Literally Murder (A Pepper Brooks Cozy Mystery Book 2)

by Eryn Scott

  Reuben sat up, turning from the notebook he'd just pulled from his bag.

  Seeing I had his attention, I went on. "I need to tell you something."

  He nodded, eyebrows raising expectantly.

  I held up a hand. "But it's crazy, I think—er—well, I know it's crazy. Or, it might be. If it's not true." Tipping my head to the side, I said, "If I'm right, though, it would mean that the police have been looking in all the wrong—"

  "Pepper," Reuben interrupted me.

  I pressed my lips together and looked over at him. "Right, sorry." I cleared my throat. Alex had never actually let me get further than "I think there's a connection to Hemingway," so I'd never actually voiced my theory. "So these murders..." I started out slow. "They all feel connected."

  He leaned closer and nodded. "Yeah, because they're all blondes, strangled, and left facedown in water."

  "Well, yes, but also no. It's not just that. The hair color connection is the one I actually can't figure out." I looked down at my lap. "The thread linking them all together is Hemingway." Clearing my throat, I let my gaze venture up to gauge his reaction.

  Reuben's eyes widened and a tremor ran along his clenched jawline. "Go on." The intensity in his face could've just as easily been fanatical as nefarious, depending.

  I chose to believe he was just a fanatic. So I told him about the short stories, how each death mirrored specific details, how these deaths seemed to be less and less about affairs or break ups or anything other than just a crazy person picking off students, one short story at a time.

  "A Hemingway killer," Reuben said, looking past me, eyes unfocused.

  Before he could say anything more, the door to the classroom opened and a group of noisy classmates entered. Their attention settled on us and they skirted to the far corner, ducking their heads to whisper as they glanced over at us.

  Great, I'd been spending too much time with Reuben. People were wary of me now.

  His eyes widened. "It's perfect. Let's meet me at the Hemingway bar and you can tell me more then."

  "Hemingway bar?" I furrowed my eyebrows, whispering so we wouldn't bring more attention to us. Evensworth walked in, put his bag down and then started in on his lecture.

  Reuben leaned closer. "The Select," he whispered, but Evensworth shot us a threatening stare, so Reuben added a quick, "See you there at eight o'clock," and then moved away, giving the professor his attention.

  Sighing, I gave him a resentful nod. Evensworth had the worst timing. Finally it seemed as if someone was taking me seriously. And I'd just learned about a possible Hemingway connection with the new bar. I wanted to talk about all of it. But I supposed it would have to wait until that night.

  Pushing those wonderings out of my mind didn't help me concentrate, however. Once those were out of the way, new thoughts crowded in, cutting in front of Evensworth's lecture.

  For the rest of the day, I couldn't stop thinking about Heidi and her dad. Simon had always been so kind to me. My father's personal library had been almost like a bookstore, but whereas I could count on Dad to have all the classics, Simon had the new releases. He would hold the ones he knew I would love aside for me behind the counter, so no one else would snatch them up before me. I could just picture him, watery blue eyes red from crying, wild black pepper hair askew from running his hands through it.

  After my last class of the day, I walked into town, past the bookstore. Simon's Books was in the middle of Main Street. Whereas my mother's office was in the bustling middle of town by the fountain, Main Street was a fairly quiet road. The birds chirped in the slightly warm spring air and flowers bloomed in planters along the sidewalk.

  The lights were out in the small brick building, though. I peeked into the front window, past the Closed sign. Of course he wouldn't open today. Heidi was gone. Honestly, I wasn't sure if Simon's Books would ever open its doors again. Other than the store, Heidi had been Simon's life. My heart hurt at the thought of him going on without her.

  Dejected, I headed home, but stopped at the library instead. I loved my room, but there was just something incredibly comforting about that building, the lamps, the familiar dusty book smell. So I sat in Over Your Shoulder—the name I'd given the window seat with the small over-your-shoulder lamp—and read, then outlined a paper I needed to write next week.

