Mac hadn’t let go of me from the moment I ran through Matthew’s studio and straight into his arms.
“How did you know to come here?” I asked him, when I could finally think again.
“I was over at Jane’s,” he explained, “showing photos of the suspects to her other two staff members. It turns out that the part-time desk clerk recognized Petsy. It was the night Loretta died. He had just delivered flowers to another room and he happened to see her strolling down the hallway toward Loretta’s room. And he also remembered seeing Petsy with Loretta the same day Scully was there.”
“That’s amazing.” I realized in that moment that Petsy might have known all along that Amanda was her daughter. From the first day Amanda showed up to work with me, Petsy had stared at her with so much scrutiny, it made me wonder. And then the Regency painting in the hallway was a clear giveaway. It was shortly after Matthew showed us the painting that Petsy began to treat Amanda with a lot more respect than before. Perhaps around that same time, Loretta had verified that Petsy’s daughter was indeed back in town. Had Petsy’s mind begun to unravel at that point? Had she decided right then and there to kill Loretta? She had already killed Scully, so what was one more dead body in the scheme of things? My own mind was starting to spin with all the possibilities, so I shut off the speculations and gazed up at Mac. “I’m so glad you remembered to go back to the inn. I hope Jane gives that desk clerk a raise.”
“Yeah, me, too.” He grinned. “So, needless to say, I called Eric immediately and we all came over here. His plan was to take Petsy in for questioning and I came along to make sure you were all right.”
“Thank goodness you did.”
“I don’t know,” he said, studying my face. “It looked like you were handling things pretty well on your own.”
“I guess I was for a while, but then it got ugly.” I shivered and shook away the image of Petsy aiming her gun at me. “Amanda really saved the day.”
“What did she do?”
I inhaled deeply and exhaled. “Just as Petsy was about to take a shot at me, Amanda jumped on her and helped deflect the bullet. She could’ve been badly hurt. And I could’ve been killed. I really owe her.”
Mac stood in front of me and leaned in close, pressing his forehead against mine. “I do, too. I’ll owe her for the rest of my life.”
My heart fluttered wildly for a second or two, then settled into a steady beat. That was what Mac did for me. Kept me steady. Kept me grounded. Then he wrapped his arms around me and we stayed like that for a long time. Finally he stepped back and touched my cheek. “I wish I’d been there.”
“Me, too.” It was true. I really did. Still, he was here now, and that was a gift. “But I survived. I’m okay. And Amanda and Lindsey are, too. I think they’ll both be fine.” Hedging my bet, I added, “Maybe after a little therapy.”
“So, I guess this blows my theory that the most obvious suspect is always innocent.”
“Completely.” I laughed, then shook my head. “I’m just glad it wasn’t Matthew or Lindsey.”
“Or Amanda,” he added.
“That would’ve been awful.”
“From now on, I think you should trust your instincts on these things,” Mac said. He tipped my chin up so our eyes met. “You liked Amanda from the start and trusted her, too.”
“And,” I reminded him, “I couldn’t stand Petsy.”
“For good reason, as it turns out.”
I sighed. “Still, I’ve met some pretty bad people who came across as perfectly nice at first.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Me, too. So we’ll just have to be more careful from now on.”
“Right. Although I doubt we’ll have to confront another cold-blooded killer anytime in the near future.” As soon as I said the words, I wanted to bite my tongue. I scrambled across the truck bed and grabbed a two-by-four. “Knock on wood.”
Mac was laughing at me, but I noticed that he reached for the piece of wood and rapped his own knuckles against the surface, too. You just couldn’t be too careful around Lighthouse Cove these days.
• • •
After the police conducted a preliminary investigation and spoke briefly with everyone involved, the fire department was able to remove Petsy’s body from the roof of the orangery. I strongly suggested to Matthew that he contact a hazardous-waste company to come out and clean and sanitize the entire structure.
Matthew was moving like a man in a dream. He looked confused, worried, but he, too, would survive, I knew.
Once the structure was cleaned, my guys would be able to replace the two pieces of glass that had been cracked by the force of Petsy’s falling body.
It was almost unbelievable, but the fleur-de-lis embellishments had not been damaged by Petsy’s fall. They looked as straight and strong and good as new. I suppose that would’ve made Petsy happy—as if anything in life had ever made her happy.
• • •
Two weeks later, the day of the Home and Garden Tour arrived. The town square was festooned with bunting and streamers and flags. A few dozen booths were set up across the wide expanse, promoting everything from beer and soda, to chocolate fudge and hot dogs, to flowers and pottery and puppies. Especially puppies. The animal adoption booth was always a huge success.
The fourteen homes that had been selected for this year’s tour had been polished to a fine sheen and their gardens were bursting with blooms and lush greenery. Banners announcing the big day were hung on storefronts and picket fences and porches all over town. There were pots of flowers hanging on every light post. On the side streets around the town square, trolley cars and trams were lined up, ready to drive the tour-goers to each of the houses on display.
