8. 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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“Let me make sure I understand correctly,” Lancaster said, her voice carrying the controlled patience of someone explaining basic arithmetic to a particularly dense child, “You had a Zoom call with our primary suspect— a call that was meant to build our case— and you came away convinced she’s innocent?”
The police chief’s office bore all the warmth and personality of a gulag. The walls were a shade of beige that even beige would find uninspiring, adorned with framed commendations and a single landscape photograph that looked like it had come with the frame. The morning light struggled through venetian blinds, cutting horizontal stripes across the office desk where Bunny and Dash sat side by side, a united front against the storm that was Marjorie Lancaster. As for the chief herself, she was perched on the edge of the desk rather than sitting behind it, a power move that Bunny recognized from her days of negotiating with reluctant donors.
Lancaster’s suit was perfectly pressed, her silver locks pulled into a severe ponytail that seemed to pull her features tight along with it. Twenty-seven years on the force had carved lines around her eyes that makeup couldn’t hide anymore. She’d stopped trying six months ago, around the time Richard started leaving real estate listings on her nightstand. Retirement communities in Arizona, he’d said over coffee last Tuesday, Think about it, Margie. No more midnight calls. No more dead bodies. She’d thrown the listings in the trash, but his words stuck like splinters under her skin. Sure, they could swing it. Over the years, she’d climbed up the ranks which afforded them a comfortable life in Magnolia Heights. Even the possibility of an early retirement. Having grown up in the rougher parts of Chatham County, neither of them were big spenders and they saved almost every penny that they could. But Richard had never really understood her work.
He’d been the artistic one in their marriage, painting in his shed and collecting old funk records, dreaming. Always dreaming. It was what she fell in love with, this sensitivity packaged in lanky limbs and a quiet voice and fiery eyes. He’d done most of the heavy lifting when Lancaster got pregnant with their daughters, taking to running the household like his greatest creative venture while she returned to work. He made her laugh. Took the edge off. Let her be unburdened once she left the precinct and entered the simple bungalow that the four of them had called home for almost three decades. He was a great husband, a great father, and while their daughters loved them both, the girls had always liked him more. He understood them in ways she couldn’t.
But he hadn’t understood her work. None of them did. She’d ensured that they never would.
Protected them from it.
“Not innocent,” Dash clarified, “Just not guilty of these particular murders.”
Lancaster’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. She’d heard variations of this conversation maybe a thousand times. The amateur detectives, the well-meaning civilians, the family members who couldn’t accept that sometimes the obvious answer was the right one. They all thought they saw something she’d missed, some crucial detail that would crack the case wide open.
“Based on what? Her saying ‘I didn’t do it’ with palm trees in the background?”
Ramirez shifted by the door, and Lancaster caught the movement in her peripheral vision. He’d been the one pushing for a broader investigation from the beginning, the one who kept asking questions about other suspects, other motives.
“Based on motive, timing, and behavioral indicators,” Dash countered, “Carissa Levinson had more to gain from Harold Finch’s testimony than from his death. She’s been pushing for Glen Valentino to face legal consequences for years.”
“Convenient narrative,” Lancaster sniffed, “And entirely self-reported.”
“She makes valid points,” Bunny interjected, sitting forward slightly, “If she wanted to protect Glen, why wait until now? The federal investigation has been brewing for over a year.”
Lancaster crossed her arms, the fabric of her jacket pulling slightly at the shoulders. She studied the woman across from her. Bunny Beaudoin had that particular brand of confidence that came from never having to knock on a door at three in the morning to tell someone their child wasn’t coming home.
“Ms. Beaudoin, no offense, but donor relations don’t exactly qualify you for criminal profiling.” The words came out harsher than she’d intended but Lancaster didn’t apologize.
“No, but observation does,” Bunny replied, refusing to be cowed, “Carissa was genuinely surprised by our theory that she was protecting Glen.”
“Sociopaths are excellent actors.” Lancaster argued.
“They’re also consistent,” Dash added, “The pattern doesn’t fit.”
“If Carissa is killing to protect Glen, why would she kill Maurice Katz months before the federal case gained traction? The timing is off.” He continued, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
They stared each other down with enough animosity to burn a hole through the wall. A muscle twitched in Lancaster’s jaw as she pushed off from the desk and circled behind it, creating physical distance as if retreating to more defensible ground. The desk had belonged to three chiefs before her. The scratches on the surface told the story of decades of cases, decades of decisions, decades of people sitting where Bunny and Dash sat now, convinced they had the answers.
