by J. R. Ripley
She set down her drink and took it from my hand. “Yes. Where did you get it?”
I pointed to the bed. “There.”
She shrugged and stuck it in a large black leather handbag at her feet. “Thanks.”
“Do you mind telling me how it got there?”
“You’re a grown woman,” she scoffed. “Figure it out. Now, if you don’t mind, I have things to do.”
“Fine, I’ll leave you to it. Will you be staying in Ruby Lake long?”
“As long as it takes to help clean up this mess.”
I nodded, though I was unsure exactly what mess she was talking about—the mess that was Mason’s death or the mess his death had created for her. “I do have one more question.”
“Shoot.”
“Was Frank Duvall the reason Mason came to Ruby Lake?”
“What?” She looked at me like I was a complete rube. “Did you think he came here to see you? Or to sign books at some tiny bookstore in this little one-horse town? I mean, no offense, but we’re trying to sell books, and this burg doesn’t have enough readers to pay our gas fare.”
No offense? Cara Siskin had just offended me and the entire Town of Ruby Lake in every way possible. “Speaking of book sales, do you think the professor’s death will hurt sales of Hummingbirds and Their Habits or help them?”
She snatched up her plastic cup. “It’s the end of the line as far as the book tour goes, of course. As for sales, no one can say for sure,” she answered with a glint in her eye. “But I’m hoping it gives sales a boost.”
I was sure she was. I pushed open the door, anxious to leave the ugly woman.
“Hummingbirds,” she snorted. “Nasty little birds. Flitting all around, barely stopping. They make me nervous the way they never keep still. I don’t know what anybody sees in them.”
“They’re beautiful,” I couldn’t refrain from replying. “Haven’t you ever taken the time to really enjoy them?” Hadn’t she looked at the wonderful photos in the professor’s book—the book she was charged with publicizing? “Their hearts race twelve hundred beats a minute. And they are the only bird that can fly backwards.”
She tossed her free hand in the air, unimpressed. “My job is, was, to sell Mason. No offense—I know you run a bird store—but birds are nothing but a nuisance. They fly into windows willy-nilly and poop all over the place.”
I turned on my heel. For a woman who kept claiming she meant no offense, I’d been offended more over the course of several minutes by her than I would have thought possible in a lifetime.
“Wait a minute, Amy.”
I stood in the open doorway, one foot on the first step. “Yes?”
“If this bookseller is so innocent, why did she confess?”
“I’m not sure. It seems likely that she did it to protect her daughter—or someone else, perhaps.”
“So she confesses to cold-blooded murder? What did I tell you?” spat Siskin. “This town is not only full of snoops and creeps—” She tipped back her cup and downed the remains of her drink. “It’s full of kooks.”
I refrained from replying, but one thing I knew for certain—there’d be one less “kook” in Ruby Lake the day Cara Siskin left town.
11
I was finishing a slice of buttered sourdough toast and washing it down with a cup of coffee when Mom came out, still in her housecoat. “Morning, Mom.” I rose and bussed her cheek. “I’ve got to get downstairs and open up. There’s coffee in the pot.”
“Thanks.” Mom yawned and held her hand to her lips. “Sorry.”
It wasn’t merely the yawn. I could tell from the way Mom moved that she was tired from the night before. “Late night?” I’d gone to bed soon after returning from Mason’s place.
“Anita and I stayed up ’til midnight,” she said, “working on our suet cakes.”
“If this batch turns out half decent, I’ll test-sell them in the store and see what reports come back from our customers.”
“That would be wonderful.” Mom looked at the stack of fresh suet cakes on top of the fridge. “We wrapped them last night. Anita’s going to print some labels for them with the computer and printer at her house.”
“Okay. We can bring them down to the store whenever you think they’re ready. Who knows?” I quipped. “If the birds really flock to them, you just might be the queen of suet!”
