Murder and Manuscripts

by Stacey Alabaster

  “You didn’t have to do this,” I said sheepishly. I could barely even look at him.

  “Of course I was going to be here for you, Alyson,” Troy said. He shot Wells a dirty look as he led me out of the holding cell. Wells looked decidedly less smug. I didn’t take too much notice at the time, but it did seem like there was some tension between the two of them. Wells had certainly been surprised that Troy Emerald was a friend of mine.

  “Yeah, but after what I said to you down at the pier…”

  “Just because you don’t want to go on another date with me, Alyson, doesn’t mean that I would abandon you in a jail cell. Do you really think I am that much of a jerk?”

  Well… I had to be honest with him. I just kinda looked up at him and shrugged, the jacket the he had given me over my shoulders. “Sort of.”

  But he knew I was only teasing. We walked out the front and he led me to his car. Part of me wanted to protest that I was able to walk home on my own, but I was completely exhausted. And part of me didn’t want to go back to my own house anyway. Now that J was with Matt almost full time, it didn’t feel like home.

  Troy lived in a hotel for the time being, but it still felt warm when I walked in. And it was more fully decorated than my apartment. And surprisingly, I noticed that Troy had a bunch of mismatched personal items scattered over the place. “Thermostat,” he explained while he made me a cup of green tea when I asked how the temperature was so perfect.

  It was late, and I was curled up on the sofa under a blanket like a cat who didn’t want to be disturbed. “Do you mind if I sleep here tonight?”

  “Of course not, Alyson. You can have the bedroom and I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  But I insisted on taking the sofa. I didn’t mind at all. It was actually more comfortable than my bed at home.

  “That guy is a real piece of work,” Troy commented as he got me some spare blankets from the closet.

  “Who?” I asked, a little groggy from the fact that I was about to fall asleep.

  “Wells.”

  “You’ve met him before?” I asked. It was just a guess, but it seemed like I had hit on something.

  “Yeah, he was down at the construction site one night.” Troy shook his head as he took his shoes off. “Some idiot had made a complaint about the noise, but it wasn’t a weeknight or anything.”

  “Hang on, what night?” I asked, sitting up straight. Geez, that ‘sleepy time tea’ sure had done the trick.

  “Last Friday,” Troy said.

  “So Wells was down at the development on the night that Nicole Marie was killed?” I suddenly felt cold even in the room that was supposed to be perfect temperature.

  Troy looked at me in surprise, like he had no idea why this news was troubling to me. “Yes. Friday night. He was down there for quite a while.”

  “What time?”

  He shrugged. “About six-ish till about seven-ish?”

  I tried to scramble for an explanation. One that still made Wells guilty. “Well, maybe he was so angry when he left that he was looking for someone to hurt. Did he storm away from the site in a rage?”

  Troy shook his head. “No, he went for a drink with one of my men.”

  Great. So that theory was shot to pieces. I groaned and reached for my phone to text Claire the very bad news. Troy was still befuddled about why this was all such a disappointment to me. I just told him. Long story. Too long. And not a great ending. “I need to sleep,” I said. He nodded and wished me sweet dreams as he left to go to his own bedroom.

  I finally fell asleep an hour later, but I left first thing the following morning. I didn’t even think to ask how Troy had gotten Wells to leave the construction site that night.

  18

  Claire

  Simon’s cottage had the most beautiful view. And one that would never be obscured by any mall development because it was right against the ocean. I could see why writers paid big bucks to be burrowed up in seclusion here. Simon had already told me I could borrow the cottage for a weekend—even a week—if I needed some time to finish my book alone. I was grateful. I felt a little greedy accepting the offer as I already lived on the beach. It should go to a writer who really needed it, one who lived in the city with all its distractions. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t tempting.

  A lot of things were tempting.

  “It’s just… I know that he is hiding something,” I said as I paced. I’d filled him in on the whole Wells situation.

  Simon was staring up at me with an amused expression. It annoyed me because he looked like he ‘knew’ something about me that I didn’t know and people thinking they knew better than me was my number one pet peeve. “What?” I finally asked.

  He leaned forward and put the stack of papers down on the coffee table. My manuscript. Three quarters of the way done. Now that Simon had given me notes and suggestions, I was speeding ahead with it any spare chance I got. “Could it be that Wells being innocent doesn’t just destroy your real-life ideas? But also something else as well?”

  I shook my head a little in frustration. “What are you talking about?” Did he always have to be so cryptic?

  He tapped the pile of papers. “Could it be that it also destroys the plot for your book?”

  I felt a little called out and tried to object. “Of course not. It has nothing to do with that.”

  I was protesting too much.

  But Simon saw right through me. “You know you can still have the twist in the book be that the cop did it, even if it didn’t turn out that way in real life,” he said with a laugh.

  I shrugged. “I know that,” I said. But did I? That was the way that The Bookshelf was supposed to end. It all made sense—the cop was the first on the scene, he was a former lover to the victim, and he had the murder weapon in his house. I sighed. If it didn’t work in real life, how was it going to work in fiction?

  I sat down and sighed again. “So what do you really think of the book?” I asked. “You can be brutally honest, you know.”

