A Spelling Mistake

by Nancy Warren

  I was already reaching for my mobile phone when Lochlan stopped me. “Quinn, I have a better idea.” We all looked at him. “What if we leave Tristan with his current plans? And when he’s in bed asleep, whoever is willing to claim that Bartholomew sent them the manuscript will have to silence the true author.”

  “But he could get murdered, when we could stop it happening.”

  “He won’t get murdered,” Lochlan said, as though I were being silly. “One of us will be hidden in the wardrobe ready to catch the culprit red-handed.”

  “Not bad,” Bartholomew said.

  “I think I can improve on your plan,” I said, warming to his idea. “What if it’s not you hiding in the wardrobe but the Gardai?”

  He nodded. I thought he was quite relieved not to have to get more involved in police business than he already was. “Excellent idea, Quinn. But can you convince them?”

  “If I get Tristan Holt’s permission, then I think I can.” I glanced at my watch. “But it’s after seven o’clock now. There’s no time to lose.”

  “He is rather putting himself at risk of being arrested himself, don’t you think?” Lochlan asked. “He’s got the best motive for murdering Candace Branson.” Was he still trying to win the ten euros?

  “I’m sure that the Gardai would rather catch the real culprit,” I said.

  “It all depends on whether you can get Tristan Holt to agree to be the cheese in our mousetrap.”

  Chapter 19

  Lochlan said he’d take care of the Gardai. I knew he had connections in high places, so I left that part of the plan to him and said I’d see about getting Tristan on board.

  I called Tristan on his pay-as-you-go mobile, grateful when he picked up. Surprisingly, when I explained the plan to him, Tristan seemed keen on the idea.

  “Cool. I’ll do it.”

  “You’re sure? You know it’s risky.”

  “I’m a writer, Quinn. This kind of firsthand research is too good to miss. And the cops will be hiding in the closet. I’ll be fine.”

  To my surprise, I received a call from DI Walsh. “I understand we’re doing a stakeout at the O’Donnell House,” he said, sounding irked. He probably didn’t like civilians getting involved in his business. “Tell me why I shouldn’t arrest this Tristan Holt for the murder of Candace Branson? Sounds to me that he had the most to gain from her death.”

  I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see me. “But he didn’t have much to gain. Without one of the key partners in Bartholomew Branson’s publishing world, he’s just another MFA trying to sell a book.”

  DI Walsh had been in the military and, in the ensuing silence, I suspected he was picturing maneuvers. Plotting out the capture of a murderer as though it were an enemy position. Finally, he said, “We’ll have an officer inside that young man’s room, and I’ll post a couple outside. But Quinn, I warn you, if no one makes an attempt on Tristan Holt’s life, it won’t look good for him.”

  My heart began to pound. What had I done? Had I just put Tristan Holt, not so much in danger of his life from a murderer, but in danger of being arrested for a crime he hadn’t committed? That was always assuming that he hadn’t committed it. I didn’t have anything other than my witch’s intuition that he was innocent of Candace Branson’s murder. However, we’d come this far now. We had to see it through.

  Sneaking an officer into Tristan Holt’s room turned out to be the most difficult part of the process. We had to enlist Karen’s cooperation, and she came up with the genius idea of having someone disguise themselves as her staff.

  “And Lord knows I need the help,” she muttered. “I have a full house, and I could have as many rooms again rented out if I wanted, with all the media here and all. I only wish it was earlier in the day so she could clean the rooms while she’s poking about.”

  DI Walsh suggested that the female detective could pretend to check the towels and turn down the beds, like in a posh hotel, which gave her a perfect excuse to check on everyone’s whereabouts. Then she’d do Tristan Holt’s room last, causing no suspicion when she entered his room, and who would notice that she never came out again? Besides, she could hide surveillance equipment in amongst the towels and things. I thought it was a brilliant plan.

  Karen insisted I come over. “I haven’t the right constitution for cloak and dagger. You must come and give me your support.” In truth, I was excited to be part of this plot to catch a killer in the act. Well, not in the act, but close to it.

