by J. C. Kenney
While I cooled down after the workout, I started a pot of coffee and made an omelet with peppers and mushrooms. At Sloane’s urging, and with Rachel’s guidance, I was making more healthy choices when I cooked for myself.
It was especially hard in the morning, because I loved simple things like bagels slathered with cream cheese and mixed fruit. Sadly, the carbs and sugars those kinds of meals contained were stark reminders that I couldn’t eat like I was still in college. Thank goodness for Rachel’s lessons, which were helping me eat low-sugar and fresh meals whenever possible.
The Rushing Creek farmer’s market wouldn’t open for another few weeks, but the grocery had fresh produce, which Rachel had assured me was of excellent quality. The thought that I might be turning into a food snob now that I was in my thirties made me laugh.
“No food snob here. Just trying to stay healthy so I can take care of you, little girl.” I picked up a yawning Ursi and danced with her over to her food bowl.
She responded to my antics by letting out an annoyed rowr and pushing away from me with her leg.
She could act standoffish all she wanted. The way she rubbed her head against my leg before attacking her breakfast of diced chicken chunks told me all I needed to know.
Over breakfast, I responded to e-mails that had stacked up over the weekend. As crazy as the upcoming week was threatening to be, I needed to stay on top of work.
Once my tummy was full, I hit the shower. I got dressed in a teal, cable-knit sweater Rachel had given to me for my birthday and black yoga pants. The outfit was comfortable and looked nice. The sweater’s bright color made me think of spring and made me feel I could take on the world.
Monday was my day to check on the status of queries. Editors responded to my queries, which typically consisted of an e-mail to the editor, along with a synopsis of the book and a series proposal if the author was writing a series, on their own individual schedules. The usual response was either a request for the full manuscript or a polite no thank you. When editors didn’t respond within a week, I always followed up. Today, it took a couple of hours and two mugs of coffee to check in on those outstanding queries.
When that task was complete, I turned my attention to queries authors had sent to me, looking for someone to represent their manuscript. I had an e-mail address dedicated solely to receiving unsolicited queries. The in-box filled up faster than a rain barrel in a downpour, so I had to be sure to go through it at least twice a week.
Ninety minutes and sixty-eight queries later, it was mission accomplished. I’d responded to three authors by asking them to send me their complete manuscript. The rest received my standard rejection e-mail. It was always important to be picky with queries. If I didn’t think I’d fall in love with a story, I wouldn’t be able to present it to an editor with the enthusiasm it deserved.
Besides, I’d reached the point where I no longer had to aggressively add to my author list. My first couple of years running the Cobb Literary Agency had been all about growth—signing authors and getting them good publication contracts. Now, I was moving into a new phase. My objective had changed to stabilization—keeping the authors I’d signed and having the agency grow as their careers progressed.
I was representing forty-three authors. It was a roster that varied from multi-bestselling thriller author Malcolm Blackstone to a nineteen-year-old woman I’d signed only two weeks ago. She’d written a wonderfully unique young adult fantasy set on Jupiter. I had out-of-this-world hopes for it.
My goal was to top out at sixty authors. I wasn’t confident I could give each of my authors the attention they deserved if I exceeded that figure and didn’t have help. Even if I found an intern (and after that first interview, I wasn’t confident in success), I wanted to stay around that figure for a while.
With intern help, I’d be able to offer my less-experienced authors extra support as they learned the ins and outs of the publishing world. It would also give me more time to strategize with more seasoned authors how to keep their careers moving in the direction they wanted.
It was almost eleven when I kicked away from my desk. The casters squeaked as the chair rolled me across the hardwood floor. I didn’t stop until I bumped against the bookcase against the opposite wall. It was a fun way to end a productive morning.
“Time for a walk, girl.” My eyes and brain needed a break, so I put Ursi’s harness on her and we headed outside.
An unfamiliar guy with red hair and glasses was putting out new items in the sock store that occupied the first-floor space across the hall from Renee’s bookstore. I waved to him as we passed by the store. He smiled and waved back.
A warm feeling enveloped me as we continued down the sidewalk. Even a brisk breeze that smacked us in the face when we turned the corner couldn’t dampen my mood. The exchange was the best of Rushing Creek. When you crossed paths with somebody, you offered a cheerful greeting or waved. Maybe it was old fashioned, compared to the hustle and bustle of life on Manhattan’s streets, but it was genuine. A reminder that people were, in fact, basically good. Most of them, at least.
The ones that weren’t murderers.
Even though I’d had a stellar morning in the productivity category, I still had a full afternoon of work in front of me. With that in mind, Ursi and I made our walk a simple fifteen-minute stroll through the neighborhood.
I returned to the apartment invigorated from the walk, and I got back to work by editing a client’s rom-com manuscript. Ursi curled up on a seat cushion the twins had placed under my desk and went right to sleep.
I had a great job.
An hour later, I’d read fifty pages and made only a handful of comments and corrections. It was a good sign for the manuscript as a whole. This author had a keen eye for detail, which meant I’d likely breeze through the rest of the story in a few hours.
