“The young woman, how is she?”
Cassy turned back to the author. At first, she could only think of the woman in the photo and couldn’t work out why he would be asking her of all people.
“You mean Bella?”
“I do.”
“Eloped. Probably won’t be back, I would imagine.”
“And the case against her?”
“There isn’t one.” Thanks to you. If it hadn’t been for your eye-witness account, Bella might not be as free as she is today.
“Then all’s well,” he said into his drink. “You must be busy, Cassandra Dean. Farewell.”
Chapter Three
Cassy’s plan was to pick Brian Vidor up from the train station and drive him to his hotel, which wasn’t far from the Spicery.
It occurred to Cassy it was not her job to ferry the visiting authors to their destinations, and in some way, this had all been a setup. Most likely by Dot if not by some of the people running the weekend festival. It had become something of a habit for Dorothy to foist men on Cassy, arranging dates and convenient encounters. The number of times that they had “just happened” to bump into a prospective suitor defied statistical odds. It was Dot’s version of caring for Cassy, as if the only missing thing in her life was a man.
“He better match his photo,” said Cassy aloud to no one in particular. She slowed as she neared town then glanced to the book sat face down on the passenger seat. The author’s picture on the back was a classy black and white head shot. Vidor looked a little nerdy, eyes squinting behind thick-rimmed glasses, but he was handsome in his own way. On the flip side, the title Sentient was splashed in bold red capitals and the name Brian Vidor was at least as big. If your name is as big as the title, then you know you’ve made it as a writer.
“Maybe, maybe…” Cassy mused, pulling into the station parking lot. Brian was already there waiting for her and approached waving. He knocked on the window and made a small circular motion with his hand indicating that she should roll down the window. She lazily pressed the button and the warm air flooded in over the top of the glass.
“Cassandra?”
She nodded.
“Brian.” He opened the door, sat down, then immediately got out again. He retrieved the copy of his novel from the seat, then regarded the back cover. “Not the most flattering picture. Out of date too.”
It had to be said that Brian was right. The man sitting next to her was thinner, had a better haircut and had lost the glasses. She suspected that the publicity shot had been done before he’d become successful, wealthy and celebrated.
“No luggage?”
“I like to travel light.”
Traveling light was only an option for people who could afford to buy what they needed at their destination, thought Cassy. She didn’t know why she was judging this man already; maybe she was still annoyed she’d been set up.
On the way back, they made the usual small talk, exchanging stories about their latest publication. Of course, Cassy didn’t mention that her latest was also her only. Eventually, she had to get something off her chest.
“Why didn’t you get a car to take you to Havenholm?”
“I don’t drive,” he said, shrugging.
“I mean like a taxi,” said Cassy. “Did someone named Dorothy suggest that I be your personal chauffeur?”
Brian shook his head. The deliberate movement waned then became a nod. “Yes,” he admitted. “She said you might suspect something. Is this something she does a lot?”
He sounded genuinely apologetic and Cassy warmed to him. “I guess so. In fact, yeah. A lot.”
“I just got out of a relationship and thought it might be fun, you know, while I’m in town—” He stopped suddenly as he caught the sharp stare he was getting. “No, I mean, it’s not like I think you’d be… It wasn’t my intention to imply anything…” He collapsed back into the seat. “Okay, I’ll come clean. Dorothy was it…? She mentioned Frowd and that you lived in the same building, and I guess he’s the whole reason I got into writing.”
Oddly, Cassy was relieved that it turned out that she was being used to get to Frowd, rather than the other possibility. Then again, now that the truth was out, she wouldn’t have minded a brief dalliance with the NY Times bestselling author.
“People really love his work, don’t they?”
Brian became enthused. “Are you kidding? The man’s a genius. Or used to be. He hasn’t released anything in years, nothing decent anyway. As soon as I heard he was going to be the guest of honor I told my agent I had to come here. It’s a small place but it’s all about Max Frowd.”
“So he inspired you?”
“For sure, but not the big ones. Not the ones they teach in school, Feather on the Wind and all that. When I was young, I really got into the early stuff, you know. The thrillers he wrote to pay the rent. Dime store stuff. There was a raw honesty to them, an immediacy.”
Cassy indicated the novel Sentient that Brian still clutched in his hands. “Is that why you write those things?”
This made Brian laugh. “Not a horror fan, huh? I thought you said you wrote about witchcraft?”
“Witchcraft is a peaceful and fulfilling practice, I’ll have you know, Mr. Vidor. Not like you horror-heads show it.”
This too made Cassy’s passenger laugh. “More love potions and song circles than broomsticks and black cats.”
“Oh, I have a black cat, Herzog.”
“Good name.”
“I know. No broomstick though. I have a vacuum cleaner like most people.”
“I guess for all the cat hair.”
Now it was Cassy’s turn to laugh. She might be warming to Brian “Name as big as his titles” Vidor. “If only there were spells that required cat hair, I’d have an endless supply.”
Chapter Four
The first day of the Weekend of Words was a lot busier than expected. The streets were lined with out-of-towners, fresh faces bringing an uncustomary hustle and bustle to Havenholm. The hotels, motels, and bed and breakfasts were fully booked, and several people were still looking for places to stay.
