Murder, She Edited

by Kaitlyn Dunnett

  There was something there, but the anomaly was nearly swallowed up by shadows. I shifted position, let go of the flashlight, and stretched to extend my arm an inch or two farther into the narrow space. Even then my fingers barely grazed the object I was after. Holding my head at an awkward and rather painful angle, I tried again. My hand brushed against what I sincerely hoped was just a spiderweb, then touched what I knew at once was the spine of a small book. Grabbing hold, I tugged it toward me. A moment later, I sat up with the prize firmly grasped in both hands.

  It was no wonder I’d almost missed finding it. The leather-bound book wasn’t very thick and it had a black cover. What puzzled me was that it had been concealed so far from the opening. Still seated on the floor, I judged the distance and realized that the spot where I’d found it was under the bed. It didn’t take much of a leap of logic to surmise that there might be another loose floorboard in that location.

  There was nothing for it but to move the furniture. After all, I’d only found one diary. There were supposed to be at least two.

  I retrieved my flashlight, then shoved at the single bed until it was out of the way. As I’d hoped, I found more loose boards. I pried them up and aimed my light into the opening, but no matter how I contorted myself or where I directed the beam, I didn’t see anything but empty space.

  Methodically, I replaced the floorboards and returned the bed to its former position. Then I sat down on it and opened the diary.

  On the flyleaf, written in a bold scrawl, were the words Estelle Marie Swarthout, her book. The first entry was dated three years before Rosanna’s murder and recorded Estelle’s opinion of the first rehearsal of a play in which she had a leading role. She included her impressions of her fellow cast members. Her comments were scathing. No one measured up to her exacting standards.

  Rather than read every sentence, I flipped through the pages, stopping here and there to peruse a random paragraph. Estelle had recorded her opinions at length, and sometimes with considerable vitriol, but not with any regularity. She’d acted in at least two more plays and had strong opinions about them, too.

  What I was reading was less a diary than a journal, not that most people make any distinction between the two. About halfway through the book, Rosanna’s name caught my eye and I stopped to read what Estelle had written. It was obvious she didn’t like her stepmother. Not at all. Among the words she used to describe her were tightwad and controlling bitch.

  “Oh, look,” I murmured. “A clue.”

  The more I read, the more I began to think that Estelle, alibi or no alibi, ought to be considered a likely suspect in her stepmother’s murder. She’d certainly wanted the second Mrs. Swarthout dead! It was lucky for her that she’d hidden this little book so well. If the police had found it during their investigation of Rosanna’s murder, they’d have arrested Estelle for the crime in a New York minute.

  I paused to lean back against the headboard and consider that scenario. According to the newspaper accounts, Estelle and Tessa had gone to a movie together and come home to find Rosanna’s body. If Estelle had killed Rosanna, Tessa must have lied to the police to protect her sister. That would have made Tessa an accessory after the fact, if not before.

  Was that what she wanted revealed in print? Had she contrived a way for the whole story to come out after both she and her sister were safely out of reach of the criminal justice system?

  What I couldn’t fathom was why Tessa would make finding that truth, if it was the truth, so complicated. Why not just leave behind a letter to be opened following her death? She’d had no need to involve me, let alone leave me her house. Why insist that I be the one to find the diaries and publish them? And why diaries, plural? Where were the others?

  You’re jumping the gun, I warned myself. This isn’t a signed confession. Estelle wrote nasty things about a lot of the people she knew. Maybe she just used journaling to let off steam.

  An hour later, I’d skimmed all the entries but was no closer to finding answers. Estelle’s diary did not contain elaborate plans for doing away with Rosanna. In fact, the last entry had been written a full month before her stepmother’s death. Although I now knew a great deal about Estelle Swarthout’s toxic personality, I had no proof she was a cold-blooded killer.

  Slowly, my joints stiff from sitting in one position for such a long time, I eased off the bed and went back downstairs. It was already evening and once again I was dirty, tired, hot, sweaty, and hungry. It was time to go home, take a long soak in the bathtub, make myself a meal, preferably one heavy on comfort food, and cuddle with my cat.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  One of the things I purchased when I set up shop as a freelance editor was a printer that also scans and makes copies. My original plan was to copy the pages of Estelle’s journal so that I could scribble notes on them before typing the edited version into a computer file. Instead, as soon as I got home, I scanned them and then made two printouts.

  Once I’d backed up the scan, I contemplated the original, handwritten, leather-bound book. I’d need to read everything Estelle had written again, slowly and much more carefully, not only to check spelling and punctuation, but also to search for clues. There had to be a reason Tessa wanted it published, even if it wasn’t connected to Rosanna’s murder.

  Preserving what Estelle had written, selfish and petty as those entries made her seem, must have been important to her sister. It wasn’t up to me to question the terms of Tessa’s will. I wouldn’t quite call what I’d been asked to do a sacred trust, but since I’d accepted the task, I intended to do my best to live up to my responsibilities. The only thing I might be able to do to keep things in perspective was to write an introduction.

  Another obligation had me picking up the phone and calling Detective Arthur Brightwell.

