Ink-Slinger Murder

by Wendy Meadows

  “Not really, no,” Cassy bluffed. It was true, but not the reason for her adrenaline-fueled tremors.

  “I remember my first time out on a publicity tour. Terrified I was. My first novel had been an unexpected hit—”

  “A Woman of Substance.”

  “You’ve read it!”

  “No,” Cassy had to confess, “but my friend Dot is a fan. Big romance reader.”

  “Romance, of course that’s what they call it. I always considered myself a historical writer. But of course, all anyone was focused on were the love scenes. As if people from history didn’t get up to that kind of thing.”

  Thatcher’s reputation and continued output, which could only be classified as racy, made her appear a little disingenuous. Cassy let it slide, however. The old girl clearly knew her readership and played to her strengths. Let her indulge her fantasy that she was in any way a serious author.

  “What’s the plan for this kind of thing. Just a free for all?”

  “There’ll be a moderator who will parcel out the questions to each of us. People tend to keep it light, humorous, anecdotal. Don’t feel obliged to give a straight answer; this isn’t an interview. The audience just wants to get a sense of your personality.”

  “I’m in trouble then.”

  “See what I mean? Keep it humorous. You’ll do fine.”

  They came to a natural break in the conversation and Cassy withdrew her hand from the older woman’s gentle grip. She was about to make her excuses when Jennifer started up again.

  “Old Reacher’s in a bit of a twist. Have you seen him? Pacing up and down like a boy on the front lines.”

  “I guess he’s just worried about Caroline. She pulled out of the panel.” Cassy had to swallow hard to force the lie.

  “He’s no stranger to setbacks. No, he’s an old pro. There’s something else going on that’s bothering him.”

  “I’m sure we’ll find out sooner or later.”

  “I’m not bothered really. I have no time for the man myself. Came on a bit too strong when I was just starting out. Confused me for an impressionable young woman, which of course I was, but I knew about men like him.”

  As if suddenly released from bonds, Cassy felt at ease. It was always easier for her to focus on something new to overcome what was troubling her. “Men like him?”

  “The kind who don’t take no for an answer,” said Jennifer. “I don’t want you to think that he did anything untoward, to me or to anyone. It’s just that like all good agents, when he sees something he wants, he doesn’t let go. I heard he was almost single-handedly responsible for all that Bognoodle-whatsits.”

  “Bogsnatchers.” Cassy had to suppress a laugh.

  “Apparently, he constructed Caroline Cuthbert; it’s not even her real name. Kind of a surrogate author, if you will.”

  “She wasn’t even the writer?” Cassy was aware that she’d used the past tense but hoped that it would go unremarked upon.

  “Oh, she wrote them I’m sure of that. Plucked from obscurity and transformed into a brand. Quite frankly, it could have been anyone. I heard he had the titles all ready, even the covers. He tried it on with me years ago, but I wouldn’t let him.”

  It wasn’t unusual for writers to take up pen names, and Cuthbert surely wasn’t the only populist author to be considered a brand. In many ways, it was just good business sense. Cassy thought she might like to be swept up in such an enterprise. If only there’d been a readership for archaic spells and anecdotes from being a witch in a small New England town. Thatcher’s stance on the subject of Cuthbert’s authenticity seemed very old-fashioned, and Cassy considered that there might be a deeper resentment at play.

  “People love her though, don’t they? Whatever the origin of the books, I think they really captured the popular imagination.” It was a strange sort of disconnect having to defend a woman she had no connection to and whom she knew had been killed just a few hours earlier.

  “I guess that’s all that matters in the end, isn’t it? The end product,” said Jennifer with some finality. “We’d better get ready. I just saw the moderator going on stage. Did you get a chance to meet her?”

  “Not yet, no. Who is it?”

  “Some young little thing called Patricia. Completely out of her depth but charming.”

  Cassy felt nervous once more but not because of any secrets she had to withhold but due to the dawning realization that she had in fact already met the moderator for tonight’s panel.

  “Patty? Are you serious?”

