1. 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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Cue a black chyron screen. The city is Magnolia Heights. The time is early— too damn early. Fade into the morning of a perfect day in November. The leaves are turning, covering the whole city with a canopy of fiery reds and golden yellows. Benny Goodman’s “Sing, Sing, Sing” blares as the grandiose and brassy band plays to the beat of Manolo Blahniks hitting the pavement. Cut to the face of a beaming Bunny Beaudoin, early thirties. Great hair, well-dressed. A charming smile spread across gloss-slicked lips and a sense of self possession when —
Wait a minute— she was getting ahead of herself.
It would have been self-possession if Bunny weren’t buzzing with an almost infantile excitement. Besides, all that nonsense about great hair? Maybe if this were a good screenplay for a movie with a decent wardrobe and makeup budget. But it wasn’t. This was her real life. And she could barely believe it as she stepped into the grand lobby of the Fox. Her heels clicked against the polished marble floor. The warm glow of art deco chandeliers cast a golden sheen over the brass and gold moulding, making even the most boring objects magical. Today was going to be a great fucking day.
“Oh, Teena! Teeny Teenaaaa-” Bunny sing-songed, her voice carrying a mix of breathless anticipation and triumph.
“We got Glen Valentino!”
Teena Kay, the petite front desk attendant, looked up from her conversation with Marty, an ashen sliver of a delivery man. Her eyes widened, a mix of surprise and admiration dancing across her features.
“Glen? The Glen Valentino?” Teena’s voice was tinged with disbelief, “How?”
Bunny’s lips curled into a smile as she leaned her elbows against the counter.
“We heard back today. Tomorrow, Glen Valentino will be at my gala, and Monday morning, we’ll all be eating veal!”
Teena wrinkled her nose, her excitement dampening slightly.
“Well, it was fun while it lasted. I hate veal.”
Marty cleared his throat, interrupting their exchange.
“Ma’am, the office for this package?”
Bunny turned her attention to the delivery man, her eyes falling on the large parcel in his hands.
“I’m so sorry. I can sign for that—”
“Are you ‘Fenelope Wilde?’” Marty interjected, skepticism evident in his tone.
“As far as you know.” Bunny’s eyes twinkled while Marty’s expression flattened. She turned to Teena, her voice lowered.
“Teena, you’re seeing me pick up and sign for the package, right?”
Teena nodded, barely suppressing a grin.
“Oh, yeah, sure! Marty, it’s all good.”
The delivery man’s face tightened with irritation.
“Alright, just don’t call our offices crying about a missing package.”
“You wanna make that trek up there? You can be my guest.” Bunny responded as she cocked her head towards the elevators.
He shrugged in resignation and unceremoniously thrust his clipboard at her.
“Not my circus, not my monkeys.”
She signed with a flourish, handed the clipboard back to Marty, and hefted the package into her arms.
“Have a nice day, ladies.” He said without a hint of nicety as he tucked the pen back into his shirt pocket. A close-lipped smile and wink to Teena and then he was gone.
“God, isn’t he cute?” Teena sighed as Marty retreated, his thin shoulders disappearing through the ornate doors.
“Who are you talking about, Marty?” Bunny snorted, adjusting her grip on the box, “You’re nuts. Ankles in his freezer, I guarantee it.”
“Always with the imagery, Bunny. Jesus.”
“Fine— not ankles, maybe just a finger or two. Plus, the guy never remembers me even though he’s been delivering to this address for years. Might as well go with it.”
Bunny fished a peppermint from the glass bowl on the welcome desk and tossed it to Teena.
“For your troubles.”
She tried to ignore Teena rolling her eyes as she popped the peppermint between two shiny glossed lips.
“Whatever, girly- he always remembers me,” Teena said around the large ball of peppermint and corn syrup, “This is the year he’s taking me out. I can feel it.”
