A Deadly Edition

by Victoria Gilbert

  Not interested in walking out of the historic area of town, I turned around to retrace my steps. But before I could leave the grounds of the inn, my attention was caught by the sight of someone packing a compact car with luggage.

  It was Honor Bryant. I approached her with a cheery hello.

  She met my gaze with a tense frown. “Hi, Ms. Webber. Sorry, but I can’t talk. I want to hit the road soon.” She twitched her lips into a humorless smile. “I prefer to avoid driving too late, so I need to get going if I want to reach my destination before dark.”

  “Where are you headed?” I asked.

  Honor shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Up north. I think I’ll have more success looking for a new job in the New York or New England area.”

  “I see. The sheriff’s department has cleared you to leave, then?”

  Honor slammed down the trunk lid of her car. “Of course. Why wouldn’t they?”

  Looking her over, I registered her quite different look—tight and tattered black jeans, magenta T-shirt, and black leather jacket. Quite a change from the image she’d been presenting up to this point. She was still wearing the short boots, though. Now clean.

  There was mud on her boots before, like someone who’d stomped through the woods, I thought. But she wasn’t wearing those boots at the party, so I have no reason to alert Brad about that.

  “I just thought, since they haven’t determined who it was that poisoned Mr. Selvaggio, they might still have questions for you.”

  “I don’t see why. I had nothing to do with Oscar’s death,” Honor said, her voice cracking slightly.

  “It’s just … Well, I did see you carrying a mug that could’ve had anything in it. One you didn’t seem to be drinking from. I had to tell the authorities that, I’m afraid.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Honor’s eyelashes fluttered, drawing attention to the fact that she was no longer wearing glasses.

  She looks like another person. Like she’s reverted to the girl she was in those older photographs, I thought, before clearing my throat. “At any rate, I hope you have a good trip. Looks like you’ll have decent weather for the drive, at least.”

  Honor didn’t respond to my pleasantries. “Sorry, must go,” she said, casting a quick glance over her shoulder. Glimpsing something that obviously unnerved her, she tensed until her shoulders were hunched up almost to her ears and yanked a set of keys from her jacket pocket.

  Following her gaze, I spied Lance Dalbec standing on the side porch of the inn. “Do you know him? He seems to be taking an inordinate interest in you.”

  Honor’s knuckles whitened as her fingers clutched her keys. “No.”

  “His name is Lance Dalbec. I’ve met him a couple of times, and he gives me the creeps. I don’t think we should ignore his obvious stalking. In fact, maybe I should call the sheriff’s department.” I pulled out my cell phone.

  Honor’s face blanched. She slapped my hand so hard that my phone flew from my grip and crashed onto the driveway pavement.

  “What the hell?” I leaned down to retrieve my phone. Staring at the cracked glass and blank screen, I straightened just as Honor made a dash for the driver’s side of her car.

  She didn’t offer an apology or even a good-bye; she simply jumped into the car and slammed the door behind her. I scurried to the edge of the driveway as she fired up the engine and backed out as if the devil himself were chasing her.

  Lance Dalbec waited until Honor’s car disappeared around the curve that led out of town before he strolled over to where I stood, examining my broken phone.

  “Hello, Ms. Webber. I see Mr. Selvaggio’s former assistant has beat a hasty retreat.” He stared at me, his pale eyes opaque as frosted glass. “Do you know her well?”

  “Not really. I met her at Mr. Kendrick’s party and have only spoken to her once or twice since. But honestly”—I shoved the dead phone into the pocket of my jeans—“I’m surprised the sheriff’s department has allowed her to leave Taylorsford. I have this odd feeling that she knows more than she’s saying about Mr. Selvaggio’s death.”

  “She did appear a bit jumpy.” Dalbec’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed me. “Did she say something that’s aroused your suspicions?”