Thanks to the strong manuscript, I got to take a break from the day job earlier than planned. That was good because it meant I could spend more time working on the list of murder suspects than I’d budgeted.
Since the easy-peasy, open-and-shut case I’d hoped for wasn’t going to happen, I needed to put some serious thought into it. To help me focus, I added some peppermint essential oil to a diffuser I kept in the kitchen, threw together a chicken Caesar salad for dinner, and returned to detective work.
My credible suspects were Porter, Ozzy, and Gary. I added Brent to the group, not because I thought he was a suspect, but because Matt hadn’t completely ruled him out.
It didn’t hurt to include Brent. It was simply part of the system I’d developed. I was being thorough and methodical. Including all reasonable suspects forced me to examine all possibilities with a clear, impartial mind. When Sloane’s father, Thornwell, had been murdered, fingers were pointed at her. I got involved first to clear her name, and second to catch the killer. At the time, I still included Sloane among my suspect list.
The approach had worked twice before. Hopefully, it would work again.
The suspects got their own page in the notebook. Each page was divided into three columns. Each column was given its own heading—motive, means, and opportunity. I checked my notes and filled in as much as I could for all four suspects.
When I was finished filling in the columns, I took a break to massage my aching hand. I’d tensed up during the task and gripped the pen way too hard. As I worked the pain away, I studied my handiwork. The conclusion was inescapable.
Porter was the most likely murderer. By a mile.
There was much information to be gathered, though. I knew virtually nothing about Gary outside of what I learned during our conversation. I knew enough about Ozzy, and his Vesuvius-like temper, to consider him a credible suspect. My opinion of the man didn’t amount to much, though. What I needed were facts.
When it came to proving Brent’s innocence, I needed one thing. A witness. If there was someone who could
place him during the time between the library closing and when I got home, he’d be in the clear. That was proving to be easier said than done, though.
I glanced at the clock. It was a little after four. A memorial service in Vicky’s honor was being held in front of the library at five.
I headed for the bedroom to change into more formal clothes. After a few minutes of debate, I picked out a white blouse and dress slacks with a black and gray herringbone pattern. With the sun out and the temperature in the low sixties, I finished the ensemble with a gray wool blazer and a pair of black flats. Even though I was playing no part in the service, it was important to show Vicky the respect she deserved by dressing up.
With an extra handful of tissues stuffed into my pocket, I gave Ursi some dry food for dinner and headed out the door.
The scene in front of the library was breathtaking. A raised platform had been erected in front of the library’s entrance. It was about two feet high and fifteen feet across. The flowers and stuffed toys that mourners had brought to the library were displayed across the front edge. White, ceramic pillars stood at each corner of the platform. Candles burned inside etched crystal hurricane lamps that were nestled atop the pillars.
The pièce de résistance was a theater-like curtain behind the platform. It was yellow—Vicky’s favorite color. The posters signed by the library visitors were attached to the curtain. There were so many that they stretched all the way from one end to the other.
A stool had been placed in the center of the platform. It was the stool Vicky sat on while she checked out patrons’ books. It was perfect.
I wiped away a tear with one of the tissues. The service hadn’t even started and I was on the verge of a full-blown meltdown. I closed my eyes and hugged myself. I hadn’t yet grieved over Vicky’s death. I vowed not to until I found her killer.
And brought the guilty party to justice.
As the time for the service drew near, the crowd grew. Silver-haired grandmothers held hands with fidgety preschoolers. Men from the state park, still in their green and brown uniforms, stood in a group to the left of the platform, chatting with Luke and his Rushing Creek Parks Department crew. Even a pair of squirrels dashed down a nearby tree, across the grass, and up another tree.
Freddie kicked off the service with a heartfelt talk that opened the faucets. A string of local dignitaries, including Mayor Angela and the superintendent of Rushing Creek schools, shared moving and sometimes humorous stories about the community’s beloved librarian. By the time the service concluded with the high school choir’s performance of “River Deep, Mountain High,” Vicky’s favorite song, I’d used up every last bit of my tissue supply.
I gravitated toward the platform when the service concluded. As I took a picture with my phone of a stuffed lion wearing a bow tie, a shadow fell across the platform.
“Thanks for coming, Allie.” Freddie gave my shoulder a squeeze.
“Wouldn’t have missed it.” I faced her. “Your words were beautiful.”
“That’s high praise, coming from a literary agent.”
We laughed.
“She was my friend. Did you know we met in college?”
Vicky had often spoken of how close they were, but that bit of information was new to me. I shook my head.
“Oh, yeah. We were on the same dorm floor. She was studying library science. I was a business major. We started hanging out when our floor went to football games together. Plus, she had a job at the library and knew the best places for study groups to get together.”
Images of a teenaged Vicky, with her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, helping fellow students navigate the nine-story Indiana University library came to mind. I blinked away another tear.
“So, how did both of you end up here?” Vicky had told me one time she’d convinced Freddie to move to Rushing Creek, but I was curious about the details.
