home so I can focus on getting these new designs into production.”
“The designs you drew?”
Beth picked a carpet square off the ground and added it to Tori’s growing pile. “About that . . . I didn’t really draw those designs.”
“Why did you say you did?”
“To make myself out to be better than I am.”
Startled by the woman’s honesty, Tori gestured her over to the tiny stage that played host to a variety of stories her youngest patrons longed to explore through dress-up and role-play. “Have a seat. It’s just about the only spot in the room where you can sit without having your knees pushing against your chin.”
“Milo likes substance. He always has. And you”—Beth gestured around—“have substance. If you didn’t you wouldn’t have been able to dream up a room like this.”
She perched on the edge of the stage just inches away from Beth, the woman’s prime position on her list of suspects foremost in her mind. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
Beth inhaled slowly. “Milo isn’t the kind of guy to be content with just a pretty face. He wants more. I mean, look at you. You’re pretty, you’re smart, you’re well liked, and you have the kind of creativity and passion to make something like this happen.” Beth waved one hand toward the stage beneath them and the other toward the classic storybooks showcased on the walls of the room. “What do I have?”
“Well, for starters you’ve got the kind of looks that turn heads for miles.”
“Which is all well and good if you want the kind of guy that attracts. Substance attracts substance. I’ve learned that the hard way.”
She considered the woman’s words. “But why claim you drew those designs when Milo knew you weren’t artistic.”
“Because I was trying to earn your respect.”
“My respect?” she echoed.”
Beth nodded. “I wanted you to think I had it on the ball. That I was a . . .” The woman’s face turned crimson.
“A what?”
“A threat. Just like you were to me.”
“I was a threat? To what?”
Beth nodded again. “To any chance I had of getting Milo back.”
Silence fell between them as she worked to process everything she’d heard, the woman’s brutal honesty more than a little admirable.
“And so you stole those designs and claimed them as your own just to make me feel threatened?”
Beth’s eyes widened in horror. “Stole them? I didn’t steal them.”
She pushed off the stage and wandered over toward the center of the room. “Look, I know who drew them. And I know you have them. What else am I supposed to think?”
“That they were secured during a legitimate business deal?” Beth, too, stood and began clenching and unclenching her hands by her sides. “Ashley Lawson and I shook on that deal, right there in your friend’s bakery. I didn’t steal a thing.”
“But why would she give them to you? Didn’t she owe them to Pageant Creations?”
“Ashley created those particular designs on her own time, something not covered by her current contract with Pageant Creations. So she played it smart. She decided to shop them around. And, well, I figured out pretty fast what would turn the tide in my favor.”
“What was that?” she asked.
“The opportunity to name the entire collection after her daughter. The second I made that offer, she practically pushed the designs in my direction.”
Penelope’s Closet.
It made sense now.
“Most people in Ashley’s position would have hinged everything on money. But not Ashley.” Beth wandered over to the mural of Cinderella and stopped to study it. “She was far more concerned with finding a way to immortalize her daughter’s name. The bigger, the better was her motto.”
Shaking off the sense of déjà vu she couldn’t quite put her finger on, Tori dove into the one topic they’d managed to skirt thus far.
“So you’re saying that her murder less than twenty-four hours later had absolutely nothing to do with how you ended up with those designs? Designs you proceeded to tell me were your own?”
Beth spun around and stared at Tori. “You think I killed her?”
The horror in the woman’s eyes knocked her off-kilter. “I—I certainly considered it. You did, after all, have her designs—the same six Regina needed to secure her deal with Fredrique Mootally.”
Beth’s face drained of all color. “Fredrique Mootally wants my designs?”
She shrugged. “Near as I can figure, yes. Only the deal is off unless he can have all twelve.”
“I was supposed to get the other six. It was part of our deal. Only she didn’t have