Murder in March

by Camilla Chafer

I frowned. "What?"

  "The page. The snippet I saw on Detective Logan's phone. It was good. The prose was strong. Vivid and evocative. Why did Esther pass up on that?" he asked.

  "Because I wrote it and I'm a romance author. That's all she wants me to write."

  "I get it. You're Miranda Marchmont, international bestseller. People love your books!"

  I rolled my eyes as I turned onto Main Street, cruising past the dimly lit store fronts and busier bars and restaurants. It wasn't the first town a person came to for bustling nightlife but the clear spring air and rise in temperature managed to turn out the town's residents. I envied the way they walked arm-in-arm, or in small groups, talking and laughing. I wished I were one of them. "I can write other stuff too," I said, focusing on the conversation.

  Turning at the end of the street, I headed for my house, which was only a few streets away. The southern end of Calendar boasted many houses like mine. Pretty and colorful, the rows of Victorian houses included plenty of wraparound porches, turrets, and white gingerbread trim. Some had fallen into disrepair over the decades but several were being repaired and many had already been brought back to life. When I bought my house, it wasn't in too bad a state but I had to spend a significant sum to repair the wooden siding as well as repainting it both inside and out. I discovered several desirable features that the former owners had covered up and fortunately never disposed of that needed attention too. All the money required to pay for the remodel came via Miranda Marchmont. Did I really want to give that up?

  "Clearly, you can. There's something else. What is it?" asked Mark.

  I winced. I hesitated to tell him the whole truth but knew he would probably find out anyway. "It's about that manuscript. That page."

  "Yes?"

  "It wasn't on the clip that Sam, I mean, Detective Logan, showed us; that page was about a murder."

  Mark frowned. "What's the problem?"

  "It's not just any murder." My street was empty of cars and Mark's taxi hadn't appeared yet. I turned onto my driveway and switched off the engine before I faced him. "Mark, it was a knife murder. The heroine discovered her boss's body in a hotel room with a typed page pinned to the body's chest. Esther died exactly the way I wrote it. It was like I planned and executed her murder!"

  Chapter Five

  I woke early, instantly knowing I wouldn't be able to fall back asleep. Too many thoughts swirled in my head, the worst being the horrible image of Esther lying on the hotel bed, the sharp knife plunged deep into her chest. The same vision haunted my thoughts before I went to sleep and woke me up in a panic at two am then again, at four am, convincing me that I was next on the killer's list.

  The thing I couldn't work out, despite all my crazy, swirling fears, was who would want to kill Esther? Sure, she was annoying and rude with a horrible habit of talking over anyone, no matter what they tried to say, but clearly, that wasn't enough motivation for someone to kill her? If it were, I would have done it years ago!

  Pushing back the comforter, I got up and went about my morning routine, the puzzling thoughts continuing to addle my weary mind. I showered with my favorite shower oils and washed and blew out my hair, then I dressed in jeans and a pretty, yellow sweater. It felt good to shelve my winter clothes in favor of lighter, more delicate items, even if the yellow did feel slightly too joyful for such a somber day.

  I ate a breakfast of granola, yogurt and berries, sitting in the small sunroom that occupied the square space between my kitchen and the living room that stretched the full length of the house. Then I washed the breakfast things and set the coffee maker on. After offering some kitty biscuits to an eagerly waiting Purrdie, I jogged upstairs to my study.

  Slipping into my desk chair, I opened my laptop and switched it on. I needed to get my mind off Esther; the only thing I could think of doing was working on my book. Esther emailed me a bunch of notes about the book and I had to work through them. I didn't want to but I needed the distraction; plus, the deadlines hadn't changed.

  Rocking back in my chair, I frowned. Esther had been my agent for years and she owned the agency. What would happen to me now that she was gone? Was my contract also terminated? I sucked down the bubble of anticipation that threatened to overwhelm me.

  I didn't have to worry about Esther bullying me into writing something I didn't want to anymore. I was free!

