However, with the lobby nearly empty and the members of the media aggressively intercepting festivalgoers heading for their cars or Inspiration Valley’s train station, I assumed Officer Bunyan would relax.
Despite the fact that I was reassured by the police presence, I couldn’t shake the guilt I felt over my part in Melissa’s violent demise and kept thinking about the poor little boy with the teddy bear who would grow up without his mother. Melissa’s husband would have arrived by now, and Sean would have interviewed him. Had Mr. Delaney given any insights that could help lead the police to an arrest?
Reaching for my cell phone I punched in Sean’s number.
“Hey,” he said, answering after one ring. “I was just about to head over there. Are things winding down?”
I surveyed the hall. People were packing up, hugging one another, and waving good-bye. “Yes. We close up shop in a half hour. Sean, Makayla told me about the woman Melissa was arguing with. Have you been able to track her down?”
“I figured she’d tell you about that. No, we haven’t found the mystery woman yet. But Makayla’s account does add another suspect to our list. The killer may not have been Kirk Mason after all, though we won’t know until we locate him.”
“Did you meet with Melissa’s husband? How is their little boy doing?”
“He’s young and doesn’t really understand, but while his father was on the phone with him he kept asking for his mother.” Sean was quiet for a second. “The husband is grief-stricken, but on the flight over he remembered something. There’s an editor at Melissa’s publishing house who has some animosity toward her. This guy, a Mr. Ruben Felden, claims she lured an author from him—one who subsequently ended up on the bestseller list for nearly a year. Apparently, this author specifically requested Melissa as her editor, even though Ruben was originally approached by her agent. He maintains that Melissa influenced the agent to bring the author over to her. And you won’t believe this, but Mr. Felden’s hobby is creating art with ornithological motifs. To be more specific, he makes murals and sculptures using feathers.”
“The raven feather!” My brain was churning. “Do you think Felden could be Kirk Mason?”
“He wasn’t at the office today; in fact he’s been absent for a few days. New York’s finest are trying to locate him. And this guy may or may not be Kirk Mason, Lila. The general description of this man could fit, but we don’t have details yet.”
Suddenly I knew how I could help. “Sean, I can assist you with that. If I go to the office—”
He sighed. “Please keep the investigating to the police, Lila. Remember what happened the last time you got involved.”
I didn’t want to travel back to those memories. This time my participation would be different. After all, I was the one who had access to information on publishing houses and their editors. At the office I could research this man who was angry with Melissa.
When I first became a literary agent, I hadn’t anticipated that my love of books would end up bringing me in close contact with a murderer, but I wasn’t going to back down now. It didn’t matter whether the killer was an aspiring writer or an established editor. What mattered was that this warped individual had murdered a good woman during my agency’s festival. Now, I was going to use all my resources to bring that person to justice, and I wasn’t going to stop because the event was over or because Sean had asked me to. This crime was personal and I was involved. End of story.
Chapter 7
WHEN SEAN SHOWED UP AT THE OLD TOWN HALL, HIS face was pinched and grim and I sensed he was about to deliver a piece of bad news. Unfortunately, my instincts proved correct.
“I’m sorry, Lila,” he said softly, touching the tip of my chin tenderly. “I can’t come for supper tonight. We’ve got a dozen interviews to conduct regarding the argument Makayla witnessed between Melissa and a female writer, and then I’ve got a conference call with a fellow officer in New York.”
My heart sank. I’d really needed Sean’s company tonight. It wasn’t just the murder that had me feeling down—though Lord knows that was enough to cast a pall of gloom over the entire weekend. There was something unaccountably disheartening about the festival coming to an end. All around me, attendees were shouldering the ocher-colored canvas bags provided by Novel Idea, saying good-bye to friends and acquaintances, and heading out into the crisp October afternoon. The final classes were almost finished and the food service kiosks were closing down. The vendors who’d sold scores of bookmarks, writing journals, funky mouse pads, and inspirational posters were placing their remaining wares into boxes.
“A rain check, then,” I’d told Sean, mustering a smile. After all, bringing Melissa’s killer to justice was far more important than my having a case of the blues.
