by Reagan Davis
I turn to see who she’s referring to.
“Brooks Wiley,” I say, watching Eric introduce himself to the well-dressed man. “He’s Claire’s literary agent.” I look at April and smirk. She smirks back. We lean toward each other, meeting halfway. “I saw him making out with Jules Janssen,” I whisper.
“Really?” she asks, craning her neck and peering around me to look at him. “I can see it. They’re both beautiful.”
“I can’t stay here tonight,” Dina announces, marching back to the fire pit with the officer she was talking to. “Not that I want to stay here, but I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
I’m about to assure her that April and I will help her find a room at a local hotel, when Brooks comes charging toward us with Eric close behind.
“Dina, what happened?” Brooks demands, then jerks his thumb behind him, toward Eric. “Is he telling the truth? Is Claire dead?”
Brooks’s accent is a cross between British and Caribbean. It’s beautiful and melodic, like he’s speaking in cursive. The accent adds to the intensity of his charisma. I can see why Jules Janssen is attracted to him, but he still makes me anxious. When he’s around, his chaotic energy makes me hyper-aware of my surroundings, and a small knot forms in my stomach.
Dina nods, her eyes welling up with tears again. “It’s true,” she mutters. “I didn’t tell you on the phone because I didn’t want you to drive here upset.”
I stand up so Brooks can have my Muskoka chair. “Dina, if you need me, I’ll be under that tree”––I point to a nearby sugar maple––“calling around to find you a room for tonight.”
Dina nods and mouths, “Thank you.”
“I’ll go with you,” April declares, standing up. “We can divide and conquer.”
Three phone calls later, neither April nor I have any luck finding a room for Dina. The motel and two local resorts are booked because the book fair starts tomorrow. I’m about to call Rick Ransan and ask if he or any of his property-investor friends have somewhere for Dina to stay when she rushes over with Brooks and a uniformed police officer by her side, her blonde hair bobbing as she walks.
“Brooks found a room for me,” she declares.
“I’m staying at King of the Hill,” he explains in his hypnotic accent. “The manager said he can squeeze her in for one night. But she has to check out by 11 a.m., because they’re fully booked for the book fair.”
That’s a relief, I was considering inviting her to stay at chez Martel.
“Now that you’re sorted, April and I should get going,” I say. “Dina, if you need anything, call me.”
“Can one of you drive me to the hotel?” Dina asks, looking back and forth between me and Brooks. “Claire and I drove here together in her car. It doesn’t feel right to drive it now... without her here.”
“I can’t leave yet. The police need to talk to me,” Brooks explains, looking at me.
“I want to get out of here as soon as possible. I’d rather not wait for him,” Dina says. “I understand if it’s out of your way…”
“It’s not out of our way,” I interrupt.
“Of course, we’ll drive you,” April adds.
“Can you wait a few minutes?” Dina asks. She points to the officer standing just behind her. “He’s going to escort me inside to pack an overnight bag.”
I nod. “We’re parked about halfway down the driveway,” I tell her. “We’ll meet you in the car.”
Dina and the officer turn and head toward the cottage.
Eric walks April and me to the car so he can collect the sandwiches I brought for him.
The officer who accompanied Dina into the cottage walks her to the car. Besides an overnight bag, she has a box of tissues. The drive to King of the Hill is quiet. Dina sits in the back seat, crying into a tissue, and I check on her regularly in the rearview mirror.
April and I escort Dina inside the hotel and wait while she checks in. When she has a room number and a cardkey, we walk her to the elevator and hug her goodbye.
“Thank you, Megan.” Dina touches my hand. “Thank you, April.” She touches April’s hand. “I’m so grateful I met you.”
For the first time today, Dina smiles.
Chapter 7
“Hey, Handsome.” I place my needle-felting stuff on the coffee table and turn off the TV. “You’re home earlier than I expected.”
