He admitted that there was and added that he, like me, was childless.
“Your turn,” he said. “Tell me more about this new business venture of yours.”
“The short version is that I needed extra income to pay for repairs on the house, and editing manuscripts seemed like a logical choice. I have a good friend back in Maine who writes romance novels. I’ve read drafts of her work for years to give her feedback. That’s not quite the same as editing, but it was good practice, and my background as a language arts teacher—what we used to just call English—has conditioned me to spot errors. You wouldn’t believe how careless people have become about word choices and good grammar. It drives me crazy when I find obvious mistakes in published books, and I don’t even want to think about the howlers that creep into news stories.”
“Let me guess—you proofread your emails.”
Mike’s quip interrupted what might well have turned into a rant. I sent him a stern look but then made him laugh by mimicking the high-pitched, nasal voice of one of our old high school teachers, Miss Blumberg: “There would be far fewer misunderstandings if everyone did. Neither emoticons nor emoji are sufficient to clearly convey what the writer means.” I wagged my index finger at him, just as she used to.
Still smiling, he said, “So now you help aspiring writers avoid mistakes.”
“Exactly.”
He asked more questions, and I answered. I was flattered by his interest . . . until I realized that he had gradually shifted the conversation away from my editing business and back to Tiffany’s book. He seemed very curious about her novel.
“I’m surprised to hear that her story takes place in the nineteen-thirties,” he said. “I’d expect her to be more interested in writing about what’s going on in the present.”
“I only had time to read a short section before Detective Hazlett took possession of the manuscript, but that was definitely historical.” I paused. “Did you know Ronnie’s granddaughter well?”
He stared out the window for a long moment before he answered. “It’s a small town. I know most of the people who live here.” He glanced at the clock on the wall of the coffee shop. “I need to get going, and I’m sure you do, too.”
“You’re right,” I agreed. “Working for myself doesn’t mean I can spend the whole day goofing off.”
He offered to drive me home and looked disappointed when I said I’d prefer to walk.
“I need the exercise,” I joked, nodding at my empty plate. I’d scarfed down two glazed doughnuts while we were talking.
I did intend to go home and buckle down to more editing, but when I stepped outside, there was the police station, right in front of me. I waved to Mike as he pulled away from the curb, watched the car until it was out of sight, and then crossed the street.
“I’d like to speak with Detective Hazlett,” I told the young man on the other side of a glass partition. Bullet resistant? I almost asked before I decided that question might be taken the wrong way.
A few minutes later, I was shown into a cramped little office that smelled of coffee and cinnamon but was almost painfully neat. Even the takeout bag in the wastepaper basket had been neatly folded. The logo identified it as coming from Harriet’s, making me wonder if they delivered. I was certain Hazlett had not come in for food and drink while Mike and I were there.
In contrast to his surroundings, the detective was in shirtsleeves, his tie dangling. He reached for his jacket but abandoned the effort to shrug into it when I told him not to bother.
“I only need a moment of your time.”
He waved me into a visitor’s chair that was every bit as uncomfortable as it looked. “What can I do for you, Ms. Lincoln?”
“It’s about Tiffany Scott’s manuscript.”
“You want it back?” His brow creased into a frown.
“No. That is, I think it should go to her family. But what I really wanted to ask is if you read it. It starts with the discovery of a body in a lake and I wondered . . .”
My voice trailed off at the look on his face. It revealed his opinion of me as plainly as if he’d spoken aloud. He thought I was a crackpot, or a conspiracy theorist, or perhaps just a woman of a certain age who was cursed with an overactive imagination.
He cleared his throat. “Ms. Scott was found in a lake,” he admitted. “She drowned while swimming. It was apparently her habit to swim at that spot in good weather. She was not stabbed with an ice pick, nor was her body weighted down with a rock or a—what was it?”
“Slot machine.” I sent him a wry smile to assure him that I got his point.
“If that’s all . . . ?”
I stood, but I still had one more question. “How did my business card get wet? Surely she didn’t go swimming fully clothed?”
Detective Hazlett stared at me in stone-faced silence.
“Unless it was suicide.”
“It was not, and I can assure you that Tiffany Scott was not a latter-day victim of Murder Incorporated.”
“Case closed?”
“Is there anything else I can do for you today?” He rose from his chair, his face grim, clearly prepared to boot me out of his office—literally, if that became necessary.
I stood my ground. “What about Tiffany’s novel?”
“I’ll see to it that the manuscript is given to her husband.”
Too late, I wished I’d asked to have it back. Then I could have turned it over to Greg Onslow after I read it. Since that ship had sailed, I thanked the detective for his time, wished him a good day, and went home.
Five minutes after I walked through the front door, my phone rang.
“You have some nerve,” said an accusing voice.
“Ronnie?”
“Why did my granddaughter go to you for help?”
“Because I’m a book editor and she had written a book.”
“Did she give you anything besides her manuscript?”
Ronnie sounded so pissed off that I wasn’t sure whether to be amused or annoyed. Surely she couldn’t be jealous of the short time I’d spent with Tiffany.