He’d hardly made it out of earshot before I began dialing my mother’s number.
She picked up after the first ring. “So you’re cooking for me tonight? And Trey, too?”
“Is there a tarot card layout that predicts supper invitations?” I asked acerbically.
Althea tried her best to soothe me. “You’ve had a hard weekend, shug,” she said gently. “It’ll be good for you to spend some time with your family. I bet Trey would get a kick out of givin’ treats to the little kiddos tonight—it’ll make him feel like a tried-and-true grown-up.” She sighed nostalgically and I instantly regretted taking out my negativity on her. “I recall the time he dressed up as a wizard. He couldn’t have been more than six or seven and he used that pack of sparklers for his magic wands. Remember what a ruckus that caused?”
I laughed. “How could I not? He nearly set fire to the neighbor’s rose trellis and then he went after their cat! He swore to me that he only wanted to change it into a dog!” For a moment, I was lost in the past, transported to another Halloween night in which my young son dumped his bag of treats onto the floor and begged me to pick my favorite candy from his spoils.
“Those are yours, Trey,” I’d protested with a smile. “You walked a mile to get all of those treats.”
He’d given me a hug, pressing his shining head of chestnut hair against my belly. “But I want to share with you, Mom. You share things with the person you love the most, right?”
Tears pricked my eyes, and though I was reluctant to let go of the memories, I turned my attention back to my mother. “Thanks for bringing me back to that moment,” I told her warmly. “And nothing would make me happier than to see you and Trey seated at my table tonight. I’ll give him a call.”
“No need,” my mother assured me. “I already let him know we were expected and that you were servin’ chicken in some kind of sauce. See you soon!”
Marveling over my mother’s insight, considering I had planned on making chicken piccata with a side of snow peas and a small mound of wild rice for Sean, I watched the departing festivalgoers stream through the lobby. The last two classes had let out and everyone was exiting. Several camera crews were waiting on the sidewalk to capture sound bites on the murder of Melissa Plume. Even though the ambitious reporters were hoping for new information to squeeze into the six o’clock reports, I doubted the attendees had anything to offer other than gossip. Tall tales and ridiculous theories had been circulating around the old building since the doors opened this morning.
As Vicky and I packed up the last of the agency’s literature, I realized that today’s police presence had definitely made me feel safer. I hadn’t seen any sign of Kirk Mason, but I was still plenty nervous about the possibility that he hadn’t left town. Thank goodness Trey and Althea were coming over. Halloween had never been a spooky holiday for me before, but the knowledge that a murderer was loose transformed the approaching night. These last hours of October loomed ahead like a thundercloud. I was likely to be jumping at the slightest sound and peering out the windows at my dark yard in search of a shadow moving in the blackness.
With the festival officially over, I was thankful to have a meal to prepare. Shopping and cooking a nice supper for
my mother and son would occupy my mind until I returned to work Monday morning and could start researching Melissa’s coeditor as well as the unstable author who’d threatened my look-alike.
I spent an unusually long time selecting ingredients at How Green Was My Valley and purchased all kinds of rich and comforting food that wasn’t on my grocery list. In addition to snow peas and a box of long-grain wild rice, I selected a wedge of creamy Brie, a block of Havarti, two apricots, a bunch of red seedless grapes, a French baguette, a bag of chocolate-covered raisins, and a bottle of pinot grigio. I knew the lemon, vanilla, and almond flavors of the wine would be the perfect accompaniment to chicken piccata. At the register, the cashier handed me a lollipop decorated with a white icing ghost.
“It’s mango flavored,” she told me. “All organic and completely delicious.”
She didn’t need to twist my arm. I loaded my groceries into the basket behind my scooter’s seat, pulled the wrapper from the candy treat, and popped it into my mouth. I paused there for a moment, my weight resting on my leather seat, the scooter’s engine still quiet, and felt the bliss of fruit-flavored sugar coating my tongue.
