Last Pen Standing

by Vivian Conroy

  Delta now recalled that Mine Forever was the name of the diner that sat across the street from Wanted.

  “I’m on my way over.” Delta planted her phone in the holder and started the engine. “Can you tell me how much he knows? Did he tell you that Hazel is being held at the police station?”

  “No, Bessie did. She had it from Jane, who heard it at the bakery when the police dispatcher came to get some bread rolls for lunch.”

  Delta blinked, trying to follow along. Bessie was the boutique owner she had met last night at the workshop, and there had also been a Jane there, but she had only talked to her briefly and didn’t recall her last name or what she did around Tundish.

  Mrs. Cassidy was already continuing. “LeDuc, our editor in chief, doesn’t know a thing other than that there was a death in the hotel bar. He overheard breakfasters at Mine Forever gossiping about it, wondering whether it was an accident or foul play. That’s why LeDuc is so upset. You see, there has always been one local paper in Tundish, the Tundish Trader. Started around 1887. Still has the same name, the same kinds of news, the small advertisements you can browse. Someone offering their surplus of potatoes or looking for good homes for puppies. It’s nostalgic. A few months ago, the son of our editor, Marc LeDuc, came back to town with a degree in modern media. He was supposed to take over the Trader at some point in the future, but once he unfolded his plans for the paper, his father told him to drop his ‘no-good modern plans’ or leave, and he left. He started his own paper, which is fully digital. And ever since that day, the two of them have been competing, for scoops, for readers, for anything they can think of. Senior is at your door now, but I bet you Junior is not far behind. He has a whole network of news-hunting citizens who call in the latest at any hour of the day. I bet several of them phoned him.”

  Delta groaned as she turned a corner. “So this murder is already adding more fuel to the rivalry, since they both want to have the latest on it, right?”

  “Definitely.” Mrs. Cassidy sighed. “I have to be honest with you, Delta. I don’t know which one of them is worst. Senior is a real newspaperman who digs into a story and just doesn’t let go. But Junior has access to online channels, and you know what happens when something goes…what do they call it?”

  “Viral,” Delta said. It sounded like the knell of death to her own ears.

  In the past, bad news could only hurt you as far as local gossip could spread. But these days, stories could travel far and wide, and damaged reputations might never recover.

  “I’ve thought about this,” Mrs. Cassidy said. “And if you don’t mind, I will add your phone number to our Paper Posse message group. Then we can all share what we hear about the murder in the group. As most of us work at public places, like shops, restaurants, the post office, and the museum, we tend to overhear quite a lot. You’ll be in the know as soon as we discover something. We can warn you.”

  “That would be great. I can see Mattock Street now.”

  “He’ll be all over you as soon as he realizes you’re going into the shop. But just let him ask questions. Be careful what you say, because he will quote you.”

  Mrs. Cassidy seemed to cover the phone a moment and say something, her voice muffled. Then she came back on full force. “I’m finishing up breakfast, and I’ll come save you.”

  “Thanks. I think I’m going to need it.” Delta parked the car and pulled her hands away from the steering wheel. It was damp with sweat. She glanced in the rearview mirror to see how she looked.

  Like a deer caught in headlights.

  She took a deep breath and opened the car door, fetched her bag off the back seat, and locked the car behind her. Then she walked down Mattock Street, her eyes trained on the sidewalk in front of Wanted.

  A tall man paced back and forth. His white hair was cut military short, but when he turned around to face her, she saw he did have a long, pointy beard. He wore an old-fashioned jacket with leather elbow patches and carried a notebook in his hand. As soon as he saw her, he stopped and stared.

  She had already dug out her key and slipped it into the lock. Still, she had to turn it, and he was on her in a flash. “Good morning. Sven LeDuc, editor in chief of the Tundish Trader, a reliable news source since 1887.” He pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to her. It had a logo of two entwined Ts inside the silhouette of a printing press, and gave his name, title, and phone numbers. No email, Delta noticed.

