Licking her lips nervously, she stared down at the paper. “I really would like to know where you got this. I never let anyone see my notes—my story ideas—when I’m this early into a project. I knew I should have torn it up before I threw it in the trash.”
“So you admit you threw it away.”
She looked up, her expression no longer friendly. “Of course. I didn’t need it anymore. Just random thoughts—my ideas. When I’m working on a new book, I find the ideas flow freer when I write them out longhand. Sometimes I don’t even read the notes after I write them. It just helps me form thoughts, develop my storyline.”
“Did you throw these away right after you wrote them?”
“I threw them away yesterday afternoon.”
“Are you sure you threw them away yesterday?” MacDonald asked.
“Yes. I don’t know why it matters. But you can ask Joanne. She came to my room and asked me if I had any trash to go out.”
Joe looked at Brian and shrugged. “I told the chief this was a waste of time. Danielle had it in her head Ms. Hemmingway tossed those notes before the article came out yesterday morning, which obviously didn’t happen. Might as well let her leave. I don’t imagine there’s anything unusual about an author jotting down notes after reading a news article.”
“Can you tell me when you wrote this?” Joe and Brian heard MacDonald ask Hillary.
“Waste of time,” Joe mumbled as he and Brian turned from the window.
“That night,” Hillary said.
“What night?” MacDonald asked.
“Late Tuesday night. Technically it was Wednesday morning. I don’t know. I didn’t really pay attention to the time.”
Joe and Brian froze. They looked at each other and then turned and hurried back to the window to listen.
Nibbling on her upper lip, Hillary fidgeted with the edge of the plastic holding her notes hostage.
“You wrote that before we found the body?”
Hillary nodded. “Yes. It was still dark outside.”
“You do realize what you wrote describes exactly what happened.”
Hillary picked up the paper and reread it before tossing it back on the table. “I don’t know about that. It’s possible there were several killers instead of a lone man like in my story. Or maybe the killer was a woman. It’s just a coincidence. I write murder mysteries. It’s not really that unusual for one of my stories to resemble a real-life crime. After all, what is it they say, there’s less than ten plot lines?”
“So you’re telling me you came home that night around the same time Jolene Carmichael was murdered, and you sat down and wrote out a crime scene that just happens to match what happened?”
“No.” Hillary shook her head. “I came back from Pier Café and stayed up for a while. Then I went to my room and went to bed. I woke up in the middle of the night, couldn’t sleep because I had some ideas rattling around in my head. So I brought out my paper and just started writing.” She pointed to the paper. “And I wrote this. No big deal.”
“I would say it is a major big deal. How would you have known about the killer tossing those rings off the pier unless you saw him do it? We assumed he had taken Jolene’s jewelry, that it was a robbery. But it wasn’t. Whoever killed her wanted to get rid of those rings. You either saw someone toss those rings off the pier, or you threw the rings off yourself.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
If Hillary still wanted a tour of the police station, she did not mention it. The moment MacDonald told her she could go, she left; yet not before trying to take her notes with her.
“Witnesses who don’t come forward generally stay quiet out of fear. She didn’t seem afraid. Annoyed that you had her notes, but not afraid of the killer,” Joe said as he and Brian walked into the chief’s office.
“Sometimes they stay quiet because they don’t want to get involved,” Brian reminded him.
“No matter what her reason, she obviously witnessed the murder,” Joe said. “How else would she have known about the rings being dropped off the pier?”
MacDonald sat behind his desk and leaned back in the chair. “Had she not told us when she supposedly wrote that, I suppose I could have chalked it up to a coincidence, even if it had been written before we found the rings.”
“Why did you let her go?” Joe asked. “If nothing else, I’d say we have enough to hold her on as a possible suspect, considering what she admitted to writing before Jolene’s body was found. Not that I think she had anything to do with the murder, but if she did write that when she claims to have, she has to be a witness.”
MacDonald let out a sigh. “I can’t figure out why she’d admit to writing that before the body was found, yet insist she hadn’t seen anything.”
“Now what?” Joe asked.
“I don’t want to rush into anything. Insinuating she was the one who threw the rings off the pier didn’t seem to ruffle her. As for her being the killer, we have no motive. From what I know, the two women had never even met before. All we have are the notes written by a bestselling murder mystery author, which just happens to be identical to our murder scene,” MacDonald explained.
With a snort Brian said, “If you did lock her up, I imagine she’d be thrilled.”
“Why do you say that?” Joe asked.
“Think about it. What great publicity for her books. People love that sort of crap. Her books would be flying off the shelf.”
“From what I understand, they already do,” Joe said.
“True,” Brian conceded. “But the chief is right, there’s nothing to hold her on. And if we did arrest her, we would end up looking foolish, and she’d just sell more books.”
“I’m surprised she didn’t try to lie about when she wrote the notes,” MacDonald murmured.
“Is she taunting us?” Brian suggested.
“What do you mean?” Joe asked.
“Think about it. She is a mystery writer. It’s entirely possible this is all a publicity stunt.”
“How do you figure that?” MacDonald asked.
