“The repair guys or the housecleaners could have stolen those things when she was in another room. Did you convince her she had a thief, or did she cling to the ghost as the culprit?”
“She gave up the ghost.” He chuckled. “But she won’t report the theft to the police. I told her she’d have to do that in order to file a claim with her insurance company. She cares more about keeping the theft secret than collecting on her insurance.”
“Why?”
“The newspaper lists the crimes reported each week. She’s afraid her neighbors will read about the theft and mention it to her daughter, who’s been pressuring her to give up living on her own. The daughter will be even more insistent if someone broke into the house.”
Val stood up to take the whistling kettle off the burner. “Could the daughter have swiped the silver?”
“Sure. She visits for a couple of days every other month.” Granddad reached for a pretzel. “She might have financial problems and need quick cash. I didn’t say that to Mrs. Jackson, of course.”
Val poured hot water into her cup. “Your ghost hunting did some good. She wasn’t comfortable telling the police, her daughter, or the neighbors about the stolen items. You gave her a sympathetic ear.”
“I’m doing more than that. I arranged for Ned to change her door locks in case the thief swiped a key along with the silver.” Granddad munched on his pretzel.
He’d previously asked his best friend, a retired locksmith, to dust off his skills, but this time, at least, Granddad wasn’t trying to coax Ned into doing something illegal. “Did you also suggest she change her cleaning service?”
“Yup, but she didn’t want to. Her last cleaning crew wasn’t up to the job, and she’s happy with this bunch. I talked her into getting a safety deposit box for her valuables.”
Val brought her tea to the table. “Are you going to make more ghost calls this week?”
“Not until Tuesday. Tomorrow I gotta work on the recipes for my column.”
Val’s phone chimed. She checked the caller ID—Gillian Holroyd. “I’ve got to take this, Granddad. It’s the woman who leads Suzette’s creative writing group.”
She left the kitchen so Granddad wouldn’t have to listen to her rehash the grim details of Suzette’s death. “Thank you for getting back to me, Ms. Holroyd.”
“Call me Gillian. What’s going on with Suzette?” She sounded wary.
As Val walked through the sitting room to the study, she told Gillian about the fatal hit-and-run.
Gillian’s sigh was loud enough to come through the phone line. “How sad. She was a hard worker and a talented writer. She’d have made something of—” Her low-pitched voice broke. A moment later she said, “Where did it happen? Was she crossing the street?”
Val sat on the sofa in the study and recited all the details she knew about the hit-and-run.
“She must have heard the car coming,” Gillian said. “Did the car go off the road and hit her?”
“I’m not sure. Everything I told you comes secondhand, from the chief of police who was at the scene. He said it appeared the car sideswiped her.”
“I don’t understand how a sideswipe could kill her,” Gillian said in a barely audible voice, as if talking to herself.
“The police chief said the impact lifted Suzette off her feet. Her head hit the ground, and she died of brain trauma.”
Gillian gasped. “Her head was smashed. Good lord.”
Val couldn’t guess what was behind that weird remark, so she let it go. “The police aren’t going to reveal Suzette’s name until tomorrow. I’m telling you so you can pass the news about her death to her writing group, but please don’t mention it to anyone else.”
“I’ll talk to them. How did you happen to meet them?”
“I catered the bookshop’s opening party. They were all there to compete in the costume contest.” Val had answered every question she’d been asked and hoped Gillian would now return the favor. “Did you get the impression Suzette was concerned about her own safety?”
Gillian took a moment to respond. “You wouldn’t ask that unless you thought she was.”
Val curled up on the sofa and said nothing. She wouldn’t give out more information until some came her way.
Gillian broke the silence. “Are you still there, Val?”
“I’m here. I was waiting for your take on Suzette’s state of mind.”
“She didn’t act afraid. But after talking to you, I wonder if I could have missed signs that she was.”
Had all the Fictionistas missed those signs? “Would Suzette have confided in anyone in the group if she’d feared for her safety?”
