“So the husband’s been charged in the murder of Tavish Bentley’s stalker?”
“I don’t think he’s officially been charged yet. Our sheriff, Brady Wells, who is a good friend of mine, is waiting to hear back from the Illinois police. But it seems likely.”
“That’s good.” The relief in Jane’s voice was palpable.
“Why?”
“I don’t want you to worry about it. A couple folks here just got a little nervous by the insinuations that beauty blogger made against you.”
“Those libelous insinuations? She removed them immediately when confronted by the sheriff and Tavish’s lawyer last night.”
“Good. Good to hear.”
There was an awkward pause. A pause I could not define. Was Jane upset that I hadn’t called her last night? “I let you know about this as soon as I saw the blog—to keep Baker Street in the loop. I assumed legal would want to send the blogger a cease-and-desist letter or something.”
“Uh-huh.” Another awkward pause.
My heart sank. “Jane …” I swallowed hard. “You don’t think I killed those women, do you?”
“No! You wouldn’t hurt a fly. I told everyone here that. The only murder Theodora St. John would ever commit, I said, would be between the pages of a book.” She chuckled.
I didn’t feel like laughing. “Are you saying the powers that be at Baker Street actually gave a moment’s credence to those ludicrous rumors that woman started?”
“No-o-o-o, not exactly.” Jane expelled a heavy sigh. “It’s just a different publishing climate today. Everyone’s running scared and trying to protect themselves against bad author behavior, whether it’s sexual harassment charges or fallout from things authors have said online or in public venues—that’s why so many publishers are putting morality clauses in their book contracts these days.”
Bad author behavior? “But I haven’t done anything wrong—I’ve never even missed a deadline.” And I was definitely not going to start now. In that moment, I determined to turn in A Dash of Death early.
“I know. That’s what I told them. Quite forcefully, in fact,” she said. “Trust me. I’m on your side. They’re just a little concerned and reminded me of our morality clause, which says a book contract will be canceled in the instance of ‘sustained, widespread public condemnation of the author.’” Jane sighed again. “The problem is that even though that blogger took down the post, thousands of people have since shared the rumor she started on Facebook and Twitter.”
“It’s not true, though.” My stomach clenched. I don’t believe this is happening.
Sensing my distress, Gracie jumped up beside me and slipped her cold nose and then the rest of her face beneath my hand. On autopilot, I stroked her head. “Are you telling me you’re going to cancel my contract based on one person’s innuendo and lies?”
“Absolutely not,” Jane said. “I have complete faith in you. I am simply the reluctant messenger. The legal department—who will be sending you an email—wanted me to warn you that, in the case of libel, the burden of proof is, unfortunately, on you. You have to prove that the statements against you are false, but the husband being charged for the crime will take care of that, so don’t worry. It will all work out. This is just a little blip. It will all get sorted.” I heard a rustle followed by chewing and knew Jane had popped one of the Hershey’s Kisses she always keeps in a bowl on her desk into her mouth. “Now let’s talk about something more pleasant. Like that gorgeous Tavish Bentley. What’s he like in the flesh?”
“He’s great. Very nice and down-to-earth.”
“Do I detect more than a professional appreciation?” Jane teased.
Normally I would have liked to dish with my editor and friend about the latest goings-on in my life, especially since the latest involved my budding romance—a first since Jane and I had been working together, and something I knew she would be thrilled to hear—but right now I had other things on my mind.
Like saving my job.
We chatted for a few more minutes and then I made an excuse to get off the phone, saying Gracie needed a walk. Upon hearing the w-word, Gracie sat up eagerly and wagged her tail.
“Sorry, Gracie-girl,” I said, absently ruffling her fur after hanging up, “Mommy told a lie. Besides, we just came back from our circuit around the neighborhood.” I headed to the kitchen with my dog on my heels and let her out into the backyard. Then I finished grinding the coffee beans, made myself a cup of French roast, and sat down at the kitchen table, thinking about what Jane had said. It was the last thing I had expected. I may not sweat the small stuff these days or expend energy on the negative, but this revelation from my publisher was far from small stuff. It was my profession. My passion. My dream. It had taken cancer to push me into finally pursuing that passion. Now that I was living my dream, I was not going to let anyone destroy it.
