A Vintage Death

by Mary Ellen Hughes

  The lights flickered as Jerry Moore’s speakers sent out ominous-sounding music. Those in their seats looked around, puzzled, until the ones nearest the back cried out in astonishment and laughter. Others rose to see for themselves and joined in the merriment as Lyssa’s hearse slowly approached. When she stepped out, her spiked red hair glowing above flowing black chiffon, the crowd cheered.

  Lyssa’s grand entrance, to Callie’s delight, was a success. The author was even wearing pale, corpse-like makeup to go along with the theme.

  Except … as Callie stepped closer to help clear a path, she saw that Lyssa’s ghostly pallor was genuine.

  “Are you okay?” she whispered.

  “Sick to death—no pun intended. But I’ll make it through. Don’t worry. Got any water?”

  Callie scrambled to grab a bottle for her as Lyssa sank into Delia’s wicker chair. The author took a long drink, then beamed at her audience, picked up the microphone, and greeted them energetically. She launched into her talk, sounding for all the world as though nothing whatsoever was wrong.

  Callie hovered in the shadows, watching nervously and ready to call for a doctor or 911 if needed. Seeing Lyssa in that condition was shocking after having had a lively conversation on the phone with her just hours ago. Lyssa was obviously determined to carry on and did so impressively, sharing fascinating thoughts on her story inspirations and funny anecdotes about research trips to unusual places. She then read a few pages from her brand-new book, with Jerry Moore adding perfect background music and a final, piercing scream when the victim in the story met a horrible death.

  The crowd loved it, and Lyssa seemed to be drawing energy from them. When she opened things up for questions, she actually stood and began pacing a bit as she responded. By the end of the session, a bit of color had returned to her cheeks and she waved and smiled as the crowd applauded.

  “That was fantastic,” Callie said, hurrying up to Lyssa as a volunteer whisked the wicker chair over to the signing table. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better,” Lyssa said, but she held on to Callie as they walked. “I don’t know what came over me. One minute I was fine and lying in the hearse—which is quite comfortable, by the way—and the next minute everything started spinning. Luckily there was a plastic bag handy ’cause I lost my dinner just as you gave the signal to move.”

  “Right here, Ms. Hammond,” a young man said as he pulled the chair out for her. “There’s pens and water. Would you like anything to eat?”

  Lyssa’s face turned a pale shade of green at mention of food, but she smiled and shook her head. She settled in her chair and waited for the line to get organized. A bookstore employee was asking that everyone clearly print the name they wanted Lyssa to write in their book on slips of paper being passed out. “You wouldn’t believe how many different ways people can spell a simple name like Mary,” the woman had explained to Callie earlier. “Merry, Mari, Mayhri. This speeds things up.”

  From the size of the line forming, it looked like Lyssa would be kept very busy for close to an hour. Was she up to it? The bookstore people were very helpful as the first fans approached, opening each book to the title page for Lyssa, reading the name aloud for her, and keeping the line moving. Lyssa’s signature may have left something to be desired, with her hand a bit shaky. But she more than made up for it with her lively chatter as she signed. She was amazing, Callie thought, and a real pro.

  Jerry Moore’s spooky music continued to play in the background, maintaining the Halloween atmosphere, as did the light breeze that stirred the hanging skeletons and goblins to life. Since darkness had fallen, the only light came from the park’s scattered lampposts along with the glowing jack-o’-lanterns and strings of orange lights Callie’s volunteers had put up. Beyond the event area and the path leading to it, all was dark.

  Seeing that Lyssa was in good hands, Callie moved over to Brian’s concession stand and was glad to see him doing a brisk business. As Annie handed out hot cider and soft pretzels, she reminded customers to check out all the Keepsake Cove shops before heading home. “Lots of specials running tonight, folks,” she said. People seemed to pay attention, turning in the right direction and appearing more in the mood to shop than to hurry home.