  When I was done, I pulled out my phone and did a little research on The Select. Le Select, from Paris, was a bar at which Hemingway wrote and drank, he'd even included it in a few of his stories. It all started to make sense. The marlin hanging on the wall, the pictures of the matadors, now matched with the name looked very decidedly like an homage to Papa.

  I hadn't pegged Isaac as a Hemingway fanatic. Interest piqued, I typed in "The Select, Isaac Breen, Pine Crest" but no website for the bar came up in the search results. That's not to say my search wasn't fruitful. What the search engine did find was chilling. It wasn't about The Select as much as its owner.

  The name, Isaac Breen was highlighted in a long list of news articles. And the headlines were terrifying.

  "Wife and Mother Dead at 28."

  "Husband Prime Suspect in Oregon Murder."

  "Husband of Oregon Woman Walks Free."

  Scanning the text, I learned Isaac's mother had been killed when he was only four. My heart broke for the guy. The articles all reported that Isaac's father, Tyler, had been suspected, but when the case went to court, he'd been found not guilty. How terrible for a young child to lose his mother and live in fear that his father might be taken away as well.

  My search was interrupted by a text from Liv.

  "Hey, what are you up to tonight?"

  I closed the search and responded.

  "On my way home. See you in a few."

  Packing up my stuff, I headed outside. By the time I got back to the apartment, the sun was already setting. Liv was in the bathroom curling her hair. She had on red heels, black cigarette pants, a black and white striped top, and a bright red pashmina which matched her lipstick. She looked fierce.

  I whistled. "Where are you off to? Hot date with Carson?"

  Liv blushed, but shook her head. "Remember that case competition my team got second place in at the end of last quarter?"

  "Yeah." It had been news to me that business schools competed like some sort of spelling bee for adults who want to sell things. No matter how odd I found it, Liv had been amped up about it, and pretty disappointed when they hadn't won.

  "The first-place team was disqualified because it came out that they'd bribed the last judge, so we got the title! We're going out to celebrate."

  "That's awesome! Where?"

  "The Select. The guys haven't been there yet."

  I often hung out with the Js, Liv's three closest business friends, but whenever she mentioned "the guys" I knew I was out. I'd tagged along with the rowdy group one time during freshman year and had regretted it the whole night. They were smarmy as all get out, constantly betting on stupid things, and not five minutes went by where one of them wasn't getting cup-checked by another.

  "Aw, man. That's where I'm going." I wrinkled my nose.

  Liv chuckled. She didn't make excuses for the guys. She knew they were annoying, but she'd grown up with her big-business father and was comfortable being one of them. In fact, she was the only girl from the business building they consistently invited out with them.

  "Well, we can walk there together, but after that I'm staying as far away from you and those business turds."

  Liv shot me an unamused eye roll. "Maybe I'll walk by myself then."

  I scoffed. "No way. I'm not letting you go anywhere alone right now. It's literally murder out there for blondes, Liv."

  "Yeah." Liv grimaced and disappeared into her room. "Fine then. You ready to go? Who are you meeting anyway?"

  I concealed Reuben's name within a cough, hoping she wouldn't hear. Liv had excellent hearing, apparently, because she poked her head back into the bathroom and said, "The creepy Hemingway supe
rfan? Why?"

  Sighing, I said, "Come on. I'll explain on the way."

  18

  The bar was pretty empty. Unfortunately, this meant I could see and hear everything Liv and her group were doing while I waited for Reuben to show.

  And even though they were just as annoying as I remembered them to be, I couldn’t deny that the business guys really seemed to like Liv. I mean, they would never admit that to anyone. The one thing I appreciated about them was how they seemed to accept her as their equal, as someone who didn't need special treatment. This was made evident when they sat down, casually taking all of the chairs, forcing Liv and another guy to go grab theirs from a nearby table.

  I laughed and shook my head, picking up a menu just as Reuben slipped into the seat across from me.

  "What looks good?" he asked.

  "I don't know." I turned over the drink menu. "I've only ever had the marmot mule." I glanced up at Reuben.

  He nodded. "I'm a mountain manhattan guy, myself."

