The Ghost and the Mystery Writer

by Anna J. McIntyre

  “Oh, I knew you would be okay.” You had Walt. “Anyway, Ian wanted to look some stuff up.”

  Ian walked to the sofa and sat next to Lily. “What did Hillary say when she got back from the police station?”

  “Lily told you about the notes we found?” Danielle asked.

  Ian nodded. “Yes. I just figured it was something she wrote after the article came out. But when Lily told me she admitted to writing it the same night Jolene was killed…I wasn’t sure what to think.”

  Danielle went on to tell Lily and Ian what had transpired between Hillary and herself. She understood Lily had fed Ian the fabricated story about finding Hillary’s notes after the previous night’s trash can fiasco.

  When Danielle finished bringing them current on recent events, Lily said, “Ian’s been doing a little research on Hillary.”

  Danielle glanced to Ian, who sat next to Lily, his arm casually draped behind her shoulders. “What kind of research?”

  “Lily’s never read any of Hillary’s work—”

  “Neither have I,” Danielle interrupted.

  “I wanted to show her the list of Hillary’s books and the crimes critics claim they were based on. Of course, Hillary has always denied using real crimes as inspiration. I’ve always wondered why she’s so adamant about insisting she doesn’t borrow from real life—all writers do. And it’s obvious she’s doing that, considering the release dates of her books in relationship to the crimes.”

  “What do you mean?” Danielle asked.

  “Hillary publishes a new book every six months. If you look back and compare the release date of one of her books with the crime some critics claim that particular book is based on, you’ll discover it occurred six months before that book’s release.”

  “But what’s even more bizarre, in my opinion, some have claimed Hillary has been in the general vicinity of each crime when it was committed,” Lily added.

  Danielle glanced from Lily to Ian. “Seriously?”

  “It’s possible that’s an urban legend. Hillary’s never confirmed or denied that accusation—but she has denied borrowing details from those crimes,” Ian said. “There are a couple instances where she was undoubtedly in the general vicinity of the crime when it was committed. But I don’t know if that holds for all of them.”

  “So in six months, the book Hillary publishes will be based on Jolene’s murder?” Danielle asked.

  “It sounds that way, considering the notes you found. But let me clarify, the actual stories are not about the real murder victims, just the particulars of the crime scene. Which I suppose is one reason many readers and critics believe Hillary. This has been an ongoing debate on a number of her fan sites.”

  “What did you mean when you said her books aren’t about the real victims?” Danielle asked.

  “Let me give you an example,” Ian said as he turned his attention to the laptop sitting on the coffee table. His fingers moved quickly over the keypad. One of Hillary’s book covers appeared on the screen.

  Danielle moved from the chair to the sofa. She sat on one side of Ian while Lily sat on his other side. She looked at the monitor.

  “In each of Hillary’s books, she starts out with the murder. In this book, the victim’s name is Stan. The killer is Gabriel, yet we don’t know his name until the end of the book. The story starts out with Stan sitting at a bar, drunk. Gabriel comes in and starts talking to Stan. The readers are led to believe Gabriel and Stan are friends, but at the end of the book we learn they never knew each other. Gabriel is actually a hit man hired by Stan’s wife to kill him while she’s visiting her sister in another state.”

  “Not a terribly original murder scenario,” Danielle noted.

  “Ahh…” Ian smiled at Danielle. “It’s about how Stan is killed, not the murder motive. Rather than putting drunk Stan in his bed, the killer drags him down to the basement laundry room and leaves him on the floor, where he passes out from the booze. Then the killer puts on some sort of gas mask before filling the laundry sink with a combination of ammonia and bleach. He leaves Stan passed out in the basement, with the door closed.”

  “Yikes. That’s a toxic combination. That would kill poor Stan.”

  Ian nodded. “It did.”

  “So what happened to the real Stan’s wife? Did she go to prison?” Danielle asked.