“All I can say is that she didn’t confide in me.” Gillian sounded regretful. “I looked you up online before returning your call. You’ve sniffed out the truth about some deaths that weren’t what they first seemed. Based on your history and the questions you’ve asked, I assume you suspect the hit-and-run wasn’t an accident. I’m beginning to think you may be right.”
Val uncurled herself and sat up straight. “Why?”
“Because of what she wrote. Suzette was working on a historical murder mystery. In her latest chapter, which we were going to discuss at our meeting this week, a young woman died in a way eerily similar to how Suzette herself died. It’s as if she had a premonition.”
Chapter 8
Val needed a moment to get over her surprise. The idea that Suzette had foreseen her own death struck her as implausible. Gillian Holroyd, author of paranormal romances, must have a vivid imagination. How could a character in a historical novel have died the same way Suzette did? An image flashed through Val’s mind of a woman in a hoop skirt and bonnet trotting along a dirt road. More fantasy than historical reality.
“Suzette wrote about a woman who’s run over while jogging?” Val said.
Gillian laughed. “Don’t take me so literally. The woman in Suzette’s book was found at the side of the road with her head smashed. It appeared she’d stumbled while walking in the dark and hit her head on a boulder. But remember, Suzette was writing a mystery. So her character didn’t die by accident. She was murdered.”
But that didn’t mean Suzette had been murdered. “Aside from the head wound and the outdoor location, are there other similarities between what Suzette wrote and what happened to her?”
“Yes, but it’s complicated. I can’t take the time to explain it now. I have an appointment with the bookseller at Title Wave to arrange a signing. If you can meet me there at four thirty, we’ll talk more about it.”
“Okay. I’m looking forward to it.”
Val didn’t expect Gillian to convince her that Suzette had foreseen her own death, but an experienced teacher like Gillian might have gained insights into Suzette’s mind from her writing.
While Val had been on the phone, Granddad had switched from sitting at the kitchen table to reclining on his lounger in the sitting room. With today’s ghost hunting behind him, he was napping peacefully.
* * *
When Val went into the Title Wave, Dorothy smiled as if an old friend had just walked in. “I’m so happy. Bram told me you agreed to cater for our book clubs.”
Val glanced at Bram behind the counter. He gave her a quick wave and bagged a customer’s books. She turned back to Dorothy. “Tentatively. We still have to iron out the details.”
“Details, where the devil lies, but we’ll work them out. People have been signing up for the book clubs. I think we’ll have half a dozen starting next month and more after the holidays. Not all of them will want a meal, of course, but your services are in demand. I got a call half an hour ago from a man who’d talked to you last night about your catering business. I wouldn’t give him your phone number, but I took his name and number.” Dorothy joined Bram behind the checkout counter. “Did you see a sticky note here, Bram?”
“I put it in my pocket.” He took the note out and handed it to Val. “Your fame has spread, after you’ve catered only on
e event here.”
Implying that working here would bring her more business and therefore she should lower her prices? Good luck with that, Bram.
Val glanced at the name. Nick Hyde. “Yes, I talked to him last night.” And this afternoon. Did the Harbor Inn’s assistant manager really want to hire her as a caterer or had he called in order to get her phone number? She stuffed the sticky note into her shoulder bag and craned her neck to see if any of the women browsing for books could be Gillian Holroyd. If the headshot on her website could be believed, she was dark-haired and middle-aged.
“Are you looking for Gillian?” Dorothy said. “She told me she was waiting for you. She’s doing a book signing here in December. She may be interested in having you cater.”
Wishful thinking by Dorothy, or had Gillian actually said that? Val spotted a woman who might be the author browsing the shelves at the back of the shop. “Is she the one with the colorful poncho?”
Dorothy nodded. “It’s a work of art. I’ll bet it came from Mexico. Go talk to her about catering.”
“Okay.” Val headed for the back of the shop.