Oh, he’ll definitely be taking someone out for sure, Bunny thought but only pursed her lips and gave a final wave before turning to leave. As Bunny made her way to the elevator and shifted the weight of the package from one arm to the other, she couldn’t help the anticipation that built in her chest. She slipped into the varnished gold doors and leaned against the mirrored walls, letting out a sigh. She even allowed herself a self-satisfied smirk. Glen Valentino at her gala—it was a coup, a triumph that would surely impress even the unflappable Fenelope Wilde.
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The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, revealing the bustling world of the first floor. Bunny stepped out, her senses immediately assaulted by the chaos of renovation —the sharp scent of fresh paint, the rhythmic pounding of hammers, the low hum of voices discussing where the new sconces could go without blowing near-century old wiring.
“Nice to see those capital dollars finally in use–” Bunny muttered but her thoughts were cut short as she nearly collided with a familiar figure.
Expensive perfume, something with oud, hit her a split second before she registered who it was. The woman cut an imposing figure, standing with arms akimbo against the animus of hammering and power drilling. Fenelope stood before her like a statue carved from ice. Balenciaga glasses and an A-line bob that framed a movie-star face.
“Not so fast.”
Her voice was cool, expertly concealing the years of calcified hostility that lay behind it. A manicured hand shot out, steadying the package and plucking it from Bunny’s grasp in one smooth motion. Unlike Bunny, Fenelope showed no signs of strain as she held the heavy box.
“Marty called to tell me he was on his way - you just took the package?”
Bunny felt the heat rise to her cheeks.
“I figured it’d be easier knowing I was coming up here and all.”
“This is vintage Bacchante for the auction - not a Temu purchase.”
“I know it’s important, Fenelope, I was just trying to help the guy out.”
Fenelope’s eyes narrowed.
“By telling him that you think he keeps ankles in his freezer?”
Bunny’s stomach dropped.
“You heard that? Wait, he heard that?”
“He gave me a courtesy call after and had some rather unsavory things to say about my staff.”
She raised a perfectly arched brow.
“If you want to see auction items delivered again— without any ‘unexpected’ damage, might I add— I’d suggest you keep your thoughts to yourself.”
With that, Fenelope turned on her heel and strode away, leaving Bunny standing in stunned silence. The continued cacophony of hammering, drilling, and snippets of animated conversations about color swatches followed Fenelope as she sauntered down the hallway. The fresh paint and sawdust from the renovations mingled in the air, creating a discordance that even oud couldn’t quite cover. It was impressive how quickly that woman could pop someone’s balloon, deflating them with a single withering glance. Bunny hoped that no one saw the soured look on her face, thankful for the deepness of her skin that concealed an embarrassed flush creeping across her chest.
Slipping casually behind a contractor and narrowly avoiding a concussion by way of the heavy beam that he was carrying, she pushed open the heavy glass doors of her office. They shut seamlessly behind her, muting the chaos and the noise to a dull hum. She took a minute to lean against her desk.
“So much for winning her over.” Bunny said under her breath, shaking her head and settling into her desk chair.
Working with Fenelope over the years had never been easy, but with the stress of the gala and the reality of old donors dropping dead (literally- the average age of a donor to the Fox must have been at least 102), their relationship had only worsened. The tension between them was palpable, more than it had ever been. She wasn’t worried that she would lose her job- there were only so many people willing to schmooze with a Bush-era pharmaceutical tycoon who had a penchant for getting handsy after a few glasses of scotch- but she was worried that she was losing her verve.
She’d barely touched down on her chair when the office phone began to flash, showing the extension for Carol Kelly, executive assistant and resident Gen Z work bestie who kept Bunny young. And who had to give Bunny regular reminders about the life prison sentence that came with strangling their boss. With another sigh, and firm ending to the fantasy of triumph, Bunny picked up the receiver.
“Hello?” She answered, trying to keep the weariness out of her voice.
Carol’s anxious tones came through immediately.
“Bunny, I—” She began, “I— and before you tell me to calm down, please know that I’ve done the breathing exercises and my mental health really isn’t at its best right now and–”
“Well, damn, girl; not even a ‘how are you? Thanks for the Bordallo Pinheiro dinnerware set that you got me for my birthday- I really enjoyed regifting it to my bitch mother-in-law for Christmas’? Just straight to the CBT?”
