Murder Most Sweet

by Laura Jensen Walker

  “Brady!” I waved. “Over here.”

  Annabelle leaned over and said in a harsh whisper meant for my ears only, “You think you’re so smart, don’t you, scarf lady? Well don’t your worry; you’ll get yours, sweetheart.” Her eyes glittered with hate. Then, moving quickly for one so big, she flounced out the nearby side door.

  The middle-aged maître d’ pulled out his handkerchief and patted his forehead.

  Tavish, still standing, addressed the dining room. “Please accept my apologies for that unfortunate incident. I hope it didn’t spoil your evening and that you’ll allow me to make amends with a round of drinks.” He nodded to the maître d’ as an appreciative murmur swept through the room, along with nods of thanks.

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll inform the servers.” The maître d’ left as Char and Brady arrived at our table.

  “What was that all about?” Char asked. “We heard some lady yelling.”

  “That lady,” Tavish said grimly, “was my stalker-fan Annabelle Cooke, whom I have a restraining order against.” He held out his hand to Brady. “Thanks, Sheriff, for scaring her off.”

  Brady gave him a halfhearted handshake and said quietly, “Actually, I need you to come down to the station with me, please.”

  Tavish’s forehead creased. “Why? I already gave you my statement.” Recognition dawned. “Did Tom confess?”

  “No. Actually, Tom Rogers has been released.”

  “Released? You’re kidding!” I said. “How come?”

  “He’s no longer a suspect. Tom couldn’t have killed Kristi, because at the time of her death he was passed out drunk in Larsen’s Tavern, as confirmed by the bartender and several patrons.”

  “Then why do you need me to come down to the station?” Tavish asked.

  Brady’s eyes swept the nearby tables, where the diners were hanging on every word. He frowned at them, and their attention quickly returned to their plates. “I understand that during your book signing, you left the bookstore for about ten minutes,” he said quietly.

  I shot a glance at Char, who affected an absorbed interest in her bracelet.

  “Yes. I had to take an important phone call from my agent.”

  “Is that all?”

  Tavish did not respond.

  “You were seen having a heated argument with Kristi Black behind the bookstore shortly before she died.”

  * * *

  “Does Brady seriously think Tavish killed his ex?” I asked Char as the author accompanied Brady down to the station, after first apologizing to me and settling the bill. “Couples have arguments all the time. That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “But they were no longer a couple.”

  “Exes have fights too.” I quirked an eyebrow at my best friend. “I seem to recall a couple doozies after your many breakups with Brady—including just last year.”

  Char and Brady had been dating on and off since high school. They broke up the first time when Char went out of state to college, but a dozen years later when she quit her librarian job in Cleveland and returned to Lake Potawatomi to buy the Corner Bookstore, they got back together. Three years later they broke up again after Brady proposed—as a child of divorce, Char wasn’t a fan of marriage. Less than a year later they were back together. Then they did the same break-up-and-make-up dance all over again. And again. My friends just couldn’t quit each other.

  “The difference is we’re both still alive,” Char said.

  There was the rub. Why hadn’t Tavish spoken up about his quarrel with Kristi when Brady gave him the opportunity? What was he trying to hide? Was it simply his classic British reserve kicking in again?

  That was probably it. The English are more private and circumspect than we are. He was likely embarrassed that their fight had become public. Maybe even being chivalrous and not wanting to cast aspersions on the now-dead Kristi.

  “Teddie?” Char waved her hand in front of my face, interrupting my ruminations.

  “Sorry. I was just thinking.”

  “About Tavish. Why are you defending him? You don’t even really know him. Yeah, you have that colleague connection thing, but that’s it. Right?” Char gave me a sly look. “Or is there some other kind of connection going on? A loooove connection, maybe? Is that why you didn’t tell us you had a date with him tonight?”

  I could feel my cheeks turning pink. “It wasn’t a date.”

  Not tonight, my don’t-lie-to-yourself voice of reason reminded me. He did ask you out, though—right before his stalker rudely interrupted. You never got a chance to answer him. Would your answer have been yes?

