by Sarah Fox
With that done, I decided to focus on something positive. The pub’s trivia night was taking place that evening, and I was both excited and nervous. It was the first event of its kind that I’d hosted at the Inkwell and I wanted it to go off without a hitch. It was also my way of contributing to the carnival’s festivities. I’d started planning the trivia night several weeks ago, and I knew I had everything organized and ready to go. Still, I went over all the details again in an attempt to settle my jitters. It helped a bit, but not much, and I was glad when Booker showed up, his company a welcome distraction from my nervousness.
“Remember the summer soup we talked about yesterday?” he asked once he’d shed all his winter gear and left it in the cloakroom.
“Of course. It sounds so good.”
“Well, now you can see if it tastes good too. I worked on the recipe last night and brought you a sample.”
“You’ve made my day,” I said with a smile.
“You might want to hold off on saying that until you’ve tried it.”
He removed the lid from a container and handed it to me along with a spoon.
The soup was green, but a pleasant shade, not a gross one.
I dipped the spoon into it. My eyes widened as soon as I got my first taste. The soup was refreshing and delicious.
“Booker, you’ve done it again!” I said as soon as I’d swallowed. “This is amazing!”
“Great,” he said with a big smile. “I was hoping you’d think so. Now it needs a name.”
I took a second to enjoy another spoonful of the soup before saying, “How about A Time to Chill?”
“That’s perfect,” Booker said, still smiling. His expression sobered a moment later. “I’m guessing you’ve heard about the murder.”
“I’m the one who found Freddy’s body.”
Booker’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “No way! That’s awful, Sadie. Are you okay?”
I assured him I was as well as I could be considering the circumstances. That was true. I had to suppress a shudder every time I remembered how Freddy had looked lying dead in the snow, but I was otherwise holding up well.
After we’d chatted for another minute or so, Booker headed into the kitchen to do some prep work while I finished off the sample of soup. I was looking forward to having it on the menu once warmer weather hit.
Soon it was time to open the Inkwell for the day. When I opened the front door to switch the wooden CLOSED sign to OPEN, Mel was on her way up the flagstone path.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said as she hurried through the door.
I quickly pulled it closed against the cold outside air.
“Late?” I said. “You’re scheduled to take the day off, remember?”
“That was so I could work on my sculpture, but I finished up a little while ago. Is it all right if I work my shift?”
“Of course it is. And I can’t wait to see your sculpture now that it’s done.”
Mel disappeared into the cloakroom and, when she returned a moment later, the pub was still empty, our first customers of the day yet to arrive.
She massaged her neck and rolled her shoulders as she joined me behind the bar.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. It wasn’t like her to look so stressed. “Are you worried about the competition?”
“No, it’s not that.” She hesitated before continuing. “I had to go to the police station this morning.”
“What for? I thought Officer Rogers talked to you last night.”
“She did, but Detective Marquez wanted to see me today.”
I took a second to absorb that information. Detective Marquez had investigated my ex’s murder back in the fall. I’d ended up on her suspect list for a while, a position I most definitely hadn’t enjoyed. As I searched Mel’s face, apprehension settled heavily in the pit of my stomach.
“Why would Detective Marquez want to talk to you?” I asked.
Mel rubbed a fist across her forehead. “She heard there’d been an incident between me and Freddy.”
“Incident?”
“It wasn’t a big deal. Around midafternoon yesterday, the reporters came back to the green. They spent some time talking to me before going back to Freddy. I think it bugged him that they paid attention to someone other than him. I could hear him trash-talking me. I tried to ignore him, but then one of the reporters—one from out of town—came over to get my reaction. I said I didn’t need to engage in trash talk. My work would speak for itself.”
“Good for you,” I said.
“Freddy wasn’t so approving. He made sure all the reporters heard him when he said if my work spoke with the same hillbilly accent as I did, no one would be able to understand it.”
My jaw dropped. “What a jerk! That’s a horrible thing to say, never mind the fact that you don’t have a hillbilly accent. And he’s from Shady Creek just like you are!” I clenched my hands into fists. “I could punch him!”
“Someone beat you to it,” Mel reminded me. “Just not with their fists.”
I reigned in my emotions. “Hold on. Are you a suspect?”
Mel responded with a grim nod.
My indignation returned full force. “That’s insane!”
“Actually, it was inevitable, even without the incident on the green.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, my apprehension making a comeback.
“There’s something I didn’t tell you last night,” she said. “The ice pick that was used to kill Freddy . . . it’s mine.”
Chapter 7
It took me several seconds to process what Mel had said.
“Are you sure?” I asked once her words had sunk in.
“Positive. I engraved my initials on the handles of all the tools in that set. I told Officer Rogers last night that I recognized the ice pick, and today Detective Marquez confirmed that it’s mine.”
My chest grew tight with worry. “Did you tell them that your tools were stolen?”
“Of course, and it turns out the police found my hand tools in a garbage can in the alley behind the town hall. But they probably think I could have faked the theft to deflect suspicion away from me.”
“But that’s insane! And it would mean you’d planned to kill Freddy ahead of time.”