“Ramirez,” She said, back turned from Bunny and Dash, “Please update our guests on what we found in Ms. Levinson’s financials.”
She could hear him shuffling papers, the nervous energy that still radiated from him during these briefings. Ramirez cleared his throat, flipping through his clipboard.
“Three separate wire transfers to offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands over the past six months. Each followed one of the deaths by approximately two weeks.”
Bunny’s eyebrows shot up, and she exchanged a quick glance with Dash, whose expression remained impassive.
“What amounts?” He asked.
“Fifty thousand each time,” Ramirez replied, a hint of apology in his voice, “Always on the fifteenth of the month.”
“Which her firm pays quarterly — distributions on the fifteenth of each month,” Dash noted, “Standard practice for law firms her size.”
“Three deaths, three transfers,” Lancaster said flatly, “That’s not a coincidence.”
“It’s also not evidence,” Dash countered, “It’s correlation at best.”
“Which is why we need to build a stronger case.”
Lancaster strode around her desk again, this time planting herself directly in front of Dash.
“And we can’t do that with you two playing rogue detectives, chasing staff members and undermining our primary suspect theory.”
She’d dealt with private investigators before. They came in two varieties: the burned-out ex-cops who’d left the force for better pay and fewer rules, and the wannabe heroes who’d watched too many movies. Dash O’Neill fell somewhere in between. Competent enough to be useful, arrogant enough to be dangerous.
“We’re not undermining anything–”
“And we don’t have a primary suspect.” Dash interrupted Bunny, earning him murderous looks from both women.
“Sorry.” He muttered, leaning back into the seat and clamping his mouth shut.
“Like, I was saying,” Bunny continued, turning her gaze back to the police chief and switching to what Lancaster recognized as diplomacy, “We’re not undermining anything. We’re exploring additional avenues while you pursue Carissa. The staff at the Fox witnessed everything that night. Someone might have seen something crucial.”
Lancaster turned her attention to Bunny, something shifting in her expression. She searched the development director’s face, looking for tells she’d learned to recognize over the years. But Bunny seemed genuine, which somehow made it worse.
“Look, I understand you feel responsible. Your venue, your event, your seating chart. But this isn’t a mystery novel where the amateur sleuth saves the day with pluck and intuition. This is methodical police work.”
“With all due respect,” Bunny began, “Your methodical police work hasn’t made an arrest in three connected deaths.”
The room grew silent enough that Bunny could hear the clock on the wall ticking like a time bomb. Lancaster’s face tightened slightly at the temples.
“You don’t think I want to solve this?” The police chief’s voice dropped dangerously low, “Three people are dead on my watch. But I won’t throw charges at the wall to see what sticks. I need evidence that will hold up in court.”
“Then let us help,” Dash said, his tone suddenly conciliatory, “Like we’ve both said before, we can access people and places you can’t without warrants or badges. People talk differently to civilians than to cops.”
Lancaster looked between them, calculation evident in her eyes.
“Fine,” She finally said, the word as sharp as a paper cut, “Continue your inquiries. But everything, and I mean everything, comes back to me. No withholding, no editing, no ‘we’ll tell her when we have something concrete.’ And—” She pinched her fingers between the bridge of her nose, “— against my better judgement, Ramirez will be your point person.”
Ramirez straightened, surprise flickering across his face.
“Chief, I—”
“You’ve shown interest in other explanations, Detective.” Lancaster said, suddenly looking as tired as she sounded. Maybe Richard was right. Maybe it was time to step back, to let someone else carry the weight of all these unsolved cases, all these grieving families. She could use the fucking vacation for once.
“Here’s your chance to pursue them while maintaining a proper chain of evidence.”
She walked back around her desk, sitting down with a sigh. Bunny sensed the professional tightrope Ramirez was walking, given responsibility that was simultaneously an opportunity and a potential career pitfall.
“We’ll keep Detective Ramirez informed,” Bunny assured Lancaster, shooting Ramirez a sympathetic smile, “And we appreciate your flexibility.”
Lancaster looked at the younger detective, then down at the files on her desk.
Cancun, She thought absentmindedly, That’s where I’d go.
“Don’t mistake pragmatism for flexibility, Ms. Beaudoin,” Lancaster cautioned, lifting her eyes back to Bunny, “I’m giving you enough rope to either lasso a murderer or hang yourselves professionally. Use it wisely.”
As they gathered their notes and stood to leave, Lancaster held up a hand. They paused mid-air.
“One more thing. This investigation operates by my rulebook. That means no intimidation tactics, no breaking and entering, no tampering with witnesses,” She fixed her gaze on Dash, “Your PI license is a privilege. Not a shield.”