Mom groaned at my lame pun. “It doesn’t sound like a very glamorous title, like Miss Ruby Lake, but I’ll take it.”
“I’ll make you a Queen of Suet sash. You can wear it around the store. White satin with gold glitter letters.”
“I think not.” Mom turned serious. “I couldn’t stop thinking about your Professor Livingston and Rose and her daughter after I went to bed.”
“I know what you mean.” When I had returned home from Mason’s trailer last night, I had filled the ladies in on my conversation with Cara Siskin before calling it a night. Although we all had theories and opinions about her relationship with Mason, we had no idea what any of it meant.
My mother pulled a cup from the mug tree and filled it with coffee. “How did everything get so complicated?”
“I don’t know. I can’t picture Rose or Amber as the killer type.”
“Me either,” replied my mother. “The thing is, the way he was killed, with a pair of scissors stuck in his neck like that . . .” She rubbed the back of her neck. “It must have been a crime of passion.”
“I suppose so. I really hadn’t thought about it.” But now that I did, my mother had to be right. “I don’t think it was a random robbery or anything like that.”
“The police haven’t said anything that would lead us to think so.” Mom sat at the kitchen table and adjusted her robe. “So who in Ruby Lake could have been angry enough at him to have wanted to kill him?”
I shrugged helplessly. “That’s the question. Mason wasn’t from here and didn’t really know anyone. Besides me. Though, like I told you, he had received a letter from Mister Duvall.” I handed Mom the milk. “I sure hope Jerry doesn’t start thinking along these same lines and end up accusing me of murdering Mason.”
Mom added a dollop of milk to her coffee and took a sip. “I’m sure he won’t, Amy.”
“That makes one of us. Maybe it was Cara Siskin.”
“His publicist?”
“Sure, they were clearly having an affair. Love and hate, it’s a razor’s edge, right?”
Mom’s eyes grew wide. “I certainly would not want to think so. I adored your father. I never once thought of murdering him.”
I patted her hand. “I know how much you loved him, Mom. I only meant that Cara might have had her reasons for getting, I don’t know, jealous maybe? I told you how Mason and Rose were together at the biergarten. Maybe he took her back to his trailer afterward for a little romance. And maybe Cara Siskin didn’t like it.”
“Enough to stick a pair of scissors in his neck?”
“It’s a theory.”
“So who else might have felt that strongly? Mister Duvall?”
“Sure. I told you what Ms. Siskin said. If what she said was true, there could be some reason that he wanted Mason dead.”
“A business deal gone bad?”
“It happens.”
“I suppose.” Mom’s fingernails clicked against the kitchen table. “I wonder if Jerry has interrogated either of them.”
“Cara Siskin and Frank Duvall?” I looked at the time. It was five minutes past opening time. “I doubt it. I expect he’s got his sights on Amber Smith.”
“I still can’t believe she’s guilty.”
“Neither can I, Mom. But let’s face it. Somebody stabbed Mason, and Rose and Amber both had the opportunity. Well, at least Amber did. Rose has an alibi.”
“There were a lot of other people at Bookarama that night,” Mom countered. “I’ll bet lots of people had the opportunity. Frank Duvall was there, as I remember.”
“You’re right. There was a woman with him.�
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“That was his wife,” Mom told me.
“Ms. Siskin was there, of course. I wonder if she’s married.”
“You think a jealous husband could have done it?”
“It’s thin, I admit. If she is married, I expect her husband is far from here. I wonder where home is for Ms. Siskin.”
“Aren’t most publishers based in New York?”
“Most, I guess. But I’m not sure in this case.”
“Isn’t the publisher’s address inside the book?”
“You’re a genius, Mom,” I said with a grin. “I’ll check first chance I get.” I paused and shut my eyes. “Now that I think about it, Frank Duvall and his wife were also at the Birds and Brews meeting in addition to being at the book signing. I didn’t think anything of it at the time.”
“Do you remember anyone else from the signing?”
