9. 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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Immaculate black and white marble tiles stretched across the grand foyer like an enormous chess board beneath the soaring ceiling. Afternoon light spilled through towering Palladian windows, casting long geometric shadows across the space. At the base of the sweeping double staircase stood an enormous round table of polished ebony, its surface adorned with artfully arranged coffee table books on Renaissance architecture and French impressionism. An extravagant floral arrangement erupted from the center chinoiserie vase; cascading wisteria and white orchids weepily hanging below the crystal chandelier above, their perfume hanging heavy in the air.
The twin staircases curved upward in graceful symmetry, their mahogany banisters gleaming under the chandelier’s refracted light. A portrait of the mansion’s owner, painted in oils with the kind of reverent brushwork usually reserved for royalty, watched over the entrance with a self-satisfied smile that seemed to follow visitors as they moved through the space. Beyond the foyer, through a wide archway, stretched a corridor lined with recessed lighting. A private gallery worthy of a small museum. Original pieces from contemporary masters hung at carefully measured intervals, each with its own dedicated lighting. Stone sculptures occupied alcoves between the paintings: a headless Greek figure here, a distinctive bronze statue with a hazy patina there. Each alcove was subtly lit from above, creating dramatic shadows that gave the figures an unsettling suggestion of movement.
The gallery opened into a wide office where everything changed abruptly. Bright yellow crime scene tape formed a makeshift barrier, beyond which figures in latex gloves and booties moved with efficiency. Voices dropped to the professional murmur of people doing the difficult work of death. The home office beyond the tape was a shrine to success: walnut paneling, leather furniture, bookcases filled with volumes that suggested serious intellectual ambition, whether fulfilled or not. At the center of this careful tableau of wealth stood an incongruous intrusion.
A body, donned in a terry cloth bathrobe and white boxers, slumped in a high-backed executive chair.
A forensic photographer circled methodically, the flash of her camera casting stark bursts of light across the scene. Each flash caught the glint of the dull metallic reflection of the watch still on the victim’s wrist.
“Time of death approximately 1:36 PM,” The coroner’s assistant droned, checking the notes on her clipboard, “Gun was found in his right hand, consistent with self-infliction. Preliminary ruling is suicide, pending full investigation.”
An evidence technician gingerly lifted a handgun from a side table with gloved hands. The weapon– a Colt 1911, engraved and custom-gripped– slid into an evidence bag that crinkled loudly in the hushed room.
“Expensive way to check out.” The technician muttered, sealing the bag with practiced movements.
Dr. Cashler moved closer to the body, her eyes narrowing as she studied the positioning, the angle of the bullet’s entry, the lack of disruption in the room. Something wasn’t sitting right with her. Her gaze dropped to a half-empty tumbler of amber liquid on the desk.
“I want a rush on toxicology.” She said, her voice carrying a quiet authority that made folks jump to attention.
“For a GSW to the head?” The assistant looked up, confusion evident, “That’s pretty clearly cause of–”
“Humor me,” Cashler interrupted, her eyes still on the glass, “Pull blood for a preliminary screening before we move him. Priority analysis.”
“Is there something specific you’re looking for?”
Cashler’s lips pressed into a thin line.
“Given recent events, I’d like to rule out any… assistance… he might have had.”
The request rippled through the room, staff exchanging glances. The assistant made a call, and thirty minutes later, a toxicologist in full protective gear was finishing up his initial testing.
“Dr. Cashler,” He said, approaching with obvious reluctance, a manila folder clutched in his hands, “I need to emphasize that these are extremely preliminary results. We’ll need comprehensive lab analysis for confirmation, which could take weeks–”
“Just tell me what you found, Mercer.” She interrupted, patience wearing thin.
The toxicologist glanced down at the manila folder, then back up, his discomfort evident.
“Initial screening indicates the presence of alkaloids consistent with atropa belladonna in his system. Concentration levels pending, but they appear significant.”
