5. 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✨
At nine years old, Bunny Beaudoin established her first detective headquarters in the window seat of her bedroom, complete with a spiral notebook labeled “CONFIDENTIAL” in wobbly red letters. The Montgomery Beaudoin pen crisis had reached day three, and the household staff had given up the search.
But not Bunny.
Her father’s prized Montblanc— a graduation gift from his own father when he finished business school— had vanished without a trace. She’d watched her father’s face fall slightly each time he reached absently for his breast pocket, only to remember it was gone.
“Nancy Drew wouldn’t give up.” Bunny whispered to herself, flipping through her dog-eared copy of The Secret of the Old Clock for inspiration. Nancy always started with a timeline, so Bunny did the same, carefully ruling lines across a fresh page.
7:15 AM - Daddy used pen to sign permission slip for school trip
7:30 AM - Pen seen in jacket pocket at breakfast (witness: Mom)
8:05 AM - Daddy left for work
6:45 PM - Daddy noticed pen missing at dinner
The window seat filled with evidence: a crude floor plan of the house with red X’s marking searched locations, a list of “suspects” (mostly the family cat, Atticus, who had a history of batting shiny objects under furniture), and meticulous notes from interviews with the housekeeper (“I dusted his office but didn’t move anything”) and the driver (“No, Miss Bunny, I don’t recall seeing Mr. Beaudoin take anything from his pockets in the car”). Each afternoon after school, Bunny donned her detective outfit— her father’s old fedora that swallowed her head, and a magnifying glass borrowed from her science kit. She traced her father’s morning routine, searching for a pattern or anomaly that everyone else had missed.
“The pen has to be somewhere,” She explained seriously to her stuffed rabbit, Mr. Ears, who served as her Watson, “Things don’t just disappear. There’s always a logical explanation.”
On day four, inspiration struck while watching her father dress for work. He slipped into his navy suit jacket— the same one he’d worn the day the pen disappeared — and Bunny noticed him patting the breast pocket from the outside.
“Daddy, wait!” She cried, racing across the room.
“May I examine your jacket? I have a theory.”
Her father, amused by her determined investigation, slipped off the jacket and handed it over. Bunny carefully turned it inside out, her small fingers exploring the silk lining with forensic precision.
“There!” She explained triumphantly, feeling an unnatural weight in the bottom hem.
“The lining is torn inside the pocket. Your pen must have slipped through and gotten caught in the jacket lining!”
With surgical care, she maneuvered her tiny hand into the tear and felt the cool, smooth surface of the Montblanc. Her father’s face transformed as she extracted the pen, his eyes crinkling with the special smile he reserved just for her.
“Bunny Beaudoin, Private Eye,” He declared, lifting her onto his shoulders for a victory lap around the bedroom while her mother applauded from the doorway, “The most thorough investigator in the tristate area!”
That night, her father presented her with her very own junior detective kit, complete with fingerprint powder, a proper magnifying glass, and a small leather-bound notebook with her initials embossed in gold. The Beaudoins loved a good monogram, after all. For weeks afterward, she carried that kit everywhere, dusting for prints on doorknobs and keeping detailed logs of “suspicious activities” around the neighborhood.
But like most childhood obsessions, the detective phase gradually faded. First came competitive swimming in middle school, then debate team, then her first real boyfriend in tenth grade. The detective kit migrated from her bedside table to her desk drawer, then to a storage box, and finally to the attic alongside other relics of her childhood. By the time she left for college, Nancy Drew had been replaced by Jane Austen and Virginia Woolf, the dream of solving mysteries surrendering to more practical aspirations. The leather notebook, still pristine except for those first few excited entries, remained tucked away, its remaining blank pages a silent testament to a path not taken.
🀙🀚🀛🀜
Meridian, a wealthy suburb north of Magnolia Heights, announced its affluence without subtlety. Perfectly manicured lawns stretched before homes that seemed designed primarily to make visitors feel inadequate about their own living situations. The next morning, Bunny navigated her car— affectionately dubbed Dusty due to its dusty blue color— through winding streets lined with cherry blossom trees (the kind that appeared in architectural magazines but never in actual neighborhoods unless there was a homeowners association the moral flexibility of a contortionist and the enforcement powers of a small nation).
Just a casual donor check-in. Perfectly normal. Development directors do this all the time. Nothing suspicious about reaching out to a board member who witnessed a man being poisoned at my gala. Totally routine.
She pulled into the circular driveway of the Reid residence, a sprawling Georgian-style home that managed to look both historic and suspiciously new, like an Instagram filter applied to architecture. Taking a deep breath, she checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. Professional. Composed. Definitely not someone conducting a secret murder investigation against her boss’s wishes.
The doorbell echoed inside, followed by the distant sound of expensive heels on hardwood. The door swung open to reveal Siobhan Reid, looking both impeccable and exhausted. Her blonde hair was pulled back in its signature bun, not a strand out of place, bangs ruler-straight across her forehead. The effect was somewhat undermined by the slight puffiness around her eyes.
“Bunny!” Siobhan’s voice carried the practiced enthusiasm of someone who’d mastered the art of performative social grace.
