by Patti Larsen
As I lifted the phone to dial, the murmured sound of guests in the dining and sitting rooms filling the background of Petunia’s with the now familiar hum of occupation, the front door opened and the tall, slender photographer I’d been hunting earlier entered. When Fleur King met my eyes, hers widened and she seemed to freeze, as if I’d caught her in some act she wished I hadn’t witnessed. Then, an instant later, she relaxed and began to chuckle, crossing to the sidebar where guests checked in.
“Right, this is your place.” She looked like she was mentally kicking herself for dropping the ball. Hang on, how did she know anything about me? “Silly of me to forget such a simple thing, but I’ve been a bit distracted.” She grinned then, shrugged. “Apparently I’m not meant to escape you, Detective Fleming,” she said with a wink.
That was an odd way to address me. “Miss King,” I said. “Take any interesting photos today?”
She grimaced though her eyes sparkled with good humor. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Her thin face showed only wry amusement so if she’d found something she wasn’t going to let me know about it. At least, not yet. “Any room at the inn for a weary traveler?”
“As it turns out,” I said, “I had a cancellation.” Last minute back outs were the bane of my existence, but in this case I’d forgive the Petersons for forgetting it was their oldest daughter’s college graduation this weekend. But would their daughter? “How would you like to pay?”
I took careful note of her ID and credit card. She was, at least, who she said she was. Or her identification confirmed it, though for all I knew both could be fake. When I handed them back, she didn’t comment at my careful perusal, still with that sarcastically sly smile on her face.
“Let me escort you upstairs to your suite.” It wasn’t lost on me I wasn’t exactly dressed professionally in my fleece and damp hair, but I wasn’t letting her out of my sight just yet. I held out a hand to help her with her bag and she handed me the strap of the long, narrow case I could only guess held her camera without hesitation while she swung a duffle over one shoulder. Was that a challenge in her eyes? I found myself grinning back as I led her upstairs to room six and opened the door for her. The lovely pale red room with its checkerboard gingham pattern always made me think of summer as a girl, though Fleur didn’t comment on the décor. Instead, she took her camera bag from me and tossed it to the quilt before dropping her duffle on the carpet.
“You have questions,” she said, though why she’d know or care was beyond me. “So do I.”
Interesting. “You missed evening dinner service,” I said, “but if you’re hungry, feel free to join me in the kitchen. End of the foyer, just come straight through.”
She nodded, hands sliding into the hip pockets of her jeans while she observed me like she expected something different and wasn’t sure what to think. “I’ll be right down.”
Okay then. I retreated, a bit confused by her attitude. I barely had time to warn Mom and Daisy she was on her way when Fleur appeared at the swinging door, an easy smile on her face though her eyes remained guarded while she shook hands, messenger bag slung across her narrow chest. Was it just me or did she seem far too familiar with us, even bending to pat Petunia? Not that the pug was complaining.
Mom served Fleur before hooking her arm through Daisy’s, eyes meeting mine. “Let’s slip across to the annex,” she said to my best friend. “I have some things I want to chat about before the wedding.” It was pretty obvious she was leaving so I could question Fleur and I let her, Daisy arching her eyebrows at me as the pair disappeared out the kitchen door, the sound of their voices fading while Petunia ignored their departure in favor of the possibility of shared snacks.
I fed her sliced strawberries from the fridge while Fleur ate a few bites.
“Delicious,” she said, sounding surprised. “I’d heard your mother was a great cook.”
Heard from whom? “She’s the best.” I meant that.
“Nice to see she’s recovered from the debacle in January.” Fleur seemed amused by my confusion, which only triggered my temper.
“You seem to know a lot about my mother,” I said, knowing it came out snappy.
Fleur shrugged, utterly unaffected by my show of irritation. “Not just your mother,” she said. “Your reputation precedes you, Fiona Fleming.”
Grunt. “What does that mean?”