  Callie remembered Dorothy and checked the crowd for any sign of her but saw neither her nor Jane. While a relief in one way, it also made her sad to think that the two had to miss out on the evening. She hoped Jane, at least, had opened up Stitches Thru Time to take advantage of the sales opportunities. Surely not everyone at the event that night would be aware of the connection between the shop and the murdered Clifford Ashby, or have heard Renata Moore’s nasty comments.

  Where was Renata, by the way? Callie didn’t see her, not with Mayor Elliott or Vernon Parks, anyway, who were busy chatting with people who’d just had their books signed. In having chosen that prime spot to hang around in, Parks was acting more and more like he was in a pre-campaign mode, Callie thought. Concerned, she headed over.

  After listening to the comments from the edge of their circle for a few minutes, Callie learned that she was wrong. Parks wasn’t running for anything. But the mayor, whose term would be ending in a few months, was clearly looking at a state delegate position. Vernon Parks, meanwhile, sounded very much like his campaign manager.

  Callie tried to blend in inconspicuously, but Parks at one point noticed her. “There’s the young lady who’s responsible for this fantastic evening! Wonderful job, wonderful job!”

  Startled, as others turned and opened a space around her, Callie immediately disclaimed all credit, insisting it had been a group effort. “And it was Lyssa Hammond who’s made it such a success.”

  “Yes, yes, but the diamond shines best when placed in the perfect setting.”

  “Well put,” Mayor Elliott said, “and very true. You’ve shown quite a talent for event organizing, Miss Reed. We could use someone like that, eh, Vernon?”

  “Absolutely, Mr. Mayor, if I hadn’t already spoken to several people who—”

  “I’ve got my hands pretty full with my shop,” Callie quickly said, not having the least interest in either working on campaigns or with someone like Vernon Parks. “But thank you for the compliment.” Having seen Parks’s lip curl derisively at the mayor’s suggestion, she turned to him. “I’m impressed that you can make the time, Mr. Parks. I understood you were interested in taking over the Foxwood Inn.”

  “Foxwood?” Elliot asked. “That’s Cliff Ashby’s place. I didn’t know you were looking into it, Vernon.”

  “A whim,” Parks said, smiling a bit too broadly. “It’s an intriguing place, and Cliff was an old friend, you know. I thought it might help his widow to take it off her hands. Poor woman has her troubles right now, doesn’t she? But don’t worry, Mr. Mayor. If I do acquire the inn, it won’t get in the way of your campaign. I’ll see to that.”

  Callie felt her ire rising at the man’s claim of concern for Dorothy. Hadn’t Parks immediately pointed to Dorothy as Cliff Ashby’s murderer? She couldn’t let him get away with that pious pretense . “Yes, I heard you were an old friend of Cliff’s,” she said. “It’s good of you to want to help his widow, especially since she was instrumental in that lawsuit filed against you by one of your employees for age discrimination.”

  “What’s that?” Elliott asked, his eyebrows raised.

  Parks glared silently at Callie, obviously regretting his earlier compliments. Not overly concerned, Callie added, “I wouldn’t count on Dorothy being in a hurry to sell the inn. She may be under suspicion right now. But there’s a lot of us working to shift that suspicion onto the proper person.”

  Elliott cleared his throat and looked at his watch. “I’m afraid we have to leave. My car will be picking us up.”

  As they walked off, Callie heard Brian’s voice behind her. “Good for you,” he said softly.

  She turned. “I d
idn’t know you were here.”

  “I came over as soon as I realized who that was. If you hadn’t said something to Parks, I might have.”

  “I just couldn’t stand hearing him talk as if he cared about Dorothy’s welfare. I’ll bet there’s more nastiness lurking in his background than the lawsuit that the mayor didn’t know about. Maybe he’ll start looking for it.”

  Callie watched as the two men worked their way through the crowd, their progress slowed by the several townspeople who had things to say to the mayor. At one point, Parks looked back at Callie, who returned his venomous stare steadily, though she felt her knees quiver. She might have stood up for what was right. But in the process, she’d made an enemy.

