Reserved for Murder

by Victoria Gilbert

  “Nice, but not today,” Tony said, as he moved close to my side. “I just want a quiet, and somewhat cool, place to talk.

  I lengthened my stride, forcing him to increase his pace to keep up with me. It was cooler under the spreading limbs of the weathered trees, many of which were draped in thick wisteria vines. I paused in front of a pair of graves. “There’s the headstone for poor little Vienna Dill, who was only two when she died of yellow fever, and near it is the memorial for Pierre Henry and his wife Annie Henry, African Americans who were the leaders of a school for emancipated slaves and their children.”

  “I’m not really interested in a history lesson.” Tony’s fingers clamped down on my bare forearm. “I just want to talk.”

  “About what, exactly?” I twisted my arm to break his grip and glanced around the area. Seeing no other visitors nearby, I slipped my hand into my pocket to clasp my cell phone.

  “You playing amateur detective.”

  “What makes you think I’m doing that?” I slid out my phone, pressing it into the folds of my loose cotton tunic top to hide it from Tony’s view.

  Tony yanked off his hat and used it to fan his flushed face. “Come on, I know you’ve been talking to Amanda, and probably others, like that Harper chick.”

  The quiet of the cemetery was almost eerie. I gazed into the thick tangle of trees and shrubs that filled the spaces between the rough paths. “I was merely making conversation with my guests. It’s what a good host is supposed to do.”

  “Right. And that’s why Amanda once again accused me of having something to do with Lisette Bradford’s death. Just this morning, after talking to you yesterday. Which she admitted doing, by the way.”

  “And did you?” I asked, focusing my gaze back on him.

  “Of course not.” Tony’s tone was full of bluster. “Why would I? She was nothing to me. I certainly had no reason to want her dead.” His sparse eyebrows drew together. “I think it’s much more likely that you’re just looking to pin the murder on me to draw suspicion away from your friend, Roger Warren.”

  I tightened my grip on my phone as I forced myself to maintain a calm demeanor. “He isn’t my friend. I just met the man the other day.”

  “Alright, the friend of your friend, Scott Kepler, then.” Tony slapped his hat back on his head. “But whatever your motives, you whispering false ideas in Amanda’s ear has to stop.”

  “I didn’t have to do that. She already had those thoughts. In fact, she was the one who sought me out and told me she was afraid you were involved in Lisette’s murder.”

  Tony’s bark of laughter reverberated through the gloomy silence of the cemetery. “And did she say why? I bet she didn’t, because I think you’re making all this up.”

  Keeping the phone hidden, I pressed my free hand to my chest. “Amanda said you might want to harm Lisette because she humiliated you.”

  Tony took a step back, stumbling over one of the rocks that littered the ground. “What are you talking about?”

  “You didn’t have an affair with her, and then suggest to your company’s editorial team that she write Amanda’s latest novel?” I tipped my head and studied his face. His expression wasn’t giving anything away, but he was perspiring freely. Although that could be attributed to the heat, it might also have indicated inner turmoil. “I heard that rumor from others, as well as Amanda, in case you’re wondering.”

  Tony swore, before turning aside to stare at Vienna Dill’s grave.

  “Amanda said she felt incapable of writing another book in the Tides series by the publisher’s deadline, but she didn’t want to cause any trouble for her agent or publisher, so she agreed to a ghostwriting deal. Although she had no idea that Lisette had been selected to write the book and wasn’t too thrilled with that choice, which she partially attributed to your influence. I mean, the publisher wouldn’t have known about Lisette’s fan fiction if it weren’t for you putting forward her name and sharing her most popular work with them.”

  “Did she now?” Tony’s tone was hollow. “How strange that she believes I could have any such influence. I handle publicity and marketing, after all. Nothing to do with editorial decisions. And as I said, I had no relationship, good or bad, with Lisette Bradford. On the other hand, Amanda’s claims are a rather clever way to cast the blame on me. Lifts the cloak of suspicion off of her shoulders, doesn’t it?”

