Murder in the First Edition

by Lauren Elliott

  “Of course there is.”

  “I just wanted to know if you were finished with the envelope I left on Teresa’s desk the morning she died.”

  “What envelope?”

  “The one with the certificate of authenticity in it and my colleague’s remarks about the open-market prices.”

  He shook his head. “Never saw it.”

  “But I left it there right before I found her body.”

  “Sorry, when we went in, there wasn’t anything on her desk but the coffee cups. Pristine as you said, I think.”

  Addie slunk back into the sofa. “Well, that is interesting.”

  “How so?” Simon slinked his arm on the back of the sofa again, his fingertips making swirlies on her shoulder.

  “Because Patrick told me this morning that he never saw an envelope on her desk after he was allowed back in. I figured that the police must have taken it for some reason.”

  Simon’s finger paused for moment. “Why is the envelope so important?”

  “Because if a book is sold with Kate’s association number on the documents it proves the book was appraised by a reliable source. It will usually bring in a higher sale price.”

  “I’m thinking”—Serena drew her legs up, resting her chin on her knees—“that we need your crime board right about now.”

  Chapter 11

  “I think I’ll let you three get on with your . . .” Marc cleared his throat. “Investigating? Of what, I don’t know, because so far there’s no crime.” He set his empty cup on the table and stood up. “Anyway, thanks for the coffee”—he adjusted his holster—“but I’d better get back out there.” He glowered at Simon’s hand placement still resting on Addie’s shoulder. “I have real police work to conduct tonight.”

  “It’s a shame you have to run,” Simon sneered, “and just when we were all having so much fun. Here, let me show you out.” He steered Marc toward the door and banged it closed behind him.

  “Simon!” Addie cried out. “That was rude.”

  “I didn’t like his condescending tone, did you?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then we all agree.”

  Addie glared at Serena, who mutely agreed with a nod and salute with her coffee cup.

  “Okay.” Simon rubbed his hands together. “One makeshift crime board coming up.” He turned on his phone’s flashlight and dashed up the stairs.

  Serena sighed, tapping her fingers on the arms of her chair. “I don’t know what you think, but I’d say he just made it clear to Marc that this, and you, are his territory now, and Marc wasn’t welcomed.”

  “What shocks me is that Marc didn’t turn around and pop him a good one.”

  “Yeah,” Serena stifled a laugh, “me, too.”

  Simon thumped down the last step into the foyer, darted past the living room French doors, and headed down the hall toward the kitchen, the sound of banging and clanging echoing through the main floor. Moments later, he returned, waving a pair of scissors, with a roll of tape clenched between his teeth and a roll of brown shipping paper tucked under his arm. He dropped the scissors and the tape on the coffee table. “I remembered seeing this in the attic once when we were looking for pirate books to sell in the shop.” He presented Addie with the roll of paper.

  “Perfect.” Addie jumped to her feet. “Yes, we can make this work.” She cut off a large piece. With Serena’s help, she secured it to the wall with the masking tape.

  Serena dug around in her large hobo handbag and produced a black marking pen. “Here, this should work.”

  “Now we’re in business.” Addie propped her hand against the paper. “Okay, where do we start with this whole missing book thing and Teresa’s timely fall?” She tapped the pen on the paper, waiting for a reply. The room was silent. “Anyone? No? All right, I’ll start, then.” Jonathan, she wrote.

  “Jonathan? But you know him, and he’s David’s father. Why would you suspect him?”

  “I agree with Serena.” Simon’s fingers stroked over the stubble on his five o’clock shadowed chin. “He really can’t be on your list of bad guys, can he?”

  “As a matter of fact, he’s—” She drew a number 1 and circled it. “Think about it. He arrived in Greyborne Harbor the same day as I received the certificate of authentication. He also knew Teresa previously. They obviously had talked before his arrival because they’d arranged a lunch date, so he might have been aware through her that the certificate was due anytime.” She looked from one blank face to the other. “The book and the documents might be his real reason for coming here, and saying he came to visit me was just a cover.”

  Serena’s eyes widened. “You don’t really think he’s that blackhearted, do you?”