  “Pretty girl with a red streak in her hair.”

  “Well that’s new.” Cassy was already thinking of ways she might be able to pull out of the panel but found none.

  “Do you know her? Local girl, I assume.”

  “Yes, she’s from around here,” said Cassy. “She’s going to be so disappointed when Caroline doesn’t show up.” And even more so when she finds out the reason.

  “Oh, don’t tell me we have a Cuthbert fan as moderator.”

  Cassy stood and brushed herself down, readying herself to go on stage. She glanced at her phone; the panel wasn’t due to start for another fifteen minutes. “To be honest, I think the Bogsnatcher books are the only ones she’s ever read. I doubt she’s even picked mine up, and I’m her boss.”

  She strode towards the stage entrance leaving Jennifer Thatcher in something of a daze.

  Chapter Eleven

  Patty was waiting there, already in her chair at the end of the long table. Present too was an ever-increasing crowd of people funneling in from the dwindling daylight just beyond the marquee walls and into the fluorescent hum within.

  The chairs laid out in rows like soldiers at a parade were not yet all full, but they soon would be, and that would mean that there was officially a lot of people there. For the first time, Cassy felt concerned that she might not be able to go through with the panel. It wasn’t just the death of Caroline Cuthbert, for whom many of the audience was here. She had an unshakable feeling that she would just blabber incoherently if asked a question. Certainly, in contrast to the other writers who she’d be sitting alongside, Cassy was not a master wordsmith.

  Then Patty waved at her and everything was alright. The girl’s joyful and enthusiastic smile filled Cassy with relief. Of course she could do this. It wasn’t as if Patty was going to ask any really probing questions or toss any curve balls her way. The more she thought about it, the better the idea of getting Patty to moderate seemed like a good idea.

  “The cattle’s here for the slaughter then, are they?”

  Cassy turned to see who had spoken but already knew that it was Chet. He had a nihilistic streak wide enough for four lanes of traffic.

  “Just who do you mean? Them?” said Cassy indicating the audience, “Or us?”

  The company of writers—romance, horror, post-modernist, non-fiction witchcraft, and gonzo semi-autobiography-half-truth—were all accounted for. All that remained on the docket of genres was prestige literary fiction (though a couple of the others would claim that title too if they had their way).

  “He is coming, isn’t he?” said Brian who had pushed to the front of the group to be next to Cassy as they both watched Patty welcome the audience. There was an audible collective groan from the audience, presumably as she had to address Cuthbert’s absence.

  “Do you mean Frowd?”

  “Of course he means Frowd. He’s the only reason anyone’s here, isn’t he?” said Chet.

  “It may be the only reason you’re here, Chet, but I think you underestimate the lure of Miss Cuthbert.”

  “Oh God help us,” moaned Chet.

  Then without warning, it was time to go onstage. As Patty beckoned her forward, Cassy came in from the wings to a cheer that boosted her confidence somewhat. She recognized so many faces that it felt like she was among friends, which of course she was. Up front were the Oranges (Mr. & Mrs.) who owned the cafe opposite the Spicery. She waved to them as she took her seat.


  “You didn’t tell me you were doing this,” said Cassy to Patty slyly.

  Patty covered her mic and leaned over to Cassy. “Sure I did. Didn’t I? I’m sure I did.”

  One by one the authors took their seats, each to rapturous applause. First Cassy, then Chet followed by Jennifer. Then came Farmer, as shaky as ever and finally Brian who waved to Cassy from the far end. It was as if Havenholm had been starved of culture. Cassy held that thought for a while; there was some truth in it.

  The audience rose to their feet, and the applause swelled. Cassy looked to see who was the recipient of such an ovation, and inevitably she saw Maximilian Frowd come on stage, predictably late. He hung his head low and made an odd gesture like a half-hearted wave. Chet Easton too was standing, smacking his hands together, basking in the reflected glory of his hero.

  “Glad you could make it,” said Patty as the applause died down. This received a welcome smattering of laughter.