  “Why would she want to kill Lisette? Unless, as you shouted the other evening, it was jealousy. Although that seems like a weak motive to me. Why would Amanda fret over someone else writing a book for her when she approved the deal in the first place?”

  Tony fixed me with a steely stare. “I don’t know what you mean about shouting, and if you’ve been told that Amanda’s thirteenth installment in her series was written by anyone other than her, you’ve been misinformed.”

  “It was Amanda who told me”—I held up my hand, palm out—“which seems like a pretty solid source.”

  “She’s lying.” Tony’s cool façade cracked like ice under hot water. “I don’t know why she’d say that, unless her mind is slipping, but I can assure you that all the Tides books have been, and will continue to be, written by Amanda Nobel.”

  I held his intense stare without faltering, but inwardly, my resolve crumbled. I knew, from what Julie had told me, as well as Amanda’s own confession, that Tony was not telling the truth. Lisette Bradford had definitely ghostwritten Amanda’s upcoming book.

  But Tony Lott was never going to admit that to me. Or anything about his failed relationship with Lisette, I thought, considering how a desire to avenge the humiliation of being used and discarded could’ve fueled a murder. And here you are, standing in a graveyard with a possible killer. I backed away. “I think it’s time I headed back to Chapters. You’re free to stay and look around if you like. The Old Burying Ground is worth a proper visit.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I think I’d rather find a place for a proper drink,” Tony said, before pointing his forefinger at me. “And just so you know, since you seem to want to dig into everyone’s business, I know Amanda is hiding some secrets she might kill to protect. I heard that directly from …” Tony snapped his mouth shut and stared defiantly at me for a moment before speaking again. “Run along then, but just remember that I have a lot of power in certain circles. I know some travel journalists and bloggers who could trash the reputation of your bed-and-breakfast to the point where you’d be lucky to book one or two full weeks a year. So if you know what’s good for you, you’d better stop spreading any salacious stories concerning me, or Amanda’s books.”

  I held up my other hand, displaying my cell phone. “And if you know what’s best, you won’t threaten me, especially when I have the police on speed dial.” I lowered my hand so he wouldn’t notice it shaking. “Good day, Mr. Lott. I hope you will enjoy the rest of your day. But may I suggest that you don’t try to talk to me privately again? I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep my temper if you choose to spew any more of your misplaced anger at me.” I turned on my heel and marched out of the cemetery, not stopping until I reached the iron entrance gate.

  I paused then, to cling to the bars of the open gate until my wobbly legs felt strong enough to carry me home.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I hurried down Ann Street toward Chapters, skirting the clusters of tourists at the intersection of Turner Street. All I wanted was to reach the safety of my home, and perhaps grab a glass of wine. Sure, it was barely noon, but after the encounter with Tony I felt I’d earned a drink with lunch.

  But as I approached Chapters, I noticed a man striding away from Ellen’s house. The sun glinting off his curly hair told me this was Gavin, and when he made a sharp turn at the corner, I decided to follow him. He was headed in a direction that could easily take him to the Sandburg sisters’ home, and I wanted to be able to alert Ellen if it looked like he was planning to visit them on his own.

  I forced myself to walk slowly, not wanting to catch up
with him or alert him to my presence. In fact, I lingered at the corner, peering down the street from that vantage point rather than moving closer.

  Gavin halted in front of Bernadette and Ophelia’s bungalow. Noticing that he seemed focused on their home, I crept closer, making my way to the home next to theirs before sliding in behind a large azalea bush.

  Bernadette answered the door, meeting Gavin on the front porch. From my vantage point, I could only faintly hear Gavin introduce himself and ask to speak with Ophelia.

  But Bernadette’s booming reply was loud enough for me to hear every word. “I’m sorry, Ophelia isn’t here,” she said. “There’s a garden talk over in Swansboro today, and there’s nothing she likes better, regardless of the heat and humidity.” Bernadette’s voice sharpened as she added, “I’d have thought Ellen would’ve told you that, since she’s part of the garden club too.”