  I stifled a laugh. The pale, lanky, disheveled twenty-something looked less like "a mountain manhattan guy" than anyone I'd ever met. Nodding to cover up my thoughts, I said, "That sounds good. I'll try one." Just as I was about to scoot off my seat to go order our drinks from Isaac, Reuben put out a hand to stop me.

  "On me. I asked you here, so it's my treat." He winked and I wondered what I'd gotten myself into.

  I watched Liv while Reuben was gone. She was telling a story, gesticulating and laughing as the guys interrupted her with what I can only assume to be stupid one-liners.

  A beautiful, classic-looking drink appeared in front of me, pulling my attention away from Liv and her friends. The amber liquid almost appeared to shine in the cut-crystal glass and the ice cubes clinked delicately against the sides, cracking as they adjusted to the room temperature liquid.

  "Oh," I said, ducking my head to look at the masterpiece from different angles.

  Reuben picked his up and held it toward me. "To Hem."

  I nodded, picking up my own drink and then tapping it against his. "To Papa."

  Sipping the sweet-yet-bitter concoction, I glanced over at the bar looking for Isaac so I could give him a bit of a cheers, too. He was looking over at me already, but instead of the prideful smile I expected as he watched me try the drink for the first time, his face was dark and tight. He glanced away right when I met his gaze.

  I remembered reading about his tragic childhood. That had to have been so hard for him. Even though he wasn't displaying his regular, easygoing attitude, I was struck by how well he hid his pain. This dark look I was getting was the first of the kind I'd seen from him.

  Regardless of understanding where Isaac's melancholy might be stemming from, an odd tightness came over me and I shifted my attention back to Reuben. We had things to discuss.

  "So, tell me more about this Hemingway connection," he said.

  "Well." I leaned forward. "I think each murder is linked to a short story."

  "Which ones?"

  I described the connection I saw between Katie's murder and Hills like White Elephants, the similarities between Mindy's murder and A Clean Well-Lighted Place, and Heidi's most recent death, eerily linked to the events in The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber—sans the African safari, of course.

  Reuben sat there quietly, his listening punctuated by narrowed eyes, head nods, and thoughtful sips of his drink. When I finished, he licked his lips and a smile pulled across his face.

  "I gotta say, I think you might be onto something here, Brooks." He shook his head as if in disbelief.

  It felt weird to smile when we were talking about terrible, horrible, gruesome murders, but it felt so good to have someone listen and take me seriously for once in this whole situation, that I couldn't help but mirror his grin and take another sip of my Manhattan.

  "Right? I mean, it didn't really click until Heidi, but it's almost undeniable at this point." I sighed, shoulders relaxing now that the weight of my secret suspicions had been shared with another. "I know that I've been reading a lot of Hemingway lately, and a lot of people might think that's why I'm seeing these connections."

  Reuben cleared his throat. "No. I mean, it's buried, but it's there. No one can deny it. I bet the murderer would be really tickled that someone figured it out. No one does something like this without secretly wanting at least one savvy person to figure it out. It's like a masterpiece, a work of art. He definitely wants someone to know."

  Okay, I thought. That was a little weird. Glad as I was to have his support, Reuben almost sounded like he admired the killer. I picked up my drink and took another few sips, buying myself a little time to think before I had to figure out what to say.

  Reuben seemed on a roll, though, and didn't appear to need my input after all.

  "So the question is, which short story is next? I'm only assuming he's gonna to keep going, of course. There are plenty more blondes on campus." He tapped his lips with the pads of his fingers and his eyes settled on something behind me.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I noticed he was watching Liv. Blond Liv. Frowning, I said, "Well, he's not just picking them at random."

  Ruben nodded. "Right." He blinked. "But Hemingway wrote dozens of short stories. How are we supposed to find out which one's next?"

  I tapped my foot against the dark hardwood of the floor. "I know. That's the frustrating part. I'm able to see the connection after they're dead, but how does that help us stop the next girl from dying before it happens?"

  "Hmm..." Reuben said, drawing out the sound.

