A Murder Between the Pages

by Amy Lillard

  Helen nodded and looked around at the rest of the book club members. She kept on until they were all nodding. “Yes,” she said. “That is something we can do.”

  But Arlo had a feeling it wasn’t going to stop there.

  * * *

  Arlo stared at the computer spreadsheet and tried to get it to make sense, but she couldn’t concentrate on the numbers. They all seemed to blur together until they looked like hieroglyphics swimming around the screen. Her concentration was shot. No big wonder, what with all they had going on. Haley dead, Dylan in jail, Courtney on leave for who knew how long. It was frustrating at best, this feeling of helplessness.

  She turned off her computer and sat back in her seat. Accounting was her least favorite part of owning her own business. Once they got up and really running, she was hiring a bookkeeper for the job. There was a firm at the end of the block that would suit her just fine. She just had to be able to afford it first. Until then, it was all up to her. But not today.

  She sighed, pushed back from her desk. This was getting her nowhere fast. She exited her office and headed for the door that led to Sam’s. All eyes turned to her. Well, those belonging to Fern, Helen, and Chloe did. Sometime during the afternoon, Camille had gone off, most likely to be with Joe.

  “I thought you were working on the books.” Helen said. She had one of Weston Whitney’s journals in her lap and her copy of Missing Girl within arm’s reach. Arlo figured she was comparing the two, for whatever it was worth.

  “I’m finished now.”

  “That was quick,” Fern said. She shot Arlo a pointed look. She also held one of the Whitney journals, though her copy had already grown a few sticky notes and slips to mark passages. Lord only knew what she was finding in there. Arlo was afraid to ask.

  “Real quick,” Helen agreed.

  Arlo knew what they wanted. They wanted her to confess to being distracted. But she wasn’t about to. She wouldn’t confess to being distracted by the case or by Sam.

  Arlo turned to Chloe. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”

  She ignored the gasps of mock surprise as she headed for the third-floor doorway.

  Let them think what they want.

  She was a grown woman, and she could go upstairs and talk to her tenant if she wanted to. And it had nothing to do with prom night or high school or Mads or anything. This was about Camille. And keeping her friend safe.

  Arlo rapped on the door frame. “Knock, knock.”

  Sam whirled around from his place in his L-shaped desk. Surprise clearly registered on his face. “Hey!” He seemed pleased. That was a good sign, right? Didn’t matter. She wasn’t here for signs.

  “You wanted to talk to me?” she asked.

  He seemed a bit stumped. “Me? No. It was nothing.” But it hadn’t sounded like nothing. Or maybe she was reading too much into it. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I was just thinking about Camille.” She inched her way into the room. “Have you found out anything more about Joe Foster?”

  “Sadly, no. It’s like he just suddenly appeared.”

  Arlo crossed her arms and thought about that a moment. “Like he didn’t exist before six months ago.”

  “Exactly.” Sam closed the middle notebook on his desk and turned to the one on his left. He typed in a few things, then motioned Arlo to come over. “I have this.” He showed her a receipt for an apartment in Corinth. “I checked with the manager there,” Sam said. “He told me that Joe moved down from Memphis. He had all the paperwork and stuff he needed with his name on it—a light bill, that sort of thing. But this is the first time I can find Joe Foster.”

  “Is Joe Foster an alias?”

  “Good question,” Sam said.

  “And the answer is…?”

  “Most likely.”

  “Why would he need an alias?”

  He leaned back in his chair and turned to face her once more. “Could be a lot of reasons.”

  “But no one would have an alias unless they were trying to hide something.” When authors chose a pen name, a lot of times they were trying to hide their true identity. Especially when erotica became such a big genre. No one wanted to know that the middle school English teacher was writing such hot and sexy scenes after going home from teaching their children. But she didn’t think Joe was an author—of erotica or anything else. She was all for not judging the book, but some things were simply obvious.

  “The real question is what’s he trying to hide.”

  “Arlo!” Helen must’ve been standing at the foot of the stairs as she called up to her.

  Arlo sighed. “I’m being summoned.”

  “It appears that way.”

  Even up two flights of stairs, she could hear Faulkner in the background. “Arlo! Arlo! The butler did it. He did it.”

  “Arlo!” Helen called again. “Come down here, please.”

  “I gotta go,” Arlo said. “But if you find out anything—”

  “You’ll be the first to know.”

  Arlo gave Sam a small wave, which he returned as she headed back down the stairs. “What is so important?” she asked. Helen was waiting by the door while Fern gathered her things.

  “We have to do something,” Helen said. She pulled herself up to her full, impressive height and waited for Arlo to challenge her.

  “I know Camille isn’t here, but my suggestion would be talk about the book.” Any book for that matter.

  Fern stopped shoving books into her canvas bag and shot Arlo a nasty look.

  “We were thinking more along the lines of going down to the police station and talking to Mads about Dylan.” Helen folded her arms in front of her and waited for Arlo to protest.

  She hated to be that predictable but… “Absolutely not!” She did her best to make her voice as calm as possible and even keep it at an acceptable volume for indoors. She failed miserably. “It’s been two hours since Dylan confessed.”

