A Good Day for Chardonnay (Sunshine Vicram #2) by Darynda Jones

Sun helped Mrs. Fairborn back to her chair and knelt in front of her. “This is a big day for you. Passing on the torch.”

The woman nodded sadly. “More than fifty years I’ve been running this town. Well, the most important aspects of it.”

“Why now?”

“I was waiting for you. Thought you’d never come back. Eventually, we realized we’d have to force your hand.”

“You were involved with my parents’ election tampering?”

“Involved? It was my idea.”

Her parents laughed softly. “It was not her idea,” her mom said.

“But why me?” she asked. “I’m honored. Don’t get me wrong, but—”

“A butterfly and a hammer,” the older woman said.

She and Quincy exchanged a quick glance, then asked simultaneously, “A butterfly and a hammer?”

She cackled. “You may not remember this, but when you were very young, I found you in the park cradling a pitiful little butterfly in your hands.”

“King Henry,” she said. She hadn’t thought about him in years. “He was orange and black.”

“Yes. Poor little guy had tattered wings and couldn’t fly. Some boys were laughing and trying to kick it. And you, in all your five-year-old glory, stormed into the middle of their circle and ran them off. Then you picked up the butterfly, cradled it in your hands, and told me you were taking it to the vet.”

“I remember. My mom wouldn’t take it to the vet. She said they didn’t treat insects.”

Mrs. Fairborn nodded. “You were devastated. I’ll never forget the look on your face when your mother told you it was going to die. So you took it home and cared for that poor thing day and night for almost two weeks because you wanted it to feel happy and safe for the rest of its life, no matter how long that would be.”

“You never told me that story,” Quince said.

“I’d forgotten about it.”

“I didn’t,” Mrs. Fairborn said. “Your mother kept me updated. When it died, she was worried she was going to have to get you into grief counseling.”

Sun smirked. “Figures.”

“So where does the hammer come in?” Quince asked.

Mrs. Fairborn practically shimmied with mirth. “When I saw Little Miss Sunshine at the park right after the butterfly’s passing, God rest its soul, she was carrying a hammer.”

Sun frowned. “I don’t remember this part.”

“You stopped at the bench where I was sitting, pointed to the boys who’d been cruel to the butterfly, and told me you were going to take out their kneecaps.” She rocked back and clapped her hands, her laughter filling the room, her glee infectious.

Sun fought a sheepish grin.

“You almost pulled it off, too. I’d never seen boys run so fast in my life. If not for your mother capturing you mid-swing, your parents would’ve had several lawsuits on their hands.”

Sun laughed, thinking back, then asked, “So that’s why?”

The older woman leaned forward. “That was only the beginning. I’ve been watching you, Sunbeam.” She tapped her temple. “You have all the fire and passion I once had. You’re the one I want filling my shoes.”

Sun took Mrs. Fairborn’s hands into hers. “Thank you.”

“How did all this get started?” Quincy asked. He brought around a chair for Sun and took one beside them. Everyone else did the same so they could hear the story once more. “The whole Dangerous Daughters thing.”

“Like Sunny said. It started with the missing persons cases. It’s so odd. It just doesn’t seem like that long ago.”

Sun leaned on her elbows and listened.

“Aurora was right. The people who went missing in the late fifties and early sixties, many of them anyway, had stayed with us at the boardinghouse. For almost a decade, travelers and the like just disappeared. Not many, mind you. Maybe one or two a year. Sometimes they’d leave some of their belongings. They’d head out at all hours and we wouldn’t hear about the fact that they never made it to their destinations for weeks. Sometimes months, if at all.”

Royce brought Mrs. Fairborn a cup of tea and put it on a side table.

“Thank you, Sheriff.”

Sun smiled. Lots of people in town still called Royce “Sheriff.” She loved it. If she could co-sheriff with anyone, it would be with that grizzly bear.

“But it was the Emily Press case that brought it all to the forefront. The papers got wind that she’d stolen a necklace, an old family heirloom, and was headed to Colorado to meet up with her beau when she disappeared.”

“The necklace Billy Press was after?” Quincy asked.

“Yes, sir. That’s when I first started to suspect. I found the necklace in the dresser of my husband, Mortimer. He said Miss Press forgot it when she took off, but I knew. Deep down, I knew he was killing those people for what little they had.”

She took her cup into a shaky hand and sipped to calm herself, a haunted expression on her face. “He killed that sweet girl. He killed them all.”

“I’m sorry,” Quince said.

“Me too.” Sun squeezed her hand. “I think this story should be told. The world needs to know who the real killer was.”