Viewed from the side, Gillian’s hair looked as it did in her online photo except for strands of gray in her dark hair. It fell straight down to her shoulders. The red and turquoise poncho made a dramatic contrast to the black skinny pants on her long legs.
Val approached her, introduced herself, and shook hands with Gillian. “Where would you like to talk? There’s a wine bar next door and—”
“I’m driving, and I’d rather not drink wine before getting behind the wheel. Let’s talk in there.” Gillian pointed to the CAT Corner. “I checked a few minutes ago, and it was almost empty.”
Only one table was occupied when they went into the CAT Corner. A teenage girl sat on a stool behind the counter, a book in her hand and the black cat in her lap. Isis jumped to the floor as the girl stood up and took their orders, Gillian’s for coffee and Val’s for iced tea. Gillian paid for both.
Val set her drink down on the table farthest from the counter.
Gillian pointed to Isis, who’d followed Val across the room. “You have a friend.”
“She remembers me from last night.” Val sat down. “This is the room where Suzette introduced me to the other Fictionistas. She said they’d all taken your fiction class before forming the group.”
“All except Wilson.” Gillian blew on her steaming coffee. “During the class I divided the participants into discussion groups to critique each other’s writing. Suzette, Casper, Morgan, and Ruth approached me after the class. They’d found the critiques helpful and wanted to continue to exchange their writings with one other. They asked what I would charge to facilitate their first five meetings. I gave them a price, and they split the cost.”
Isis jumped into Val’s lap and curled up. “How did Wilson get into the group?”
“Everyone takes a turn hosting. Ruth held our first meeting at her house on the bay. She’s a widow, and Wilson’s her nephew by marriage. Halfway through our discussion, he poked his head into the dining room, took one look at Suzette, and pulled up a chair next to her. At the end of the meeting, he said he’d like to join the Fictionistas.”
Val stroked Isis. “The others were okay with that?”
“Not all of them. Casper objected that the group would become too large, but Suzette and Morgan liked sharing the cost. Ruth encouraged Wilson to spend his time studying for the bar exam. He said he’d write a legal thriller and do research, which would help him on the exam. She relented.” Gillian raised her cup of coffee. “The little writing Wilson’s done so far shows no evidence of research.”
Val steered the conversation back to Suzette. “How did Suzette get to Ruth’s house without a car?”
“Casper gave her a ride. He lives in Easton. She took the bus there from the college. He brought her to the meeting, and when it was over, he drove her home. At first I thought Casper and Morgan might get together, but if he had any interest in her, he lost it after Suzette hitched a ride with him. He apparently expected to be her chauffeur from then on, but she had other ideas. Our second meeting was at Morgan’s house. Suzette turned down Casper’s offer of a ride and left with Wilson.”
To avoid imposing on Casper again, to discourage any romantic ideas he might have had, or to encourage those ideas in Wilson? “Based on what I saw last night, Casper must have been annoyed when Wilson drove her.”
Gillian nodded. “So you noticed the rivalry between those two. Our third meeting was at Casper’s apartment. Wilson assumed he’d take her home, but she refused to get into his car. She said he’d drunk too much wine at the meeting, and she didn’t ride with anyone who drank. She asked Morgan for a lift.”
“What happened at the next meeting?”
“That’s scheduled for two days from now. Suzette was hosting it. She arranged for our group to meet here.”
Val stirred her iced tea with a straw. “They could have come to our house. My grandfather told Suzette she could invite friends. I don’t think he’d have minded your group using our dining room.” But he’d have grumbled if they’d stayed long.
“Our meetings last around ninety minutes,” Gillian said, as if reading Val’s mind. “We start at five thirty and usually finish by seven. I suspect our meeting will go longer on Tuesday. We’ll talk about Suzette, not just everyone’s writings. The host usually provides only drinks and snacks like pretzels or cookies. But this week I want to mark Suzette’s passing with more than that, to give her a send-off, and I’d like you to cater it.”
