A Murder Between the Pages

by Amy Lillard

  “Really sad,” Arlo agreed.

  The bell rang over the door, and she looked up to see Mads coming in.

  Chloe wiped her eyes once more and gave a huge sniff, then managed to pull her face into a look of greeting. “Hey, Chief. The usual?”

  He shot her a grateful smile. “That would be great. Thanks.” He turned his attention back to Arlo. “Have a minute?”

  “Of course. What’s up?”

  She eased onto one of the barstools, and Mads followed suit. He adjusted his gun belt. “Did you know that Wally’s book is being made into a movie?”

  “I had heard it was a possibility.”

  “Well, the producer called me a couple of days ago. Seems they want to have a premiere here in Sugar Springs.”

  Arlo nearly swallowed her tongue. “Here?”

  “I know.”

  “At the old Coliseum?” It was the only place big enough to hold such an event. And of course, other than the drive-in, it was the only place to show a film in Sugar Springs. When people wanted to take in a movie, they drove to Corinth.

  “Yep.”

  “Isn’t it haunted?” Chloe asked, sliding his mocha java in front of him.

  “The producer thought that added to the charm.” Mads sighed. “It’s going to be a security nightmare. I tried to talk them out of it, but they are adamant. Of course there will be an official opening in Hollywood, but they wanted to show the film here too.”

  “Because the town in the book and the mystery of the missing girl took place here?” Chloe asked.

  Mads shrugged.

  “Do you really believe that?” Arlo had heard all the arguments from the book club, but she wasn’t convinced. Sure, there were a few similarities—a small Mississippi town, a missing girl, a missing car, and all happening in the 1970s, but it still wasn’t enough. But Arlo couldn’t be sure if the book club really thought they were the same story or if they were using the few similarities to poke around and nose into other people’s business.

  “I don’t know, but the movie company thinks it would be good publicity and all with Wally having grown up here.”

  “And having died here,” Chloe whispered.

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “We can do it,” Arlo said with more confidence than she really felt. The idea was starting to grow on her.

  “I’m talking to everyone on Main Street. It’ll affect all your businesses if we bring in so much Hollywood. There will be people all over.”

  “Most will stay in Corinth,” Chloe said. “Or drive down from Memphis.”

  “I disagree. I think they are going to want the whole experience of Sugar Springs,” Mads said.

  Arlo couldn’t help herself. She laughed until she snorted. “Yeah, ’cause Sugar Springs is so happening.”

  “You live here.”

  “The lack of bustle is the exact reason why I live here.”

  “But you’ll do it?” Mads asked. “You’ll help get this town ready for a movie premiere?”

  “Of course we will.” Chloe answered for them both, but Arlo didn’t mind.

  “It’ll be another six months or so.”

  “Have you talked to Helen?” A crowd of that sort was bound to affect the Inn.

  “I tried to call her yesterday, but then this murder happened.”

  The one word stole Arlo’s breath away.

  “Murder? What do you mean, murder?” she gasped.

  “Murder?” Fern screeched. They had been so busy talking they hadn’t heard the bell ring telling them Fern had arrived early for the daily book club “sesh,” as she liked to call it.

  “Haley was murdered?” Chloe asked.

  Mads shook his head. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “But you did,” Fern pressed. She set down her book bag and made her way to the coffee bar. “Sweet Haley was murdered?”

  “Hit in the head with a blunt object,” Mads admitted. Then he held up one finger before Fern could continue. “That’s all you’re getting from me right now. We have an ongoing investigation, and I’m doing my best not to alert any potential suspects.”

  “But we were there,” Arlo protested. “We saw her fall.”

  “Apparently she was already dead before that.”

  “What sort of object?” Fern asked.

  “How’s that even possible?” Arlo shook her head.

  “We don’t know. We’re working on it,” he said to Arlo. He turned to Fern. “And we don’t know. It’s missing.” Then he stood and reached for his wallet, intent on paying for his coffee.

