Murder Turns the Page

by Thea Cambert

  “That’s exactly the kind of thing I’m talking about,” said Saladin. “Lawrence should’ve given a fig about what he said to people. I think he prided himself on shaking folks up. Catching them off guard. Sad, really.” He took out a small pad of paper. “I’m writing myself a note about Michael. I know a wonderful poet who’s visiting this conference. Sonia Blake. Maybe I can get Michael an audience with her. To make up for Lawrence’s behavior.”

  “That’s wonderful of you!” said Alice. “Thank you.”

  “And we hope you’re coming to Joe’s coffee shop this evening after dinner,” added Franny. “For the Coffeehouse Chat?”

  “Absolutely,” said Saladin. “I love that coffee shop.”

  “I own that coffee shop,” said Franny.

  “You don’t say!” said Saladin, smiling broadly.

  “I do say,” said Franny. “And Alice here owns The Paper Owl, and Owen owns Sourdough, the bakery next door. The three of us are co-hosting tonight’s event.”

  “I can’t believe this!” said Saladin. “I’ve been in Blue Valley all of one day, and those are my three favorite places! If I lived here, I’d come in there every morning. I’d get my book and my pastry, and sit with a cup of coffee and read and write till nightfall.”

  Many thank-yous followed, along with a short discussion of the evening’s event, which was to begin at seven-thirty. Saladin agreed to read a short passage from his upcoming novel, and Franny said Ben would be there with bells on. She also let it slip that Ben was the captain of the small Blue Valley police force, and that asking around about Lawrence had simply been their way of trying to help out with the investigation a bit. They said goodbye and were almost to the door when Saladin called them back.

  “Since you’re helping the police . . .” He hesitated a moment, then went on. “Might as well tell you this, although most of us don’t tend to bring it up these days . . .” He looked to make sure the door was still closed. “There was a writers group.”

  “A writers group?” asked Alice.

  “Years ago. Twenty years ago now, I guess. In the Chattanooga area. We called it the Lookout Mountain Writers Guild. We were all just a group of wannabe authors, bouncing our ideas around, taking ourselves way too seriously.”

  “Who were the members?” asked Alice.

  “You’ve actually met them all. Me, Lawrence, Addy Bachman, Blanche Miller, Phillip Bennett. A few others came and went, but we were the core group.”

  “So, why don’t any of you talk about the group?” asked Franny.

  “Because it ended badly,” said Saladin. “It’s like a chapter in an old book we just don’t read anymore.”

  “Sal, think about it again. I mean, do you have any idea who would want Lawrence dead?” asked Alice in her gentlest voice.

  Saladin paused and looked at his feet. “Pretty much all of us, if I’m honest.”

  “What? Why?” asked Owen.

  “Because—and I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead—but Lawrence was a nut. We kept him around because he was a brilliant nut. But a nut nonetheless. He was obsessed with the idea that we would steal his work. Accused us all at one time or another. Blanche and Phillip, mostly.”

  “Why was that?” asked Alice.

  “Because they enjoyed the most success right at the start, I suppose. So naturally, Lawrence picked on them. Said their best ideas were really his.” He shook his head sadly. “We’ve all done well for ourselves now, and so did Lawrence. But he never dropped the story that he’d been robbed. A terrible waste. It ended up dissolving the group. Lawrence and his conspiracy theories.” He walked to the door and turned back. “Like I said, a nut.”

  Chapter 9

  By seven-thirty that evening, a nice crowd had gathered at Joe’s. Attendants were buying books at The Paper Owl and bringing them into the coffee shop for the authors’ autographs, Owen was passing out a variety of delectable Shakespearean treats, and featured writers were doing short readings from their latest books, and mixing and mingling with readers, fans, and aspiring authors.

  “We have to do this festival every year! It’s been amazing so far,” said Owen. “Well—except for the murder part, I mean.”

  “I agree,” said Alice. “I’d love to do a mystery-lovers book fest in the fall as well.”

  “Just think,” said Franny. “By the next festival, you’ll have a new little niece or nephew to tote along!”