  I clapped a hand over my mouth, appalled at the horrid thought. How could I even think about my future when Esther’s future was so brutally terminated? Yet, I couldn't stop thinking about it.

  Only yesterday, I decided I would end my alter ego just as soon as I fulfilled my contract. I could probably work directly with Mark to finish the books, and then be free to pursue the writing I really wanted to do. Now that Esther was dead, there was no one standing in my way.

  Unfortunately, that also made me the only person I could think of with a motive for wanting Esther to be gone.

  My shoulders dropped and I closed my eyes, shaking my head wearily.

  Of course, I wouldn't have chosen to kill Esther over something as petty and insignificant as that, but would anyone believe me?

  The sound of a car coming to a stop outside my house caught my attention. I glanced up, groaning audibly as I recognized a Calendar Police Department squad car. I watched Detective Logan get out and look up. He raised a hand and waved before rounding the car, stepping across the sidewalk and walking onto the path that led to my door.

  Shutting the laptop, I pushed the chair back and got up, walking downstairs to meet the detective.

  "Sorry it's so early," said Detective Logan when I let him in. He wore jeans, a sweater and a leather jacket that was well-seasoned. I figured police detectives got to wear whatever they chose and he selected his outfit well, erring on the smarter side of casual.

  "I was up early. I didn't sleep too well," I told him.

  "Things like what happened last night tend to stay with you a while," he said. He ran a hand over his dark red hair and looked around, taking in the entryway and all the decorative details from the cornices to the wainscoting. "Distraction works."

  "Have you seen many dead people? Victims?" I asked, growing curious.

  "Too many," he replied with a shrug that looked anything but light-hearted.

  "I'm sorry. I don't know how you do it."

  Detective Logan shrugged again. "Someone has to."

  "Can I get you a drink? I thought it looked warm out but you brought a chill in with you."

  "A coffee would be nice, but only if you're making one for yourself."

  "I am. Take a seat in the living room and I'll be right back." I directed him to the gray linen sofa in the big window overlooking the street.

  "Thanks."

  I made two mugs of coffee, then realized I didn't know how Detective Logan took his. I pulled out a small tray and added a little jug of cream and a sugar bowl before carrying it into the living room and setting it on the coffee table. The teenager in me who once looked up to him would have been amazed that he was now sitting in my house.

  "How can I help you?" I asked. "I assume you're here about Esther. Is there any news? Did you find out who did it? Did someone confess?"

  Detective Logan looked up as he reached for the mug closer to him. "I need to ask you a few more questions about Esther Drummond."

  "Fire away." I took the armchair opposite and waited for his questions.

  "I wondered if you had time to think about if Mrs. Drummond knew anyone in town? Perhaps she mentioned someone in passing, or her intention to visit with someone else while she was here?"

  I shook my head. "I can't think of anyone."

  "An old friend, perhaps? A distant cousin?"

  "She never mentioned anyone to me. We didn't really have a personal relationship." I stopped. No, Esther spoke about a lot of stuff, especially if it raised her own reputation. She spoke about her husband, Derrick, and how she endured their long marriage, being, as she put it "unencumbered" by children, along
with all the travels and fancy things they enjoyed from opera nights to dining at the best restaurants. She simply talked over my end of the conversation so a lot of those talks were largely one-sided.

  "You just thought of something."

  "It occurred to me that Esther liked to talk a lot about herself but I'm sure I would have remembered if she knew someone who lived in town. She would want to know what their status was, if she didn't know already."

  "How do you mean?"

  "Esther wasn't interested in anyone she would consider as being less than her. She was a social climber."

  "That so?" Detective Logan sipped his coffee, setting it down only to reach for his notepad. He jotted something down, then asked, "Did she see you that way?"

  "Which way?"

  "As her equal, or less than her? Or more than she was?"

