It had to be a mistake.
She took a deep breath then set the papers back the way she had found them. She meandered around the kitchen, momentarily forgetting her hunger. She stopped in front of the fridge. A magazine article was taped to the refrigerator with duct tape.
She skimmed the article. It was an interview with Marcie, asking about her conviction to write about what she knew.
The article quoted Marcie saying, "Everyone wants to experience something when they read a book. I like my books to provide as real of an experience as possible. I want my readers to feel as though they have done those things themselves. That's why my fiction is always about something I have done myself. You can count on me to have tried what I write about."
Libby gulped. The interview was dated May 13, 2019. She wondered if it had also been a Friday. A black cat had probably run under a ladder at the interview.
Libby drummed her fingers against her leg while glancing back and forth between the article on the fridge and the rough draft lurking on the table.
She picked up her keys and marched out of the house onto the front walkway. She turned to glare at the house.
When she had seen how capable Marcie was, she had assumed that she wasn't needed. It looked like Marcie wouldn't have any trouble going up and down the stairs. Libby had been so focused on Marcie's physical capabilities that she hadn't considered her mental state.
She had said she shot out a caretaker's taillights. Libby should have focused on what that really meant about Marcie.
Unstable.
It was the one word Libby could think of that fit.
What had started to look like a relaxing summer now seemed like a great way to end up dead. She was in the home of a crazy lady who wanted to write a murder mystery. Libby was staying with a homicidal maniac or a pathological liar. Either way, there was no food in the fridge, and she was hungry. She couldn't stay and eat in the house right now. She was too afraid Marcie might try and shoot her.
There was only one person to blame for this entire mess.
Libby fumbled to pull her cell phone out of her shorts pocket. It fell to the sidewalk, and once again, she was grateful for the phone case that Evan had bought her. She picked it up and tapped wildly on the screen right over Evan's name. She grabbed her wallet out of the glove compartment of her car while she waited for Evan to pick up. She threw her keys on the front seat of the car and shut the door.
She took a calming breath.
Maybe Marcie hadn't even shot out those taillights. Maybe she remembered the whole event wrong. Maybe she wasn't planning on murdering anyone.
"How'd it go?" Evan's deep voice reverberated through the line.
Libby started walking down the street toward town. It wouldn't take her long. Never mind that it was a long, dead-end road. She had a diner to find and some energy to burn. She heard a clicking sound behind her and turned around to see Carl trotting down the sidewalk after her.
She answered Evan, "First off, your grandma is not an invalid, and she uses Snapchat. Why am I here?"
"Mom thinks Grandma is in the early stages of dementia. Those kinds of things aren't very predictable. You know that."
"I didn't know that. I don't know how dementia works."
"One day she'll seem fine, and the next she'll not know how to unlock her car. I'm glad you met her on a good day."
"Sounds like something you made up."
"You wouldn't believe how many times she's called us this year asking a simple question she should know the answer to."
"Like what?"
"She couldn't remember where she hid her spare key."
"An honest mistake."
"She couldn't remember her bank account number."
"Good grief, do people actually memorize that?"
"It's a single digit number."
"Oh."
"She got lost—"
"Happens to everybody."
"—in Colter."
"Alright, I agree, that might be concerning."
"Five times last month."
"Okay, fine. I can see why your mom is concerned. Don't worry; I'll stay with her. Besides, I like her."
"Me too. She was a fun grandma to grow up with. That's why I didn't want to trust a stranger with her safety. Thanks for doing this for me. I know she's in good hands. There's no one I would trust more to keep her safe."
Libby wasn't sure what to say. She never knew what to say when Evan got serious. Their friendship was on a firm foundation of sarcasm and friendly insults. Neither of them was good at being serious, and they steered away from any mention of feelings. Having him tell her that he trusted her was getting very close to serious territory. It was time to turn this awkward conversation around before she said something that embarrassed herself.
"So your grandma writes, I found out."