  Let’s see. Nice, gorgeous, English, New York Times best-selling author. Interested in me—even though some of my lady parts are missing. Definitely not your typical male. My lips curved upward.

  “You’re holding out on me, best friend.” Char’s voice cut through my reverie.

  The only strike against Tavish Bentley that I could see was that he might have strangled his ex with my scarf.

  Nobody’s perfect, my inner snark said.

  Wait. Was that why he asked me out? To try to distract me?

  And how would that work, exactly?

  I don’t know, my right brain retorted to my snarky left brain. I’m just trying to see this from all sides.

  “Earth to Teddie. Come in, please.”

  Come in … My head snapped up. “Hey, how did you and Brady know to come here to find Tavish?”

  “Melanie, his assistant-slash-publicist, told us,” Char said. “She knows all.”

  “Exactly.” I downed the rest of my wine and stood up. “Let’s go.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To talk to Melanie.”

  * * *

  Half an hour later, I sat across from Melanie in the sunroom of the Lake House, a plate of my lemon sugar cookies between us and cups of Lady Grey tea in front of us. Melanie had asked Sharon if she had any kombucha, and Sharon and I exchanged a blank look. Color us old.

  “So what’s up?” Melanie bit into a cookie. “These are really good, by the way.”

  “Thanks.” I studied the twentysomething hipster over my china teacup. During the fifteen-minute drive back to Lake Potawatomi, Char had quizzed me to try to find out what was going on, but I’d put her off, saying I’d tell her after I’d talked to Tavish’s publicist. I had my suspicions, but wanted to be sure. I tilted my head at Melanie. “I was just wondering how long you’ve been providing Annabelle Cooke with your boss’s whereabouts. Is she paying you, or is it strictly for the publicity?”

  Melanie choked on her tea. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Really? Then how did Annabelle find out where Tavish would be tonight? You’re the only one who knew, besides the restaurant and me. I know I didn’t tell anyone, and Racine has a lot of restaurants. I doubt his stalker could hit up every single fine-dining establishment in the city trying to find out if he was eating there. Aren’t you the one who keeps Tavish’s calendar and makes his reservations?”

  “Yes, but—”

  I sipped my Lady Grey, recalling the scruffy millennial with the pursed lips. “It’s interesting that a reporter from the Wisconsin Spectator just happened to be at Caldwell’s when Annabelle accosted Tavish—a reporter who happens to be a passionate vegan. So passionate, in fact, that he disdains—and refuses to frequent—restaurants that serve meat.” I regarded her over the top of my teacup. “How strange to see him tonight in a place that prides itself on its prime rib.”

  Melanie’s face whitened. Her teacup rattled in its saucer as she set it down with a shaking hand.

  “I know this because that same reporter interviewed me for my last two books and would only meet me at the lone vegan restaurant in Lake Potawatomi—since closed.”

  “Are you going to tell Tavish?” she squeaked.

  “It’s not my place to say anything. That’s up to you, don’t you think?”

  Melanie nodded, eyes downcast.

 
“Why did you do it? You know Tavish has a restraining order against that woman.”

  “For the publicity.” She lifted her chin. “Sales were down for Tavish’s last book, but when that crazy Annabelle showed up at his Atlanta event a couple months ago proclaiming her love for him and tried to kiss him, it went viral. Sales skyrocketed. I thought another Annabelle encounter might replicate that success.” She expelled a sigh that sounded like a balloon losing its air and looked down at her hands. “Pretty dumb idea, huh?”

  A knock sounded on the French door of the sunroom. Sharon poked her head in. “Sorry to disturb, but Tavish is looking for you, Melanie.”

  Melanie’s head snapped up.

  I handed her the plate of lemon sugar cookies. “Maybe he’ll want some of these. We didn’t get to have dessert.”

  Melanie accepted the plate with a trembling hand, and we followed Sharon out of the sunroom.

  In the century-old living room that Sharon had decorated in soothing tones of cream and sage, we found Tavish, Jim, Brady, and Char sitting around talking, laughing, and munching on cookies.

  Seems your boy Tavish is in the clear.

  He’s not my boy.

  Char gave me a discreet thumbs-up.

