by Sarah Fox
His vague reply sent my rising irritation up another notch. “Well, whatever your sources are saying, Mel’s not a killer.”
“How can you know for sure?”
“I just know.”
It irked me that I hadn’t come up with a better response than that. When I glanced his way, I could tell he wasn’t convinced. Any butterflies that had been fluttering around in my stomach before had turned to stone.
I downed the last of my tea in one go and got up from the stool. My stomach grumbled loudly, annoyed that I still hadn’t eaten anything, aside from a single pretzel.
Damien returned to the bar and grabbed three clean pint glasses.
“Is there anything I can do?” I asked as I picked up my empty mug.
“We need an Evil Stepmother and a Lovecraft,” Damien said as he pulled a pint of India pale ale.
“I’m on it.”
I made my way around the bar, relieved not to continue my conversation with Grayson. I had a feeling that discussing Mancini’s murder with him would only vex me more.
After I’d mixed the drinks I ducked into the kitchen in search of something to eat. We were no longer taking food orders at that hour and Teagan was tidying up, but I hoped I’d find a snack of some sort.
“Hungry?” Teagan asked as soon as she saw me.
“Starving.”
She smiled. “I left a plate of Paradise Lox in the fridge for you.”
I almost ran across the kitchen. “Teagan, you’re the best.”
She took off her chef’s coat. “I’ll tell Booker you said that.”
I couldn’t protest because my mouth was full of bread, cheese, and lox.
Teagan laughed at the expression on my face—probably a strange mixture of bliss and alarm. “Just kidding. See you tomorrow.”
I managed to wish her a good night between bites of my much-needed snack. As soon as I was done eating, I left the kitchen to get back to work.
“Is the brewery entering a team in the hockey tournament?” Damien was asking Grayson as he finished filling a pint glass.
“We signed up last week,” Grayson replied. “How about you? Has the Inkwell got a team?”
“I’m up for it,” Damien said, “but I don’t know if we could get enough players together.” To me, he added, “We need a Count Dracula and another Lovecraft.”
“You want to play in the hockey tournament?” I asked him as I grabbed a bottle of Midori liqueur. I hadn’t even known he played hockey.
“Sure, if I had a team.”
I mixed together the ingredients for the Lovecraft. “Maybe we can put one together.”
Damien considered that for a second. “Mel would probably play.”
“I will too,” I said.
“You play hockey?” Grayson said, his eyebrows raised.
“What’s so surprising about that?”
He raised his hands in surrender. “Nothing. I just didn’t realize you played.”
I started on the Count Dracula and focused on the coconut rum I was adding to the cocktail shaker. “I’ve played a bit of hockey. Sort of.” I chanced a quick glance at Grayson and suspected he was fighting a grin. “Maybe not in any sort of organized way, but it won’t be high-level hockey, will it?”
“Some teams will be at a higher level than others, apparently.” He was definitely fighting a grin.
I shook the cocktail shaker a little harder than necessary. “Sign us up, Damien, however that’s done.”
Damien set three pints of beer on a tray. His expression wasn’t giving much away, but I thought I detected a hint of uncertainty in his eyes.
“We need seven players,” he said. “We can ask Booker, and I think Teagan might have some hockey experience, but even then we’d be two players short.”
“Do they all have to be connected to the pub?” I asked.
“Not necessarily.”
I added the two cocktails to his tray. “Then I’m sure we can cobble together a team.”
Grayson tried to cover up a laugh by taking a drink.
I ignored him. “I’ll clean up table five,” I said to Damien before heading over to a table recently vacated by a group of four women.
When I returned from depositing the dirty dishes in the kitchen, Joey Fontana had joined Grayson at the bar.
“Got any fresh coffee?” Joey asked me.
I glanced at the almost-empty pot. “I can put some on.”
“Maybe I’ll try that stout you’ve got on tap instead.”
“Good choice,” Grayson said. His glass was empty now and the pretzels were almost gone.
