by Sara Rosett
I had to agree with her. “It does make sense,” I said.
My phone rang and when I saw Detective Kalra was the caller, I excused myself to answer it. We’d talked the day Maggie was arrested, but I hadn’t heard from her since then.
“Ellie, I thought you’d want to know we found Jake’s phone number in Maggie’s outgoing call log. She taught a night class at the community college and Jake was one of her students.”
“So that’s how she knew him. I’d wondered about that. What will happen to him?” I asked.
“He’s getting a deal. He’ll testify that he helped Maggie get access to the casket and that she tried to pay him to help her dig up Mr. Avery’s grave.”
“And Maggie?”
“No deal for her,” Detective Kalra said, and I could hear a tinge of satisfaction in her voice. “The crime scene technicians found carpet fibers from the rug in Mr. Avery’s upstairs hallway on Maggie’s shoes along with some traces of blood, Stan’s blood. Even though she’d tried to clean it off her shoes, there was still enough in the crevices of the soles for a match. And I thought you’d find this interesting: she had a folder on her computer dedicated to the Avery family. It was similar to her writing files, but instead of fictional characters, the Avery files had descriptions of every visitor to Mr. Avery’s house, photos, and any tidbit of information she could get out of Mr. Avery. It became quite an obsession with her.”
“Were there photos of Mitch and Felicity?” I had to ask, even though I knew Detective Kalra probably hadn’t looked through every single file.
“The ones Rickets dropped on you? Yes, those were there. At that point, she was following Felicity closely, since she was one of the most frequent visitors. I guess she was hoping to get some information on Felicity that would help her get the letters. I think she was going a little overboard there, but from looking at her files, I can see she wasn’t thinking too clearly on a lot of things.”
“So she sent the photos to Detective Rickets?”
“From a library computer, so even though we’d traced the IP address, it didn’t do us much good. The computers are open to the public and patrons can get a day pass without a library card.”
“She went to quite a bit of trouble to turn your attention to Mitch,” I said.
“At that point, her goal was to keep us focused on anyone but her.”
There was something that was bothering me. “If she was keeping such a close watch on the house, why didn’t she know about Stan? I could have sworn that she was surprised to see him at the visitation.”
Detective Kalra said, “We think he visited Mr. Avery when she was giving a library talk in Huntsville.” I could hear a voice shouting at Detective Kalra in the background. “I have to go. Rickets and I have a press conference with the DA to announce the charges in ten minutes. I wanted you to hear the details from us before they were broadcast.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that.” I hung up and shared the news about Maggie with Bill and Caroline. “Ironic that she’ll be infamous now,” I said. The story had been the top of the local news for twenty-four hours and a few of the national news channels were starting to report on it as well.
“I call that poetic justice,” Bill declared.
“Oh, I forgot to ask the detective one of my questions,” I said. “I was wondering about the pen name Stan and Maggie used for their books, Sandy Keenor. I wonder why they used that name?”
Bill laughed. “It’s an anagram made from their last names, Key and Anderson.”
I thought about it for a few seconds, but couldn’t work out the letters in my head. “I’ll take your word for it,” I said.
Bill and Caroline carried their plates to the dining table as Felicity’s strident voice carried clearly across the room and caught my attention. “So I told her we have to be open twenty-four–seven. That’s the only way to do it.” She pointed her fork at Mitch to emphasize her point. As soon as Felicity walked in the door this morning, she’d announced that she had a new job for a soon-to-be-open fitness center. “We’ll have the best equipment in town. State of the art. And I’ve got big plans for the childcare area. It’s going to be so awesome—inflatables and video games. Nothing else in town will be able to touch Elite Fitness.”
“Sounds great,” Mitch said, managing to wedge a few words into the conversation before she began expounding on the benefits of having a spa associated with the fitness center.
Dan appeared beside me. “Juice or coffee?” he asked.
“Juice, thanks,” I said, taking a glass from him.
“So how long should I wait before I rescue him?” Dan asked, nodding toward Mitch and Felicity.
“He’s had all that interrogation training, so he should be able to hold up for a couple more minutes,” I said. “Seriously, though, I am happy for her. She sounds so excited.”
Dan sipped the coffee and said, “Yeah. It’s a new project for her. She needs that, an outlet.” I dug into the savory breakfast casserole and wondered if the people who had hired her realized what a whirlwind she was. She’d focus every ounce of her forceful personality on her job. I felt a little sorry for her new boss, but I was relieved that she’d switched her focus off of Grandpa Franklin’s house.
She still wasn’t happy about the way things had worked out with the will, but she’d accepted that things weren’t going to change and she and Dan weren’t going to get the house. I took her chatting with Mitch and the bright smile and good morning that she’d said to me as her way of moving on. Apparently, she was going to throw herself into this new job with the same enthusiasm and single-minded determination that she’d applied to getting the house. “So everything is okay for you guys?” I asked, tentatively, not sure if that was a topic that I should broach or not, but Dan didn’t seem to mind.