  Arlo laid one hand on his arm. “Your money is no good here.”

  Fern shot her a look. “You always make me pay.”

  “And you do nothing about keeping the peace. In fact, you seem intent on shaking the peace until its teeth rattle.”

  Mads chuckled. “Thanks for the coffee.” He nodded at Chloe and Arlo in turn. “Keep that information under your hat.”

  “Will do,” Arlo replied. She stood and walked Mads to the door.

  “And if you hear anything…” he said.

  Arlo nodded. “You’ll be the first to know.”

  Chapter 3

  “The killer could have been anyone at the mansion yesterday,” Helen mused.

  The book club had gathered for their noonish meeting, and Fern had nearly tripped over herself to tell them that Haley had been murdered.

  “We were at the mansion yesterday,” Camille reminded her.

  “We know one thing,” Fern said. “It wasn’t Judith. Not if she’s as incapacitated as all the rumors are saying she is.”

  “It was probably someone on staff,” Helen said.

  Arlo was half-listening as she rearranged the cookbooks by diet and specialty. She was doing her best to stay busy and not allow her brain to think too much about witnessing Haley fall down the stairs, already deceased from a blow to the head. Overkill? She shook her head at her bad pun, thankful that it had only been in her thoughts.

  “I don’t know,” Fern replied. “How many staff members does Judith have on these days?”

  “Let’s see,” Camille said. She ticked the positions off on her fingers. “There should be an upstairs maid, downstairs maid. A cook and a butler.”

  “I think he prefers house manager,” Arlo reminded them.

  “The butler did it,” Faulkner said again.

  Fern snorted “Nope. But I do think you’ve been watching Downton Abbey too much, knowing every staff position in a manor house.”

  “No such thing,” Camille protested.

  “Downton Abbey. Don’t forget to watch Downton Abbey.” Faulkner finished his reminder with a shrill whistle.

  Helen glanced over to Arlo. “Where does he learn these things?”

  Arlo merely shrugged. Faulkner’s memory was akin to a sponge, though he seemed to absorb the most annoying phrases to repeat.

  “Who do we know that works at Lillyfield?” Fern asked.

  “They keep to themselves mostly,” Camille said.

  And it was true. They had their groceries and other essentials delivered. Arlo wasn’t sure where she had picked up that tidbit, but she knew it to be true. Judith never seemed to come down off her hill to mingle with the little people.

  “I’m sure there are a couple of maids and a cook,” Fern said.

  “I met him once,” Helen said. “The cook.”

  “What about that Pam person?” Camille asked.

  “I don’t think she actually cooks,” Helen said.

  Camille frowned. “She doesn’t?”

  “She just tells the cook what to cook,” Helen explained.

  Fern raised her brows and twisted her mouth into an incredulous frown. “It’s good work if you can get it.”

  “And there’s Betty Carson,�
�� Helen continued. “She cleans for them part-time. Ever since her husband died.”

  “Is she the upstairs maid?” Fern asked.

  “How do you have one upstairs maid when there are four stories?” Camille mused.

  “I have no idea,” Helen replied, but Arlo didn’t know if she was talking to Fern or Camille. Or if it even mattered.

  “There’s the blond girl,” Fern said. “Sabrina.”

  “Isn’t there basement? What about an attic? Do they have people to clean those too?” Camille asked.

  “And I would know this how?” Fern grumbled.

  “I don’t know. TV maybe?” Camille raised her brows in question.

  “What about the gardener?” Fern continued.

  “Why would he be in the house?” Helen asked.

  Fern shrugged. “That’s a lot of people if there’s someone special to clean each area.”

  “Then it could be a number of people,” Helen clarified.

  The wispy memory of the bald-headed man she had seen walking with Roberts brushed through Arlo’s mind, but she let the thought drift away. She had never seen him before, she was certain, and it was nothing to her as to why he was there and if Mads had questioned him. Nothing to her at all.

