The doorbell rang, and Rachel groaned. Whoever it was, she didn't want to see them. It rang again, insistently, and she stumbled downstairs to see who it was.
Tricia Crane was dressed in green and purple, smiling broadly as she pinned a newspaper to Rachel's chest. "Check it out! I'm on page seven!! It's The Herald— they interviewed me and ran a whole bit!"
"Tricia . . ."
But Tricia was oblivious. She flitted into the kitchen, and grabbing Scooter's front paws, did a little dance. "Can you believe it? It's amazing!"
"Tricia . . ."
"Of course, an independent bookstore is such a rare thing nowadays. You have to do what you can to survive. I'm having a memorial for Stan next Thursday and with this article, I'm sure a thousand people might show up! I'm so excited!"
Rachel looked down at the paper Tricia had thrust upon her. It was open to an article that said, "Local Bookstore Plans Seance to Speak with Murdered Sci-fi Author" the column was titled "Supernatural or Sci-fi?"
"A seance?" Rachel gave a groan. "Are you serious, Tricia? The man's dead and you're trying to profit off it."
"You know what." Rachel's eyes were flashing fire. "This is in very bad taste. It's not who you are. It's not what Cranium Books is all about. Why are you doing this?"
Tricia's eyes hardened. "I thought you were my friend. I thought you'd be happy for me."
"I am your friend, which is why I'm telling you. This is terrible. You're . . . you're acting insane. You don't even believe in seances."
"Who says I don't?" Tricia asked. "He was murdered right in my bookstore and I'm going to have a seance to drive out any lingering evil spirit."
"Ok. So why advertise it in the papers?"
Tricia stamped her foot. "Do you know how tough it is to run a bookstore these days, Rachel? What do you want me to do? It's very easy for you to roll your eyes and mock me, but you're not in my place. You don't know what it's like to see your business bleed out slowly from a thousand cuts. The bookstore isn't just a shop to me—it's everything. It's my family's heritage, it's my own passion. And its dying and there's nothing I can do to save it."
"You'll find a way to save it, Tricia."
"How? The money's not going to fall on my lap!" Tricia exclaimed. "I need money, Rachel. I have to do whatever it takes to get some. I didn't want Stan to die; all I wanted was a nice book release. But what happened, happened. So what? I'm going to take advantage of it instead of cowering like a little ninny."
"This isn't you." Rachel said quietly.
"Think what you like." Tricia grabbed the paper out of Rachel's hands and slammed the door behind her as she walked out. Rachel sighed and rested her head against the cool wood of the door. Part of her felt bad for Tricia and part of her understood.
She was about to stumble back up into bed, when the door opened. Scott filled up the doorway, looking confused.
"You okay?" he asked.
Rachel wanted to nod, but instead found herself shaking her head. "I'm not okay. I'm horrible. I just insulted Tricia for doing what she can to save her business, and I insulted you the other day. I called you a bad sheriff when really, you're the best man I know. I'm so sorry." Overwhelmed, she collapsed onto a stool and began sobbing.
"Hey!" Scott sounded alarmed. Immediately, he was next to her, holding her in his comforting, strong arms. One hand patted her back while he spoke in a soothing voice. "Rach . . . it's been a tough few days for you. First that attack on Brandon, then Tristan dying the way he did . . . you need to . . ." He paused suddenly, and put a hand on her forehead. "You're burning up!" he exclaimed. At his feet, Scooter gave a little yip of agreement.
Rachel pushed Scott away, her eyes still teary. "I'm really sorry I was mean to you," she said.
"I'm a big boy, don't worry about it." Scott waved it off. "Now come on—to bed. Did you take a paracetamol yet? What's your temperature?"
"Don't lie. You felt hurt. Admit it."
"Well, I'm a big boy with a big ego," Scott said. "But that's really not important right now. Are you going to bed or do I have to lift you up?"
"I'm not going anywhere till you accept my apology," Rachel said.
"Ok." Scott took a deep breath. Then, in a move that made Rachel whoop with surprise, he lifted her up in both arms, and began climbing the stairs.
"Are you . . . put me down immediately!"