  “Unlike some people,” said Frowd, which also garnered a chuckle though a little more reserved. Cassy had no intention of laughing. It was hard enough not to burst into tears. She hadn’t even known Caroline Cuthbert and hadn’t taken away a particularly good first impression. She decided that it was everything that was going on as well, the cumulative effect of things and then she had a very odd thought. More than anything right then she wished—no, wanted—to have Brian sitting next to her. If what little interaction they had earlier could have been considered a date, then it had worked. She was interested.

  “Hey, at least she made an effort to come here, Max.” It was Joseph F. Farmer, slurring his words. “All you did was stay at home and have festival come to you. So, what have you been doing for the last—oh, what—thirty years?”

  More laughs. Keep it humorous Jennifer had said, but Cassy already detected a note of sourness.

  “More than you, Joe, and I haven’t even published anything.”

  “Still dining off your old books?” Farmer removed something from his jacket’s inside pocket and took a swig. Then as quickly as it had appeared, the item was tucked away again.

  “And you’re still dining on liquor.”

  “Three times daily,” said Farmer. “The good doctor recommends it.”

  Sensing that the conversation was going off the rails before it had even started, Brian, who was sandwiched between the two men, decided to interject.

  “This is literally like a dream come true for me,” he said. “I mean, I think I had this exact dream once back when I was drunk and had eaten some bad fish on a flight one time. I’m sure you’ve all had the same one; you’re sitting between your two heroes, icons of American literature, and they’re bickering in the pettiest way, and it’s kinda glorious, you guys.”

  Brian had a winning way with the audience, and the mood instantly changed to something more amicable, giving Patty the chance to start with her questions.

  To Cassy’s surprise, though she wouldn’t admit it her reticence, Patty was a good host for the evening. Her questions weren’t entirely vacuous, and Cassy had feared but never strayed into anything too confrontational. They were vague enough that she wouldn’t expose herself as never having read any of the panel’s book (including the book named after the shop where she worked).

  There were a few more jousting jibes from both Frowd and Farmer, all of which were either intercepted by Brian, who was loving his position as an intermediary between them, or were flat out counteracted by Thatcher wheeling out a long-winded anecdote about the two of them in better times when they used to be friends.

  Sooner than anticipated, the Q&A section of the night came round, though much to Cassy’s shock, it was Brian who had the first question.

  “If I may just ask something to Mr. Frowd here,” he said turning completely to the older man. “I’m a big fan of your work. It’s one of the reasons that I got into writing, you see. When I was a kid, I lived in a town, not unlike this place, and I didn’t have access to many books, though there was a small library and it was one of your books, Devil, Rise, that made me a life-long reader.

  “Not one of my best, and certainly not one I’d recommend to kids.”

  “No, but it did put me on the path of coming up with inventive ways of killing people,” said Brian. He was joking around, or so it would have seemed to anyone but Cassy. To her, however, it was highly inappropriate.

  “Max always did delight in novel ways of killing things, like his career,” said Farmer. “Why did you leave the bright lights of literary stardom, Max ol’ buddy, ol’ pal of mine?”

  “The same reason you won’t ever quit it, Farmer: it’s addictive.”

  With the author of One for the Road suitably chastised, the questions were opened to the floor. Even though the audience‘s questions had been vetted beforehand, most of them were standard stuff, like “Where do you get your inspiration?” or “How do you write female characters so well?” (that one surprisingly was for Farmer). Perhaps it was because they were all so preplanned that they lacked a certain ability to get decent replies from the panel. Cassy tried her best to add some quirky talk about magic as if it was real (which of course it is, but not everyone was open to such a concept). Again, much to Cassy’s surprise and respect, it was Farmer who took her up on it and preceded to expand on what she had said. There was enough of the old hippy left in him that he had an open mind to these things.

  The final question must have slipped through the no doubt rigorous selection process. From the very back of the space, pushing past those attendees who hadn’t found a chair and had been forced to stand, there came a curious dark figure all hunched over, long hair in his eyes. Cassy recognized him but couldn’t remember from where. It was only when the man reached the microphone in front of the stage that a name came to her. Dwayne.