He handed the folder to Cashler who promptly pulled out the report from its folds. A heavy silence fell over the room. One of the crime scene technicians whispered something to her colleague, who nodded grimly. Cashler moved to the body, finally looking directly at the face of the deceased. Grey eyes stared back with the vacant expression of the newly dead, a small, nearly bloodless hole in his right temple. His skin had the waxy pallor that sets in after several hours, but even in death, his features retained a distinctive arrogance.
“Suicide, huh?” Cashler’s voice was barely audible as she shook her head.
She turned to address the room at large.
“I want this scene processed with the assumption of homicide. Full protocol. Every surface, every fiber, every fingerprint. I want the contents of that glass analyzed, and I want to know everyone who entered this house in the past twenty-four hours.”
She pulled out her phone, scrolled through contacts, and paused on a name: ‘Lancaster - Chief of Police.’
“And get me everything we have on Harold Finch’s case.” She added, walking toward the door as she raised the phone to her ear.
“I need to speak with the chief. Immediately,” As Cashler stepped into the hallway, her voice faded from the rustle of sudden action, “Marjorie? It’s Elaine. We’ve got another one. Same poison signature. But this time, he put a bullet in his head before it could finish the job.”
Behind her, the photographer took one final shot of the body– a man who had believed himself untouchable– the flash illuminating the face of Glen Valentino.
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Avondale Estates looked like someone had transplanted an English village into the Georgia suburbs, complete with mock-Tudor facades and pristinely maintained gardens that seemed to flourish regardless of season. The neighborhood had been designed in the 1920s to evoke a romanticized vision of the English countryside, all leafy lanes and quaint architecture. As Dash’s Ford rumbled down streets lined with towering oaks, the contrast between his weathered vehicle and the manicured surroundings couldn’t have been more stark.
“Third house on the right,” Bunny directed, gesturing toward a particularly impressive Tudor-Revival home set back from the road, “The one that looks like it was airlifted directly from Stratford-upon-Avon.”
Mickey Alden’s residence managed to stand out even in a neighborhood defined by architectural pretension. Two-story with steeply pitched roofs, half-timbering, and a chimney that twisted skyward like a barber pole, the house announced its owner’s theatrical sensibilities before you even reached the front door.
“Auctioneering must pay better than I thought.” Dash observed dryly as he pulled into the circular driveway.
“Mickey has three revenue streams,” Bunny said, checking her reflection in the visor mirror and reapplying her lipstick with practiced precision, “Charity auctions, estate sales for the obscenely wealthy, and– according to rumors that he neither confirms nor denies– some very lucrative investments made in the early days of Apple.”
“And the Fox pays for his services?”
“Every penny. Fenelope says he’s worth his weight in gold.”
Bunny dropped her lipstick back into her purse.
“Speaking of which, I stopped by the liquor store this morning.”
She reached into her tote bag and produced a bottle of amber liquid in an elegantly understated bottle. Dash raised an eyebrow.
“Macallan 18. Impressive.”
“Put it on my credit card as a ‘donor cultivation expense,’” Bunny admitted with a wink, “Development directors are nothing if not creative accountants.”
The walk to Mickey’s front door took them along a herringbone brick path bordered by boxwood hedges trimmed with military precision. Before they could ring the bell, the heavy oak door swung open, revealing Mickey Alden in a silk smoking jacket the color of burgundy wine, complete with black velvet lapels. His black hair was perfectly coiffed, its shape withstanding the noon-day Georgia humidity, and his eyes– bright and assessing– immediately fell on the bottle in Bunny’s hand.
“My darling Bunny!” He exclaimed, his voice carrying the practiced projection of someone accustomed to commanding rooms of hundreds.
“Either you’ve developed a drinking problem, or you want something desperately. Perhaps both?”
“Hello Mickey,” Bunny leaned into a light side-hug, “This is–”
“Dashiell O’Neill,” Mickey finished for her, extending a manicured hand toward Dash, “The PI who’s been asking questions all over our town about our little gala disaster.”
Dash accepted the handshake with a slight nod.
“Word travels fast.”