Joey helped himself to a few of the ones that remained. “Just half a pint, though. I can’t stay long.”
“Busy week at the paper?” I guessed.
The Shady Creek Tribune had only one issue per week, distributed on Wednesdays, but Joey wrote the majority of the content himself.
“That’s for sure. Things were crazy enough with the carnival and the break-ins. Now all that’s secondary to the murder.”
“Have there been more break-ins?”
I’d heard of a couple over the past month. The burglars had targeted local businesses. So far, the police hadn’t caught the culprits.
“There was one Wednesday night at Vera Anderson’s boutique,” Grayson spoke up.
Joey nodded. “Luckily she’s got an alarm. It scared the burglars off before they had a chance to steal anything.”
“That’s good, at least. Knowing Vera, I’m sure she’s been on the police department’s case.”
“You can say that again. And not just theirs. She showed up on my doorstep for an interview before I’d even asked for one.”
That was easy to picture.
“Speaking of interviews,” Joey continued. “I could use a couple of quotes from you.”
I should have anticipated that. “Because I found Freddy’s body?”
“And because you’re my favorite interviewee.”
“I bet you say that to everyone you interview.”
Joey grinned. “But I only mean it with you.”
Grayson stifled a laugh. Either that or he was choking. Since he cleared his throat and snatched the last pretzel from the bowl, I figured he’d live.
“I’m surprised you’re only showing up now,” I said to Joey. “It’s been twenty-four hours since Freddy died.”
“I’ve been running around town, tracking down those who knew him best. I just came from the police station. Apparently, the cops are questioning Freddy’s personal assistant. Ex-personal assistant.”
“Ex?” Grayson echoed.
“Freddy fired her shortly before he died,” Joey explained.
I nodded. “At the chili supper.”
Joey passed me some bills when I slid his beer across the bar to him. “Mel’s at the station too.”
“She’s there to check on Jade.” I didn’t bother to mention that she’d been questioned earlier in the day. If Joey didn’t know that already, I wasn’t going to be the one to enlighten him.
“Why would Mel be checking on Freddy’s assistant?” Joey asked, leaning forward with interest.
Oh, for the love of Miss Marple! Why hadn’t I held my tongue? I didn’t know if Mel would care if Joey found out about her past with Jade, but I didn’t want the reporter connecting Mel to the murdered chef in any way. And now it was my fault that his reporter senses were tingling.
“Sorry, I’ll be back in a moment.” I hurried out from behind the bar, pretending someone had hailed me from across the pub.
I took the time to check on several patrons before making my way back to the bar, hoping Joey wouldn’t question me about Mel again. He and Grayson were talking quietly. I thought that was good news for me, until I heard Mel’s name right before they wrapped up their conversation.
Grayson stood and picked up his suit jacket. “Thanks for the drink, Sadie.” He addressed Joey next. “Let me know what you find out.”
Joey saluted him with his glass
before draining the last of his beer.
I watched Grayson as he pulled on his suit jacket on his way to the door.
“Find out about what?” I asked Joey when Grayson had left the pub.
He grinned at me. “Sorry. Confidential. But how about those quotes?”
I knew he wouldn’t give up until he got what he wanted, so I provided a brief statement about finding Freddy’s body, leaving out any details, not that I had many. I didn’t want to seem ghoulish, and I wasn’t sure how much the police would want the public to know.
Fortunately, Joey didn’t press me for details about Mel’s connection to Jade. I didn’t want her name appearing in the next issue of the paper for any reason other than her first-place finish in the ice sculpture competition. The damage might have been done already, though. Joey’s quiet chat with Grayson had left me uneasy, especially since Grayson had Mel pegged as a suspect.
After Joey left the Inkwell, Damien joined me behind the bar, an unusual hint of concern in his eyes. It probably matched the look in my own eyes.
“Is it true Mel’s a suspect in Freddy’s murder?” he asked.
“Is that what people are saying?” I hated to think people were whispering about Mel behind her back.