“Maybe she did lie, but not about seeing the murder. Maybe she wrote that after she read the article in the paper. And later, if we hold her—she would come out and say she’d gotten her days mixed up, she had written it after the article. Of course, that would be after the national news got ahold of the story and she got free publicity,” Brian theorized.
“You forget, she wrote about Jolene being covered in sand; that wasn’t in the paper,” the chief reminded him.
“Heather lives down the street from Marlow House, and she found the body. It’s entirely possible she’s told people about Jolene being covered in sand, and Hemmingway heard about it,” Joe suggested.
“Your theory would mean Hemmingway wanted Danielle to find those notes,” MacDonald reminded him. “Not quite sure how she manipulated Danielle to go through the trash cans late at night or how she arranged to have her pages stick to the paperwork Danielle was looking for.” While MacDonald knew Danielle didn’t accidently find Hillary’s notes—he also didn’t believe Hillary was attempting to pull a publicity stunt. Yet he couldn’t tell Brian or Joe that.
“We need to find those fishermen,” Brian said. “Maybe one of them saw Hillary on the pier that night.”
“Or the killer,” Joe added.
Danielle stood at the sink, washing up a few stray dishes that she hadn’t been able to fit into the dishwasher, when Walt appeared in the room. Grabbing a dishtowel off the counter, she wiped her hands and turned to face him. “The chief called a few minutes ago to let me know Hillary’s on her way back here. Or at least, he assumes she’s coming back to Marlow House.”
“What did she say about the notes?”
“Strangely, she admitted to writing them that night—after she left Pier Café. Although, according to her version, after she got home she went to bed and then woke up later and jotted down the notes.”
Walt considered that scenario a moment and then said, “That’
s possible. I stayed in the parlor and watched television after she went upstairs. She could have gone to bed first and then woke up before I got up there. I only assumed she had never gone to bed.”
“I called Lily right after the chief called me. I was hoping she’d be here when Hillary gets back.” Danielle glanced uneasily to the doorway leading to the front hall.
“I assume Joanne’s gone?” he asked.
“She’s not coming back until the morning.” Danielle tossed the now damp towel back on the counter. “I’m counting on you, Walt.”
“What do you mean?”
“If Hillary tries to smash me over the head with something for giving the chief those notes, I expect you to stop her.”
Walt smiled. “I promise. But I have to assume that if the chief let her go, he doesn’t feel she’s dangerous.”
“He believes she witnessed the murder, but for whatever reason, refuses to admit it.”
“If she didn’t want the world to know she witnessed the murder, why write about it?” Walt asked.
“Maybe she didn’t think anyone would ever see those notes.”
“What about when her book comes out?” he reminded her.
Danielle wandered to the kitchen table and sat down. “Maybe she doesn’t intend to use any of that in her new book. Perhaps she witnessed the murder; she got scared and being a writer—wrote about it. Then she threw the notes away, never imagining anyone would ever see them.”
Walt took a seat at the table. “The only problem with that—the scene is in her new book.”
Danielle frowned. “How would you know that?”
Walt looked at Danielle and sighed. “Did you honestly believe I wouldn’t be keeping a closer eye on her after reading those notes—after learning of Jolene’s murder?”
“What have you done?”
“I haven’t done anything,” Walt snapped. “Other than spending some time reading over her shoulder while she hammers away on her typewriter. The book she’s writing, the murder scene, it’s the same one you took to the chief.”
Fifteen minutes later, Walt and Danielle retreated to the living room, waiting for Hillary’s return.
Danielle stared at the empty doorway. “I wonder if she’s going to check out.”
“It would probably be more comfortable for you if she did.”
“I can’t believe the chief would be thrilled if she left Frederickport right now—and just disappeared.”
“That is not really your problem, Danielle. You did what you had to do.”
Danielle considered her situation when a thought occurred to her. With a gasp, she looked at Walt and said, “I forgot to tell the chief Melony and Hillary know each other.”
“I would think that would only be a critical issue if Hillary was a suspect. Didn’t you say he believes she simply witnessed the murder?”
“Yes.” Danielle considered the possibility of Hillary being the killer. Finally, she said, “I find it hard to imagine for a moment Hillary killed Jolene, even if she had a motive. Jolene was a tall woman, and unless Jolene was leaning down, I don’t see how Hillary would be capable of hitting her over the head with sufficient momentum to kill her.”
“Not to mention the fact Hillary doesn’t move around very well. Like I said, I’ve been keeping an eye on her and she sometimes struggles to climb the stairs. While it has been a long time since I’ve walked on the beach, I recall walking in the sand can be difficult, especially for a clearly arthritic woman of Hillary’s age.”
Danielle started to say something and then paused. She glanced to the open doorway. With a whisper she said, “I think she’s back.” Snatching a magazine off the coffee table, Danielle leaned back in the chair and pretended to read while Walt wandered to the fireplace and summoned a cigar.
A few moments later, Hillary’s voice came from the doorway. “Danielle, are you alone?”
Looking up from the magazine, Danielle forced a smile. “I’m in here.”
Hillary stepped into the room. “Is Melony or Lily here?”
Setting the magazine on her lap, Danielle shook her head. “No. They haven’t come in yet.”