"Not while you're being a proper idiot," Scott said. "Lie down and be quiet for the rest of the day. No more thinking of murders or fights or anything. Just roses and fluffy pillows and whatever nice things women like to think of."
Despite herself, Rachel let out a giggle. "Roses and fluffy pillows? Really?"
"Nice stuff that doesn't require using your brain," Scott said. "Because at the moment, your brain seems to be trying to set fire to your head."
Rachel hit his shoulder lightly with a fist, trying to ignore the fact that her entire heart was doing a little ballet in her rib cage. He smelled good up close, like leather with a faint hint of spice. "Put me down."
"I'm not putting you down," Scott said "Now what way is your bedroom?" His jaw was clenched and his voice was stern. Rachel knew she wasn't winning this one. Besides, just the sound of his voice was enough to make her stomach flutter.
"That way—" She pointed to it, and he kicked the door open. For a moment, he paused at the entrance, glancing around. Rachel felt a little ashamed at how messy it was. Her clothes from last night were strewn on the floor instead of in the hamper, and her bedcovers were ruffled since she'd been too sick to make them. She opened her mouth to apologize for the mess, when Scott said, "I love the artwork."
He bent down, and very gently, laid her upon the bed, then tucked her in up to her chin with the blanket. As if he couldn't resist, he patted her head at the end.
"You have a good bedside manner," Rachel said. "You'd have made a great doctor."
"Sure, all my prisoners tell me that too." Scott grinned. "Now stay here. Can I get you some soup?"
"I just had some." Rachel held his hand. "Just sit by me for a minute."
"Sure I will. In a minute." He left the room for a bit, then returned with a bowl full of water and a dishcloth. He drew up a chair and sat by the bed, letting Scooter jump up onto his lap. With one hand, he began mopping her forehead. "My dad used to do this whenever Emily or I were sick," Scott said, as Rachel tried to protest. "It brings down the fever."
It did feel good. Her body still felt like it was burning from the inside out, but the headache that had been creeping up on her receded a little with Scott's ministrations.
"Did you get any sleep at all last night?" Scott asked.
"A little." Rachel sighed. "It was kind of hard. I kept trying to make sense of whatever Tristan said to me. It just didn't make any sense. Tristan was talking nonsense. Meteor shower under the floorboards. Crabs in a bucket . . ."
Scott's jaw was set. "Rachel . . ."
"But I could make out this much. Tristan was stalking Stan the night of the party. He probably followed him home that night. He saw someone with Stan—the killer probably—then what? He tried to confront the killer himself and got killed? Poor guy."
Scott hesitated. "Tristan was at the house the night of the murders. I can tell you this now. When we scoped out Stan's house after he was murdered, we found Tristan's footprints nearby. We interrogated him, but he wouldn't say a word, and with just the footprints and nothing else, we didn't have enough evidence to hold him. So yes, it's very likely that Tristan was there."
"But if you found Tristan's footprints, didn't you find anything else? Tire marks? Other footprints?"
Scott shook his head. "The house has a gravel drive. We found Tristan's footprints because he was creeping around near the flower beds—kind of lucky for us. We didn't find anything else that's important."
Rachel sighed. "So we're at an impasse once again."
"The police are at an impasse once again," Scott pointed out. "You are staying in bed and getting better
and not thinking of murders, remember?"
"Oh, come on . . ." Rachel protested. "Tristan died in my arms, Scott. Maybe he wasn't a very happy man, but he didn't kill anyone. He was innocent. A fan of Stan's work, just like you. I feel . . . I almost feel responsible. If I'd talked to him earlier, maybe . . ."
"Maybe what? He didn't tell us anything," Scott pointed out. "It's only when he was dying that Tristan realized the stakes of this game. Until then, he was playing cat and mouse with the killer—probably blackmailing the killer."
"Scott . . ." Rachel bit her lip. "Tristan said, 'Calvin Donaldson' before he died. Those were his last words."
Scott nodded. "I know," he said. "And believe me, we're going to investigate that fully. Calvin's been on my shortlist of suspects for a while now."
