Fleur De Lies(111)

            Not Dawna. Not Bobbi. Definitely not Jackie.

            Who would benefit the most, both financially and emotionally, if the company folded?

            Virginia.

            Who had access to Victor’s pills?

            Virginia.

            Who’d been a constant presence around the victims from the beginning, with numerous opportunities to tamper with their food?

            Virginia.

            I didn’t know who owned the mortar and pestle the police had found in the Martin’s cabin, but if it belonged to Virginia, I’d be willing to declare game, set, and match. Considering how many toiletries, cosmetics, and shoes a woman needed to pack for a two-week trip, why would she try to squeeze in extra kitchenware unless she had a deliberate plan to use it?

            And that thought gave me pause, because I realized that by packing the mortar and pestle, Virginia may have established that not only had she committed murder—

            She’d committed premeditated murder.

            Holy crap. Had the police been able to piece it together yet? Had anyone even bothered telling them about Virginia? Or were they getting most of their information from Virginia?

            I wheeled around and hot-footed it back to the bench. “Did the police interview the two of you last night?”

            “Yah,” said Bobbi. “Why?”

            “Did either one of you mention how much Virginia despised you or Krystal?”

            “Oh, sure,” Dawna cooed. “As if we’re gonna badmouth the wife of the guy who signs our paychecks. Do you know what kind of a public relations disaster that would be? We’d get kicked to the curb so fast, it’d take your breath away.” She shot me a disgusted look. “What a joke. Tell the police the truth about Virginia? If they wanna know anything, they can find out from someone who’s not a company gal. Shoot, just how stupid do you think we are?”

            Given that she probably meant that as a rhetorical question, I thought it best not to answer. But if neither one of them had disclosed any pertinent information to the police, then someone needed to, else Virginia might disappear into the crowds of Rouen while the going was good and escape justice indefinitely.

            Since I seemed to be the lucky individual who’d assembled all the pieces of the puzzle into a complete picture, I figured the responsibility of informing the police should therefore rest in the hands of only one person.

            Rob.

            This was the beauty of being a lowly escort on someone else’s tour. You got to hand the ball off rather than shoot it yourself.

            Now, to find him.

            I hurried down the path, feeling as if I were following the yellow brick road through Oz, minus the witch and flying monkeys. Beyond more weeping willows and a dense stand of bamboo, I came upon a narrow footbridge that spanned a wider section of the stream, but crossing it would prove challenging since the gang had parked themselves all along the rail, mugging for photos.

            “You need to squeeze closer together or I’ll only be able to get half of you in the picture,” warned Jackie, who had apparently been awarded the honor of group photographer. She stood in the middle of the walkway, framing her shot, while at her feet sat a jumble of iPhones and cameras, nested safely atop her shoulder bag.“Tall people at the back!” barked Bernice, who’d positioned herself front and center.

            “We don’t got no tall people no more,” said Nana. “We’re all shrunk to the same size.”

            “How about we have the men stand in back?” asked Jackie.