Baked Books (The Donut Mysteries Book 30)

by Jessica Beck

  “I apologize,” Grace said seriously. “That was out of line, even for me. What was the title?”

  “Seven Deadly Mushrooms,” I said.

  Before I could explain Paige’s theory, Grace whistled softly. “And Brad Winslow’s two bestselling books are A Deadly Kiss and A Deadly Embrace. She thinks he did it, doesn’t she?”

  “I think it’s a stretch myself, but yes, that’s what she thinks. It’s all a little too coincidental for my taste.”

  “Or it could be an attempt to frame him for the murder,” Grace said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Suzanne, we’re dealing with mystery and suspense writers. I think we should expect to find things that are overly dramatic and imaginative. After all, that’s how they make their livings.”

  “It’s a possibility, isn’t it?” I asked, having a hard time grasping someone actually doing that in real life.

  “I’d say it’s more like a probability. I’m not sure how much of a chance there is that it’s exactly what it looks like, but I doubt that it’s very good.”

  “We can’t ignore the obvious, either,” I reminded her. “Remember. Hoofbeats are usually horses.”

  “But sometimes they do come from zebras,” she said.

  “We’ll keep our eyes open to all of the possibilities,” I agreed.

  “I can live with that. Now tell me about the people we’ll be speaking with today. Is there anyone besides the authors we saw on the panel last night?”

  “Well, there’s Abner Mason,” I said.

  “I have a hard time imagining Abner killing anyone, especially a stranger.”

  “Grace, he’s obsessed with getting his book published, and the chief found a page from his manuscript behind the bookstore. At the very least, we need to ask him some questions about what he did last night and who he spoke with.”

  “We can track him down after we get back into town,” Grace said. “What do you know about the authors involved? Have you learned anything since last night?”

  “Brad Winslow was leaving the publishing house—that was what the big announcement was about he mentioned before he walked out—and Rumsfield wasn’t happy about letting him go. I could easily see them having another argument that escalated into murder. Then again, Simon Gant and Bev Worthington were both being dropped, and to a writer, that might seem like the end of the world to them. In desperate times, who knows how someone will react?”

  “That leaves Alexa Masters. Did she have a beef with the publisher?”

  “There’s a rumor going around that Rumsfield was lowballing her sales figures so he could cheat her out of some of her royalties.”

  “Wow, he was a real prince, wasn’t he? Okay, we’ve got a solid game plan. We’ll keep talking to all of them until we get one of them to confess,” she said with a laugh. “Suzanne, I’m kind of surprised Paige Hill isn’t on your list.”

  The suggestion surprised me. “Why would she be? What animosity could she possibly have against the publisher?”

  “I don’t know, but she admits to having had a relationship with Brad Winslow, and she was involved in every aspect of the festivities last night. Not only that, but she was the one who pointed out that the word ‘deadly’ appeared in both the book found by Rumsfield’s body and in Winslow’s titles. Maybe she did it to frame her estranged boyfriend, and she was afraid no one would see it, so she pointed it out herself.”

  “Do you honestly think that Paige is that imaginative?”

  “I don’t see why not. After all, she opened a bookstore, so you’d have to believe that she’s passionate about reading, and don’t forget, over half that store is stocked with mysteries, so I’m guessing she’s a big fan of the genre. Yes, I can see her doing it.”

  “Okay then, we’ll keep her on our list as well.”

  We were at the Bentley quicker than I expected. Our conversation had been so gripping that I hadn’t noticed the miles flying past as I drove.

  It was time to start interviewing our suspects.

  I just hoped they were willing to speak with us.

  Chapter 11

  “Isn’t that Brad Winslow sitting over there alone?” Grace asked me as we walked into the lobby of the hotel. I glanced over and saw that it was indeed Brad, hunched over a notebook and staring at it intently. After jotting something down, he stared off into space for a moment, slammed the cover closed, and then he stood up with a scowl.

  “Is there something wrong?” I asked him.

  Our presence, as well as my question, clearly caught him off guard. “You look familiar. Do I know you? You’re not a crazy fan stalking me, are you?”

  In your dreams, I wanted to say, but I refrained. “I was at the signing last night, but you left before I could get you to sign a book for me,” I said.

  Flipping the notebook open again to the back, he scrawled something, ripped the sheet out, and then he handed it to me. “Thanks for reading my work.”

  “Actually, I’ve never read anything you’ve written,” I said.

  Grace started to laugh, but then she managed to suppress it before Brad could catch on.

  “Oh, you’re one of those,” he said in obvious disdain.

  “One of what?” I asked him.

  “A fame seeker. Sorry, but I’m not interested. You’re a little old for my tastes.”

  Was he actually suggesting what I thought he was suggesting? It was time to clear the air. “Paige Hill asked us to look into what happened to John Rumsfield last night. You remember Paige, don’t you? She told us all about you, so I wouldn’t bother trying to deny it.”

