“We writers of things scary like to lurk in the shadows,” he said.
I laughed. “For a writer of things scary, you aren’t very scary yourself.”
He sent me a half smile. “Well, when I came out of the shop, I was taken by the view. The alley is as charming as London during Jack the Ripper’s time. I wanted to soak it in.”
“Back when they threw their waste out onto the streets?”
“Well, sans waste, I suppose. It’s quaint and very perfect.”
“Oh no, you’re not going to use it in one of your novels, are you, turn it into a place with monsters and such?” I said with my own smile.
“I just might.”
I laughed. He was an interesting man. A perfectionist, diva-ish (sometimes), pleasant sometimes, and not creepy at all. Earlier I’d thought the sideways slant he sometimes did with his eyes might be creepy, but now I saw it as something more playful. He liked to have fun, but his fun was a little different than for the rest of us.
“Actually, that might be kind of cool,” I said.
“You’ll be the first to know. Can I interest you in dinner? We can invite your gentleman friend,” he said.
“Dinner sounds great. Seth is busy, but I’m available.” I paused. “Are you . . . I mean, aren’t you pretty well-known? Can you eat in public and not be bothered?”
“Watch this.” He took off his scarf and hat, something I’d seen him do a few times now. “I don’t look like Nathan Grimes any longer, do I?”
“Huh. I wondered why you did that. You’re right, though, not as much like the famous author. Nice trick.”
“It’s been very helpful. I’ll take them off when we get to the restaurant. It’s too cold right now,” he said as he rewrapped. “Where to?”
“Follow me,” I said.
For an instant I debated crossing the street and eating at the diner, but I changed my mind and led us out of Bygone Alley toward a small taco place that had been a Star City landmark as far back as I could remember. They’d named the restaurant the Taco Place, and they sold nothing but tacos. Not today’s designer tacos, but hard-shell-only tacos with all sorts of stuffing options. As he said he’d do, Nathan took off his scarf and hat before we entered. No one gave us a second look as we were shown to a table in a dark corner.
“See?” he said when we were seated.
“You are your own disguise.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose. I really do like this scarf and hat. They became my trademark, and when it became difficult to go out and about without being approached all the time, I came up with this idea. It’s been a real sanity saver.”
“You’re kind of a rock star, aren’t you?”
“Kind of,” he said sincerely as he looked at his menu. “Lots of people like horror.”
I smiled and pushed up my glasses. Though he’d almost become ‘just Nathan’ to me, I was having dinner with a famous author. I needed to enjoy the moment.
“Have you always wanted to be a writer?” I asked after we’d ordered.
“No, not until I was thirteen and I met a famous author.”
“Who?”
“Phyllis A. Whitney.”
“Oh, my mom loved her books so much. Probably still does. The bookstore up the hill recently had a window display of her books. It brought back good memories.” The third time in a few days that store had come up. The universe was telling me to pay attention.
“My mother loved her too. I was with Mom one day at a restaurant in North Carolina. She gasped and tried not to point as she told me that Ms. Whitney was at the next table. Mom wasn’t sure what to do with herself.”
I laughed. “I bet you get that a lot now too.”
“Only when I wear the scarf and hat. Anyway, I got up and went to talk to her. I said my mom loved her books so much. I don’t have any idea where I got the guts. I think I’d just never seen my mother in such a state before. I wanted to do something to make it an even better day for her. Ms. Whitney invited us to her table, where she and my mother talked for at least an hour. They talked about writing and the discipline needed and joy involved with putting a story down on paper. The way Ms. Whitney spoke . . . well, I think I got caught up in my mom’s dreams, if that makes any sense at all.”
“It does.”
He took a sip of his water. “She traveled to every single place she wrote about. Ms. Whitney and her assistant went to each and every place, Clare. Now we have computer maps and pictures and the Internet, but she refused to write a story without seeing the location first. I think I just wanted to be so much like this intelligent, impressive woman that I abandoned any other idea and decided to become a writer because only writers could be so wonderful, or that’s how my youthful mind worked through the day at the restaurant.”
“That’s very cool. Chester would love to hear the story about Ms. Whitney. He collects author stories.”
“Oh yeah? I’ll tell him.”
Our plates of tacos were delivered and I was satisfied with the happy, surprised expression on Nathan’s face. I’d hoped he wasn’t immune to their charms.
“Would you share something with me?” he said after we’d both taken a few silent bites.
“About the foot?” I said after I swallowed.
“Yes,” he said with a smile. “And the rest of the body that had once been attached to it. I might be able to help. I do a lot of research.”
I laughed. “I think this is more mystery than horror.”
“Still.” He shrugged.
“So, this is okay dinner conversation?”
“I think it is. If it upsets your sensibilities, we can wait until dessert.” He smiled again.
I told him a skimmed-over, halfway-true version of everything I knew, except for the part about Creighton. That seemed like something I should keep to myself. In fact, I probably shouldn’t even know about that part myself.
