Murder Turns the Page

by Thea Cambert

  “That’s okay,” said Alice. “Thanks, Patrick.”

  Patrick nodded and said he was glad to help and left them saying, “You three help the police solve this quick, okay? I don’t like people being murdered in my pub.”

  Back out on Main Street, they walked toward the Bard’s Bookstop.

  “Let’s check on Helen before we head over to the Lodge,” said Alice. “And then we can go to Blanche’s workshop at three—maybe we’ll get a chance to ask a few questions. We need to know if it was she who was arguing with Lawrence.”

  “Yeah,” said Franny. “It’s certainly possible that whoever was arguing with him is the killer.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Owen. “And hopefully we can also find Michael there and talk to him.”

  “Look, there’s Helen now,” said Franny, pointing in the direction of the line of customers that was forming at the bookstop.

  But Helen wasn’t chatting and bagging up people’s purchases as she had been before. Instead, she was standing dejectedly off to the side, and Katie and Ann were handling the sales.

  “Wow. Helen looks awful,” said Owen.

  “Owen, that’s not very— Oh, wow. You’re right,” said Franny.

  “She’s crying,” said Alice, picking up her pace to get to Helen. But before they got there, Helen rushed away, her face in her hands, leaving a surprised Katie and Ann behind.

  “How strange,” said Owen. “She looked like she just lost her best friend.”

  Chapter 7

  The Blue Valley Great Granddaddy Mountain Preserve and Resort Lodge lay just outside of town, in the shadow of Great Granddaddy Mountain. “The Lodge,” as everyone called it, had been brilliantly designed and influenced by the unique combination of traditional timbered mountain lodges, and New England cottages the likes of which you’d see on Nantucket or Martha’s Vineyard, all blended seamlessly into a building that was, frankly, a work of art.

  The architect, Sadie Green, had worked closely with the developer and owner, Chad Fender—and the couple worked and lived together on site. Phase one of the Lodge had involved the great main building, where guests checked in and could choose from a variety of rooms, enjoy the massive stone fireplace, or stand out on the huge second-floor balcony or the widow’s walk above the third floor to admire breathtaking mountain views or stargaze on clear nights.

  Phase two of the resort was now underway, and included an array of private cottages scattered among the trees, along with a central building which housed a café, an interactive mini-museum, and a small library with a collection of books focused on natural history and the environment. Guests could learn about local conservation efforts, peruse books about the trees and flowers in the area, and grab a loaded picnic basket before heading out to the trails.

  Most of the authors—with the notable exception of Blanche Miller—along with many of the visitors who’d come into town for Midsummer Night’s Read were staying at the Lodge, and many of the workshops and talks were being held there as well.

  Alice, Owen, and Franny hopped out of Owen’s SUV and hurried up the wide stone steps that led into the windowed entry hall of the Lodge’s main building. Off to the right was a windowed alcove housing the check-in desk and office, and there, behind the desk, was Michael.

  “Hi guys,” he said as they approached.

  “So . . . you heard about what happened to Lawrence Spraggins, right?” asked Alice.

  “Yes.” Michael swallowed. “Luke called. He’s coming out to talk to me shortly. I guess because I saw Mr. Spraggins earlier today.”

  Owen took a step closer and laid a hand on the counter. “Michael, you know how Lawrence died, right?”

  Michael’s face went blank. “What? No. I mean, I know he was found dead at the Smiling Hound a little while ago.” He looked back and forth between them. “What happened? Tell me.”

  “He was apparently hit in the head,” said Alice.

  “With one of those Alas Poor Yorick skulls,” said Franny.

  There was an uncomfortable pause.

  “The one you bought this morning,” said Owen finally.

  Michael’s brown eyes widened. “The one . . .” He swallowed again. “They think I killed him,” he whispered. “That’s why Luke’s coming.” He began to breathe rapidly. “Oh, my gosh. I feel dizzy.”

  “Sit down,” said Owen, hurrying around the desk and pulling a chair up behind Michael.

  “You have to help me,” said Michael.

