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

“And what about the boardinghouse?”

“What boardinghouse?” Sybil asked, combing through the clippings for more.

Auri handed her a clipping from just before the drifter was killed. “According to the sheriff’s investigation, at least five of the missing victims were travelers who stayed at the same boardinghouse.” She rummaged around until she found another report. “The Fairborn House.” She stopped and thought about it. “The Fairborn House? As in Mrs. Fairborn? That sweet old lady who confesses to all of the crimes in Del Sol?”

“Really?” Sybil asked her.

“Yep. She’s been doing it for years. Every time a crime happens in Del Sol, she confesses to it. She even confessed to Kubrick Ravinder’s murder.”

The girl’s mouth formed a perfect O. “Did she do it?”

Auri giggled. “Of course not, silly. Can you find anything else on the boardinghouse?”

“I’ll try.”

By the time they looked up again an hour later, her grandparents were gone.

“Sybil, I may have spoken too soon. Maybe she did kill Kubrick after all. I think Mrs. Fairborn was a serial killer before they even called them serial killers.”

“Wow,” Sybil said, just as intrigued. “Wait, what did they call serial killers before that?”

Auri shrugged. “Maybe pancake killers? Bacon-and-egg killers?”

They devolved into a fit of giggles and only sobered when a thought hit Auri like a line drive at a major-league game. “I think we need to investigate,” she said.

“Really? Can we do that?”

“Sure. My mom does it every day. How hard can it be?”





7


Sprinkles are for cupcakes, not toilets.

—SIGN IN BATHROOM AT THE SUGAR SHACK




Sun didn’t hide her disbelief. She frowned at the man sitting across from her. “If I had a nickel for every time someone confessed to killing Kubrick Ravinder …”

Quincy agreed. “He’s the most popular dead guy since Edward Cullen.”

Wynn shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “What do you want to know?”

She took the pen in hand to start taking notes should she need to. “How did he die?”

“Painfully.”

“Does that mean you strangled him slowly?”

A knowing grin slid across his face. “I did, apple blossom. But that’s not what killed him.”

“Sheriff Vicram,” she corrected, only mildly curious as to why he’d referred to her as the flower of an apple tree. She was more interested in his knowledge about Kubrick’s death. While his larynx had been crushed, that was not how the man died.

“Much to my elder brother’s dismay, I put a knee on his throat, slid a knife into his chest, and watched with glee as the life drained out of him.”

It wasn’t often that she heard a hardened criminal use the word glee. There was something primal about the man. Something sharp and commanding and ruthless. The whole shot-caller thing made perfect sense now. His dark blond hair, although slicked back, hung to his shoulders in the choppy style of a man who didn’t concern himself overly much with his daily coif. Then again, what inmate did? His scruffy jaw only added to the look.

“So you and Kubrick didn’t get along?” Quincy asked.

“We took our sibling rivalries like we took our corn whiskey. Very seriously.”

It was no wonder. Moonshine was, after all, how his family had made a living for decades. But anyone could have found out how Kubrick was killed. That didn’t tell her a thing. “How long—?”

“Twelve seconds.” When she paused, he added, “It took twelve seconds for him to die. I counted.”

She began again. “How long was the blade?”

“Long enough to get the job done.”

“How many inches?”

He released a lungful of air and examined his fingernails, as though their questions were growing tedious. But he’d called her. Not the other way around.

“I didn’t measure,” he said, offering his hawkish gaze again. “But if I were to use a body part as reference, I’d say about eight inches. Give or take.”

Close enough.

“And he just lay there?” Quincy asked. “Let you crush his larynx and plunge a knife into his chest?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We fought.” He speared him with his glistening gray eyes. “I won.”

Sun feigned boredom. “Then that was your blood all over Kubrick’s T-shirt.”

Another knowing grin crept into the corners of his mouth. “You mean all over his denim jacket and that flannel shirt he wore every fucking day of his miserable fucking life?”

Two for two. He was the first confessor to get this far. Besides Levi, of course, but she hadn’t questioned him this extensively.

“Unless,” he continued, “you’re talking about the filthy wife-beater underneath.”

Sun’s knee-jerk reaction to the derogatory term for an A-line tank top bucked inside her. Regardless, she didn’t move a muscle. Didn’t flinch. Yet he knew.

“I’m sorry.” He tilted his head to study her. “Did that offend your delicate sensibilities?”

“The only thing offending my delicate sensibilities, Mr. Ravinder, is the fact that you think we came here for tea and scones. You haven’t proven anything.”