  Twenty

  When Callie got back to House of Melody, she found Tabitha dealing with a shop-full of customers and plunged in to help. As expected, the smaller music boxes were flying off the shelves, but several customers showed interest in her higher-end stock.

  “I never knew about this shop,” more than one person said; or, “I always meant to stop at Keepsake Cove, and Lyssa Hammond’s being here pushed me to finally make the trip.”

  This was music to Callie’s ears, as it confirmed that the book event had accomplished its main purpose beyond providing a fun time for everyone involved. On her return home, she’d noticed many other shops filled with customers, and the bookstore sales had been outstanding. How Lyssa had managed to hang in there she didn’t know, though the author hadn’t wasted any time accepting a ride back to the inn as soon as she’d finished signing, assuring everyone that she was fine while at the same time scurrying off. Callie planned to let her rest and check on her in the morning.

  By ten o’clock—well past their usual closing time—the crowd had thinned and most of the shops emptied. Callie called it a day—a very busy day—and sent Tabitha home with many thanks for her extra support.

  “I think we added some new serious collectors,” Tabitha said as she made her way to the door. “That man who came all the way from Arlington, Virginia, for one, and the couple who live down the road in Oxford but never knew we were here.”

  Callie agreed that collectors were important to connect with. She enjoyed dealing with them the most because of their greater understanding of, and appreciation for, those music boxes that might cost a little more but would enrich their lives and become family heirlooms in time.

  She closed down the register, happy to see the outstanding total, locked up, and walked out the back of the shop to get home. There were many pleasures attached to living in a fairy-tale-like cottage, but on a day like this, having a commute of about ten steps ranked at the top. Within minutes, while many people might still be dealing with traffic on their drive home, Callie was climbing into her soft bed, pulling up the puffy covers and sinking into a very welcome rest.

  The next morning most Keepsake Cove shops, including House of Melody, were closed due to the late hours of the night before, although many planned to open at noon. Callie appreciated the downtime of a leisurely breakfast, then called to see how Lyssa was doing.

  “One hundred percent better!” the author cried, her renewed energy coming through the phone. “A twenty-four-hour flu is all I can figure. Although I haven’t heard that was going around. Maybe I was the lucky first!”

  “You said you started feeling sick as you waited in the hearse. You looked like death when you first came out, but I could see you picking up during your talk.”

  “Yeah, the sick stomach got better pretty quick, but I was still wrung out. Is there such a thing as a one-hour flu? Whatever it was, I’m glad it’s done with.”

  “You were a real trooper, Lyssa. Keepsake Cove and I will be forever in your debt for hanging in there.”

  “I couldn’t let all of you down. And frankly, I adore book events. Who wouldn’t love hearing people praise every word you write? I’d drag myself on a broken leg for that,” Lyssa cackled.

  Glad to hear her in such good spirits, Callie told her about her encounter with Vernon Parks. “Remember the guy Paula said wanted to buy the inn? Brian told me he was golfing with our police chief when Ashby was found and pointed the finger at Dorothy. I think I may have caused Mapleton’s mayor to reconsider their working relationship. At least I hope so.”

  “He sounds like a real weasel to me.”

  “What about George Cole?” Callie asked. “Did you get a chance to ask him about being at Dorothy and Clifford’s wedding?”

  “I did, and you should have seen his eyes pop. We were at dinner—Paula fixed us amazing crab cakes—and we were talking about the inn and how old it was. Remember how Jackie, the maid, told us it was built before the Civil War? Anyway, I worked the subject around to how it probably was a great place for weddings, you know, with the gardens and all. Then, feeling extremely clever, I asked if Cliff and Dorothy’s wedding had been outdoors. When he stared at me, I said, ‘You were there, weren’t you?’” Lyssa grinned. “He probably thought I was a witch for knowing that. But after a moment he babbled something about it being indoors. I pressed, asking if knowing Cliff was the reason he’d booked a room at the Foxwood Inn, and he said no, that the wedding was the only time they’d met. He claimed he’d only been there to escort his mother, who was a friend of Dorothy’s mother, and that when he’d stayed at the inn before, it was under different ownership.”