Chapter Twenty-One
Have you heard anything from the Illinois cops yet about Harley Cooke? I texted Brady.
Jane had said I needed to prove that the libelous statements made against me were false, and confirmation that Harley had killed Annabelle was all the proof I needed. While I waited to hear back from Brady, I decided to make a batch of peanut-butter blossoms. The combination of chocolate and peanut butter always soothes the savage breast. Although my breasts might have left the building, my sweet tooth remained.
My phone rang just as I finished putting the first batch in the oven. I set the timer, picked up the phone, and saw my Musketeer pal’s name on the screen. “Hi, Sharon, what’s up?”
“Do you have a few minutes?” she asked. “I never got to finish filling you in on my conversation with Melanie.”
“That’s right. You said she told you something about Tavish’s ex-wife?”
“You might want to sit down for this one,” Sharon said. “It’s pretty juicy.”
I grabbed a cup of coffee and pulled out a kitchen chair. “Okay, I’m all ears.”
“Melanie said that Tavish’s ex-wife Lucinda and Kristi had a knock-down, drag-out fight a couple months ago,” Sharon said, breathlessly. “Apparently this Lucinda showed up drunk at Tavish’s beach house one day when Melanie was there and started yelling at Kristi and telling her to get out of her house. Said she had found the house for Tavish, and it was her house and her husband, so Kristi needed to take her things and clear out then and there.”
“Wow. What did Tavish do?”
“He wasn’t home. It was just the three women—Kristi, Lucinda, and Melanie.”
“What happened?”
“Apparently, Lucinda, the ex-wife, started yanking pictures off the walls and throwing them on the ground.”
“Seriously?”
“I know, right?” Sharon said. “It gets even better. Kristi screamed at Lucinda and slapped her in the face, and then the two of them had the catfight to end all catfights, Melanie said, complete with hair pulling, kicking, and biting.”
“Sounds like one of those not-so-real housewives shows. How did it end?”
“Melanie said she had to break it up and pull them off each other. She received a random punch in the face in the process, which left her with broken glasses and a bruised cheek,” said.
“Ouch. Poor Melanie.”
“I know. She finally calmed the two women down and called an Uber for the ex-wife, since she was in no condition to drive. Here’s the clincher, though.” Sharon paused for dramatic effect. “As Lucinda was leaving, she yelled at Kristi to watch her back. Said she was going to get her if it was the last thing she did.”
“Whoa.”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Sharon’s voice squeaked the way it did whenever she got excited.
“You mean that maybe we got it all wrong and Annabelle didn’t kill Kristi; Lucinda, Tavish’s ex-wife, did?”
“Exactly. I mean, there’s no proof Annabelle killed Kristi.”
“You’re right,” I said slowly. “Only supposition.” I had suspected, or
rather assumed, that obsessive stalker Annabelle had strangled Kristi because she was jealous of her relationship with Tavish and wanted her out of the way. When Annabelle attacked me in front of Andersen’s and warned me to stay away from Tavish because she had ownership rights, that had only sealed the deal for me. However, as far as anyone knew, Annabelle had never threatened Kristi outright. Unlike Lucinda, who’d told her she was going to “get her” if it was the last thing she did. And speaking of ownership rights, who would be more likely to believe they had ownership of Tavish Bentley than the woman who had married him?
The timer dinged. “Oops. Sorry, Sharon. I need to take the cookies out of the oven. We’ll talk later.” I returned my focus to my baking.
Two hours later, a light rap sounded on my back door. Char smiled and held up a white paper bag. “I picked up the hard rolls from Andersen’s for the brats,” she said, pronouncing it “brahtz” like every Dane.
“Thanks.” Wanting to give Tavish a classic Wisconsin summer lunch—bratwurst, potato salad, baked beans, and watermelon—I had invited Char and Brady to join us as well. Brady loves his brats. He slathers them with mustard, ketchup, pickles, and onions, while Char and I prefer a more classic take—bratwurst and mustard.
