The Fine Art of Murder by Emily Barnes

learned so far, which wasn’t much. Making sure to thank everyone, I turned to leave. My hand was on the door and as I started to pull it open, someone on the other side pushed with such force I almost got smacked in the face.
    A muscular, larger-than-life male shoved his way inside. I don’t think he was even aware I was in the room. From a thick gold chain wrapped tightly around his thick neck hunga gold cross. He wore a sweatshirt two sizes too small, obviously to show off his muscles. Spandex bike shorts, sandals, and a few tattoos completed his ensemble. And I use the term very loosely. His hair was long, pulled into a stringy ponytail that had been threaded through the back of a baseball cap. After bursting into the room, he stopped, stood at attention, and held the door open. DeYoung stared at the man with a bemused look on his face, which I returned.
    We all waited to see what was next.
    After a minute, in walked a tiny, much older woman. At first I didn’t recognize her. Nothing about her stature or face looked familiar. It was her outfit that triggered a memory. She was wearing it at an awards show when a picture had been snapped, ending up in our local paper. That had to have been at least thirty years ago.
    Her wrinkled face had several layers of makeup, some of it cracking across her forehead. Red circles of blush made her skin look even paler. I wondered if she was still wearing the same shade of Chanel red lipstick that had been her trademark. The whole effect made her look like a bizarre kewpie doll.
    She wore a full-length silver, sequined gown—too large for her and cut far too low. A turban made of the same fabric was wrapped tightly around her head. Stray wisps of black hair stuck out around her ears. Her mink coat looked moth eaten. The sight of her made me feel sad and embarrassed at the same time.
    Then she spoke. “I believe you’re holding my nephew here. I’m Jacqueline Bannister-Pierce, his aunt. I’ll assumefull responsibility for him. Are there some papers I need to sign?”
    The behemoth walked over to stand by her side, all the while chomping on a thick wad of gum. “And I’m Henry—”
    “Shut up, Hank,” Jackie snapped. Then to DeYoung, she said, “Mr. Slater is a close friend.”
    “And her bodyguard.” He smiled.
    I couldn’t move. It was all so entertaining.
    “I’m sorry,” the desk sergeant said, “but Mr. Pierce isn’t going anywhere.”
    “Look, I’ve just flown all the way from Las Vegas. Do you know how far that is?”
    “Yes ma’am, I’ve been to Las Vegas. Spent five days at Caesar’s Palace last vacation.”
    Jackie didn’t miss a beat. “Well good for you. Now just tell me how much it will cost to get Randolph out of here.”
    “Considering the fact that the charge is murder and he’s a flight risk, there is no bail—that is, when he’s charged with murder. Right now he’s being held for questioning.”
    Her wrinkled face sagged. “I’ll be speaking to my lawyer about that tomorrow. But for now may I see him?”
    “Wait over there.” He pointed to a wooden bench.
    Jackie looked mortified. “Isn’t there a private lounge where I can wait?”
    ***
    As soon as the show was over, I left.
    I’d needed to turn my phone off at the jail and switched it back on as I walked to the car. There were three messages:
    1. “Mother, I have to take Cam to his speech therapist and Chloe has soccer practice. We’ll grab something afterwards. So you’re on your own for dinner. There’s plenty in the fridge. See you.”
    2. “It’s me again. I have to hear everything that happened at the jail with Randy. We shouldn’t be very late. Love you.”
    3. “Hey, it’s Nathan. What’s going on? I need details, woman.”
    I waited until I had gotten settled in the kitchen with a ham sandwich in front of me before returning Nathan’s call.
    There wasn’t much to tell. I started from the beginning, reviewing my conversations with Antoine and Randolph.