“We’re fine. She always comes around. Sometimes it takes longer than others, but it always happens.” Dan concentrated on the coffee cup. “Sorry about . . . everything.”
He would have said more, but I cut him off. “Don’t worry about it. It all worked out.”
Dan smiled at me with his lopsided grin. “Thanks, Ellie. I’d better get over there. I don’t know how much more Mitch can take.”
“His eyes are starting to glaze over.”
“Watch this,” Dan said.
He loped across the room and flung his arm around Felicity. “Enough about the gym.”
“Dan, I told you, it’s not a gym,” Felicity said. “He never listens. It’s a fitness center. There’s a huge difference . . .”
As Felicity went on, Dan winked at me. “Works every time,” he mouthed.
Mitch slipped away from them and joined me in the kitchen as I was polishing off a flaky biscuit. “I saw you and Dan holed up in here.”
“Hey, I wasn’t sure how Felicity would react to seeing us. I was giving her a wide berth. I’m sure she throws a mean punch.”
“All that kickboxing,” Mitch agreed as he picked up a plate.
“I knew you’d be okay,” I said. “And it does sound like she and Dan are doing better.”
Mitch nodded and transferred ham slices to his plate. “I think so, too.”
I added another biscuit to my plate, refilled my juice, and leaned back against the counter beside Mitch. We had a view out the kitchen window to the backyard and I could see Livvy, Nathan, and their cousins. Their almost empty plates were scattered over the picnic table and they were engaged in some elaborate game that used a beat-up Frisbee and an old tennis ball.
My phone beeped, signaling I had a text message. I ate my last bite of biscuit, licked a smidge of apricot jelly from my finger, and checked the message, then tapped out a reply. I hit send and said, “It’ll be good to get back home. My organizing clients are getting restless.” I’d rescheduled one consultation and two organizing sessions while we’d been gone. It was fairly quiet in the kitchen at the moment, so I tucked my phone back in my pocket. I took a deep breath. “Mitch, I’ve been thinking about what w
e should do in the next few years. The whole stay in or get out thing.”
He’d been plowing through breakfast and had his mouth full. He nodded and looked at me out of the corner of his eye as he chewed more slowly.
“If we get out, the chances of you getting a flying job are pretty slim, right?”
Mitch wiped his mouth with a napkin and nodded. “Looks that way now. Things could change, but . . .”
“But we can’t plan for possibilities. We have to plan with what we know now. I’m trying to think about this like one of my organizing jobs. What makes the most sense? How should we arrange things? And the thing that makes the most sense right now is to stay in.”
He put his plate down very carefully on the counter behind him and turned back to me. “I don’t have to fly.”
“I know, but what else would you do?”
“I could find something, go back to school... ,” he said.
“I know, but you’re trained as a pilot and I know you like it.”
“Yeah, I do, but my life isn’t going to end if I don’t fly,” he said.
“I know, but is there anything else you want to do?” I asked.
Mitch searched my face, then shook his head. “No, not really.”
“Then why would we invest all that time and energy when you have a good, secure job that you like?” I asked.
“Because it means more moves. That’s hard on you and the kids and there’s your organizing, too.”
I took a sip of my orange juice, then said, “I’ve been thinking it might be time to take Everything In Its Place in a new direction—consulting.”
“Consulting?”
“Yes,” I swiveled toward him. “I could still keep my clients in Georgia until our next move, but I could branch out and help new organizers who are starting their own businesses. Lord knows, I’ve made tons of mistakes, so I could tell them how to avoid those and I could share what’s worked for me.”
“Do you realize you’re talking faster and faster? You must really be excited about this,” Mitch said.
“I am,” I said, surprised to realize that as I put into words what I’d been thinking about for the last few days, my enthusiasm grew. My fingers were itching to get home and type up my ideas. “It really would be ideal. It would let me do what I love and do it on the move.”
“So the move thing? You’re okay with that?”
“Well, I can’t say I’m in love with the idea of starting over again and again, but it’s a good job that will take care of us—we don’t want to throw that away right now—and as far as moving, well, once we get through the initial upheaval of the actual move, I do like getting to know new areas. And I’m getting really good at unpacking.”
A voice called, “If I could have everyone’s attention.”
Mitch and I walked to the living room. Roy cleared his throat and straightened his glasses. “Thank you,” he said. “I just want to say that I know the last two weeks have been difficult for everyone, with the loss of Mr. Avery. You all miss him.” His Adam’s apple worked up and down as he swallowed. “So I hope you don’t think this is inappropriate coming so soon, but there’s something about the death of a loved one that makes life all the more precious.” He’d been addressing the whole family, but his gaze zeroed in on Aunt Christine as he said, “It makes us realize how short life really is.” Aunt Nanette, who’d been standing slightly in front of Aunt Christine, took a step back as Roy moved toward Aunt Christine. Roy cleared his throat again, then dropped to one knee. “Christy, will you marry me?”
