“I think she edits manuscripts. Fixes them up so they’ll sell to a publisher.”
“Huh. And here I thought the people who wrote books knew how to do all that stuff for themselves.”
Liss thought she detected a hint of sarcasm in the comment, but a potential customer appeared and she let it go.
Many of those who stopped to look at Liss’s wares and shop at the adjacent tables, where Angie’s selection of mystery novels was displayed, seemed unaware of Jane Nedlinger’s sudden death. Or, if they had heard about an accident, they weren’t discussing it. All the talk was of panels, writers, and books. Liss supposed that a few of the attendees must have read Jane’s blog, and some might miss her daily dose of vitriol, but her presence at the First Annual Maine-ly Cozy Con had not been general knowledge, and her absence appeared to create nary a ripple of concern in the convivial atmosphere of the conference.
Nola stopped by the dealers’ room again just before three o’clock that afternoon.
“I never did think to ask you last night,” Liss said after the other woman had admired the offerings spread out on the Emporium’s tables—everything from clan crest badges to canned haggis. “What exactly did Jane Nedlinger say to you at the reception to upset you so much?”
To Liss’s dismay, Nola’s eyes instantly filled with tears. “I can’t talk about it,” she whispered. “It’s just too awful!” Without another word, she turned and fled.
“Nice going, Liss,” Angie hissed.
Liss would have gone after Nola to apologize and make sure she was okay, but the two o’clock panels had just let out and there was a sudden influx of conference-goers. Fastening a professional salesperson smile on her face, Liss silently reviewed what she knew about Nola Ventress. It did not take her long to realize that all the facts did not add up. Here was a woman who had single-handedly organized an entire conference and yet, last night at the MSBA meeting, she’d acted like a timid little mouse ... until she got her second wind and decided to put both Doug and Stu in their places. And now—tears for Jane Nedlinger? Something very odd was going on.
Liss’s gaze fell on one of the books on Angie’s tables, a used copy of The Body in the Library. Liss frowned at the classic Miss Marple title. Agatha Christie’s famous sleuth appeared to be a dithery old lady on first acquaintance, but she had a sharp mind and inevitably solved the murder before the police did. It followed that people in real life could be just as contradictory, so maybe Nola wasn’t really that unusual, after all.
Besides, she reminded herself, Jane Nedlinger might be dead, but she hadn’t been murdered. Her death had been nothing more sinister than a convenient accident.
But some people were certainly reacting to it strangely! Nola wasn’t the only one. Bill Stotz had tried to deny knowing Jane. Had the blogger threatened him—or his client—in some way, as she had Liss? Surely a piece on murder in Moosetookalook hadn’t been the only story Jane was working on.
Liss was glad when a customer with a question about tartans distracted her. She did not want to think about real murders. Only the fictional kind.
At a little before four in the afternoon, Margaret shooed Liss out of the dealers’ room. “You’ve been stuck here all day. I’ll take over for you until we close at five-thirty.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Of course I don’t have to. I want to. And we’ve already discussed my spelling you when I can so that you can attend a few of the panels. So go. Enjoy yourself.”
“You’d better take her up on the offer,” Angie advised, glancing up from making change. “If you don’t, I will.”
“I could use a break,” Liss admitted. She and Angie had traded off minding each other’s tables to allow for visits to the restroom, but other than that, they’d both been behind their tables in the dealers’ room for the last seven hours straight.
Liss glanced around. The place was already emptying out again, as it did every time a new set of panels began. “I’ll be back,” she promised, “to help with the final book-signing session and to close up.”
While Liss tried to decide which of two panel offerings to attend, she detoured into the fan lounge, where coffee was available. Little clumps of people were gathered there. Extra chairs had been pulled up to one table so that a full dozen conference-goers could share the same conversation. Laughter issued from the group in loud, staccato bursts. If those people hadn’t been fast friends before the conference, Liss had a feeling that they were now.
She recognized a few faces, but she wasn’t in the mood to join anyone. She selected an unoccupied table and sat down with her coffee to study the program. One of the four o’clock panels was a discussion of short stories. Since she didn’t read many of those, having a strong preference for novels, her decision was easy to make.
With a few minutes to spare, Liss flipped through the program to the panelist bios. They were brief, only a paragraph in length and therefore much too short to be very useful. Liss thought the authors looked very glamorous in their publicity photos. Some had done so much with hair and makeup before they had their pictures taken that she’d never have recognized them in real life.
She was just polishing off her coffee and watching fellow attendees drift off toward the meeting rooms when a flash of color caught her eye. There, off in the corner, unnoticed until the room began to clear out, sat Stu Burroughs. It had been his bright red tie that had attracted her attention.
