by Sarah Fox
As soon as the Honeywells noticed the police officers, they got to their feet.
Brad rushed forward. “Have you finished your investigation? Are our guests free to go?”
“Our investigation is still ongoing,” Chief Walters said, loud enough for the entire room to hear. “I’m afraid I need you all to remain here a little longer. One of my officers will speak to each of you. Once you’ve given your statement, you may go.”
Gemma clutched at the string of pearls around her neck. “I don’t feel well,” she said, her voice faint.
Brad quickly put an arm around her. “My wife needs to lie down,” he said to Walters.
The chief gave a brisk nod of assent and accompanied the Honeywells out of the room.
Since Judson and I had been first on the scene, the police questioned us before anyone else. Officer Howes talked to me while an officer I didn’t recognize appeared and moved to a quiet corner with Judson. I told Officer Howes that I’d heard Marcie’s scream while I was in the lobby and had run outside at the same time as Judson had come around the corner of the building. After detailing what had happened in the next minute or two, I explained that I’d gone upstairs, looking for witnesses or any clue as to how Marcie had fallen.
“When I saw the state of the room, I thought . . .” I lowered my voice so I wouldn’t be overheard. “I thought maybe Marcie hadn’t fallen accidentally. As soon as I realized that, we left the room.”
“We?”
“Gemma Honeywell was there with me,” I explained. “She unlocked the door with her master key.”
“How far into the room did you go?” Howes asked.
“Three or four steps.” I remembered what I’d seen as I was leaving. “There was an earring on the floor, partly under the bed. I don’t know if that’s important or not. Mrs. Honeywell said that no one’s staying in that room. She had to unlock the door, so I don’t know how Marcie got in there.”
Officer Howes wrote something in his notebook, but didn’t offer up any theories.
I lowered my voice further. “Do you think she was murdered?”
He continued to write for another second or two before responding. “We’re treating her death as suspicious.”
The chill that the hot tea had banished swiftly returned. Officer Howes had confirmed my fear.
Someone had pushed Marcie out that window.
Chapter 6
When I was allowed to leave the manor, I stopped to talk to Linnea on my way out of the dining room. She sat staring at her untouched tea, only raising her eyes when I stopped next to her.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” I asked. “Anything I can get you?”
“No, thank you, dear.” She took my hand and gave it a squeeze. “I appreciate your kindness.”
“Please don’t hesitate to get in touch if you need anything.”
She thanked me again and I left her there as Officer Howes approached her. I swallowed a lump in my throat as I walked away. I was still shaken by Marcie’s death and I felt terrible for Linnea.
On my way across the lobby, I heard a murmur of voices and slowed my steps. I should have kept going, but when I recognized Chief Walters’s voice, I strained to hear what he was saying.
“Where were you when Ms. Kent fell?” Walters asked.
His voice was coming from the office behind the reception desk. The door had been left open a crack.
“There’s a storage room down one of the back hallways,” I heard Gemma reply. “It’s where we keep all the linens. I was there with Connie Archer, one of the housekeepers.”
“Did you hear a scream?”
“No, I didn’t. Connie did, though. I was talking on my cell phone, and when I hung up, Connie asked if I’d heard a scream a moment earlier. We both came to investigate. It wasn’t until we got outside that we realized something terrible had happened.” Gemma’s voice nearly broke on those last words.
Footsteps sounded somewhere nearby, reminding me that I didn’t want to get caught eavesdropping. I scurried across the lobby and out the front door before anyone saw me.
The rain still poured down from dark clouds. Marcie’s body was gone, as was the ambulance, leaving two police cars parked in front of the manor. I couldn’t wait to get home, so I didn’t linger on the front steps. Not caring about the rain soaking my hair and dress, I followed the walkway to the parking lot and set off for home.
* * *
When I reached the Inkwell, I bypassed the front door, knowing I probably looked half drowned. I entered through the back way and stood in the hallway for a moment, taking comfort from the low hum of conversation coming from the pub and the delicious smells wafting out from the kitchen.