  "Oh, I don't know." I suspected less, now that I thought about it. It didn't matter that I had a special talent for writing, Esther was the one who sold my books, as well as negotiated my contracts, and cut my paychecks. Things she never let me forget.

  "Did you correspond very often in the work you did for her?"

  "Every couple of weeks. I'm sure if you take a look at her phone records, you'll find evidence of that." He would probably check her email records too but I didn’t want to bring up my alter ego just yet.

  "You said you were a virtual assistant for her. What does that mean?"

  "It's mostly someone who does typing."

  "What do you type?"

  I blew the steam from the top of my coffee, scrambling for a plausible answer. "Author manuscripts. I re-type them but with corrections." Both parts were true. I just didn't need Detective Logan to know that I was the author as well. Once even one person knew my secret, there would be no stopping who it could spread to. My quiet, private life would be instantly over, and just as I was ready to retire from it.

  "Isn't that what an author is supposed to do?"

  "Yes, but sometimes they need extra help. I type very fast."

  Detective Logan made another note. "Do you work with Mark Boudreaux as well?"

  "The work I send to Esther also goes to him," I replied.

  "So you know him?"

  "Yes, but I only met him for the first time when he came to town with Esther."

  "You had lunch together?"

  "That's right, on the day they arrived, at the hotel. That's when I first met him."

  "Mr. Boudreaux says he exchanged emails with you prior to that."

  "Yes, that's correct, but I hadn't met him until then."

  "Is it typical for your client's client to call you?"

  "Sure, if they want to check on progress, for example."

  "He says Mrs. Drummond set up the lunch so you two could meet."

  "That's right."

  "Seems a little elaborate for a woman like Mrs. Drummond to want to have lunch with her typist." Detective Logan waited, watching me.

  "I do a lot of work for her and it was a working lunch. Good VA's are hard to find."

  "Mr. Boudreaux also said that he was sure you and he were the only people Mrs. Drummond knew in town."

  "I'm not sure what you're getting at?" Hadn't I already confirmed Esther didn't know anyone else?

  Detective Logan sipped his coffee again and contemplated the cup for a moment before he raised his eyes to mine. "You must understand that I find it a little strange that Mrs. Drummond knew only two people in town and yet she's been found dead at the hands of another. I have to ask if you had any motive for killing her."

  I opened my mouth to protest before I realized that I did have a motive, albeit a very weak one, but that didn't take into account my utter lack of killer instinct or the small fact that I hadn't done it! I started to speak again, then stopped. When Detective Logan patiently waited, I formulated some semblance of the truth. "Detective Logan, I didn't kill Esther, but I will admit I didn't like working for her and actually planned to quit my association with her after I finished my contracted work. She wasn't happy about it, but ultimately, there was nothing she could do about it."

  "How much work were you contracted to do?"

  "I estimate a year or so, maybe less if I concentrated really hard and worked longer hours. I could stick it out for that amount of time and collect my paycheck. I had no need to kill her."

  "What happens to the work she already contracted you to do now?"

  "I still have to do the work, but I guess one of her junior agents will take over. So you see, Detective, I had no reason to kill her. I'm still in the very same position I was in yesterday when she was still alive."

  "You know, I remember you from school," said Detective Logan, surprising me by changing the topic so abruptly.

  "You do?"

  "Sure. You always had your nose stuck in a book. I wanted to ask what you were reading a few times but I was too shy."

  I blinked. Shy wasn't the way I remembered Sam Logan. He was athletic and popular and always had a trail of pretty girls giggling over him. "I remember you too," I told him. "You were one of the popular kids and a good athlete. You always had a ton of people around you."

  "That's true," he agreed. "You hung out with Cynthia Gordon and the Halligan twins, the ones who dyed their hair those funny colors. You were a solid group."

  I beamed at the fond memory of Cynthia, Rob and Tony. We'd been friends throughout high school and still kept in touch. Cynthia lived in town with her husband and a toddler, while Rob and Tony were away, working. "How did you know that?" I asked, still stunned that he noticed or recalled me at all.