"Meteor shower under the floorboard," Rachel muttered to herself. "Under the floorboard. Under the . . . Scott . . . we've been total fools! We have to go! Now!"
"What?" Scott looked at her, baffled. "No, what are you talking about?"
"Just come with me. I'll explain later," Rachel said, jumping out of bed with a sudden energy. "Fast, or else the killer may reach there first!"
*****
Chapter 21
Smudged Ink
An hour later, they were on Fulton Avenue, ringing the doorbell at a large, colonial style house. Rachel had explained her brainstorm to Scott, and he'd agreed to go with her to Tristan's house.
"Tricia told me he lived here," Rachel said. "Lived in his mother's basement, basically."
Scott nodded. "Can't really judge him—I live in my dad's old house, don't I?"
Tristan's mother didn't object to letting them in once Scott flashed his badge. The house seemed to be overflowing with grieving relatives, and Rachel even spotted Becky out of the corner of her eye. Becky rose up as she saw Rachel and the sheriff.
"What do you want?" she asked. "Why are you here? This can't be good."
"It is, I think," Rachel said. "Becky, before Tristan died yesterday, he said something really strange to me, 'Meteor shower under the floorboard.' Do you know what that means?"
Becky shook her head. "No. But he was a science fiction fan. Maybe someone who knows Stan Stickman's books would know if it were a reference or a quote."
"It isn't a reference," Scott said. "Believe me, I know every Stan Stickman book inside out."
"Not every book," Rachel said. "There's one manuscript you haven't read, Scott."
Scott stared at her. "The stolen draft? The one Brandon was attacked for?"
Rachel nodded. "Exactly. It took me a while, but then I understood—meteor shower—meaning the night of the meteor shower, Tristan was up to something too. What happened the night of the meteor shower? Brandon's attack, of course! I think Tristan witnessed that too. I think the killer simply pushed Brandon over the cliff and thought the manuscript would vanish along with the body. Tristan, however, saw us rescue Brandon and followed us to the hospital. I think it was Tristan who stole the manuscript from Brandon's clothes. He'd already broken into the hospital once and not been caught. He knew from Becky, his cousin, that security was lax."
Becky nodded. "It could have been him, I suppose," she said. "But why?"
"Tristan was obsessed with Stan Stickman. When he figured out who killed him, he tried blackmailing the killer and then he saw the killer grow more dangerous. But that didn't deter Tristan. The thought of a new book written by Stan Stickman—sci-fi or not—was too alluring. He snuck into the hospital and stole it. That's what he was confessing to when he said 'meteor shower under the floorboard.' Meteor shower as in when and what. Under the floorboard as in where."
"You mean . . ."
"Show us his room, please," Scott said. "If Rachel's right, we should find it there soon enough."
Becky nodded and led them downstairs. Rachel gulped as she climbed down the stairs. There was something so strange about being here. Would Tristan have wanted this if he were alive? Almost certainly not. There was a dampness to the air and a strange, musty smell all around the basement. Becky flipped on the lights to reveal an air bed, an old TV, and a huge desk with a gaming computer set up on it. One wall had a bookshelf that was overflowing with books. Another had posters of science fiction movies, all of which somehow had women in bikinis featured prominently.
Scott stomped around the room, looking at the floor carefully. His eyes were laser focused, his brow furrowed. For a minute, Rachel had a weird vision of him as a bloodhound, sniffing out criminals. Then, blinking, she saw him stop near the TV which was placed atop an oak TV stand whose baseboard nearly touched the floor.
"What is it?" she asked, going up to him.
"Fresh scratches on the floor here." Scott pointed at the space near the stand. "Like someone moved the TV stand and then moved it back. The rest of the floor is pretty dirty, but this part seems cleaner. Help me move the stand?"
Rachel nodded. Grunting, they moved the stand, and revealed a patch of wooden flooring that had clearly been recently disturbed. A few minutes later, Scott had pried the wooden planks apart, and brought out a plastic bag. Inside was a handwritten manuscript. Scott reached into it, and flipped open the first few pages. Rachel gulped again when she saw the words on it:
"Property of Cody Halliday"
"I don't understand," Becky said, confused. "Who is Cody Halliday?"
