Game Face
As shiners went, Jenny’s was a real beauty. Her eye was still puffy and purple for the statue ceremony on Friday night, much to Aunt Shelly’s chagrin.
“You know, I swore I would never become my mother, and it’s like you’re trying to call my bluff,” said Shelly.
“I’m helping you self-actualize,” Jenny said. “You should thank me.”
“Couldn’t you at least try to cover it up with makeup?” Shelly asked, fussing with Jenny’s new wig. She glanced over her shoulder at the row of photographers stationed in the press bullpen to the left of the VIP seats. “They’re taking your picture and you look like a criminal.”
“You sound like my PR lady,” Jenny said. She swatted Shelly’s hand away and repositioned a lock of chestnut hair over her black eye. It had cost an obscene amount of money to get a wig in the exact style and cut of Tori Valentine’s hair, but what was money to a quarter-billionaire when you wanted to stick it to your mean stepsister? “Anyway, you haven’t even disowned me yet, so you’re way ahead of Obaasama.”
Old anger rippled over her aunt’s face, forcing her to take a calming breath. “Your grandmother didn’t disown you. I suppose I should take comfort that you don’t listen to your publicist either. It’s nice to know it’s not personal.”
“Aww, Shelly.” Jenny rested her head on her aunt’s shoulder. “With you, it’s always personal.”
Shelly gave her a reassuring squeeze. The only downside to winning Dad’s fortune was all the attention it brought with it. You couldn’t really stay anonymous when you got RJ Valentine’s wife arrested for his murder and inherited all his money and the rights to the Trouble publishing empire.
She blew on her hands and tucked them into the sleeves of her purple Burberry trench coat. It was dusk, and the temperature was 41 degrees and falling, not the best time to be sitting in folding chairs in the Town Square park. Silver and gold lights twinkled from the gnarled oak tree branches above. Deputies Mack and Calderon patrolled on horseback, keeping the mass of onlookers outside the VIP area from ruining the foliage. It would be charming, if this weren’t all Val’s doing.
After Dad died, the Valentine Foundation commissioned a statue of him for the park in Town Square. A place for all Trouble fans who made their pilgrimages to Blackbird Springs to pay their respects. Val hadn’t included Jenny in the planning, so she had no idea what it looked like. Jenny would have the last laugh, though, since Val was stuck on house arrest and couldn’t attend.
“Your brother looks nice,” said her aunt.
She nodded to the small stage in front of the old City Hall building where her half-brother Jack was sitting in a chair, legs crossed above the knee, wearing a perfectly tailored black suit with a golden tie. He’d spotted her too, those shimmering blue eyes darting away to avoid her smile. Her heart sank. He’d have to forgive her for his mother’s arrest eventually.
No Tori up there, though, Jenny noted. Interesting.
The Mayor cleared his throat into the microphone and everyone settled down.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the Mayor said, gazing out at the crowd. His body language screamed “anxious,” for reasons Jenny couldn’t understand until he spoke again. “May I introduce… Valerie Valentine.”
Flashbulbs and shutters popped in staccato bursts on her left shoulder. A cacophonous roar of boos and cheers rang out from the crowd as Val took the stage in a brilliant white Vera Wang gown, her chestnut hair swooped to one side like a model. Val would be gorgeous if she didn’t smile like someone who’d just smelled a fart. Jenny’s lips tightened, twin storms of guilt and rage warring in her gut.
Somehow Val had sweet-talked the judge into letting her out of her penthouse suite at the Crow’s Nest hotel to preside over this farce of a dedication. Apparently His Honorable So-and-So didn’t care about jury pools, or the message it sent having the Mayor share a stage next to the lady his DA was prosecuting for murder.
Did they believe Val? Did they suspect, with some sixth sense, that Jenny’s solution to the mystery was a fake?
She had to fight back, had to show confidence. So she stood up and dramatically stomped off, letting the murmurs and whispers wash over her exit.
“Thank you,” said Valerie over the PA speakers behind her. “Thank you to all true citizens of Blackbird Springs who came out to remember my husband, Jonathan Valentine, who you knew as RJ.”
“They’re dragging this bitch on Twitter,” said a buxom, raven-haired girl to her friends, watching from behind the VIP ropes. Jenny locked eyes with her for a moment. Her voice was familiar, but Jenny couldn’t recall where she’d heard it before. The other teens flanking her snickered and stole glances at Jenny. These girls, Jenny knew: a popular clique from school that she avoided. One of them whispered an insult, and the rest laughed.
Suddenly, she was back in Glendale again, cheeks burning in humiliation from the mean jokes and snide remarks her old classmates would make. This was bullshit. She was rich now. Jenny switched course and headed for Sheriff Lockhart, who was talking to some redhead.
Val continued behind her. “When the Valentine Foundation ordered this piece, we—well, I don’t think any of us expected to end up where we are now.”
Val stuck out her right leg to show off her ankle bracelet, resting just above her Jimmy Choo pumps. Nervous titters rippled through the VIP section.
“She does wear it better than you, Trouble,” said Alicia Aaron, turning away from the Sheriff to face her. Jenny did a double-take, her jaw hanging open at Alicia’s new look.