“I think we need to talk,” Hillary said calmly as she walked toward the sofa facing Danielle. She sat down.
Danielle could feel the rapid acceleration of her heartbeat. Nervously she glanced to Walt.
With a wink he said, “Don’t worry, Danielle, I won’t let that little old lady hurt you.”
“Anything in particular?” Danielle asked uneasily.
“I think you know. You’re the one who gave my notes to the police, aren’t you?”
“I want you to know I never went into your room. I promise. I would never go through a guest’s things.”
Hillary studied Danielle. With a calm and steady voice, she asked, “But you go through your guests’ trash?”
“It wasn’t like that,” Danielle insisted. “I accidently threw some paperwork away, and the trash had already been set out on the curb. I had to try to find it before the trash man came. It was dark out, so I couldn’t see what I was doing very well. I found some papers in the bottom of the bin and thought they were what I was looking for.”
“Did you find your papers?” Hillary asked.
“Umm…no…I mean yes. Yes, but they were stuck to one of your papers.”
Walt shook his head. “Danielle, sometimes you are absolutely the worst liar in the world.”
“So I suppose you read what I wrote?”
Danielle shrugged apologetically. “I’m sorry, I was just curious.”
“Worst liar ever,” Walt muttered.
Hillary considered Danielle’s version of events for a moment and then let out a deep sigh and smiled. “I suppose I understand. If I stumbled across something like that, I couldn’t resist reading it either.”
Walt frowned at Hillary. “Well, I’ll be damned. I believe she bought your cockamamie story.”
“I imagine what I wrote scared you—being so similar to what happened to Jolene.” Hillary let out another sigh and settled back in the sofa. “It isn’t the first time my imagination has gotten me in trouble.”
“Are you in trouble?” Danielle asked.
Hillary shrugged. “I was called down to the police station and interrogated. And Chief MacDonald did tell me to check with him before I leave town.”
“Are you leaving town?”
“Eventually.” Hillary smiled at Danielle and then stood up. “I wonder, do you have any of that wonderful cake left? I’m ravenous.”
“Umm…yeah…in the refrigerator.”
Hillary started for the doorway and then paused and looked back to Danielle and asked, “You don’t mind if I have a piece, do you?”
“Umm…no…help yourself.” Just as Hillary turned back to the door, Danielle called out, “Hillary, can I ask you something?”
Pausing again and looking back to Danielle, Hillary smiled. “What’s that?”
“You aren’t mad at me for giving your notes to the chief?”
Hillary considered the question for a moment and then shrugged. “I confess I was initially annoyed. I was quite serious when I said I don’t like anyone reading anything I’ve written until—well, until I’m ready for them to read it. But considering the circumstances, I can certainly understand how my notes might have been upsetting. You did the right thing. I don’t blame you at all.” Hillary flashed Danielle a departing smile and then headed for the kitchen to cut herself a piece of cake.
With a furrowed brow, Danielle murmured, “Wow. I really thought she’d be checking out.”
“She still didn’t explain why her notes were identical to Jolene’s murder,” Walt reminded her.
“True. But I didn’t quiz her.” Danielle continued to stare at the now empty doorway.
“I’m surprised she bought your story.”
Danielle rolled her eyes at Walt. “You’re funny.”
“How so?”
“You said I was a lousy liar. But yo
u’ve told me before I’m pretty good at it.”
Walt shrugged. “It’s true, sometimes you’re an expert at covering your tracks when your gift complicates things. And other times, like a minute ago, you seem awful transparent.” Walt let out a sigh and sat down. “Perhaps I’m just getting so I can read you better than other people can.”
With a startled gasp, Danielle looked back to the open doorway.
“What is it?” Walt asked.
“You said I have a gift. Maybe Hillary has a gift. Perhaps she’s clairvoyant?” Danielle suggested.
“Clairvoyant, what do you mean?”
“Maybe the murder scene just came to her—maybe she’s one of those people who can just see things that have happened.”
“I seriously doubt your Hillary Hemmingway is clairvoyant.”
Danielle looked from the doorway to Walt. “Why do you say that?”
“For one thing, she bought your story about how you happened to find her paper in the trash. A clairvoyant person would have seen through your story at your first stumbled ‘umm.’”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A locked screen door separated Danielle from Sadie. Tail wagging, the golden retriever impatiently waited for Ian or Lily to come open the door so that she could give Danielle a proper greeting. It was Ian who came to the door a minute later.
“I thought Chris would be with you,” Ian said as he let Danielle into his house.
“I left him down at his place, unpacking.” She followed Ian into the living room while Sadie nuzzled her with a wet nose and leapt playfully at her feet, demanding sufficient attention.
“Go lie down,” Ian told his dog. Reluctantly, Sadie complied.
In the living room Danielle found Lily sitting on the sofa. She noticed Ian’s laptop sitting open on the coffee table.
Lily briefly glanced out the window. “I see Hillary is back. What did she say? Is she staying?”
“It would have been nice if you’d come back and given me some support,” Danielle said as she plopped down in a chair.
The Ghost and the Mystery Writer Page 17