Aunt Christine’s face froze, then her gaze flew around the room. I looked around, too, and no one looked upset or reproachful. In fact, almost everyone was smiling. Aunt Nanette gave Aunt Christine a little shove between the shoulder blades, which caused her to move half a step toward Roy. Her gaze settled on his face and then broke into a wide smile. “Yes, of course I’ll marry you, Roy.”
Applause sounded along with a few whoops as Roy stood up and slipped a ring on Aunt Christine’s finger.
Uncle Bud emerged from the kitchen with a champagne bottle. He popped the cork. “Mimosa, anyone?” he called as he moved around the room, adding champagne to orange juice glasses. He ended with Mitch and me, splashing a dollop into our glasses.
“You knew he was going to propose?” I asked.
“Nah. Lucky guess.”
I pointed my glass at the bottle, which had a thin layer of condensation on it. “You chilled the champagne.”
“I’ve got connections,” he said easily.
“I know you do, particularly at the county offices.”
He raised a shoulder. “True. I keep an eye on things, look out for family, make sure everything turns out okay.” He paused a few beats, then said, “But I don’t have nearly as much influence as you. Very few people get a thank-you note FedExed to them from Addison McClure.”
Technically, the McClure letters belonged to Mitch, since he’d inherited the contents of the house and they’d been in the copy of Grandpa Franklin’s memoir that he kept on the end table beside his chair. We could have tried to sell them, but they’d caused enough problems for the Avery family. We’d had quite a windfall with the gift of the house and didn’t want to add ownership of precious literary documents. If McClure hadn’t been alive, we might have felt differently and kept them, but knowing she was alive and relished her privacy, it just didn’t seem right to sell them to the highest bidder. And then there were Grandpa Franklin’s wishes to consider. He’d intended to return the letters to his childhood friend. I’d spent a long time on the phone the day after I’d found the letters, trying to convince McClure’s lawyer that I was an honest person and really did have genuine letters written by her that I wanted to return.
Mitch and I had both read the letters. McClure was an entertaining correspondent. She’d included stories about her neighbors and little vignettes from her daily life. There were a few mentions of her then–work in progress, the book that would become Deep Down Things, but these were fleeting and not very descriptive. I wasn’t sure what Maggie had hoped to find in the letters, but they certainly didn’t contain any startling new revelations about the secretive author. If anything, they showed she was a normal person who shopped at the grocery store, went to the post office, and thought her neighbors were annoying—hardly earth-shattering stuff. I had a feeling that if Maggie had actually read the letters, she would have been very disappointed. They were about as different from the Beatrix Potter letter as you could get.
Since Harriet had mentioned the Potter letter, I’d looked it up online and found out that letter had indeed sold for over two hundred thousand dollars. Potter had written it to a friend’s sick child and it was essentially a story, with her wonderful illustrations included. I wasn’t surprised that it had sold for so much money. I’m sure there would have been interest in McClure’s letters, but I doubt they would have brought in the amount of money Harriet was hoping for. The police had tracked Harriet down to her New York office the day after she thought she’d stolen the letters from Maggie. Detective Rickets told me that she maintained she’d come to Smarr to attend Book Daze. She said she had talked with Maggie and then returned home. I thought that after she’d grabbed the “letters” out of Maggie’s hand in the garage, she’d probably driven far away before she realized they weren’t the McClure letters at all. She’d either returned to Grandpa Franklin’s house and found it crawling with law enforcement or she’d cut her losses and returned to New York immediately. “Either way,” Detective Rickets had said, “there’s not enough to prosecute her.”
“A toast,” Uncle Bud called, and I could have sworn I saw him wink. He quickly raised his glass and said, “To Roy and Christine!”
My glass clinked against Mitch’s as we raised our arms and echoed his toast.
“So when’s the wedding?” Bill called out, and Aunt Nanette groaned.
Mitch caught my hand and said, “I think it’s time to head out before they draft you
as a bridesmaid or wedding coordinator.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Let’s go home.”
Acknowledgments
As always, many thanks to my editor, Michaela, for her continuing support and wonderful editing. Thanks also to my agent, Faith, for her optimism, steady encouragement, and the disappearing casket idea. A big thank you to my writer friends, especially the Deadly Divas. You make touring so much fun. And to my family—close and extended—thanks for everything. I won’t list you all here. Just know that I couldn’t do it without you.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2011 by Sara Rosett
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2010942791
ISBN: 978-0-7582-6842-6
ISBN-10: 0-7582-2685-3