Dark Drizzles

by Jessica Beck

  “What if he was going to expose her today on the panel?” Elizabeth asked. “If Tom found out, it sounds exactly like something he might do.”

  “How could he uncover the truth if no one else knows it for a fact?” I asked.

  “From what I’ve heard, he’s got his sources,” Elizabeth said. “Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time he used dirt against a fellow panelist. There was a conference last year in Las Vegas where he mentioned casually that one of his fellow authors was sleeping with another writer. They were both married at the time, just not to each other.”

  “What happened?” Grace asked. “Was there a brawl?”

  “The woman’s husband was in the audience, and if there hadn’t been security present, it could have gotten really ugly,” Elizabeth answered. “There are a dozen videos of the man charging the stage on the Internet, if you’d care to see it for yourselves.”

  “Okay, let’s move on to Hank Fletcher. Surely he doesn’t have the baggage the rest of them have.”

  “Not that I could find. Besides his trial for murder, he’s as clean as a whistle,” Elizabeth said.

  “What? What happened?” I asked in disbelief.

  “When he was young and evidently hot-blooded, he was drinking in a bar when a man got rough with one of the waitresses, one who happened to be Hank’s favorite server. He told the man to back off, and when he didn’t, things got ugly fast. The guy was clearly drunk, and the reports are sketchy if Hank was as well, though that never came out in the trial. Anyway, they got into a brawl, the man slipped and hit his head on the edge of the bar, and died. The jury acquitted him, but it wasn’t unanimous. Evidently Hank stopped drinking then and there, and he’s never had another drop since, but he still has a temper if he’s provoked enough. Also, there was something posted on one of the websites that Hank and Hannah were seen together early this morning.”

  “So what? They all seem to associate with one another,” I said.

  “No, I mean together, like he had his arms around her. Whether he was consoling her or doing something a bit more intense, I couldn’t say. There was even a grainy photo posted as well.” She held her phone out and showed us a shot of two people, who might or might not have been Hank and Hannah, in an embrace not twenty feet from where we were sitting at that very moment.

  “So, if Tom made a pass at Hannah and Hank saw it, he could have done something about it,” Grace said.

  “In the park perhaps, but why in my donut shop?” I asked. “Unless he followed Tom inside so he could confront him in private.”

  “And then he stole the money after he killed the other author?” Grace asked.

  “Wait, someone stole from you, Suzanne?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Yes, but we’re supposed to keep a lid on it. Do me a favor and don’t tell anyone just yet, okay?”

  “I won’t say a word about it. I’m so sorry, Suzanne. Did you lose much?”

  “More than I care to think about at the moment. Getting back to Grace’s question, I can see Hank defending Hannah’s honor, but I can’t see him stealing my money after he killed him.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Elizabeth said. “That would actually not be beyond reason.”

  “Does Hank have a history of stealing as well?” I asked. It was hard to believe the man was a thief, let alone a killer, but I had to remind myself that no one knew exactly what a murderer looked like, since it could be anyone.

  “No, but I read online that he’s in some financial trouble. He was hoping his book sales would dig him out of debt, but that’s not happening. It might go to motive as well.”

  “I really hope not, but we’ll look into that, too. Wow, you’ve been busy, Elizabeth. I can’t tell you how much we appreciate your help. Did you happen to discover anything about Tom we didn’t already know?”

  “You’re kidding, right? I’ve got another folder just for him,” she said as she dug it out of her purse and handed it to me.

  I weighed it in my hands and whistled softly. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

  “Not much,” she admitted, “but you said it was important. Besides, I don’t seem to sleep much these days anyway.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. There was nothing else that I could say, but that didn’t keep me from offering her my sympathies.

  “At least there was a silver lining to it last night,” Elizabeth said. “Apparently Tom was in danger of being dumped by both his agent and his editor, but that’s not the juiciest part.”

  “What is?” Grace asked her eagerly. Clearly she was enjoying some of the more salacious aspects of our case.

  “They’re both here in April Springs, at least they were late last night,” she said.

  “If they were planning to leave him, why would either one of them kill him?”

  “It goes back to the dirt Johnson loved digging up on people. He prided himself on his research skills, so maybe he found out things about them both that they didn’t want to be general knowledge. Either one of them could have killed him to shut him up, and they might have taken the money as a red herring.”

  “It’s another possibility. I wonder if there’s any chance either one of them will be here today?”

  “I think you can count on it,” Elizabeth said.

  “Even though their client is dead?” Grace asked.

  “Word on the Internet is that Hannah is unhappy with both her agent and her publishing house, and she’s just fulfilled her last contract, so she’s shopping around for both. I have a hunch based on what I read between the lines that they came for Hannah in the first place. The meeting with Tom was just a bonus.”

  “Did they actually see him last night?” I asked her.

  “I have no idea. Sorry.”

  “You have nothing to apologize for,” I said. “This is all amazing,” I said as I tapped the folders in my hand.