  “Yes, because he was also the first name on the list of out-of-town ticket buyers, which, by the way, he purchased the same day Teresa released the auction information on the website.”

  Simon chuckled. “I’m afraid to ask, but how do you know that?”

  “Because,” Addie preened, “I saw the list of collectors and brokers who are attending.”

  “When?”

  “In Patrick’s office.” She waved him off. “I have a copy. I’ll show it to you later.” She wrote, sketchy past, police couldn’t run a complete trace and—

  “Why couldn’t they?” Serena stepped up to the crime board. “You’ve known him for years. Anything that made you suspect him before?”

  “Not really, just a gut feeling, but Marc said he couldn’t find any records of him existing before 1977.”

  “You’re kidding.” Simon sat down on the coffee table.

  “No, although Marc said they discovered the issue was only a clerical error before it was found and corrected. Apparently up until 1977, he was listed in all public records as having Hemingway spelled with two m’s instead of one, but I don’t buy it.”

  “But just a minute here.” Simon raked his hand over his face. “Like Marc said, so far there hasn’t been proof of a crime being committed. I can’t even draw a conclusion with the autopsy results yet.”

  “That’s right,” said Addie, “but you have to admit there are too many weird things going on not to consider that there is one. It’s just that no one has put all the pieces together yet.”

  “If we’re just throwing ideas out to see where they fall—” Serena took the pen from Addie’s fingers and wrote Patrick. “He showed up here, demanding another rare book to replace A Christmas Carol for the auction, and said he’ll get it one way or another.”

  “That sounds like a desperate man.” Simon tapped the scribbled name written in thick black.

  “Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” Addie took the pen back and marked a number 2 beside Patrick’s name.

  Serena eyed the list of names. “What about Crystal? You said she was his assistant now? Should we add her?”

  “I don’t know how suspect she is.” Addie rubbed her chin. “From what I saw today, she’s too self-centered and doesn’t seem to be bothered by anything other than the weather changing her vacation plan and how Patrick is actually making her work as his assistant. Teresa’s death seemed more like it was just an inconvenience for her.”

  Serena shrugged. “Maybe they weren’t close?”

  Addie studied the names. “Maybe, but one thing that does bother me is the lengthy lunch break she took that day.”

  “How so?” Simon looked from the board to her.

  “For one thing, Jonathan said she wasn’t there when he left Teresa’s office around eleven, only a sign stating BE BACK IN ONE HOUR, but that same sign was still there when I arrived at one thirty.”

  Simon rubbed his neck. “Yeah, but that could have been anything. You said her flight had just been canceled and she was upset.” He shrugged. “Maybe she was just busy trying to book another one.”

  “You’re right. It could have been anything, especially this time of year.” Serena flopped down on the sofa. “So, we really have nothing on her.”

  “She does
wear the same shade of lipstick that’s on the coffee cup.” Addie wrote next to her name. “That’s something.”

  “But apparently so do half the other women in town,” Simon muttered, and joined Serena on the sofa.

  “Forget about Crystal for now. Let’s focus on what we do know.” Addie’s hand hovered over the paper.

  “I’ve got nothing,” Serena murmured.

  “Me neither,” Simon echoed.

  Addie wrote, foundation broke, unable to refund ticket purchasers. She tapped the board. “Now, does anyone besides me think that’s curious for a multimillion-dollar charity agency?”

  “But”—Simon’s eyes locked with hers—“he had a plausible explanation, didn’t he?”

  Serena tapped her finger on her chin. “Yes, he said because he’s had a lot of accounts payable due to the high cost of decorations. I’m sure he would have had to pay advances to the caterer, photographer, and whatever else, too.”

  Addie twirled the pen in her hand. “But, in truth, how much would that be? Enough for the foundation to be left completely broke?”

  “Come, sit down.” Simon patted the sofa beside him. “You’re making my head spin.”

  Addie growled, tossed the pen on the coffee table, and dropped onto the sofa, putting her feet on the table.

  Simon’s hand landed lightly on hers. “When I sit here and see it all in black and white—”

  “Don’t you mean black and brown?” She playfully slapped Simon’s knee.

