by Cynthia Kuhn
Beckett turned his head back and forth between us, then recoiled. “Wait, you don’t think I had anything to do with his...his...”
“Death,” Selene interjected calmly.
“We’re not making any accusations at the present time,” Lex said. “We’re trying to gather information.”
“The only thing Ellis and I ever argued about was the Oxford comma,” Beckett said, adamantly. “Otherwise, we were fine, always.”
Lex dipped his chin. “What about the book?”
Beckett had a blank look.
“The critical anthology,” I clarified.
He didn’t move. “I read it,” he said slowly. “Not sure what you’re getting at.”
“You submitted an abstract—”
“Oh! Right. But I didn’t get in.”
“Were you upset about that?”
“I was at first,” Beckett said, his cheeks reddening.
“He was mortified,” Selene chimed in, which only intensified Beckett’s blush. That didn’t seem like the most supportive thing she could have done, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“Okay, yes. I was embarrassed. You could say that. But after a few days, I realized they’d probably excluded me because I had a book coming out with them and they didn’t want to dilute my argument. You know, having it appear in both places.”
Lex checked in with a glance, and I nodded. Made sense. Sort of.
“I got over it,” Beckett mumbled. “And I wasn’t mad at Ellis.”
“Detective Archer,” Selene laughed prettily, “you already know who is furious with Ellis. It’s Flynn. He announced it to everyone at dinner last night.”
Lex cut his eyes to her.
“They sent him a copy of the critical guide a week before the conference, as a courtesy, and as soon as he read it, he was enraged. I happened to pass by his office one day and overheard him complaining about the book to someone on the phone. Still, I never thought he’d turn his keynote address into...whatever that was.” She smoothed her hair back, the diamond in her ring catching a sunbeam and producing a multicolored spot that slid over the walls with her movements. “Not that I think Flynn would ever hurt a fly. He doesn’t believe in violence.”
“He writes about it enough,” Lex said.
She rolled her eyes. “But that’s literary. Authors write all kinds of things that they don’t do or think themselves, Detective Archer. You know that.”
“Mmm hmm.” Lex didn’t appear persuaded.
“Yeah, you should talk to Flynn,” said Beckett, obviously relieved to be able to point a finger in another direction.
“We can’t do that,” Lex said slowly.
“Why not?” Beckett asked indignantly. He warmed to his theme. “Why is it only me you’re talking to? I didn’t do anything.”
“Because he’s gone,” Lex said softly. “I’m sorry to report that—”
“Gone?” Selene repeated. “He left? Where did he go?”
The detective shook his head.
After a beat, they both seemed to understand simultaneously.
“He’s dead?” Beckett gasped.
Selene gripped his shoulder as tears began to roll down her face. “What happened?”
“We’re still trying to sort that out,” Lex said.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said.
The two of them clasped each other and wept.
Which, Lex said later, was either raw grief or excellent acting.
This detective stuff had the potential to make one very cynical.
Chapter 15
“What do you think?” Lex strode down the hallway like a man on an urgent mission. Which, I guess, he was.
I increased my pace, attempting to keep up. “Was Selene trying to throw Flynn under the bus a little bit?”
“Maybe she was trying to get the focus off of her fiancé.”
“That makes sense. Being loyal. Beckett did seem nervous.”
“He did indeed.”
I followed him through the fire door into the stairwell.
“But then again, there was that comment about Beckett being mortified when he didn’t make it into the book, which gives him a crystal-clear motive. Wait. Lex, what if she was trying to redirect any focus from herself?”
“Why would you think she was angry at Ellis?”
“I don’t. But there’s something...off about her.”
“Noted.”
“I mean, she didn’t race to put on any clothes when you came in. Just swanned around in the robe. Who does that?”
“I didn’t notice.”
I caught up to him and poked him in the side. “Liar.”
He laughed.
“I think she was trying to distract us however she could.” I threaded my arm through his. “Thanks for not looking.”
“I only have eyes for you, Professor.”
“You better.”
In the room, we sat down on the sofa and compared notes.
“We have two lists now, Lex. One: people who were upset with Ellis. So far, the only ones we know of are Beckett and Flynn. But Flynn appears to have moved to the victim side of the list now. Which leaves us only with Beckett. Who did seem nervous. We agree on that.”
“Correct.”
“The second list focuses on those who were upset with Flynn. We know that the scholars walked out of the dinner last night, so they are clearly angry. One or more of them might have decided to take things into their own hands.”
“I’d say so. I’ll get someone to round them up again, stat.” He punched a message into his phone.
“We already spoke to Richmond and Candace.”
“Yes. And I interviewed Meredith and Hanover as well. Everyone at the conference connected to Fairlake—”
“Press or university?”
“Both. All such individuals have now been questioned.”
I stared at him. “When did you do all that?”