Dash’s smile was knife-thin.
“Always a pleasure, Marjorie.”
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Outside in the parking lot, the mid-morning sun cast shadows across the dewy grass, the last hints of winter giving way to green, new shoots of spring. Despite the rays of sunlight, Bunny could smell rain in the air.
“Well, that went about as well as a root canal without anesthesia.” She muttered, fishing her sunglasses from her purse.
“Actually, it went better than expected,” Dash replied, keys jingling in his hand, “Lancaster’s giving us official, if reluctant, blessings to continue. That’s practically a parade in our honor by her standards.”
Ramirez hurried out of the station behind them, his tie slightly askew.
“O’Neill,” He called, “A word?”
Dash paused, giving Bunny a small nod that she interpreted as ‘wait here.’ She moved toward Dusty but stayed within earshot, pretending to continue searching for her sunglasses while watching their reflections in her car window.
“Lancaster’s serious about keeping me in the loop,” Ramirez said quietly, “Not just as a babysitter. She’s hedging her bets.”
“Covering all bases,” Dash agreed, “Smart police work.”
“There’s something else.”
Ramirez glanced back at the station entrance.
“The wire transfers. There were actually four, not three.”
Bunny’s hand froze in her purse, even though they’d already landed on a pair of Celines.
“The first one was two weeks before Maurice Katz died, not after,” Ramirez continued, voice barely above a whisper, “That doesn’t fit Lancaster’s timeline. Payment comes after service rendered, not before.”
“Unless it wasn’t payment,” Dash mused, “Were they all the same account?”
Ramirez nodded.
“Why didn’t you mention this in there?” Dash asked.
The young detective’s expression darkened slightly.
“Lancaster said it was irrelevant to establishing a pattern. But I thought you should know.”
“Appreciate it,” Dash said, clapping him lightly on the shoulder, “We’ll be in touch.”
As Ramirez retreated to the building, Dash rejoined Bunny by her car.
“You heard?”
“Every word,” She confirmed, “Four transfers, first one before any murders.”
“Changes the calculus.” Dash said, glancing at his watch.
His Oxfords crunched on the gravel as they walked around to the Ford. Bunny chewed the inside of her cheek pensively.
“How do we find your auctioneer friend?” He asked.
“Mickey doesn’t work at the Fox regularly.” Bunny explained, tapping her phone screen to pull up her contacts.
“He’s a private contractor— strictly high-end charity events. The Fox pays him an obscene amount of money to swoop in, charm the wealthy, and extract maximum donations for minimum effort.”
“Sounds like a dream gig.” Dash remarked.
“It is. And he’s cornered the market, at least in Magnolia Heights. Our Gala Committee chair is green with envy.”
Bunny scrolled through her phone.
“He should be home. Rarely books events on weekday afternoons. Says it interferes with his ‘creative process,’ which I’m pretty sure is code for ‘sleeping off last night’s scotch.’”
“You think he’ll talk to us without warning?”
Bunny’s lips curved into a knowing smile.
“Mickey Alden has two weaknesses: expensive alcohol and an audience. Show up with a bottle of something aged and he’ll talk until your ears fall off. Besides,” She added, her expression growing more serious, “He was backstage immediately after Harold died, gathering with the staff. He knows something– I’m sure of it.”
“Then let’s go visit suburbia,” Dash said, jingling his keys again, “Your car or mine?”
“Yours,” Bunny decided, “Dusty’s a bit too recognizable in that part of town. Half of the neighborhood was at the gala.”
As they climbed into Dash’s weathered car, Bunny sent a quick text to Carol asking her to reschedule her afternoon meetings. The reply came back almost instantly:
Again? Must be nice to have a job where you can just disappear. Some of us have to answer phones. Coffee later?
Bunny smiled despite herself and sent back three laughing emojis.
Look, I’ve already done my time, kid. Coffee on me next time. I owe you one.
No matter what happened, the mundane machinery of the Fox continued to grind away. Donors to coddle, phone calls to return, coffee to consume in industrial quantities.
“Everything okay?” Dash asked, pulling into traffic.
“Just office politics,” Bunny replied, tucking her phone away, “The glamorous world of arts administration waits for no murder investigation.”
As they drove toward Avondale Estates, leaving downtown Magnolia Heights behind, the landscape gradually gave way to tree-lined streets and increasingly elaborate homes. The weight of Lancaster’s skepticism seemed to lift with each mile, replaced by fresh determination.
The theater held secrets in its shadows.
And Bunny was determined to bring them into the light.