“Magnolia Heights is a small pond, Mr. O’Neill, and I make it my business to know all the fish,” Mickey’s smile remained firmly in place as he stepped back from the doorway, “Especially the curious ones.”
The interior of Mickey’s home was a study in theatrical masculinity– all mahogany paneling, leather-bound books, and strategically placed antiques that managed to convey wealth without tipping into ostentation. The entryway opened up to a two-story great room dominated by a stone fireplace large enough to roast a small animal. Despite the mild spring afternoon, a fire crackled merrily in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the space.
“I assume this isn’t a social call,” Mickey said, leading them toward a seating area near the fireplace, “Not after Harold’s unfortunate exit.”
He gestured toward a leather chesterfield sofa that looked both incredibly expensive and perfectly broken in.
“Please, make yourselves comfortable. I’ll fetch the glasses.”
As Mickey disappeared through an arched doorway, Bunny and Dash exchanged glances. The entire home smelled faintly of sandalwood and bourbon, as if the very walls had absorbed decades of fine spirits.
“He knows we’re coming to ask about the gala.” Bunny whispered.
“Good,” Dash replied, taking in the room with a detective’s practiced eye, “That means he’s had time to decide what he’s willing to tell us.”
Mickey returned carrying a silver tray with three crystal tumblers that caught the firelight as he set them on the coffee table. Without a word, Bunny handed him the bottle. His eyebrows lifted in appreciation.
“Macallan 18. You must want something very badly indeed.” He broke the seal and poured generous measures into each glass.
“Though I admit, I’m intrigued. It’s not every day a development director and a private investigator show up on my doorstep bearing liquid bribes.”
He handed them each a glass before settling into a leather wingback chair that seemed designed specifically for him– or perhaps he had designed himself specifically for it. Either way, the effect was one of a monarch granting an audience.
“To Harold,” Mickey said, raising his glass, “May he rest in peace, preferably without haunting my auctions.”
Bunny sipped her scotch, allowing the warmth to spread through her chest before speaking.
“Mickey, we need to talk about what happened that night.”
“Which part? The part where you seated Glen Valentino next to his ex-wife, or the part where Harold Finch face-planted into eternity after a spirited auction?” Huh. So he was ready to spar.
“Both, actually,” Dash interjected, “Particularly your role in changing the auction order. The Tuscan villa lot wasn’t supposed to come up when it did.”
Mickey’s eyes narrowed slightly, though his smile remained fixed. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching the play of light through the crystal.
“Ah, you’ve been doing your homework. Yes, there was a last-minute adjustment to the running order.”
“At Fenelope’s request.” Bunny added.
“Indeed,” Mickey took another sip, savoring it before continuing, “Ms. Wilde thought the energy in the room called for a showstopper earlier than planned. Who am I to argue? She signs the checks.”
“And it had nothing to do with creating tension between Glen and Carissa?” Dash asked.
Mickey’s laugh was sudden and rich, filling the cavernous space.
“Mr. O’Neill, creating tension is precisely what an auction is about! You don’t get six-figure bids without a healthy dose of competition, ego, and deeply repressed emotions bubbling to the surface.”
He leaned back, crossing one silk-clad leg over the other.
“But if you’re asking whether I conspired to create a scenario that would end with Harold Finch sprawled on the marble, the answer is an emphatic no. I’m in the business of separating the wealthy from their money, not from their mortal coil.”
Bunny studied Mickey’s face. Unlike many of the Fox’s contractors, Mickey had been a fixture for over a decade, his flamboyant persona and razor-sharp wit making him as much a part of the institution as the building itself.
“Mickey, we think there’s more to Harold’s death than just an unfortunate accident,” She said carefully, “And we believe it might be connected to Glen Valentino.”
Something flickered in Mickey’s eyes– caution, perhaps, or recognition. He took another deliberate sip before responding.
“You think our pharmaceutical magnate had something to do with Harold’s untimely demise?” He asked, his tone deceptively casual.
“That would certainly add drama to your next gala. ‘Join us for an evening of fine dining, charitable giving, and possibly murder!”