  “The guy who was really killed in that basement, he wasn’t married. It wasn’t even his house. It was vacant; no one was living there. But in the real story, like in Hillary’s, the victim left a bar with someone he apparently knew, but the police were never able to identify the man who left with the victim.”

  “They never found out who killed Stan?” Danielle asked.

  “Some speculate he wandered into that basement drunk and mixed the bleach and ammonia himself, but his fingerprints weren’t on the empty bottles.”

  “You mean the crime wasn’t solved?”

  Ian shook his head. “No. None of the real crimes have been solved.”

  Danielle cringed. “You’re saying Hillary’s been using unsolved murders in all her books?”

  “Just the murder scenes. The rest of the stories never bear any resemblance to the actual murders. I assume that’s why Hillary is so adamant in her claim she doesn’t borrow from real life, she probably doesn’t see it that way,” Ian suggested.

  Danielle leaned back in the sofa and propped her feet up on the edge of the coffee table. “So, in essence, crime scenes get her creative juices flowing.”

  “That’s what I suspect,” Ian said.

  “Reminds me of my grandmother’s doodles,” Lily said.

  Both Danielle and Ian glanced over to Lily, waiting for an explanation.

  “When I was little and would visit my grandma,” Lily began, “she would make a squiggly doodle on a piece of paper and give it to me to make a picture out of. I used to do it sometimes with my students. It was a fun rainy-day project when they couldn’t go out on recess.”

  “What I find disturbing,” Ian said, “it looks as if she witnessed the murder. I hate to think one of my favorite authors, someone I’ve looked up to, would be so callous as to witness a murder, refuse to help the police, and then use the details in a book.”

  Lily leaned forward and looked past Ian to Danielle. “Dani, in the story about the drunk, the description of the bar and murder scene in Hillary’s book matched the real-life house and bar exactly.” Lily pointed to a link displayed on the computer monitor. “You can read about it.”

  “Hi, Eddy,” Melony greeted him as she peeked into the chief’s office.

  MacDonald looked up from the paperwork on his desk. Melony stood at his open doorway, grinning. He stood abruptly and tossed his pen onto his pile of papers. “Melony!” he greeted her, then rushed around the desk to give her a welcoming hug. After the brief exchange, MacDonald returned to his place behind the desk while Melony sat in one of the chairs facing him.

  “I heard you were here,” he said.

  “I got in late this morning. I just picked up my mother’s car. Thanks for taking it back over to her place and not having it impounded.”

  “I didn’t want to put you through that. Figured you’d need to use it when you came into town. Apparently you found the keys okay.”

  “Yes. They were just where you said you left them.”

  “I heard you were staying at Marlow House.”

  Melony settled back in her chair. “News always traveled fast in this town. So tell me, anything new on my mother’s murder?”

  “Nothing I can share at this point. But we’re working on a few leads.”

  “Adam told me you brought him in for questioning.”

  “Adam…when did you see him?”

  “He stopped by Marlow House. Gave me a ride to Mother’s.”

  “That’s right…you probably knew each other when you lived here.”

  “Adam and I grew up together. We go way back.”

  “I suppose he told you how his fingerprints
were on the wine bottle.”

  “Yes. He also told me why they were there.”

  Picking up his pen, MacDonald looked across the desk at Melony, his expression now somber. “Do you have any idea who would want your mother dead?”

  Melony shrugged and shook her head. “I’ve been thinking about that since you first called. No one benefits financially from her death. I know I’m her sole beneficiary, and unless she wasn’t telling me the truth the last few times we spoke, there’s nothing left. I doubt I’ll be able to list the house for enough to pay off the loans against it.”

  “Did your mom ever mention a problem she was having with anyone since moving back to Frederickport?”

  Melony shook her head. “We only spoke a few times on the phone since she moved back. She never said anything.”

  “How about someone from New York? Maybe she had a problem with someone back there, and they followed her here? Did she ever talk to you about having a problem with anyone?”