  It was the slightly odd signature hunter from earlier.

  “Hi,” he said leaning far too close to the mic.

  “Hey buddy, who are you and where do I get a jacket like that?” said Chet leaning forward as if examining a curious animal in a pet store. “Did you have to go back to the early eighties to get it? With a time machine?”

  Endearingly, Dwayne answered, unaware that he was being mocked. “Dwayne Bradley. I got the jacket at a thrift store. My question is for the entire panel.”

  “Go ahead, Dwayne,” said Patty. “You can step back from the microphone too.”

  He cleared his throat. “Now that Caroline Cuthbert is dead, is there any reason to even be at this festival anymore? I mean, who the hell are the rest of you anyway? Some witch, a couple of old guys whose books no one reads. I like Brian, but I don’t even know that old lady’s name.”

  Chapter 12

  It took a moment filled with silent confusion for the room to process what had been said. Then as if controlled by a single thought, everyone in the room checked their news notifications on their phones. The room filled with hundreds of glowing screens each illuminating a firstly curious, then shocked face.

  There was, of course, chaos. Even if just for a while.

  News such as the death of one of the most popular writers in the world was always going to make the headlines. Cassy was glad, in a way, that the story had been leaked, because the truth was wearing a hole inside her. Now that it was out, she could focus on the important things, such as who had committed the awful crime.

  It is often said, and often true, that the most likely suspects in any murder are a close family. But here in Havenholm, miles from anywhere, there were no relatives to Caroline Cuthbert, and so the motivations became somewhat more sinister. Jealousy, professional or otherwise, seemed plausible, and there was no doubt that there was more than a little antagonism towards the author.

  There was one very large and unavoidable signpost planted right in the middle of this whole affair, and it was the nature of the victim’s demise. This sign may very well be a misdirection sending any attempt to get to the bottom of the crime straight off the nearest cliff into a sea of endless po
ssibility. It was so glaringly huge that Cassy was almost tempted to ignore any ties with the work of Frowd. It was so purposeful and deliberate as to be nothing other than just a layer obscuring the truth. She would never withhold evidence from the police who were already working overtime on the case, but in this instance, she considered keeping it back, if just for a little bit. If Brian, who had noticed the connection almost immediately, wanted to volunteer his observations, then she’d have no problem. But from her perspective, the investigation would need to focus on the concrete facts of the situation first. Let the waters become muddier in due time.

  The very first thing Cassy did after the author’s panel was disbanded following the news, was head for a bookstore. There was nothing stopping her pursuing crazy theories at all. There were, of course, dozens of places she could have bought any kind of book now that the festival was here. There were countless pop-up stores selling everything from ancient tomes to the very latest pre-release novels. If you wanted, you could even buy business cards with promotional codes on them to get a book online, which Cassy thought was an odd way to make a simple purchase more complicated.

  What she was looking for, however, wouldn’t be found in most places; she doubted even Frowd owned a complete set of his works.

  Tucked away in a little corner at the very heart of Havenholm, nestled between the Old Quarter and the newer developments, was a shop by the name of Hutton’s Books. Hutton’s Books had been there as long as Cassy could remember and possibly a lot longer before. It had always seemed to be an anomaly, even in a place as old-fashioned in many ways as Havenholm. It survived as a bookstore in a world where everything was digital and instantaneous because it had things that were impossible to get anywhere else. It didn’t matter that the proprietor, one Archibald Swaile, was the grumpiest, most unapologetically misanthropic person Cassy had even encountered. It was perhaps because of those qualities that he had been so successful. With that kind of attitude, you just knew he had to have the goods to back up his business. And so it was that Havenholm had been a kind of place of pilgrimage for the avid book collector, a stop along the holy trail of many such places across the country for those with an acute case of bibliophilia. It was rumored that the Calvarez collection had passed through Swaile’s hands, but that was just a rumor.