“This isn’t a joke,” Dash said, his voice hardening slightly, “Harold Finch had belladonna in his system. He was poisoned.”
“And he’s not the first of Glen’s associates to die under suspicious circumstances.” Bunny added.
Mickey’s playful demeanor receded like the tide, revealing something harder beneath. He set his glass down with care.
“I see. And you’ve come to me because…?”
“Because you know everyone,” Bunny said simply, “You’ve been working these events for years. You see things others don’t.”
“Flattery and scotch,” Mickey murmured, “You really are pulling out all the stops, aren’t you?”
He stared into the fire for a long moment, watching the flames dance. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its performative quality, becoming something more genuine.
“To understand what happened to Harold, you need to understand Glen,” He said finally, “And to understand Glen, you need to go back to the Emerald Evening.”
“The Fox’s Christmas party?” Bunny frowned. “What– three years ago?”
She recalled a flash film photograph she’d seen on Fenelope’s desk during her interview for the job: Fenelope dressed to the nines in a sparkly gown with black ostrich feathers lining the sleeves– champagne glass in hand– as she stood next to the mustachioed Conductor Berenstein; croquembouche towers placed on tables all around them. It was everything that the Fox stood for- a celebration of the arts that did not shy away from pageantry. Fenelope had looked unapproachable, unkind, and absolutely fabulous. That photograph had solidified Bunny’s decision to work for the ice queen herself.
Mickey nodded, reaching for the Macallen and refilling his glass with a steadier hand than his earlier consumption would suggest.
“That, my dear, was the night everything changed, though most people didn’t realize it at the time. It was the night the cracks began to show in Glen’s carefully constructed empire.”
“What happened?” Dash asked.
Mickey settled deeper into his chair, like a storyteller preparing for a lengthy tale.
“The Emerald Evening was supposed to be the crowning glory of the Fox’s winter season. Three hundred guests, each paying a thousand dollars for the privilege of being seen in their holiday finery. Glen was the headline sponsor– had been for five years running. His company logo was everywhere: the programs, the auction paddles, the ice sculpture, for God’s sake.”
He paused, as if mentally transporting himself back to that night.
“Harold was still Glen’s right-hand man then. This was before their falling out over the price-fixing scandal. The two of them arrived together, Glen in a tuxedo that probably cost more than most people’s monthly salary, Harold trailing behind like an eager shadow.”
“They were close?” Dash asked, producing a small notebook from his pocket.
“Like brothers. Or so everyone thought,” Mickey’s expression turned contemplative, “But there was tension even then. Harold had begun to question some of Glen’s business practices. Nothing overt, mind you, but those of us who’d been watching them for years could see the strain.”
“But that wasn’t the main event of the evening,” He waved a hand dismissively, “No, the real drama came when Glen announced, completely unplanned and utterly shocking to everyone including Fenelope, that he was pulling his annual donation.”
Bunny straightened.
“What? I never heard about this.”
“Of course not,” Mickey scoffed, “It was handled with the discretion of a state secret. But I was there, watching from the stage as Glen hijacked my auction to make his little speech. Standing there in his bespoke tuxedo announcing that after ‘careful consideration,’ he’d decided to ‘redirect his philanthropic efforts’ towards causes with ‘greater measurable impact.’”
Mickey’s impression of Glen was uncanny; the slight nasal quality, the practiced pauses, the corporate jargon barely disguising pure self-interest.
“You can imagine the reaction,” He continued, “Fenelope looked like she’d been slapped. The board members present were practically having synchronized coronaries. And the staff– oh,”
He placed a sympathetic hand on his chest, “The staff felt it worst of all.”
“How so?” Dash prompted.
“Outside of ticket sales, the Fox runs on a shoestring budget, Mr. O’Neill. Glen’s annual contribution funded the youth outreach program, the summer internships, and a significant portion of the staff’s holiday bonuses. When he pulled his funding, all of that vanished overnight.”
