Sins & Needles

by Reagan Davis

  I nod. “We’re sure. Her family is issuing a statement at noon.”

  “What happened?” he asks. He looks at Eric. “You’re the police chief, what happened?”

  “The cause of Claire’s death hasn’t been released,” Eric says in his cop voice.

  The lunacy of this situation strikes me. Here we are, seven people sitting around a table, five of us dressed as literary characters, with a corgi under the table dressed as a caterpillar. Having a serious conversation about a tragic death. If it wasn’t so sad, it would be laughable.

  “Was it an accident?” Mitchell probes. Eric purses his lips into a tight line, then opens his mouth to say something, but Mitchell beats him to it. “It was her nut allergy, wasn’t it?”

  “Umm... nut allergy?” I ask. “Claire had a nut allergy?” This is the first I’ve heard of it.

  Mitchell gives me an exaggerated nod. “She did,” he confirms. “When she worked for me, I would tell her to be more diligent about her allergy before it killed her.”

  “What do you mean diligent?” Eric asks.

  “She was lackadaisical about carrying her EpiPen with her.” Mitchell looks at his wife. “Wasn’t she, Zoe?”

  Zoe nods in agreement. “When Mitchell would attend events, Claire would forget to bring her EpiPen with her. She would work at our house and not have it with her. It made us so nervous that we bought one and kept it handy whenever she was around.”

  “Did you ever need it?” I ask.

  “No,” Mitchell and Zoe reply in stereo. “Thank goodness,” Zoe adds.

  Thinking back, when Claire attended the needle-felting exhibit at the store, she used a napkin to pick up the bookish cookie when I asked her if I could take a picture of her holding it. She didn’t partake in any refreshments, avoiding the refreshment table altogether, and hanging out at the front of the store instead. To avoid touching anything, she kept her hands clasped behind her back. Actions that I interpreted as standoffish might have been part of her safety protocol because of her nut allergy. Things aren’t always as they seem.

  We’re still sitting at the harvest table at noon, albeit in a much more sombre mood, when our phones ding, chime, buzz, and vibrate.

  “The statement about Claire’s death,” Adam advises us, standing up. “I should go. The mayor’s office is issuing a statement about Claire’s passing, since she died here and was attending our book fair.”

  Zoe thanks him for coming and gives him a big hug.

  “I’ll see you out,” I say, standing up.

  “Thank you for coming,” I say at the back door. “I know Mitchell isn’t your favourite person. I appreciate you putting aside your feelings.”

  Adam shrugs. “You and I are still family, Meg, therefore Mitchell is still my family, whether he likes it or not.” He smirks and puts on his top hat. “I’ll see you tomorrow at dinner.”

  I lock the door behind him and turn around. “Jeez!” I say, clutching my chest. “You scared the life out of me.” Eric is standing partway up the stairs that lead to his apartment. How is this tall, muscular man so light on his feet?

  “Sorry, babe,” Eric says, chuckling. “I’ll be upstairs talking to the coroner.” He holds up the phone in his hand, then disappears upstairs.

  I hope it's good news, if there is such a thing when someone dies young and unexpectedly. Good news would be if the coroner determines natural causes or a freak accident caused Claire’s death. The anxious knot in my stomach isn’t expecting good news.

  Chapter 9

  Only in Harmony Lake can the Paperbag Princess and Nancy Drew walk The Very Hungry Caterpillar on a leash, through the park, with no sideways glances or second looks.

  “Do you think I should have taken off Sophie’s costume?” I ask.

  “She’s fine,” April says. “She doesn’t even notice it.”

  “You’re right.” I nod in agreement. “Now reassure me that Claire didn’t eat a nut product at Knitorious on Wednesday afternoon, then die from it twenty-four hours later.”

  “It’s not possible, Megabean,” April reassures me, mashing up her nickname for me with my father’s nickname for me. “Besides, nothing had nuts in it. T made sure the bookish cookies were nut free. I helped you put the food out, you served nothing with nuts. Anyway, nut allergies kill in like thirty minutes or something.” She stops walking and looks at me. “Did Eric tell you Claire died because of her nut allergy?”

