“Hey, Lily, I thought you’d be home by now.” Danielle sat down at the table while Walt silently listened to her side of the conversation.
“We’re getting ready to head back now. Why didn’t you tell me about Jolene?” Lily asked.
“So you heard?”
“Yeah. We just got back to Kelly’s, and she told us all about it.”
“Where did she get her information, the news or Joe?” Danielle asked.
“Joe. He called her about thirty minutes ago. Told her all about it.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t hear something about it on the radio.”
“We’ve been at the tattoo parlor all afternoon so—”
“Tattoo parlor?” Danielle interrupted.
“I finally did it, Dani. I claimed the dragon,” Lily told her.
“Did you tattoo over it?”
“No. Like I told you before, I didn’t want to do that. I…well, you’ll see. But I have to tell you, it hurt! Damn! I should have made them knock me out like before!”
Danielle laughed. “Yeah, I’m kind of a wimp. When Lucas got his second tattoo, he tried to convince me to get one, but I hate needles.”
“Unfortunately, I have to go back for them to finish it. But I’ve gone this far, I can’t wimp out now.”
Danielle heard Ian in the background. Lily then said, “Ian wants to talk to you for a minute.”
“Hey, Danielle, we heard about Jolene,” Ian said after he took the phone from Lily.
“Crazy, isn’t it?”
“Kelly said Adam was almost arrested, but you helped him out,” Ian said.
“I suppose I did. Poor Marie was really freaked. But we straightened it out quickly. I suppose Joe told Kelly about the bottle?”
“Yes. I was wondering, what does Hillary think about all this?” Ian asked.
“Hillary? In what way?”
“I just thought she might be down at the police station, asking questions. Checking out the crime scene. Going all Jessica Fletcher.”
“Why would she do that? As far as I know, she’s been holed up in her room since last night, working on her new book.”
“I just figured, with her history, she’d be in the middle of things.”
“Her history, in what way?” Danielle asked.
“You haven’t read her books, have you?”
Danielle glanced up at the ceiling, imagining Hillary in her room on the second floor, busily working on her new book. “No, but please keep that to yourself. I keep sidestepping that question. I need to read one of her books in case someone comes out and asks me in front of her.”
“Every Hillary Hemingway interview I’ve read or watched, she’s asked if her stories are based on real events—which she continually denies. I’ve read a couple interviewers who’ve come out and called her a liar. Of course, her fans don’t care. They love her. She has loyal fans.”
“I would imagine most authors steal their ideas from real life. So what does this have to do with Jolene?”
“I just figured, with a murder in such close proximity, she’d be out there soaking up story fodder for future books.”
“From how she’s been glued to her typewriter, I think she already has her next book worked out.”
“What’s this about a tattoo?” Walt asked when Danielle was finally off the phone.
“Lily finally did it. She’s making the tattoo hers.”
Walt understood what Danielle was talking about. After kidnapping Lily, in his attempt to make the world believe the comatose young woman was his niece Isabella, Stoddard Gusarov had Lily’s arm tattooed—a dragon tattoo exactly like the one his late niece had worn.
Lily had contemplated removing the tattoo, but because of the ink used, the painful process would leave her arm severely scarred. Instead of removal, Lily decided to make the tattoo hers by adding additional artwork.
“I’m curious to see it. But I still can’t get used to how women of your generation mark up their bodies.”
“Times have changed.”
“So you keep reminding me,” Walt said as he followed Danielle from the kitchen to the hallway, with Sadie trailing behind them.
They made their way to the parlor, where they found Max dozing on the sofa. Danielle promptly picked up the feline and put him on her lap as she sat down. Max yawned and opened his eyes.
Spying the cat on Danielle’s lap, Sadie rushed to the sofa and nosed the feline, only to be greeted by a scolding swat of a paw across her nose. Uninjured, as no claws were involved, Sadie gave another sniff, endured another swat, and then curled up on the floor by Danielle’s feet.
“So tell me about today—what you know about the murder. Did you see her spirit?” Walt asked.
“Yes, I did. But she didn’t talk to me. In fact, she ignored me.” Absently, Danielle scratched under Max’s chin. He closed his eyes and began to purr.
“Are you saying she hasn’t warmed up to you in death?” Walt chuckled.
“More like I don’t even exist. But she tried awful hard to get MacDonald’s attention. She showed him where her rings were.”
“Rings?” Walt frowned.
“Whoever killed Jolene hit her over the head with a wine bottle. They were under the pier. He…or she…took off Jolene’s rings. She wore a diamond ring on every finger, even her thumbs. The killer dumped the rings off the end of the pier. We figure he did that because he didn’t want to be caught with her jewelry, but had to take them so the police would think it was a robbery. Unbeknownst to the killer, the rings got tangled up in some fish netting that was stuck to the side of the pier. They recovered nine of her rings. The chief assumes one of the rings didn’t make it into the netting and is probably at the bottom of the water under the pier. I think it’s possible the killer kept one ring as a souvenir.”
Walt stared blankly at Danielle.
“What is it?” she asked.