As Char set the table, I sliced the watermelon. “So,” I said casually, “you want to tell me the meaning of that look between you and Brady last night?”
“What look?” She affected an absorbed interest in lining up the water glasses with the knives.
“The one you exchanged when Tavish mentioned ending his engagement with Kristi.”
“Oh, that look.” She sighed and straightened her shoulders before turning around to face me. “Okay, you may not want to hear this, best friend, but I love you, so I’ll tell it to you straight. Brady, who also loves you, is concerned that things are moving too fast between you and Tavish. His fiancée—ex-fiancée,” she amended, “was killed less than a week ago, and it was only a couple weeks before then that they broke up. That’s not a lot of time to get over a relationship before jumping right into another one, don’t you think? Love doesn’t end that quickly.” She added, gently, “Are you sure Tavish isn’t rebounding with you after the loss of Kristi?”
I started to respond, but Char held up her hand.
“And, by the way, those words come straight from Brady’s mouth, not mine. You know he’s always considered himself your older brother,” she said. “He’s not trying to butt into your business—although it sure seems like it.” The corners of her mouth quirked. “He just doesn’t want you to get hurt.”
“And what about you?”
“I don’t want you to get hurt either.”
“Well, neither do I, so we’re all on the same page,” I said. “What you and Brady don’t know is that Tavish wasn’t in love with Kristi, he was just infatuated. Initially. Once he got to truly know her, however, the infatuation quickly wore off, hence the broken engagement.”
Char scrunched up her forehead. “So he proposed to someone he wasn’t in love with?”
I expelled a sigh. “No, to someone he was infatuated with. Tavish said the moment after he proposed, he realized it was a mistake.” I fixed my eyes on her. “Haven’t you ever made a mistake in the heat of the moment?”
“Me?” Char pretended mock offense. “Never.” Then she spotted the see-through plastic container of cookies on the counter and did her usual Pavlovian response—like the dog in Up whenever anyone yells, “Squirrel!” She advanced to the counter in two long strides. “Ooh, are those peanut-butter blossoms?”
“Yep.”
“Are you saving them for dessert?”
“Nope. We’re having homemade banana-cream pie for dessert.”
Char opened the container and grabbed a couple of cookies. As she bit into the first one, she moaned. “This is my favorite cookie of yours.”
“I thought my lemon sugar cookies were your favorite.”
“Well, yeah, among sugar cookies, but in the peanut-butter-and-chocolate category, this is the winner, hands down.”
Gracie barked and ran to the back screen door, where I saw Tavish holding a grocery bag and Brady brandishing a six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon.
“We come bearing gifts,” Brady said as they entered. Earlier he had texted that he still hadn’t heard back from the Illinois police on the status of Annabelle’s husband, but he’d send them an email following up.
“You didn’t need to bring beer,” I told him. “I already have some in the fridge.”
“Ah, but is it Pabst?”
“Is the Pope Catholic? After all this time, I think I know your beer of choice, my friend.”
“Well, you can never have too much beer.” He winked and stuck the six-pack in the fridge alongside the other Pabst.
Tavish presented me with a gorgeous bouquet of roses and Gerbera daisies. “These are for you,” he said shyly.
Char sighed. “Ah, I remember those romantic days. Seems like years ago.” She inclined her head to her boyfriend. “Oh, wait, that’s because it was years ago.”
Brady popped open a beer and sat down. “I get you flowers every year on Valentine’s Day and your birthday.”
“Yep, you’re as regular as Ex-Lax.” Char ruffled Brady’s hair and planted a kiss on the top of his head. “But I love you even if romance isn’t your first language.”
That’s when it clicked that my best friend didn’t share Brady’s concern that things with Tavish might be moving too fast. She and Sharon had been trying to find me Mr. Right—or at least Mr. Right Now—for ages, and now that a man with romantic potential had shown up, Char didn’t want to jinx it. Bless her.