  I met his intense gaze with a lift of my chin. “I don’t think I should share anything Ms. Bryant may or may not have said with you, Mr. Dalbec. I suspect you’re looking to pin Mr. Selvaggio’s murder on Kurt Kendrick, and frankly, I’d rather help the authorities handle the investigation than assist someone who seems to be, in my opinion, something of a vigilante.”

  “Is that what you think of me?” Dalbec’s smile was, in its own way, as intimidating as Kurt’s.

  But he’s more of a hyena than a wolf, I thought, taking a step back. “You told me that you attacked Mr. Kendrick in self-defense, after he lunged at you. But I expect that’s a lie. I think you actually accosted him because you believe he had something to do with Mr. Selvaggio’s death. Since you aren’t, by your own admission, involved with law enforcement, it seems you’re not above taking the law into your own hands.”

  “Sometimes the law doesn’t have all the facts,” Dalbec said, his smile fading.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “If you have more information than they do, perhaps you should share it with them. That might be more useful than knocking down elderly men in their own homes.”

  A bark of laughter escaped Dalbec’s thin-lipped mouth. “Are you suggesting that I was engaged in an unequal fight with a defenseless old man? Surely you know Kurt Kendrick better than that.”

  “He’s strong, but also in his seventies. Which gives you the advantage, if only in years,” I said, locking my knees to keep my legs from wobbling.

  Dalbec looked me over. “As I said before, you should be careful where that man is concerned. He’s much more dangerous than I suspect you realize. And utterly ruthless when it comes to protecting his own interests.”

  I knew this. But I also knew that Kurt’s interests included protecting me, Richard, and our families and friends. Which was information I didn’t feel like sharing with this man, whatever his reasons for attacking Kurt. “I do understand that, actually. But personally, I don’t think he murdered Mr. Selvaggio. Not at a party at his house. It’s not his style.”

  “People can do things out of character when pressed to their limits,” Dalbec said.

  “True, but again, I prefer to allow the sheriff’s department to study the evidence and arrest the proper person. Neither you nor I probably have all the information we’d need to label anyone a murderer, even if we have assembled some interesting facts.”

  Dalbec’s expression darkened. “Which I assume you’ve done. Perhaps with some input from people like Ms. Bryant?”

  “Like I said before, I don’t think that’s any of your business. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I intend to resume my walk.” I turned away and strode off without waiting for any reply.

  I reassured myself that I owed Dalbec nothing—not an excuse for my rudeness and certainly not any information I might have learned from anyone involved in this convoluted case. He’s just looking for an excuse to pin the murder on Kurt, I thought as I walked back toward my aunt’s house. There seems to be some animosity there that his words don’t really explain. Better to leave him in the dark than have him attack Kurt, or anyone else, again.

  When I reached the library, I paused on the sidewalk and considered my options. My cell phone was dead, but there was a landline in the library. I used the spare key I’d fortunately added to my personal key chain and entered the building through the staff door.

  In the workroom, I grabbed the receiver of the phone extension and called Brad.

  “So Dalbec is still in town,” he said, after I explained my run-in with the man. “Good to know. We’re trying to keep tabs on the guy, especially since his background is a little murky.”

  “He isn’t an art broker?” I coiled the cord of the wall-mounted phon
e around my wrist.

  “He’s been involved in a few deals, but that doesn’t really seem to be his profession. To be honest, we haven’t been able to determine exactly what it is he does.”

  “You think he’s a crook?” I asked.

  “Let’s just say his lifestyle doesn’t match up with his apparent lack of employment.” Brad’s dry tone didn’t hide his obvious distrust of Lance Dalbec. “And he appears to move around a lot. Always something to consider.”

  “Well, he’s apparently just as suspicious of Kurt Kendrick as you are,” I said. “Although I’ve sensed a level of antagonism from him that I don’t think you feel.”

  “Interesting.” Brad fell silent for a moment before speaking again. “You said you saw him at the Taylorsford Inn?”

  “Just as Honor Bryant was leaving. I think he was watching her.”

  “What?” Brad’s tone sharpened. “Bryant’s left town?”