  “There you are, Mel,” Tavish said. “I wanted to tell you—” He broke off midsentence upon seeing Melanie’s pale face. “Are you okay?” His eyes moved from her to me. “What’s going on?”

  “I need to talk to you,” Melanie said, setting the plate of cookies down on the coffee table.

  “Likewise. There are some things we need to chat about.”

  My cue to exit. I lifted my hand in a half wave. “’Night, everyone. See ya tomorrow. I’m heading home.”

  “So soon?” Sharon asked.

  “Yeah, so soon?” Char cast me a meaningful look.

  “Sorry. It’s been quite an eventful day, and I’m bushed. Besides, it sounds like Tavish and Melanie have some business to discuss.”

  “That we do,” Tavish said, “but you and I have some unfinished business as well, Teddie. She-who-shall-not-be-named rudely interrupted us before you could answer my question. Do we have a date for tomorrow night?”

  Behind him, Sharon and Char high-fived each other.

  * * *

  “Theodora St. John, why did you lie to me?”

  Startled, I woke up from where I had fallen asleep on the couch with Gracie after returning home from the Lake House—I blinked at the oversized clock above my mantel—twenty-five minutes earlier. My frowning mother stood over me in her ice-blue silky robe, hands on her nonexistent hips.

  I really need to get that key back from her.

  Gracie bounded off the couch, giving my mother a wide berth.

  “You said you were having dinner with a feminist writer friend tonight. Why didn’t you tell me you were out with Tavish Bentley instead?”

  I sighed. “Maybe because you’d read something into it that wasn’t there.”

  Ah, but there was something there, my call-a-spade-a-spade self reminded me. You just did not recognize it.

  “Cheryl and Michelle from book club were at Caldwell’s tonight having dinner, and guess who they saw enjoying a cozy tête-à-tête?” She whipped out her smartphone and showed me a photo of Tavish smiling and clinking his wineglass with mine. “Can you imagine how I felt when my friends texted, ‘Claire, how come you didn’t tell us your daughter was dating a famous author! So exciting!’”

  “I’m not dating him.” Yet. “It was just a casual evening discussing writing, Mom. No big deal.”

  She swiped her index finger across her phone and showed me the next picture. “You call this no big deal?”

  Lady Muumuu’s florid face, contorted in anger, filled much of the screen—except for a small section on the lower left, where I could be seen recoiling away from her.

  * * *

  I lay in my antique white iron double bed, eyes wide open, unable to sleep. Who would have guessed when I woke up this morning that so much would happen over the next twelve hours? Quite a difference from the low-key daily routine I’ve grown accustomed to in our sleepy little town. As Fred Matson had said, it was the most excitement Lake Potawatomi had seen since Vern Jones reeled in that record-size lake sturgeon several years ago. That excitement all stemmed from Tavish Bentley. The best-selling author’s visit had really stirred things up.

  I felt my lips turning up in a smile as I recalled my dinner conversation with Tavish—easily the most enjoyable part of my day. The smile dissolved when I remembered crazy Annabelle and the venom she had aimed at me. I shivered in my cotton nightgown. No one had ever directed such hatred my way.

  I sat up suddenly. Wait a minute. If crazy Annabelle, aka Lady Muumuu, could hate me so much simply because I was having an innocent dinner with Tavish, imagine how much more magnified her hatred would be for someone engaged to him.

  Enough to kill that person?

  Chapter Six

  Whoa, slow down there, Sparky. Reaching a bit, aren’t you?

  No. Someone had killed Kristi—strangled her with my scarf. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t Tom Rogers, and it wasn’t Tavish Bentley.

  Before I left the Lake House tonight, Tavish had told me—repeating what he and Brady had already told the rest of my friends while I was busy confronting Melanie in the sunroom—that yes, he and Kristi had argued outside the bookstore. Tavish explained that he had just finished his phone call with his agent when Kristi appeared. She tried to kiss him, but he rebuffed her. She then began touching him and making suggestive comments, saying she missed him and wanted to show him how much. His face reddened as he recounted this to me. Tavish said he told her, again, that it was over—they weren’t a good match. Kristi then began screaming obscenities at him, saying he had made a big mistake and was going to pay. Then she spit in his face.