“No…the killer didn’t keep the tenth ring,” Walt said in a low voice.
“Why do you say that?” Danielle frowned.
“I think our mystery writer is the killer.”
Chapter Nine
“What are you talking about?” Danielle watched Walt from her place on the parlor sofa.
Agitated, he paced the small room. The jacket of his gray three-piece suit suddenly vanished—as did his tie—leaving him wearing just his vest with his white shirt—its sleeves now rolled up (they hadn’t been a moment earlier)—and his slacks, socks and black dress shoes.
“What you just told me.” Walt stopped pacing and turned to face Danielle. “All of that, Jolene getting killed under the pier, being hit with a wine bottle, having her rings removed. I didn’t know the rings landed in a net, just that the killer tossed them off the pier. And I didn’t know it was Jolene, just some older woman.”
“What do you mean you knew the killer tossed the rings off the pier? How would you have known that? And why would you accuse Hillary of being the killer?”
“Last night, I read all that—everything you just told me—up in Hillary’s room.” Walt started pacing again.
Perplexed, Danielle frowned, considering Walt’s words. She looked up at him. “Please sit down. You’re making me dizzy.”
In the next instant Walt was sitting on the chair facing Danielle, a lit cigar now in his hand.
“Okay, run this by me again. You were in Hillary’s room last night?”
“I know you don’t like me going into the guests’ rooms, but I saw she was still up when I went to the attic last night. I was curious to see if she was writing.”
“You know I hate it when you go into the guests’ bedrooms. She could have been getting dressed or something, and that’s just so creepy. I’d hate to think of a ghost lurking around in my room while I’m taking my clothes off. Couldn’t you have just listened for the typewriter?”
“I suppose I could have, but that’s hardly the point right now,” Walt snapped.
“What is your point, and why would you m
ake some crazy accusation about Hillary being the killer?”
“I think she killed Jolene.”
“She didn’t even know Jolene.”
“Danielle, listen to me, and forget for a moment I broke your rule about invading a guest’s privacy.”
Danielle let out a sigh and leaned back in the sofa, crossing her legs while crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m listening.”
“When I went into her room last night, she was completely dressed in a flannel nightgown, from her chin to her toes. And trust me, if I decide to become a ghostly peeping tom, hers is not the room I would invade.”
“I didn’t say you went in there with prurient intent, it’s just that—”
“Yes, yes. I understand,” Walt said impatiently. “When I went into her room, she was writing on a legal pad of paper. By the looks of her room, it was not her only legal pad.”
“What do you mean?”
“There was paper strewn all over the place. She’d fill up a page, rip it off, toss it to the floor, and then write some more.”
Danielle shrugged. “So? What does this have to do with her being the killer? Sounds to me like she was getting all her ideas down. She did say she’d been experiencing writer’s block, and it suddenly ended.”
“I read some of what she’d written.”
“I imagine for Hillary she’d be more offended knowing you peeked at her notes rather than peeking up her nighty.”
Walt scowled. “I may be dead, but even suggesting I’d want to peek up her nighty makes me want to kill myself.”
“That’s not nice,” Danielle scolded.
“She’s old enough to be my grandmother.”
“You mean granddaughter,” Danielle teased.
“Do you want to hear this or not?”
“I’m sorry. It’s just been a long day, and I’m getting loopy. But Hillary did say she considered it bad luck to tell people about her storyline when she’s early into a project.”
“Her story is Jolene’s.”
“Jolene’s? What do you mean Jolene’s?”
“Everything you told me about the murder—even the rings being tossed off the pier—I already knew all that because Hillary had written about it. I read it. Her next book is about Jolene’s murder.”
“That’s impossible. When did you read her notes? This morning?”
“I told you, last night. Before I went up to the attic.”
Danielle shook her head. “No. That’s impossible. You know how you are with time. I bet it was this morning. Hillary probably went out for an early morning walk, stopped by the pier, saw all the commotion, and then came back here and wrote down everything she had overheard and seen.”
“If that’s true, why didn’t she tell you she’d been to the pier this morning and seen the crime scene? I was there when Joanne told her about the murder. She pretended she knew nothing about it. In fact, she hasn’t left the house since she got up this morning.”
“She did say she doesn’t like discussing what she’s working on. Ian suggested she writes about real-life murders, but never admits her ideas come from real life. You have to be wrong about her leaving the house.”
“Danielle, did Joanne arrive before you left this morning or after?”
“Before, you know that. She prepared breakfast. You sat there and watched us eat.”
“Didn’t you tell me you discovered Jolene’s rings—the ones tossed off the pier—after Jolene’s spirit showed you were to find them?”
“Yes, but technically, she showed MacDonald. But he couldn’t see her.”
“And until then, what did everyone think had happened to the rings?”
“That the killer had them. So?”
“Danielle, I may sometimes get confused about time, but I know I read Hillary’s notes before Joanne arrived this morning—before you ever found those rings. Before anyone knew the killer had tossed them off the pier. As I said, Hillary was wearing her nightgown. She wasn’t wearing a nightgown when she came down for breakfast this morning, was she?”