  I shake my head. “No,” I reply. “He doesn’t know her cause of death. He’s talking to the coroner right now, though, so he’ll know soon.”

  When we get to Artsy Tartsy, April and I hug goodbye, and I watch her cross the street and go inside the bakery. Then Sophie and I turn around and meander toward Knitorious. It’s a beautiful spring day. The sun is shining, and the birds are singing. The temperature is a mild ten degrees––maybe a tad cooler this close to the lake.

  Connie accompanied Mitchell and Zoe to chez Martel to help them settle in. I offered to go with them, but they said they have a lot to catch up on, and I didn’t want to be in the way.

  I closed Knitorious for the rest of the day since nobody is shopping today with the opening ceremony for the book fair and the news of Claire’s death.

  “Come here, Soph. Let’s take off your costume.” I crouch down to her level and undo the clasps that keep Sophie’s costume in place, then pull it off. She gives herself a good shake. “Is that better?” I ask, scratching her neck and chest. “Who’s a good girl?”

  I give her a few dog treats, then take off my paper leaf bag and lay it over the back of one of the kitchenette chairs. I’m about to make lunch, and cooking in a paper dress isn’t how I want to die. I take the glass container of stuffed peppers out of the fridge and climb the stairs to Eric’s apartment.

  “Shhh,” I remind Sophie. “He might be on the phone.” I open the door and Sophie rushes in ahead of me.

  She jumps onto the leather sofa and parks herself next to Eric, who’s leaning forward, focused on the laptop on the coffee table in front of him. His Sherlock Holmes costume lays over the back of the leather club chair. His phone is on the table next to his laptop, and there are no AirPods in his ears.

  “Hey, Handsome,” I say.

  “Hey, babe!” He looks up at me and smiles. He’s not on the phone. “No more Paperbag Princess?” he asks.

  “Not until after lunch,” I reply. “Hungry?” I ask, holding up the glass container.

  “Starving,” he responds. “What are we having?”

  He’s always starving. I’ve never seen Eric turn down a meal.

  “Stuffed peppers,” I reply. “The ones you like with the sausage, rice, and cheesy mushroom stuffing. How hungry are you?”

  Still absorbed in whatever is on the computer screen, he holds up two fingers; he’s two peppers hungry. I put the peppers in the oven and join him on the sofa. “Anything interesting?” I ask.

  He sighs and turns the laptop so I can see the screen. “Crime scene photos,” he explains. “From Claire and Dina’s cottage.”

  Crime scene. He said crime scene, not death scene.

  “The coroner concluded Claire was murdered?” I ask, flexing my deductive muscle.

  “Fatal anaphylaxis,” he replies, nodding. “I need to find the source of the peanut oil and retrace Claire’s final steps to explain how she came into contact with it. It could be accidental, but it’s too suspicious. Too many things don’t add up.”

  I take a deep breath and let it out. “So, it was her peanut allergy that killed her, not the felting needle?”

  He nods again. “The coroner believes she fell on the felting needle when she collapsed. The puncture wound from the needle was not fatal.”

  “Why was she hanging out near the door with her felting needle?” I wonder aloud. “I mean, she probably realized she was in trouble. Why didn’t she use the key? Or use her cell phone to call for help?”

  The rental cottage––like the rest of Harmony Lake––is rem
ote, but we have decent cell phone coverage. Unlike some remote towns, we lucked out with cell phone towers.

  “The coroner says the allergic reaction could have made Claire confused, panicky, or both. Maybe she couldn’t immediately find the key or her phone, but she found the felting needle. Or maybe she was already holding it when the reaction started.”

  I nod toward the laptop screen. “Are you searching the crime scene photos for the nut product she had contact with?” I ask.

  He nods and sighs. “Officers are searching the cottage for anything that might contain nuts. So far, nothing, but they’ve collected a bunch of stuff for the lab to test.”

  “Is that the letter Jules asked me to give to Claire?” I ask, pointing at the handwritten note on the screen.

  Eric nods. “I assume it is. It’s signed by Jules.” He reaches for the laptop and zooms in on the photo. “Is that the envelope she gave you?”