“Well, of course whoever sent the invitation is the killer,” he said. “The other invitees should be on alert.”
“Jodie told Donte to keep on his toes. I’m sure she or one of the officers did the same with Howard and Creighton. Do you really think the other invitees are in danger?”
“There’s a chance of it, and that’s good enough for an armed guard in my opinion.”
“Really?”
“Sure, but I’m probably a bit more paranoid than the rest.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think the police have any real feel for it at all.”
“Your friend Jodie did go talk to Donte.”
“True.” Though I didn’t know what Jodie was really thinking, and I knew she wouldn’t tell me. “I hope the killer isn’t someone we know, which sounds horrible, of course.”
Nathan nodded. “I get that, though. I hope they figure it out quickly. Tell me about Lloyd when he was a kid. What was he like?”
“A really smart, shy, nerdy guy, with seemingly very few friends.”
“Well, we’ve all heard that story before. The nerdy outcast makes good, makes millions. But I’m sure he also made some people mad on the way up the ladder. It’s impossible not to. Surely, the police are looking at that too.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. But I wasn’t sure at all. I suddenly wondered how Jodie would react to me making real suggestions regarding her investigation, or asking probing questions. We had our boundaries. I wasn’t an officer of the law, and though I might tease her about it sometimes, when it came down to police business, I had no business there whatsoever.
We were also good enough friends that maybe I could push the envelope, and she’d never allowed me to be so involved before.
“It’s a deeply curious and sad set of circumstances,” Nathan said.
“Very much so. Lloyd and I were friends a long, long time ago, when we were kids. As we got older I found I was comfortable arou
nd other people, but Lloyd, not so much. It’s like I went into the water a little deeper, but he didn’t.”
“Oh, that’s good. Mind if I use that someday?” Nathan said as he pulled a small notebook out of his coat pocket.
“What’d I say?”
He laughed and wrote down the words he told me he’d someday use in a book. Considering the genre he wrote in, I was already anxious to see the context he created.
“Not bad for a typewriter repair person,” he said. “And you and your grandfather are so much more. You both know that, don’t you?”
“Well, we have other services we offer.”
“Yes, but the printing press. The stationery. The building. The history. The Rescued Word is a gem.”
“Well, thank you,” I said.
“You’re welcome, and I’m glad to be a part of it, if only for a short time.”
“Us too. I’m sorry, but I don’t collect author stories like my grandfather, so while I know your writing, I don’t know whether you’re married or have kids. May I pry?”
“Not prying at all. Never married, no kids. I’ve been romantically involved a time or two, but I’m not an easy man to live with, Clare.” He sent me a wry smile. “I keep the strangest hours and I’m not good at letting people have their way. I want to write, eat, sleep, watch television only when I want to do those things. If someone else gets in the way of my choices, I get grumpy. I decided a long time ago that I’m better off living by myself, and so are those who might, even briefly, think they want to live with me. Don’t look at me that way. I’m not lonely and I have friends—patient ones who know I can be unavailable for weeks at a time and then desperately need to see them, so I don’t lose contact with the human world. I travel quite a bit too. It’s a lovely life, and many authors enjoy their solitary time.”
“Sounds like it,” I said.
I remembered my first impression of Nathan and how it had changed, would probably change some more. I thought it might have changed from Adal’s perspective too, and if it hadn’t I thought it would eventually.
Nathan informed me that he never skipped dessert, so after too many tacos we ordered two pieces of cheesecake, one plain, one topped with strawberries, and shared them. I hadn’t eaten so much taco and cheesecake since the last time I’d been in the Taco Place with Seth a few weeks earlier.
Nathan slipped on his hat and scarf and we walked back to The Rescued Word. I couldn’t convince him to let me drive him down the hill to his hotel. As I turned to go up the hill to Little Blue, I glanced at my rearview mirror.
I had enjoyed the evening with the horror author, and it would have been impossible for me to know that that moment would be the last time ever I’d ever see that adorable hat and scarf.
11
The house, located just past Star City’s city limits, was only a short distance away from Interstate 80. A cute house that had been modern twenty years ago, it still looked well taken care of. It fit well with the cozy neighborhood that had, over the years, filled out with lots of trees.
I was immediately taken back in time. I was unsettled anyway because of the task at hand, but the memories the small house evoked took me right back to that night when Lloyd couldn’t bring himself to attend the dance, the night his dad brought me there so we could watch movies and have a junior high date anyway.
I hadn’t been back since then. I hadn’t had occasion to even drive by. There was no real reason for me to feel bad about that, but I did. I climbed the few stairs to the front porch and knocked. I pushed up my glasses and told myself not to cry, that crying wouldn’t do Lloyd’s parents a bit of good.
Footsteps approached and then the door opened slowly.
“Mr. Gavin?” I said.
He pushed open the screen door. “Yes?”
“I’m . . . well, I went to school with Lloyd. I’m so sorry for your loss.” I held out the flowers and card I’d brought with me.
He blinked, his eyes not all the way dry from his last cry.