Fleur chewed and swallowed, offering Petunia a tiny morsel of chicken before resting her elbows on the counter and sighing. “I make a point of researching everyone I’m going to encounter while I’m working a story,” she said. “And I have to admit, I’m equally horrified and impressed by what I’ve found out about your little town.”
Story? “You’re a writer?”
“Photojournalist,” she said. “I’ve been digging into the mysterious Reading, Vermont for months now, and the equally curious Fiona Fleming.” Her eyes sparkled. “Tell me, Fee, just why it is you seem to be in the middle of so many murders?”
Wait, she was here for me? “I had nothing to do with any of them.” Defensive, really? I had nothing to hide.
Fleur laughed, went back to her dinner. “I didn’t say you did.” She grinned at me. “But you have to admit it’s a gigantic coincidence, isn’t it? And I don’t really believe in coincidence. Which makes me ask the question, what is it about you in particular that attracts murder?”
She wasn’t exactly endearing herself at the moment. “Tell you what,” I said, “when I find the answer to that question I’ll give you a call.” Snarl.
Fleur raised one hand, shook her head, sardonic smile fading. “I’m just observing,” she said. “No harm meant, honestly. But you do have to admit, it’s rather odd. The increase in the death toll in Reading? A town where the last murder happened before you were born?” She hesitated, eyes narrowing. “Investigated by your father, I believe. And never solved to anyone’s satisfaction.”
I didn’t know that. “If you’re here to investigate me, you’re going to need a lawyer.”
She finished her plate of pasta, slurping up the last noodle, wiping at the sauce with the heel of bread Mom had supplied. “I’m not,” she said. “I mostly investigate environmental issues these days. It was just brought to my attention I might get the opportunity to ask you some questions.”
“I’m not interested.” Wow, grumpy thy name is Fiona Fleming.
Fleur watched me a long moment, wiping her mouth with her napkin, before reaching into her bag and pulling out a tablet. She gestured for me to join her and, naturally, my nosiness wasn’t going to let me stand idly by without finding out what she was up to. A moment later, she showed me a handful of correspondence from a number of journalists whose names I didn’t know but all of whom mentioned me.
“Just chatter,” she said then. “Mostly because of a mutual friend, I believe.”
My heart stuttered to a stop, sense of betrayal hitting like a blow at the sight of Pamela Shard’s name.
Fleur didn’t seem to notice my anxious reaction. “I knew Pam in Boston when she worked The Globe as an investigative journalist. Back when she was a big deal.” Fleur seemed disappointed.
Wait, Pamela was what? “How long ago was that?” I knew some of Pamela’s background, mostly because of the death of Sadie Hatch and her history with the fake psychic. And, of course, her broken heart over Aundrea’s forced marriage to Pete. But I had no idea she’d had any kind of big career behind her.
“A shame, really,” Fleur sighed, ignoring my question to answer as she liked. “She was a powerhouse not so long ago. Shocked everyone when she just up and left Boston like she did.” Including Fleur? Maybe more than shock if the woman’s edge of hurt was any indication. She covered it well, but not completely.
“Love makes you do things no one expects,” I said while Fleur grinned suddenly, painfully.
“Yeah, I heard about that. Well, I don’t begrudge her a happily ever after.” The young photographer seemed like she wanted to say more, that linge
ring bit of sadness behind her eyes, but she shrugged it off. “Anyway, because of Pam’s past, a lot of people I know read the Reading Reader Gazette.” She apparently found that funny because a snort escaped. “Is your mayor really that much of a hard ass about parking?”
She had no idea. The next time Robert gave me a gleeful ticket for parking on the street outside my own B&B (five minutes to run things inside was not parking, thank you very much) I was taking my grievance to Olivia’s office personally. At least my feelings of betrayal were fading. So Pamela wasn’t talking about me per se. That was a relief. I wasn’t sure how I’d face her if she’d been playing me false.