  “Of course we’ll help you,” said Owen.

  “You three are better at solving these things than the police.” Michael put his head into his hands. “Why did I leave my stupid shopping bag in that room?” he said and then let out a long agonized groan. “I was just so upset. I was—"

  “Michael,” said Alice in her calmest voice, “the first thing you need to tell us is why you were so distressed after your meeting with Lawrence.”

  “Oh, gosh, I was hoping I would never have to tell anyone about that,” said Michael. He lifted his head and looked at Alice. “But okay. Here it goes.” He cleared his throat and slid a finger between his neck and his collar. “He shot me down.”

  “He shot you down?” said Owen, shocked. “But you’re a brilliant poet!”

  “He told me I should never write again. That I was really, really bad. That I should definitely not pursue publication.”

  “That son of a—” Owen’s face turned red with rage.

  “Did you notice anything suspicious while you were there with Lawrence? Anything at all?” asked Alice.

  “I was only there for maybe twenty minutes. By then, I’d had enough. But no. I mean, I was in shock for most of that twenty minutes, so I wasn’t exactly at my most observant.”

  “Was Blanche in the room while you were there?” asked Franny, lowering her voice and glancing over her shoulder.

  “Yes—well, at the beginning,” said Michael.

  “So, she wasn’t in the room when you left?” asked Alice.

  Michael slowly shook his head. “No . . . She left before I did.”

  “So, as far as you know, when you left around ten till noon, the room was empty?”

  “Yes.” Michael nodded. “Do you know when Lawrence was killed?”

  “Not yet,” said Alice.

  “Maybe it’ll turn out he died after I’d left. Surely somebody saw me leaving.”

  “We’ve only asked Patrick, and he saw you go in but not come out,” said Franny.

  “Michael, did you notice a plate of food next to the door when you left?” asked Owen.

  “No,” said Michael, closing his eyes as if to concentrate.

  Owen looked at Alice and Franny.

  “Patrick told us he heard Lawrence arguing with a woman just before noon,” said Alice. “You don’t have any idea who that could’ve been, do you?”

  Michael looked at Alice, his eyes a little brighter. “No . . . As far as I know, the room was empty when I left.”

  “Good.” Alice nodded.

  “What does this mean?” asked Michael.

  “That Lawrence was very much alive after you left,” said Alice.

  “It means you couldn’t have done it,” said Owen. “Now we just need to prove that.”

  “What about here at the Lodge?” asked Alice. “Most of the authors, including Lawrence, are booked in here. You haven’t noticed anything odd, have you?”

  “Well, yes, now that you mention it. I’m not sure whether this is odd or not, but just a few minutes ago, I was putting gift baskets into the special guests’ rooms.”

  “The special guests . . .” said Owen.

  “The authors who are on the panels, teaching classes, leading workshops,” said Michael. “We like to do little nice, extra things for our special guests. Anyway, I had already gotten the call from Luke, about Lawrence being dead.” Michael shivered a little. “So, I obviously wasn’t going to leave a basket in his room—and figured the police wouldn’t want us going in there u
ntil they’ve had a chance to look anyway. But I must have the room assignments written down wrong, because when I went into Phillip Bennett’s room to leave his basket, I was shocked. The place was a horrible mess. Like it had been ransacked.”

  “Why would anyone want to ransack Phillip Bennet’s room?” Alice wondered.

  “No, that’s just it. I made a mistake. Phillip popped his head into the room from the adjoining room when he heard me moving around in there. The doors between the rooms were partway ajar.”

  “So . . . you were in—”

  “Lawrence’s room, yes,” said Michael.

  “Are you sure the room had been ransacked?” asked Alice. “I mean, Lawrence was an unusual man. Could it be that he was simply a slob?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Michael. “I’ve been in the hotel and resort business for a good many years. I’ve encountered plenty of slobs. This was different. Open drawers and cabinets. Things thrown around.” He shook his head. “No, I’m pretty sure someone had been in there looking for something.”