  “I’m going to be the best uncle the world has ever known,” said Owen who, although he wasn’t technically a member of the Maguire family, had basically been adopted by Alice’s parents some time ago. It never ceased to surprise her when her dad would casually mention how he and Owen had gone bird watching over the weekend, or when her mother talked about what fun she and Owen had had baking cookies the other day. In fact, Granny Maguire and Owen had taken dancing lessons together, and could put everyone else to shame with their foxtrot, their cha-cha, and their very impressive rendition of the elusive Viennese waltz.

  “Just don’t spoil the little guy—or girl,” said Franny with a laugh. “Ooh!”

  Ben appeared at Franny’s side as if by magic. “What do you mean, ‘ooh’?”

  “Just a little kick in the ribs,” said Franny, patting her husband’s arm. “Look! There’s Saladin Raeve.”

  “Ooh!” said Ben, and he pushed through the crowd to meet Saladin and thank him for the book.

  “Check it out,” said Owen in a low voice as he refilled his tray of warden pies and marzipan bites. “Saladin’s got a new lady on his arm.”

  “Addy?” asked Franny, peering around Owen’s shoulder. “What makes you think they’re an item?”

  “Oh I don’t know,” said Owen, rolling his eyes. “Maybe the goofy grin on Saladin’s face. Or the fact that they’re holding hands. Really, Franny. Do people stop noticing these things once they’re married?”

  “No, they do not,” said Franny. “But now that you mention it, they do look pretty cozy.”

  After a short visit with Ben, the two sat down at a table for two tucked into the corner.

  “Oh yeah,” said Alice. “They’re definitely a couple.”

  “But I thought Addy was with Lawrence,” said Franny.

  “She was—or so it appeared,” said Owen.

  “Let’s causally stroll over there and get a closer look,” said Alice.

  “No need. He’s coming this way,” said Owen.

  Saladin came over to the counter, a broad smile on his face.

  “Hello, you three,” he said. “What a great idea, to have a coffeehouse chat. This place is great. I love this town! Maybe I’ll move here someday.”

  “We’d love that!” said Alice with a laugh. “Blue Valley is the best hometown on earth in my humble opinion.”

  “I can see why you think that. It has everything. Mountains. A lake. Excellent coffee and food.” He gave Franny a wink as she poured two mugs of coffee and set them on a tray.

  “Here, take a few warden pies,” said Owen.

  “Those look good,” said Saladin, looking at the little pastries. “Too good to be served in prison!”

  “Ah-ha!” said Owen. “Here’s a little culinary trivia for you, Sal. They’re called warden pies because they traditionally contained pears that were grown at Warden Abbey, in Bedfordshire. Mix in a little sugar and ginger, plus some saffron for color, and voilà!”

  Saladin picked up a pie and took a bite. “Delicious!” he said through a mouthful of pastry crumbs. “You should write a book about stuff like that, Owen.”

  “Oh, I plan to,” said Owen.

  “I’ll take one back to Addy.”

  “You two make a handsome couple, Sal,” said Alice, grinning at him.

  “Well, Addy’s definitely the prettier half,” said Saladin.

  “You look like you’re walking on air tonight,” added Franny.

  Saladin stepped closer and lowered his voice. “I’ve been wanting to ask Addy out for years,” he confessed. “It�
�s just never been the right time. But tonight, I finally got my nerve up and she said yes! Can you believe it?”

  “I can very easily believe it,” said Alice, feeling Saladin’s happiness. “Good for you.”

  Saladin glanced back over at Addy and picked up the small tray, now loaded with coffee and a few of the little pies. “Life is short. You have to go after the things that mean the most.”

  With that, he walked back to his table and rejoined Addy.

  “Don’t even think it,” Franny whispered to Alice and Owen.

  “What?” asked Alice, who was still eyeing Saladin and Addy.

  “That he killed Lawrence to get him out of the way so he could date Addy.”

  “Or what if Addy was sick of Lawrence, so she killed him so she’d finally be free to date Saladin?” Owen wondered aloud. “Ooh—maybe she was the female voice Patrick heard arguing with Lawrence just before he died!”