“Just so you know,” Fleur said, “Pam seems to think you’re the go-to when it comes to crimes in Reading,” she said, tucking her tablet away again. “That the local sheriff is a bit of a plodding perfectionist and his deputies can’t find a clue if it lands in their laps.” I wanted to protest, to defend Crew, but I was still stunned by the fact Pamela was talking about me. “Though, from what I understand, your father—former Sheriff Fleming, right?—has his own network now that he’s become a P.I. So I’ll be paying him a visit, too. But I hadn’t planned on talking with either of you before I had something concrete to work with.”
“What does that mean?” I sank to a stool and waited for her to go on, knowing I had to be pale and feeling my pulse slowly return to normal. I’d be having a firm talk with Pamela over this.
“Only that I hadn’t meant to encounter you the way I did.” Fleur sounded almost apologetic. “Sorry to be so cloak and dagger, but it’s a small place and I didn’t want to show my hand too soon.”
“You’re here because of what, the woodpeckers?” Now that I wasn’t so freaked out about Pamela I actually found I was a bit too curious about Fleur’s secretive lifestyle. A photojournalist? Actually kind of awesome.
“No,” she said, face grim now, hands clasped on the counter in front of her. “I’ve been tracking Lewis Brown.”
His bulging, dead eyes flashed in my head. Eep. Fleur seemed to realize mentioning him brought me discomfort because she watched me with a cool, level gaze while I swallowed past the need to squirm.
“Why?” Did Fleur have an idea who might have killed him?
But rather than spill everything, she winked. “That’s my scoop,” she said, sitting back, grinning. “The story I came for. And his death just adds layers to the truth.” She hesitated before her face cleared of the secret, closed expression she’d been wearing since I’d met her, a flash of youthful enthusiasm showing through. “Don’t suppose you’d let me have a peek through his things before the cops come for them, would you?” She laughed. “One girl to another?”
Yeah, like that was going to happen. “Don’t suppose you want to tell me why you’re investigating him?” I winked right back.
Fleur’s face shuttered again but there was no animosity in her. “I’m going to go chat with Pam. But I’m hoping if you come across anything interesting you might be open to a bit of an information swap.” She stood swiftly, shouldering her bag before shrugging. “Or not. I’m cool either way. Just keep it in mind, if you would.”
She departed without another word, leaving me to stare after her like she hadn’t just handed me the business end of a venomous snake. Because there was no way I could resist exchanging clues, not even at the risk of Crew’s wrath. And Fleur clearly knew that truth.
Pamela was in so much trouble.
***
Chapter Seventeen
Mom and Daisy arrived back in the kitchen shortly after Fleur left, both eager to find out what was going on. After another quick fill in session, I sat at the counter with a queasy feeling in my stomach while Mom sighed over what I told her.
“Our little town was bound to catch some attention, dear,” she said. “After all, with the death of Skip Anderson, we had a rather giant spotlight shone in our direction. Then with Ron’s death in January? And considering you’ve been in the middle of every murder, well.” She looked like she wanted to take back what she just said. “I’m sorry, sweetie. It’s not your fault.”
Daisy hesitated before blurting (because she was clearly taking lessons from me). “Some people are saying it’s Olivia’s fault.” She clasped both hands over her mouth as if she’d said something sacrilegious.
Mom sighed, patted her arm. “I’ve heard the same thing, Daisy,” she said. “People are pointing fingers at her, saying the increase in tourist traffic is to blame for the rise in the crime rate.” I hadn’t paid attention to such things, but had other crimes been on the rise? “Whatever the case,” Mom said then, “there’s not much to be done by way of complaining at this point.” She nodded once like that should solve everything.
She was right, though. We’d made our particular bed here in town, me included. Though if murder was a natural byproduct of increased tourism, I wasn’t sure it was worth it.
Thinking about crime led me to thinking about Irish mob boss Malcolm Murray, our own local criminal element. That led to the business card with Siobhan Doyle’s name written on it which just made me flush in guilt with my mother standing in front of me. Prodded the need to make a call to the woman about my father, something Malcolm seemed to think I should have done long ago. I almost told my mother, asked her what it meant, but apparently she took my upset as something else entirely because she hugged me quickly while Daisy spoke up.