  "Just because I was an athlete doesn't mean I couldn’t notice pretty girls. I remember those flowers you used to wear on your wrist. What were they? Bracelets?"

  "What an amazing memory! They were bracelets and sometimes hairbands with silk flowers attached. I thought I looked eccentric and cool."

  "You did. I also liked that you didn't care about wearing the same stuff as all the other girls. You stood out because of it."

  Despite Detective Logan's complimentary words, I didn't get the impression that he was flirting. Instead, he just seemed friendly. Plus, I had to admit I was flattered that the school hunk would have noticed me at all. Sixteen-year-old Ava would have been more than electrified! "You should have said hi before you left after high school and never came back. The girls at school couldn't recover; at least through the last two years I was there."

  Detective Logan laughed. "I wish I had. It would have been nice to come home to friends."

  "You didn't?"

  "Most of my crowd lost touch. We weren't as solid as I thought we were, although there are still a few around town. I'm really glad I ran into you again, Ava."

  "Me too, Sam."

  "I'm sorry I have to ask you so many questions. It's unfortunate that you found the body and happen to also be one of only two people in town that knew her. Are you sure she never came here before?"

  "Not to my knowledge and I've known Esther for a long time."

  "What about Mr. Boudreaux? What's her relationship like with him?"

  "I couldn't say. I barely know him." He hinted at Esther's difficult nature but I couldn't recall him saying anything that was violent or awful about her.

  "What's your impression of him?"

  "Oh, well, I..." I trailed off. I was pretty sure Detective Logan didn't want to know how handsome and kind I thought Mark was, or that he'd been a reassuring presence when I screamed for help and he came running back. "He seems rather nice," I decided. "I spoke to him at the lunch Esther set up, and I bumped into him in the hotel lobby when I was on my way up to Esther's room right before I found her. He made sure I got home okay last night. He's pretty friendly and down to earth."

  "Did he say anything about his relationship with Esther?"

  "Not much. He made a joke about Esther's flouncing."

  "Flouncing?"

  "Esther always enjoyed a dramatic exit. I think Mark thought it was funny."

  "D
id he seem angry towards her?"

  "No, more like amused and resigned."

  "Do you know what their working relationship was like?"

  "I don't. Like I said, I only just met him. Mark recently took over from another publisher so I assumed he hadn't worked with Esther for too long either but I could be wrong. Shouldn't you be asking Mark these questions?"

  "I have. I'm interested in your impression. Since you seem to be the person who knew Esther best, did you notice anything strange about her room? Had you been in there before?"

  "No, we met in the restaurant for lunch so I never went to her room until last night. My focus was on Esther, and when I realized she was dead, I just wanted to get out of there. I couldn't tell you if anything was missing or dislodged, if that's what you're asking."

  "You didn't notice anything out of the ordinary?"

  "No. Should I have?" I frowned, becoming unnerved by his precise questions. Was that the real reason for the friendly interlude? To drop any defenses he thought I might have raised? If so, it almost worked.

  "Anything strange at all?"

  "I don't think so." I thought back to the scene. "I saw the black suitcase she always traveled with. Her laptop was on the desk, along with a few other things. Notepads and toiletries, I think."

  "What about the manuscript page?"

  "The one pierced by the knife? Yes, you asked me about that last night." I steadied myself, waiting for the inevitable moment when my secret was discovered. Perhaps I should have volunteered the information before now, but Detective Logan would certainly have unraveled the rest and my alter ego had no relevance when it came to Esther's death. At least, I didn't think it did.

  "I couldn't find the rest of the manuscript. It seems strange to only have one page, and not even the first page."

  "That is odd. Do you think someone took it?" I asked, confused.

  "Possibly. I don't understand why one page would be left on her body though. To pierce it with the knife wasn't accidental. Would you recognize it if I showed it to you again? It might be one you actually typed."

  "Oh, I don't know. Is it really that important?"