  “Sorry, Eddy. I really don’t know much about my mother’s personal life. We haven’t been close for years—if we ever were. And while we occasionally spoke on the phone, those calls—well, those calls weren’t much more than, ‘Hello, how are you, just calling to let you know I’m alive, goodbye.’ That was pretty much the extent of our relationship. Except, of course, the few times she recently called to rant over Clarence’s death and how she had lost everything. But frankly, I think those calls were her attempt to guilt me into sending her some money.”

  “Like I told you on the phone, we went through your mother’s house after the murder, but we couldn’t find anything that might help us. When you go through her things, if you come across anything we missed that you think might be of importance, please let me know.”

  “Of course.” Melony stood up. “I think I’m going to head back to Marlow House. The last couple of days have been crazy. I’m exhausted.”

  MacDonald stood up. “How long do you think you’ll be staying?”

  “Not sure. I reserved a room at Marlow House for the week.”

  “Does Frederickport seem much different to you? I know you haven’t been back since you were a teenager.”

  Pausing at the doorway, Melony turned to face MacDonald. “Not really. Although, it is a little strange staying at Marlow House. When I was a kid, we’d dare each other to run up the walk and peek into the windows. The house had been vacant for years. We were convinced it had to be haunted.”

  MacDonald smiled. “Really? Haunted? Have you seen any ghosts over there?”

  Melony laughed. “No ghosts. Oh…but I do know the other guest staying there.”

  MacDonald raised his brows. “Hillary Hemmingway?”

  “Yes. I was surprised to see her.”

  “I assume when you say you know her you mean because she’s a well-known author.”

  “That too. But I know Hillary personally.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The plain white legal-sized envelope had been addressed to him, yet the actual street address was for the Frederickport Police Department. He could tell by the postmark it had been mailed locally. The top seal flap portion of the envelope had been tucked into the back portion, securing the envelope’s contents. The sender had been careful not to deposit DNA via saliva when sealing the envelope. Not that MacDonald would seriously consider having it tested for DNA—or would he? Picking the now empty envelope up off his desk, he noticed its stamp was the sticker type. No saliva DNA there. Do they even make stamps you lick anymore?

  MacDonald set the envelope down and picked up the letter. He reread it. When he had first opened the envelope and read the letter, he realized what it was. He had immediately slipped on a pair of latex gloves to protect the evidence. Like the envelope, the letter had been typed. He didn’t think it looked like something printed from a computer. No, the sender had used an old-fashioned typewriter, he would bet on it.

  A light knock came at the chief’s door. He looked up from the letter and saw Joe standing in his doorway.

  “I may have a lead on the fishermen,” Joe told him.

  MacDonald waved him into the office with his gloved hand.

  Noting the latex gloves, Joe frowned. “What’s going on, Chief?”

  Holding the sheet of paper, he said, “This came in the mail today.”

  Joe took a seat facing the desk. “What is it?”

  “It’s a letter from someone who claims to have witnessed Jolene’s murder.”

  “Really?”

  MacDonald pointed to the door. “Close it, and I’ll read it to you.”

  A moment later, the door to the office was shut, and Joe was again sitting in the chair. MacDonald began to read. “I witnessed the murder under the pier. I fear for my life, but I have to do the right thing. I was walking on the beach when I heard two people arguing, a man and a woman. When I got closer, I realized who it was, Jolene Carmichael and the bank manager, Steve Klein. She accused him of having an affair with a waitress and told him if he didn’t approve her loan, she would tell his wife. He got angry, and the next thing I knew, he picked something up off the beach and hit her over the head. I was terrified. I watched as he removed her rings and then covered her with sand. I stayed hidden in the shadows until he left. I saw him go back up on the pier. Steve Klein killed Jolene.”

  Joe let out a low whistle. “Now what?”

  “I need to find out who wrote this letter.”