  “Okay, black and brown,” he snickered. “I don’t see anything that points to an actual crime having been committed. The book is missing, yes, but it could have just been stored in a hiding place Teresa had. There’s no proof of theft. The only fingerprints on the case were hers and yours.”

  “Yup, I’m thinking we need to add your name up there,” giggled Serena.

  Addie slammed her head against the back of the sofa. “You’re right. If there is a crime, I look guilty.” She sat up and glared at the board. “Problem with that is lack of motive. Why would I steal back a book I donated?”

  “If we were looking at any other suspect”—Simon’s brow rose—“then you’d be guessing they changed their mind once they found out the actual worth of the book.”

  “Or they were drunk when they donated it, but then changed their mind.” Serena imitated a drunk trying to pour a drink and then giggled. “Maybe the person asked Teresa for the book back, and she refused so that said person pushed her down the stairs”—she flailed her arms out—“took her key ring from her wrist”—Serena pretended to snatch something from her own wrist—“and went back and reclaimed her book.”

  “That’s it.” Addie jumped to her feet.

  “I was joking. Although I do have to say my charades were spot-on.” She smiled at Simon. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Addie waved her hand. “Yes, yes, your charades were lovely, but maybe that’s exactly what did happen, only not that silly scenario involving me.”

  “Who do you think would do that?” Simon reclaimed her hand after she finished gesticulating with it.

  “I don’t know yet, but we have to think along the lines that it was murder and the book was stolen.”

  “I still think it might have been an accident.” Serena crossed her arms. “Marc and Simon both said there was no proof of murder.”

  “But what if it was a murder made to look like an accident. Remember, I told you how when Patrick opened the door to the third floor, it almost knocked me down the stairs. What if he or someone else did the same thing when they were on the staircase with Teresa, only it wasn’t an accident when she did fall? What if it was the only way that person could get the key ring off her wrist, so they could nab the book? Patrick told me she always wore it, so that must be it.” She stabbed the pen tip into the paper.

  “Perhaps, but only if she spun around frontward to try to save herself from falling. Remember, I said the main damage was to the frontal bone and tissue, so a backward fall doesn’t fit the evidence.”

  “But it is possible, right?” Addie asked.

  He nodded. “I guess. It makes more sense than her shoe slipping off the top step and falling backward.”

  Serena’s face scrunched up. “But if it was . . . say Patrick, and he was trying to make it look like an accident, wouldn’t he have called for help or report it to cover up that it was intentional?”

  “Not if he had to get the key off her first.” Addie’s eyes lit up. “He probably had to run back upstairs, take the book out of the case, and hide it somewhere. He might have planned on coming back down and reporting the fall, but I found the body before he could.”

  Simon crossed his arms and looked at Serena. “Serena, didn’t you tell the police that you were downstairs talking to Patrick while all this was going on?”

  She shook her head. “Not all the time. I was visiting with some of the volunteers I know, too.”

  “Then he could have slipped out at any time.” Addie circled Patrick’s name. “He stays on the list for now until we know for sure. If he was downstairs the whole morning, and others can account for that, and if he left, given how busy it was, surely someone would have noticed he wasn’t around.”

  Simon sighed. “We really don’t have much other than guesses, do we?”

  “No, but those guesses as you call them have been helpful in the past, haven’t they?” Addie reminded him.

  “You’re right, but I think now we also need to identify who Teresa had lunch and drinks with. Given the lipstick on the cup, I doubt it was Patrick.”

  “Maybe Jonathan was lying about what time he left.” Serena pointed to his timeline comment.

  Simon coughed. “Does he wear lipstick, Serena?”

  “No, but—”

  “Catherine does,” Addie said, looking from one to the other.

  “And so do I, like half the women in town right now. You can’t seriously think Catherine had anything to do with this, can you?”

  Simon backed away from the two glowering women.

  Addie turned toward her. “I hate to think it, but she is Jonathan’s only alibi for what time she said he picked her up after his visit to Teresa’s office. You have to admit they have gotten pretty chummy in a short period of time. What if she is one of the many women from his past?”