  He listened to me ramble a bit before he informed me that he was already planning to be in Lenape Hollow the next day. Since he’d be at the police station all morning, he suggested we meet for lunch at Harriet’s. He even offered to pay for my meal.

  I accepted this unexpected invitation, but not without a few misgivings. It was distinctly out of character for Brightwell to be so agreeable.

  He was already in the restaurant when I arrived. He’d claimed a table that sat a little apart from the others and thus offered a modicum of privacy. After we gave our orders—cheeseburger and fries for me and a club sandwich for him—he got right down to business.

  “I hear you’ve been discovering quite a few things out at that farm of yours.”

  I took a sip of ice water and regarded him over the rim of the glass. “I told you about Estelle Swarthout’s journal when we spoke on the phone.”

  “I’m not talking about the journal.”

  It took me a moment to catch his drift. “You mean the storage units in the barn? How did you hear about them?”

  “How could I not?” His amusement was palpable and extremely annoying. “The drug-sniffing dogs work for the SO.”

  I knew those initials translated to “sheriff’s office” and it was on the tip of my tongue to ask why local cops referred to their office as the PD—police department. Instead, I asked a serious, sensible, relevant question: “Should I be worried that there’s a connection?”

  “Between a cold case and whatever was going on in the barn? Doesn’t seem likely. Sounds to me as if someone just took advantage of a piece of abandoned property in a remote location to set up a way station for stolen goods.”

  “That still took chutzpah.”

  “That or stupidity.” He very nearly smiled. “Most criminals aren’t the brightest bulbs, but sometimes they get lucky.”

  His very nonchalance made me want to argue with him. “This was a far cry from teenagers breaking into an abandoned house to party. Someone spent a lot of time, effort, and money to construct those storage units.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that local kids trespassed regularly over the years, if only to swim in the farm pond.
Hunters, hikers, and ATV and snowmobile enthusiasts probably made use of the land, too. No one would have been there to stop them. But the thing is, those storage units were empty when you discovered them. They could have been built at any time in the past twenty or thirty years, and since they weren’t full of contraband, there’s no way to tell when they were last used.”

  “Do you think it likely whoever installed them will come back?” I hadn’t been particularly concerned about the crooks returning, but now I had to wonder what would happen if they did.

  The arrival of our food prevented him from responding. He dug in. I ate more slowly, once again wondering why Detective Brightwell had invited me to have lunch with him. He could just as easily have asked me to meet him in Detective Hazlett’s office across the street. I didn’t flatter myself that he wanted the pleasure of my company. The uncomfortable silence that had settled between us would have put paid to that theory even if common sense had not.

  “So,” Brightwell said after he polished off his sandwich. “You found Estelle Swarthout’s diary?”

  I fished the leather-bound volume out of my tote and passed it across the table. “This is the original, but I made a copy of the pages that you may take with you if you like.”

  “Am I going to find it useful in solving my cold case?” He flipped idly through the pages without showing much apparent interest.

  “There’s no need to be snarky.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “And since when has it been your cold case?”

  He shrugged and reached for his coffee mug. “I’ve taken an interest in it just lately, after a certain civilian brought it to my attention.”

  “And?”

  “And there wasn’t much to go on, even back then. A window in the kitchen door was broken, suggesting that’s how a burglar got in. Mrs. Swarthout’s body was found in the adjoining room. It looked as if she was trying to get to the phone to call for help.”

  “And the would-be thief followed her and stabbed her to death? Why not just run away?”

  “Maybe she recognized him.” He signaled to Harriet and ordered a slice of apple pie with vanilla ice cream on top. “You want dessert?”

  I shook my head. “Where did the weapon come from?”

  “It was one of her own kitchen knives.”

  I thought about that for a moment. “How many times was she stabbed?” The newspaper account hadn’t supplied that detail.

  “Are you sure you want all the gory details?”

  “Humor me.”

  “Three.”

  Ada brought his pie. From the look on her face, she’d overheard enough of our conversation to realize we were discussing a crime. Avid curiosity warred with dismay on her expressive face. She knew way too much about my previous encounters with murder, and that they’d always ended up putting me in harm’s way.

  I couldn’t see that happening this time. Darlene had done searches for all the individuals named in newspaper accounts of the crime. She’d located most of them with the help of the Find a Grave website. I felt confident that whoever killed Rosanna was either long dead or in his dotage. There was no danger that he’d come after me.

  “Where was she stabbed?” I asked as Brightwell forked up an enormous bite of the pie. “And I don’t mean in what room.”

  He chewed and swallowed. “In the chest. The killer aimed for the heart.”

  “So she wasn’t running away from the intruder. She was face-to-face with someone, possibly someone she knew.”

  His eyebrows shot up. He gave the book on the table between us a considering glance. “Exactly what did Estelle Swarthout write in there?”

  “No confession, more’s the pity.” I picked up the original, returned it to my tote, and removed one of the two printouts I’d made of the scanned pages. “And neither is there a page labeled ‘this is how I plan to kill my stepmother. ’ What is clear from her entries is that Estelle resented Rosanna, maybe even hated her. And if her sister was willing to lie for her, to give her an alibi . . .”