"Way to dodge the compliment."
"I thought it was fairly subtle. Do I need to work on my technique?"
"Yeah, next time add a lead up comment on the weather; it'll make it more subtle." Evan chuckled. "Is Grandma in the middle of writing something right now?"
"That's why I called." Libby wanted to find out what Evan's reaction was to it. She hoped she was overreacting to the novel subject. After all, she didn't know anything about Marcie. "She's writing a murder mystery."
"She's what?" he yelled into the phone. Libby pulled it away from her ear. Apparently, she wasn't the only one overreacting.
"I didn't mean to snoop, but she left her papers and notes out on the kitchen table, and I was looking for lunch. Her to-do list said, ‘Find a victim and choose a murder weapon.’ The book is titled ‘When Murder Comes Your Way.’ Isn't that interesting?"
"My mom was right. She is getting dementia. I just hadn't expected it to manifest itself this way. This is serious. Watch her. Stop her. Because if she's working on that book, you can bet your running shoes she'll follow through with what she's writing about. Don't let her out of your sight until I get there."
"When will that be?"
"I don't know. I still have to get moved into my apartment before I start work on Monday."
Libby snorted. "Oh geez, glad you're rushing to the rescue!"
"Anytime, sweet cheeks. Don't get killed. I hope you've misread what she has planned, but I wouldn't count on it."
"I saw the rough draft; I better decide what I want on my headstone."
"Don't turn into a dramatic Vivian," he groaned. "I've been enjoying my relaxing days without her."
Libby stopped talking. She didn't want to agree with Evan, but he was right. She was about to win a drama queen award.
"Admit it; you miss Vivian. She might be a little dramatic, but she livens up the party," Libby reminded him.
"Fine, you're right. She's a good sport. I haven't even met my new neighbors yet, but I already know they won't be as fun as Vivian."
"I'll tell her you said that." Libby laughed.
"Don't you dare. Max got sucked into the Vivian vortex when we were moving. I barely escaped. Somehow, he ended up packing the rest of her stuff and hauling it to her new place."
"That sounds about right. Back to the problem: killing people."
"Right. The problem. My grandma. Murder. You should be careful."
"There isn't a chance this is just a misunderstanding?"
"No, no it's not, Libby. Reality gets distorted with dementia. Whatever you do, don't leave her alone."
"I'll be with her most of the day. What could go wrong?"
"You said she's writing a murder mystery! You tell me."
"Evan, I know she likes to have an element of truth in her novels, but maybe she'll pick something like setting or career choice. Something less harmful than murder."
He mumbled something unintelligible.
"What was that?" Libby asked as she walked past the last house in Marcie's neighborhood and turned onto Main Street. Four cars were driving down the road. Libby wondered if it was rush hour in Colter.
&nbs
p; "I said there's something different when Grandma's the one writing it. Don't you know what she's famous for?"
"I'm not an idiot — at least not on Thursdays."
"Libby?"
"Yes?"
"Listen."
Libby didn't reply, but she did think about quitting. She had assumed she would be a caretaker. She didn't know she'd be playing Russian roulette with a woman who shot the taillights out of cars.
"Grandma writes novels about things she's done. That's her catch line. She has done everything that she writes about."
"I know, I just said that. Do you need your hearing checked?"
"What I'm saying is that it's the main part of her books, not just a sidenote. She's gone skydiving, kiteboarding, became a mayor, hiked Kilimanjaro, skied the Alps, opened a private investigation company, and even tried to be a chef — which I'm sure you've discovered is not her strong suit. It's not just a small part of her novel. The main plot is based on the experiences she's had."
"So, you're seriously worried she'll do something she could write a murder mystery about? Why can't she pick something smaller to use as her element of experience?" Libby started walking faster.
"Because it has to be the main part of the story. She's probably planning on catching a murderer — or being one."
The phone went silent. Libby stopped walking and looked at the screen. Evan had hung up on her. The sicko had hung up on her.