  Tristan Holt seemed pretty excited when I got to O’Donnell House and explained I was there to visit Karen. He looked like a different man now that he was clean. He’d shaved, his hair was clean and combed and I suspected Karen had washed his clothes for him. The only moment of worry he showed was when he said, “Quinn, if this goes badly—” He didn’t seem to know what to say next, so I assured him that everything would be fine.

  “But if it does go wrong, make sure my book gets published, will you? If Bartholomew Branson can have a posthumous best-seller, maybe I can too. At least the money would help my mom.”

  It was so sweet, my heart warmed to him. I became doubly determined that nothing was going to happen to him. I said, “I have some protection amulets that a local witch gave me. It’s very woo-woo here, being Ireland and all.”

  I gave him a leather band with a nice piece of black obsidian that he could wear around his wrist. It contained powerful protective magic, and then, when he was slipping it onto his wrist, I quietly recited a spell of protection.

  I’d done all I could to keep him safe, but even so, I was as jumpy as Cerridwen when she’s convinced there’s a mouse behind the walls. He went back to the lounge where everyone was gathered while I sat with Karen in the kitchen. Except I couldn’t stay seated or still. I kept pacing back and forth and couldn’t even manage a sensible conversation.

  “Quinn, you’re making me more nervous than I was before you came.”

  “I feel responsible. I’m the one who talked both Tristan and the police into this crazy mousetrap of a scheme. What if it all goes wrong and Tristan Holt ends up dead?” Or if no one made an attempt on his life and DI Walsh decided that arresting a guy with a very strong motive who might be innocent was better than no arrest at all?

  The constable arrived at the kitchen door, and I’d never have guessed she was a Garda if I hadn’t already known it. She was in her thirties, with lank brown hair tied back in a ponytail. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt. She told us that she had backup in the garden, and DI Walsh slipped behind her into the kitchen. Karen gave her a basket with clean towels, and she slipped her surveillance gear into it before following Karen out into the dining room, which led to the hall and then the stairway to the rooms.

  Karen came back and nodded to DI Walsh, who slipped back out into the back yard.

  By ten, I could hear the B&B guests saying good night. I heard Tristan talking. He sounded more jovial than I’d ever heard him, which was strange seeing as he was about to offer himself up as bait to catch a killer. Then I heard the answering voice and recognized Chloe. Nice to know he might have spent the last night of his life hitting on a woman.

  Karen made tea and put out a plate of homemade cookies. After my lean dinner of salmon, brown rice, and spinach, with not a bit of bread or butter or sauce, I was starving. I tucked into the cookies.

  It was difficult to stay calm. At every creak of the old house, I wanted to jump out of my chair and run upstairs to make sure Tristan wasn’t hurt. From the way she kept jumping in her chair every time a toilet flushed or the old house shifted, I suspected Karen felt the same way. She’d already lost one guest in her short stint of running this bed and breakfast. She really didn’t need to lose another one.

  By one, Karen was serving coffee to keep us both awake, and the cookie tin was empty.

  By three in the morning, I thought I’d made a terrible mistake. Poor Tristan. What was I going to do if he got arrested?

  I looked outside a few times. I
didn’t see any Gardai presence, but after a cloudy day, the sky was completely overcast. There wasn’t a hint of moon or stars. It was dark dark. Still, once or twice, I thought I sensed movement rather than saw or heard anything outside. It could have been a cat or a fox or maybe even a badger.

  By quarter to four, I was having trouble keeping my eyes open. I didn’t know how cops did it. How could a stakeout be so tense and boring at the very same time?

  Then I heard a crash that had us both jumping to our feet and shouting. Karen and I were on the move, nearly crashing into DI Walsh, who glared at me before sprinting up the stairs. We followed in hot pursuit and, when we got to the top of the stairs, saw an astonishing sight. Giles, wearing a dark red, silk dressing gown and slippers, was already handcuffed, and beside him, the constable who’d posed as a cleaning woman was holding on to his arm. The door to Tristan’s room was standing wide open, and about three feet away, Philip Hazeltine stood stock still. He was at the other end of the hallway from his room and was wearing, like me, all black. Not night clothes either. He stood there as though if he was still enough, maybe no one would notice him and he could blend into the wallpaper. All the other doors were now open. Irving wore pajamas with cartoon rabbits on them.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, yawning hugely behind his hand.