  He looked at me with amusement. “Can I?” he asked.

  I had to laugh at that. “Well. Sugar coat it a teeny little bit, maybe. But I’m being serious, Simon. If it’s no good, I would rather stop now and cut my losses before I finish the whole thing.”

  He shook his head. “It’s really good, Claire.”

  I leaned back. Huh. Considering how honest he had been with the other writers—he’d even refused to publish Nicole Marie’s book, for crying out loud, and she was his good friend—I had no reason to think that he would be lying to me just to protect my feelings. He must have sincerely liked the book.

  But I didn’t quite want to ask the question, so I just danced around it a little.

  “I suppose when it is completed, there will still be quite a lot of work to do,” I mused. “You know, to bring it up to what you called ‘publishable standards’.” I was acting causal, but I peered out of the corner of my eye to check his reaction. And held my breath.

  He shook his head a little. “Well, yes, of course, every manuscript can do with a little tightening. But that is where an editor’s suggestions come in handy.”

  I swallowed. This was it. The moment. “Ahem. And I don’t suppose you would want to be that editor, would you?”

  He leaned forward a little. “Claire, as long as you keep up the same standard for the last quarter of the book, I would be more than happy to be that editor.”

  I sat up a little straighter and couldn’t stop the grin that was spreading over my face.

  But I had to clarify something, as much as doing so made me want to crawl into a hole and die. I even squeezed my eyes shut as I said it. “And this isn’t because… Well, it isn’t because you have feelings for me, or fancy me or anything, right?”

  I had to fully open my eyes again to see his response. Uh-oh. He looked slightly offended. But when he saw I was looking at him again, he straightened his face into a smile. “Claire. My only concern is the quality of your writing.
I hope I never gave you the impression that there were any strings attached.”

  I shook my head. “No. Of course not. I just wanted to make sure.” Darn, I hoped I hadn’t put my foot in it and jeopardized the whole deal.

  But even if I had, maybe it didn’t matter—because when I left the cottage an hour later, I saw I had an email.

  From another publisher.

  There were butterflies in my stomach. Now I really was in demand.

  19

  Alyson

  It had been quite a few years since I’d wrapped an apron around my waist. As soon as I did, I seemed to become some sort of slave to demanding customers who all wanted their colas and coffees faster than I could make or carry them.

  There was a man in his late thirties sitting at the bar waiting for me to take his order.

  “Sorry,” I said, blowing my hair out of my face. “Busy morning.”

  He smiled at me like he knew me even though I’d never seen him before in my life. “Alyson, right? I’m Simon. Your friend Claire’s…friend, I guess. Hopefully editor.”

  “Oh,” I said, stretching my arm out. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  I had to laugh to myself. Of course Claire would tell me that nothing was going on between them. But he was her exact ‘type.’ I gave him a quick up and down and tried not to smirk.

  He raised his eyebrows at me. “You look like you know something I don’t know?”

  I smiled while I dried a milkshake glass. “Oh, just that best friends tend to have a sixth sense for these sorts of things.”

  He looked at me curiously. He was smart. But maybe he caught my drift and maybe he didn’t.

  “So, you work here?” he asked me.

  I sighed. “No. But I am doing a huge favor for my brother. I haven’t actually waitressed in years. But he’s looking after our niece full time now. Long story.”

  He smiled. “Well, any friend of Claire’s is a friend of mine. Maybe you can tell me this long story some time. It might even make a good book.”

  I had to laugh. I always thought my life would make a good book.

  I came back to clear away his empty plate a half-hour later. “What’s that?” I asked, leaning over to look at what he was reading.

  “Well, speaking of—this is Claire’s book, actually.” He frowned at me. “But surely it must familiar to you.”

  I tried to laugh that comment off causally. “Haha. Sure. Yeah, of course Claire has let me read it. I’m very familiar with the story.”

  Was he buying this?

  He nodded. Then looked slightly embarrassed. “I guess you know then that Claire took my notes about the cop being the guilty party.” He flipped through the pages and looked deep in thought. “But it doesn’t seem like that is going to work out now…” he said in this weird, low voice that sent a shiver down my spine. “Unfortunately.”

  Hmmm.

  I quickly smiled when he looked up at me. “I’ll, um, get your check for you.”

  I banged on Maria’s door. Of course, I was pretty much the last person she wanted to see right then. Neither Claire nor I had spoken to Maria in days. But she was the one—the only one—who might know the answer to the question I had to ask. “Come on, Maria, I am still your favorite student, right?”

  She sighed and finally let me in.

  “Maria,” I said, panting due to the fact that I had run all the way from Captain Eightball’s to her place. And it was all uphill. “You know about Nicole Marie’s book, right?” I really needed Claire for this, but I could not get a hold of her.

  Maria nodded. “Yes. She had written a murder mystery…”

  I didn’t have time for a full explanation. “And this guy, Simon someone or other, he was going to publish her book?”

  Maria threw her head back. “Oh, he wished. No. Nicole Marie had a deal with a much bigger publishing company.” She sighed. “A shame for Simon, because he really, really wanted that book.”

  I gulped. Of course he did.

