s table that night.”
Bunny closed her eyes briefly, recalling the seating chart that had caused so much trouble.
“Glen Valentino, obviously. Carissa Levinson, his ex-wife, and her date, Adrian Collins. Harold Finch and his wife, Eleanor. Dr. Joseph Mendelson and his partner, William. And Siobhan Reid, who’s on the board of the ACLU.”
“Interesting mix,” Dash observed, “Any interactions that stood out?”
“Besides the bidding war between Glen and Carissa? Not really. Everyone was civil, if tense. Until…”
“Until?”
Bunny frowned, a detail surfacing in her memory.
“Carissa gave Harold something for his stomach. He complained about the food, and she had these tablets. I assumed they were antacids.”
Dash leaned forward, his casual demeanor evaporating in an instant.
“She gave him medication? You witnessed this?” He questioned, all business.
“Yes. It seemed innocent at the time. Just one dinner guest helping another.” Bunny felt suddenly defensive.
“Lots of people share Tums or Pepto at events with open bars and food.” She continued, warily echoing one of Harold Finch’s final observations. She leaned back in the chair, gathering her thoughts. She laced her fingers together, suddenly awash with pity for the dead man.
“You know what his last words were? ‘My gut’s killing me,’” She sighed and shook her head, “Nothing poetic about it, not even in the very end. Poor guy.”
Dash blinked at her, his expression inscrutable.
“Did you see the packaging? What they looked like?”
Bunny shook her head.
“All I remember was the foil, like blister packaging for pills. I was busy making rounds. The only reason I noticed at all was because earlier, she’d given Glen the same thing. Some private joke about how she still kept track of his digestive schedule or something equally TMI.” Her lips turned down in mild disgust, an unwelcome image of Glen Valentino hunching over the porcelain throne filling her mind.
Dash was scribbling notes now, his recorder still running.
“She gave medication to both Glen and Harold? And Glen is still alive?”
“Unless something happened in the last twelve hours, yeah.”
“Did you notice anyone else at the table taking these pills?”
Bunny concentrated, trying to recall details from a night that had become a blur of chaos and horror.
“No… just Harold. And Glen earlier, but he’d walked away from the table by the time Harold took his.”
Dash set down his pen, studying her with renewed interest.
“Ms. Beaudoin–”
“Bunny,” She corrected automatically, “Ms. Beaudoin is– was– my mother. If we’re going to discuss poisonings and digestive habits, we might as well be on a first-name basis.”
“Bunny,” He amended, “I think you’ve just given me the first real lead in this case.”
“By telling you about antacids?”
“By confirming that Carissa Levinson had direct access to Harold Finch minutes before his death, and that she supplied him with an unidentified substance that he ingested.” Dash looked like a man who’d just found water in the desert.
“We need to talk to the other people at that table.”
“We?” Bunny raised an eyebrow, “I don’t remember agreeing to join your investigation.”
“You’re already involved, whether you want to be or not,” Dash countered, “You know the players. You can get access to people who would shut the door in my face.”
“And what exactly am I supposed to say? ‘Sorry to bother you, but do you happen to remember if the scorned attorney at our gala was slipping deadly nightshade into the appetizers?’”
“You’re a development director, right? You must be good at getting people to talk.”
Bunny couldn’t argue with that logic, much as she wanted to. Years of coaxing donations from reluctant patrons had honed her conversational skills to a fine edge.
“Even if I agreed– which I haven’t, mind you– Fenelope would never approve. She’s laser-focused on damage control.”
“Then we don’t tell her,” Dash said simply, “This stays between us until we have something concrete.”
Bunny laughed. It came out flinted and harsh.
“You’re suggesting I go behind my boss’s back to investigate a murder? Do you have any idea how insane that sounds?”
“More or less insane than letting a killer walk free because you’re worried about office politics?”
The question hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. Bunny stared at him, torn between outrage at his presumption and the nagging sense that he might be right. Harold Finch’s face flashed in her memory– not the empty mask of death, but earlier in the evening, laughing at a joke, alive and unaware of what was coming.
“I need to think about this.” She said finally, reaching for her purse.
Dash nodded, holding out his hand. She looked up quizzically.
“The business card.” He explained.
She shrugged and dug in her bag, finding purchase on the near-crumpled card. She handed it to him and he took it, scribbling something on it before turning it back to her.
My cell’s on the back. Call any time.”
Bunny took the card, her fingers brushing against his as she did, and felt a small thrill at the prospect of having his personal number. The idea of calling him, of hearing that low voice on the other end of the line, sent an unexpected flutter through her stomach that she tried to suppress. She was a consummate professional, for God’s sake, not a teenager getting flustered over a boy’s number.
As she rose to leave, he took a breath and she paused.
“One more thing,” He added, “Be careful around Carissa Levinson. If she is behind this, she’s managed to poison three people without raising suspicion. That makes her either very lucky or very good.”
“Noted,” Bunny said dryly, “Any other cheerful observations before I go?”
“Just one,” Dash’s expression softened, “Whatever you decide, watch your back. You were in that room too.”
The implication sent a fresh wave of cold through Bunny’s veins. She hadn’t considered that she might also be at risk.
“Thanks for the nightmares.” She muttered, turning toward the door.
“That’s what I’m here for,” Dash replied, the whisper of a smile touching his lips, “Sweet dreams, Ms. Beaudoin.”
As the door closed behind her, Bunny leaned against the wall of the hallway, exhaling slowly. That smile, crooked and knowing and entirely too handsome—
What the hell am I even going on about? She thought, shaking the image away as quickly as it came.
The sensible thing would be to walk away, to let the police handle the investigation, to focus on her job, to pretend this meeting had never happened. But as she pressed the elevator button, she knew with sinking certainty that sensible had left the building at the moment Harold Finch’s head had hit that glass door. Now she was operating on a different instinct altogether– one that whispered that Dashiell O’Neill, for all his noir-detective affectations, might be the only person taking this seriously enough.