Mickey glanced at Bunny who shrugged in concession. It was true, and it was one of the reasons Fenelope hesitated to press the eject button on her position whenever Bunny got on her nerves. She was good at raising money for the theater.
“This was before your time, of course. Fenelope made sure the story that reached the public was controlled. Official line was that Glen was ‘restructuring his giving,’ not abandoning the Fox entirely.”
“Why would he do that?” Bunny asked, “The Fox was his flagship charitable cause.”
“Ah, now that’s where it gets interesting,” Mickey leaned forward, voice dropping clandestinely, “Harold Finch opposed the decision vehemently. Right there, in front of everyone, he tried to talk Glen out of it. Said it would damage their reputation and betray the community’s trust.”
A smile devoid of humor stretched across Mickey’s face.
“Glen dismissed him. Like swatting away an annoying insect. And that, my friends, was the beginning of the end of their partnership.”
“So Glen publicly humiliated Harold.” Dash noted, writing in his notebook.
“And Fenelope,” Mickey added, “And every staff member who depended on those bonuses. Jasmine, the Fox’s chef? Her mother was in the hospital. That bonus was going to cover medical bills. Evan, the events coordinator? Had planned to use his to put a down payment on a condo, get out of his roach-infested rental. All gone because Glen decided the Fox wasn’t ‘impactful’ enough anymore.”
Mickey drained his glass, the firelight catching the angles of his face. The darkness of his hair, a sign of youth and virility, was betrayed by the lines across his forehead that deepened as he frowned.
“The real question, I think,” He continued, “is why Glen changed his mind. Why announce it in such a public forum, knowing the damage it would cause? That wasn’t just business. It was personal.”
“What’s your theory?” Bunny asked, entranced by this previous unknown chapter in the Fox’s history.
Mickey’s eyes, slightly glassy from the scotch but no less sharp, fixed on her.
“Fenelope Wilde had rejected him.”
“Rejected him?” Dash repeated.
“They were involved?”
“Not exactly,” Mickey smiled thinly, “Glen had been pursuing her for months. Subtle at first, then increasingly obvious. Dinner invitations, private box seats to performances, little gifts appearing on her desk. Fenelope rebuffed him consistently but politely. After all, he was their biggest donor.”
He leaned back in his chair.
“Until the Emerald Evening. Something happened between them right before the event began. I don’t know what exactly– they were alone in her office– but when they emerged, Fenelope looked like ice and Glen like fire. Two hours later, he was announcing his withdrawal of support.”
“Spite,” Bunny said softly, “He pulled hundreds of thousands of dollars out of spite.”
“Men like Glen Valentino don’t handle rejection well,” Mickey said with a shrug, “They’re used to getting what they want, whether it’s a company, a woman, or immunity from legal consequences.”
Dash tapped his pen against his notebook.
“And where was Carissa during all this?”
“Already divorced from Glen by then, though still moving in the same social circles. She wasn’t at the Emerald Evening. Probably spending Christmas somewhere tropical with cabana boys half her age.” Mickey’s tone was dismissive, but Bunny detected something else beneath it– a personal dislike perhaps.
“After Glen’s announcement, what happened?” Dash pressed.
“Chaos, darling. Absolute chaos, but the polite kind where everyone pretends nothing is wrong while frantically texting their financial advisors.”
Mickey refilled his glass once more.
“Fenelope somehow salvaged the evening, rallying the other donors to increase their pledges. She’s nothing if not resourceful in a crisis.”
“And the staff?” Bunny asked, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it confirmed.
“Devastated. Some left for other venues– those who could. Others stayed, tightening their belts and smiling through gritted teeth.”
Mickey’s gaze turned distant.
“The Fox Theater family, resilient as always, but with newly planted seeds of resentment toward the man who had abandoned them on a whim.”
He fixed his eyes on Dash.
“You’re looking for motives, Mr. O’Niell? That night created dozens. Every staff member who lost their bonus, every program that had to be scaled back, every artist who lost an opportunity because funding dried up. All of them had reason to resent Glen Valentino.”