“What a lovely surprise. I mean, I know we scheduled this, but you know what I mean.”
“Thanks for making time,” Bunny replied, accepting the air kisses Siobhan offered, “I know things have been… difficult.”
Something flickered across Siobhan’s face– a momentary crack in the social veneer– before she recovered.
“Oh, it’s nothing. Well, not nothing. A man died. But you know what I mean.” She stepped back, gesturing for Bunny to step inside.
“Come in, come in. I’ve got tea in the sunroom. Or wine, if you prefer. Is this a tea or wine conversation?”
It’s ten in the morning. Bunny thought but sagely bit her tongue.
“Tea’s fine.” She said, following Siobhan through the foyer, which featured an unnecessarily large arrangement of hydrangeas that probably required their own maintenance staff. The sunroom certainly lived up to its name, floor-to-ceiling windows filling the space with light that bounced off white furniture too pristine to suggest regular use. A silver tea service sat on a glass table, alongside a plate of pastries that looked professionally arranged.
“I only have a few specialty leaves of white tea- baihao yinzhen in simplified Chinese- traditional English tea picked from the foothills of Nyeri, Kenya, and…” She searched judiciously amongst the various bags, tins, glass jars, and vessels, “Ah! There you are– chamomile.”
Siobhan pulled the glass container of chamomile, displaying it like a briefcase model on “Deal or No Deal.” Bunny smiled politely and pointed to the chamomile, trying not to look incredulous.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Siobhan continued as she poured hot water into delicate cups, “I asked Marisa– our housekeeper– to set this up. I’ve barely been functional since… well, since the incident.”
“Of course,” Bunny nodded, accepting the offered cup, “How are you holding up really?”
Siobhan’s hand trembled slightly as she set down the tea pot. She set the chamomile tea bags into the hot water, letting them steep gently. Sitting in the decorative chair across from Bunny, she took a sip and cradled the delicate cup in between two perfectly manicured hands.
“Do you know what the worst part is? Not the death itself, though that was–” She took another sip, “– horrific. It’s the aftermath. The way everyone at the firm looks at me, like I’m somehow contaminated by association. Like death is contagious.”
“People don’t know how to react,” Bunny offered, “They’re uncomfortable with mortality, especially when it shows up uninvited at a black-tie event.”
Siobhan let out a laugh that sounded like it might fracture into something else entirely if given the chance.
“God, Bunny. Only you could make me laugh about this.”
She settled deeper into her chair, crossing her legs precisely.
“I haven’t been back to work. I keep telling myself tomorrow, but then tomorrow comes and I just… can’t.”
Bunny saw her opening, genuine distress creating a crack in Siobhan’s perfectly maintained facade.
“You were close to Harold? I didn’t realize.”
“Not really,” Siobhan admitted, stirring her tea though she hadn’t added anything to it, “I knew him through the Foundation. He donated to our legal defense programs. But watching someone die in front of you. It– it changes something.”
“I know what you mean,” Bunny said softly, “I keep replaying that night in my head, wondering if there was something I missed, something that could have prevented it.”
Siobhan’s spoon clinked against her cup as she set it down with more force than necessary.
“That’s what the police keep asking. ‘Did you notice anything unusual?’ As if I spend my evenings cataloging people’s behavior for potential foul play.”
She shook her head.
“I’m an immigration attorney, not Miss Marple.”
Bunny carefully kept her expression neutral at the mention of police questioning.
“They’re just doing their job, I suppose. Standard procedure.”
“There’s nothing standard about belladonna poisoning at a charity gala,” Siobhan retorted, then pressed her fingers to her temple, “Sorry. I’m still processing. The detective who interviewed me seemed particularly interested in the dynamics at our table.”
“It was an eclectic mix.” Bunny ventured.
“That’s one word for it,” Siobhan snorted, “Seating Glen Valentino next to his ex-wife was certainly a bold choice for the seating chart.”
Bunny winced internally.
“Sometimes these things slip through the cracks in planning.”
“Oh, I’m not criticizing,” Siobhan waved a hand, “In retrospect, it was quite entertaining. Until it wasn’t”
“Did anything strike you as unusual that night? Before Harold’s fall, I mean.”
Siobhan studied Bunny over the rim of her tea cup, eyes shifting to stern instead of nervous.
“Define ‘unusual.’ Glen and Carissa trying to bankrupt each other over a villa they’d never actually visit? Harold drinking like he was afraid Prohibition was making a comeback? Adrian– that’s Carissa’s boy toy– looking increasingly uncomfortable as the auction stakes rose? It was a typical gala, just with a more dramatic conclusion than most.”
Bunny hesitated, then decided on a more direct approach.
“I’m just trying to piece together what happened. For the Fox, you understand. We need to manage the narrative.”
“Ah,” Siobhan nodded, seemingly satisfied with this explanation, “Damage control. Of course.”
She set down her cup, something shifting in her posture.
“Actually, there was one odd thing. Carissa gave Harold something for his stomach. Some medication. She’d given the same to Glen earlier.”
Bunny’s pulse quickened, but she kept her voice casual.
“That seems thoughtful, actually.”