“You’re that Henry girl,” he said.
“I am. Clare Henry.”
“I remember you. Please come in. I’ll grab Sylvie.” He pushed the door open wider.
While I wanted to offer my condolences, I had been hoping I wouldn’t be invited inside. Even more firmly I told myself not to cry.
The front room overflowed with flowers, and I realized I hadn’t paid attention to the news. What had been said about Lloyd’s murder?
“Please have a seat,” he said as he motioned toward a floral-print couch.
“Who’s here, Samuel?” a voice came from another part of the house.
“Clare Henry, Sylvie. Come out a minute.”
A few seconds later we were sitting together in the aromatic front room. Clearly, both of Lloyd’s parents had been dealing with a lot of emotion and I was surprised by their attempts to act strong in front of me. I wondered if they had any other friends or family around to help them with things.
“I remember you,” Samuel said. “You came over and watched movies with Lloyd when he broke out in a rash at the mere thought of going out on a date with you.”
“Oh! That’s you,” Sylvie said as a small smile tried to pull at her lips.
“That’s me,” I said. I cleared my throat. “I’m so terribly sorry for your loss.”
Sylvie and Samuel looked at each other. Each of them seemed to gain some strength from the other one before they turned back to me.
“Thank you,” Sylvie said. “It’s so . . . shocking, I suppose. He came to town, we had a short visit, and now he’s gone.”
I saw the shock that mixed with their emotion. Their wide, glassy eyes made me think they had been experiencing moments of lag, when their bodies kept going, but everything else couldn’t quite catch up.
“When’s the last time you talked to Lloyd?” Samuel said.
“Oh, it’s been at least since high school,” I said. “We didn’t stay in touch, I’m afraid.”
“Really?” Sylvie said. “He mentioned you a time or two since then, I’m sure.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded.
“Yes, in fact, he was back visiting us a couple of years ago and I know he mentioned that he was going to meet you for dinner,” Sylvie said.
“I, uh, I don’t think that was me,” I said. “I’m sorry. Perhaps another friend from our younger days.”
Sylvie cocked her head as surprised concentration took away the sadness and shock for an instant.
“I must be remembering wrong,” she said. “I’m sure the details will come back to me later.”
“Did you know who he was meeting, or seeing on this trip?” I asked.
“He told us he was here for some skiing only, that he didn’t have plans to do anything more than rest, relax, and ski,” Samuel said. “Why? Were you going to see him on this trip?”
“I didn’t know he was coming into town, but . . . well, he sent me and my grandfather some generous gifts, some very valuable typewriters.”
“That’s right, your grandfather owns The Rescued Word,” Sylvie said. “Well, Lloyd was always fond of you. I’m not surprised he sent them, but he didn’t share that with us.”
“This is terrible timing, but I think you two should have them. They’re larger than your typical typewriter, so I’ll have them in safekeeping until you’re ready.”
Sylvie and Samuel blinked at me a few times, processing my words. No one could have expected to be talking about typewriters in the middle of such a tragedy.
“We couldn’t take them. Lloyd apparently wanted you to have them,” Samuel finally said.
It seemed way too crass to bring up their value at this moment, so I just said, “You know, I should have talked to you about this later. We’ll talk again in a few weeks. For now, what can I do for you two?”
“Nothing at all, thank you, though,” Samuel said. “The funeral will be the day after tomorrow.”
“I’ll be there,” I said.
“Thank you,” Samuel said. “You know he was murdered? Killed.”
“I do.” My throat tightened and I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”
“The police don’t have any clues at all,” Sylvie said. “But I know who did it.”
“You do?” I said.
“Now, Sylvie,” Samuel said. “Don’t go spreading rumors. That’s not fair.”
I homed in on Sylvie. “Who do you think killed Lloyd?”
“One of his competitors, of course. He was so successful, Clare. He even said when he first got home this time that he’d just caused shock waves through the entire computer technology world. I told the police. They’re going to check it out.”
I didn’t remember Jodie asking Brenda about Lloyd’s business competitors, but maybe she did that without me present. My list of questions for her was growing.
“Any specific competitor?” I said.
“No,” Samuel said too firmly. “No, no one specific. We’ll let the police do their jobs.”
“Of course,” I said.
Sylvie didn’t seem bothered by her husband’s firm tone, but she did switch her focus. She concentrated on me.
“I remember now,” she said a second later. “He did mention his fondness for you frequently, but the last time he was in town he had dinner with someone named Senot . . . or something like that. He said he was meeting an acquaintance from high school, and since he’d mentioned you a few times over the years, I guess I thought it was you. Do you know someone by that name?”
“Yes, we went to high school with Donte Senot, and he married another high school classmate, Sarah. He must have had dinner with them.”
“That must be it,” she said. “There was something more, but I can’t remember it right now.”
I nodded again. “If you do remember it, just give the police a call. I doubt the Senots had anything to do with the tragedy, but it wouldn’t hurt to tell the police every single thing you can.”
Comic Sans Murder Page 9