  “Didn’t you approve her departure?”

  “Definitely not. We had more questions we wanted to ask her. Where did she go? Did she say?”

  “Not really,” I said, frowning as I realized how vague Honor had been. “She said something about New York and driving north, but that was about it.”

  When Brad swore, which he rarely did, I knew he was truly upset. “When did she leave?”

  “About twenty minutes ago. She was in a hurry and obviously didn’t want anyone from your department to show up, even when she seemed frightened by Dalbec’s presence. When I said I was calling you, she knocked my cell phone from my hand.”

  “That’s not a good sign,” Brad said. “But helpful information nonetheless. Thanks for letting me know.”

  “Sure.” I unwrapped the phone cord from around my wrist. “Obviously, Honor Bryant lied to me. She claimed your office had told her she was free to leave Taylorsford.”

  “Absolutely not. Like I said, we wanted to question her further.” Brad hesitated before speaking again, indicating that he was carefully weighing his words. “One of the feds assisting with this case let me know that Bryant had had a few run-ins with the law in the past. Drug problems, apparently.”

  I held the phone away from my face and stared at it for a moment before responding. “She has a history of drug abuse?”

  “Yes, although everything I’ve seen indicates that she straightened herself out and stayed clean for the last several years. There’s no reason to think she’s still involved in that lifestyle, and I don’t want to smear her name without cause.”

  “But she could’ve been involved with Esmerelda’s gang at some point?”

  “It’s possible. They operate throughout the greater DC area, and she did grow up in the District.” Brad’s gusty sigh resonated over the phone. “Which was one thing we wanted to question her about.”

  “I see.” I tapped the phone receiver against my palm. Had Oscar Selvaggio hired Honor because of her association with a woman he wanted to do business with? I frowned. Maybe that was part of Lance Dalbec’s interest too, if he truly was a broker for illegal art deals.

  But how would some user, or former user, like Honor Bryant have developed a close connection with the mysterious woman called Esmerelda? A woman who probably never dealt with buyers directly and had obviously worked hard to remain incognito? As I told Brad good-bye, I pondered this wrinkle in my theory.

  Maybe they hadn’t ever met, I thought, considering that Esmerelda probably had any number of people who could’ve contacted Honor Bryant. Leveraging the debt one of her dealers held over Honor, Esmeralda could’ve remained in the shadows while still enlisting the girl into some type of criminal activity.

  I placed the receiver back on the phone hook as I contemplated another possibility, realizing I could have things backward. Perhaps it wasn’t Oscar Selvaggio using Honor to get close to Esmerelda—the drug dealer could’ve encouraged Selvaggio to hire the girl so that Honor could keep an eye on a man who was selling investments in the form of art. Maybe Esmerelda had suspicions about Selvaggio, who had a rather checkered past, and wanted him kept under surveillance. She might even have forced Honor to change her appearance to fit Selvaggio’s typical assistant requirements. Someone who’d been in control of a criminal organization for so long could’ve certainly found out the art dealer’s typical hiring practices without much trouble.

  I walked over to the staff exit but paused with my hand on the doorknob as I realized that Esmerelda needn’t have met Honor to set such a plot in motion either. She simply could’ve threatened Honor to comply with a set of instructions delivered by one of her “lieutenants.”

  Someone like Lance Dalbec, who perhaps didn’t just work with Esmerelda but possibly worked for her.

  Unable to unravel this knotty tangle, I headed back outside and walked home, my thoughts consumed by images of a terrified Honor Bryant, a menacing Lane Dalbec, and the unknown woman who might be the link between them.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  After spending all day Tuesday working out the logistics of both Sunny and me being off work for the remainder of the week—and me for the two weeks following as well—I told Samantha that I’d realized wedding planning wasn’t really that difficult.