  Gavin said something that sounded like, “Thanks, I’ll tell Ellen and we’ll catch her later, then,” before he turned and strode off the porch and out of the yard.

  I stayed frozen in place until he marched by, only moving when he turned onto Ann Street. Then I scrambled after him, having decided that I could easily claim to have walked up from the waterfront if he questioned my sudden appearance behind him.

  But when I turned the corner, he’d already crossed the street to reach a white compact car. I paused, realizing I’d seen that vehicle parked on the other side of the street and paid little attention to it, thinking it belonged to one of our neighbors’ guests.

  Obviously, it’s a rental that Gavin’s been using instead, I thought, as he jumped in the car and backed it up just enough to turn around in the quiet street. He drove off at some speed, toward the main part of town.

  I suspected he was headed for Turner Street, which would lead him out of town and onto the road that connected with the bridge over to Morehead City. And then on to Swansboro? I questioned, picking up my pace. Reaching Ellen’s house, I bounded up the porch steps and jabbed my finger against her doorbell.

  “I think Gavin’s stalking Ophelia,” I blurted out as soon as Ellen opened the door.

  She didn’t even blink. “Let me grab Shandy and my purse, and we’ll follow in my car,” she said, before closing the door.

  I only had to wait on the porch for a few minutes before she reappeared, clutching Shandy, who wore a neon-blue harness with a matching leash, against her chest. As I followed her down the steps and across the front yard, I filled her in on what I’d seen.

  “Oh right, that garden club talk. I was thinking about going but changed my mind,” Ellen said, as I slid into the passenger seat of her pale-blue sedan.

  Ellen strapped Shandy into a contraption fixed to her back seat—rather like a child’s booster seat, but sized for a small dog. “Keeps him from running around in the car, and it’s much safer. Even a fender bender could toss a little fellow like him around,” she said, as she climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “Good idea.” I glanced over my shoulder at the Yorkie, whose black eyes, veiled by his long hair, were bright as polished buttons. He panted, his pink tongue hanging out of his mouth. “It is a bit warm, isn’t it, boy?” I said, fanning my face with my hand.

  “Despite parking in the shade, the car does get hot, but that’ll soon be remedied,” Ellen said, reaching across the dashboard to adjust the air conditioning.

  Cool air blasted out of the vent in front of me. I leaned forward slightly to allow it to hit my face and neck. “Do you know where this garden club meeting is being held? I mean, I know it’s in Swansboro, but is there a more exact location?”

  Ellen backed out of her driveway and pointed the car toward the central part of town. “On the waterfront, near the town square.” She cast me a quick glance. “Not that it would be hard to find an event happening in Swansboro. It’s a pretty small town, and mostly residential, you know.”

  “I confess I haven’t visited there yet, despite it only being a short drive away.” I sat back and stared out the side window. “Don’t you have to cross the bridge over Bogue Sound and take 58 all the way down to Emerald Isle?”

  “That’s the scenic route, and I prefer it if I’m just out for a drive, but there’s a faster one we’ll use today,” Ellen said.

  I studied her profile, noticing the tightness of her jaw. “Not driving alongside the beach, I take it,” I said as we passed the entrance to the bridge that connected Morehead City to Atlantic Beach.

  “No, but we’ll turn off soon. Although not nearly as charming a drive, it’s a more direct shot to Swansboro from here.”

  We traveled through a flat, rather sparsely populated landscape and then through the small towns of Cape Carteret and Cedar Point. As we drove, I shared the information from my encounter with Tony.

  “It does seem that Mr. Lott has the requisite anger and control issues that might drive him to kill,” Ellen said. “And he strikes me as a very proud, rather self-important man. I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t respond well to being used in a romantic relationship and then being humiliated.”

  Staring out over the water as we crossed the bridge that spanned the White Oak River, one of the major tributaries flowing into Bogue Sound, I tapped the glass. “He could’ve murdered her for revenge. But to play devil’s advocate, wouldn’t that also mean he was killing the goose before she laid any more golden eggs? If his employer hoped to continue the Tides series, and Amanda didn’t choose to write more books, they’d need Lisette again, wouldn’t they?”