Business was swift at the Spicery with people looking to find a souvenir of their time in the little secluded paradise that was Havenholm. Dot and Patty were rushed off their feet in a frenzy of activity that didn’t look like it was going to let up anytime soon. Cassy almost felt guilty that she had to leave them to attend a book signing later that afternoon. Almost.
“Are you girls going to be okay? —I really didn’t think it was going to get like this,” she said with the right amount of contrite apology in her voice.
“We’re trained professionals, Cass,” said Patty navigating the winding aisles back to the counter where she wrapped up a bouquet of dried herbs in a gauze bag. Dot meanwhile was trying to restock the store shelves, which had barely seen the light of day since they’d opened a few years earlier.
“Oh no, you go and have fun with all of your fans,” said Dot, sarcasm practically dripping from every word. “Don’t mind us, hon.” She paused while reaching on tip-toes for the uppermost shelf then swiveled, eyes bright. “Did you meet Mr. Ryan? Good-looking, don’t you think? Rich too.”
Cassy rolled her eyes at both statements.
“It’s Brian. Brian Vidor, and yes, I did. Thank you very much, and I’m not interested.” She tried to stare Dot down, but the older woman had nothing of it, seemingly immune to her withering looks. “I knew you were behind that.”
“If you’re not going to try, then someone has too,” said Dot returning to her work.
“I’m a very busy woman,” protested Cassy. She moved out of the way of the rapidly extending line that had formed in the store. From her new position, she came to face the simple bookcase that proudly bore the fruit of her labor. Not a single copy had been purchased.
“Why am I even going to this thing,” she moaned. “Who wants a signed copy of a book of recipes most people think is a bunkum?”
Scandalized
by what she was hearing, Patty strode across the store regardless of the customers she was abandoning, several of whom watched in mild disbelief.
“Cassandra!” she said using her full name, possibly for the first time ever. “I’ve always looked up to you, almost like a big sister…” Cassy had feared that she might have said aunt, or even mother-figure. She’d take big sister. “You’re one of the smartest people I know, and there’s no reason people wouldn’t want your book. You just have to get out there and let them know about it. That’s what this festival’s for, right?”
“I guess.” Cassy was starting to feel a little more confident now.
“If I look up to you, others will too. You’re a local girl made good. You have your own store, business is booming. You have international best-selling authors after you.” Patty gave a thumb up to Dot and winked. “And on top of that, you’ve done something many people couldn’t even start: you’ve written a book. And it’s a good one!”
Cassy beamed. When it was all strung out like that before her, things did sound pretty good. She didn’t know why she’d been so worried.
“If I’ve achieved half that amount by the time I’m as old as you, I’d be happy,” said Patty. Without a further word she turned, sneakers squeaking on the floor and cute little braids swinging. Like a balloon with a slow puncture, Cassy deflated. It had all been going so well.
The town hall was the largest single indoor place in all of Havenholm, but at Cassy’s suggestion, the festival had chosen to move the book signing to the park. Not only were there too many recent bad memories associated with the town hall, but it would have been criminal to waste the summer sun.
As Cassy searched for someone to show her to where the signing actually was, having promptly gotten lost in the crowds on arrival, she was beginning to regret the change of venue as the sun beat down on her. There were stalls of all kinds along the perimeter of the park, selling mostly books as was expected but some had things like costumes of your favorite characters, electronic reading gadgets and novelties like over-sized bookmarks. There was even a place where you could try out and purchase reclining armchairs, which Cassy thought was pushing the remit of a literary festival. Later, there would be readings from the visiting authors and all-day workshops were being run for everyone from kids and up. When she finally arrived at the awning that covered a long table at which were sat a remarkable amount of recognizable faces, Cassy felt as though she was going to melt. Fitting, she thought, for a self-proclaimed witch. One of the festival stewards showed her to her seat which was next to a tall, impeccably dressed man with horn-rimmed glasses. She saw Brian a few chairs down, furiously scribbling his name in a constant stream of his own novels. She waved at him to appear like she belonged there. She was getting serious impostor syndrome. Thankfully, he waved back and smiled.
“I know him,” she mentioned casually to the well-dressed man to her right. He looked down at her over the ridge of his spectacles.
“Do you? Don’t we all. He’s pretty well known, don’t you think?”
“I mean we’ve met, because I’m also an author. I’m not just a little shop, spices and things, er….” She was flustered and acutely aware that she was a little out of her depth.
“You’re the local author, aren’t you?” He said “local” as if it was a diseased word, trying not to let the syllables touch his lips.
“Yeah. Witch recipes. That’s me.” Cassy waved her book, one of the several unsold copies from the store she’d brought with her. “And you are?”
“Chet,” he said dryly. He did not look like a Chet. Chets played sports, or fixed cars in a garage and were covered with grease. They didn’t wear tweed suits and horn-rimmed glasses.
“Chet Ealing, right?” He looked a lot different from how she’d imagined the controversial author. But then again, didn’t he write about psychopaths that were in plain sight? That was his thing, remembered Cassy. Unlike Brian Vidor, he wasn’t a horror writer, but more of a cultural essayist who happened to have chosen fiction as his medium. Cassy was sat next to the real deal, a proper bad boy of the literary world, the kind who eventually becomes part of the establishment.