“I’ve heard a few murmurs. Is there any truth to it?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” I said.
And the police had questioned her a second time. That couldn’t be a good sign.
In my head, I drew up my own list of suspects. There was no denying that Mel was in trouble, and I was determined to do whatever I could to help get her out of it.
Chapter 10
In the morning I tried to enjoy my usual routine of reading a book while lingering over my breakfast and a cup of coffee, but I soon found that I couldn’t stay focused on the novel, despite the fact that it was full of suspense and intrigue. My mind kept drifting from the words on the page to the puzzle of Freddy’s murder. I wanted Mel’s name cleared, but I knew that could take time. If it happened at all.
That last thought drove me to put down my book.
The night before I’d identified three main suspects: Leo Mancini, Jade Castellano, and Penny Blaine. They all had motive to kill Freddy. Leo harbored a deep dislike, perhaps even hatred, for his half brother, and Freddy had treated Jade and Penny poorly, to say the least, in the hours before his death. What I needed to know was whether any of them had an opportunity to commit the crime. If one or more of them had an alibi, I could scratch them from my list. Maybe the killer wasn’t even on my radar yet, but the more I narrowed down my list of suspects, the closer I’d get to identifying the culprit. And once the real killer was behind bars, Mel would be in the clear.
Before heading out to do some investigating, I spent time cleaning the Inkwell. I’d wiped down the tables and cleaned the floors in the main room after closing the night before, but I still had work to do. The mystery book club the pub hosted once a month would be meeting that evening in the Christie Room, so I wanted to make sure the space was in tip-top shape.
First, I made sure there was plenty of fuel for the wood-burning stove. With our current icy weather, a cozy fire was a must for evening meetings in the snug room. The tables were already clean, but I gave them each an extra wipe-down anyway. Then I swept the floor before getting out my feather duster and embarking on a campaign to make every surface shine.
The Christie Room was one of my favorite parts of the pub. Comfy chairs and side tables were clustered around the wood-burning stove, which always drew people close on a chilly evening. A few regular tables and chairs took up the rest of the floor space, but there was far more to the room than the furniture.
This part of the pub had the same plank floors, wood beams, and exposed stone walls as the main room, giving it plenty of charming character. Books from my personal collection lined the shelves along the walls, and the room’s namesake—Dame Agatha Christie—observed the space from a portrait on one wall. I’d also decorated the room with an old typewriter and movie posters from Agatha Christie books that had been adapted for film.
Ever since I’d started hosting book clubs at the pub back in October, I’d received rave reviews of the cozy meeting space. The clubs had also been a hit, much to my relief and happiness. There was a romance book club in addition to the mystery one, and I was planning to launch a science fiction and fantasy club in the new year.
I was pleased with the great response from the community. The current clubs were thriving and several people had already signed up to join the new group. I’d loved books for as long as I could remember and I was so glad I’d been able to work that passion into my business, and to use it to connect with people in my new home of Shady Creek.
As I dusted the bookshelves, my thoughts returned to my suspect list. I needed more information, and I figured a good place to start was with Mel. I paused in my cleaning to send her a quick text message, asking how things had gone for Jade at the police station. I didn’t receive an immediate response, so I went back to dusting.
Since Mel had known Jade well in the past, she would know if Freddy’s personal assistant had a temper. Judging by Mel’s adamant declaration that Jade was innocent, I knew she might not appreciate me asking questions about her ex-girlfriend. But since Jade wasn’t from Shady Creek, Mel was probably the only person who could tell me anything about her.
I was about to check my phone for text messages again when I stopped short with my hand to my pocket, staring at the shelf in front of me. Two of my most treasured books were missing. It wasn’t glaringly obvious, since someone had shifted the other books on the shelf to minimize the gap, but as soon as I’d looked closely, I noticed that the volumes were gone.
I quickly scanned all the other shelves in the room, but the books hadn’t been put back in a different spot. If someone had removed them from the shelf to look at them and had forgotten where they’d taken them from, the books should have been somewhere else in the room. But they weren’t.