  “Maybe he didn’t care about that. It wouldn’t necessarily affect him personally. And besides, I’m sure the publisher could find someone else to fill that role. Let’s face it—even if the quality of future books in the series fell off, they’d still sell. At least for a while. Maybe over time readers would drift away, but many will continue to follow a series they’re so invested in, at least through another two or three volumes.” Ellen sent me a side-eyed glance. “I’m more curious about Tony’s comment alluding to Amanda hiding secrets. Did you get the impression that he learned this from Lisette Bradford when they were still dating?”

  “Definitely, although he caught himself before he spoke her name. But I’m sure that’s what he was about to say.” I tapped the handle of my door with one finger. “Which means Lisette might have known something Amanda wanted to keep quiet.”

  “Would’ve killed to do so, perhaps?” Ellen asked.

  “It’s possible, I suppose,” I replied, before falling silent for a few minutes.

  “Oh, what a quaint town,” I said at last, as I glanced across the car to look out the driver’s side window. As we crossed the bridge, older wooden structures and docks set along the riverfront came into view, along with several streets filled with vintage-style businesses and homes.

  “It was incorporated in 1783, and was a settlement that grew up around a plantation before that, so it’s been around for a while.” Ellen turned left, onto what was obviously one of the town’s main streets.

  “Front Street. Just like in Beaufort,” I said, as we drove past several brick and wood-framed buildings set close to the sidewalks.

  “Both are adjacent to the waterfront, so I suppose that makes sense,” Ellen said. “I’m going to turn up a side street to park and then we can walk to the Town Square area. It’s only a few blocks.”

  The streets were a little hillier than expected, until I remembered that this town faced the White River and part of the intercoastal waterway. River towns often featured bluffs, so these gentle hills weren’t out of place. I followed Ellen and a frisky Shandy back to Front Street, where we trotted past a restaurant that featured a 1950s theme as well as several charming gift shops. Where the street ended, there was a stretch of grassy lawn rolling down to the water on one side, a strip of shops and a pub ahead of us, and a small park with an outdoor bandstand on the right, where the road intersected with another street.

  “That’s the town square,” Ellen said, motioning toward
the bandstand. “They hold concerts there every week during the summer months.”

  I pointed at a crowd gathered on the grassy area beside a two-story building that included shops on both floors and a deck that overlooked the river. “Is that the garden club group?”

  Keeping a tight grip on Shandy’s leash, Ellen shaded her eyes with one hand. “Looks like it. I remember our newsletter said that there would be a brief talk by a master gardener before a tour of some of the local properties.”

  “And there’s Ophelia,” I said, as a few people in the group moved aside, revealing the back of a tall, thin woman’s head. “That fire-engine-red hair is pretty unmistakable.”

  “Definitely.” Ellen let out Shandy’s leash a little, allowing the small dog to sniff the surrounding grass. “I think I’ll wait until the talk concludes before I try to pull her aside.”

  I glanced up the connecting road, which the signpost informed me was Church Street. “Is that Gavin’s rental car, a block up from the stairs that lead to that pub?”

  “Could be.” As Ellen squinted in the bright sunlight. I realized she’d left the house in such a hurry that she’d forgotten her hat and sunglasses. “Although a lot of those rental cars look the same to me.”

  “You stay here and wait to catch up with Ophelia. I’m going to check out that car,” I said, sprinting away before Ellen could protest.

  When I reached the vehicle, the rental company sticker on the back window convinced me it was indeed Gavin’s car, but it was locked and empty. I looked around, trying to catch a glimpse of him. Surely, if he’d trailed Ophelia to this town, he had some ulterior motive.

  Leaning against the car, I peered inside. Not that I expected to see anything that would clarify the situation, but just because I was curious. What did a secret agent carry around in his rental car?

  Nothing, apparently. As I straightened, a hand fell heavily on my shoulder.