“Are you going to tell Crew?” Darn it, I hadn’t even called him about Lewis’s room, I’d been so distracted by Fleur’s arrival. And yes, I really needed to. Which made me laugh and shrug.
“He’s a smart cookie,” I said. “I imagine he’s already looking into Lewis Brown’s past. Whatever that reporter is digging into, I’m sure Crew will find it, too.” Or, I’d be passing on what I learned from her.
“He is indeed,” Mom said with a reassuring pat to my hand. “And so are you, honey.”
My mother. So sweet.
When Mom finally left a short time later, excited chatter about new recipes and the partnership making all that was my mother right in the world again, I turned to find Daisy standing in the kitchen with a book in her hands, a frustrated look on her beautiful face. I knew the book instantly, of course, had read it cover to cover myself several times over the last few months, knew Daisy had, too. The same one we’d gone in search of in January, the one we’d lifted from the Reading Library in search of the treasure my Grandmother Iris sent us after from the grave. Daisy offered it to me with a soft groan and a little grin while I smoothed the plastic coated film protecting The Reading Hoard: Fact or Fiction from harm.
“It has to be a dead end,” Daisy said, exasperation clear in her voice. “Or the message I found from Iris was a red herring.” She seemed about to slip into her “I’m stupid and can’t possibly be right” mode all over again.
Yeah, not happening. “We’re on the right track,” I said. “We just need to know what we’re looking for.” The book contents were pretty generic, more like it was written for young adults than any serious historian. I’d thought a few times about taking it to Oliver Watters about the author, James Markham, but both Daisy and I hesitated about including anyone else in the mystery. Somehow the joyful delight of January’s discovery lingered despite our mutual frustration.
So fun to have this delicious secret between us. And from the sparkle in her gray eyes, Daisy hadn’t lost any of her enthusiasm.
“We’ll figure it out,” she said. “Together.” Winked. “Before Mr. Lightmews finds out we stole it.”
I laughed over the pinched, older librarian who’d glared at us the entire time we’d giggled and whispered and hushed each other that January afternoon, smuggling the book out of his domain like a pair of juvenile delinquents. The most fun I’d had in a long time and I wasn’t about to give it up now. And while we’d been super busy the last four months, it had been a happy touchstone between us I couldn’t bring myself to let go of.
So what if we never found the trea
sure? Our private investigation was the point, as far as I was concerned.
I sent Daisy home for the night, trotting downstairs to deposit the book on the kitchen counter in my apartment, lingering over the ship on the cover, the rendering of Captain Reading before drifting back upstairs to finish off some paperwork. Shortly after 10PM, with all of my guests returned and retired, I set up the call bell on the side bar before going downstairs for the night myself. Daisy’s idea, it saved me from wondering if anyone needed me, linked to an app through the computer and to my phone.
I hadn’t heard from Crew, kicked myself I failed to call him yet, knew it was too late. He was clearly busy and calling him now felt like I was chasing him instead of trying to be helpful. Instead, I convinced myself to go to the sheriff’s office in the morning and see him personally.
Worried I’d struggle with sleep, to my shock I curled up and passed out about a minute after my head hit the pillow, the softly snoring pug at my side soothing me with the rumbling inhale and exhale of her breathing.
It wasn’t until I woke the next morning, the alarm stirring me, I realized I’d been spared nightmares despite the horrors of the day before. Grateful, rested, a shower and a quick bowl of oatmeal chased with coffee later and I returned upstairs with an optimistic feeling despite the murder I’d been so intimately connected to.
It wasn’t until my phone rang at 8:30AM, Aundrea’s name flashing, I felt my mood deflate. I’d worried she’d turn into Bridezilla and she hadn’t failed me, her almost constant calls enough to make me want to hide and let Daisy deal with her. I scooted past Rebecca (or was it Suzie? Crap,
maybe her name was Megan) who carried a full tray of Clara’s pancakes into the dining room, offering her a weak smile and a brief hello without attempting to use her name and answered the call bound to ruin my morning.