  “Why would I deny it?” He looked at us both carefully, and then he sniffed my hair. “I smell donuts on you.”

  “That’s because I make them for a living,” I said, wondering if I should have taken Grace’s advice about grabbing a quick shower before we got started.

  “Then I take it your investigation isn’t sanctioned by the police,” he replied.

  “We’ve had some luck in the past solving a murder or two on our own,” I admitted. “Honestly, I would think that you’d do everything you could to help someone solve your publisher’s murder, since you seem to be a logical chief suspect.”

  The writer looked surprised by my comment. “Why on earth would you say something like that?”

  “You didn’t see me, but I witnessed you arguing with your publisher yesterday in front of the bookstore, which happens to be across the street from my donut shop. There was a great deal of bad blood there, so you have no reason to bother denying it. It was pretty obvious even from across the street.”

  “Big deal. John was unhappy with me. I personally was thrilled with the situation.”

  That was an odd statement to make. “You were going to break your contract, weren’t you? That was why you were having a press conference in Charlotte. You were going to announce it.”

  “Big deal,” he said smugly. “I was planning to move to a larger publisher for my next two books. Obviously John didn’t want to lose me, but there was nothing he could do about it, no matter what he might have thought. I happen to have a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

  “So, you were still under contract with him,” I said, picking up on his lead.

  “Contracts can be broken by either party, given cause.”

  “And exactly what cause did you have?” Grace asked.

  “I’m not about to tell you. Are you a baker, too? Surely not, based on the look of you.”

  “I happen to work for a cosmetics company,” she replied.

  “Another sound basis for detecting. If you two are set on finding a killer, which I highly doubt is possible, I’d suggest you speak with Alexa Masters.”

  “Why her?” I asked.

  “She is the one who
threatened John Rumsfield if he didn’t release her from her contract. You see, she found out he was cheating her, but the bad thing is, there is absolutely nothing she can do about it. You wouldn’t believe how one-sided the contract she signed is, all in John’s favor. She didn’t even have the right to audit the accounts of the publisher! It was criminal, if you ask me. He took advantage of her, and I don’t doubt she wanted out. She just doesn’t know what I do.”

  “And what’s that?” Grace pressed him.

  “What harm would it do to tell you now? John started Starboard House after leaving one of the big publishers. He took great pride in entering into his agreements as an individual and not as a corporation. That left him too vulnerable to lawsuits though, so he sent out a letter last week stating that most of the contracts he’d signed were cancelled, and if any author wanted to be considered for further publication, they had to sign a waiver not to sue him as an individual.”

  “That’s a crazy way to run a business,” Grace said.

  “Yes, he set it up that way against the advice of his attorneys. He thought it gave him an edge signing fresh talent, but instead, it merely saddled him with a different set of liabilities. The main point right now, though, is that with his death, all of the contracts automatically become null and void, according to an attorney I consulted about the matter a few weeks ago.”

  “That doesn’t make you look exactly innocent,” I told him.

  “Nonsense. I was leaving anyway, he was dumping Simon and Bev, and the rest of his stable doesn’t amount to much at all. We were his all-stars, you see. That leaves only Alexa who stands to gain from his demise.”

  “Wouldn’t the fact that he was dumping Bev and Simon give them motives as well?”

  He nodded. “Yes, I considered that possibility as well. It’s credible, but I still think Alexa did it.”

  “You seem to have given this a great deal of thought in a short amount of time,” I said.

  “But don’t you see? That’s what I do for a living. I imagine situations and I project the ramifications of their occurrences. There are a few things you should know about fiction writers. First of all, we lie for a living. Second, we’re professional assassins, getting paid to murder people, in fiction if not in real life, and lastly, we see levels and subtleties beyond what the ordinary person might notice. If one of us did kill John, you’ll never discover who did it. You aren’t dealing with a typical criminal here. This act was committed by someone with the ability to play the game on many different levels.”

  I wasn’t about to let him grandstand like that without challenge. “First of all, it’s clear that the murder wasn’t planned. He was hit with a bookend found two feet from the body. Does that scream premeditation to you?” I asked him.

  “On the surface, no. Then again, maybe it was staged to appear that way.”

  “You seem to have a pretty high opinion of your fellow authors, at least of their talents for planning out murder,” Grace said.

  “For the most part, we are all intricate planners, plotting out our stories long before we record a single word.”

  I protested, “My book club has learned that just as many of you plot as you go by the seat of your pants, though.”

  “True, there are some of that ilk out there, but it’s the sign of lesser ability, at least in my opinion.”

  “I wonder how they feel about you?” Grace asked.

  “They think plotters are so rigid they can’t change the story along the way, even if a better idea comes along,” he said.

  Elizabeth had read several articles about plotters versus pantsers, and she’d shared them with us in book club. The camps were as separate as could be, from what she’d relayed to us, and I was beginning to suspect that she’d been right.

  “Is it true?”