After days of worrying and debating, Lindsey and Matthew Jorgensen had decided to keep their house on the tour. Their reasoning was that they wanted to recognize all the hard work Amanda and my crew had done to make it look so beautiful.
Lindsey had decided to sell the gallery in San Francisco and had begun the slow process of moving back to Lighthouse Cove. She and Matthew had invited Amanda to live in their house and she had accepted joyfully. With three stories, eight bedrooms, and nine bathrooms, each of them could have their own wing and all the privacy they wanted. But it seemed that all they really wanted was to get to know one another better.
Happily, in the span of two weeks, the three had grown as close as any family could be. Amanda was already calling Lindsey her sister and she admitted that she hadn’t been this happy in years. Matthew insisted on painting her portrait and he promised to hang it in the hall next to his Regency ancestor’s painting.
And it was all thanks, in a strange and disturbing way, to Petsy.
The tour hadn’t yet started when I spotted Jane checking on the line of trolleys and I called to her. “Anything I can do to help?”
“Oh, Shannon.” She grabbed me in a hug. “I so wish you were working with me on this event.”
“Me, too. But I’ve kind of had my hands full.”
“We’ve got to get together with the girls and talk about everything.” She stared at me, scanning my face for cracks, maybe? “You look great, but you could be faking it. Are you all right?”
I laughed. “I’m not faking it. You might’ve heard I had a close call last week, but everything’s fine now.”
“I’m glad. But I really want to sit down and hear everything that happened.”
“You already know that your desk clerk saved the day, right?”
“Yes. Mac stopped by to let me know that Ricardo was very helpful. So that was exciting.”
“I’m extremely grateful for Ricardo’s sharp eyes.”
She smiled as she gazed around, taking in the festival scene. Suddenly she did a double take. “Oh my. Is that Marigold’s new friend?”
I turned and saw Raphael holding Marigold’s hand up to his li
ps and kissing it, right in the middle of the sidewalk.
“It sure is. That’s Raphael Nash.”
“Wow. He’s just as gorgeous as you said he was.” She smiled softly. “She looks so happy.”
“Doesn’t she?” In fact, Marigold looked radiant. I had a sneaky feeling Raphael must have assured her that she would never have to milk another cow for as long as they both lived.
• • •
The tour was a huge success, as I had known it would be. Everyone who viewed the houses gushed over all of the glorious Victorians. People chatted about the fun of walking through these marvelously overwrought homes built so many years ago, when decorative excess was king.
The more intellectual types could be overheard comparing the High Victorian style to the Early Gothic, while the kids enjoyed exploring the wraparound verandas and climbing the stairs to the bell towers.
Each person on the tour filled out a ballot with the names of their top three favorites. These were handed over to the official festival booth in the town square. That afternoon, after the flamenco dancers and the spoon ladies had performed and all the puppies and kittens had been adopted, the mayor walked onto the stage. He welcomed the crowd and thanked everyone for coming. Then he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I want to offer our thanks to our official celebrity judge, MacKintyre Sullivan, who helped us tabulate the ballots.”
Mac had joined me in the crowd and he waved to everyone as they applauded.
“And now,” the mayor continued, “I am pleased to announce the winner of this year’s Lighthouse Cove Victorian Home and Garden Tour. The most beautiful home and garden in Lighthouse Cove is . . . Drumroll, please!”
The band complied, and the mayor grinned. “The winner is . . . the Jorgensen house!”
“What?” I was frankly astounded. I stared at Mac, and he laughed out loud. Grabbing me in his arms, he swung me around until I was dizzy and laughing with him.
“You won!” he shouted, hugging me again. “Well, the Jorgensens won, but only because of your work. Congratulations! I’m so proud of you.”
“You knew!”
“Of course I knew,” he said. “I’m the official celebrity judge. I know everything.”
My eyes narrowed. “You didn’t rig it, did you?”
He laughed again. “No. All I did was count the ballots. The Jorgensen house won fair and square.”
“Wow. That is fantastic.” I grinned at him. “I honestly don’t think the win had much to do with me, but I’ll take it.”
I had to wonder what the crowd had been thinking. Had they been influenced by the adrenaline-charged thrill of exploring a house where a vicious killer had once lived? Or had they simply been drawn to the beauty of the house itself? I hoped it was the latter, but whatever their motivation, the people of Lighthouse Cove had chosen the Jorgensen house as this year’s winner. Either way, I was stunned. And a part of me was sure that Petsy knew and was right now lording it over everyone around her—wherever she was. After all, just because you were dead didn’t mean you suddenly got nice.
After a few more minutes of celebrating, the crowd began to disperse. I would try to find Jane and my other friends later, but for now, I was happy to be with Mac.
He frowned introspectively. “So, why didn’t you enter your house on the tour? It’s got to be one of the prettiest ones in town.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Or are you just sucking up?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is it working?”
“I believe it is.” I leaned over and kissed him. “The truth is, my house won the tour a few years back, so I retired from the competition.”
“Hmm.” He scratched his ear, thinking. “Maybe I’ll enter the lighthouse mansion next year.”
“Oh, you should,” I said, excited at the prospect. “Really. I’ll do whatever it takes to get you that first-place ribbon.”