Mel shrugged. “I bet the police will think it’s possible.”
“What’s actually possible is that you could be in danger.”
“Because the killer might be trying to eliminate his or her competition?”
“Yes. You and Freddy were the frontrunners. Maybe someone wanted to improve their chances of winning.”
“Seems a bit drastic to murder someone over an ice sculpture competition.”
“But not impossible, so be careful, okay?”
“I will be.” She gave me a bleak smile. “Maybe having the cops watching me isn’t so bad after all. That’s got to keep me safer, right?”
I frowned at the reminder that she was under suspicion. “You can’t be the only suspect. Plenty of others had far more reason to want to harm him than you did.” I snapped my fingers as memories surfaced. “There’s his half brother for starters. And his personal assistant. He fired her in front of everyone at the chili supper last night.”
Mel shifted a line of glasses on a shelf, even though they were already tidy.
I sensed she was avoiding my gaze, and that triggered another memory.
“How do you know Jade Castellano?” I asked.
Mel glanced my way, but only for a split second. “What makes you think I know her?”
“You recognized each other yesterday.”
She finally stopped moving the glasses around and faced me. “We dated for a while a few years ago.”
I let that information sink in, realizing it explained the depth of the look that had passed between them. “Here in Shady Creek?”
“No, in Boston. I spent a couple of years there. Jade is a city girl through and through. I never expected to see her here.”
&nbs
p; “Did you talk to her at all yesterday?”
“I did.”
“Before or after Freddy fired her?” I asked when she didn’t offer any more information.
“After. Not long before you found Freddy.”
“Was she upset?”
Mel leveled her gaze at me. “Jade didn’t kill Freddy.”
The first customers of the day arrived at that moment, so I didn’t argue with her, but I couldn’t help but wonder if she was wrong.
* * *
As darkness fell, I became a bundle of nerves. I was anxious for Mel, but I was also nervous about the trivia contest. I desperately wanted it to go over well with my customers.
“Relax,” Damien said when he caught me drumming my fingers against the bar. “Everything’s going to be fine. You’re as prepared for trivia night as you can be.”
“I know,” I said, stilling my fingers. “But I want it to be a success.”
“There’s no reason why it shouldn’t be.”
He left me then to deliver plates of Lord of the Fries and To Be or Nacho Be to hungry patrons. I would have loved a platter of the delicious nachos myself. My stomach was rumbling with hunger and the nachos were piled with all my favorite toppings—red peppers, black olives, and plenty of cheese—with sides of salsa, sour cream, and guacamole.
Despite my hunger, however, I didn’t think I’d be able to eat even if I had time. My stomach might have been rumbling, but it was also tied up in knots. We had a good crowd already, more than an hour before the trivia contest would begin, and that was a promising sign. Still, I knew I wouldn’t be able to relax or enjoy a meal until the event was over.
Shortly before six, Damien assured me that he could hold down the fort for a few minutes while I slipped across the road to find out the results of the ice sculpture competition. I bundled up in record time and hurried over to the green, which was once again lit up by several spotlights as well as all the decorative twinkle lights. I had a few minutes to spare before the results of the competition would be announced, so I made a circuit of the sculptures, each one leaving me in awe of the artists’ talent.
My favorite sculpture was, of course, Mel’s impressive dragon, posed as if about to take flight from its nest of eggs. All the works of art wowed me, but my other favorites included a grizzly bear with two frolicking cubs, a jolly Santa Claus with a sack full of presents, and a tall ship, its sails appearing to billow in an imaginary wind.
I was snapping a photo of the ship with my phone when Alma’s voice rang out over the village green, calling for everyone’s attention. I quickly joined the throngs of locals and tourists crowding around the canopy where Alma was stationed with the microphone. Judging by the number of people present, it appeared as though Freddy’s murder hadn’t driven away many tourists. The relief that knowledge brought me came with a twinge of guilt, but the reality was that I needed the tourists’ business if I wanted to keep the Inkwell’s doors open.
“In light of recent events,” Alma was saying to the crowd, “we’d like to begin with a moment of silence in honor of one of our competitors, Federico Mancini, who tragically passed away last night.”
The crowd fell quiet, the only sounds from a passing car and a wailing toddler, who was quickly whisked away by his parents.
“Thank you, everyone,” Alma said several seconds later. “We’re so glad all of you were able to join us here tonight. I hope you’ve enjoyed the beautiful ice sculptures that are on display.”
The audience responded by applauding, the sound muted by gloves and mittens. When the clapping died off, Alma continued.
“I’ll now announce the winners of the competition. Thank you so much to everyone who participated, and to our volunteers and sponsors, who made this event possible.” She opened an envelope and removed a piece of paper. “In third place, we have Emilio Caraveos and his sculpture of a grizzly bear and her cubs.”
I clapped along with everyone else, adding in a cheer along with a few others. I didn’t recognize Emilio when he went up to receive his trophy, so I thought he might be from out of town.
“And in second place,” Alma continued, “Douglas Baker and his sailing ship.”