Danielle opened her mouth to say something, but closed it again. She sat quietly on the sofa, considering all that Walt was telling her. “You’re saying Hillary wrote about the murder before it happened?”
“Or minutes after. Do you know when Jolene was killed?”
“I’m not sure. I know Jolene stopped in the Pier Café about an hour before it closed. I’m pretty sure it closes at midnight. If so, she was killed sometime after eleven. Exactly what time, I don’t know.”
“I know it was around midnight when Hillary came home last night.”
“Came home? She went out last night? When I went to bed, she was watching television in the living room. She didn’t say anything about going out.”
“After you went to bed last night, Hillary left the house. She was gone for a couple hours. I was watching television in here when she got back. I know it was a little before midnight because I was watching a movie—it was almost over. It ended at midnight. I still don’t know the killer’s identity.”
“I thought you just said it was Hillary?”
Walt shook his head. “I was talking about the movie I was watching. I was just about to find out who the killer was when Hillary came home. When she finally went upstairs—after making me miss the end of the movie—I stayed down here for a while flipping through the channels. When I went upstairs an hour or so later, I noticed the light on in her room, and that’s when I went in and read some of what she wrote.”
“That’s just a creepy coincidence.”
“I hardly think it’s a coincidence.”
“It has to be,” Danielle insisted. “I can’t imagine that nice little old lady killed Jolene in cold blood.”
“Perhaps she just witnessed the murder and wrote about it. According to what she wrote, the killer was a man.”
“And not report the murder? Just come back here and start using it as—what is it Ian calls it? Oh—story fodder.”
Walt shrugged. “I just know what I read.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, each lost in his or her private thoughts. Finally, Danielle looked up at Walt and asked, “When I mentioned the rings being tossed over the pier, why did you say the killer didn’t keep the tenth ring?”
“Because according to Hillary’s notes, after the killer removed Jolene’s rings—although she does not refer to the victim by name—she wrote that the killer put all the rings into his pocket. He goes to the end of the pier, throws the rings into the ocean, and then discovers one ring still in the pocket, which he then throws off the pier.”
Danielle shivered. “That is so creepy.”
“I don’t see how this can be a coincidence. Under the pier—a wine bottle—ten rings—the killer gets rid of the rings. No, if Hillary wasn’t involved in the murder, at the very least she witnessed it.”
“You said she wrote all this on a notepad? I thought she typed her stories?”
“She probably does. What I read weren’t lines from a book—they were notes. Ideas, thoughts. Perhaps part of her creative process.”
Danielle stood up.
“Where are you going?”
“Upstairs to talk to Hillary.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea? Perhaps you should instead talk to the chief.”
“I’ll talk to him tomorrow. But I need more. If I call him now, he could interview her, but I doubt she’ll admit she witnessed a murder and failed to report it.”
“He could read what she wrote.”
“I seriously doubt he’d be able to obtain a search warrant to look through her notes or read the manuscript she’s working on.”
“It’s your house,” Walt reminded her. “You can give him permission.”
Danielle wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know about that. I don’t think I’ve the legal right to let the police search my guests’ private property. I’d probably end up getting sued, and if it was illegal, he couldn’t use anything he found anyway.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Wing it for now, I suppose. But you can come with me and be my bodyguard. Although I should be safe as long as Hillary doesn’t have any bottles of wine up in her room.”
Chapter Ten
Before heading upstairs, Danielle stopped in the kitchen, placed a slice of chocolate cake on a small plate, and poured a glass of cold milk.
“You’re eating cake now?” Walt asked. “I thought you were going to talk to Hillary.”
“This isn’t for me. I have to have some reason to interrupt her writing.”
Walt silently followed Danielle from the kitchen and up the stairs to the second floor. When they got to Hillary’s door, Danielle juggled the glass of milk and small plate in one hand while using her free hand to knock on the door.
“Come in,” Hillary’s voice called out.
“I thought you might need a little nourishment,” Danielle told her when she entered the room, carrying the cake and milk.
“Oh, chocolate cake!” Hillary said brightly, turning from the small desk where her antiquated typewriter sat. “That’s so sweet of you!”
Danielle smiled, set the plate of cake and glass of milk on the desk, and glanced around the room. She spied a stack of yellow sheets of paper sitting on the corner of the bed. Cursive handwriting filled the top page of the stack, but from where Danielle stood, she couldn’t read what was written.
“This cake is so moist,” Hillary said after taking her first bite. “I love chocolate.”
Danielle nodded to the stack of papers. “Do you write out your story before typing it?”
Hillary glanced to the papers and then shook her head. “No. But writing my ideas out by hand, it seems to get my creative juices flowing. If I have writer’s block, it can help.”
“You mentioned your writer’s block ended.”
“Yes, it certainly has!” Hillary cheerfully announced. “Last night this story just came to me, and I grabbed my pad of paper and just started jotting down notes. Before I knew it, I had worked out my plot. At least the important parts.”
The Ghost and the Mystery Writer Page 6