The scene around me was breathtaking. Perched on my scooter I gazed upward and watched the sun sink behind the perimeter of trees surrounding Inspiration Valley. It sent its last gasps of light shooting into the foliage, igniting a fire of scarlet, russet, and marigold hues across the base of the hills. There was a distinct line of shadow where the light could no longer reach, and above this demarcation the forests had been plunged into darkness. I was literally witnessing night laying claim to the land.
The air became much cooler and I shivered, suddenly longing for the small fireplace in my living room and my warm and cozy kitchen. I bit my lollipop into small pieces and turned on the scooter, pointing it toward home. As I drove, I couldn’t help glancing in my side mirror, fascinated and slightly chilled by the surrender of the day.
By the time I pulled into my driveway, there wasn’t a sliver of light left in the sky, but Althea’s turquoise truck was parked along the curb at the end of my flagstone walk. My mother and Trey had made themselves comfortable in the pair of rockers on my front porch.
“Why didn’t you go on in?” I gestured at the pottery chicken perched by the doorframe. “You know where I hide the spare key.”
Althea shrugged and made no move to get out of her chair. “I knew you were on the way. Besides, there’s nothin’ like a Halloween sunset. You can just feel the kiddies bouncin’ up and down with anticipation, beggin’ their mamas and daddies to hurry, hurry, hurry!” She reached over and poked Trey in the ribs with her index finger. “You sure you don’t want to grab a pillowcase and run around with the tykes? I know what a sweet tooth you’ve got.”
Trey smiled at her indulgently. “I’ll just eat the good stuff out of Mom’s trick-or-treat bucket. I’d actually be doing the kids in this neighborhood a service. Maybe she could hand out dental floss or toothbrushes instead.”
I pretended to be horrified. “Do you seriously want my house to be covered in eggs and toilet paper?”
With the grace of an athlete in his prime, Trey unfolded his long frame from the chair and crossed the porch to where I stood. He wrapped his arms around me and gave me a tight squeeze. “I heard about what happened at the festival. Are you okay?”
I returned the embrace; relishing his scent of wood smoke and the goat’s milk soap he helped produce at the co-op. “I’ll be all right, honey. But let’s not talk about it tonight. I only want to hear about you. That always makes me feel better.”
He stepped back to pick up the grocery bags. He peered into them and grinned when he saw the delicious ingredients I had purchased to prepare dinner. “Wow, Mom. This looks way better than candy.”
“So which chicken did you go with?” Althea wanted to know. “Piccata, Parmesan, or marsala?”
“Not marsala,” I said, opening the front door. “You still don’t like mushrooms, do you, Trey?”
His mouth turned down in disgust. “I think they’re gross,” he replied and walked inside.
I gave him time to settle at the kitchen table with a cutting board boasting an array of plump grapes, sliced Havarti, and salty wheat crackers before I asked what was wrong. After she poured me a glass of pinot grigio and sat down with her tumbler of Jim Beam, Althea nodded at Trey encouragingly.
“Come on, get it off your chest. Whatever’s troublin’ you has been sittin’ on your shoulders like a big, fat cat.” When Trey said nothing, she continued. “I know you men like to keep things to yourselves, but women have a way of seein’ a problem from a different angle.” She leaned forward on her elbows. “Go on, son. Spill.”
Trey released a heavy sigh. “Something’s changed at the co-op. In the beginning, I felt like I really fit in there, you know? They got who I was. And I had stuff to offer them, too, like the new product designs. Everything’s been going so great. I have friends, a job, and…” He left the rest unsaid, but I knew he was thinking of Iris Gyles. Trey had had a crush on her from the moment they’d met, but I didn’t know if she felt the same way. Could she have turned down his romantic advances? Was he nursing a broken heart or had something more serious happened?
“Please tell me it’s nothing violent,” I murmured softly, and he quickly shook his head.
“Jasper spent all summer telling me how the co-op didn’t operate in hopes of making a profit—that the people of Red Fox were looking, you know, for something deeper.” He blushed, slightly embarrassed over having to find words to aptly describe the socialist-type lifestyle he’d adopted. “But he’s been charging kids my age to hang out with us. They’re not working or anything. They just meditate with him for a few hours and then go. And they seem totally cool about paying him what he asks.”