  “There’s something else I didn’t think of at the time, mostly because I didn’t realize that you’d been robbed, but I wouldn’t put it past any of the authors to know how to crack a safe. From what I’ve read, most of them are on watch lists everywhere because of the things they have to research online. I know for a fact after reading some of Tom Johnson’s and Hannah Thrush’s work that either one of them would know how to break into a common safe, and it wouldn’t surprise me if Amanda Harrison looked it up as well.”

  “That just leaves Hank Fletcher clear,” I said.

  “Let me ask you something,” she wanted to know. “Was the safe actually opened without damaging it, or was it more of a brute-force thing?”

  “Definitely brute force,” I said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just that it’s not beyond the realm of reason that Hank might know how to pop one open as well. I’m just saying, I don’t think you should rule him out. Besides, what if the safe was already open when he confronted Tom? Then he wouldn’t even have to know how to get it open.”

  Something in the way she said that got me to wondering. “Elizabeth, are you writing a mystery of your own? I know you love corresponding with writers online. Have you gotten the bug to write one yourself?”

  She actually blushed upon hearing my question. “Yes, I admit it. Since my husband died, I seem to have a great deal of time on my hands, so I thought I’d give it a try myself.”

  “I think it’s wonderful,” I said. “Have you had any luck so far?”

  “I can tell you one thing; it’s a lot harder than it looks.”

  I patted her hand. “Don’t worry. I have faith in you. I want to reserve an autographed first edition right now.”

  She laughed at the suggestion. “Trust me, I’m a long way from that happening.”

  “You’ll do it. I believe in you,” I said as we all stood. “Thanks again, for all of this.”

  “It was fun digging, though I have to admit that my view of your authors is tainted by what I learned researching them.”

  “First of all, they aren’t mine,” I corrected her, “and I understand
what you mean about seeing them all in a different light now. I once heard it said that it was a terrible idea to meet your heroes, and I’d think that favorite writers might fall into the same category. It’s not that they are usually any worse than the rest of us, but we tend to develop an idealized version of them when we read their books. I know I do.”

  “We must be reading different material,” Grace said with a laugh. “I’m surprised they all aren’t in jail, or locked up in an asylum somewhere.”

  “Why do you say that?” Elizabeth asked Grace, clearly curious about her rationale.

  “Think about it. They sit in a room all day by themselves, make people up who have adventures, and then, when they’re finished, they start all over again. If that isn’t the definition of insanity, I don’t know what is.” Grace suddenly seemed to remember that Elizabeth was trying to be a writer herself. “Present company excepted, I’m sure,” she added lamely.

  “No, the truth of the matter is that I’m just as broken as the rest of them,” Elizabeth said with a smile. “Who knows? Maybe I’ve found my calling after all.”

  Chapter 14

  “Will you look at that,” I said as I spied a woman I recognized easily enough from the day before. She was walking alone in the park. That, in and of itself, wasn’t all that unusual, but her garb was certainly out of the ordinary for an early-summer morning. Cindy Faber was dressed entirely in black, from her veiled hat to her short dress to her expensive shoes.

  She was clearly in mourning for her lost favorite author in the world.

  “Don’t look now, but Morticia’s heading over here,” Grace said.

  “I’ve got to run,” Elizabeth said quickly before Cindy could get to us. “Happy hunting, and remember, if there’s anything else I can do to help out, just let me know. Otherwise, I’ll see you both in a few hours when the festivities begin again.”

  “We’ll see you there,” I said as she made her exit just as Tom Johnson’s superfan joined us.

  “Ms. Hart, I’ve been looking all over for you. I understand you’re the one who found Tom’s body.” There was an air of familiarity in her voice that gave me the chills, especially since I’d witnessed his reaction to this beautiful woman just the day before. She was acting as though she were one of his intimates, and not just an annoying fan, at least according to the late author.

  “I did,” I told her. “I’m sorry for your loss.” I’m not sure why I said it, and I could see out of the corner of my eye that Grace was incredulous about me offering my sympathies to this woman, but I was going with my instincts, and if she was going to play it this way, then so was I.

  “How sweet of you to understand,” she said, softening immediately. “I know how it must look to you, but Tom and I were actually rather close. Intimate, you might even say.”

  I wasn’t sure whether that was true or not, but again, I wasn’t about to challenge her about it. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Do you mean alive?” she asked me.

  “Why, did you see him after he died?” Grace asked her.

  Cindy gave Grace a quick but completely withering glance before turning back to me. “We spent some time together last night,” she said with that smug little grin of hers again.

  “Really? Did you tell the police chief? Because I’m sure he’d like to speak with you.”

  That brought her up short. Evidently thinking that she might have to make an official statement was more daunting than just claiming a close relationship in a casual conversation.

  “Perhaps I exaggerated slightly,” she said smoothly. “We were intimate once when we first met two years ago, but Tom lost his nerve and pushed me away because he couldn’t deal with his feelings toward me. I wasn’t about to give up that easily, though. I’ve been doing my utmost to convince him that we belonged together ever since, and I believe last night we made a breakthrough.”

  “In what way?” I asked her.