“Ha ha. You’re a real E. Jean Carroll,” Carol interjected flatly, “This is serious. It’s about Glen Valentino.”
“Oh, shoot— you know I couldn’t even break the news to Fenelope earlier?” Bunny started, kicking back her seat and absently twirling a pen around her finger as she tucked the phone between her shoulder and her ear.
“Yeah, if I’m being honest, that was probably for the best.”
The silence that followed was unduly awkward.
“Come again?”
“There’s been an error in the seating chart- not that I know who made it but I’m sure that whoever did it is super sorry and also incredibly dedicated to her work and thinks you’re really beautiful in an unassuming way and finds you an invaluable part of the team—”
Bunny rolled her eyes so far back in her head that she thought they may be permanently stuck to the back of her skull by the time Carol got to the point.
“Please spit it out- you’re killing me here.”
She could hear Carol’s exasperated sigh on the other end of the line.
“His ex-wife- he’s been put next to his ex-wife.” She said deflatedly.
Bunny furrowed an eyebrow, first in confusion, then in amusement. Her relief was palpable.
“That’s it? Sheesh, you almost gave me a heart attack,” Bunny quipped, “We put exes next to each other’s tables all the time. They get drunk, get competitive, then spend 20 grand on the fund-a-need once they’ve forgotten their names. Easy money.”
“Not next to each other’s table, Bunny… next to each other. At the same table.”
“What?”
“And she’s bringing her new guy as a guest.” Carol’s voice was almost despairing as she blurted out this last bit of news.
“Her firm is sponsoring the whole table. Apparently, they won a massive class-action lawsuit against Samsung, something about exploding vape pens? And she made absolute bank since she’s partner now and–”
“The next sentence had better be about her decision to cancel the sponsorship and go to Cabo instead.” Bunny cut in.
“Bunny,” Carol lowered her voice, “All of our individual ticketed patrons have been assigned seats already. Every other table is sponsored and completely full with nearly all guests confirmed. The events team already has the seating arrangements and hers was the only table with one spot remaining.”
Each sentence hurt more than the last. Bunny could feel herself fading away, barely registering Carol’s voice.
“Listen,” Bunny pressed her fingers to her temple, “There has to be another option. What about the Henderson’s table?”
“Full. And before you ask- the Patels, the Goldsteins, and even the Thursday night annual ticket holders table are all completely booked.” Carol had taken on the particular tone of someone who had already explored and eliminated every possible solution.
“I’ve gone through the seating chart sixteen times. I even tried to create a complicated musical chairs scenario where we could spread the mess across multiple tables, but–”
“But that would just create more problems.” Bunny finished, slumping in her chair.
She heard Carol take a breath.
“Honestly, it’s kind of a feat. We’re gonna cross, like, $60,000 in ticket sales alone.”
“It’ll be one of the best selling galas we’ve had in five years,” Bunny let out a tight laugh, “God, I can already see Fenelope’s face when those two crazies inevitably cause a scene. She’ll do that thing where she pretends to smile while looking like she’s exploding my head in her mind.”
“Ugh, I do that all the time over Christmas dinner. It’s the only way I can survive Uncle Thorton cussing out my brother over the fishes. Maybe this will actually be worse than I thought.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Carol.”
“Hey, I’m just following your lead, Ms. Beaudoin.” Carol offered, earning a weak chuckle from Bunny.
“Look, I can keep working on it, but we only have today and tomorrow morning, and the place cards have already been sent to the printer.”
Bunny glanced at her computer screen, where Glen Valentino’s generous donation figure seemed to mock her.
“No, you’re right. We’ll just have to manage it. Maybe his ex-wife won’t show up. Maybe she’ll get food poisoning from some questionable sushi.”
“Bunny!”
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Mostly.” She sighed, straightening in her chair.
“Thanks for letting me know, Carol. I’ll figure something out.”
“You always do,” Carol said, her voice softening, “And hey, if all else fails, we can always pull the fire alarm.”