  “Yes,” I confirm. “I remember her pretty, cursive handwriting.”

  The oven beeps, and I plate the stuffed peppers. Eric closes his laptop and joins me at the breakfast bar.

  “Did your dad say anything after I left?” he asks.

  I blow on a forkful of steaming hot stuffing before I reply. “He said lots of things,” I tease. “Are you asking if he said anything about you?”

  “I can’t get a read on him. I don’t think he likes me, but I can’t tell for sure.”

  I shrug. “That’s how he is,” I explain. “You can’t spend your life worrying about whether my dad likes you.” I smile. “I already know how I feel about you, and his opinion won’t change my mind.”

  “He posted a nice statement about Claire,” Eric says, then takes a sip of water.

  “Zoe or his publisher posted a nice statement,” I correct him.

  When Zoe and my dad met, she was an editor with the publishing company that handles his books. She still edits for him, but since Claire quit as his assistant ten years ago, Zoe stepped into that role too.

  “Your dad lets other people post to his social media accounts?”

  “Only other people post to my dad’s social media accounts,” I clarify. “I don’t think Mitchell Monroe has ever made a social media post. I bet he doesn’t even know how to access his accounts.” We laugh. “I didn’t know you follow my dad on social media.”

  “I don’t,” Eric explains, “but I’m monitoring the responses to Claire’s death, and the responses to yesterday’s post about retiring the Familia series.”

  I gasp. “You think an angry fan killed her because she was ending the series?”

  “It’s possible,” he acknowledges. “Babe, there were some disturbing, threatening social media posts after her announcement.”

  “Ugh!” I roll my eyes. “Social media can be so negative and toxic.”

  “Interpol contacted me about one post in particular,” he discloses.

  “Interpol? The international police organization?” I ask.

  After eating half of my pepper, I’m full. I use my fork to push the other half to the edge of the plate. Eric scoops up my abandoned pepper with his fork and transfers it to his plate. Where does he put all the food he eats? It’s one of the great mysteries of the world; he eats enough for three people, yet there isn’t an ounce of fat on him. I’m jealous.

  He nods. “Claire has an overzealous fan from Britain who made some particularly vitriolic comments and vague threats yesterday when Claire announced the end of Familia. Authorities in Britain tried to question her, but she’s abroad.”

  “Well, if she’s not in Harmony Lake, she can’t be a suspect in Claire’s murder,” I surmise.

  “That’s the thing,” he says. “We think she’s in Harmony Lake. She landed in Toronto a few days ago and rented a car at the airport. Her cell phone has been dinging off local cell phone towers. I’m waiting for the car rental company to call me back. I’m hoping the rental car she’s using has GPS, and they can tell me where it is. I’d like to talk to her.”

  “Did you check the local hotels?” I ask.

  He nods as he finishes his second pepper and digs into my abandoned half-pepper. “She hasn’t checked in anywhere.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. “Maybe she’s renting one of the rental properties. I can ask around. What’s her name?”

  “Piper Peters,” Eric replies, standing up and retrieving his phone from the coffee table. “I’ll send you her picture. If you see her, let me know.”

  “Of course,” I say, looking at my phone when it dings. Piper Peters is about my age. In this photo, her long, straight brown hair is in a low ponytail that hangs over her shoulder. She has deep-set brown eyes and fair skin. Her nose and mouth are small, and her lips are pursed in a tight line. “Is this a mugshot?” I ask.

  “I think so,” Eric responds. “She has a history of harassment and threatening. Brooks Wiley mentioned Piper yesterday when I asked him who might want to harm Claire. He said Claire got a restraining order against her last year when Piper showed up on her doorstep and demanded that she change the end of one of the Familia books.”

  “That doesn’t sound like the behaviour of a mentally well person,” I observe.

  “It isn’t,” Eric agrees. “So, if you see her, please, please, don’t approach her. Call me.”

  I nod.

  “Promise?” he asks.

  “Promise.”

  Chapter 10

  “Hi, Dad.” We kiss cheeks.

  He’s sitting in one of the living room chairs. His reading glasses are on the tip of his nose, and he’s reading on his iPad.

  “How are you, Bean?” he asks, looking at me over his glasses and smiling.