His answer was little more than a dismissive hum, though he did have books to sign, so maybe he wasn’t ignoring Cassy on purpose. Or so she liked to think. As he leaned forward to put pen to one of his overly large books, he revealed next to him a slight figure with a wisp of gray hair curled on top of her head like an ice cream cone. The eccentric-looking woman wore a bright pink dress suit with power shoulders. This was unmistakably Jenny Thatcher, one of Dot’s favorite authors. She was the producer of what had been once described as the bonkbuster, sexy middle-aged fantasies aimed at bored middle American housewives. She’d made an empire from overripe prose and blush-worthy sex scenes. Jenny saw that she was being watched and waved to Cassy.
“Can you sign my book? I mean your book. The one that I bought?” The wriggly little voice seemed to worm its way into Cassy’s ear and she turned to find its owner. A young man with long dark hair flat against his scalp and a permanent squint was thrusting a book, her book, in Cassy’s direction. “Make it out to Dwayne Bradley,” he insisted, “love Cassandra Dean.”
My first customer, thought Cassy. She might have preferred to not know that it was this odd, spindly kid with sweat patches under his arms, but at this point she’d take anything. “Certainly,” she beamed, “Dwayne.”
She’d never signed anything before and found herself looking over to Chet Ealing’s line, which was a lot longer than hers by, well, just about everyone. He was like a machine, scrawling with a flourish then dismissing the book and reader before moving on to the next one.
Cassy decided to take her time.
“Are you interested in witchcraft, Dwayne?”
He looked at her blankly for a second then at the book then back at her once more.
“Oh, yeah sure,” he said in a monotone, then prompted again, “Love Cassandra Dean.”
She added the note as requested but found that her hand was trembling. She managed to get the words on the page but even she had to admit they were completely illegible. Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, Cassy took another book from the pile and, successfully this time, signed it. She handed the book back but Dwayne lingered. She looked at him quizzically.
“Why isn’t Maximilian Frowd here?” he demanded to know.
“He’ll be here for the panel,” said Cassy keeping up her smile. “He’s just not into meeting the fans.”
“I’m a fan. I need his signature. I need all the signatures.”
Cassy nodded slowly. This guy wasn’t getting it.
“I guess you’re going to have to wait until later. Even then I’m not going to promise anything.”
Finally, he seemed to relent and accept that he wasn’t going to get his book signed anytime soon. “He understands, man, you know? About how it all really works, deep down. You can tell he’s been there. To the truth, I mean. Not like all this empty trash you get now. Vampires and werewolves and boy wizards. Don’t you wish we could go back to a time when books meant something?”
“Vampires and werewolves and boy wizards are the oldest stories there are, Bradley. It may seem empty to you, but it’s what speaks to people.”
This seemed to, not so much satisfy him, but to knock him out of his train of thought. He blinked three times as if run on clockwork then shook his head. Without any further discourse, he went to the back of Chet’s line.
He was the first of many people who came to her little part of the festival and remained the oddest by far, for which Cassy was grateful. Most of the people who wanted her to sign her book were people she recognized from around Havenholm, which was nice, but she’d had fantasies of being discovered by people from all over.
“Can you believe it?” said Chet just before noon. He leaned back on his chair and Cassy was worried that he was going to topple back, but he remained perfectly balanced.
“What�
��s that?” inquired Cassy.
Chet pointed to a commotion just beyond the signing tent. Like swirling eddies in a stream, people were being moved aside as a larger force came through.
“It’s that faerie b—”
“Language, Mr. Ealing,” said Jenny Thatcher cutting him short. She had also taken a break from her duties to observe the approaching calamity. “I know the content of your books is rather vulgar, but in polite society, we restrain ourselves.”
Ealing’s glasses almost fell off his nose in shock. This was the woman who had made an industry out of “rolling in the hay,” but Cassy had to concede that her prose, though ripe, was never confrontational.
“Do you mean Caroline Cuthbert?”
“Yeah, the faerie b—”
“Mr. Ealing!”
Cassy had not forgotten Patty’s request to get her fifth edition Bogsnatchers book signed and had brought the well-thumbed copy with her. The cover depicted a small blue-skinned girl with butterfly wings looking over her shoulder in a state of shock as something big and dark came through the trees. It wasn’t Cassy’s cup of tea, so to say, but she understood the appeal.
“I’ll be right back,” she informed Chet and Jennifer, not that they were particularly concerned. She made her way through the masses to the epicenter of all the commotion. It seemed counter-productive to come through the middle of the park and attract such attention. There were adequate facilities set up for authors behind the scenes and was easy enough to slip in undetected that way. But of course this was all part of the show, wasn’t it? Myth building not on the page but out in the real world. The cult of the celebrity author.
She didn’t so much make it to Caroline Cuthbert as the vortex of her arrival passed by her, buffeting Cassy. She found that all she had to do was stay still and inevitably the celebrated author would appear like a tsunami.
Ink-Slinger Murder Page 2