“I continue flying solo when you’re off doing professor things, Professor.” He winked.
I allowed this to pass without remark. “Is there anyone else who might have had an issue with Flynn that we could add?”
Lex let out a small huff of air. “You mean aside from any number of fans or people with whom he worked on the films or other authors or colleagues? With someone who has achieved this level of celebrity, the list could go on and on.”
“Good point.” That was depressing. “But remember that I saw Selene coming out of his room this morning.” It seemed like days ago.
He tapped his lip with his pencil. “You think they slept together?”
“He did make a comment that strongly suggested that possibility.” I paused. Sometimes the academic style of allowing for exceptions didn’t work as well outside of academe. “Okay, yes. There really was no other way to interpret it.”
I went over the whole encounter for him, adding as much detail as possible.
“Looks like I’ll be asking Dr. Raleigh some additional questions.”
“You know, that’s probably why she was trying so hard to distract you,” I said.
“That and my undeniable good looks,” he said, elbowing me.
“That too,” I agreed.
We added a few more names of people at the conference to question, like Acadia, who also had a run-in with Flynn. But they didn’t have much of a connection with Ellis, as far as we could tell, so Lex expected to be crossing them off of the list promptly.
“I’ll take care of those. It’s always better to have too long than too short of a list,” Lex said. “Is there anyone from the tour you think we should add? You were in the vicinity of the incident. Anyone who started out with the group but disappeared?”
“I don’t think so. Though at one point I was...um...separated from
the group.”
“Why?”
“Long story.” I didn’t want to go into the whole freezer episode right now.
“Sorry, I didn’t even ask about it. How was the tour?”
“Worst. Tour. Ever.”
“Really? It’s gotten so many rave reviews. What didn’t you like?” He paused. “Before you got to the cemetery, I mean. I’m sorry. I know that was rough.”
The mention of the cemetery brought everything rushing back. I swallowed hard, trying to push the image of Flynn in the grave out of my mind.
He put an arm around me and studied my face. “You okay, Lila?”
“Working on it.”
Thanks to the other officers in the hotel, the contributors to the anthology had already been herded into the same room where we’d met before. This time, they were visibly uncomfortable.
Lex asked them where they were this afternoon, and all of them said they were at panels. He flicked his eyes to me, asking silently if it could be verified, and I shook my head. That would be difficult, if not impossible. Panelists were named in the program, of course, but no one in the audience signed in. Attendees could wander from panel to panel freely, even leaving one in the middle to join another one scheduled at the same time. It wasn’t like a classroom where there was a roster.
“I heard about the keynote speech,” he said. “And I understand you left the room together before the dinner was over.”
He made eye contact with each scholar individually until Shanita exclaimed, “Wouldn’t you have? I mean, he told everyone in our professional community that we don’t know what we’re doing! It was humiliating!”
They burst out with variations of what she had said, talking over one another, but agreeing on one thing: Flynn McMaster had ruined their lives.
Lex leaned back. I could practically see his idea inscribed in the air: we didn’t just have one potential suspect here. We had five.
When the volume had subsided slightly, he spoke. “So to get back at him, you pulled some kind of Murder on the Orient Express scenario?”
They went silent, then the room overflowed with vehement denials that they had anything whatsoever to do with the professor’s demise.
I’d let him sort through that. The panels were letting out soon and I needed to make some inquiries of my own.
I waited outside the panel that Nate and Calista had attended, “Symbolism in Gothic Poetry and Prose,” which blended both of their areas of expertise. When they streamed out of the room with the rest of the audience, I led them over to the terrace behind the restaurant. It was between lunch and dinner, and most of the people at the hotel were hustling off to the final paper presentations of the day, so the tables and chairs were all empty.
“I know you’re going to another panel soon, but I need to talk to you both.”
“We heard about Flynn,” Calista said. “Is it true that you found him?”
“Yes, but—”
“How many is that now?” Nate stared at me. “I don’t know how you do it, find all the bodies in town.”
“Not on purpose,” I said, frowning at him.
“I know. But it seems to be one of your gifts.”
“If so, it’s a terrible gift. Anyway, can we please focus? I need to ask about your conversation with Beckett and Flynn last night. What did you talk about? Any sort of conflict?”
Nate drummed on the table as he thought back.
Calista took a drink from her water bottle.
A group of conference attendees drifted past the terrace. I bet they were heading toward the graveyard. There was a sort of macabre fascination with crime scenes that often draws people to them.
“It was just hashing over old times,” Nate finally said. “And catching up.”
“Nothing seem tense between the two of them?”
He shook his head.
“Wait. What about the thing you said right before the panel?” Calista asked him. “About Flynn’s idea?”
“Oh.” Nate turned to me and lowered his voice, resting his arms on the table. “Beckett did say something—jokingly—about how Flynn had certainly made the most of The Idea. Capital ‘T,’ capital ‘I.’ It was very much emphasized.”