  Just then, Ben came strolling over from the opening that led into the coffee shop from The Paper Owl, a pile of books in his arms. “I’ve just bought the new collector’s editions of Saladin’s books!” he said. “There’s all kinds of bonus material in these. I can’t wait to start reading. I’m heading upstairs.”

  Franny gave Ben a peck on the cheek. “I’ll be up after we wrap up down here,” she said. “Shouldn’t be much longer. Everyone’s invited to the Lodge early tomorrow morning for breakfast and a hike, so I doubt many will want to stay up too late.”

  “I wish I could go to the hike,” said Ben. “Luke and I are hitting it early at work, though. We need to solve this thing before people start leaving town. Chances are, the killer might even be right here in this room.”

  Alice noticed her brother scanning the room, his eyes moving from Saladin and Addy to Phillip and Blanche, who were seated at a table right next to the counter. He looked at Alice then. “Luke hated to miss this tonight. He’s a fan of Phillip Bennet’s work. I bet he’d love an autographed copy of one of his books.” He gave her a subtle wink and headed to the door at the back of Joe’s that led to the little hallway that ran behind all three shops and housed the staircase that led to the apartments above.

  “Good idea, Ben,” said Alice quietly. She hurried into The Paper Owl and checked on Lacie and Zack, who were ringing up sales, then grabbed a copy of Phillip’s latest book, Between a Rock and a Wild Place, and went back into Joe’s, where she gave Owen and Franny a nod and sidled up to the table Phillip was sharing with Blanche.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Bennett, could I get your autograph for my fiancé?”

  “Sure—and please call me Phillip.”

  “Thanks, Phillip,” said Alice, handing over the book. “His name is Luke. He’s head detective with the Blue Valley police department.” Alice paused. “He couldn’t come himself tonight because he’s investigating the death of Mr. Spraggins.”

  Phillip handed the book back to Alice. “Of course. Well, I’m glad they’re working on figuring out who did it.”

  “So am I,” said Blanche. “It’s somewhat disconcerting, knowing the killer is still on the loose. Makes me almost wish I’d stayed with all of you at the Lodge instead of all by myself at the Valley Inn.” She sighed. “But I do love my little Cadbury Cottage.”

  “I’m sure the police will figure it out,” said Alice. “Everyone is wondering who would kill Mr. Spraggins . . .” She paused, and when neither Blanche nor Phillip volunteered any ideas, she held up the book. “Thanks for this. I’ll bring you another round of coffee.”

  They nodded in appreciation and went back to talking quietly.

  “Two more coffees,” Alice whispered to Franny back at the counter, straining to hear what Phillip and Blanche were saying.

  “What did you say to them?” whispered Owen.

  “I tried to prompt a conversation about who killed Lawrence,” said Alice. “Now we have to listen and see if it worked.”

  “I know he could be a real jerk,” Phillip was saying. “But who’d want him dead?”

  “Jackpot,” whispered Owen. “Good work, Alice.”

  Blanche glanced at the table where Saladin and Addy were seated. “I had a theory that it was a jilted lover who got Lawrence,” she said. “Like perhaps that librarian who had the fling with him at the Nashville conference.”

  “I thought I recognized her,” said Phillip. “That’s right! I remember those two running off together every chance they got. Are you saying he ditched her?”

  “The man acted like he’d never even laid eyes on her!” said Blanche. “That poor woman was clearly devastated. She had no idea what a creep Lawrence is—or, was.”

  “Sounds like a pretty sound theory to me,” said Phillip.

  “But there’s something else—something I hesitate to make known to the police,” said Blanche, leaning closer to Phillip. “I mean, they interviewed me, and I didn’t mention it. And now I’m wondering if I should seek out that detective and tell him . . .”

  “Blanche what is it?”

  “Addy was furious with Lawrence. Just before he died.”

  “Really? Why?”

  At this point, Blanche’s voice got so quiet that Alice, Owen, and Franny had to turn their ears toward her to be able to make out what she was saying.

  “I don’t know, exactly. But I saw them. They had a terrible, knock-down argument this morning—and next thing you know, Lawrence was dead.”

  Both Phillip and Blanche slyly looked in the direction of Addy and Saladin’s table.

