Page 63 of Murder By the Millions
“Hurry up,” Iggie said, spanking the sales counter.
“It’s right there.” Tegan pointed. “On the first endcap you passed. See it?”
“Go get it.”
Tegan grunted softly, then signaled to Chloe to fetch it.
As Chloe was reaching for it, the front door opened again, and Finette whisked in, nearly ramming into Chloe.
I bit back a laugh. What was up with everyone? In a hurry? In a snit? Was a full moon on the rise? Maybe it was the heat.
“Sorry,” Chloe said, though she wasn’t at fault.
“Not to worry.” A green Bottega Veneta tote dangled from Finette’s right hand.
Seeing the bag surprised me. How could she afford such a pricey item on a councilperson’s salary? On the other hand, lots of women saved up to buy one valuable accessory. Her shoes were simple. Her slacks and blouse looked off the rack.
“Good morning,” Finette trilled, proceeding toward the sales counter. “I was wondering—” She halted in her tracks when she spotted Iggie. “You!” she said accusatorily.
“Me?” He whirled on her. “Don’t you mean you? What is going on? Why did you curtail my bid on the Hanson Hotel?”
The property in question was the abandoned boardinghouse at the east end of town, which he’d been trying to acquire. The adult children, who all lived out of state, had agreed to cede it to Bramblewood in honor of their parents.
“You know I’ve wanted the property for years.”
“Well, you snooze, you lose. Another buyer bid higher than you.” Finette peered down her nose at him. “Your Realtor was informed. You didn’t counter.”
“I never saw a request.”
“Then your Realtor isn’t doing her job.”
Iggie wagged a finger. “It’s all Jason Gardner’s fault.”
“Whatever are you talking about?”
“He messed with your head. He … he pitted you against me and anyone who wants to build in Bramblewood. I want to preserve our town. I want to make it shine.”
Give me a break.Iggie wasn’t someone who wanted to preserve anything.
“Gardner made you careless,” Iggie added.
Finette bridled. “I’m far from—”
“What happened between you two? Did you profess your love to him, and he rejected you?”
Finette gasped and pressed a hand to her chest. “Love?”
“Yeah.” Iggie sneered. “You did, and he did, and his rebuff hurt your fragile ego. If I didn’t know better”—he aimed a finger at her—“I’d say that gives you motive for murder.”
“How dare you! How. Dare. You! I was friends with Jason. Friends,” she snarled. “Murder him? Not on a bet.”
“Where were you Monday night?” he demanded.
I watched the two of them like a tennis match, shocked by their public altercation, as if neither realized the rest of the world was tuning in.
“With my great-aunt,” Finette said.
“Yeah? Did she remember you this time?”