  Chloe’s door opened last. She was so gorgeous, I seriously wondered if she wore makeup to bed.

  The person I didn’t see was Tristan Holt. I ran forward. “Tristan? Are you okay?”

  He appeared behind the detective, who was still holding Giles by the arm.

  “Yeah. I’m fine. That wasn’t as exciting as I thought it would be.”

  I looked at him, and he was obviously whole and unharmed. “Did Giles try to kill you?”

  “No. I don’t know if he was going to, but he and Philip bumped into each other in the doorway to my room. It was more like the Keystone Cops than a murder.”

  “I can explain,” Philip said, looking about as innocent as a guy standing over a corpse with a dagger dripping blood in his hand. Being dressed all in black really didn’t help.

  “So can I,” Giles said, obviously trying to hold on to his dignity even though he was in handcuffs and the edge of his robe was slipping apart, revealing navy and maroon striped cotton pajamas. With his arms pulled back like that, one of his pajama buttons had popped open, revealing a sliver of his pale belly.

  Suddenly, in this very awkward tableau, Karen Tate absolutely lost it. She said, “I am absolutely sick of this. I’ve barely opened my brand-new bed and breakfast, at great cost to myself, I might add, and I’ve got murderers and unwanted guests and police crawling all over the place at all hours of the day and night. I’ve had enough of all of you. I’m putting the coffee on, and I want every one of you in the front room and we’ll hash this out now.”

  She was showing a side of herself I’d never seen. All of us jumped to attention, even Detective Inspector Walsh. After looking like he might argue with her, he suddenly nodded.

  “Excellent idea, Ms. Tate.”

  “And if you’ve got any of those shortbread cookies, I’m kind of hungry. I was too nervous to eat dinner last night,” Tristan said.

  “Really.”

  He sent her a wheedling look. “I did nearly get murdered.”

  We all gathered downstairs in Karen Tate’s front room. DI Walsh looked irritated, as though he’d lost a night’s sleep for nothing, Philip and Giles both looked sheepish and embarrassed. Irving kept yawning, and Tristan was probably the one who looked wide awake. In fact, he looked wired. Chloe came in last, and she’d taken the time to dress in slim black trousers and a blue sweater, and she’d combed her hair. Weirdly, none of us talked about what was going on while Karen was slapping about in the kitchen. When the coffee was done, she called us all into the dining room, and we obediently sat around the big table. To Tristan’s delight, she even slapped a plate of his favorite shortbreads in the middle of the table.

  DI Walsh might be the top cop on the case, but this was Karen’s place, her business, and she was in a mood that brooked no-nonsense. It was actually really impressive.

  “Now,” she said, “before another day passes, I want to know exactly what’s going on.” She pointed her finger at Giles and said, “And I’ll start with you.”

  The constable who’d been undercover in Tristan’s wardrobe looked at DI Walsh with her eyebrows raised, but he shrugged. This might be unconventional, but Karen Tate might get more answers than anybody else. He seemed to think it was worth a try.

  “Giles, I’m waiting to hear what you were doing entering Tristan Holt’s room in the middle of the night.”

  The editor shifted uncomfortably in his seat as we all stared at him. “I wanted to talk to him, that’s all.”

  DI Walsh interjected here, asking the constable, “Did you find a weapon on him?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “But then Candace Branson’s murderer didn’t need any other weapon than his bare hands,” DI Walsh said in a conversational tone. “Is that what you were going to do? Strangle Tristan Holt the way you strangled Candace Branson?”

  Giles visibly recoiled from the suggestion. “I can’t imagine why you’d even think such a thing.”