She glanced around and realized she was standing in front of the Colter Public Library. Glass windows surrounded the bottom floor. Tables and desks lined the inside of the windows. A few of them were occupied, and all of those occupants were staring at Libby as though she came from outer space. She glanced down to make sure she remembered to put pants on today.
Yup, she was covered.
She angrily tapped Evan's name on her phone and walked away from the reverse fishbowl.
When he answered, she said, "A bit dramatic, don't you think?"
"It felt right in the moment," Evan admitted with a chuckle.
"You have a troubled mind."
"Not as troubled as Grandma."
"Funny. You thought you could hire me to be a caregiver to a murderer? Newsflash: I quit."
Libby was proud of herself for standing firm in her decision. She usually gave in to Evan — but not this time.
"I don't accept your resignation. Besides, you already admitted to liking Grandma. If you leave now, anything could happen. Look on the plus side. With how severe the dementia is getting, it would be hard for her to pull off a murder. Now, keep a close eye on Grandma. I'll try and get down there as soon as I can. Hey, I've got to go. My new roommate just showed up."
"You're despicable."
"Stay alive."
Libby shoved her phone in her back pocket and walked the rest of the way into town. She headed toward the small diner instead of the grocery store. She wanted to eat something right now, and she didn't plan on eating at Marcie's table while waiting for a knife in the back.
THE diner stood on a corner lot with a sign painted on rustic wood calling it FarmTable.
She opened the door and took her last breath of fresh air, preparing her mind for a truck-stop quality diner. She stepped through the doorway and was surprised to step into a clean, fresh-smelling restaurant with shabby chic decor. The tables were set with mason jars as glasses and chalk-painted vases with willow twigs as centerpieces.
A large chalkboard sign declared that all of their ingredients were locally sourced. Most of the tables were full, so she weaved her way around them toward the counter where there were tall wooden bar stools. Several of the other customers turned and stared at her as she made her way to a seat at the counter. A middle-aged woman with gray streaks in her brown hair and a warm smile stepped up behind the counter.
"Welcome to FarmTable. Can I get you something to drink to get started? We have kombucha on tap, homemade root beer, lemonade, you name it."
"Hmm, the kombucha sounds great. What kinds?"
"Blueberry lemon or watermelon."
"I'll take the blueberry lemon." Libby shuddered at the thought of watermelon kombucha. It sounded wrong. So wrong.
The woman turned around to fill a mason jar with the kombucha at the tap behind her. Libby glanced around at the other patrons. It looked like the local retirement home had bussed over some residents. White hair, gray hair, or no hair were the only options in the room.
One man in particular caught Libby's attention. He had gray hair, and his eyebrows were in the middle of his forehead. He looked like he was in a constant state of surprise. It didn't help that he waxed his eyebrows. Not the waxing one does to remove hairs. No, he waxed his eyebrows with hair gel to make them stand at attention — as if they needed any help. It was like two hairy caterpillars decided to take up residence on his forehead. Libby couldn't look away. Luckily, the woman behind the bar set down the kombucha, bringing Libby's attention away from Mr. Eyebrows.
She set a plate of artisan bread in front of Libby. "Are you new in town?"
"Yes, I'm staying with Marcie Garber for the summer. Do you know her?"
The woman smiled. "Of course! Everyone knows her. I've known Marcie for years. My name's Beth Ramsey. My husband, Ryan, and I run this restaurant together. You must be related to Marcie."
"No, not related. I know her grandson. That's how I ended up here."
"He your boyfriend?"
"Nope, just friends throughout college. Marcie needed a — well, roommate for the summer." Libby didn't want to say “caregiver” because they seemed to have reached a nice little understanding, and she didn't want to embarrass Marcie in front of her friends.