  “Fine,” I reply. “Where are Zoe and Connie?”

  Mitchell closes his iPad and places it on the table next to him. He pats his lap, and Sophie jumps onto it.

  “They went to the town square to revel in the book fair festivities,” he replies, scratching Sophie between the ears.

  “Maybe I’ll join them,” I suggest.

  “They shouldn’t be hard to find.” He sounds amused. “Just look for Madame Defarge and Charlotte.” He chuckles.

  “Charlotte?” I ask.

  “Yes, Charlotte,” he reiterates. “Zoe dressed as Charlotte, the spider from Charlotte’s Web.”

  “You didn’t put on a costume and join them?” I smirk at the mental image of Mitchell Monroe dressed up as anything.

  “It’s not my scene,” says the author about the book fair.

  “Right,” I say. “There’s a strawberry dream cake in the fridge. Tamara made it just for you.”

  “I found it,” he says, as if it’s a secret. “And if Zoe asks, you had an enormous slice.” He raises his index finger to his lips in a shhh motion. “I’m supposed to be watching my sugar intake.”

  “Got it,” I say with a dramatic wink. “So how are you feeling?”

  “Do you mean after the enormous slice of cake, or about Claire’s untimely death?” he answers my question with a question.

  “I know you weren’t on good terms and hadn’t spoken in ten years, but it must be a shock.”

  Mitchell sighs. “It is,” he admits. “Regardless of our feelings toward one another, Claire was too young to die. She had her entire life to look forward to. I’m debating reaching out to her family. Zoe said we should send flowers and a note.”

  “That’s a lovely idea,” I concur. “Phillip can make you a floral arrangement.”

  I remind him that my neighbour at home and at work, Phillip, owns a florist shop. I’m about to tell my dad about the coroner determining Claire’s death was murder, but my phone rings. It’s Dina Langley.

  “Excuse me, Dad.”

  He waves me away and puts his head back, closing his eyes. He’s still rubbing Sophie, who has fallen asleep in his lap.

  “Hello?” I answer the call on the way to my bedroom.

  “Hi, Megan! It’s Dina.”

  “Hi, Dina. I’ve been thinking about yo
u. I meant to text you, but I haven’t had a spare moment.”

  “That’s OK. I understand. Thank you again for stopping your life to come to the cottage yesterday. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem,” I say.

  Claire’s death being declared a murder hangs between us like a dense fog.

  “I have to collect the rest of my things from the cottage,” Dina says. “There was a cancellation and the hotel manager said I can stay here. Since the cottage is a crime scene, I can’t stay there, anyway.” I hear her gasp. “Not that I’d want to stay there,” she corrects herself. “I feel safer at the hotel. They have cameras here, and it’s booked solid, so if something happens, someone will hear me scream.” Another gasp. “That sounds awful. I’m not very articulate today. I didn’t sleep well and…”

  “It’s OK, Dina,” I interrupt her. “You don’t have to explain. I get it. I can come with you if it would help. I closed the store for the rest of the day anyway…”

  “Thank you, Megan! It would be easier if I’m not alone. I mean, I could ask Brooks to go with me, but he’s not very warm and comforting, you know? He’s all business, all the time. And I think Claire’s… death created more work for him.”

  He didn’t look all business, all the time when I saw him kissing Jules Janssen and touching her butt. Just saying.

  “Should I pick you up?” I offer.

  “No, thank you,” Dina replies. “I arranged a rental car, and Brooks drove me to pick it up this morning. I’m more emotionally stable than I was yesterday… well, somewhat… I’ll drive myself.”

  We agree on a time to meet at the cottage and end our call.

  “Dad, I have to go out. Do you need anything?” I call as I enter the living room. “Dad?” Where did he go?

  “No, Bean. I’m fine.” He’s at the front door, putting on his shoes. “I think I’ll take a walk and burn off the cake I ate, so I can eat more later.” He winks.

  “You mean you’ll burn off the cake I ate.” I wink back.

  “That’s my girl.” He chuckles. “I’ll take my granddog with me, and we can explore the neighbourhood.” He refers to Sophie as his granddog.