Val didn’t usually agree to cater on such a short lead time, but last spring she’d pulled off a ten-course dinner for eight with less than a week to prepare, and this would be easier. And she had a personal reason to take this job. “I don’t usually cater on two days’ notice, but I’ll do it for Suzette. What kind of food do you have in mind?”
“The Fictionistas make notes during the meeting, so finger food would work better than a meal that needs forks and knives.” Gillian sipped her coffee. “The only restriction is no meat. Suzette will be with us in spirit, and she was a vegetarian. I want to respect that. For dessert we could have little tarts, cupcakes, or cookies.”
“So it will be like a cocktail buffet for five people, but sitting down?”
“For six. I want you at the table, not busy with food, when we talk about Suzette’s latest chapter.”
Unusual for the caterer to take part in the meal, but Val couldn’t pass up the chance to get to know the Fictionistas. They’d interacted with Suzette at meetings, read what she’d written, and probably knew her better than anyone she’d met since moving to Bayport. “Okay, I can prepare platters ahead of time.” Val had drunk most of her iced tea and not yet heard about the subject they’d met to discuss, but now she sensed an opening. “About Suzette’s writing . . . you were going to explain the connection between what she wrote and what happened to her.”
Gillian put her cup on the table with an air of finality. “I’ve changed my mind about that.”
Val was taken aback. “So there’s no connection?”
“You can decide that for yourself. I’ll e-mail you a copy of everything Suzette wrote since the group started up. It’s only around forty pages, so you should be able to read it before Tuesday evening.”
Huh? Besides catering on short notice, Val now had a homework assignment. “Won’t the writing group see me as an interloper?”
“I’ll tell them you’re Suzette’s housemate and say you have a right to be there. You’ll be listening, not contributing for most of the meeting. Our routine is that everyone e-mails ten or so pages to the others three days before the meeting. They read and comment on each other’s work. During the meeting we focus on smaller segments. I select a couple of pages for each of them to read aloud. Then we talk about what works and what doesn’t in those pages. I don’t have permission to e-mail you what the others wrote for this week, but you’ll get the flavor when they read aloud
.”
Val had finished her tea while Gillian was talking. “Are you planning to read some of Suzette’s pages aloud?”
Gillian nodded like a teacher pleased that a pupil had caught on. “Exactly, and I’m going to lead a discussion that might spark controversy and give you clues about what happened to Suzette.”
As Val stroked Isis, she realized for the first time what the author wanted from her. Gillian doubted Suzette’s death had been accidental. Her plan for Tuesday night suggested she suspected involvement by a Fictionista in that death. Gillian wanted her suspicions validated. She didn’t trust her own instincts enough to go to the police, but with Val’s support, she might.
Dorothy poked her head into the CAT Corner. “I’m sorry to make you hurry, but Title Wave is going to close in ten minutes.” She left the room.
Gillian looked at her watch. “My mother lives in the retirement village outside Bayport and is expecting me. I always visit her around this time on Sunday. I’ll send you Suzette’s writings when I get home tonight.”
“And I’ll e-mail you a proposed menu. Once you approve it, I’ll tell Dorothy and she’ll draw up a contract. Your agreement will be with the bookshop and they’ll subcontract for my services.”
“Should I talk to her before I go?”
Definitely not. Val wanted to tell Dorothy and Bram about Suzette’s death, not have them hear it from Gillian. “You don’t have to wait around until the shop closes. I’ll let Dorothy know what we discussed.” She set the cat gently on the floor. “Sorry, Isis, you’ll have to find another lap.”
With the customers all gone and no laps available, Isis perched on the windowsill, where she could watch over the churchyard.
Val walked with Gillian across the selling floor, said goodbye to her at the door, and then peered around the shop. No sign of Dorothy. Bram was at the counter. Val approached it and spoke to him after he finished with the last customer in line. “I need to talk to you and Dorothy in private. If it’s okay with you, I’ll wait in the CAT Corner until you’ve closed up.” She scooted away before he could object.
Crypt Suzette Page 7