“No,” I told her. “Why would she?”
“Are you certain? Nothing to do with Wonderful World?”
“The theme park? No. Tiffany’s novel was historical fiction, and that’s all we discussed.”
I don’t know if Ronnie believed me or not, but she slammed the receiver down on her old-fashioned landline with enough force to make me wince.
Chapter 9
The next day my house was overrun with carpenters, electricians, and plumbers. In an effort to complete the most essential renovations before the snow flew, the contractor I’d hired had marshalled his troops and launched all three types of work simultaneously. I hid out in the dining room with my laptop and cell phone, closing both the pocket doors to the wide-open living room and the ordinary door that led to the kitchen. Even so, workmen kept popping in, usually with questions I couldn’t answer.
When the pocket doors slid open for what felt like the hundredth time, I ignored the faint sound and kept my focus on the screen in front of me. I was using track changes to comment on the first chapter of what might yet become a taut, fast-paced thriller . . . if my client could untangle the peculiarly twisted sentence structure he insisted upon using. I suspected he was trying to sound literary, an attempt that had backfired rather spectacularly. Any editor reading what he’d written so far would toss the manuscript aside, convinced the author needed a refresher course in basic grammar. Sadly, that wouldn’t help—not until schools once again made diagramming sentences part of the curriculum.
After I finished typing my latest suggestion, I looked up. I expected to see any of a half dozen anonymous men in work clothes. I’d been introduced to them all that morning, but as soon as I sat down to work, most of their names had flown right out of my head.
Instead of an electrician or a plumber, Gregory Onslow’s right-hand man stood just inside the pocket doors. I couldn’t remember his name,
either, but my throat closed up when I saw that he’d shut those doors behind himself. I knew he worked for Mongaup Valley Ventures, but he was still a stranger and we were isolated here, out of sight of everyone else in the house. Above all the noise of hammering and clanging pipes, even a full-voiced scream might not be heard.
He’s harmless, I told myself. You have no reason to panic.
But he stood alarmingly close to me. My dining room is not large, and the table took up most of the available space. I was seated with my back to the door to the kitchen. My unwanted visitor, even though he was barely inside the room, was less than two feet away from me. Only one corner of the table separated us.
I spoke in a reproving tone of voice. “I didn’t hear you knock.”
“Your front door was open.”
I gestured toward the pocket doors. “Those weren’t, although I’d just as soon they were now.”
Without turning, he reached behind himself and slid them apart, revealing my living room and the picture window that looked out over the front porch to the street beyond. “Happy now?”
“Delirious. Is there something I can do for you?” I started to shove my chair away from the dining room table so that I could stand.
He was too quick for me. It took him only a couple of steps to reach my side. Then his hand settled on the chair back, preventing me from rising.
“No need to get up.”
The words sounded friendly, but I didn’t care for the way he was invading my personal space. I shoved harder, dislodging his grip and giving myself room to scramble to my feet.
He lifted both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Truce, okay? I just—”
A yowl and a hiss interrupted him. Calpurnia had been asleep on the floor near my feet. When he’d backed up a step, he’d managed to step on her tail. All affronted dignity, she levitated to the top of the table, back arched and fur fully fluffed.
He grinned. “Your ferocious guard cat, I presume.”
“Sic ’em,” I said under my breath. When I reached out a hand to soothe my brave protector, I got a scratch across the knuckles for my trouble.
The intruder chuckled.
I glared at him. The man had walked into my home, bold as brass, and now he was laughing at me? When he reopened the pocket doors, my anxiety level had dropped from red alert to merely wary, but that smirk on his face triggered another abrupt shift in mood. I was irritated. Make that extremely irritated.
“Do I know you?” I demanded.
He reached into the breast pocket of his suit coat for a business card and handed it over. “Alan Van Heusen at your service, Ms. Lincoln. I work for Mongaup Valley Ventures. I’m Mr. Onslow’s chief assistant and general factotum.”
Flunky was the term Darlene had used. Van Heusen was the one who did Onslow’s dirty work for him. His card identified him as Director of Public Relations.
“And you’re here because . . . ?”
“It has come to Mr. Onslow’s attention that his wife consulted you about a novel she had written.” He sent a smarmy smile in my direction. “I’m here to retrieve anything she left with you.”
Calpurnia, ignored, stalked to the far end of the table. She made her displeasure known by upsetting a small plastic container full of paper clips, after which she jumped down to stand in front of the closed kitchen door until I reached over to open it and let her through. Only after I’d closed it again did I turn back to my uninvited visitor.
“You’ve wasted a trip, Mr. Van Heusen. Detective Hazlett took everything Tiffany left with me.”
Thunderclouds scudded into Van Heusen’s face so fast that I expected it to start raining at any moment. My uneasiness about being alone with him returned just as quickly.
“I’ll be happy to show you the receipt.” After I blurted out that offer, I moved a few steps closer to the kitchen door, wishing I’d left it open in Calpurnia’s wake. Van Heusen still blocked my escape route to the living room.