I dipped the last of the chicken cutlets in an egg wash before coating it with breadcrumbs and poured some oil into a skillet. As the flame of the cooktop burner sprung into blue life, I said, “Do you think Jasper is taking advantage of these kids?”
Trey shrugged. “I dunno. But I heard him talking about buying all these expensive space heaters and laptops and stuff. And people have never had to pay to walk the trails or to just find a quiet place to chill out before. We don’t own the land.”
“Yet Jasper’s actin’ like he’s king of the mountain?” Althea guessed.
“Yeah. He’s just…different than when I first moved up there.”
Even though I was focused on browning the chicken, I could sense Trey’s reluctance to bad-mouth the co-op’s leader. Still, he sat rigidly in his chair and the grip on the cheese knife was too firm. My son was truly troubled.
I waited for the chicken to cook, transferred it to a plate covered with paper towels, and then placed my hand on my son’s shoulder. “Can you talk to him? Tell him that it doesn’t feel right to collect money from people who just want to get away from it all for a bit?”
Trey opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything, his eyes became guarded and he averted his glance. “It’s cool. I’m sure Iris will handle it.”
Althea and I exchanged worried glances, but I knew we wouldn’t get another word out of Trey. Instead of trying to elicit more information, I blended chicken stock, white wine, lemon, garlic, fresh basil, and capers. At the sound of the doorbell, Trey leapt up from the table to answer the door, his face transformed by a boyish grin of anticipation. While the piccata sauce was thickening, I had time to catch a glimpse of a pint-size Miss America, a devil missing his two front teeth, a wounded soldier, and a fairy with a glittering purple dress. Trey gave the children generous handfuls of candy and wished them a happy Halloween.
“Go easy on the treats,” I chided, waving my wooden spoon at him. “Or I won’t have any left to eat while I watch Ghostbusters later tonight.”
Trey grabbed several boxes of Milk Duds and brought them into the kitchen. “Then these are mine. Can’t handle cheesy flicks without them.”
“
You’re going to watch the movie with me?” I was thrilled. When Trey was younger, we’d always spend Halloween night sampling from his trick-or-treat bag while Ghostbusters played on the small television set in our living room.
Althea gestured toward the front yard. “He’s already got a change of clothes in the truck. Neither of us thought you should be alone tonight. Strange things can go on when spirits are roamin’ around.”
“It’s not the spirits I’m worried about,” Trey insisted, studying me gravely. “The book festival killer is still out there and I don’t want you to be on your own, Mom.”
I gave him a grateful smile, once again noticing how brawny he’d grown after months of manual labor, fresh air, and healthy food. “I’ll definitely feel much safer with you in the house, Trey.”
He smiled, pleased that I thought him a worthy protector.
“Maybe you can get that hunky cop to spend tomorrow night with you. It’s about time that man unlaced his boots and stayed for a spell. A long spell,” Althea said with a leer and then refilled her tumbler with another inch of whiskey.
Ignoring her, I poured the thickened sauce over the chicken and garnished the cutlets with sprigs of fresh parsley. After putting several spoonfuls of wild rice on each plate, I lifted the lid from the pot of snow peas. Steam billowed forth, flushing my face with heat. The rush of warmth made me think of Sean.
Trey and Althea were right. I didn’t want to be alone. Not tonight. Not tomorrow night, either. I was ready for Sean to become a real-life Paris to my Helen, for him to lay down his shield, kick off his sandals, and take me in his arms. I was just getting to the part in my fantasy in which Sean’s fingers were deftly removing my long, white Grecian dress when Trey asked me to pass the pepper shaker. At the same moment, the doorbell rang and I offered to handle the next batch of trick-or-treaters.
As I walked to the door, I made another silent vow to help find Melissa’s killer. As soon as he was caught, I could have Sean to myself, and when that time came, I was going to show him just how passionate a middle-aged single mother could be.
Every Trick in the Book Page 10