  Wilma Sorensen, Lake Potawatomi’s biggest busybody, witnessed the entire scene from her kitchen window, which faces the back of the bookstore, and informed Brady. Seventy-eight-year-old Wilma is always spying on all the comings and goings at the Corner Bookstore, Char says. My Musketeer pal has even spotted Wilma using binoculars to zero in on the book titles customers choose—including the racier novels eighty-something Lew Hobbes frequently buys.

  What Wilma failed to see—when she apparently left her prime gossip perch to answer the call of Mother Nature—was Tavish reentering the Corner Bookstore, leaving behind a still very much alive and fuming Kristi. Courtney Peterson, who teaches kindergarten at Lake Potawatomi Elementary, happened to be jogging past the bookstore at the time and caught the aftermath of the argument. Courtney remembered distinctly, she told Brady when he questioned Wilma’s neighbors as to what they might have seen, because she saw Kristi flip a bird at the departing author.

  Whoever killed Kristi, it was not Tavish.

  I had not expected to feel so relieved. Maybe I was more interested in the English author than I realized. I pushed the thought away. Right now, there were things that were more important. Reaching for the pad of paper I keep on my nightstand in case I wake up in the middle of the night with a great idea or plot twist, I scribbled down names of possible murder suspects. Although I had already begun a list and some notes on my laptop, I was too tired to get up and retrieve my computer from the other room. Instead, I opted for the traditional time-honored writer’s tools. Then I studied the list and drew lines through all the names but one—Annabelle Cooke.

  * * *

  Waking up early the next morning, I pulled on jean shorts and an oversized red T-shirt, which I topped with a red-and-white polka-dotted scarf. Clipping on Gracie’s leash for her morning walk, I slipped out the front door, pulling it shut quietly behind me. I did not want to risk waking my mom and facing a repeat of last night’s inquisition. Even though Mom lives behind me, she sleeps with the window open, and her radar ears don’t miss a trick.

  Gracie sprang down the porch steps, tail wagging. She scampered down the sidewalk, stopping every few feet to sn
iff the grass. Since I’d had time to take her on only a cursory walk yesterday, I decided to give her some much-needed exercise. “Come on, girl, let’s go.”

  We power-walked around the corner, inhaling the scent of my neighbor Margaret Miller’s glorious roses that ringed the perimeter of her yard. The rich red of Mr. Lincolns flanked the pretty yellow of her Julia Childs, while the vivid orange-and-pink Mardi Gras tea rose hybrid battled with Rio Samba and Heart of Gold for the honor of most beautiful. Then Gracie decided to pick up the pace. She raced ahead, and I had to run to keep up with her.

  Three blocks later we ran into septuagenarians Wilma Sorensen and Barbara Christensen next to Lake Potawatomi, the town’s namesake. I pulled Gracie up short, panting a little.

  “Good morning, Teddie,” Barbara said, smiling and reaching down to pet Gracie. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  “Gorgeous. Starting to get a bit warm.” I wiped a drop of sweat from my eye with my scarf. “You ladies enjoying your walk?”

  “Oh yes,” the gray-permed Wilma said. “We always take our daily constitutional at this time. The doctor says it’s important to get exercise at our age.”

  “Move it or you lose it.” Barbara winked.

  “Good advice for all of us.”

  Wilma zeroed in on my polka-dotted scarf. “You have such a collection of pretty scarves, Teddie. Why, I don’t think anyone in town has as many scarves as you.”

  “Probably not. Just call me the scarf queen.”

  “It’s such a shame one of them was used to strangle that poor girl.” She added with false sympathy, “You must have felt sick when you saw that. Why, I can’t even imagine!” Her liver-spotted hand fluttered to her chest.

  I could help you imagine that if you like … “Yes, it was pretty awful.”

  Wilma peeked behind her and said in a stage whisper, “I’ll betcha anything that rich author fiancé of hers killed her. You can’t trust those foreigners. Besides,” she said, her faded blue eyes gleaming with satisfaction, “I saw the two of them having a terrible fight just before she died. I told the sheriff, of course—my civic duty.”