  LeDuc asked eagerly, “Are you tending the shop while Hazel Bray is in jail?”

  “I’m part owner.” Delta cast him an icy look. “And Hazel is not in jail.”

  She stepped into the shop and wanted to turn around to close the door in his face, but he followed her in, snapping eagerly, “Not in jail? But there was a murder at the hotel last night, wasn’t there?”

  “I think you better talk to the police.”

  “Hah! As if they’re going to give me anything. They’re always worried that information provided will somehow interfere with their investigation. But I’m a firm advocate of keeping the citizens informed. They have a right to know what’s happening in their town. Particularly when there are dead bodies appearing.” He opened his notebook and scribbled something. “Part owner. So you’re actually Hazel’s new business partner. I heard rumors to that point. Her not being able to keep floating, having to take out an extra mortgage. And now this. You must be upset that she got herself into trouble with the law, no less.”

  Delta fought a rush of anger at his intrusive suggestions. Hazel had wanted her to join the store to have the freedom to create her own products, something that had been impossible in her demanding job in Cheyenne. Hazel hadn’t been looking for easy money or anything. Delta wasn’t quite sure what LeDuc meant about an extra mortgage. Hazel had given her figures about the store to assess its financial condition, and a mortgage had been part of those, but Hazel hadn’t mentioned she had recently taken it out. Had the income from the shop been too meager to support her? Then how would the two of them live off it?

  Delta shook her head in annoyance that she let LeDuc’s remark drive her into worries, while she didn’t even know if he was telling the truth about the mortgage having been taken out recently. Maybe he was only saying something to get her to respond, confirm, or deny it. She said to the inquisitive editor, “Hazel did nothing wrong.”

  “She isn’t locked up?”

  “She’s at the police station, but only because she’s cooperating in the murder case. Have you never heard of witnesses?”

  His eyes went wide, and he held up his notebook to jot down more notes. “Did she see the killer? Can she identify him? Are they worried the killer will come for her next?”

  Delta walked to the counter to put her bag in place before she became too tempted to slap the insistent reporter with it. She had answered one question to get him out of her hair and restore Hazel’s reputation, but now he was bombarding her with a dozen new possibilities she had no intention of confirming or denying. If he started writing about Hazel having possibly seen the killer, while the killer was still on the loose, her friend could get in serious danger.

  The doorbell jangled, and someone came in.

  Delta breathed a sigh of relief, hoping it was Mrs. Cassidy to the rescue. With her brisk attitude, she’d see the editor out of the shop without resorting to rudeness.

  But the newcomer was a man Delta’s own age, with brown curls brushing the collar of his shirt. He wore stonewashed jeans and sneakers that didn’t make a sound on the floor as he moved. Spotting Delta and LeDuc standing across from each other, the newcomer attempted to slink into the cell where the washi tape was kept, but the editor of the Tundish Trader saw him and cried, “Not you. Go away! This is my story.”

  The man came over with an eager look, holding his phone in his hand. Focusing on Delta, he said, “Marc LeDuc, NAID. News As It Develops.” He flicked out a flashy, full-col
or card with the slogan You Heard It Here First and a long list of social media channels to follow for the latest scoops. “What exactly happened last night at the Lodge? Give me your pure, unadorned eyewitness account.”

  Delta realized that the phone he was sticking out to her would record everything she said. She shook her head and pointed at the phone to indicate he had to turn off the recording feature.

  Senior cried, “Was the victim’s throat cut?” He started to take new notes, his pen scratching across the notepad.

  Junior prompted, “What time did the murder happen? How many people were at the hotel at the time?”

  Delta shook her head and put both of her hands in the air in an apologetic gesture.

  “Just ten?” Senior asked with a frown. “In the room where it happened, you mean? There must have been more than ten people at the Lodge’s gold miners’ party. It’s the regional event of the season.”

  “Did you see the body?” Junior asked. “Is it true that your friend is in jail because she’s involved? Is the real killer still out there? Should we fear a string of murders in this quiet town?”