“That won’t be necessary. The police have already returned the manuscript to Mr. Onslow.” His thin-lipped smile was patently false. “I’m here to make certain his wife didn’t give you any other papers.”
“If she had, I’d certainly return them. As a matter of fact, I’ve been meaning to refund the deposit she paid me, since I didn’t have time to do anything to earn it.”
“You’re sure you haven’t forgotten anything else?”
I permitted myself an eye roll. “There would be no reason for her to give me anything except her manuscript.”
He hesitated, then asked, “Did you read it?”
“I had not yet started work on Tiffany’s book when Detective Hazlett told me of her death. He found one of my business cards on her person,” I added before he could ask.
Finally satisfied, Van Heusen was once again all charm. “We appreciate your cooperation, Ms. Lincoln. Please don’t worry about refunding the money. Keep it for your trouble.”
I stared after him as he walked away, taken aback by his sudden generosity. I was equally surprised by the fact that I had lied to him about reading Tiffany’s novel. True, I’d only looked at the first few pages, but in the usual way of things, I prided myself upon being scrupulously honest.
I couldn’t imagine why he cared whether or not I’d read it. Did he think the book was a tell-all biography, or maybe a roman à clef that could somehow threaten his boss’s reputation? This struck me as such a preposterous idea that I caught myself smiling.
What did it matter what Van Heusen thought or why he’d been so generous with Onslow’s money? The sounds echoing through the rest of the house were a constant reminder that Tiffany’s deposit would go a long way toward paying my bills. I wasn’t going to quibble about keeping it.
Determined to forget the interruption and get back to work, I tried to focus. I even removed my hearing aids to cut down on distracting noises. Fifteen minutes later, frustrated and out of sorts, I exited the file I’d been editing, shut down my laptop, and popped the hearing aids back in. My concentration had been well and truly broken by Van Heusen’s visit. I found it impossible to continue correcting grammar and sentence structure as if nothing had happened.
I had been honest with Onslow’s flunky when I’d assured him that Tiffany had not given me anything besides her manuscript, but he was the third person in two days to ask if she’d left something else in my keeping. Mike had been the first. Then there had been Ronnie’s phone call. Now Onslow, by way of Van Heusen, was checking to make sure I wasn’t holding out on him. Why? What did they all think I might have in my possession?
I got up, stretched, and started to tidy up out of habit. The tabletop was littered with reference books, printouts of emails, and the mail I’d collected shortly before Van Heusen’s arrival. I hadn’t gotten around to opening any of it. I ignored the junk mail and the bills but reached for the padded mailer that bore my sister-in-law’s return address.
The penny dropped the moment I pulled the tab to open it. Without looking at the contents, I tossed the thick envelope back onto the table.
If they arrive in good condition, I keep padded mailers, reusing them when I need to send something out by snail mail. The mailer that had held Tiffany Scott’s manuscript had never been subject to the tender mercies of the U.S. Postal Service, making it an ideal candidate for recycling. I found it easily, since it was the only one in the bin that did not have labels or postage affixed.
I did not expect to find anything inside, but I felt a little thrill of anticipation as I turned the mailer upside down and gave it a shake.
Nothing fell out.
Just to make certain it was empty, I slid my hand inside. Way down at the bottom, my fingertips touched something hard. Scarcely daring to breathe, I grabbed hold and pulled it out. Even before I looked at it, I knew what it was that Tiffany had left behind.
The thumb drive was one of the smallest I’d ever seen, but it was big enough to hold an electronic copy of her novel . . . and much, much more.
Chapter 10
I stared at the thumb drive for a long time, wondering if this was what Alan Van Heusen had been after. It probably was, and it most likely accounted for those pointed questions from Mike and the phone call from Ronnie, too. Why any of them should think that Tiffany would give me something other than her manuscript remained a mystery, but I appeared to be holding the proof that she had done just that in the palm of my hand.
Calpurnia bumped her head against my leg, making me jump and almost drop the thumb drive. She’d circled around through the kitchen and hall into the living room and entered through the pocket doors Van Heusen had left open. She stared at me with an inquisitive look on her face.
“You’d like to know what’s on this, too, wouldn’t you?”
As if she understood, she made a beeline for my laptop. I followed more slowly, still hesitating to take the plunge. I had no way to tell what information Tiffany had stored on her thumb drive without looking at the menu. Surely I had reason to do that much. I’d be wasting everyone’s time if it contained nothing more than, say, her grocery lists.
On the other hand, what right did I have to invade a dead woman’s privacy?
Let me be honest. I was dying to take a peek.
What difference will it make if I do? I asked myself. It wasn’t as if Tiffany’s death had turned out to be a homicide. Detective Hazlett hadn’t contradicted me when I’d said the case was closed. If I’d thought for a moment that he might be interested in these computer files, I’d have taken the thumb drive straight to the police station. As things stood, however, I could see no reason to curb my curiosity.
Looking back on the previous day’s visit to the good detective, I was embarrassed to have disturbed him. Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t regret pointing out the similarities between Tiffany’s death and the murder in her novel, but in retrospect I had to admit that he was right to dismiss my half-baked theory that the two were somehow connected.
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