“But killing Harold Finch doesn’t hurt Glen,” Bunny pointed out, “If anything, it removes a witness who could testify against him in the federal case.”
Mickey tilted his head, regarding her with something like pride.
“Very good, Ms. Beaudoin. Now you’re asking the right questions.”
He stood suddenly, moving with surprising grace for a man who’d consumed the better part of a very expensive bottle of scotch before evening. Crossing to a built-in bookshelf, he removed what appeared to be a leather-bound photo album.
“After Harold and Glen’s public disagreement at the Emerald Evening, something changed in their dynamic,” Mickey said, returning to his seat and opening the album, “Harold began distancing himself from Glen’s business practices. Rumors circulated that he was gathering evidence, preparing to come forward about price-fixing and other unsavory activities at Valentino Pharmaceuticals.”
He turned the album toward them, revealing a photograph from what appeared to be another charity event. Glen and Harold stood side by side, smiles fixed but eyes cold, body language screaming discomfort.
“This was taken at the Symphony Gala six months after the Emerald Evening,” Mickey explained, “Their last public appearance together before Harold left the company. Look at their faces. That’s not a business partnership anymore. It’s a hostage situation.”
Bunny studied the photograph. Glen looked exactly as she remembered him from the Fox Gala: imposing, impeccably dressed, radiating the entitled confidence of the obscenely wealthy. Harold appeared smaller somehow, his smile strained, eyes darting sideways toward Glen as if watching for sudden movements.
“Harold knew something.” Dash said, more statement than question.
“Harold knew everything,” Mickey corrected, “Fifteen years as Glen’s right hand meant he had dirt on every questionable decision, every ethical shortcut, every regulatory line crossed. When he finally broke away, Glen was terrified– though he’d never admit it.”
“So Glen had motive to want Harold silenced.” Bunny concluded.
“Absolutely,” Mickey nodded, “But so did anyone else who might go down with Glen if the full truth came out. And believe me, a man like Glen doesn’t get where he is without creating a network of complicity.”
He flipped to another page in the album, revealing a group photo from what appeared to be a Fox Theater donor reception. Bunny recognized several prominent Magnolia Heights residents, including Fenelope, standing regally at the center of the frame.
“The theater world runs on relationships, connection, favors exchanged,” Mickey said, tracing a finger over the photograph, “Glen’s tentacles reached into every major institution in this city. When he withdrew from the Fox, it wasn’t just a financial blow. It was a warning to others. Cross me, and I’ll abandon you too.”
Dash leaned back, processing this information.
“And after the Emerald Evening, how did Fenelope handle the situation?”
A smile played at the corner of Mickey’s mouth.
“With the ice-cold precision of a woman who’s spent decades navigating the egos of wealthy men. She never spoke ill of Glen publicly, never let on how devastating the loss was. Insead, she simply… recalibrated.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning she found new donors, restructured programs, and moved forward as if Glen Valentino had never mattered in the first place.” Mickey’s admiration was evident in his tone.
“It was masterful, really. The ultimate revenge for a man like Glen, making him irrelevant.”
“Until the gala,” Bunny said quietly, “When he suddenly received a last-minute invitation.”
Mickey’s eyes gleamed.
“Exactly. After two years of exile, suddenly Glen was back at the Fox, seated prominently at a table near the stage– though unfortunately next to his ex-wife.”
“Do you think Fenelope planned that?” Dash asked, “The seating arrangement, I mean.”
“Fenelope Wilde doesn’t make those kinds of mistakes,” Mickey said enigmatically, “Everything she does is deliberate, even when it appears accidental.”
He closed the photo album with a definitive snap.
“The question you should be asking isn’t just who poisoned Harold Finch, but why Harold was there in the first place. Why, after two years of being persona non grata by association with Glen, was he suddenly invited back into the Fox’s inner circle?”
Bunny frowned.
“I assumed it was because he’d broken ties with Glen, become acceptable again.”