  “Not like this, anyway,” I said, pointing at the document I’d created to keep track of what volunteers were covering what shifts on what day. It was color-coded by volunteer, which had turned the chart into a rainbow. “I know you’ve agreed to work more hours than usual, but don’t let anyone take advantage of you. All the volunteers are aware that I’ll be away for almost three weeks, and they agreed to step up and help keep the building open regular hours.”

  “Sunny’s going to be pulling extra shifts starting next week too, right?” Samantha asked.

  “Correct. See—she’s the purple color on the graph. So starting next week until I get back, she’ll be here almost full-time, as will you. But I don’t want either of you stuck working by yourselves for hours at a time. If the volunteers don’t show up, call and shame them.”

  “I’m sure Bill and Denise will be here on schedule.” Samantha tapped a yellow square with her mauve-polished fingernail. “But Zelda …”

  “Definitely call her if she doesn’t show up. I know she wants to help, but sometimes she gets scattered and things slip her mind.” I frowned as I studied the multicolored chart. “My aunt will be helping out too. She doesn’t have a lot of experience working the desk, but she knows how to shelve, so you can set aside some carts for her.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine.” Samantha gave me a sidelong look. “You don’t need to worry.”

  “I will, though. I’ve never been away so long. Not since I started working here.”

  “Then it’s high time you had a break.” Samantha smiled as Bethany Virts approached the desk. “Find what you needed?”

  “Yes, thanks,” Bethany said, as she laid a book on the counter. “I know this is a kids’ book, but I just love it, you know?”

  Glancing at the cover, I saw that it was The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. “Nothing wrong with that. I reread children’s books too, and that’s one of my favorites.”

  “I like the idea of gardens being magical,” Bethany said, dipping her head as if embarrassed.

  “You do have a beautiful cottage garden.” When Bethany looked up in surprise, Samantha added, “I saw it when I was chasing Shay down the alley beside the diner one day. Didn’t mean to trespass or anything, but my daughter just loves to explore. We couldn’t help noticing your garden, which is really hidden otherwise.” She stamped a due date in the book. “It’s your own secret garden, I guess. Pretty magical in its own way.”

  Bethany offered her a shy smile. “Thanks. I use some of the produce in the diner.”

  “That must be why your sandwiches always taste so fresh, especially in season,” I said. “Lettuce and tomatoes harvested straight from the garden are always the best.”

  “I use other things too.” This discussion seemed to have opene
d the floodgates of Bethany’s typically spare use of words. “Radishes and melons and even horseradish. I make my own spicy spread with the roots.”

  “But not aconite, I hope,” I said, with a little smile.

  Bethany’s face, always pale, blanched to the color of snow. “You mean what they call wolfsbane? I saw pictures of that on the news when they were covering that poor man’s death up at Highview.”

  “That’s right. It’s also known as monkshood and blue rocket.” I met Bethany’s worried expression with a reassuring smile. “But I think it’s pretty common around here.”

  “Yeah, I recognized it because my mom grew it in the back bed, which she reserved for flowers. She liked plants that are native to this area. Said they were hardier or something. Anyway, a lot of those plants were taller than more common flowers, and they make such a nice backdrop to my little vegetable garden, I just left that bed alone. I guess the wolfsbane is still there. I mean, I remember weeding around some tall flowers with bluish blossoms last summer.”

  A garden behind a shop that closes at two o’clock in the afternoon each day, I thought. With alley access and a bed near the back that anyone could’ve accessed without being seen, even by visitors to Taylorsford … I cleared my throat. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Bethany. I’m sure no one suspects you of poisoning anyone, especially not a man you never met.”

  “But my garden is accessible to anyone, really,” Bethany said, her eyes widening. “I’ve actually had some stuff stolen off the vines, so I know people do raid it sometimes. I even caught someone once—a visitor staying at the bed-and-breakfast. They said they wanted some fresh strawberries, and I had this open patch that they thought was a community garden. Come to think of it, I noticed some strange footprints in the ground around some of my beds recently …” Bethany shook her head. “You don’t think someone stole the wolfsbane that killed that man, do you?”