  “Just before he walked away from me, he said something rather sweet. He told me that I should move on, that I could do much better than him, and that I should give up my dream of us ever being together.”

  “And you found that encouraging?” Grace asked her skeptically.

  “You’d have to know Tom to realize that it was his last desperate attempt to deny our love,” she said sadly. “But someone took him away from me before I could finish the task of bringing him back into my arms.”

  “I’m curious about something,” I said. The truth was that I was curious about a great many things, but only one came to mind at that moment. “Did you pack that outfit with you, or did you go out and buy it this morning when you heard the news?”

  “I’ve had this for years. Why do you ask?”

  Grace picked up on where I was going instantly, a sure sign that we had a close partnership. “It’s clearly a mourning outfit,” she pointed out. “Were you expecting someone to die on this trip?”

  “What a horrid thought,” she said, clearly taking offense to Grace’s question. “Of course not.”

  “You have to admit it’s an odd choice, then,” I said.

  “I was going to come to this afternoon’s panel in costume,” she said, waving her hand up and down her entire body.

  “What were you coming as?” Grace asked her, “Morticia Addams?”

  “The Dark Widow, of course,” she said. “From Last Night Alive. Surely you’ve read it. It is one of Tom’s masterpieces.”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” Grace said flatly. It seemed as though she was accusing Cindy Faber of making the whole thing up.

  “You’re clearly not a reader,” she said with disdain, making the last word sound pejorative.

  “You’d be surprised,” Grace said.

  “As a matter of fact, I would,” she answered snippily. Dismissing Grace, she turned back to me. “Tell me how you found him. I’m desperate for information, but the rag you call a newspaper isn’t coming out for days. I considered asking the police for a more detailed account, but I decided to come to you instead.”

  “I’m not sure what I can tell you that’s not already public knowledge,” I said. “I saw a light on at the donut shop last night, and when I went in to investigate, I found him lying on the floor with my donut dropper beside him.”

  “Surely a device used to make donuts couldn’t be lethal,” she said.

  “This thing weighed a ton, unfortunately,” I said. “I checked him for a pulse after I called 911, but I couldn’t get anything. I’m sorry to say that his body was cold to the touch by the time I got to him.”

  “And he was in your kitchen, you say?”

  “Actually, I never said that,” I corrected her. “How did you happen to know that?”

  “I’m sure I heard someone else say something about it,” she said, dismissing my question entirely. “After all, it just makes sense, doesn’t it? If he’d been struck down in the dining room, someone would have surely found him before you did.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. I knew this woman was obsessed with Tom Johnson, but I was beginning to think that it might go beyond that into something a great deal more dire, like murder.

  “When did you last see him alive?” she asked me a little pointedly.

  “Are you expecting Suzanne to actually give you an alibi?” Grace asked, clearly not believing the woman’s brashness.

  “I’m just trying to understand what happened,” she said, shedding a few tears that didn’t look all that genuine to me. I knew some people could cry on cue, and perhaps that was what we were seeing now, but what would it hurt to tell her? After all, I was asking other people for their whereabouts, so why shouldn’t she have the right to ask me the very same thing?

  “It was at the diner over there,” I said as I pointed to the Boxcar Grill not fifty feet away from us. “He was sitting at a table with the other authors, but then you know that, since you were there as well. I’m not sure when you and Gregory Smith left, but the last I saw of him, he and the other
authors were having a rather spirited conversation when I went into the kitchen with the owner. When we came back out, they were gone, and so were you.”

  “You never gave us an exact time when you saw him last,” Grace reminded her.

  “Oh, I’m certain it was then as well.” She paused in thought for a few moments before she added, “In fact, I’m sure of it.”

  What a convenient time line she was offering us.

  The real question was, though, if it were true.

  “Well, I must be going. This ordeal has exhausted me,” she said. “I need to lie down and collect myself.”

  “Are you staying for the day’s panel and demonstration?” I asked her.

  “Of course I am. I assume there will be some kind of celebration of Tom’s achievements and his life in general.”

  I hadn’t even thought about having a moment of silence, let alone make it part of our program, but maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all. “We’ll acknowledge the loss, of course. What else did you have in mind?”

  “At the very least, someone should do a reading of his selected works. I know the perfect passages,” she said as her mind was clearly hashing out the details.

  I saw Paige leaving her bookstore and heading to the Boxcar when I called out to her, “Paige, over here.”

  She started in our direction, but when she saw that Cindy Faber was with us, she hesitated a moment before proceeding. I hated setting her up like that, but if I was going to have to endure this woman, then my cosponsor was going to have to as well.

  “What’s up, Suzanne? I’m going to grab a quick bite, and then I need to get started on today’s events.”

  “That’s what we’ve been discussing,” Cindy said, cutting me off before I could explain myself.

  “You have, have you?” Paige asked, obviously a little more puzzled than upset with the prospect of us doing something behind her back. “What did you have in mind?”

  “We believe Tom deserves a memorial today,” she said.

  “Okay,” she said, still looking puzzled. “What did you have in mind?”