  “Yes, he did tell me that. Did you ask why he hadn’t mentioned this before?”

  “He said it didn’t occur to him.”

  “Hmm. Anything else?”

  “No, Paula stepped in to offer dessert about that time, and I realized it was getting late and asked for coffee that I could take to my room while I changed. The coffee wasn’t ready, but George offered to bring it up when it was. When he knocked on my door I just grabbed the mug and thanked him. My hearse was due to arrive soon.”

  “I didn’t see George at the event last night. Was he planning to come?”

  “No, he told me at dinner he doesn’t enjoy big crowds. I’d already signed his book.”

  “How about this morning? Have you seen him? I wonder if he might have come down with whatever made you sick.”

  “I didn’t go down to breakfast, but I did hear him leave his room a few minutes ago and then saw him head out to his car. So I guess he’s fine.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re feeling so much better. I’d better go.” Callie wished Lyssa a relaxing day, though her own would be busy. She’d start by pitching in on the clean-up at the event area.

  When Callie arrived at the park, the rental staff had already taken down the tent poles and were efficiently folding up the polyethylene top. She stepped around them to get to the gazebo. The two tables from the night before had been folded and moved to the side, and she saw Missy Tate sweeping. Missy’s shop sold collectible garden items such as statues and globes, which Callie enjoyed browsing through, though buying any objects for her tiny yard was out of the question. She liked Missy, finding the older woman’s lively personality fun, though she’d probably find her exhausting over time. Ordinary, everyday problems tended to be crises for Missy, which, Callie guessed, might be why the woman had volunteered to clean up the day after. No pressure involved.

  Missy looked up from her sweeping, saw Callie, and waved. “You wouldn’t believe the amount of dirt that got tracked in.” She tucked a stray strand of brown hair behind her ear. Her outfit of sweatshirt over jeans was similar to Callie’s, though gray instead of navy and possibly a couple of sizes larger. “Next year let’s put doormats out for people to wipe their feet.” She giggled at her joke.

  “I don’t want to even think about next year,” Callie said, stepping in to the gazebo.

  “It’ll be hard to top this one.”

  Callie turned and saw Missy’s husband, Jack, on a ladder, taking down the decorations Bill Hart had put up the day before.

  “Thanks, J
ack. Do you have the box that those go into?”

  “Right over there.” He pointed to the large box several steps from his ladder.

  “How about handing them down to me, and I’ll pack?” Callie asked, going over.

  As they began to work together, Missy said, “I loved the sound effects.” As if to illustrate, she suddenly screamed, making Callie jump and Jack nearly lose his balance.

  “What’s wrong!” he cried, steadying his ladder.

  “A mouse just ran out right at me!” Missy said. “Scared me half to death.”

  “You scared me half to death, honey.” But Jack chuckled as he said it, apparently used to his wife’s dramatic moments. He detached a skeleton and held it out to Callie.

  “I guess Jerry packed up his equipment?” Callie asked, folding the various joints of the plastic bones.

  “Last night,” Jack said, reaching for a hanging black cat. “He’d just finished loading it into his car before we followed him out.”

  “Good.” Callie heard voices and saw two more helpers arriving as the tent was bundled into its truck.

  “What can we do?” one of the men asked.

  Callie struggled to think of his name and gave up. “Mind picking up the litter? Either the park trash cans weren’t enough or one got tipped over and blown around. There’s trash bags in my tote.” She pointed to where she’d dropped it near the steps.

  “I’ll help,” Missy said. “I’m done sweeping.” She found the box of trash bags and handed them out, taking one herself. The good side of Missy’s overexcitability was the energy that fed it, which could be very productive.

  The three of them spread out as the tent crew started carrying away the folded-up chairs, everyone working quietly until Callie was hailed by Del Hodges. “Came to take the wagon back. Anyone want to get the stuff out of it?” he asked, referring to the scarecrow and jack-o’-lanterns.