  Delta, exasperated, repeated her gesture to indicate she was not willing to answer any questions.

  “At least ten murders?” Senior gasped. “Why? Is this a conspiracy? Were the victims chosen at random or with purpose?”

  The door opened again, and Mrs. Cassidy walked in with Nugget on a leash. She carried a large basket full of pumpkins and butternut squashes. “Good morning,” she enthused. “What a wonderful day. Ah, Mr. LeDuc. And Mr. LeDuc. What a coincidence.”

  She flashed a smile at the puzzled older editor and his eager, phone-toting son. “I’m surprised to see you here. I was so certain you would be at… But don’t let me interfere with any of your…”

  “What?” the son jumped at Mrs. Cassidy. “Is there a development? A press conference maybe at the police station?”

  Mrs. Cassidy shrugged coyly. “I wouldn’t want to suggest…” Without waiting for her to finish, Junior raced for the door and pulled it open so wildly the doorbell almost flew off.

  His father stared after him like he didn’t understand where he was going, then suddenly broke to life with an “Aha!” and followed him at a trot.

  The sudden silence was like a glass of cool lemonade on a hot day.

  Delta closed her eyes a moment and soaked it up gratefully.

  “Just like a dog on a scent,” Mrs. Cassidy said cheerfully. “Point them in a direction and off they go, baying and yapping. I did say I didn’t want to suggest anything, but I guess they didn’t hear.” She grinned, then sobered and patted Delta’s arm. “They will be back, of course. But then you’ll be prepared for them.”

  “I doubt one can ever be prepared for that.” Delta blew a lock of hair from her face. “They are each terrible in their own way, and combined…”

  “Double the trouble, I know.” Mrs. Cassidy nodded firmly. “We have to figure out this whole thing for ourselves. Imagine poor Hazel behind bars…”

  She clicked her tongue. “The girl is good with a glue gun, but that’s about all she knows about anything remotely related to crime. I guess it was an unfortunate instance of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Look here, I have some pumpkins and squashes you can use to create a fall display. How about that table?” She pointed at a table along the wall, holding scrapbooking materials.

  “Great idea.” Delta picked a large orange pumpkin from the basket and went to the table, placing the pumpkin in the center and leaning some glittery paper against it. She put a row of rubber stamps in a circle around it, the stamp surface up so customers could see what the design was. Mrs. Cassidy came to stand beside her, putting some smaller pumpkins in place. “I hollowed out this one and let it dry and put a glass in it so you can put pens or pencils in.”

  “Oh, great, let me try.” Delta collected a handful of pens and put them in the glass. They stuck out over the edge of the pumpkin, making it look like a beautiful natural holder. “I bet people will start asking if these pumpkins are also for sale.”

  Mrs. Cassidy beamed.

  Delta studied her from aside. She knew, especially after having faced the father-son media monster, that she could never clear Hazel on her own. She’d have to trust people, and Mrs. Cassidy seemed like the kind of person she could rely on. Someone who didn’t jump to conclusions and who could also actively contribute to an investigation with clever suggestions and inside information about the people involved.

  In fact, she had already been able to say a thing or two about the Whites.

  Delta tilted her head. “You told us last night at the workshop that the White brothers and their wives came to the museum, and you gave them a tour there. You said you can conclude things from the way people deal with each other. Or avoid to deal?”

  “Yes. The brothers were jovial, laughing and making jokes among each other and to me. Seemed like the kind of men who are quite satisfied with themselves.” Mrs. Cassidy put a butternut squash in place and arranged some smaller green and white squashes around it. “The wives, however, were rather cold. Especially among themselves. I felt like they didn’t get along at all and just had to endure each other’s company because of their husbands.”

  “There’s the age difference, of course,” Delta mused. She draped some silk and velvet ribbons around the butternut squash’s neck. “Maybe they had nothing in common? Come to think of it, last night at the station I met both Herb and Ralph White, who seemed to think they had to put in a personal appearance to ensure that the police were on top of things, but Amanda wasn’t with them. I wonder if her absence says anything about her relationship with the victim. Maybe not, as she might have been so shocked after the murder that she felt unwell and stayed at the hotel.”