“I’m home earlier than I expected too,” Eric responds, dropping himself onto the sofa next to me. “We’ve done everything we can for today. The cottage is off the grid. There’s no electricity, so we’d have to bring in generators and lights. The propane-fueled lights inside are too dim to work at night. When the sun went down, we called it a day.” Sophie jumps onto the sofa and rests her front paws on his lap. Eric rubs her instinctively. She’s trained us well.
I cozy up to him and put my head on his chest. “Do you want to talk about it?” I offer, hoping he’ll say yes.
“Claire was alone in a locked room. The door was locked from the inside,” he discloses.
“Do you know how she died?” I ask.
“It looks like she fell on her needle,” he replies.
I cringe and point to my felting needle on the coffee table. “Her felting needle?” I clarify.
I feel him nod.
Felting needles have small barbs that catch the scales of the fibre and force them together. The more you stab, the more solid and felt-like the fibre becomes. The needles are super sharp, and because of the barbs, if you stab yourself, it hurts more than a regular needle. It hurts more when you pull the needle out than it does going in.
“Did she hit an artery or something?” I ask.
“That’s the thing,” he says. “It didn’t look like a fatal wound. But she was alone in the room. There’s no other explanation. The door was locked from the inside. We found the key on the desk with her cell phone. Her cell phone was turned off. Something about her death doesn’t feel right.”
“Uh-oh,” I tease, “my intuition is rubbing off on you.”
“We found her by the door,” he explains. “Her body blocked the door from opening all the way. I think she was trying to escape by picking the lock with the felting needle.”
“Why would she pick the lock?” I ask. “The key was in the room with her.”
This is the strangest accidental death I’ve heard of.
“The coroner and I asked the same question,” he says. “The coroner thinks Claire could have been confused in her last moments. He’s hesitant to declare her death an accident. After we rolled her onto her back and he looked her over, the coroner hinted that the cause of death might not be the puncture wound. He said he’ll run a few tests and tell me more tomorrow.”
“Did Dina shed any light on what happened?”
Eric shrugs and sighs. “She says Claire went into the den to work. She said it’s common for Claire to lock the door and turn off her phone when she’s working. According to Dina, Claire likes to work in silence, uninterrupted. Dina says she went down to the lake and sat on the dock. She said she read, then talked to her parents on the phone. She was on the phone with her parents for about an hour. Her cell phone records and her parents’ statements verify she’s telling the truth.
“Also, there’s an excellent view of the dock from the neighbouring cottage. The family staying there said they saw Dina sitting on the dock. Dina says when she returned to the cottage, Claire was still in the den. She says she texted to ask Claire what she wanted for dinner, but Claire didn’t answer. Dina assumed Claire’s phone was off because she was still working. She waited a while longer, then knocked on the door. When Claire didn’t answer, Dina said she panicked and pounded on the door, screaming Claire’s name. When Claire still didn’t answer, she called Rick. She said she had a feeling Claire was in trouble.”
“You’ve done everything you can do until you hear from the coroner,” I assure him.
“We secured the crime scene, and I assigned officers to guard it,
just in case.”
Crime scene. He called it a crime scene. Subconsciously, Eric believes Claire’s death was murder. I hope he’s wrong.
Chapter 8
Friday, April 16th
“I can’t believe Sherlock Holmes is standing in my store,” I gush, accepting the maple pecan latte he offers me. “Thank you.” The cape makes Eric’s broad shoulders appear even broader. If capes ever come back in style, he’s all set.
To commemorate the first day of the book fair, attendees, and almost everyone else in town, are dressed up as their favourite literary character.
“Who are you supposed to be?” Sherlock Holmes asks, putting his pretend pipe in his mouth.
“I’m the Paperbag Princess,” I say, as if it should be obvious. “You know, from the Robert Munsch book?”
Eric shrugs his caped shoulders. “Never heard of it.”
I look at my costume; a paper yard waste bag with holes cut out for my head and arms, and a tiara. It screams Paperbag Princess.
“Seriously?” I’m incredulous. “It was one of Hannah’s favourite books when she was little. We read it to her every night at bedtime for at least two years. It’s about a princess who uses her wits to save herself and the prince from the fire-breathing dragon.”
