by Reagan Davis
“Wait,” my dad says with his index finger in the air. He looks at me. “Are you questioning me, Bean?” He looks at Eric. “Is this an interrogation, Chief Sloane?”
“I need to ask you a few questions, sir,” Eric says.
With my father rendered momentarily speechless from shock, Eric explains he needs to ask my dad about his absence from the hotel. He tells them he can question them here, instead of the station, and offers to question them himself to ensure the utmost discretion and avoid the media finding out Mitchell Monroe is a person of interest.
“I want my lawyer,” my dad proclaims.
Eric closes his notebook and clicks his pen closed. “Call them.”
“He’s at least a day away from here,” my dad insists.
The doorbell rings. Sophie barks and jumps off my dad’s lap. Zoe and I both startle. I excuse myself to answer the door.
“Hello, Mitchell,” Adam says. “I understand you need a lawyer.”
Is he psychic? How could he know my dad just demanded to talk to his lawyer?
“Who called you?” Mitchell demands, sounding just as dumbfounded as I am.
“I did,” Zoe replies.
“Why?” My dad and I ask in stereo.
“How did you know Dad would need a lawyer?” I ask her.
“I didn’t.” Zoe shrugs. “I asked Adam for advice about the internet lies,” she explains. She looks at my dad. “I saw some online comments and conjecture yesterday. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to upset you. I asked Adam what we can do to minimize the damage to your reputation. He offered to come by this morning and talk to me. I assumed you’d be writing, so I didn’t bother to tell you he was coming over. But with the brouhaha this morning, I forgot he was coming.” She raises her eyebrows and leans toward her husband. “Wasn’t it nice of Adam to offer to help us, Mitchell?”
“Why do I sense something bigger is going on?” Adam asks, lowering himself onto the loveseat next to Zoe. He surveys our blank stares. “Care to fill me in, Meg?” he asks, glaring at me.
“Your replacement, here, thinks I killed Claire Rivera!” Mitchell blurts out before I can answer.
“Mitchell!”
“Dad!”
Zoe and I admonish him in unison for his rude comment.
I gasp and use my scowl to reprimand him further for referring to Eric as Adam’s replacement.
I look at Adam. “Eric needs to ask Dad a few questions, but he wants to wait for his lawyer who is far, far away,” I summarize curtly.
“I see,” Adam nods and sits back. He laces his fingers together and rests his hands on his lap. “Mitchell, would you like me to represent you while Eric questions you?”
“No, thank you!” my dad snaps. “I have a lawyer. He’s just not here.” He huffs. “Yet,” he adds.
“I’d like you to represent me while I’m questioned, Adam,” Zoe interjects.
“Zoe!” Mitchell exclaims. He draws his brows so close together they almost touch.
“What, Mitchell?” Zoe asks in a calm voice. “I have no desire to draw out this fiasco any longer than necessary. If answering Eric’s questions will help him find Claire’s killer sooner rather than later, he has my full cooperation.”
“Coffee, Adam?” I ask, standing up. Sensing an opportunity, Sophie jumps onto the sofa and takes my spot.
Adam nods, so I excuse myself to the kitchen to take my time making the slowest coffee ever and give Zoe, my dad, and Adam an opportunity to talk alone.
“Well, this couldn’t have gone worse,” Eric says, following me into the kitchen.
“I’m sorry about what my dad said,” I say to Eric as I pull the crock pot out from under the sink and hoist it onto the counter. “It was inexcusable. And not true.”
“I know, babe. He was angry. People get defensive and offensive when they feel cornered by the police,” Eric justifies.
“It doesn’t matter,” I respond. “Don’t make excuses for him. What he said was unacceptable.” I plug in the crock pot and turn it on, then I drop a pod in the coffeemaker and turn it on too.
I place a mug under the spout, then get the meatballs out of the freezer.
“What are you making?” Eric asks.
“Sweet and sour meatballs,” I reply. “For the family dinner tonight. It’s potluck.”