Stu didn’t notice her. He was too intent upon his conversation with Nola Ventress. Stu was going to be the auctioneer for the charity auction that evening, Liss remembered, but she didn’t think that was what the two of them were discussing. Stu was rigid with tension, shoulders stiff and hands clenched into fists on the tabletop. Nola’s face was devoid of expression, but very pale. Whatever Stu was saying to her, she didn’t like hearing it.
This is none of your business, Liss told herself, but she couldn’t make herself leave the fan lounge, not even after everyone else had gone.
“Never going to happen, Stu,” Nola said, and abruptly rose from the table.
“You’ll regret it, Nola.”
She turned her back on him and walked rapidly to the exit.
“I’m telling you, you will regret it!” Stu started to follow Nola, then checked when he caught sight of Liss. His steps faltered. Looking embarrassed, he nodded to her. “Afternoon, neighbor.”
“Stu, is something wrong?”
“Of course not. Nola and I were just clarifying some last-minute details for tonight’s festivities.” He sauntered closer, adopting a casual attitude that didn’t fool her for a minute. “Are you coming to the auction? We’ve got some dandy items up for sale. You can bid on the chance to have a character in a book named after you. You could end up as the murder victim. Or the killer.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.” She frowned as she realized that something Stu had said at last night’s meeting had been nagging at her all day. When he’d promised her that they’d scotch Jane Nedlinger’s plans to trash the town, he’d almost sounded as if he’d come up with a plan to accomplish that feat. “Stu, can I ask you a question?”
“Fire away.” He flashed the good-natured grin he usually reserved for ski shop customers.
“Had you ever heard of Jane Nedlinger before last night?”
The grin vanished. “What are you really asking me, Liss?”
“Well, Stu, you were pretty determined to put a stop to her blog. It almost seemed ... personal.”
“So—what? You’re wondering if I came up here to the hotel after the meeting, kidnapped her, and threw her off a cliff? Do I look like an idiot?”
She had to smile at the expression of outrage on his face. “No, of course not. And when you put it that way, it does sound ridiculous. I’m sorry. I’m just trying to piece things together in my head. I mean, the last thing we needed here in Moosetookalook was another death, even an accidental one, and her fall was just so ... opportune.”
He glow
ered at her. “Trust me, as much as I wanted to find a way to get rid of that Nedlinger woman, I wouldn’t have murdered her.” With a harsh laugh, he added, “And give me some credit. If I ever do decide to kill somebody, I’ll have the decency to hide the body where it will never be found.”
His casual promise gave Liss a bone-deep chill. As she watched him leave, she wondered if she really knew him as well as she thought she did.
What does it matter? she asked herself. There was no murder. Jane Nedlinger’s death was an accident. She fell.
But for some reason she seemed to be having trouble remembering that.
In desperate need of distraction, Liss headed for the panel she’d selected. Unfortunately, listening to Yvonne Quinlan and three other panelists talk about “How to Choose Your Victim—The Fine Art of Taking Revenge on Real Life Irritants,” did nothing for her peace of mind.
Dan entered the lobby of The Spruces forty-five minutes after leaving the Ruskin Construction work site at four-thirty. He’d stopped off at home long enough to shower and change his clothes. He had an evening free of responsibilities to the hotel and he planned to waylay Liss before the dealers’ room closed and whisk her away for a couple of hours. Feeding her would also cheer her up, or so he hoped.
She had called him at work that morning to tell him about Jane Nedlinger’s fatal accident. He’d felt nothing but relief at hearing that news. By the time he’d disconnected, however, he’d sensed that something about the situation was eating at his fiancée. If he knew Liss at all, she’d spent half the day brooding over the unexpected twist of fate.
Just to make sure of his facts, Dan took a moment to slip into his father’s office and phone Jeff Thibodeau.
“What—you think we can’t have a plain old accident in this town?” the chief of police asked, chuckling.
“Call me a pessimist, but in light of what’s happened in the past ...” He let his voice trail off.
“There were no signs of anything off-kilter at the scene,” Jeff said, suddenly serious. “Do you have any reason to believe there was foul play?”
Dan hesitated, wondering if he did. Would someone he knew have committed murder just to save the town’s reputation? It didn’t seem likely. “Not really. She was just the sort of woman who rubbed people the wrong way.”
“Met her, did you?”
“Briefly. Last night. I didn’t like her.”
“You push her off the cliff?” Jeff’s light tone made it clear he was kidding.
“Not hardly.”
“Know anyone who did?”