“Then it’s the perfect costume for you,” he says, redeeming himself and giving me a kiss that makes the butterflies in my tummy flutter.
“You look pretty handsome, Sherlock.”
“Thank you,” he says, straightening his deerstalker cap. “What is Sophie supposed to be?” he asks, nodding at the costumed corgi. “Snakes don’t have antennae.”
“She’s not a snake,” I say, disappointed. “She’s The Very Hungry Caterpillar.” Eric shakes his head. “From the Eric Carle book?” I hint.
“Another kids’ book?” he assumes.
“A classic in children’s literature,” I correct him. “I must’ve read it to Hannah at least a thousand times.”
“Have you heard from your dad?” he asks. “What time are you expecting them?”
“We talked this morning,” I reply. “He said they’ll arrive after lunch.”
“Did you tell him about Claire?”
I shake my head. “I decided against it. They still have a two-hour drive ahead of them, and it’s best if they aren’t emotional.”
“Good call,” Eric agrees.
“Have you heard from the coroner yet?” I ask.
He shakes his head and puts his magnifying glass––which I assume is part of his costume––in his pocket. “It’s still early. I’m sure he’ll be in touch today. I’ll be back to welcome your dad and Zoe.” He straightens my tiara and kisses me goodbye.
“Are they here yet?” The Mad Hatter asks, charging through the front door.
I shake my head. “They’re two minutes away,” I reply. “They pulled over when they got off the highway and Zoe texted me.” After which, I texted everyone else to assemble at Knitorious ASAP.
Adam looks relieved. He slides the pocket watch from his vest pocket and checks the time. He slips the watch back into his pocket and straightens the chain attached to it. “This get-up is warmer than it looks.” He takes a handkerchief from his pocket, lifts his velour top hat, and wipes his brow. His dark hair sticks to his forehead.
Adam is a very tall Mad Hatter. The top hat creates the illusion that he’s several inches taller than his six feet.
Madame Defarge straightens my ill-fitting headpiece. “Keep your chin up, my dear, or your tiara will slip.”
Excellent advice for life in general, not just when I’m wearing a literal tiara.
I smile. “Thank you, Connie.”
“Madame Defarge, right?” Eric asks Connie. “The knitter from, A Tale of Two Cities?”
“Well deduced, Sherlock,” Connie praises him.
“Elementary,” he says with a smile. “See, I read. I just don’t read kids’ books,” he mumbles at me with a wink.
Nancy Drew jumps up from the sofa in the cozy sitting area. “They just pulled into the parking lot!” she announces. “I’ll open the back door, so they don’t have to walk around to the front.”
“Thanks, April!” I say.
On her way to the back door, she puts on her fake glasses, smooths the plaid skirt that matches her plaid hair band, and straightens the sleeves of her cardigan. The cardigan, part of a twinset, is draped over her shoulders with the sleeves tied in front of her chest.
“There’s my little bean!” My dad comes toward me with his arms open wide.
“Bean?” Eric mumbles.
“Short for jelly bean,” Adam explains to him in hushed tones. “I don’t know why.”
My dad has an air of distinction about him. It might be the full head of thick silver hair, or the sport jacket-turtleneck combo that has become his trademark uniform, or a combination of both. He’s not a tall man. He’s only a few inches taller than me, but I swear every time we see each other he’s a little shorter than I remember.
“Hi, Dad!” We hug and sway. He kisses my cheek. “How was your drive?” I ask as we pull apart. Looking into his hazel eyes always unnerves me at first, because they’re so similar to mine.
“Longer than necessary,” Zoe interjects, nudging her husband out of the way and coming in for a hug. “You know your father, Megan. One of his superpowers is taking a short drive and making it long,” she jokes.
I wouldn’t call the five-hour drive from Toronto to Harmony Lake short, but it’s all relative, I guess.
Zoe holds my shoulders and appraises me at arm’s length. Her blue eyes inspect me, and her short, blonde curls bob when she nods with approval.