“Perhaps,’” Mickey conceded, “Or perhaps he was invited specifically because he posed a threat to Glen. A reminder, if you will, that the Fox Theater has a long memory.”
The implication hung in the air, disturbing as smoke in a crowded room.
“Are you suggesting Fenelope set this up?” Bunny asked, unable to keep the disbelief from her voice, “That’s–”
“I’m not suggesting anything, darling,” Mickey interrupted smoothly, “I’m merely providing context. What you do with it is entirely up to you.”
He glanced at the ornate clock on the mantelpiece.
“Now, as delightful as this trip down memory lane has been, I have an estate auction to prepare for this evening. The recently deceased Mrs. Harrington had an impressive collection of Fabergé eggs that her children are eager to convert into more liquid assets.”
Standing, he straightened his smoking jacket with a practiced flourish.
“Do feel free to take the remainder of the Macallan. Consider it my contribution to your investigation.”
As they rose to leave, Dash stopped for a minute, a soft look crossing his face that Bunny could not place.
“What happened to the staff after the Emerald Evening? The ones who lost their bonuses. Did they ever recover?” He asked.
Mickey paused at the door, his expression turning thoughtful.
“Some did. Others carried a grudge. Jasmine had to move her mother to a cheaper care facility. Evan still lives in that roach motel. Life goes on, Mr. O’Neill, but some wounds never fully heal. They just become part of the landscape of who we are.”
The three stood in contemplative silence as if grappling with the unfairness of life. But there was still one more thing that was bothering Bunny. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, worried that she would disclose too much about the case. The gesture did not go unnoticed by Mickey.
“What is it, Bunny?” The auctioneer asked, smoothing down his smoking jacket as if it were an army suit ready for the sergeants’ inspection.
“It’s– it’s just this one thing that’s been bugging me, well, us.” She hesitated, shooting Dash a nervous look. He nodded imperceptibly, giving her implicit permission to go on.
“Those tablets Carissa gave Harold that night. Our theory is that they were Donnatal. They dissolved in water, fizzing like…. Alka-Seltzer or something.”
Mickey’s eyebrows rose with interest.
“Ah, well there’s your problem, darling,” He said rather incredulously, “Donnatal doesn’t fizz. Doesn’t dissolve at all, actually. It’s a solid pill.”
He gave Bunny the same look that someone would give a small child trying to figure out a Lego set.
“A solid pill you swallow whole.” He finished, waiting for her to grasp his meaning. The implication was not lost on her.
“H-how do you know that?” She stammered dumbly, shifting her gaze between the two men.
“My dear mother- Gwennie- takes it for her, er,” He placed his hand aside his mouth as if he didn’t want anyone but Bunny to hear and lowered his voice to a stage whisper, “Irritable bowel syndrome.”
Dash nodded sagely like a guru of digestive tracts, but Bunny felt moments closer to hurling the mantle piece at him. How did you not know this, Mr. Brilliant Detective?! She wanted to scream, but clamped her mouth shut instead as Micky surreptitiously began herding them towards the door. At the threshold, he placed a hand lightly on Bunny’s arm.
“The Fox holds many secrets in its shadows, and not all of them are meant to see the light of day,” His eyes, suddenly clear despite the alcohol, held a warning, “And watch Fenelope closely. She plays a longer game than any of us realize.”
With that cryptic parting shot, he ushered them out onto the herringbone brick path, the heavy oak door closing behind them with the finality of a theater curtain dropping after the final act. In the car, neither spoke immediately, both processing the information Mickey had shared. The Emerald Evening had created a web of resentment and revenge that extended far beyond what they’d initially imagined. Staff members with personal grudges, Harold with damaging knowledge, Fenelope with a score to settle, and Glen at the center of it all.
“What do you think?” Bunny finally asked as Dash started the engine.
He considered for a moment, hands resting on the steering wheel.
“I think we need to talk to the staff Mickey mentioned. Jasmine, Evan– anyone who was present for both the Emerald Evening and the gala.”
“And Fenelope?” Bunny asked quietly, the implications of Mickey’s insinuations weighing heavily on her. Dash’s expression was grim.