“This might be the most awkward family dinner ever,” he mutters.
I sweeten Adam’s coffee with cream and sugar, then pour a jar of sweet and sour sauce over the meatballs, and close the lid on the crock pot.
“Good news,” Adam announces as he enters the kitchen. “They both agree to answer questions. I’ll represent them. They’d like Meg to be present.” He smiles, accentuating the lines around his blue eyes, and scratches the back of his head, mussing his hair.
“Thank you, Adam,” I say, handing him his coffee. “I’m sorry we dragged you into this.”
He winks. “Life is more exciting than fiction when Mitchell comes to town.” He sips his coffee and looks at Eric. “Dude, you will be so dead this time next year.” He puts down his coffee and rubs his hands together. “How do you think Mitchell will kill you?” He chuckles, then adds, “In the literary sense, I mean. In a book. He’ll kill you in a book.”
I wish Claire’s murder was a plot in a Mitchell Monroe book. Unlike real life, his books always end with the good guy figuring out whodunit and the culprit suffering the consequences of their evil deeds.
Chapter 14
We regroup in the living room, and Eric starts by asking Zoe what she did while my dad was out. She claims she stayed in the room and watched a movie. The movie rental should appear on their hotel bill, and her cardkey should verify that she didn’t leave the room.
“Also, my cell phone was on the entire time, so you’ll be able to trace its location, right?” she asks Eric.
That was easy. I doubt questioning my dad will be as straightforward.
“Where did you go when you left the hotel, Mr. Monroe?” Eric asks.
My dad looks at Adam. Adam nods, and my dad looks at Eric.
“Some coffee shop not too far from the hotel.”
“What was it called?”
Mitchell shrugs. “I can’t remember.”
“Did you keep a receipt?”
“I paid cash.”
This is going nowhere.
“Describe the coffee shop, Dad. What was the first thing you noticed when you walked in?” I ask.
“It was one of those trendy places,” he recalls. “It smelled like gourmet coffee and all the customers were on their laptops, cell phones, tablets, or all three. Most of the drinks had pretentious, hard-to-pronounce names.”
“What did you order?” I ask, opening the internet browser on my phone and searching for coffee shops within a two-hour radius.
“I had two London Fogs and two cranberry biscotti. They had two menus, one vegan and one regular. I ordered from the regular menu. The manager recognized me from my book jacket and gave me the second London Fog and biscotti on the house.” He sounds pleased with the amount of detail he’s able to recollect.
“Tell us about the manager,” I encourage, adding vegan menu options to my online search criteria.
“I wouldn’t have known he was the manager if he didn’t tell me. He wore the same black apron as his employees, and everyone was the same age. You know the type, well educated, overqualified, and full of existential angst.” He gestures vaguely. “Typical young people.”
I add black apron to my search criteria. The list is getting shorter. There are a surprising number of trendy coffee shops around.
“Did the manager have a nametag?” Eric asks.
“Yes!” Mitchell replies with enthusiasm and snaps his fingers. “And he introduced himself to me. We shook hands, and he asked if I would take a selfie with him.” He bites his lip while he thinks. “What was the boy’s name?” The boy is probably in his thirties.
“Did you take the selfie?” Eric asks.
<
br /> “Yes,” Mitchell replies. “I try to be approachable and friendly. It’s important to me to accommodate my readers.”
I close the internet browser on my phone and open a social media app. I type in #MitchellMonroe. Wow, my dad wasn’t kidding. It looks like he takes a selfie with anyone who asks. There are pages of photos of him posing with random people. I filter the results by date and look at the most recent posts first.
“He had one of those man-buns that have become so popular.” He holds his hand on top of his head to show us where the coffee shop manager’s man-bun was. “And those earrings you can see through. You know where they train their earlobes to have holes in them?” Mitchell snaps his fingers again. “He had two last names. Ooof! What was his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue.”
“He had a hyphenated last name?” Zoe probes.
“No,” Mitchell clarifies. “His first and last names were both common surnames.”