"Oh, that's wonderful!" Beth leaned across the counter and hugged Libby. It happened so fast that she wasn't sure if it actually happened. Then, she wrote down Libby's order and headed through the wooden door to the kitchen area in the back. A couple minutes later, she came back with a tall, good-looking man in his late thirties, Libby would guess.
He walked around the counter and wrapped Libby in a hug. "Welcome to Colter!"
Libby awkwardly patted his arms. It wasn't every day strangers hugged her.
"This is my husband, Ryan," Beth explained.
"Beth told me you're staying with Marcie this summer."
Ryan sat on the bar stool next to her while Beth refilled her kombucha glass.
"Yeah, I just met her this morning, actually. She seems great."
"She is. She does so much for our community. I can't imagine her not being here," Beth explained as she set the glass down in front of Libby.
"She's always hosting barbecues for the entire community. She manages the city maintenance crew and started the puppy rescue and the hungry kids fund. Last month, she organized a color run for leukemia," Ryan explained.
Libby pulled her face away from the straw. "Wow. I hadn't realized she did so much."
"Oh yes, she's one of the warmest people I've ever met. And so full of energy, too," Beth said.
Libby smiled at Beth and Ryan. They had helped restore her sanity. She would be perfectly fine living with Marcie for the summer.
A woman who organized cleanup crews and puppy rescues wasn't likely to kill someone. A woman who started a fund for hungry kids around the world wasn't going to do something crazy. A woman who hosted community barbecues wasn't going to risk a prison sentence.
Libby smiled and agreed, "She does seem very energetic."
Ryan chuckled. "Without a doubt." He stood and patted Libby on the shoulder. "It was nice meeting you. Our daughter just moved back to town this week, so we'll be sure to introduce you. She's about your age." He turned to Beth. "Honey, I need to go finish those orders before two today. If you think of anything else, let me know."
Libby smiled when he kissed Beth's cheek then headed to the back.
She spent nearly two hours at FarmTable. She sat there drinking kombucha and chatting with Ryan and Beth whenever they weren't working. After talking with them, L
ibby knew she could handle this job. She could stay with Marcie for the summer. The wonderful stories Beth had shared about Marcie put Libby's worries to rest.
With a new mindset, Libby headed back to Marcie's, carrying a bag full of lunch for her. She walked up the narrow walkway to the front porch and opened the front door quietly, not wanting to wake Marcie if she were taking a nap. She set her wallet on the bench next to the front door. She could hear shuffling in the kitchen. Heading down the hall, she peered around the corner to see Marcie standing in the kitchen with her back to Libby. She had something in her hands. Libby couldn't see what it was, but it sounded like a chime.
Marcie turned to face the backyard, and the light reflected off of the knife Marcie was holding in her right hand.
She was sharpening a knife. Rhythmic motions, up and down. It was almost soothing. Libby had never seen anyone sharpen a knife. Why on earth would Marcie be doing that? She didn't cook. It's not like she could dull her blades chopping food.
Evan’s words flashed through her mind. "She's going to catch a murderer — or she's going to be one."
So much for having no more fears.
Libby should have listened to her geoscience teacher and taken that unpaid summer internship. Better off a broke accountant than a dead one.
Instead of turning around and running like she wanted to, she stepped back into the hall and loudly stomped into the kitchen, hoping that Marcie would hear her coming.
"Oh, there you are. I was just sharpening my filet knife."
Libby forced herself not to comment. Instead, she smiled like someone who had three too many energy drinks. "I brought you back some lunch. Beth sent a Reuben that is loaded with meat. She figured you'd like that."
Libby set the bag on the table before she stepped back out of Marcie's strike zone.
Marcie set the knife down and opened the bag. "This smells delicious. Thank you. You didn't have to do that, you know."
"No problem. My old roommate, Vivian, and I always picked something up for the other one when we were out. It's become a habit now."
"So you met Beth. Did she chat your ear off?"
Libby laughed. "I think I've been invited to a family reunion, but I'm not sure."
The Perfect Plan Page 5