After Jenny won the game, she’d offered the other contestants two percent of the Valentine fortune to smooth over any ill feelings, and keep them from asking questions. The money had just cleared, and Alicia, it seemed, had not been frugal with it. Gone were the dumpy skirts, black lipstick, and drab red hair, replaced by what Jenny could only describe as Goth Chic: a black tartan skirt, red corset top, tight leather jacket, and choker necklace with an Ankh pendant dangling from her neck. Jenny had purchased Alicia a fancy new prosthetic leg, which was apparently so functional that Alicia could wear her new thigh-high boots over it. She’d gone to a real hairstylist and gotten an undercut and a fresh dye job—a lush red, like a glass of Ressort Rouge.
She looked kinda hot, Jenny had to admit.
Jenny made a mental note to go shopping with Dinah ASAP. She couldn’t live with Alicia possessing the cuter wardrobe and better hair.
“RJ’s books brought happiness to so many girls out there,” Val was saying up on stage. “I know he would never want to cause you all any distress. But my husband was murdered!”
The word echoed through the park, bringing all side-chatter to a halt. Val’s lip quivered as she paused to command the crowd’s full attention.
“He was murdered by a coward. Who is still out there, and is laughing, because they’re getting away with it!” Val let her face flush, selling the righteous anger as she stared directly at Jenny. “And I will not rest until his true killer is brought to justice!”
“Smart,” said Alicia. “She doesn’t profess her innocence so much as beg the question.”
“We already have some promising leads, but we need your help,” said Val. “The Valentine Foundation will offer a five million dollar reward for information leading to the capture of the real killer.”
Someone whistled. A fresh wave of rumors spread through the audience.
“Fuck me,” said Lockhart.
Jenny’s heart plummeted. She’d made good progress with the tarot card, but with a bunch of eager vultures crowding the investigation…
“Interesting gambit,” said a cultured voice in her ear. Hamilton Webb, Dad’s lawyer—and acting President of Trouble, Inc.—had materialized at her right elbow.
“Is the Valentine Foundation allowed to do that?” Jenny asked, feeling ill.
“Unethical, perhaps, but she is the Foundation President,” said Mr. Webb.
“I’d also like to invite you all to the charity festival we’ll be throwing right here in downtown Blackbird Springs next month,” Val said. “On Valentine’s Day, natch. We’ll be having a parade, games, and prizes for all. Proceeds will go to Friends of the Library. Now, let’s have a look at this wonderful statue.
Val brightened, moving to a large object draped in red velvet. Jack stood up to help with the big reveal. She gripped the velvet with both fists.
“RJ will always be a part of Blackbird Springs,” she said. “If you’re ever feeling lost, come have a seat. He loves to chat.”
She and Jack pulled away the red velvet to reveal a new park bench. It was built extra long, to accommodate a bronze statue taking up a seat on one side. The likeness was uncanny. There was Dad, immortalized exactly to scale in burnished golden-brown metal, crossing his legs, an arm resting on the back of the bench as he turned with his trademark coy smile to the open space next to him.
The crowd erupted in applause. Jenny vomited onto the grass. Nobody seemed to notice except Alicia, who leapt back to save her new boots.
Jenny coughed and spit a few times, her puke steaming in the cold night air as she wiped her mouth. “Hypothetically speaking,” she said, turning to Mr. Webb.
He raised an eyebrow.
“Hypothetically. Say Val pays someone off to fix her alibi or something?”
“The evidence you presented precludes that,” said Mr. Webb.
“Right, but just say. What if she gets off?” Jenny’s throat burned, and not just from the bile.
“There’s a contingency,” he said tersely, taking off his horn-rimmed glasses and polishing them on his tie.
Already, people were rushing to take selfies with “RJ” on the new park bench.
“What is it?” Jenny asked.
“The game resumes,” said Mr. Webb.
“But—what about the money?”
“If the mistake is determined to be in good faith, 90 percent of your inherited assets shall transfer to the new winner, or a trust, if no new winner is confirmed,” said Mr. Webb. “This was all in the paperwork you signed.”
Fuck. Jenny had already given away 10 percent to Drew, and that was before two percent each to Yvonne Griffin, the Sheriff, and Alicia. A horrifying vision blossomed in Jenny’s mind. Forced out of the mansion with the Stranger waiting for her, and millions of dollars in debt to boot.
“But it won’t, right?” Mr. Webb raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got Val in possession of the murder weapon, at the scene of the crime, with no alibi.”
“Right.” Jenny stared ahead in a daze, barely noticing when Aunt Shelly found her. Lockhart, still tentative around her aunt since their ugly breakup, quickly busied himself directing traffic, shouting into a megaphone for folks to form a line.
“Let’s get you home,” Shelly said.
She was heading with Shelly to a gap in the crowd when something tickled the back of her neck. She spun, glancing around. A frisson was erupting in the media pen, reporters pointing at their phones and jabbering at each other in disbelief. As though they could sense her gaze, they suddenly looked up and rushed her way.
“Shit. Come on,” said Jenny, trying to find an escape through the throngs of onlookers.
The reporters were sprinting now, only 20 feet away. Jenny spotted Yvonne Griffin, local editor of the Blackbird Times, gaining on them with the long-striding closing speed that had earned her an invite to the WNIT at Pepperdine. The press mob was ten feet away, then five—
And then they ran right past Jenny and shoved their phones into Sheriff Lockhart’s face.
“Sheriff Lockhart, have you spoken to Campbell Klein yet?!” asked one.
“Do you plan on resigning?” shouted another.
“What? Why” Lockhart asked, his voice amplified by the megaphone still clutched in his hand.
“Sheriff, do you have any comment?!”
“About what?” he said.
“Napa Valley PD just held a press conference,” Ms. Griffin said, her face grave. “They’re saying Casey Klein’s killer has struck again.”