“Don’t tempt me.” Bunny replied, managing a smile despite herself.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
“See you tomorrow night, Bun.”
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When the Fox opened its doors in 1929, it represented more than just another movie palace. In an age when such theaters were becoming the hearts of their communities, the Fox stood apart. Every detail, from the intricate mashrabiya-style screens that filtered the light to the complex geometric patterns that adorned the ceilings, worked in concert to create an environment where reality and fantasy merged, where an evening out on the town could become something entirely unexpected. In the present day, its marquee cast a constellation of buttery yellow lights across the faces of hurried pedestrians.
Tonight, solid black letters read “THE FOX THEATER PRESENTS: A NIGHT AT THE MUSEUM.” City dwellers walked past the sign, completely unaware of the world inside. A woman swept around the ticketing booth. Another man hauled a few chairs, stacked ten high, past the ticketing booth and up the side elevator. The crisp evening air carried the mingled scents of automobile exhaust and freshly ground coffee from the restaurant next door. A doorman leaned against the gold-plated metal barriers, the ember of his cigarette creating a small beacon in the gathering dusk.
Along the side of the theater, Bunny struggled out of a vintage Mercedes, donned in a red Adidas tracksuit and her trusty top bun. She held a dry cleaning bag in one hand, a clipboard in another, a ball-point pen between her teeth, and brittle anxiety somewhere in the middle of the three. The plastic of the bag caught inside the car door as she slammed it shut.
“You son of a piece of-UGHHHHH–”
The pen muffled her swearing as she mercilessly pulled at the hanger in an attempt to loosen the garment bag but as she grew increasingly feral, it occurred to her that she was still very much on an open street. She yanked the garment bag free with one final, frustrated tug. The plastic ripped slightly, and she winced. She smoothed back the escaped curl with the back of her wrist, muttering under her breath about cheap dry cleaning bags and expensive dresses.
“Hey, Alessandro! Can I bum one off you?” She called, spotting the doorman’s familiar silhouette.
Alessandro glanced up, pretending that he hadn’t seen all of that, his weathered face creasing into a knowing smile.
“These are Marlboro Reds, doll—they’ll burn your lungs to a crisp. Long day?”
"The longest,” Bunny sighed, shifting her weight to accommodate the awkward bundle in her arms, “You can never tell how these things’ll go.”
“Ordering my coffee in the morning exhausts me. I can’t imagine doing the whole talking thing all night. I don’t know how you do it. Kudos.”
Bunny let out a breathy laugh.
“Most days I don’t know either.”
“Break a leg out there tonight,” He said, stepping aside to let her pass, “Don’t let the bastards get you down.”
The heavy doors swung open with Alessandro’s assistance, and Bunny entered the theater lobby, immediately enveloped by its grandeur. No matter how many times she walked through these doors, the opulence never failed to impress her. Tonight, though, even the gilt-edged magnificence couldn’t distract her from the gnawing anxiety about Glen Valentino and his ex-wife. She climbed the heavy marble stairs off to the side, traveling two floors before the hallway opened up into the beautiful Egyptian Room. The space hummed with preparation: event staff rushing about, shouting instructions, arranging centerpieces, and unfurling tablecloths with theatrical flourishes.
“Napkins! Napkins! Get your fresh, hot napkins!” An event staffer called out, tossing perfectly folded squares of fabric to his colleagues with the enthusiasm of a hot dog vendor at a baseball game.
On the stage stood Mickey Alden, the auctioneer, underdressed in slacks and an unpressed button-down. Despite his casual attire, his hair was impeccably styled, face fixed with the look of a man who knew exactly where his bread was buttered. He was trying on different jackets under Fenelope’s critical gaze.
“Okay, what’s the verdict? Gold and green?” Mickey asked, draping the jacket over his shoulders before flipping it to reveal another option.
“Or– wait – crowds love this one.” He showcased a fiery red variety with an expectant grin.
Fenelope’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“The green and gold, Mickey. The red one looks try-hard.”