I’d returned much later than expected, so I wanted to check in with Mel before going upstairs to change. I headed straight into the kitchen, not wanting the customers to see me in my current state.
Booker stood at the stove, his shoulder-length braids tied back and an Inkwell apron over his jeans and black T-shirt. I was of average height, but at six-foot-three, Booker towered over me. He’d played college football before going to culinary school and he was also a musician. When I entered the kitchen, he was humming to himself as he flipped a couple of burgers. He cut off mid-note when he saw me.
“What happened to you?” he asked. “You look like you fell in the creek.”
“I wish I could say that was all that had happened.”
“Uh-oh. What did happen?”
Fortunately, Mel came into the kitchen then, so I didn’t have to explain twice. They were both shocked by the news of Marcie’s death, and Mel assured me that it was fine for me to take some more time away from the pub.
“Take the rest of the day off, if you need to,” she said.
“I think I’ll want to keep busy, at least once I’m warm and dry.” I didn’t like the idea of sitting around, replaying Marcie’s scream in my head.
“What you need is a cup of tea,” Booker said, reaching for the stout blue kettle he always used to brew his own tea.
I didn’t mention that I’d already had some tea at the manor. Its effects had long worn off and I appreciated Booker’s gesture. Once the tea was brewed, he poured it into one of the beautiful cups he’d inherited from his grandmother. This one was decorated with red poppies.
The first time I’d seen the former football player drinking tea out of a fine china cup, I’d done a double take, but now it was a normal sight at the Inkwell. He’d told me that some of his best childhood memories were of drinking tea with his grandmother, a woman who’d played a significant role in his upbringing.
I thanked Booker for the hot drink and carried it upstairs with me. It smelled of oranges and spices and when I took a sip, both the warmth and the flavor brought me some immediate comfort. Somehow he’d known exactly the type of tea I needed.
I was happy to find my white-haired, blue-eyed cat, Wimsey, at home. Sometimes he used the cat doors to head outside to watch birds, prowl around at the edge of the forest, or sit outside the pub’s front door, watching people come and go from his kingdom. At the moment, however, he was curled up on the back of the couch.
When I shut the apartment door, he got up and stretched before hopping down to greet me.
I set my tea on the kitchen table. “Hey, buddy. I hope your day’s been better than mine.”
I gave him a pat on the head, receiving a brief purr as a reward. He padded across the kitchen and stopped by his food dish, sending a pointed stare my way with his blue eyes. Dutifully, I fetched his bag of treats and shook a few into his dish. With His Lordship satisfied, I finished my tea before shedding my damp clothes and getting in the shower. Like the tea, the hot water helped to warm me up, but even the shower couldn’t wash away the memory of what had happened to Marcie.
After drying my hair and getting dressed, I decided it was about time to head down to the pub. I was swiping mascara onto my eyelashes when someone knocked on my apartment door. I thought it might be M
el, wanting to talk to me about some pub-related issue, but I opened the door to find my aunt Gilda on the landing.
Instead of standing back to let her in, I threw my arms around her.
“Oh, honey.” She patted my back. “Mel told me what happened.”
I blinked back tears, determined not to cry. “It’s terrible.” I stepped out of her hug and moved aside so she could come into my apartment.
“You didn’t see her fall, did you?” my aunt asked, concern evident in her brown eyes.
“No.”
“That’s one small mercy.”
That was true. I’d have even more fodder for nightmares if I’d seen Marcie fall to her death. It was bad enough that I’d seen the aftermath.
“And the police think someone pushed her?”
“I think so too.” I told her about what I’d seen in the third-floor guest room, details I hadn’t shared with Mel and Booker.
Aunt Gilda pulled a bobby pin from her updo and tucked a stray strand of her auburn hair back into place. Everything about her was so familiar and comforting. When she took a seat on the couch, I joined her there.