  “Maria. The night Nicole Marie was killed. Did you see anyone else in the shop? Or outside?”

  She shrugged a little.

  “Maria. This could really help get you off the hook,” I said.

  But she didn’t look sure at all. “I thought Nicole Marie was gone when I left…”

  “She wasn’t, though,” I said. “Someone followed her there that night, Maria. Simon. And he was still there when you left.” I paused. Then a light bulb seemed to go off in my mind. “But there was something strange, actually. He told Claire that he was away in Newcastle for an awards ceremony. But I could have sworn I saw him here in town. One evening, I thought I spotted him coming out of a large glass house down by the jetty.”

  Wells’s house.

  And he probably burned down Nicole Marie’s house as well. To stop anyone else getting that manuscript.

  I tried to call again. “Claire isn’t answering her phone.” I looked at Maria pleadingly. “You have a car, right? I think I know where she might be.”

  I ended up driving because Maria’s night vision was not what it used to me. But she was talking to me in worried tones from the passenger seat. “There were these strange gloves found in my house. In one of the desks in the classroom.”

  I gripped the wheel and checked the rearview mirror. “Yeah, and I have a feeling I know where that idea might have come from,” I said. Darn. If only I had read Claire’s book. Maybe reading wasn’t such a waste of time after all. It had only taken me this long to realize it. I made a vow that I was going to take my studies seriously from that point forward. It just might save a life.

  It had taken a call to Sadie, but Maria had gotten the address of the cottage. I banged on the door and yelled Claire’s name. “Maria, she could be tied up in there or worse!” I yelled, sure that she was not going to answer the door.

  But she pulled it open one second later with a frown on her face. “What are you doing here, Alyson?”

  I stood back, stunned. “You’re all in one piece.”

  “Of course I am. Um. What were you expecting?” She saw I had Maria with me and gave her a full-on dirty glare before snubbing her.

  The words spilled out of me. “Claire! Simon DID want to buy and publish Nicole Marie’s manuscript, but she didn’t want him to have it! She was going to go with another publisher! Claire. He killed Nicole Marie. And then he gave the idea to you to have the cop do it. Because he wanted it to be believable when he framed Wells in real life.”

  Claire’s eyes went wide. “But I already emailed him the finished copy… I just finished it ten minutes ago.” Her face fell. “Oh gosh. Alyson. In the email, I said that if he didn’t want to publish it was no big deal, because I’d gotten another offer…”

  Maria and I looked at each other. Maybe it wasn’t her life that was in danger. Maybe it was just her book. “Well, that’s not so bad,” I said when I realized what was happening. Clearly, I had said the wrong thing, yet again.

  Claire was outraged. “You don’t understand, Alyson. He could steal my manuscript! We have to go after him!”

  There was a car door slamming out front and we all jumped. Simon.

  “Quick, hide,” Claire said.

  “What, why?”

  “Trust me.”

  Maria and I ducked behind the couch while I made the call to Wells. I mean, I called the police station and of course he was the one who picked up. Great. Of course. I quickly put the phone away as Simon walked in.

  “I know what you did, Simon.” Claire’s voice was low. “And you’re not getting my book. Not in life, and not after death.”

  I peered out from behind the sofa. “Oh my gosh, he’s got a rope!” I squealed while Maria put her hand over my mouth. “Well, we can’t just crouch down here and do nothing!”

  But it was Maria who leapt out and hit him over the head…with a very large book. I jumped up and we all stared down at Simon while Marie, with a pleading look in her eyes, said, “Does this mean we are all squar
e, Claire? Can I come back to work at the bookshop?”

  I tried not to laugh while Claire just stared at her. Princess took a long time to forgive and forget. Even if you saved her life.

  “Bring me my books back and I’ll think about it.”

  I sidled up to Wells, all smug, while he was putting Simon in the car.

  “So, I guess we’re both innocent,” I said to him, raising an eyebrow.

  He sighed warily. “How do you figure that?”

  “Well, you’re not a murderer and I’m not an arsonist.” I nodded towards the car. “Clearly, Simon burned down the house to get rid of the manuscript.”

  “Actually, you’re wrong about that,” he said, putting a pen back into his top pocket. “We’re looking at another suspect. Two, actually.”

  “Can you tell me who?” I asked incredulously.

  He just shook his head. “It should be good news to you, Alyson, that you’re not the only one on the hook for this.”

  My stomach dropped. “So my charges aren’t being dropped?” I stared at him. What was wrong with this guy?

  “I’ll keep you informed, Miss Foulkes.”

  Well. That was a bittersweet victory.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Matt. He’d come up to check that Claire was all right, but he seemed more concerned about me in that moment.

  “There’s something I need to tell you, Alyson. About Claire.”

  I shook my head. “Oh no,” I said, “No more bad news.”

  And I meant it. Not on that day.

  Instead, I found my best friend and gave her the biggest hug I could. The clouds had all cleared and there was sun over Eden Bay again. Pure blue skies. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go for a surf.”

  Epilogue

  Claire

  Two Weeks Later

  This was a very special meeting of the book club. And a certain someone had a fourth chance. There was a new rule. A rule that applied to best friends only, mind you.