Again, I joined in with the cheering and applauding. At the same time, my stomach gave a nervous flip-flop. I caught sight of Mel standing near Alma. She didn’t appear as nervous as I felt, but I knew she was invested in the competition and wanted to win. The magazine coverage could be huge for her.
“Finally, we have our winner,” Alma said, before pausing for dramatic effect. “First place in this year’s ice-sculpting competition goes to . . . Shady Creek’s own Melanie Costas!”
The crowd went crazy, and I did too. I jumped up and down, cheering for Mel as she approached Alma, a big smile on her face.
Joey Fontana and the other reporters crowded around her, snapping photographs as she accepted her trophy and check. I was about to squeeze my way through the crowd to get closer to Mel when I spotted Jade Castellano on the outskirts of the mass of people. She was clapping and smiling brightly, until Detective Marquez approached her, discretely flashing her badge.
The smiled slipped from Jade’s face as Marquez spoke to her. She cast an uncertain glance in Mel’s direction, but then she nodded and followed the detective away from the festive crowd. As Jade disappeared from sight, I wondered once again if Mel was wrong about her.
Chapter 8
In the end, I contented myself with waving at Mel and giving her two thumbs up. She grinned in response before the crowd around her pulled her attention back to them. I knew I’d see her the next day, if not later that night, so I figured I’d head back to the Inkwell and speak to her another time. She was in high demand at the moment and it was almost time for the trivia contest to begin.
As I worked my way around the clusters of people still on the green, I caught sight of Grayson on the other side of Sycamore Street. I was in the midst of raising my hand to wave at him when he stopped in front of Lumière, Shady Creek’s classiest restaurant, and opened the door. He disappeared inside without seeing me.
I dropped my hand and resumed walking along the edge of the green. He’d said he wouldn’t be at the trivia night, but never said why. It wasn’t any of my business, of course, but now that I’d seen him going into the restaurant, it crossed my mind that he might have a date. With whom, I had no idea, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. As much as I tried to tell myself that it didn’t matter if he was seeing someone, I couldn’t ignore the twist of disappointment in my stomach.
Fortunately, I didn’t dwell too long on the thought of Grayson on a dinner date. When I returned to the Inkwell and saw how the crowd had swelled in my absence, a rush of happiness overshadowed any disappointment. The pub was so full that I had to open one of the two side rooms for overflow. That room—which I’d named the Stewart Room after one of my favorite authors, Mary Stewart—was decorated for the holidays with a small Christmas tree, twinkle lights, lots of LED candles, and the collection of snow globes I’d amassed over the years. Some of the customers who weren’t planning to participate in the trivia contest had shifted into the Stewart Room, leaving more space for the trivia teams in the main area.
“We’ve got a good crowd,” Damien commented as he passed by me on his way to the kitchen.
“We do,” I agreed before he disappeared through the door.
Clutching a sheaf of papers, I smiled at the packed room, pleased to see many familiar faces along with a few new ones.
“Could I have your attention, please?” I said to the room at large.
No one heard me, and all the conversations taking place at the various tables continued.
“Hello!” I tried again.
This time, the occupants of the two tables closest to me turned their attention my way, but everyone else continued to chatter and focus on their food and drinks.
Bobby Dormer, an Inkwell regular, was seated at the table in front of me. He stood up and addressed the crowd.
“Listen up, everyone!” he said loudly, his voice easily carrying across the room.
The conversations died off and dozens of pairs of eyes turned my way.
“Thank you,” I said to Bobby with a smile.
He lowered his six-foot-three frame back into his chair and saluted me with his pint glass before taking a drink of his beer.
“Thank you all for coming tonight,” I said to everyone in the room. “It’s great to see so many people here for the Inkwell’s first ever literary trivia night! If you haven’t already done so, please assemble your teams. I’ll pass out the answer sheets, and then we’ll get going.”
I made a circuit of the room, providing each team with a sheet of paper with a spot for the team’s name and numbered lines for the answers to the trivia questions. When each team was supplied with an answer sheet and at least one writing implement, I stationed myself on a stool at the end of the bar, facing out toward the tables.
I quickly outlined the rules and announced the prize—an Inkwell gift certificate for each member of the winning team.
“Any questions?” I asked, surveying the participants.
Nobody spoke up or raised their hand.
“All right then,” I said with a flurry of fresh nerves and excitement. “Here’s the first question: What is the title of the Charles Dickens novel that was unfinished at the time of his death?”
Around the pub, people leaned over their tables to confer with their teammates in lowered voices. A couple of teams wrote an answer on their sheet right away, while others continued to discuss the matter. I kept an eye on the stopwatch on my phone, making sure to leave a consistent amount of time between each question.
The Spirit Hill Brewery didn’t have a team present, but I recognized Juliana, a young woman who did public relations for Grayson’s company. Apparently she was also an avid runner because she was a member of the local running group’s trivia team.
Seeing Juliana reminded me of Grayson and his possible date. I swiftly shoved all thoughts of him out of my mind and consulted my quizmaster sheet.
“Moving on,” I said to everyone. “Question number two: This famous mystery author wrote general fiction under the pseudonym Mary Westmacott.”