“You look wonderful, Megan,” Zoe comments, still looking me up and down. “I suppose we can thank Sherlock for that?”
Blushing, I introduce Eric to Mitchell and Zoe Monroe. Mitchell nods and extends his hand for Eric to shake.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” Eric says, his anxiety palpable.
“Likewise,” Mitchell acknowledges before moving along to hug Connie.
“You must call him Mitchell,” Zoe says to Eric, engulfing him in a friendly hug. “Calling him ‘sir’ will go to his head, and that’s the last thing we need.” She winks and we laugh. “And you’ll call me Zoe.”
“Nice to meet you, Zoe,” Eric says.
Zoe moves on to hug Adam.
Mitchell greets everyone, including Sophie, before he greets Adam. They are cool but cordial to each other.
“Before I forget, Bean, this is for you.” Mitchell hands me a thick, letter-size, sealed envelope.
“Thank you, Dad,” I say, knowing it’s a signed copy of his latest book.
He personally delivers a signed copy of the manuscript for each book he writes to my sister and me. He seals the manuscript in an envelope and signs the seal. My sister and I think it’s a personal superstition. I display them in a bookcase. Books aren’t small, and Mitchell is a prolific writer, so over the years, we’ve installed additional bookcases to house them.
“Keep it safe,” Mitchell warns with his eyebrows raised.
“I will,” I assure him, slipping it under the counter and placing it in my bag.
After everyone greets one another, and I serve refreshments, we sit around the harvest table. When Mitchell and Zoe arrived, Connie locked the door and turned the sign from OPEN to CLOSED. Business would’ve been dead today, anyway, with the book fair opening, and this isn’t a conversation we want to have with customers browsing nearby.
My father marvels at the bookish cookies Tamara made for his Shark Attack book series, and Zoe takes photos of the cookies and of her and Mitchell posing with them.
I’m about to break the news to them about Claire’s death. The five of us––me, Eric, April, Connie, and Adam––decided it was best to tell them as soon as they arrived to ensure they didn’t hear it from someone else.
Eric says Claire’s death will become public knowledge at noon when her family and publi
sher release a joint statement to the press. It’s after 11 a.m., so I’m sure the Harmony Lake rumour mill is on the job, news of her death has somehow leaked, and is already spreading throughout the community.
“Dad,” I say, placing my hand on his. He places his other hand on top of mine. “You know they scheduled Claire Rivera to attend the book fair this year, right?”
“I’m aware,” he says, sounding agitated. “I noticed when we were driving through town that there are more posters promoting Claire’s attendance at the book fair than my attendance. The posters refer to her as the guest of honour. I thought I was the guest of honour. There can only be one guest of honour, Bean. Is it me or Claire Rivera?”
Here we go. Mitchell doesn’t like to share the spotlight. While I’m sure the news of Claire’s death will shock and sadden him, I’m worried part of him will resent her death eclipsing his appearance at the event.
“Actually, Dad, I think the posters refer to her as a guest of honour.” I shake my head and force myself to stay on task. “Regardless, there’s been a development regarding Claire’s attendance…”
“Oh, I already know about it, Bean.” He waves his hand as if it’s old news.
“You do?” I ask, squeezing my brows together. “What did you hear?”
Mitchell shrugs. “I heard the same thing as everyone else. Claire Rivera is ending her book series,” he says. “I’m not surprised. Writing the same characters book after book isn’t for everyone,” he justifies. “But her decision to announce it at a book fair we’re both attending is uncouth and shows the lengths she’ll go to ensure she’s the centre of attention.”
I inhale deeply. Under the table, Eric gives my knee a reassuring squeeze.
“There’s more, Dad,” I say as I exhale. “Claire died yesterday.”
Zoe gasps and places a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Mitchell, did you hear that?” she whispers.
He nods without breaking eye contact with me. His eyes fill with moisture. “She was too young.” His voice catches on the last word. “Are you sure?” His voice is just above a whisper.