As I sank down into the nearest chair, a sense of loss and betrayal crashed over me like a powerful wave. Thoughts spun around in my head. Was it a tourist or a local who’d stolen the books?
Abandoning my duster on a table, I jumped up and hurried from the room. I checked every corner of the pub, every table, every shelf. I even searched my apartment, in case I’d forgotten that I’d moved the books myself, even though I knew that wasn’t the case.
I looked in every nook and cranny. The missing books were nowhere to be found. Returning to the Christie Room, I stared at the spot where the two mystery novels had been. Why would someone have stolen them? The copies of Déjà Dead, by Kathy Reichs, and A Trick of the Light, by Louise Penny, had no more monetary value than the prices stamped on the back covers. They weren’t rare or difficult to find in any bookstore.
Maybe someone had simply decided that they wanted them and that had been enough to prompt them to steal the books. I hated to think the thief could have been someone I knew, someone who came to the Inkwell regularly. The books were there the last time I’d dusted the shelf, before the romance book club’s meeting just over a week ago. I hadn’t opened the room for overflow since then, so the most likely scenario was that someone from the club had stolen the books.
I didn’t want to believe that, though. I knew each member of the club. Aunt Gilda and Shontelle were above suspicion, but I considered several of the other members to be friends of mine as well, the exception being Vera Anderson. I couldn’t imagine Vera stealing books, or anything else for that matter, but that didn’t mean it was impossible.
I sank down into a chair and stared glumly at the bookshelf and the gap that now seemed more conspicuous. I could easily purchase new copies of Déjà Dead and A Trick of the Light. The monetary aspect of it didn’t bother me. The betrayal did to some extent, but mostly it was the fact that the books held significant sentimental value that had me feeling melancholy. Every year, starting when I was six years old, my dad had given me a book for Chr
istmas. I’d kept every one of them. He always wrote an inscription inside and I treasured each volume, all the more so now, since my dad had passed away.
It had been five years since he’d died, but I still missed him all the time. The books he’d given me, the special messages he’d written inside, were like little pieces of him left behind to remind me of him and how much he’d loved me.
Whoever had taken the books most likely had no idea how much they meant to me, but it still hurt that someone had stolen them, and the loss was hitting me hard.
Tears prickled at my eyes. I blinked them away, not wanting to cry, but I had to fight to stop myself from breaking down. It wasn’t just the missing books that had me so emotional, I realized. It was the upcoming Christmas season as well. My dad had loved Christmas, as did I, and we’d had so many traditions that we enjoyed together each year—decorating the house, picking out a Christmas tree, caroling, and making gingerbread houses. This year, I wouldn’t only be without my dad, I’d be without any family.
“Maybe whoever took the books will return them,” I said out loud, as if that could make the words more likely to come true. “Maybe they just wanted to borrow them and were afraid to ask.”
The words rang hollow in the room around me. No matter how positive I tried to be, I knew I was unlikely to see the books again. It only made matters worse that I couldn’t stop wondering who’d taken them. I didn’t want to suspect anybody I knew, not even Vera Anderson, who was far from my favorite person.
Focus on something else, I told myself, not wanting to give my suspicions a chance to grow. You need to clear Mel’s name.
That would distract me from all the sadness prompted by the discovery of the missing books, and a distraction was exactly what I needed.
I still hadn’t received a response from Mel, so I put away my feather duster and donned my winter gear.
It was time to get sleuthing.
* * *
Mel lived in an apartment above the hardware store on Ashcroft Road, a couple of streets away from the village green. I followed the alleyway to the rear of the hardware store where a set of steps led up to a small balcony and the entrance to Mel’s apartment. Her truck was parked next to the stairs, its windows covered in a thick layer of frost. The presence of her truck didn’t necessarily mean she was home, since it was easy to walk most places in Shady Creek, but I hoped I’d find her there.