  “We know Steve was having an affair with Carla and that he was being blackmailed. Whoever wrote that letter knew about the loan Jolene was trying to get Steve to approve. That letter has to be legit. How else would someone know all that unless they overheard them talking?”

  MacDonald studied the letter in his hand. “After Steve’s interview, I thought he was a complete jerk, but I didn’t think he was a killer. I believed him when he said he planned to tell his wife about Jolene’s blackmail attempt and paint her as the crazy one. Frankly, I thought that would work. There was no reason for him to kill Jolene. But after reading this, I might have been all wrong.”

  “The killer didn’t arrive on the scene with a murder weapon. He used a bottle he just happened to find on the beach. I don’t believe he went down there with the intention of murdering Jolene. It sounds like a crime of passion. The letter said they argued, and he then picked something up and hit her.”

  MacDonald sighed. “True.”

  “Unfortunately, without testimony from whoever wrote that letter, all we have is circumstantial evidence,” Joe commented.

  “I agree. But I think I know who wrote this letter. And if I could just get her to do the right thing…”

  “Hillary Hemmingway?” Joe asked.

  “Yes. According to Danielle, Hillary has a typewriter. She brought it with her. I’m 99 percent positive this is typed and wasn’t printed off on a computer.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I could just ask Hillary again. But I imagine she’ll deny it—again. I suspect she figured the best way not to get involved while attempting to do the right thing was to write this anonymous letter and send it to me. But I need more than this letter to bring any charges against Klein.”

  “If you can prove the letter came from Hillary’s typewriter, can she seriously keep denying she saw anything?” Joe asked. “We have her handwritten notes, now this.”

  Chris silently thanked the vagrant for stealing the expensive bottle of wine Adam had bought him. If that hadn’t happened, he wouldn’t have a refrigerator full of beer, and he would have to go to the store right now. Exhausted from his recent travels, all he wanted to do was grab a cold beer, sit on his back patio, and enjoy the view.

  He felt a momentary stab of guilt when he remembered Melony’s mother had been murdered with the stolen bottle, yet he suspected the killer would have found another way to murder Jolene, even without the bottle. After all, they were alone under the pier together, and she was an older woman.

  Wearing jeans and a l
ight jacket over his T-shirt, he snatched a can of beer from his refrigerator and headed for the back patio. He didn’t bother slipping shoes on his stockinged feet. Outside, Chris took a moment to rearrange his patio chairs so that he could sit on one while using a second one as a footstool. Once he sat down, he leaned back in the chair, rested his feet up on the second chair, and popped open his beer.

  Chris gazed out past the confines of his patio to the breakers washing up along the shore. Smiling, he let out a satisfied sigh and congratulated himself on selecting the ideal property. He was halfway through his can of beer when his solitude was interrupted. Standing between him and the pristine shoreline was a tall, older woman with platinum blond hair. Startled by her sudden appearance, he quickly sat upright and placed his stockinged feet on the patio.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  The woman glanced around nervously. “I’m looking for someone. I thought I saw her come in here.”

  Chris shook his head. “No. It’s just me.”

  “She’s an attractive young blonde, I saw her walking on the beach,” she explained. I’m certain she walked this way.”

  “There was someone who fits that description who was here about an hour ago. Who is it you’re looking for?”

  Instead of answering his question, the woman studied him a moment. “Who are you? I don’t remember seeing you here before.”

  “I haven’t lived here long, and I’ve been gone for the last couple of weeks. Do you live in this neighborhood?”

  “My house isn’t far from here.”

  Chris smiled. “Have you lived in Frederickport long?”

  “I grew up here,” she explained.

  “Really? My name’s Chris Johnson, by the way. You are?”

  “I just want to find Melony,” she snapped.

  Chris frowned. “Melony?”

  “The woman I saw on your patio earlier.”

  “Well, one of the women who was here is named Melony. You didn’t tell me your name.” Chris stood up.

  The woman looked to her left and hissed, “What is he doing here?”