“Does Smith Wilson sound familiar?” I ask, turning my phone toward my dad.
He raises his reading glasses to his face and looks at my phone. “That’s him!” he shouts like he just won a game of bingo. “Well done, Bean!” We high five. “She gets her resourcefulness from me,” he announces to no one in particular.
I tilt the phone screen so Eric can see it. “Smith Wilson is the manager at The Daily Grind.” I flash a smug smile, pleased with my aptitude for online stalking.
I take a screenshot of Smith Wilson’s post, just in case he deletes it or makes his account private or something.
“The Daily Grind! That was it!” Mitchell confirms. He looks at Zoe. “It’s one of those hipster places with clusters of sitting areas. There are sofas, chairs, coffee tables. They look like leather, but they aren’t leather. All the sitting areas have signs explaining the furniture is vegan leather. Vegan leather!” He huffs. “Vegan leather is an oxymoron. Just call it plastic, for goodness’ sake….”
While my dad expounds the absurdity of referring to anything not sourced from an animal as leather, I clear away the takeout cups and Adam’s mug. Eric follows me into the kitchen, typing on his cell phone.
“This should be easy to verify,” he assures me. “If all goes well, I’ll text you in a couple of hours to tell you we eliminated Mitchell Monroe as a suspect in Claire’s death.”
“Thank you,” I say, hugging him.
“I have to get going.” He kisses the top of my head. “I’ll pick you up at closing time?”
“Perfect.” I kiss him goodbye.
He says goodbye to my dad, Zoe, and Adam as I check the crock pot before I leave.
“Meg, I’m leaving,” Adam says, looking at his watch as he enters the kitchen. “I’m on mayor duty today. I have to attend a luncheon at the town hall with the book club, have my photo taken with Jules Janssen at her book signing, then go to the library and read If You Give a Mouse a Cookie to The LitWits.”
The LitWits is a reading group for local children at the Harmony Lake library.
“Busy day,” I comment. “I hope you have time to come for dinner.” Adam says he’ll be here for dinner but won’t have time to make anything for the potluck, so he’ll bring wine. “The most important part of any meal,” I quip. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
My dad and Zoe are already at the door.
“Thank you for your help, Adam.” Zoe kisses Adam’s cheek, then discreetly nudges my father’s ribs.
“Thank you, Adam. We appreciate your time and expertise.” My dad extends his hand.
“Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t seen my bill.” Adam winks.
Zoe and I laugh, but Mitchell isn’t amused.
“He’s kidding, Dad,” I assure him.
“Of course, he is,” Mitchell chuckles. “I know that.”
They shake hands, which is the closest thing to affection I’ve ever seen them share, then Adam and I exchange a double-cheek kiss, and he leaves.
I look at the time and realize it’s almost lunchtime. Connie and Marla are working a half day today, and I have to relieve them. Zoe suggests we go together since she’s going to Knitorious to meet Connie. They plan to wander around the book fair together, then go back to Connie’s place and cook for the pot luck tonight.
Mitchell asks if Sophie can stay with him. He says she’s the perfect writing companion, good company without being demanding or distracting.
“You should write her into one of your books,” Zoe suggests. “What book wouldn’t be improved by a loyal animal companion?”
“You’re right,” I agree.
April: Dina Langley has been here all morning.
Me: At the bakery?
April: Yup. Working on her laptop. She really likes lemon meringue tarts.
Me: Who doesn’t? T’s lemon meringue tarts are the best! Has Dina said anything?
April: She says lots of things. She’s chatty and outgoing. Nothing about Claire’s murder, though.
The Familia-inspired needle-felt display was popular this morning. We sold at least half of the figures. I’m rearranging the leftover items so the display looks less sparse when my phone dings again.
April: Dina just left. She’s meeting Brooks Wiley for lunch. Can you talk?
I scan the store, even though I know I’m the only person here.
Me: Yes! The store is empty.