"Becky . . ." Scott hesitated. "If you want Tristan's killer to be bought to justice, it's imperative you say nothing of this, alright? This remains a secret between the three of us."
Becky nodded. "I understand," she said. Her eyes hardened a little. "I hope you get them—and fast."
"We will." Scott smiled. "And I think we have Tristan to thank for it."
"Could you excuse us for a little bit?" Rachel asked.
Becky nodded and went upstairs, leaving them alone.
"I know what you're thinking, and the answer's no," Scott said. "You're sick, Rachel. I let you come here with me, and you promised to go home and lie down when we were done. Leave it up to me now."
"Have you figured it out, now?" Rachel asked.
Scott shrugged. "I will as soon as I read the book. Stan's probably left us clues."
"Stan's left us nothing," Rachel said. "The book will just tell the story of Vincent Abraham's murder."
Scott sighed. "So Dorothy showed you that scrapbook too? The killers' names were Kevin something and Cody something, right?"
"That's right, Kevin Johnson and Cody Halliday." Rachel nodded. "You know, it never occurred to me before, but Dorothy once told me that she hated Swaddle. It was Stan who wanted to move here, to connect with old friends. Dorothy said it made no sense because Stan grew up in Wyoming. I never realized it before, but it's obvious. Stan's name growing up wasn't Stan Stickman. It was Cody Halliday. Stan is the one who murdered Vincent Abraham as a child, along with his pal Kevin."
Scott nodded. "Yes. He must have changed his name after being released from juvie. He found success as a writer, and Stan aka Cody moved down here to reconnect with Kevin Johnson, his partner in crime. Is that what you think?"
Rachel nodded. "It backfired though. He loved living in Swaddle, but the town wasn't good to him. Dorothy started her affair with Calvin Donaldson and divorced Stan."
Scott nodded. "So Stan Stickman was blackmailing Calvin? Or threatening him somehow? I'm guessing Calvin Donaldson is Kevin Johnson? They both must have changed their names once they got out of juvie. That long back, their records are probably erased by now. A pretty powerful secret between two powerful men."
"Calvin's name must be in there, if he's really Kevin Johnson," Rachel said. Scott nodded and began leafing through the manuscript. He shook his head sadly within a few seconds.
"Ruined," he said. The manuscript was handwritten, and being soaked in sea water had smudged the ink. Whatever Stan had written was now a jumbled mess, too blurry for anyone to read. Only the title page with Cody Halliday's name had survived the soaking.
"So that
's it." Rachel buried her head in her arms in frustration. "The last clue. Ruined."
"Real pity," Scott said. "The killer's had more good luck than a poker player with a trick deck. Don't despair yet, Rachel. I'm going to catch him, one way or the other."
"We're going to catch him," Rachel said, standing up. She held out her hand, and after a moment's consideration, Scott gripped it tight.
"Alright," he said. "We're going to catch him. What's the plan?"
*****
Chapter 22
That's Bait
Rachel shivered a little as she stood at the edge of the cliff. A powerful wind howled around her, cutting like a knife where it managed to touch her skin. The night sky was clear and inky blue, just like it had been on the night of the meteor shower. Rachel was bundled up in a fleece jacket and dark jeans, almost invisible in the dark.
In the distance, she saw a luxurious car park near Stan's house. The door opened and then closed. Calvin Donaldson walked to her, his face grim. His silver hair glinted in the moonlight, and for the first time since she'd known him, Rachel saw that he wasn't wearing a suit. Instead, he was in a striped polo shirt and khakis. She felt her breath shorten. She hadn't realized it before, but Calvin Donaldson was a powerful man. Even though he wasn't as fit as he'd been when he was younger, it was obvious that he still took care of himself. His muscles bulged under the short sleeves of the polo shirt, and Rachel had a brief but alarming vision of his hands wrapping around her neck and squeezing. How long would it take for her to choke to death? How easy would it be for him to kill her?
"Why did you call me here?" Calvin growled as he approached Rachel. "What is this nonsense?"
"You wouldn't have come if your conscience wasn't bothering you." Rachel smiled. "Would you?"
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