Tavish removed two bags of chips from the grocery bag—Lay’s Classic and salt-and-vinegar. “Brady said bratwurst requires potato chips, so I brought a couple selections. Although”—he jerked his head toward my childhood pal—“apparently salt-and-vinegar isn’t the chip—or as we call it, crisp—of choice here, so I wanted to add my English contribution to the meal.”
“Thanks,” I said. “And ignore Brady; he’s just a creature of habit.” I added in a whisper, “And a little OCD to boot.”
“I heard that,” Brady said.
“I meant for you to hear.”
As Tavish finished his first brat—minus onions—and was reaching for a second, he mentioned that Melanie had returned to New York earlier today. “I know she was quite eager to get back to Brandon,” he said. “They’re a great couple of kids. Brandon’s a plumber and he’s fixed many a clogged drain for me, which is lucky, because I’m rubbish at that sort of thing.” He grinned. “Oh, and I saw the Hellmans at breakfast this morning. They apologized for their behavior last night, but I told them I was actually glad they’d drawn our attention to what Brittany was blogging or we’d not have known and been able to put an immediate stop to it.” He delivered a warm smile to me that, before last night, would have given me butterflies in my stomach. Today, though, the knots in my stomach from Jane’s phone call had strangled the butterflies.
I returned Tavish’s smile with a feeble one of my own. I had decided not to say anything about what Jane had revealed about Baker Street’s morality clause and the burden of proof against libelous innuendo resting with me. If everything went as I hoped, it would all soon be a nonissue. No need to ruin our lunch.
“And how’s the job going, Sheriff?” I asked. “Any exciting crimes in Lake Potawatomi lately?”
“No. Thank God.” Brady scarfed down the rest of his potato salad and took a swig of his Pabst. “Augie issued one parking ticket and one jaywalking ticket in the past couple days and that was it.”
“Tell her who received the jaywalking ticket, though, honey,” Char urged with a wicked gleam.
“Inappropriate,” Brady said.
“Oh come on, it’s a matter of public record. All right, I’ll tell her.” Char shot me a snarky grin. “Wilma Sorensen. She was cutting across the street at a clip to share the latest gossip with one of her blue-h
aired friends when Bea Andersen, who was turning the corner, had to brake hard to avoid hitting her. Well, Wilma screeched and carried on at Bea for nearly hitting her—threatened to sue, yada yada—but Augie saw the whole thing and wrote Wilma a ticket on the spot for jaywalking.”
“So there’s justice in the world after all,” I said.
Tavish covered my hand with his. “Right always wins.”
I hope so.
He stroked the back of my hand. “Since I’m extending my stay in Wisconsin, I would love to see more of your beautiful state. Would you be my tour guide, Ms. St. John?” he asked flirtatiously.
“Ooh, you should take him up to Door County,” Char said. “It’s gorgeous up there. Brady and I stayed at this great B and B out in the country that I know you’d love.” She sent her boyfriend a seductive glance. “Remember, babe? Yummy breakfasts and this wonderful four-poster bed with eight-hundred-thread-count sheets and feather pillows.”
Brady frowned at her, and I kicked Char under the table. She knew Tavish and I hadn’t been intimate yet, and now here she was pushing us to stay overnight at a romantic B and B?
Tavish sensed my hesitation and held my eyes with his. “That sounds lovely, but it doesn’t have to be an overnight trip. Anywhere you would like to go is fine with me. I’ll leave that to you, since you’re the native and I’m the stranger in a strange land.”
“Good book,” Brady said, changing the subject. “One of my favorites.”
“Of course it is,” Char said, wrinkling her nose. “It’s sci-fi. What is it with men and sci-fi? I don’t get it.”
“And I don’t get the Jane Austen fascination,” Brady said. “Way too much talking and not enough action. Give me sci-fi and suspense any day. Right, Tavish?”
“Actually,” Tavish said, with an apologetic shrug in Brady’s direction, “I quite like Jane Austen, but then I’m English and it’s in my DNA. Plus, she’s brilliant with dialogue.” He fastened his eyes on mine and quoted, “‘It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy; it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others.’”
Murder Most Sweet Page 16