by Sarah Fox
“I didn’t kill Marcie Kent. And I didn’t attack Jan Finch.”
This time I was sure her mouth twitched up in a brief flash of a smile.
“I didn’t think you did.”
My shoulders relaxed. “You didn’t?” I winced when I heard how surprised I sounded.
“I’ve gone over all the witness statements. You were with Linnea Bliss when Ms. Kent was killed, and you were speaking with Mr. Honeywell when Ms. Finch was attacked.”
That was good news. I knew I was innocent, of course, but it was nice to know the police knew that too. I considered what she’d said from another angle.
“I wasn’t talking with Brad Honeywell for more than a few minutes. Does that mean there’s a narrow window of time when Jan could have been attacked?”
“Two housekeepers were in that corridor less than ten minutes before Ms. Finch was found. They didn’t see anyone.”
“But that must mean Brad Honeywell wasn’t the attacker. Could he have an accomplice?”
When Detective Marquez fixed a stern gaze on me, I realized I’d said that out loud.
“That’s why I’m here,” she said. I knew she didn’t mean to discuss the accomplice theory.
“I understand you’ve been a frequent visitor to the manor since Ms. Kent’s death.”
“I guess you could say that,” I admitted, trying my best not to shrink back in my seat. I hadn’t missed the disapproval in her voice. I felt a little like a student getting reprimanded in the principal’s office.
“I’d like to remind you what happened the last two times you got involved in murder investigations.”
“You don’t need to remind me,” I assured her. Having two murderers turn their wrath on me wasn’t something I was likely to forget anytime soon. I still had the occasional nightmare from both incidents.
“Don’t I?” Marquez sounded skeptical.
Okay, maybe she had reason to be skeptical since I hadn’t exactly minded my own business since Marcie was killed. Still, I didn’t want to get in hot water with the detective or any of her colleagues.
“I’ve been to the manor several times to visit Linnea Bliss.” Technically, that was true.
“And you haven’t been discussing the murder?” Marquez clearly knew that wasn’t the case.
“Well, sure I have, but lots of people have been.”
She took a sip of her so far untouched coffee. “I hope it’s been nothing more than a bit of gossip.”
She might hope that, but I could tell she didn’t quite believe it.
“I was hoping to speak with you,” I said, deciding a shift in topic was in order. “I have some information I want to pass on, just in case you’re not aware of it.”
Marquez set down her mug. “Information obtained simply through regular conversations with curious townsfolk?”
I fought the urge to shift in my seat. “Partly. And from overhearing things. And from being in the right place at the right time. Or maybe the wrong place at the wrong time.”
It was so subtle that I almost missed it, but I was sure the detective released a sigh, one of either resignation or exasperation. Or possibly a mix of both.
“Go ahead,” she said before taking another sip of coffee.
“Okay, but first I have to ask if Jan is all right.”
Marquez rested her mug on the table. “She regained consciousness shortly after arriving at the hospital. She has a concussion, but hopefully she’ll make a full recovery.”
“Does she know who hit her? And did she say what she was doing on the second floor of the manor?”
“She claims not to remember anything after arriving at the hotel.”
“But you don’t believe her,” I surmised.
Detective Marquez neither confirmed nor denied that, but I was sure I’d guessed correctly.
“Does this have anything to do with what you wanted to tell me?” she asked.
“Sort of.” I tried to decide where to start. “Have you lived in Shady Creek all your life?”
One of Marquez’s eyebrows raised a fraction of an inch. “No. I moved here three years ago.”
I knew she was wondering about the pertinence of my question, so I quickly continued. “Then do you know about the history of the manor?”
“I know it was once owned by a wealthy man by the name of Edwin Vallencourt.”
“Have you heard the story about his hidden treasure?”
“I’m aware there is a story,” she said, “but I don’t know the details. Is this somehow relevant?”
“I think it could be. There were blueprints on the floor next to Jan, ones that show the location of secret rooms and a secret stairway. I handed them over to Officer Rogers.”
Marquez nodded. “I’m aware. And you also told Officer Rogers that you’d seen Jan in parts of the hotel where perhaps she wasn’t supposed to be.”
“Right. So, she’s been sneaking around the manor and had blueprints of the building.”
“You think she was searching for treasure.”
I wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d sounded incredulous. To her credit, however, she kept her voice even, never one to give much away about her thoughts or feelings.
“I think it’s a real possibility,” I said. “I don’t know if the treasure exists or not, but it doesn’t really matter if certain people believe that it does.”
Marquez regarded me without speaking. Seconds ticked by. I was about to give in to the urge to squirm beneath her gaze when she finally broke the silence that had settled between us.
“Is there anything else you’d like to share with me?”
I stifled a sigh of disappointment. She wasn’t going to give me even a hint of whether she thought my theory had any merit. I hadn’t really expected otherwise, but maybe I’d hoped, just a little.
Forcing myself to focus on her question, I thought over what else I wanted to tell her. “This might not be relevant, since he has an alibi for the attack on Jan, but Brad Honeywell had an argument with Marcie two days before she died.” I went on to explain about their brief history, as admitted to by Brad.