He thought for a moment, considering the idea. “That’s nice of you. And actually I have been thinking about landscaping the yard and adding on a room one of these days. Maybe off the kitchen, where you put in those beautiful French doors.”
My eyebrows lifted and I smiled. “Wonderful. A sitting room? Or another bedroom?”
“No,” he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “I was thinking it would be nice to have an orangery.”
Read on for an excerpt from Kate Carlisle’s new Bibliophile mystery,
BURIED IN BOOKS
Coming from Prime Crime in June 2018.
“The name is Wainwright,” I said to the conference volunteer seated at the registration table before me. “Brooklyn Wainwright.”
The young woman gave an absent nod and began to skim the thick row of envelopes standing upright in the box in front of her. Not exactly friendly, but the crowd was huge and the woman was probably feeling overwhelmed. Halfway through the row, she stopped suddenly and stared up at me. “Wait. You’re Brooklyn Wainwright? I signed up for your workshop.”
“Oh.” I smiled. “I hope you’ll enjoy it.”
“I know it’ll be fantastic,” she said brightly. “I’m like your biggest fan.”
“That’s so nice. Thanks.”
For the fifth year in a row, I had been asked to present the bookbinding workshop for the annual National Librarians Association conference. I was thrilled that the conference was being held in San Francisco this year so I wouldn’t have to lug all of my supplies and equipment halfway across the country.
Sighing inwardly, I admitted that I would’ve been looking forward to the workshop a lot more if I hadn’t botched up my schedule so badly. But nobody here needed to know that.
The volunteer flipped her pink-streaked hair away from her face and continued to stare at me as though I were a rock star. Her former bored interest had turned into wide-eyed excitement. It was fun, but also a little intimidating. She knew me and my work. What if she hated the workshop?
“I saw your pop-up display at the Covington Library,” she said. “It was amazing.”
“Thank you.” I sensed the people in line behind me getting antsy to move things along. I turned and flashed an apologetic smile.
But my new biggest fan didn’t seem to notice the impatient crowd. Instead, she leaned forward and whispered loudly, “Everyone says you’re going to dish about the murders during the workshop. I’m so psyched!”
“Uh . . . what?”
She nodded eagerly. “Is it true you found a body inside the Covington? What a rush!”
“Umm, no, I . . .” I had no words. The fact was, I had found a body inside the Covington. More than once, to be honest. But I wasn’t about to discuss the details with a stranger.
She frowned at me, clearly confused by my reticence. Then she began to nod slowly as if she and I were in on a secret together. “Ah, I get it. You’re saving the gory details for the workshop. I understand. Don’t worry. I can wait.”
Snapping back into work mode, she pulled a manila envelope from the stack and handed it to me. “Here you go. This envelope contains your badge and your program book. It’s got all the events listed as well as the speakers’ bios. And there’s a map inside the back cover. This place is huge, so we don’t want anyone to get lost.” She pointed toward the opposite side of the massive hall. “You can pick up a book bag at the south end of the auditorium.”
I peered at her badge to catch her name. “Okay. Thanks, Lucy.”
“Enjoy the conference, Brooklyn.” She gave me a conspiratorial wink. “See you at the workshop.”
“You bet.” A little dazed and a touch breathless, I stepped away from the registration table, feeling like I’d just run a sprint.
An enormous woman in pink bumped into me and kept walking, obviously in a hurry to get her conference bag. I hardly noticed.
Was someone spreading the word that I would be talking about murder? Seriously? I didn’t e
ven like thinking about the bodies I’d stumbled across, let alone using them as filler in my workshop program. It wasn’t going to happen. Which meant that no doubt there were going to be some disappointed people—like Lucy, for instance. I sighed and shook my head. The conference just got more complicated.
I’m a bookbinder specializing in rare-book restoration, which means I make my living refurbishing old books. I also enjoy creating handmade books when I’m feeling particularly artistic. Unfortunately, in connection with my work, I happened to have stumbled across more than a few dead bodies over the past two or three years. And yes, the victims were all connected to the various books I had been working on at the time.
But that didn’t mean I knew anything about the subject of murder! And I absolutely refused to draw attention to myself because of my weird proclivity for finding dead people. So why would anyone think I would take time out of a bookbinding class to talk about murder?
When it came to any connection between rare books and murder, the only bit of information I was willing to offer was this: If you thought that books weren’t worth killing for, you were dead wrong.
I scanned the enormous hall, noting that in the time it had taken me to register, hundreds more people had arrived for the conference. Dozens were waiting in line to register. Some peered around anxiously, trying to get their bearings. Others were gathered in small groups, chatting and laughing and, in the case of the cluster of five women closest to me, shrieking.
I did a quick mental calculation as I studied the diverse crowd. There had to be at least eight hundred people milling around this cavernous space. Probably closer to a thousand. No wonder the noise level was deafening.
The racket didn’t bother me. These were my people. Librarians. Book nerds. “And apparently a few murder fans,” I muttered to myself.
Eaves of Destruction Page 24