“Vicky is, was, a year older than me. She got the job at the library here right out of college. I visited her a few times, and I fell in love with the town.” She ran her fingers over the lion’s head. “My dad owned a pub, so I grew up wanting my own restaurant. Every time I came to see her, she pointed out places she said were perfect for me. When she showed me the storefront that became Marinara’s, it was love at first sight. She even gave me a tip about the house I ended up buying.”
Freddie’s house was down the street from Vicky’s. I made a mental note to ask her if she’d seen or heard anything unusual in the neighborhood the morning of the murder. Or even the night before. Maybe she knew something helpful and didn’t realize it. That would have to wait for another time, though. I couldn’t live with myself asking too many pointed questions right now.
The love-at-first-sight comment gave me an idea, though. I wanted to hear more happy stories, but this was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up.
“Did you know Gary was in town over the weekend?”
Her eyebrows shot up. “I hadn’t heard that. Probably just as well nobody told me. I never liked him. Any idea why he was in town?”
I recounted my conversation with the man.
“It seems shady that the deed never got changed and now that Vicky’s gone, he gets the proceeds from the sale of the house.” I scheduled a reminder in my phone to prompt me to visit the assessor’s office. A check of the property records would confirm the names on the deed and whether there was a mortgage on the property.
Freddie moved a few of the stuffed animals and took a seat. Her lips were pursed as she wrapped her fingers around the edge of the platform.
“I know this is a lot to dump on you, especially right now, but do you think Gary could be the murderer?” I sat next to her and put a hand on her shoulder. “Any thoughts or suspicions you can tell me would be helpful.”
“Gary was a self-centered jerk who only cared about himself. Sure, he came across as a good, reliable husband. That was all a façade. The fact that he ran out on Vicky instead of getting tested to see if he was the reason they couldn’t have kids should tell you all you need to know about him.”
As she spoke, Freddie’s cheeks took on a crimson shade. The anger was understandable.
From what I could remember, Vicky ignored the behind-the-back whispering. All she said was that sometimes things between people didn’t work out. At least that was all she said to me. Freddie’s tone let me know Vicky had told her friends much more than she was willing to share with a ten-year-old girl.
“You think he could have done it?” Good Lord, I was talking about murder like we were discussing the weather forecast.
She tilted her head to the side. I held my breath as she pondered my statement.
After what seemed like hours, she took a deep breath. “Yes. If what you told me about the house is true, then yes, I do.”
I let out the breath I was holding. I had my suspicions before, but they’d seemed far-fetched. Now, not so much. I needed more to go on, though.
“Why do you think that?”
“I guess it comes down to this. If he was willing to leave his wife instead of facing his own potential impotence, I bet he’d be willing to kill if it meant he’d get that house. It’s a matter of self-centeredness.”
“What can you tell me about him?” If I could find out more about the man, I might be able to figure out how he could have pulled off the murder.
“He was a pharmaceutical sales rep—at least he was back then. Maybe you could talk to your mom or someone at the hospital. They might know if he’s still doing that.”
“I’ll do that. Anything else you can think of?” I wanted to get inside his head. What were his interests, his spending habits? Things like that.
“He was on the road a lot for his job.” She snapped her fingers. “He also had a thing for European cars. He got a different one very year.”
Aha. Now I had something to work with. A taste in ex
pensive vehicles might lead to a desperate need for cash, especially if he got something extravagant and couldn’t keep up with the payments.
Trouble with making a car payment might be an indicator of bigger money problems, like struggles keeping up with a mortgage. Losing one’s house. That sounded like motivation for murder to me.
The crowd had dispersed during our chat. They’d been replaced by workers who were taking down the set. My time was about up.
“Thanks, Freddie. I appreciate it.”
“My pleasure.” She let out a short laugh and got to her feet. “Not really, but you know what I mean. If it helps catch Vicky’s killer, I’m happy we had this chat.”
“Me, too.” My promise to Brent popped into my head as we shook hands. “By the way, I understand you’ll be posting Vicky’s position at the end of the week.”
“That’s right. I hope Brent wasn’t just being nice when he said he was going to apply.”
“Nope. He’s looking forward to being considered for the position. Did, ah, Vicky ever talk to you about a succession plan? You know, for when it came time to retire, or…” I couldn’t bring myself to finish the question.
“Every now and then we talked about what we wanted to do when we retired. It was never anything serious, though. Things like moving to Fiji and spending the rest of our lives drinking mai tais while a cabana boy tended to our every whim.” She chuckled, though the smile didn’t reach her eyes.
I gave Freddie a hug. I didn’t know her well and knew full well some people weren’t huggers, but she looked like she needed one.
After the embrace, Freddie gave me a big smile. “Thanks. I needed that. Don’t forget my offer for breadsticks on the house.”
We said our goodbyes and I made my way home. I was so focused on writing notes into my phone, I cracked my knee against a fire hydrant and almost bonked my nose against a light pole. That was okay. Ice and a couple of Advil and I’d be fine.