Moments later, my phone rings. I put April on speaker while I dig out my AirPods from the bottom of my purse.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Megapop! Not that it’s a surprise, but T and I are bringing dessert to the potluck tonight.”
“I figured,” I say, popping my AirPods into my ears. “What are you bringing?”
“Nanaimo bars and toffee pecan shortbread.”
“Mmm…” Just hearing the words make my tummy rumble.
“Dina just left,” April informs me. “She got here just after we opened. She said she gets lonely in her hotel room by herself, and Eric asked her not to leave town, so she’s trying to make the best of it.”
“You and I are the only people she knows in Harmony Lake,” I remind April. “It must be hard for her being stuck in a strange town by herself.”
“He’s not local, but she also knows Brooks Wiley. When she packed up to leave, she said she was meeting him for lunch.”
“Interesting,” I think out loud.
“What’s interesting?”
“I got the sense they don’t like each other.”
“I guess things change when you’re both stuck in the same small town,” April suggests.
“You’re right,” I agree, wondering if Brooks and Dina could be closer than they let on. I’ve caught him sneaking around with Jules, maybe sneaky relationships are his thing.
“She typed frantically for twenty-five minutes, then rewarded herself with a lemon meringue tart,” April reports. “Then she typed frantically for twenty-five minutes again, then ate another tart. All morning.”
“My dad does that when he’s writing,” I respond. “He says it’s part of his process.”
“Eats a lot of lemon meringue tarts?”
“No, the frantic typing-thing,” I clarify. “He writes uninterrupted for twenty minutes, then takes a five-minute break and does something he likes. He calls the frantic typing sessions, sprints.”
“I guess non-writers do sprints too,” April surmises.
“What was she doing?” I ask.
“She said she was replying to social media posts and condolence emails from fans who reached out about Claire’s death,” April mumbles with her mouth full.
“What are you eating?” I regret skipping breakfast.
“Chocolate croissant,” she replies, swallowing. Then takes another bite. “Why? You want some?” she garbles.
“Yes. I’m starving. This morning was a fiasco, and I missed breakfast.”
“I’ll be there in two minutes. I want to know everything.”
Before I can respond, April ends the call.
True to her
word, two minutes later, the bell over the door jingles, and April swoops in carrying my favourite box: a white confectionery box with the Artsy Tartsy logo on the lid.
“Thank you,” I say, taking the box from her. “You’re saving me from an afternoon of hunger.” I bite into a croissant and let my eyes roll back in my head. “I can’t leave because I’m alone until closing time,” I mumble with my mouth full of flaky pastry goodness.
“Business is dead,” she informs me. “Everyone is at the book fair today. The only customers we’ve had want the bookish cookies and nothing else.”
“It’s the same here,” I agree, using the half-eaten croissant in my hand to point to the needle-felt display. “The felted Familia figures are the only thing we’ve sold today.” I shrug and take another bite of croissant.
“So…” April makes herself comfortable in the cozy sitting area. “Who do you think killed Claire Rivera? I know you’ve been sleuthing.”
Swallowing a mouthful of croissant, I join her on the sofa. “I don’t know,” I admit. “A few people have motives. Eric is verifying alibis to determine who also had opportunity.”
“Who do you think did it?” I ask.
“Dina Langley,” April replies without hesitation.
“Why?” I ask.
“First, she was there when it happened. Second, she had access to Claire to give her whatever nut product was the murder weapon,” April alleges.
“Makes sense,” I agree, taking another croissant from the box and closing the lid. “But the employment contract Dina had with Claire stipulated that Dina’s job as Claire’s assistant ends the day they release the last Familia book. Why would she make herself unemployed sooner?”
“Hmm,” April ponders, “that strengthens my case. Dina would be unemployed either way.” She shrugs. “She had nothing to lose.”
Ding!
A knot of panic swells in my belly when my phone dings. What if it’s Eric telling me he couldn’t verify my dad’s alibi?
Chapter 15
“Please let it be good news,” I wish out loud as I pick up my phone from the counter.