  “Almost three o’clock,” said Franny. “We’d better get over to the conference room for Blanche’s workshop.”

  Alice nodded and looked back at Michael. “Don’t worry, Michael. We’re on the case.”

  Blanche’s Much Ado About Plotting workshop proved to be highly informative, and Alice was surprised at how engaging the author turned out to be when she’d seemed so snooty before. After the class had ended, they hung around, waiting for the other attendees to leave.

  “You’d better hurry along,” said Blanche, tucking her notes into her bag and walking toward the door. “We all have to be at the writer’s Q and A panel in ten minutes.”

  “Yes, we’re on our way there, too,” said Alice. “Care to walk with us?”

  Blanche gave an almost indiscernible nod, flipped off the lights, and they all walked out of the Lodge’s ballroom and down the hall to the large dining room.

  “Ms. Miller,” Alice began.

  “Blanche. Please.”

  “Blanche, we’re so sorry about the death of Mr. Spraggins,” said Alice. “Was he a close friend of yours?”

  Blanche frowned and shook her head. “No. We weren’t close. All of us know one another, because we make the rounds to conferences and book signings and the like. So we were acquainted. But I was very sorry to hear about that whole business.”

  “You were sharing a room at the Smiling Hound with him, weren’t you?” asked Franny.

  “Yes, I was,” said Blanche with a sniff. “Of course, I left before . . . well . . .” She cleared her throat and straightened. “The man was alive and well when I left the room.”

  “Was anyone else there?” asked Owen.

  Blanche paused. “Are you with the police or something?”

  “No,” said Alice quickly. “We’re just trying to help out a bit.”

  “Well, I should think you’d be the biggest help if you left this matter to the police,” said Blanche. “But I can tell you that the only person who was with Mr. Spraggins when I left that room this morning was the writer he was meeting with. I believe he is the concierge here, as a matter of fact.”

  Alice nodded, disappointed. “One more thing—and I know you didn’t know the victim all that well, so this may sound crazy. But can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill Lawrence?”

  Blanche thought about this for a moment. “I should think perhaps a jilted lover,” she finally said.

  “Here? In Blue Valley?”

  “As I said, we all make the rounds at these conferences. And although I did not know Mr. Spraggins all that well, I did observe the manner in which he conducted himself. He liked to, shall we say, play the field. He was the handsome, brilliant, misunderstood writer, and believe it or not, there are many women who, it would seem, fell for that act every time.”

  They had arrived at the door to the dining room, where the Q and A panel was set to begin in only a few minutes.

  “I don’t suppose you’d have any idea who Mr. Spraggins’s latest conquest was, would you?” asked Alice, laying a hand on the doorknob.

  Blanche looked frustrated to be held up, but then sighed. “I hate to point fingers. Truly. But there is a woman here who’d also been at the spring conference in Nashville. She seemed to be Lawrence’s lady du jour, if you will. And when I saw her again here, I couldn’t place her at first. It wasn’t until later that I remembered where I’d seen her before.” Blanche looked at Alice as though Alice already knew to whom she was referring.

  “And who is she?” Alice asked, bracing herself for the answer.

  “That local librarian. Helen Hart.”

  Chapter 8

  The Lodge’s gorgeous dining room had been rearranged to accommodate the writers panel. The authors on the panel were seated at a long table at one end of the room, and rows of chairs were set up for the audience.

  There were ten authors on the panel, and the first few minutes in the room were taken up by fans snapping pictures of the impressive group and murmuring about the excitement of seeing so many great minds in one place at one time.

  As soon as everyone had settled down a bit, Saladin Raeve stood and cleared his throat. “Thank you all for coming,” he said. “We’re all excited to be here to answer your questions and offer what guidance we can. But first . . .” He paused and cleared his throat again. “As you know, there were meant to be eleven authors on this panel, not ten. Many of you will have heard by now about the loss of our colleague and friend, Lawrence Spraggins, who died earlier today. I’d like to say a few words about Lawrence, and then we’ll have a moment of silence in his honor.”

