Page 41 of Honey Drop Dead

“Also I’ve heard rumors,” Theodosia said.

Comprehension dawned on Ginny Bell’s face. “Let me guess, that awful Mignon Merriweather has been spitting venomous lies about me, hasn’t she?”

“I don’t know. Are they lies?”

“Of course they are,” Ginny Bell cried. “And if you’re asking me about Claxton’s death—and it seems that you most certainly are—then I’d have to say that if anyone wanted the man dead, it would be Mignon herself.”

“You think she murdered him?” Theodosia pressed.

Ginny Bell snorted. “Mignon could have because she’s nuts enough. Mignon is your basic evil, money-grubbing shrew. She’s also canny enough to hire an assassin to do her dirty work.”

“Have you talked to the police about Claxton’s murder?”

Ginny Bell’s mouth dipped downward. “Unfortunately, they’ve already sought me out.”

“Did you suggest Mignon to them as a possible suspect?”

“Yes, I did. I got dragged into this fiasco—reluctantly, of course—so I gave the investigators all the information I could possibly scrape together.” She drew a deep breath and lifted her chin. “Now if you don’t mind, this conversation is over. I need to focus on my event and tend to my guests.” And with that, Ginny Bell turned and walked away.

***

“How did it go?” Drayton asked when Theodosia joined him back at the table where he was lounging, still sipping his wine.

“It didn’t. Ginny Bell clammed up immediately.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. She was probably embarrassed to have her relationship with Claxton brought up.”

“I’d say she was more angry than embarrassed,” Theodosia said. “And guess who she pointed her finger at?”

Drayton thought for a few moments. “Let me take a wild guess. Mignon?”

“Bingo.”

“If the affair is to be believed, those two women probably hated each other. Still do, for that matter.”

“It would be like World War III if they ever faced off against each other.” Theodosia sat down and slumped in her chair. “I’m afraid coming here was a big waste of time.”

“Not if I get that teapot. Remind me to check the bids on the way out,” Drayton said.

“Where’s that server?” Theodosia said. “I could use a nosh right about now. Something to rev up my blood sugar.” She looked around for the server with the appetizer tray and suddenly found herself gazing across the room at a familiar face. A bushy-haired man who stood almost a head taller than everyone else in the room. Startled, she nudged Drayton and said, “Look who just turned up like a bad penny.” She pointed discreetly in the direction of the front door.

“Booker,” Drayton said, catching sight of the artist. “I wondered if he might put in an appearance tonight.”

Tonight, Booker was slightly more presentable than what Theodosia had seen previously. He wore a red-and-black plaid shirt, blue jeans with a silver chain hanging off his belt, and black, clunky boots that she guessed might be Doc Martens. His frizzle of hair was pulled into a semi-decent ponytail.

“Is he part of this group?” Drayton asked. “Did you see any of his work on display here?”

Theodosia shook her head. “Nothing jumped out at me. Then again, I didn’t really look at the paintings.”

“You say his work is distinctive?”

“Lots of graffiti and strange faces. Weird animals, too.”

They both watched, somewhat fascinated, as Booker waded casually through the crowd. Then, when he caught sight of Ginny Bell, he hurried over to greet her and give her a big bear hug. Which she returned with gusto.

“They know each other,” Drayton said.

“Sure looks that way.”

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