“I can’t imagine why anyone would want to hurt her,” she said. “No one in Shady Creek even knew her, did they?”
“I don’t think so. As far as I know, the only person who knew her for more than a day is Linnea, and she definitely didn’t push Marcie. She was with me when it happened.”
Gilda patted my hand. “The police will figure it out.”
I knew from her tone that she was telling me to leave the investigating to the professionals. I’d already found myself in a couple of dicey situations after getting involved in murder cases.
“I hope you’re right. Linnea will need answers and so will Marcie’s family.” I decided I’d had enough of talking about the events at the manor. “Is Betty here with you?”
Betty was Gilda’s friend and a coworker at her salon. The two women often came to the Inkwell together for a drink and a meal.
“Not today. I came by to talk to you.”
“About something important?” I asked.
“Nothing that can’t wait. It’s getting busy downstairs. A big group of tourists came in right behind me.”
She stood up, and I did too. After another hug, we headed downstairs and I welcomed the distraction of a pub full of hungry and thirsty customers.
* * *
By early evening everyone in town knew there’d been a suspicious death at Shady Creek Manor. I didn’t let on that I’d been present when Marcie fell, but somehow that information got out and spread from customer to customer. Several times throughout the evening I confirmed that I’d heard Marcie scream but didn’t see her fall. I didn’t provide any further details, not that I had many, and I told everyone that I had no idea what had happened. That was pretty much the truth. Other than sharing the police’s suspicion that Marcie’s death wasn’t an accident, I didn’t know anything.
I tried to keep my composure through all the questions, but as the hours passed, I grew more and more tired. I was glad Damien was working the evening shift with me. He’d been a bartender at the pub even before I bought it, and I’d relied on his expertise more than once while I was getting used to being a business owner. It was nice to know I could rely on him to pick up any slack caused by my growing exhaustion.
Tonight, he wore his typical outfit of jeans and a short-sleeved T-shirt that showed off his tattoos and his biceps. He wasn’t overly bulky, but he was muscular enough to be a reassuring presence during the evening shifts. Although we rarely had any real trouble from the Inkwell’s patrons, it was still nice to have some muscle around, just in case.
As we worked, I tried to mask how I was feeling, but it must have still shown on my face.
Damien cast me a sidelong glance as he filled a pint glass with beer. “You look like you could use some kip,” he said.
I smiled at his use of British slang. He was originally from England and still had an accent.
“You’re not wrong,” I told him. “I am pretty tired.”
“Why don’t you call it a night?” he suggested. “I can close on my own.”
It was a tempting idea. I was about to take him up on it when I spotted a familiar face. My neighbor Grayson Blake was threading his way through the tables toward me. I was glad to see him, and I realized in that moment how relieved I was that our initial animosity was now a thing of the past.
“I might head upstairs in a bit,” I said, wanting a chance to talk to Grayson.
As Damien carried a tray of pints across the pub to waiting customers, I summoned up what was probably a tired smile, but it was genuine nonetheless.
“How are you doing?” Grayson asked as soon as he reached the bar.
I could tell by the concern in his blue eyes and from the way he asked the question that he’d already heard the news.
“It’s been a rough day,” I admitted. “But I’m glad to see you.”
That last bit slipped out before it occurred to me to hold my tongue. I thought it might have surprised him, too.
“How about you?” I asked, hoping to cover up the awkwardness that was stealing over me. “You’ve been busy lately, from what I’ve heard.”
He sat down on one of the bar stools. “I spent some time at beer competitions in Europe.”
“I saw in the Tribune that you did really well at the competitions,” I said. “Congrats.”
The Shady Creek Tribune was the local paper.
“Thanks. I’m happy with how we did. It’s nice to get recognition for the work we’ve been doing at the brewery.”
“I bet. And it’s well deserved.” I realized I hadn’t taken his order yet. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll go with The Malt in Our Stars.”
“Anything to eat?”
“Not tonight, thanks.”