“Lance was there. So was that reporter woman from the radio station. Karl and Floyd and a lot of other regulars from Birds and Brews. Mitch Quiles. But I can’t imagine any of them wanting Mason dead.”
I sighed in frustration. “I don’t know, Mom. There had to be close to thirty people at Birds and Brews and fifty people at Mason’s book signing.”
“Fifty people with opportunity.”
“So that means it comes down to motive,” I said. I gave Mom a peck on the cheek and ran for the door. “Time to open up.”
Mom promised to be down later.
* * *
Restless and tired, unable to focus on my customers, an hour after opening, I told Esther I was leaving her in charge of the store. I couldn’t get Cara Siskin’s accusations out of my head. It was time I paid a visit to Frank Duvall. “Cousin Riley should be in soon. He promised to mow and trim the front lawn and weed the flower beds.”
“No problem.” Esther strapped on her apron. “I’ve got it covered. Where are you going?”
“I thought I’d drive out to Duvall’s Flower Farm. They may carry some varieties that would do well in the front garden, don’t you think? I was thinking of adding some new things.”
“If you say so,” replied Esther. “Looks to me like you’ve got about every flower in the world out there now. But why not just drive to the farmers market? It’s closer.”
“That’s not a bad idea. Do you think the Duvalls will be there?”
“They’re always there. Every grower around participates in the farmers market. They’d be a fool not to.”
As I peeked out the front window to contemplate what new flowers I might want to add to the landscape, the publicist’s comment about hummingbirds, and birds in general, came back to me. How could she not adore the colorful, tiny flyers? Several hummingbirds flitted about our front feeders, their tiny wings a blur as they flapped them at a speed of approximately fifty beats per second. I’d refilled the nectar just that morning. All the birds were of the ruby-throated variety, not surprising since they were fairly common to the region this time of year.
A stranger sat in one of the rockers with his back to me. “Who’s that sitting out there on the porch, Esther?”
“I forgot to tell you. That nice, young Lance Jennings came by to see you. He’s been waiting on the porch for twenty minutes,” Esther answered.
“Young? He’s probably a decade older than me, Esther.”
Esther cocked her head as she looked at me. “Really?”
“Really,” I snapped and yanked open the front door.
Lance looked up from his electronic tablet when he heard me coming.
“Good morning, Lance. What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to interview you, Amy.” He motioned to the empty bench beside him. “Take a seat.”
“Now is not a good time. I was on my way out, Lance. Besides, what’s this all about? Why do you want to interview me?”
“Are you kidding?” Lance tapped the tablet screen. “Mason Livingston was a friend of yours. You can give me the inside scoop.”
I frowned. “Inside scoop?”
“Yeah, you know. The story behind the man, the murder.”
“If you want a scoop, try the ice cream parlor.”
“Very funny.” Lance tapped his foot against the porch. “Come on, Amy. You knew the guy.”
I folded my arms over my chest. “There really isn’t much to tell, Lance. I hadn’t seen Mason in years. We corresponded a little, but that was it.”
“There’s got to be more to the story than that.”
I started to walk past him. “Sorry, but there isn’t.”
“You share with me, and I’ll share with you!” he called as I bounced down the front steps.
I paused and turned around. “What exactly have you got to share, Lance?”
He motioned to the empty bench once more and smiled seductively. “Have a seat, and I’ll tell you.”
I parked myself on the bench. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”
Lance set his tablet between his legs. In his white polo shirt and navy cargo shorts, he looked more like a tourist at a tennis resort than a reporter. “I’d been doing a little digging on your pal, Mason Livingston.”
“So?”
“When I heard he was coming to town and was something of a celebrity, at least so far as Ruby Lake goes, I started nosing around on the internet, trying to get some background on the guy before he arrived.”
“Again, so?”
“I believe that he may have plagiarized portions of his book.”
“The new hummingbird book?”
Lance nodded.
“I don’t believe it,” I said sharply. “Mason would never do such a thing. Why would he?”