“She’s on the list. But we approach carefully. If Mickey’s right about her playing a long game…”
“Then we need to make sure we’re not just pawns on her board.” Bunny finished.
As they pulled away from Mickey’s Tudor fantasy, the clouds that had been threatening all morning finally made good on their promise, releasing a gentle spring rain that blurred the edges of the pristine suburb. But soon enough, the clouds broke open in earnest and the rain came down in mean, angry sheets, pounding against the Bronco like open-palm slaps. Bunny stared out of the window, watching droplets race down the glass in silvery rivulets.
“Where to next?” She asked, mentally preparing a list of staff members to interview at the Fox.
Dash checked his watch, his expression shifting, eyes darkening.
“I need to make a stop at my office first. Something I need to check.”
Bunny turned to him, catching the subtle change in his demeanor.
“Something about the case?”
“Maybe.” His response was uncharacteristically terse.
“I had some information come in this morning that I need to verify.”
“What kind of information?”
“It’s probably nothing,” Dash said, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, knuckles tightening slightly against the steering wheel, “Just a loose thread I want to pull before we go any further.”
Bunny studied his profile, noting the tight set of his jaw, the careful neutrality in his voice that hadn’t been there minutes earlier. Something about Mickey’s story had triggered a connection for him. Something he wasn’t ready to share.
“You could just drop me at the Fox,” She suggested, turning her gaze to the road, “I can start talking to Jasmine and Evan while you do whatever it is you’re not telling me about.”
Dash shot her a quick glance, a flicker of something– guilt? Concern? – crossing his features before his professional mask settled back into place.
“I’ll pick you up in a couple hours,” He said, nodding, “Just be careful what you ask and who you ask it of. After what Mickey told us, we don’t know who might have a stake in keeping the past buried.”
“You’re worried about me now?” Bunny attempted a light tone, though a kernel of unease had taken root in her stomach, “That’s new.”
“Professional courtesy.” He replied, echoing their earlier conversation with Lancaster, but the humor fell flat.
As they approached downtown Magnolia Heights, the rain drummed against the roof of the car, the only sound cutting through the silence. Bunny couldn’t shake the feeling that Dash was holding back something significant.
“Here’s good.” She said as they neared the Fox’s side entrance.
Dash pulled over, sloshing into a pool of water collecting against the curb.
“Two hours. Call if anything comes up before then.”
As Bunny stepped out into the rain, an umbrella hastily deployed, she glanced back to see Dash already on his phone, dialing a number with focused urgency, his expression set in lines she hadn’t seen before. Whatever he was pursuing, he clearly felt it couldn’t wait. And equally clearly was the fact that he did not want her involved. She watched the Ford merge back into traffic, receding into the gray curtain of spring rain, and wondered exactly what piece of the puzzle Dash had spotted that she had missed. Suddenly, her phone rang sharply, Lancaster’s name flashing on the screen. She quickly answered, still processing Mickey’s not-so-little revelation.
“Ms. Beaudoin,” Lancaster’s voice came through, tense and clipped, “Where are you right now?”
“At the Fox,” Bunny replied, sudden unease creeping up her spine at the chief’s tone, “Why? What’s happened?”
“Stay there,” Lancaster ordered, “I’m on my way. And if O’Neill contacts you, don’t tell him where you are.”
“What? Why wouldn’t I–”
“Just do as I say,” Lancaster cut her off, “We have a situation developing. I’ll explain when I get there.”
The line went dead, leaving Bunny staring at her phone in confusion. Instinctively, the hair at the nape of her neck stood to attention and she fought the impulse to check over her shoulder, to look for an escape somewhere in between 14th and West Peachtree, to dodge behind the cars parked along the side of the theater, to run. Instead, she took a deep breath and reminded herself that she was at the Fox- her territory, her workplace, her responsibility. But as she waited, watching the minute hand of her wristwatch tick forward with excruciating slowness, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had missed something crucial.
Something that had been right in front of her all along.