Next, I told her about Karidee getting chased away from the manor by Marcie, and her odd behavior in the lobby the other day. Aside from that, I didn’t think there were any other clues or details I needed to share.
Marquez took out a notebook and jotted a few things down, her expression still not revealing anything. When she snapped the notebook shut, she took out her wallet.
“The coffee’s on the house,” I said quickly.
She put a couple of bills on the table between us. “Thank you, but that’s really not necessary.”
Before I could protest, she pushed her chair back and stood up. “I appreciate the information you’ve given me, Ms. Coleman, but please remember that amateur sleuthing is a dangerous and ill-advised hobby. Leave the investigating to those of us who have the professional training and experience, all right?”
She didn’t wait for a response from me, instead leaving the table and heading for the door. I remained seated, knowing I’d deserved the reprimand, but also knowing that shutting off my curiosity would be an impossible task.
* * *
I’d gleaned two pieces of information from my chat with Detective Marquez. Jan was keeping mum about what she’d been doing at the manor lately, aside from fixing plumbing problems, and Brad wasn’t her attacker. As I poured some Midori liqueur into a cocktail shaker, I considered the question that had popped into my head earlier. Could Brad have an accomplice who’d assaulted Jan? If so, then he still could have killed Marcie.
The most likely candidate for Brad’s accomplice was his wife, Gemma. She had an alibi for Marcie’s murder, but it was possible that she’d attacked Jan. The timing would have been tight, but if she’d hurried downstairs and met up with me and Brad immediately after the assault, then it was possible.
I couldn’t think of a reason to completely discount the idea of the Honeywells working together to commit t
he recent crimes, but at the same time I wasn’t convinced it was the best theory I’d ever come up with.
Frustrated with my lack of ability to figure things out, I tried to focus solely on what I was doing. I finished mixing up a Lovecraft cocktail and delivered it to a table across the pub, along with a pint of India pale ale. After that, I popped into the kitchen to fetch several food orders. I was in the midst of serving burgers, fries, and a Red Cabbage of Courage salad to a table of three customers, when I noticed Cordelia coming into the pub.
She waved at me and headed over to the bar, where she perched on a stool.
“Things are quiet at the inn right now, so I thought I’d come by for a bite to eat,” she said when I’d made my way back from serving the customers. “And some gossip. I hear you’re dating Grayson.” She propped an elbow on the bar and rested her chin in her hand, smiling wistfully. “He’s dreamy.”
“We’ve been on one date,” I said. “It’s not like we’re officially an item.”
Not that I was against the idea, but I didn’t want to put the cart before the horse. I couldn’t argue with the rest of what she’d said, though.
“And where did you hear that?” I asked, wondering just how far the gossip about me and Grayson had spread.
“From my Gran. She heard it from another lady in her class this morning.”
“Class?”
“Chair yoga. At the community center.”
So Shady Creek’s entire senior population probably knew about my date with Grayson. I didn’t want to think about what the yoga class might have said about us, beyond the fact that we’d had dinner together.
“Are you going to the masquerade with Grayson?” Cordelia asked.
“He won’t be in town.” I should have been over that disappointment by now, but I still wished he could go with me. “What about you? Do you have a date for the masquerade?”
“No.” She sighed. “I’m going alone, as usual. Hopefully it’ll still be fun.”
“I’m sure it will be,” I said, determined to make that the truth. “Can I get you anything?”
“Same as last time. A Milky Way Gargle Blaster mocktail and nachos, please.”
“Coming right up.”
Once Cordelia had her food and drink in front of her, I moved off to serve a few other customers. When I returned to the bar, I decided to run an idea by her.
“The Inkwell’s book clubs have gone over well so far,” I said to start.
“Mmm-hmm.” Cordelia had a mouthful of nachos and cheese, but she quickly washed it down with her mocktail. “I love the mystery book club! And I’ve heard good things about the other clubs too.”
That put a smile on my face. “Do you think anyone would be interested in a writers’ group?”
“Definitely! A writers’ group would be great!”
“Really?” I said, not letting myself get too wrapped up in the idea yet. “Do you know anyone in town who’s a writer?”
Cordelia thought that over as she munched on another nacho. “Marisol, a girl I went to school with, used to write a lot of poetry. I don’t know if she still does. She’s got a baby and another one on the way. She married her high school sweetheart.” She lowered her voice. “But he’s not much of a sweetheart, if you ask me.” Her voice returned to its normal volume. “Other than that . . . not really, but . . .” She trailed off, suddenly hesitant.
“But what?” I prodded.
Her cheeks turned pink. “I’d love to join a writers’ group.” She spoke quietly, as if confessing a long-held secret.
“You’re a writer? I didn’t know that,” I said, pleasantly surprised.
The color in her cheeks deepened. “I’m not. Not really. I just . . . dabble. But I started writing a mystery novel a few months ago.”
“That’s so cool!”
“It’s nothing to get excited about,” she said quickly. “It’s probably terrible.”
“Don’t say that. I bet it’s great.”
“I don’t know about that, but it would be fun to meet other people who like writing too.”