I set about mixing his cocktail, which featured scotch, ginger ale, and lemon.
After setting his drink in front of him, I served another customer before returning to talk with him.
“I hear the Craft Nation crew is in town,” I said.
Grayson set down his drink. “Filming started yesterday.”
“How’s that going?”
He grimaced. “It’s off to a bumpy start.”
“How come?” I asked with concern.
I knew how important this opportunity was to him. Having the Spirit Hill Brewery featured on an episode of the show would be great exposure for Grayson’s business and for the whole town.
“The crew had their van’s windshield smashed yesterday,” he said, “and this morning the director’s phone disappeared. She freaked out over that. It had all her contacts and the filming schedule on it. Things should be okay on that front, though. She bought a new phone and her coworkers have copies of a lot of the information she lost.”
“That’s good,” I said. “Any idea who smashed their windshield?”
“Nobody knows. Probably a teenager with nothing better to do.” He paused to take a drink. “I wanted to talk to you about the Craft Nation episode. Olivia Lo, the director, is interested in getting a few shots of the Inkwell, inside and out, since you sell my beers here and the pub is one of the town’s highlights.”
“Really?” For the first time since Marcie’s death, my spirits perked up.
“You’re okay with it?”
“Okay? I think it’s fantastic.” The publicity would be great for the Inkwell and it would be exciting to see my pub on a television show, even if only for a few seconds.
“Good. I’ll let Olivia know. She’ll probably drop by to talk to you sometime tomorrow.”
“Sounds good.”
I took a moment to survey the pub, checking to see if I was needed anywhere. Everything seemed to be under control. The crowd had thinned out over the past hour and only about half of the tables remained occupied. It was time for the kitchen to shut down for the night, so there were only drinks left to serve. Damien was across the ro
om, chatting with a couple of customers. No one seemed in need of my attention, so I turned it back to Grayson.
“Are you going to the masquerade?” I wanted to kick myself as soon as the words slipped out of my mouth. I didn’t want him to think I was fishing for a date.
“Unfortunately, no. I’ve got some meetings in Boston around that time, so I won’t be in town.”
“That’s too bad,” I said, hoping the extent of my disappointment wasn’t obvious. “I hear it’s a fun event.”
“I’ve heard that too.”
“You’ve never been?”
Grayson had lived in Shady Creek for several years now and usually took part in community events, so it surprised me that he’d never been to one of the masquerades.
“No, but maybe I’ll have to change that sometime.” The way he held my gaze made my stomach give a giddy flip. “Are you going?”
“I’ve already got my ticket.” I hesitated and my tongue got tied up.
Did he want to know if I had a date for the dance? I couldn’t think of any subtle way to let him know that I didn’t. If he didn’t care one way or the other, I’d end up embarrassing myself by telling him straight out that I was going on my own. I wanted him to care, though, and realizing that left me flustered.
Fortunately, Damien came behind the bar at that moment and greeted Grayson, his presence dissipating the awkward tension that had infused the air around me. Damien was still busy behind the bar when Grayson finished his drink and got up to leave, so I didn’t have any further alone time with him. That was both a relief and a disappointment.
After Grayson was gone, I took Damien up on his earlier offer and left the Inkwell in his hands so I could go to bed early. I hoped the next day would be far better than the one now drawing to a close.
Chapter 7
I didn’t sleep well that night and I woke up earlier than usual, my mind too wired to allow me to fall back asleep. Wimsey was pleased that he got an early breakfast, which was clear from all his purring, but I wasn’t quite so thrilled to be up an hour before I needed to be. I decided to make the most of the extra time by reading the first few chapters of Midnight’s Shadow while enjoying a leisurely breakfast of oatmeal with chocolate chips melted on top. The book was a real page-turner. As usual, Linnea had crafted a suspenseful story full of atmosphere and intrigue. The book kept me entertained and brightened my mood, but after I’d set it down my thoughts drifted to the events of the previous day.