  “And it seems like the police have it well under control,” Arlo added, reminding them as well as herself. The book club might only be going over all the people they had seen themselves yesterday at the mansion, but that was as far as it needed to go.

  Chloe shot Arlo an encouraging smile, then gave her a thumbs-up. Yes, an A for effort. At least she had tried to curtail the book club ladies and their tendency to nose around in other people’s business. Of course, Chloe might still be in jail if they hadn’t bothered to get involved with matters that didn’t pertain to them, but that was another story altogether. Still, if Mads and Jason were going to do their job and find out what happened at Lillyfield, then it would be best for everyone involved if Fern, Helen, and Camille stayed out of their way.

  “You should concentrate your energy on Mary Carlyle.”

  Chloe shook her head. “Blew it in one.”

  “Kennedy,” Fern said. “Mary Kennedy.”

  Arlo nodded. “Right Mary Kennedy.”

  “But we get the point, love. You want us to leave Haley out of it.”

  “Maybe we should,” Helen mused. “We’re awfully close to Haley’s case. It might cloud our judgment.”

  Arlo looked to Chloe. That was the worst part about bad news in a small town. Whoever it was, you knew them.

  “Mary Kennedy, it is.” Fern gave a definitive nod and picked up her copy of Missing Girl.

  Arlo slid onto one of the barstools at the straight edge of the coffee counter. At least they weren’t talking about Lillyfield any longer, as they speculated over Mary Kennedy and where she could have ended up—dead or alive.

  “Sam came down twice while you were gone,” Chloe said with a knowing look.

  “Twice? I wasn’t gone that long.” She had just run over to the florist to order flowers for the Adams family.

  “Yesterday, I mean. When you were at the mansion. With everything happening, I forgot to tell you. Anything I should know about?” Chloe started to rearrange the muffins in the front of the display case. The blueberry always sold out before any other flavor, to such a degree that Arlo wondered why Chloe made anything else.

  “Nope.” Arlo shrugged.

  “Don’t give me that. I’ve seen that look on his face before and—”

  “And what?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. He just seemed so intense, like the old days, I guess.”

  “The old days are long gone,” Arlo said.

  “Yeah.” Chloe seemed like she wanted to say more, but she was interrupted before she could.

  “Arlo, are you coming to discuss this book with us or not?” Fern grumped.

  Arlo smiled at her best friend. “Duty calls.”

  “Want a coffee for reinforcement?”

  “Please.” Arlo slid from the barstool and made her way to the reading nook.

  “As I see it,” Camille started, “the necklace is a key point.”

  Arlo sat down on the couch next to Helen and picked up a copy of Wally Harrison’s Missing Girl. “Necklace? I don’t remember any necklace.”

  “Not in the book,” Camille gently chided. “Mary Kennedy. In the book it was a tiara.”

  The tiara. Arlo had almost forgotten about it. Or maybe she had read Wally’s book a little too quickly. It was a difficult read. Written in a stream of consciousness style, it was a bit highbrow for some.

  “That’s right,” Fern agreed. “Mary was accused of stealing a necklace from the mansion when she was out giving Baxter his piano lesson.”

  “I remember that,” Helen said on a short breath. “But no one ever found the necklace. Is that right?”

  Fern nodded. “Some folks say that she took the necklace and left town, using it to start over somewhere exotic.”

  “Like Pontotoc?” Camille asked. She shifted in her seat and adjusted the straps of her handbag.

  “Like Biloxi,” Fern corrected.

  Arlo didn’t bother to say that she didn’t find either town to be particularly exotic but at least Biloxi had a beach.

  “I think he killed her,” Helen said. She closed her copy of Missing Girl, one finger between the pages as to not lose her place.

  “Aren’t we supposed to be talking about the book?” Arlo asked. But she was too late. The ladies were on their tracks.

  “Who?” Fern asked.