  Mrs. Cassidy hemmed and moved her head from one side to the other, as if contemplating that suggestion. “I see lots of people at the museum: families, friends, colleagues. Some want to be together, others are forced into going. It creates interesting dynamics. People who really don’t like each other tend to avoid each other’s company. They talk to others in the group or just ignore the other person. But these two women… They were constantly looking at each other as if assessing the other’s behavior.”

  “Rivalry? Each trying to be prettiest, funniest?” Delta tried.

  “I felt like it was more of…wariness between them. Like they didn’t fully trust each other.”

  “Hmm. That might be because the one wasn’t happy that the other was getting too close with her husband.” Delta took a few steps back to study their pumpkin display. “Maybe move that big one on the left a bit more to the center? That’s right. Perfect.”

  Mrs. Cassidy picked up the empty basket, walked to the window, and peered out. “Wild Bunch is going into the grocery shore. She’s a genius at starting innocent conversations. I asked her to find out anything she could about the Whites’ behavior while they were in town. They’ve been staying here for weeks now, so maybe someone saw an argument or overheard some significant conversation.”

  “Wild Bunch?” Delta asked.

  “Bessie Rider. Of Bessie’s Boutique. Bought this from her.” Mrs. Cassidy fingered the long necklace she wore with a gem-studded key as pendant. “Bessie’s nickname is Wild Bunch, after a famous gang of outlaws. Within the Paper Posse, we all have Wild West names. It was my idea, to be honest, but now that we’re in this murder investigation, it’s quite convenient. We can send our messages to the group under our aliases.” Mrs. Cassidy leaned down to pat Nugget. “Quite exciting.” She straightened up sharply and said in a remorseful tone, “Not that I think it’s exciting that Hazel is in such trouble. We’ll do anything to help her, of course. You can rely on that.”

  Delta sighed. “It seems to all revolve around Finn. What do you know about him?”

  Mrs. Cassidy took her time before answering. Delta wonde
red if it was just a long story or whether she was carefully choosing what to say and what to keep to herself.

  Mrs. Cassidy put her hands on her back and paced the shop, Nugget darting around her. “When Finn came to town, he didn’t have a job. He dropped by the museum and asked if I had things to do for him there. Repairs or other small jobs. I told him we had volunteers for that, and he seemed to be quite relieved actually. I had the impression Hazel had put him up to it, wanted for him to find something useful to do. I wondered why a young man who looked able enough to take care of himself would have his sister watching over him. Hazel never struck me as overprotective or intrusive. I concluded there was a reason she was eager to set him up here. In a place where…well, people look out for each other. Away from the distraction and, might I say, dangers of the big city?”

  “What did you think?”

  “I wasn’t sure. I did notice that wherever I saw him pay for something, whether it was a cup of coffee or repairs on his car, he paid in cash. Never with a credit card. I wondered if maybe he had been in financial troubles, racking up debt as impulsive young people sometimes do. Finn is…”

  Mrs. Cassidy thought long and hard about her word choice. “He’s someone who likes to be liked. If you know what I mean.”

  “You think that to be liked he might have spent more money than he could afford?”

  “Possibly. But I don’t know anything for sure. I’m just telling you what I noticed.”

  Delta nodded. As Mrs. Cassidy seemed perceptive and had a lot of insight into people, her observations might prove to be invaluable later on. “And have you ever seen him with the woman who died? With Vera White?”

  “No. But he must have known her from the hotel. He was there often enough, not just for work, but also to see Isabel.”

  “Hazel doesn’t seem to think they are a good match. And Rosalyn Taylor outright wants to separate them.”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Cassidy nodded slowly. “I’ve told myself that there couldn’t be some stain attached to Finn that might be traceable. Because I’m sure that if there was, Rosalyn would have found it already, to end the relationship.”