“What do you think it meant?”
“I don’t know. Hard to tell with all the teasing back and forth. You know, Screw you, buddy. Back atcha, big guy. Laughing while they said it. No big deal. But now that I think about it, Flynn got up afterwards and left the conversation—supposedly to say goodbye to someone but maybe he was mad about the subtext. None of it registered until after we heard about what happened to him today.” He sighed. “It’s unbelievable. We had a lot of great times together. He will be missed.”
“I’m so sorry, Nate,” I said.
“Me too.” Calista told him.
He thanked us, his voice low.
Calista invited me to join them, but I declined. I had to find Lex. We made plans to meet up for the Gala, and I left them to their scholarly endeavors.
Veering into the line at the coffee shop to buy two waters, I pulled out my phone to text Lex.
A voice I recognized as Candace’s carried past the person standing in line between us. “We’re just forging ahead with this thing, then?”
“What else can we do?” Richmond rumbled back. “The whole conference is waiting for a winner. We’re the judges. We have to make a decision.”
Meredith said something unintelligible.
“No, I do appreciate your having invited me to be a judge. It’s not about that. I just feel uncomfortable about the situation.”
I gripped my phone tightly and peeked around the person in front of me. All three were conferring, their heads close together.
They were the judges all along? Why not say that upfront?
“If you insist that we continue, let’s begin with the obvious: the Raleighs are ruled out, right?” Candace said, more audibly. “We don’t have a choice because Selene didn’t produce a manuscript. That’s become clear. And she didn’t participate in the panel, either.”
“I don’t know about that. It doesn’t seem right, does it? Simone wrote her half of the book. She did the work. Why should she be penalized? And Selene fainted. That’s hardly her fault.” Richmond sniffed.
“I’m not convinced that she actually did faint,” Meredith opined.
“I agree,” Candace said. “And look, I know your families have been friends for ages, Richmond. You’re in a tough spot, but—”
“Can’t we judge the submission based on Simone’s part?” His voice verged on whining.
“Selene didn’t do anything,” Meredith reminded him. “How could she be given an award for doing nothing? That’s absurd.”
“But since we are judging it on the proposal, not the completed book, and since Simone read at the panel, fulfilling the competition requirements, it would be just as unfair to exclude her.” Richmond cleared his throat. “And I think we can all agree that her writing is top-notch.”
I marveled at how the Raleighs had gone from almost being kicked out of the competition to now apparently leading the rest of us, at least according to one of the judges. They certainly lived a charmed life.
“Richmond, you can’t just award it to them because you like them best—” Candace began.
“It’s not that.”
“It’s exactly that.”
I couldn’t stand to hear anymore, so I left, hoping they didn’t see me slinking away.
Chapter 16
An academic conference is a thing of beauty. In theory.
Scholars come together to share their professional expertise, and there is a great deal of potential for the lively exchange of ideas and information. However, there’s also a palpable undercurrent—via surreptitious glances at conference badges—of credential competition, an instanta
neous passing of judgment on school status and rank achieved. And it can be stressful, exhausting, and overwhelming to be at your professional best at all times.
After sitting in endless panels or feeling summarized in an instant of badge scrutiny, it’s no wonder that social activities are welcomed by conference attendees with the giddiness typically reserved for holidays involving gift-giving.
The biggest activity this weekend, predicted the conference planning committee members, would be the Gala awards banquet and dance. Attendees had been instructed to come as their favorite writer or literary character.
I wasn’t sure how many of my colleagues were going all in, but I was ready—thanks to the wonderful thrift shop in Stonedale, I’d dressed in a slinky seventies halter dress with platform sandals to honor Isabella Dare. The only picture of her I’d ever seen was on the book flap, wearing something exactly like that. No one else would know who I was meant to be, but I didn’t care. It was my own little tribute to my favorite author.
I picked up the light black wrap from the bed, threw it over my shoulders, and grabbed my bag. Calista and Nate were meeting me at the pre-Gala cocktail hour. I had never wanted a cocktail more.
In an effort to avoid running into anyone, I took the stairs and slipped out the exit door at the bottom. The platform sandals proved slightly unwieldly, so I was picking my way carefully down the stone path in the twilight, completely focused on the ground. So focused that I bumped into a couple in the middle of a kiss.
“Oh, I’m sorry—” I began, then stopped when I realized that I was looking at Lex.
With someone I didn’t recognize.
She was about my height, with long dark hair pulled back into a braid that was coiled at the base of her neck. Her fitted jacket over dress pants and stiletto heels was chic and refined.
Her arms were wrapped around my boyfriend.
His arms were wrapped around her too.
Everything inside my body—to my core—turned to ice. I swerved around them and kept walking. My brain couldn’t compute what I’d seen. I moved numbly toward the barn, even though I heard Lex calling my name.