  “My point exactly. Two hours! Who knows what that poor child has gone through while we’ve been languishing here talking about made-up mysteries and eating scones?” Helen admonished.

  “Elly—” Arlo stopped, unable to find the right words to keep Helen and Fern from marching down to the police station and disrupting everyone’s job there.

  “We could ask him about Mary Kennedy while we’re there.” Fern gave a decisive nod. “I think I might have found something in one of the diaries.”

  “Or you could wait until tomorrow. Give him time to do his job properly before crashing his day.”

  “Tomorrow is Mads’s birthday,” Fern reminded them.

  “That’s it.” Helen snapped her fingers. “I’ll go home and get his cake. Then we can give it to him today.”

  “And ask about both murders while we’re there,” Fern said.

  “But his birthday isn’t until tomorrow,” Arlo protested.

  Helen stood and shook her head. “I don’t know any man who would complain about getting his birthday cake early.”

  And for that, Arlo had no comeback.

  “Call Camille,” Helen told Fern. “We’re going to need her back for this too.”

  * * *

  So that’s how Arlo found herself singing “Happy Birthday” to Mads less than half an hour later and one day early.

  “You look like a monkey. And you smell like one too,” the ladies sang.

  Arlo stopped singing halfway through the song. She couldn’t confess a love for him—happy birthday, we love you—and she wasn’t about to say he looked like a monkey. It didn’t matter. No one noticed that she had stopped.

  “Thank you,” Mads said. “My birthday’s not until tomorrow. But I do appreciate it.”

  “Better early than late,” Helen said. “Am I right?”

  Mads chuckled. “I suppose so.”

  �
�Do you have the plates?” Arlo asked.

  She knew full well that Fern had the plates and napkins, and Camille had the plastic forks. Even worse, Helen had found some of those pointy birthday hats and insisted they all wear them. Or maybe the worst part was that they were pink and lavender with rainbows and big-eyed horses. And she had even bought party noisemakers to match. But Arlo hadn’t protested. Her main objective was to move this party along as quickly as possible.

  “Let’s cut the cake,” Helen said.

  They cleaned off a spot on Frances’s desk and stacked napkins, plates, and forks alongside the banana rum cake.

  “It looks delicious.” Mads said. “Is it banana rum?”

  “Of course it is. Isn’t that your favorite?” Helen said.

  “I can’t believe you remembered that,” Mads said. “It’s been a long time since I had your banana rum cake.”

  Arlo wasn’t about to throw her guardian under the bus, but the thought did cross her mind. Arlo herself was the one who remembered Mads’s favorite type of cake. But it really didn’t matter. And she surely didn’t want to draw any more attention to herself than absolutely necessary. Standing in the police station eating cake off Power Rangers plates while wearing a hat with a pink pony on it was bad enough.

  “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you,” Fern started once everyone had a piece. There weren’t enough chairs in the lobby, so they were all standing around Frances’s desk, each holding a cake plate in one hand and a fork in the other.

  Arlo had to admit the cake was delicious. She didn’t mind the inconvenience of standing and eating it. Calories don’t count when you eat them standing up.

  “We need to take Chloe back a piece of this if you don’t care, Mads.” Arlo said.

  “Not at all,” Mads grinned. “If I have cake at my house, I’ll just eat it. I don’t think I can stand the pounds.”

  Far as Arlo was concerned, he looked the same as he did when he left the NFL. She couldn’t say high school. He had beefed up a lot playing pro football. But he was still as trim as ever. Or maybe it was the lack of cake that kept him that way.

  “I said”—Fern drawled out each word and spoke loudly so that everyone had to hear her—“there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

  “Yes?” Mads was plowing through his cake like a starving man, and Arlo wondered if he was really enjoying it that much or if he was trying to get them out of his office as quickly as possible.

  “Do you think Haley’s murder has anything to do with Mary Kennedy’s disappearance?” Fern asked.

  The room fell silent.

  Mads stopped, seeming to contemplate the idea for longer than Arlo gave it credit for. “No.”

  “But I heard that Mary Kennedy’s husband has recently been released from prison. What if he came back to finish his work at Lillyfield?”

  Arlo gasped. “Where did you hear such a thing?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” Mads muttered.

  “It doesn’t matter where it came from,” Fern protested.

  “I beg to differ.” Mads placed his plastic fork on the edge of his plate and set it on Frances’s desk. There was still half a piece of cake left, and Arlo suspected that he had been put off his celebration by Fern’s meddling.

  “Not if it’s true,” Helen added.

  Mads gave the ladies a tight smile. The stern frown he saved for her. “We are in the middle of a police investigation. I can’t comment right now.”

  “You’ve reopened the Mary Kennedy case?” Helen asked.

  “No.”

  “Then the two cases aren’t related.”

  Mads pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “I didn’t say that either.”

  “What are you saying then?” Helen pressed.

  “I’m saying thank you very much for the cake and the birthday wishes—early birthday wishes—but I have a young man in jail and a murder to solve.” He nodded toward Arlo as if she and she alone was responsible for removing the ladies from the police station. As if.