  “Weston,” Helen replied.

  Fern cackled. “You think Weston Whitney, Judith Whitney’s husband, killed Mary Kennedy?”

  “Obviously, you don’t.” Helen sniffed.

  “Well, no. I mean her husband…” Fern trailed off. “Anyway, everyone knows it was her husband. Mary’s. If she’s dead at all.”

  Camille nodded. “What was his name?”

  “Jack,” Fern said, then shook her head. “No, Jeff. Yeah, Jeff Kennedy.”

  “He used to lay his hands on her,” Camille continued.

  “Like a faith healer?” Arlo was really confused.

  “No, like a boxer.” Camille doubled up her own fist and pretended to punch herself in the face.

  “Really?” How was one supposed to respond to that?

  “Well, back then people didn’t talk about it like they do now,” Helen explained.

  “And you think he was the one?” Arlo shook her head at herself. Once again she had gotten sucked into the vortex that was her Friday-night-turned-every-day book club.

  “Seems logical to me.” Fern gave another shrug.

  “Maybe if they had been able to find his diaries,” Helen added.

  “The Diary of Anne Frank,” Faulkner squawked. “Read the classics.”

  Helen pinned Arlo with a sharp look. “He got that one from you.”

  “Guilty,” Arlo said with a smile.

  “The butler did it,” Faulkner said again. He moved his head up and down in his traditional bird dance. “He’s guilty.”

  “Jeff Kennedy kept diaries?” Camille asked. “How do you know this?”

  Helen shook her head. “Weston Whitney kept diaries. Or whatever you want to call them. These little sketchbooks he carried with him everywhere.”

  “Oh, I remember.” Camille nodded. “But I always thought he was writing poetry and whatnot.”

  “He was always a queer sort.”

  “Fern,” Arlo admonished.

  “What?”

  “That’s not something we say,” Arlo gently explained.

  Fern shrugged. “Why not? It’s true.”

  “It may be, but—never mind.” Arlo sighed. Political correctness was lost on this over-eighty cro
wd.

  “What’s wrong with writing poetry?” Chloe had finished making Arlo a coffee and had joined them in the reading nook. She propped her bottom on the arm of the couch and waited for an answer.

  “Nothing if you’re Longfellow or Thoreau,” Fern replied.

  “Thoreau! Thoreau! Thoreau! Don’t Thoreau the books!” Faulkner squawked.

  Chloe rolled her eyes at the bird.

  Arlo ignored him.

  “You can’t go around doing things like writing poetry these days and get away with it,” Helen said as if the rule was written in stone at the courthouse.

  “You can’t?” Arlo had missed the memo on that one.

  “Not unless you want someone to think you’re limp in the wrists,” Fern continued, her nod seriously emphatic.

  And PC flew right out the window. Arlo wasn’t even going to try and field that one.

  She caught Chloe’s look and had to turn away. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or to cry.

  “But this was fifty years ago,” Helen said. “Things were different then.”

  “Fifty years?” Chloe nearly choked. “I thought this was at least in this decade.”

  “Listen to that,” Arlo said. “You’re trying to solve a fifty-year-old cold case.”

  The ladies shrugged in eerie unison. They were all nearing ninety. What else did they have to do?

  “Maybe he was having an affair with Mary?” Helen mused.

  “Weston?” Fern scoffed.

  “If he was…” Arlo flicked a hand in the air but couldn’t bring herself to say the words. “Wouldn’t he have been having an affair with…someone from his team?”

  “Church softball?” Helen asked.

  “No,” Arlo said gently. “A man.”

  Chloe stifled a laugh, then pushed up and made her way back to the coffee bar.

  “I don’t think he was gay,” Helen explained.

  “But—” Arlo was having a hard time keeping up.

  “He was merely sensitive,” Helen continued. “Not at all a strong person like Judith.”

  “She ran roughshod over him till the day he died,” Fern elaborated.