  He continued to look skeptical, but he accepted the printout. It was more than an inch thick. I’d had to put a rubber band around the pages to keep them together.

  “I’ll give this a read,” he promised, “but it sounds to me as if you’re speculating on the basis of very little hard evidence. If everyone who ever resented a parent or stepparent resorted to violence, the crime rate would be a whole lot higher than it is. Most people work out their aggression by bitching about their relatives to sympathetic friends.”

  “Or writing down their complaints?”

  “Or posting them on social media.” He actually grinned.

  “So, generally speaking, it’s more likely someone will tell the world how crazy Aunt Sally makes him, rather than punch out dear old auntie over the Thanksgiving turkey?”

  He signaled for the check. “That’s about the size of it. I’ll grant you that most people are killed by their nearest and dearest, but a far greater percentage of families find more socially acceptable ways to settle their differences.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  I wanted to accept Detective Brightwell’s logic, but I still had doubts. Preoccupied, I was already on my front porch, about to unlock the door, before I caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye and realized I wasn’t alone.

  Key in hand, I whirled around and barely repressed a shriek when I recognized Bella Trent. She’d been waiting for me on my wicker sofa. I hadn’t seen her sitting there and she nearly scared the daylights out of me when she stood up.

  “It’s about time you came home.” She advanced a few steps in my direction, a determined look on her face.

  I held my ground, but only with an effort. Never let them see you sweat, I reminded myself. The woman wasn’t entirely rational, but she’d never physically harmed anyone. I hoped she wasn’t planning to start with me.

  “If I’d known I had company waiting,” I said, lying through my teeth, “I would have been here sooner.” But not alone!

  I wondered if I could fish my cell phone out of my tote, turn it on, and manage to punch in a nine and two ones without her noticing. Somehow I doubted it.

  “I want to talk to you,” Bella said.

  Since I wasn’t about to invite her inside my house, I gestured for her to return to the sofa while I sat down in one of the matching wicker chairs. I didn’t think Bella was dangerous, but I’ve been wrong about people before.

  On closer inspection, she seemed calmer than she’d been the last time I’d seen her. Her voice lacked the shrillness it had in her phone messages. That her hands were twisted together in her lap was a sure sign of tension, but the outright aggression of our previous encounters seemed to be absent.

  Optimist that I am, I thought she might be open to reason. “How can I help you?” I asked.

  “You can stop pretending to be such an expert. How can you charge people money and still let mistakes slip through?”

  I was unable to repress a sigh. “Bella,” I said, leaning forward slightly so that our eyes met, “I am not Illyria Dubonnet’s editor. Remember? I explained this to you before. She and I are old friends and she lets me read her manuscripts before she does the final revision. I’m what’s called a beta reader. The only things I’m looking for are gaps in logic, or places where she inadvertently repeated herself, or really obvious gaffes.”

  “Like calling the heroine by the wrong name?”

  Oops! “Sometimes, during the writing process, an author changes her mind about what a character is called, and even with ‘find and replace’ it’s possible to miss changing all of the instances where the old name was used.”

  For once, I thought she was listening. Not only listening, but comprehending.

  “But you know her? She’s a friend?”

  “Yes.” As much as I might wish I’d closed that particular barn door, the horse had already escaped. There was no point in trying to deny my friendship with Lenora.

  “I want to meet her,” Bell
a said. Big surprise!

  “That’s not possible. I told you. She’s traveling abroad. It may be months before she gets home.”

  “Where does she live?”

  I shook my head. “I can’t tell you that, Bella. She has a right to her privacy. I’m sure you can understand that. How could she write her wonderful books if she wasn’t able to get away from the outside world?”

  “But I’m her biggest fan.” The whispered words reverberated with pain and grief. Her eyes swam with tears.

  “Bella, if you love her work, you need to let her get on with it. Maybe you could send her a nice long letter to tell her how much her writing means to you. I know she lists a post office box as an address on her web page.”

  The violence with which she shook her head alarmed me. “No! You don’t understand! I have to see her in person. I have to make her understand.”

  “Understand what?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear her answer, but I couldn’t stop myself from asking the question.

  “That she has to get rid of that editor. The one who let those mistakes into her book.” Swiping at the moisture on her cheeks, she narrowed her eyes at me. “If it wasn’t you, then someone else is to blame.”

  Finally! A demand that was within the realm of possibilities.

  “What a good idea,” I said with patently false enthusiasm. “She can request a different copy editor for her next book. When you write to her, why don’t you suggest just that? I’m sure she’ll appreciate the input.”

  For a moment, Bella looked confused. Then her mouth squished into a pout that would have done a three-year-old proud. It looked ridiculous on the face of a grown women. “I need to tell her in person, and you know her.”

  And the merry-go-round takes another spin. It was obvious that sweet reason was not going to work on Illyria’s biggest fan. Somewhat belatedly, it also dawned on me that I wasn’t going to get rid of her until I gave in to her plea . . . or pretended to.