  Saladin went on to talk about the many books Lawrence had published and about what an enigma of a human being he’d been—how he could be tough yet sensitive; how his work was sometimes mind-bending, and other times, heartrending.

  “Most of us go way back,” Saladin went on, indicating the other authors seated at the table with a sweep of his arm. “We will miss our friend, and the world will miss his genius.”

  Saladin took his seat and this was followed by a moment of silence, and then the Q and A discussion got underway.

  Owen slowly leaned over to whisper in Alice’s ear. “He knows things.”

  “Saladin?” Alice whispered back.

  “Yep. We need to stay after and talk to him.”

  “I agree,” Franny whispered, leaning around from Alice’s other side. “He knew Lawrence and he knows every one of these other authors. I’ll bet he has some insight.”

  Once the panel discussion had wrapped up and most of the attendants had trickled out of the dining room, they made their way over to where Saladin was packing up his bag.

  “Hello,” he said, nodding. “How can I help you?”

  “Well, first,” said Owen, taking out his camera. “Can we get a photo with you?”

  Alice smiled at Owen’s stroke of brilliance. Flattery was definitely one way to get people to relax and open up. Franny smartly followed suit by pulling Ben’s tattered copy of Apprentice of the North Wind along with a pen out of her giant handbag.

  “And can I ask you to sign my husband’s copy of Apprentice of the North Wind?” asked Franny. “He’s at work and couldn’t come to the panel, but he’s a huge fan.”

  “Of course!” Saladin smiled at the compliment and took the book and the pen. “What’s your husband’s name?”

  “Ben,” said Franny. “Thank you so much.”

  Blanche walked by with Phillip Bennett, raised a brow in their direction, then continued out the door, leaving the room empty except for Saladin, Alice, Owen, and Franny.

  “My pleasure,” said Saladin, tucking the pen into the book and handing it back to Franny. “In fact, I’ll do you one better.” He dug around in his leather bag and pulled out a hardcover with the title Master of the North Wind splashed across the front. “It’s an ARC.” He handed the book to Franny. “Advanced Reader Copy. It’s being published next fall.”r />
  “Oh, my gosh, Mr. Raeve!” said Franny, gratefully taking the book. “Ben will be beside himself. Thank you so much!”

  Saladin smiled.

  “If I may say so,” said Owen, “you look young for a Saladin.”

  “Sounds like a silver-haired wizard name, right?” said Saladin with a laugh.

  “Or a very clever nom de plume,” said Owen.

  “Believe it or not, Saladin is my actual middle name. My mother chose it. Course, she also chose Wilbur as my first name. I don’t know about you, but I don’t think Wilbur Raeve sounds nearly as fetching for a fantasy author.”

  “Agreed,” said Owen with a chuckle.

  “So, Mr. Raeve—” Alice began.

  “Please. Call me Saladin, or even Sal.”

  “Okay,” Alice smiled at him. “Sal, you said a lot of you on the panel knew Lawrence Spraggins pretty well?”

  A small frown crossed Saladin’s face, then disappeared. “Well, we all do these conferences, you know. I don’t think there’s a single author here I haven’t met somewhere down the line.”

  “It’s just that we’re curious about who would want to kill Lawrence,” said Alice, hoping she hadn’t been too blunt.

  “Great question,” said Saladin. “You know, Lawrence was a moody guy. He had this way of hitting people where it hurt in the worst way. Usually had nothing to do with the other person, but was more about Lawrence’s state of mind. I never did understand his way of thinking. Point being, he offended a lot of people.” He paused and shook his head. “Hurt a lot of people.”

  “So there might’ve been more than one person who had a score to settle with him,” said Alice.

  “Yes,” said Saladin, pointing at Alice as though she’d just answered a question correctly.

  “He was really tough on our friend Michael,” said Owen. “He’s the concierge here at the Lodge.”

  “Oh—yes, of course,” said Saladin. “Very nice man.”

  “He’s also a great poet,” said Owen. “But he met with Lawrence this morning, and Lawrence was brutal. Told him he should quit writing.”