“Oh, no. Not death by a thousand bitchy cuts,” Mickey dead-panned, feigning injury, “You always get like this when you’re nervous. Like you’ve got better taste than everyone.”
“No, no,” Fenelope offered a tight smile, “Tonight you’re the one that’s got better taste than everyone. That’s how we make the money.”
Without waiting for his response, Fenelope turned and strode toward the table numbers, leaving Mickey to roll his eyes dramatically behind her back. He shrugged, flipping his jacket across his shoulders before exiting stage left. Bunny ducked behind a pillar, hoping to avoid her boss’s radar for as long as possible. She still hadn’t figured out how to handle the seating disaster, and every minute brought the gala, and potential catastrophe, closer.
“There you are!” Carol Kelly appeared at her elbow, looking both frantic and immaculately put together in a navy sheath dress, “I’ve been calling everywhere for you.”
“Sorry about that. I was about to start changing and—wait, did something else happen?” Bunny’s face went ashen, her eyes searching Carol’s.
“No, no... well, yes, but not with Glen and his ex.” Carol said, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear.
“The Hendersons called. They want to know if they can bring their daughter’s boyfriend, who’s apparently some big shot at Goldman now.”
Bunny exhaled, almost laughing with relief.
“God, Carol, the second time that you’ve nearly given me a heart attack. Tell them no. We’re full up. Use me as the bad guy if you need to.”
“Already did,” Carol grinned,“Said you’d be absolutely crushed but capacity restrictions are capacity restrictions.”
She glanced around nervously.
“So... any brilliant ideas about our little seating snafu?”
“I’m working on it,” Bunny lied, straightening her shoulders, “I need to get dressed. Find me in twenty?”
Carol nodded, already distracted by her vibrating phone.
“Twenty minutes. Oh, and Bunny? Fenelope’s been asking for the final guest count. Twice in the last hour.”
“Perfect,” Bunny muttered, “Just perfect.”
As Carol hurried away, Bunny slipped into one of the small dressing rooms adjacent to the Egyptian Room. She removed the ruined plastic dry cleaning bag and hung the garment bag underneath on a hook. Unzipping it carefully, she revealed a sleek midnight blue gown with a subtle shimmer. The dress had cost a month’s worth of lunches, but tonight of all nights, she needed to look the part. She changed quickly, the cool silk sliding against her skin. A few dabs of concealer, a swipe of mascara, and a touch of red lipstick.
Later, Bunny barely recognized herself in the mirror. Gone was the frazzled fundraiser in a tracksuit. In her place stood a poised, elegant woman who looked like she could handle anything.
Even a pharmaceutical tycoon seated next to his lawyer ex-wife.
“You’ve got this," She told her reflection, “It’s just another gala. Just another night of performative philanthropy with people who have more money than sense.”
Her pep talk was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door.
“Five minutes to doors, everyone!” Shouted the event coordinator, “Positions, please!”
Bunny took a deep breath, smoothed her dress, and opened the door.
Show time.
The Egyptian Room had transformed in her absence, the chaos of preparation giving way to a scene of carefully orchestrated elegance. Crystal glasses caught the light, white linens draped perfectly over round tables, and floral centerpieces added pops of color throughout the space. Steep marble columns lit in the brilliant golden hue of the Fox’s custom lighting rose dramatically from the marble floors. Opulence wasn’t the word she was looking for. No, that wasn’t it.
Let us cavort like the gods of old, Bunny thought to herself, quoting the oft-binged “Futurama.”
Yes– now that was the feeling.
As she made her way toward the entrance to greet the first arrivals, Bunny spotted Fenelope across the room, looking resplendent in a tailored black suit with subtle gold accents that echoed the room’s decor. Their eyes met, and Fenelope gave a curt nod before turning away to speak with a board member. Bunny squared her shoulders and plastered on her most winning smile. The doors would open any minute now, unleashing a mob of wealthy patrons, including Glen Valentino and his ex-wife.
Just another gala, she repeated to herself.
What could possibly go wrong?