Kill Joy (A Good Girl's Guide to Murder, #0.5) — Chapter no 6

Connor’s head snapped to his brother, panic pooling in the black of his eyes.

Jamie held them for a moment, before his face split with a smile.

“God, you guys are jumpy,” he said. “It’s just the shed door; sometimes it bangs open in the wind. It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” Lauren said. Her arm had somehow looped itself through Ant’s, Pip noticed.

“Yes,” Jamie laughed, and then added, “Youth today.”

“Well, excuse us for growing up in murder town,” Lauren countered, reclaiming her arm with an awkward glance at Ant.

“Could be ghosts,” Ant said, his cheeks flushed. “I certainly know of two local vengeful spirits who could fit the bill.”

“Ant…,” Cara said in a warning voice.

“Everything’s fine,” Jamie said. “Just ignore it. Alexa! Resume music and volume up. See, can hardly hear it anymore. No actual murder tonight, kiddos. Right, back to 1924.” He straightened his hat and Pip picked up her pen again. “As any detective knows, a killer must have a motive. I wonder if anyone among us might have held a

grudge against the late Reginald Remy. A reason to hate him.

Please turn to your next page.”

In this round:

You must reveal a tense interaction you witnessed between Lizzie and Reginald Remy earlier this evening.

When you were taking tea in the library with Lizzie, Ralph, and Reginald, Lizzie spilled some jam from her scone on her hand and her dress. Reginald commented to her that she often had “sticky fingers.” Lizzie seemed shocked and soon left the room to go clean herself up.

Pay close attention to the other secrets being revealed.

Page 3

Pip looked up, her eyes trailing over to Lauren, watching her read her own booklet and biting her lip in concentration. And then Lauren’s eyes flicked up, straight to her, and Pip’s stomach dropped.

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, until Lauren sniffed and broke it, her mouth downturned in a scowl.

Sticky fingers? That meant someone who steals, didn’t it? A thief. Oh shit.

Pip grabbed her notebook and started to write, her fingers trying to keep up with her head. Reginald and Ralph had had a conversation last night about how someone was stealing from the London casino, the place Lizzie Remy managed. And today Reginald made a pointed remark to her about sticky fingers. He must have thought she was the one who was stealing! And judging by Lizzie’s reaction, maybe Reginald was right on the money. And if Lizzie knew that Reginald knew…Well, that was certainly motive enough to kill him. Her only other choice would have been jail.

Pip’s thoughts were interrupted by Zach clearing his throat and launching into a speech as Ralph. “Well, yes, Inspector, if you are talking about any ill feeling within the family, I’m afraid there was quite a lot between my brother, Bobby, and my father. As is no doubt evidenced by him being written out of the will.”

Ant reacted by poking Zach in the face, a bit too close to his eye.

Zach recoiled. “Ow.”

“Just a bit of brotherly love,” Ant said, his words slightly slurred.

“Anyway,” Zach continued, “this ill feeling really began several years ago, back when Bobby used to work for my father and was still heir to the casino empire. Being around casinos all day, Bobby developed a serious gambling addiction. He was always in debt and borrowing money. And when banks would no longer lend to him, he turned to a less reputable source. He borrowed money from a gang of loan sharks and then, of course, lost it all gambling again. And when he couldn’t pay the gang back, they threatened to kill him. So my father bailed Bobby out, paid off the loan sharks and all his other debts to save his life. But from that day on my father forbade Bobby from working with or having anything to do with the Remy business again. He said he would continue to pay Bobby a monthly allowance to live comfortably, but if Bobby ever gambled again, even once, Father promised that he would cut him off for good. An ultimatum.”

“Yes.” Ant nodded. “That is all true. I borrowed money from the wrong people; it was a gang called the East End Streeters, if you

must know. But I don’t know why you think that means I had a grudge against our father. He saved me. And more than that, he continued to pay me to do nothing. Literally a perfect situation for me. No grudge here.”

“Ah,” Jamie the inspector said, reading from his script. “The East End Streeters are a nasty bunch. We at Scotland Yard have had a lot of dealings with them. They’re in the cocaine business, you see.

Among other illegal activities. Earlier this year my partner was working undercover to track their cocaine dealings, but they must have figured it out. They murdered him, shot him dead in the street.

Very nasty business. I’m glad to see you came out the other side

unharmed, Bobby.”

“Thank you, Inspector.”

Kiss-ass, Pip thought as she filled another page in her notebook.

“Does anyone else know someone here who bore ill will to Reginald?” Jamie asked.

Pip raised her hand. “Earlier this evening,” she said, avoiding Lauren’s eyes, “Lizzie, Ralph, and I were having tea and scones in the library with Reginald, as you’ve already heard. But there was a moment when Lizzie spilled jam on her hands and clothes and she was making a fuss; Reginald looked at her and made a comment about her often having ‘sticky fingers.’ ” Pip paused. “You could have cut the tension in the room with a knife. Lizzie looked shocked and soon made excuses to leave the room.”

“Oh, sticky fingers, eh, Lizzie?” Cara said, waggling her eyebrows.

“It means someone who steals,” Pip clarified.

Cara deflated. “Oh, that’s not as fun.”

Lauren laughed, waving her hand dismissively. “That’s nothing.

There was no tension, and I’m not sure what you’re implying.” She stared Pip down. “Reginald loved to tease me, as his only daughter- in-law, and I’m very clumsy, always spilling food down myself, hence the sticky fingers.”

“Sure, Jan,” Cara said, her face re-creating that meme. “Anyway, I have something too.”

The table turned its attention to her, and Dora Key the cook came out in full force, Cara sitting up as tall as she could, fiddling with her apron.

“As the only members of staff here, Humphrey and me often have conversations of an evening, after our work is done. To pass the time. And, well”—she side-glanced across Pip, aiming it at Connor—“this last week our conversations have taken a bit of a dark turn. Very disturbing in light of what’s happened.”

“What?” Pip said, impatient.

“Well, earlier this week, Humphrey was complaining about the master, and I said, ‘Oh, he’s not that bad.’ To which Humphrey replied, ‘I hate him.’ Someone gasp, please.”

Jamie and Zach enthusiastically granted her request. Pip was too busy writing.

“Yes, thank you.” Cara nodded at them. “But that’s not the worst part.”

“It gets worse?” Ant said, staring at Connor. “Not looking so great for you, Humphrey. It’s always the butler, eh?”

“Much worse,” Cara said, looking dramatically at each of them in turn. “Just a couple of days ago, Humphrey was talking about Reginald Remy, and he turned to me, this terrible glint in his eyes, and he said, ‘I wish he were dead.’ ”