  “Think about what you’re saying. You know her, and I’ve known her my whole life. There is no way she would be involved in anything like this.”

  Addie gestured toward the board. “There’s just too many coincidences.”

  “Not in this case. What I think is we’re all tired and need sleep before we go down too many more rabbit holes.” Serena grabbed her throw blanket from the chair and headed for the stairs. “Since we seem to be snowed in, I’ll be sleeping in the yellow guest room. If and when you ever come to your senses, we can revisit that stupid theory,” she called down the stairs, and slammed a door.

  Chapter 12

  Addie expelled a frustrated breath. “I’m sorry you had to witness that.”

  Simon placed his hands on her shoulders. Her skin quivered under his touch. “I understand that we were just throwing out theories, but Catherine and Jonathan working together to commit murder and steal a rare book? That one seems farfetched even for me.”

  “I know, but my gut tells me he’s involved in this somehow. Look at the evidence.” She pointed at the board. “And we know Catherine does wear that shade of lipstick.”

  “All true, but she is an attractive single woman, and he’s an attractive single man, and perhaps their relationship is just two people who made a connection.” The soft candlelight reflected in his eyes. “Not everything is some dark conspiracy plot.”

  “You’re right.” She pursed her lips. “I’ll apologize to Serena in the morning.” She gazed into his eyes. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I guess I do tend to get carried away when there’s a knot to be unraveled.”

  “Actually, you become like a dog with a bone.” H
e kissed the tip of her nose. “Serena is right about one other thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We do appear to be snowed in.”

  “I guess that means you’ll need a place to sleep?”

  He held her gaze.

  She sucked in a sharp breath. “Well . . . I . . .”

  “I’m just guessing”—his eyes flashed with amusement—“but I think that in this big, old, rambling house, you do have more than one guest room?”

  “Yes, of course.” Her racing heart decelerated. “You even have your choice of blue, green, beige, floral, or the old servant’s quarters in the attic.”

  “That many? Wow, but I think I’ll pass on the attic. It sounds . . . lonely.” He played his fingers down her arm. “What color is yours?”

  “Mine?” The roguish expression in his eyes left her incapable of thinking. “It’s . . . ah . . . cream.” She pressed her trembling lips tightly. “It was my aunt’s. I’ve only recently had the nerve to move into it.” How was it that he rendered her speechless? “I used to sleep in the blue room.”

  “Is it called the blue room because it’s sad?” His finger stroked the line of her jaw.

  “No”—she glanced downward—“it’s nice, and it’s soothing, and comfortable.” She looked up into his eyes. “Just like you.”

  “Okay, the blue room it is, then.” He lifted her chin. His lips brushed across her cheek. “Is it close to your room?” His warm breath caressed her neck. Her chest tightened. She nodded, her lips parting. “Good, because I really do love the sounds of rattling walls all night.”

  She growled. “I should know better by now.” She pushed his arm away. “And I told you before, I don’t snore.”

  He howled and attempted to pull her into his arms.

  “I don’t see the humor in any of this, but don’t worry. I won’t disturb you.” She spun out of his reach. “I won’t be sleeping much tonight, anyway. I feel sick about everything that’s just happened here.”

  * * *

  Addie checked her phone clock every hour, but at some point, she must have slept because she vividly remembered a vision of Jonathan as a cartoon character rolling around on a stack of blood-covered books. It was then she jerked fully awake and gave up any further hope of sleep. She pulled her robe from the foot of the bed and tiptoed into the hallway. The thought of starting the fire to make a pot of coffee was her only focus. The bathroom door opened. She stopped short. Quite certain she must still be sleeping. She rubbed her eyes. Silhouetted by golden light was what she could only describe as another figment of her dream state. Clad in a pair of snug-fitting boxer briefs, she allowed her gaze to wander from the figure’s broad shoulders to his muscular chest, ripped stomach, and down to his perfectly developed calves. Any words that might have come to her caught at her throat. She was thoroughly convinced this wasn’t real. There was no way Simon looked like this beneath his hospital scrubs, or sport jackets and blue jeans.