  “Then if you didn’t go into Tristan Holt’s room at four in the morning to kill him, why did you go in?”

  “I told you. I wanted to talk to him.”

  “And it couldn’t wait until morning?”

  “No. It couldn’t.”

  “What did you want to talk to him about?”

  The editor looked rather shiftily around the table. “I’d rather speak to him in private.”

  “Unless you want to talk down at the station, I suggest you speak up now.”

  “It’s very awkward.” And then he looked down at himself. “And I’m not even dressed.”

  Even though it was serious, I had to press my lips together to stop from smiling. I wasn’t sure if he was more upset about being accused of murder or being caught in his pajamas in the middle of the night.

  “Oh, very well. I wanted to speak to Tristan about working with me.”

  “Why, you double-crossing—”

  “Irving, please. Let the man speak,” Karen Tate said, quelling him with a glance.

  “I had a feeling that Tristan might be the real author of the supposedly newly discovered Bartholomew Branson manuscript,” Giles said.

  “That’s rather a stretch, isn’t it?” DI Walsh asked. “What made you think that?”

  Giles looked more and more uncomfortable. They’d removed his handcuffs so he looked less like a felon. He sipped his coffee for something to do, or probably to buy time, and then slumped back in his chair. “I knew when Candace Branson made her announcement that Bartholomew Branson could not have written that manuscript. You see, he talked over every new book with me. He’d already emailed me a rough sketch of the new book before his unfortunate demise. There was absolutely no reason why Candace Branson would ever have known anything about it. They weren’t on terms.”

  “Doesn’t mean—”

  “Irving,” Karen said, with her finger raised. “I’m not telling you again.”

  “I’d managed to catch a glimpse of the manuscript, and I have to say it was good.” He glanced over at Tristan now, who was watching with rapt attention, a half-eaten cookie forgotten in his hand. “Very good. You’re a talented author and quite gifted at recreating Bartholomew Branson’s style.”

  “Thanks,” Tristan said. “That means a lot.”

  Karen Tate said, “I wouldn’t get too excited. Nobody’s convinced that Giles wasn’t going in your room to strangle you.”

  Giles looked truly confused. “Why on earth would I kill the golden goose?”

  “Or silence the goose.”

  DI Walsh turned to Philip then. “And what were you doing? Also trying to gain entry into Tristan Holt’s room?”

  “I also had something to discu
ss with him,” Philip said, trying to sound dignified.

  DI Walsh said, “And there you were, all dressed in black. Ready to leave at a moment’s notice. I happened to look in your room and noticed that your bags are all packed. Planning a quick exit, were you?”

  The agent grew red in the face. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I was leaving. But I had no intention of killing that young man,” he said, nodding in the direction of Tristan.

  “Thanks, man.”

  “Like Giles here, I also wanted to talk to him. I-I may have overheard some of the conversation between Tristan and Candace at the party at Devil’s Keep so I already knew he was the author. I was only going to tell him that I had to leave early to get back to Dublin. A water pipe burst in my house. My wife needs me home. I was going to invite him to come to the office when he was finished here and we’d talk about his future.”

  For somebody who’d gone to bed being afraid he’d be murdered, Tristan Holt’s night was turning out a lot better than could have been expected. “Really? You want to talk to me? You mean, like, about representation?”

  “Yes.”

  My phone buzzed with a text. There was only one person I could think of who’d be texting at this time of the night, so I quietly checked the message.

  And then I knew who had killed Candace Branson.

  Chapter 20

  There was an odd silence, as no one seemed to know what to say or do next. It built for a beat or two, and then I said, “Irving, you’re an agent. How come you didn’t go barging into Tristan Holt’s room in the middle of the night like the rest of them?”

  He looked quite surprised to be questioned. He’d been sitting there with that pouting scowl on his face and jerked to attention at my words. “Why would I? I’m not some sneaking Brit. Plus, I already have the contract, don’t forget.”

  Philip pretty much jeered at him. “A contract that will be null and void since the person you made it with is deceased. Any contract needs to be made with the author of the book.”