“Then I’ll put the word out and see if anyone else is interested,” I said, warming to the idea even more. “If the Inkwell ends up hosting a group, you can be the very first member.”
Cordelia beamed at me. “I’d love that.”
I had to excuse myself a moment later when a bell dinged in the kitchen. I grabbed the orders Teagan had ready and delivered them to a table by the window. On my way back to the bar, I noticed a couple sitting at a table for two. They had food and drink supplied by Damien, and I hadn’t taken a good look at them until that moment.
I didn’t recognize the man, but he was with Connie, and I figured there was a good chance he was her husband. I planned to say hello to Connie when I passed by their table, but as I got closer, I realized they were arguing with each other in hushed voices.
“It’s too dangerous,” her husband said. “I think you should quit. The sooner the better.”
“Believe me, I’d like to,” Connie told him.
I strongly suspected they were talking about Connie’s job at the manor, but I didn’t hear any more because I quickly changed course. I didn’t want to interrupt and make things awkward.
I wasn’t fast enough, however. Connie glanced up and noticed me. Her frown switched to a weak smile. I said a quick hello, but didn’t stop, relieved that a woman at another table had just hailed me.
After Connie and her companion had finished their drinks, she stopped by the bar on her way to the washroom.
“Hi, Sadie. It’s nice to see you again.” All traces of her earlier frown had disappeared.
“You too.” I hesitated before asking, “Is everything all right?”
It took her half a second to realize why I was asking. “You mean with my husband?” When I nodded, she sighed and said, “He thinks I should quit my job at the manor. He’s worried I could get hurt with the killer still at large.”
Just as I’d thought. “It’s sweet of him to worry. And understandable.”
“He’s always looking out for me. And it is kind of scary to work there with a psychopath on the loose, but I can’t just up and quit without another job lined up, especially since my husband’s out of work at the moment.”
“Hopefully the police will catch the person responsible soon and you won’t have to worry anymore,” I said.
“That would be nice,” she said, “but I’m not holding my breath.”
She disappeared into the washroom and a short while later I saw her leaving the pub with her husband. I desperately hoped that she and everyone else who worked at the manor would stay safe until the murderer was caught.
Chapter 23
When I opened my fridge the next morning, I discovered there wasn’t much in it. I’d already eaten most of what I’d bought during my last trip to the grocery store. I had a craving for an omelet, instead of my usual breakfast of toast or oatmeal, but it was a bit hard to make an omelet without any eggs. The cheese drawer was empty too, and the only vegetables present were a lone carrot and a few stalks of celery.
Wimsey was more fortunate. He had plenty of food in stock, so I dished out his breakfast and set it down on the floor. He practically pounced on it, purring as he gobbled up his morning meal. I set out fresh water for him and grabbed my purse and a reusable shopping bag. Shady Creek’s farmers’ market was open until noon, and I hoped to make some delicious purchases there and restock my fridge before opening the Inkwell.
I enjoyed the walk over to the park, where the farmers’ market took place every Thursday and Saturday morning from late April to early October. Leafy tree boughs danced in the breeze that carried with it the scent of freshly cut grass. Puffy white clouds dotted the bright blue sky, but didn’t blot out the warmth of the sun. The forest was lush and green, and colorful flowers brightened window boxes outside several of the houses I passed. It was a perfect spring day.
When I reached the park, dozens of people were al
ready browsing among the two rows of stalls set up by the merchants. The farmers’ market was a popular place for townsfolk to shop for local products, and it was known for attracting tourists too. I knew at least one busload of the latter had already arrived in town that morning. I’d seen the passengers disembarking by the village green as I left the Inkwell.
I bypassed a stall selling handmade jewelry and another stocked with jams and preserves, making my first stop at the Caldwell Cheese booth. Bert Caldwell, the owner of the local cheese company, wasn’t present that morning, but I purchased a wedge each of Gouda and Brie from the woman in charge of the stall. It took a good deal of effort to put the cheese in my shopping bag without opening it for a taste. Brie was my absolute favorite type of cheese, and I knew I could easily eat my way through the whole wedge in a day or two if I wasn’t careful.
I moved on to a stand selling fresh produce. It was early in the season, so there wasn’t as much variety as there might be in the coming weeks, but I bought some tomatoes picked earlier that morning from a local farm’s greenhouses. Next to the produce stand was one displaying an array of baked goods. The woman in charge of the stall was busy chatting with two other women, but a sign on the table declared that all of her goods were home-baked and fresh.
I hadn’t planned on buying baked goods when I arrived at the market, but I couldn’t pass up one of the delicious-looking cinnamon buns. I picked out a wonderfully gooey one as the proprietor wrapped up her conversation, and I quickly paid for the bun. Between my most recent purchase and the two wedges of cheese in my bag, my mouth was doing some serious watering.
A sign on a stall at the end of the row advertised farm fresh eggs. Exactly what I was looking for. I was about to head in that direction when someone thrust a flyer in front of my face.
“Say no to advertising our town as a den of iniquity!” a familiar voice urged.
I pushed the paper away from my face, only to have Eleanor Grimes shove it into my hand.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said once the flyer was no longer blocking my face. “I’m sure you won’t be any help.”