“It was weird,” Siobhan said, frowning, “Not the gesture itself, but the way she did it. Like she was, oh, I don’t know– performing a ritual she’d done a hundred times. ‘You never bring your own,’ she told Glen. She didn’t say the same to Harold, but the motion was identical.”
Like muscle memory. Bunny thought back to her observation that night.
“Have you ever seen her do that before? At other events maybe?”
Siobhan’s perfectly manicured eyebrows drew together.
“No, but Carissa and I don’t usually attend the same functions unless they’re ACLU-related. She’s more corporate litigation. I’m immigration law. Different circles.” She paused, realization dawning.
“Wait, you don’t think–”
The front door opened and closed, saving Bunny from having to address the unspoken question. A moment later, a teenage boy appeared in the doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes glued to his phone. He had Siobhan’s coloring but none of her carefully cultivated poise.
“Mom, can I–” He looked up, noticing Bunny, “Oh. Sorry. Didn’t know you had company.”
“This is Bunny Beaudoin from the Fox Theater,” Siobhan said, her voice automatically shifting to the slightly louder, more articulated tone parents used when trying to model good manners, “Bunny, my son, Tyler.”
“Nice to meet you.” Bunny offered.
“Yeah, same,” Tyler mumbled, already backing away, “I’m gonna grab something from the kitchen.”
As he disappeared, Siobhan sighed.
“Fifteen. Everything I say is either embarrassing or irrelevant. That’s actually the most words I’ve gotten out of him in days.”
“He seems like a typical teenager.” Bunny said diplomatically.
“He is, thank God. Normal teenage problems are refreshingly manageable compared to, well–” Siobhan glanced at her watch.
“I hate to rush you, but I’ve got an appointment with my therapist in forty minutes. Another new development since The Night of Horrors.”
“Of course,” Bunny said, setting down her barely-touched tea, “I just wanted to check on you, let you know the Fox is here for its community. Especially our most valued supporters.”
They moved toward the foyer, the conversation shifting to safer territory; upcoming programming, a new exhibition in the theater’s historical gallery, Siobhan’s continued place on the Executive Leadership committee “when you’re ready, of course, no pressure.” As they reached the door, Bunny paused.
“One last thing,” She said, keeping her tone light, “I’ve been meaning to reach out to Carissa as well. You two are close, right? Any advice on how to approach her? She seemed quite shaken at the gala.”
Something unreadable crossed Siobhan’s face.
“Carissa doesn’t get ‘shaken.’ It’s not in her emotional vocabulary.” She hesitated.
“We had lunch scheduled for tomorrow, actually, but she canceled. Said she’s taking a few weeks in the Bahamas. ‘Unexpected vacation,’ She called it. Coincidental timing, don’t you think?”
The way Siobhan emphasized “coincidental” made it clear she found it anything but.
“Very,” Bunny agreed carefully, “Well, if you speak to her, please send my regards.”
“I will.” Siobhan said, opening the door. As Bunny stepped onto the porch, Siobhan added, “Bunny? Whatever you’re looking for… be careful.”
“I’m learning that,” Bunny said softly, “Take care, Siobhan.”
As she walked back to Dusty, Bunny could feel Siobhan watching her from the doorway. The visit had yielded more than she’d hoped for: confirmation about the medication, and the intriguing information about Carissa’s sudden vacation. The timing was suspicious, to say the least. Sitting in her car, she pulled out her phone and stared at it for a long moment before opening her contacts. She scrolled down to ‘D’ and tapped on the entry she’d added yesterday: ‘Dashiell O’Neill.’ Her thumb hovered over the call button. This was the moment. Once she made this call, there was no going back to being just a development director dealing with an unfortunate incident.
With a deep breath, she pressed the phone icon.
It rang twice before his voice answered, somehow sounding even more world-weary over the phone.
“O’Neill.”
“It’s Bunny Beaudoin.” She said, watching the gardener trim the Reid’s perfect hedges into even more perfect shapes.
“We need to talk. Carissa Levinson has suddenly decided to take a vacation in the Bahamas.”
There was a pause.
“Interesting timing. Where are you now?”
“Leaving Siobhan Reid’s house. She confirmed that Carissa gave both Glen and Harold the same medication. And apparently, she’s supposed to have lunch with Carissa tomorrow, but it was canceled due to this impromptu island getaway.”
“Don’t go home,” Dash said, his voice taking on a new urgency, “Meet me at Inman Park, by the gazebo. Thirty minutes.”
“Why not–”
“Just trust me on this, Bunny. Public places are better right now.”
The line went dead. Bunny stared at her phone, a chill running down her spine. For the first time, the reality of what she was involving herself in truly hit home. She started Dusty’s engine, the familiar rumble oddly comforting as she pulled away from Siobhan’s perfect home with its perfect lawn and its imperfectly nervous owner. Whatever Dash wanted to tell her, she had a feeling it wouldn’t be good news. As she drove, Bunny noticed a black sedan pull out several houses down, sliding into traffic behind her.
Probably nothing, she told herself.
But even then, she found herself checking the rearview mirror more often than strictly necessary. Counting the miles of distance between her and possible doom.