  “No, it’s utter rubbish,” he said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must walk.”

  “What an odd thing to say,” Grace said.

  “Not really. Walking allows me to think. I’m stuck on a particularly difficult part of the outline for my next book, so I have to go.” He headed for the door, but before he left, he turned back to us and said, “A word of warning. We might seem harmless to you, sitting alone and jotting down our fantastic tales, but let me remind you that someone killed John Rumsfield in a very concrete way.”

  “That sounds kind of like a threat to me,” Grace said to me. “How about you?”

  “I suppose that it could be construed as one,” I answered. “That makes him sound a little guilty, doesn’t it?”

  “I suppose it does,” she answered.

  Brad Winslow looked at us both with contempt, and then he left the lobby.

  “That’s one odd bird, isn’t it?” a woman’s voice said behind us coming from the restaurant entrance.

  “Bev. It’s so nice to see you,” I said.

  “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” she started, and then she stopped herself. “That’s a big fat lie. I love listening in on other conversations. Sometimes I get my best sparks from them. So, Brad claimed he was getting away scot-free from his contract. That’s not what I heard.”

  “What did you hear?” I asked her.

  “Evidently he was dating a woman from the accounting department for the strict purpose of accessing information about how John did business. She told him that Rumsfield routinely stole royalties from his authors, and Brad was going to use it to try to get out of his contract.”

  “How did you hear that?” I asked her.

  “I overheard the two men shouting about it last night after the signing,” she said. “Simon had a headache, so he came back here to rest, but I wanted to walk the streets and take some photos to get the feel of this town. I may very well set my next series in a place like this, and I wanted a record of it. Anyway, I was sitting in the park admiring the night when I heard them arguing. John pressed Brad about his announcement, and when Brad told him what he was going to do, and more importantly why, John just laughed at him. It was one of the most wicked, cruel laughs I’ve ever heard in my life.”

  “Wasn’t he worried about his theft of royalties coming to light?” Grace asked her.

  “He claimed that he wasn’t. He told Brad that the accountant changed her tune when she found out Brad was dating a B-list actress at the same time he was wooing her. John told him that he had her assurance that she would say nothing to support Brad and that if he spoke one word against his publisher, he’d see him in court. John would do it, too. He once sued an author for not allowing him first refusal on his next work, and what’s more, he won the case. Poor Milford was nearly bankrupted by the verdict, and what was worse, no other publisher would touch him. The terms of the verdict didn’t even allow him to self-publish his work. That’s what I’m going to do. I’m quite tired of Fanny, anyway. My next sleuth is going to be quite a bit slinkier, and more stylish, too. I have big plans. You see, John’s murder doesn’t have any impact on me at all. I was secretly hoping he’d dump me, anyway, even though he’d keep the rights to Fanny tied up forever. What an evil contract that man used against us. Poor Simon isn’t so sure what he’s going to do next, but he’ll come around.”

  “Are you two close?” I asked her softly.

  “Where did you hear that?” Bev asked with a snap in her voice that hadn’t been there before.

  “Is it true?” Grace asked her.

  “My relationship with Simon Gant is no one else’s business,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get a bite to eat.”

  I wasn’t done speaking with her yet. “Do you mind if we join you?”

  Bev looked as though she’d rather chew glass, but she simply shrugged. “It’s a free country.”

  We all walked into the dining room together. Simon was already there, and when he saw Bev, his face lit up. That went away th
e moment he realized we were walking into the restaurant with her. He might not have known what we were up to, but he was surely unhappy about sharing Bev with anyone else.

  Simon stood as the three of us joined him at his table, but before he could say a word, Bev spoke. “These women are investigating John’s murder, Simon. Be careful what you say.”

  “Are you with the police?” Simon asked us, looking at us each in turn carefully.

  “We’re more freelance than official,” I said. “Do you mind if we join you?”

  Instead of answering, Simon looked at Bev, who shrugged. “I suppose it’s all right,” he said.

  We all got the buffet, which worked out for us, since Grace and I had planned to eat there anyway. It was a bit pricy for my budget, but I really couldn’t slip out and grab a burger somewhere else. This was one of those times when I had to just grin and bear it, though I might be eating stale donuts for a while.

  We were just beginning to eat our lunches when Bev got a phone call. From the expression on her face, it wasn’t particularly good news. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to take this.”

  She walked out into the lobby, and I thought about following her out to see what was going on, but I doubted that would work with Simon right there.

  Grace asked softly, “You really care for her, don’t you?”

  Simon was clearly caught by surprise by the question, and he didn’t answer it directly. “John was going to dump us both. I’ve already got another deal lined up with a smaller publisher, but she’s going to go it on her own. I worry that she won’t be able to make it. I’m afraid losing her deal with Starboard House was quite a blow.”

  “Enough to give her motive for murder?” I asked him.

  “What? Of course not. Bev wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “Not even if that fly was about to endanger her income, as well as her way of life?” Grace asked.