  “I just can’t think about this anymore right now,” said Blanche.

  “Me neither,” said Phillip. “It’s too awful.”

  “Darn,” whispered Owen.

  “I’d better deliver them some more coffee,” said Alice. “But tomorrow morning, we need to be on that nature hike at the Lodge. If Blanche heard Addy arguing with Lawrence, let’s try to see if we can jog her memory and find out why Addy was so angry.”

  “Good idea,” said Owen.

  “Wow,” said Franny. “It’s going to be really sad if it turns out that Saladin and Addy finally found one another and now one of them is going to jail.”

  Chapter 10

  By the time the Midsummer Amble was ready to get underway at the Lodge the next day, the sun had already crested the mountains, but the cool of the morning hadn’t burned off yet.

  Authors and book lovers alike met at the Great Granddaddy Mountain trailhead at eight o’clock sharp and set off together into the woods with Sadie and Chad in the lead.

  “Too bad Michael couldn’t join us on the hike,” said Alice, bending down to pick up a sturdy branch to use as a walking stick. “He said he was too busy with his concierge duties this morning.”

  “Or Luke and Ben, either,” said Franny, who had come only after promising Ben that the walk was an amble. Not a hike, per se. The group was simply walking out to look at Flora’s Meadow, a large clearing that was usually a riot of wildflowers in the spring and summer.

  “But you know who is here?” asked Owen in a low voice. “Blanche.”

  “Let’s catch up with her,” said Alice. “We can ask her about the Lookout Mountain Writers Guild.”

  “And why she lied when she said she hardly even knew Lawrence,” added Franny.

  They picked up their pace slightly, but then slowed down to a causal stroll once they were right behind Blanche.

  “Oh—hi Blanche,” said Alice.

  Blanche turned around, saw the three behind her, and gave a nod. “Good morning.”

  “How’s everything with you?” asked Alice. “Enjoying your stay at the Valley Inn?”

  “I am, thank you.” Blanche didn’t actually turn around as she spoke, but kept her eyes on the trail in front of her.

  “We just love the Berkelys—Samuel and Eve,” said Franny. “They own the inn.”

  “Ah yes,” said Blanche. “They’ve been very gracious hosts.”

  Clearly, she wasn’t in the mood to chat.

  “We’re thinking of s
tarting a writers group in Blue Valley after the conference wraps up,” said Alice, trying another tack. She gave Owen and Franny a look.

  ‘“Yes, that’s right!” said Owen quickly. “We’re thinking of calling it The Scribe.”

  “We heard you were in a writers group in Chattanooga,” said Franny, lowering the boom at last.

  Finally, Blanche’s steps slowed a bit. “Yes,” she said. “I was.”

  “And my understanding is that several of our authors from that area were in the same group, including Lawrence Spraggins,” said Alice.

  “And you’re wondering why I told you I didn’t know him well,” said Blanche. “Right?”

  Alice, Owen, and Franny looked at each other, then nodded at Blanche.

  “The answer is, when I close a chapter of my life, I leave it behind. That is all there is to that. But I do encourage you to start a writers group of your own here. They can be . . .” A tiny hint of a smile flashed across her face and then disappeared. “They can be wonderful,” she said. “I’ve gotten some of my best inspiration from talking about ideas with other writers and having them read and evaluate my work.” She stopped walking as they stepped out into the meadow, which was scattered with late-season goldenrod, monkshood, and purple gerardia. She sighed deeply, taking in the flowers and grasses, the mountains standing guard, the blue sky above. “Just remember that if you have a writers group, and the members become friends, you must be careful to be gentle with criticism; generous with praise. Keep it constructive, but encourage one another. It’s simpler if the members keep a bit of distance between themselves socially, so they can stay as unbiased as possible.” She looked at them. “Now. I’m going to spend some time journaling while we’re in this glorious meadow if that’s alright with you. Is there anything else before I go?”

  “One last thing,” said Alice. “I believe you said you heard Addy arguing with Lawrence just before he died—”

  “Did I say that to you?”

  “I overheard you say it,” Alice admitted, warmth rushing to her cheeks. “I apologize. But do you have any idea what they were arguing about?”