  I sipped down the rest of my cocktail.

  A loud round of whoops rang out from the side of the bar where Liv and the guys were celebrating. One of them had gotten ahold of her red scarf and was waving it at Liv. She rolled her eyes, stormed over to him, and then grabbed the thing, wrapping it back around her neck.

  "What's going on over there?" Reuben asked, craning to see.

  "That's my friend Liv and her business classmates. They call her the bull." When Reuben raised his eyebrows in question, I added, "Because she charges straight into any situation and can usually push anyone into closing on the deal she wants." I waved my hand over my shoulder and looked back at Reuben. "They do that whole matador routine way too much, if you ask me, but she puts up with them for some reason."

  They did a lot of things way too much, if you asked me, though.

  "Okay," I said, getting us back on track. "So the Garrisons are out as suspects." I wished I'd brought my pad of paper and suspect list with me tonight.

  "Garrisons?" Reuben asked.

  "Yeah, Mr. G was having an affair with both Katie and Mindy, but the guy's got an alibi for Katie's murder, and—I don't know—if we were talking musicals or plays, I would say we should look into him more, but Hemingway? For a while, I also thought it could be Mrs. G, jealous about her husband's affairs, but it seems like it was all her idea. Plus, I don't see Garrison or his wife as being super into American literature."

  Reuben shook his head. "Affairs? Wow. But not with Heidi?"

  "Well, I'm not exactly sure about that, but I really doubt it. Plus, there was all of that last night with Nick. You were here, right?"

  He cleared his throat.

  "Nick seemed pretty threatened and threatening, but he had no connection to the other two victims. So unless we're looking at two different murderers, then..." I shrugged.

  "Nick could've made it look the same to take suspicion off him." Reuben nodded. "Killing someone when there's a serial killer around is probably the best cover you could ask for."

  I don't know how I felt about the fact Reuben seemed to have given this some serious thought. But the frustration I felt at not knowing anything about Nick's whereabouts after the bar last night was all encompassing. Why hadn't I looked into that more?

  "You're right. We need to look into Nick's alibi. Go ask around the baseball clique." My fingers itched to grab my phone and text Alex, but I knew any question I asked h
im about the case would either be met with churlishness or silence.

  Reuben grimaced. "I'm not necessarily the best candidate for infiltrating the college sports community." He adjusted his shirt collar and swiped messy hair from his pale forehead.

  I nodded through a yawn. "Okay." Checking my watch, I blinked at the time. It was close to nine. I needed to get some good sleep tonight if I was going to do any sleuthing tomorrow. "I think I'm going to call it a night."

  Reuben nodded. "Sounds good. I'm going to hang here until I have to be at work. We can talk tomorrow after Evensworth's class."

  "Right." I remembered him talking about his night shifts at the grocery store last time we'd spent time together. "Thanks for the drink." I smiled at him, grabbing our empty glasses as I stood.

  "Anytime."

  "I'll take these." I motioned to the bar. "See you tomorrow."

  Reuben pulled out a book—none other than A Moveable Feast by Hemingway—and began reading while I went up to the bar. Isaac was at the other end, helping a customer. When he finished up and approached me, I was disappointed to see he still wore that same ominous expression.

  "That wasn't the same guy you were with yesterday." Isaac grabbed the glasses from me and stuck them upside down into a washing crate.

  "Oh! Him, no—we were just meeting to... chat. He's in one of my classes." I don't know why I was feeling flustered. Did Isaac seem mad at me? Did I care?

  Isaac crossed his arms over his chest, his icy blue eyes sinking into mine. "You need to be careful around him, Pepper. I get a feeling he's bad news."

  Blinking for a moment, I tried to make my thoughts line up instead of falling over each other in the jumble. Bad news? Reuben Cross? I mean, the guy was weird, crazy even, but bad news?

  I furrowed my eyebrows. "What? Why?"

  Isaac leaned closer to me. "He's been in here just about every night," he said, his hand covering mine, making me jump at the contact. His blue eyes were serious and then held me almost as palpably as his strong hand.