“It’s not the first time that the professor has been accused of plagiarism, Amy. Let me show you something.” He picked up his tablet and scrolled through some pages he’d pulled up on the internet, finally landing on whatever it was he was looking for. “Take a look at this.”
I frowned but complied as he handed over his tablet. “What am I looking at?”
“A couple of articles in which authors and web bloggers have accused Professor Livingston of having lifted portions of their material for his books.”
I read a little, then handed the tablet back over. “It’s all very circumstantial,” I said. “Had he ever been charged with a crime?”
“No,” Lance admitted. “He has not. But that doesn’t make him innocent.”
“It doesn’t make him guilty of anything either, Lance.”
“Lawsuits are expensive, and most authors are notoriously poor. You know the old saying: Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
“When it comes to Mason, I’d say you’re blowing smoke, Lance.”
Lance ran his finger under his shirt collar. “Very funny. Now it’s your turn to tell me something.”
“Such as?”
“Such as why Amber Smith would want to murder your friend, the professor?”
“Why not ask her yourself?”
“I tried,” admitted Lance. “She refuses to talk to me. Ditto her mother.”
“Smart women.”
“Smart or guilty? The two of them are holed up in Bookarama. I was hoping maybe you could speak with them.”
“Why would I do that?”
“You want to find out who killed your friend and why, don’t you?”
I did, but I wasn’t going to let this reporter know just how badly. “Is that why you were skulking around outside Mason’s trailer the day he arrived? You wanted to confront him about the charges of plagiarism?”
“I wasn’t skulking.” Lance stiffened. “I’m a reporter. I was doing my job or at least trying to. Your friend, Mason, refused to let me interview him. Even his publicist refused my request for information unless I agreed to her terms.”
“Which were what exactly?”
A corner of Lance’s mouth turned up. “I had to keep the story about birds and the professor. Nothing more, nothing less. She’d even written up a list of questions that were,” Lance flashed a pa
ir of quote signs with his fingers, “safe. Everything else was out of bounds.”
“You were at Birds and Brews and the book signing.”
“What of it?”
“You don’t give up easily, do you?”
“No, I don’t. I smelled a story, and I wasn’t going to back down.”
“It sounds like you and Ms. Wilcox have something in common. She strikes me as the type who never backs down either.”
“Wilcox is a nuisance,” spat Lance.
“What’s wrong, Lance? Is the radio station giving the Weekender a little too much competition?”
“Not in a million years,” Lance said strongly. “The Ruby Lake Weekender has been serving the community for fifty years. And we’ll be around for another fifty if I have anything to say about it.
“AM Ruby has been around for, what? All of six months?” Lance stood and flicked a bit of lint from his shorts. “And from what I hear, the station will be lucky to last another six.”
“Wow, the two of you aren’t exactly comrades-in-arms, are you?”
“The woman will stop at nothing to get what she wants. My informer tells me that she was seen cozying up to the professor in a bar out along the highway.”
“Was this informer Greg Tuffnall?” There was only one bar in the vicinity, between here and the highway, and Greg Tuffnall was known to spill the gossip as much as he spilled the drinks.
“Maybe. That would be confidential.”
“Right, confidential. When was this?”
“The night Mason spoke at that last Birds and Brews event of yours at the biergarten.”
“I thought maybe he spent the night with Rose Smith.” I also thought it interesting that Cara Siskin had failed to mention Violet Wilcox at all. Was she unaware of Mason’s rendezvous with the radio station reporter? Or was she too aware and violently jealous and angry?
It was Lance’s turn to smile. “Maybe he did, but if he spent the night with anyone, I’d guess it was Wilcox. Like I said, she’ll stop at nothing to get a story.”
“Do you think she knew about the plagiarism rumors?”
“She most certainly did. Why do you think she wanted an interview with him so badly for her radio show? Did you really think she wanted to talk about hummingbirds?”