  “Does that mean you don’t think he did it?” Camille asked.

  “He confessed,” Mads returned.

  “I watched a show about people who confess to crimes they didn’t commit and are serving time in prison now and trying to get out.” Helen nodded her head and looked around to see if anyone else had seen the show. No one nodded. Not even Arlo, who had sat next to Helen when she was watching it. Still, she agreed. There had to be something up with Dylan’s confession. He just didn’t seem the type. But wasn’t that the way it was? The type of person that you thought would commit a murder wasn’t the one who did?

  And that should leave Joe in the clear for anything, if the type that didn’t did and the type that would didn’t. Or something like that.

  “I can’t discuss the particulars of the case. That’s all I can share right now.” Practiced words from a press conference, she was sure.

  “Have you talked to Haley’s family?” Camille asked.

  “Now what do you think, Miss Camille?” Mads’s voice was gentle and somewhat chiding, but still held a thread of steel. He wasn’t backing down from his stance.

  “Poor Courtney,” Fern said. “She and Dylan used to come in the bookstore together. I think they were really good friends. She’s probably beside herself thinking he killed her sister.”

  Arlo had to agree. Courtney and Dylan were good friends and shared books and time there in her store. Sometimes with Haley, sometimes not. It was bad enough to have a sister killed in such a way, but to have her killed by a person that you cared about seemed more than anyone should have to bear.

  “All I can say is that he confessed.” Mads picked up his plate once again as if the matter was settled.

  “Which means as far as you’re concerned, the investigation is over.” Fern nodded.

  “For the most part,” he said around a bite of banana rum delight. “But we still have to gather any evidence we have for the DA’s office.”

  “It could be that you’ll find evidence against his confession,” Helen hedged in a tone that was part question, part statement. Or maybe that was just hope shining through.

  “Anything is possible, I suppose,” Mads said.

  “I suppose you’re right,” Helen returned.

  “But if you’re not investigating Haley’s murder as thoroughly as before, you should have ample time for Mary Kennedy,” Camille added.

  Mads sighed, and Arlo knew he wished he had told them he had tons more investigating to do. But it was out now, and the ladies wanted to find who killed the piano teacher. Whether Mads helped them or not, Arlo was sure they would do it.

  “I’m sorry.” The timid voice came from the doorway of the police station. Courtney Adams stood there looking as if she was about to dart away like a scared rabbit at any moment. Arlo supposed they did all look a little odd, in their party hats and eating birthday cake.

  But this was more of a frightened look than a perplexed one. “I’ll come back.” She started to turn to leave, but Mads stopped her.

  He set his plate on Frances’s desk once again and made his way around it, toward the young girl. “Can I help you?”

  Courtney stopped. She looked at the book club ladies and Arlo all in their silly pointed hats. Fern even had cake suspended on her fork halfway between her plate and her mouth. Courtney had something she wanted to say, that much was apparent, but it seemed as if she didn’t want any of them to hear. Then she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again. “You need to let Dylan go. He’s innocent.” Tears started to well in her eyes.

  Arlo couldn’t imagine the pain it was causing her to stand there and plead for him.

  Mads sighed. “I don’t really think he’s guilty,” he said. “But do you know what this town would do if I let a confessed murderer lo
ose?”

  Courtney dashed away her tears. “Surely you could—”

  He shook his head, effectively cutting short whatever she had been about to say. “I can’t let him go until I have the real murderer.”

  “I understand.” Courtney nodded, then turned and fled from the station.

  Chapter 12

  “Are you sure you’re up for this?” Chloe asked Courtney the next day.

  Arlo stood next to the coffee counter and watched the young girl. She didn’t seem quite ready, but she had assured both Arlo and Chloe that she could return. And after yesterday’s show at the police station, Arlo couldn’t help but wonder if Courtney knew something that the rest of them didn’t.

  “I can do this.” Courtney nodded and swallowed hard.

  “If you’re certain,” Arlo asked. Sort of. It was mostly a question.

  Courtney tried on a smile. “I’m just ready for everything to return to normal.”

  Aren’t we all?

  But what Arlo would really like was for the book club to return to normal. Or become normal. They couldn’t exactly return to a place they had never been.

  As usual, they had gathered at noon with their picnic lunch and some sort of history of Sugar Springs book that looked like it came from a fairytale. It was huge, leather bound, gold embossed, and Arlo had no idea where Camille had found it. She wasn’t sure she wanted to ask either. Some things were better left a mystery. And keeping to herself might just keep her out of the witness stand one day.

  Chloe came around the counter and stopped next to Arlo. She glanced back at Courtney, who was wiping down the espresso machine. Tears had started to leak from her eyes. She wasn’t sobbing, just crying silent tears.

  “I’m not so sure about this.” Chloe lowered her voice so only Arlo could hear.

  “We need to keep an eye on her.”

  Chloe gave a quick nod, her blond curls bouncing. “Of course, but I don’t feel right leaving. I think I’ll go to the back and check inventory. It may only take an hour or so, but that might be an hour we can use to gauge how she’s going to do.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” Arlo gave Chloe a small salute.