“No, Jeff.” Shaking his head at his own foolishness in making this call, Dan changed the subject and asked Jeff how his vacation had been—the chief had only just returned from a week spent visiting his wife’s family in Pennsylvania. After hearing far more than he wanted to about mother-in-law troubles, Dan ended the call.
He returned to the lobby and headed for the stairs to the mezzanine, but the sound of raised voices at the check-in desk stopped him cold. His father looked and sounded royally pissed off, an indulgence Joe rarely allowed himself, especially when he was on duty.
“She’s not in her room and we do not give out room numbers, let alone allow people into those rooms to wait for the occupant.” From Joe’s tone of voice, this was not the first time he had explained this policy. “The best I can do is let you leave a message.”
“But this is important. And it’s not as if we aren’t old friends.”
Belatedly, Dan recognized the woman glaring across the desk at his father and sounding just as ticked off as Joe was. It was Dolores Mayfield, the town librarian. Hands on her hips, feet firmly planted, she didn’t look like she intended to budge until she got her way.
“Problem?” Dan asked, coming up beside her.
Dolores’s voice shifted abruptly from angry to wheedling. “Oh, Dan, can’t you reason with your father? He knows perfectly well that Nola Ventress and I were like this”—she held two fingers aloft, pressed tightly together—“all through high school. And I have a perfectly legitimate reason for wanting to see her. We have a class reunion coming up.”
“Oh, yeah?” Dan asked, affecting interest. “Which one?”
“It’s our forty-first,” his father answered. “Big whoop. No one was interested in getting together for our fortieth. I very much doubt there will be any more takers this year.”
“We can but try.” Dolores was at her snooty best. “Now, are you going to let me into Nola’s room to wait for her or not?”
“Not,” Joe said.
Dan wondered why his father was being so protective of Nola’s privacy. He could have picked up the phone and asked Margaret Boyd—another member of that same high school class, if Dan remembered rightly—to find Nola and tell her she had someone waiting to see her in the lobby. Instead he seemed hell-bent on getting Dolores off hotel property before she could make contact with her old classmate.
Dolores let out an exasperated huff. “If that’s the way you want it, so be it. You let Nola know that a woman named Jane Nedlinger stopped by at the library yesterday. She had a lot of questions about this town, and about Nola.”
Dan and his father exchanged a look. For once Dolores, the town’s biggest gossip, appeared to be out of the loop. Clearly, she hadn’t yet heard about Jane Nedlinger’s accident. Neither Dan nor Joe volunteered any information.
Joe dutifully wrote down the message. “Anything else?” he asked.
Dolores was really fuming now. “Yes,” she snapped. “Tell Nola that I told Ms. Nedlinger everything! I can hardly wait to see what she does with it.” Nose in the air, a militant gleam in her eyes, she turned on her heel and swept out of the hotel.
“What was that all about?” Dan asked.
“Nothing,” Joe said.
“Right.”
He shrugged. “Just old business. Very old business and none of yours.”
Holding his hands in front of him in surrender, Dan backed away from the desk. “Okay. Okay. I can take a hint. If you’re looking for me between now and the auction tonight ... don’t. I’m taking Liss out for a bite to eat.”
“Have fun,” Joe called after him as Dan once more headed for the stairs that led to the mezzanine.
Chapter Seven
As Dan climbed one set of stairs, Liss and her aunt descended another. Taking the back way used by hotel employees, they bypassed the lobby and went directly to the office Margaret used as events coordinator.
Margaret MacCrimmon Boyd had made the small room, painted a pretty pale green, even more cheerful and welcoming with the addition of a love seat upholstered in a bright floral pattern and a glass-topped coffee table. A set of three Carrabassett County landscapes, done in pen and ink by local artists, decorated the wall opposite.
Liss plopped herself down on the love seat and gave her aunt a direct look. “What’s the story on Nola Ventress?”
“She organized the conference.”
Liss made a face. “I know that. I mean before. You knew her when she lived here, right?”
“Yes, I did.” Margaret turned off the desk lamp, leaving only the soft glow from the computer monitor and the indirect light of a late-afternoon sun shining through her north-facing window to illuminate the room. She collected her purse and was clearly ready to leave for the day, but Liss stayed put. With a sigh, Margaret came around to the front of the desk and rested a hip on the edge. “Nola and I were in the same class in school. That was a long time ago.”
“But you stayed in touch.”
“On and off. It took some persuading to get her to come back here, but she couldn’t find a better deal anywhere else on room rates or food.”
“She told me she didn’t much like rural living. Or camping,” Liss said.
Margaret’s quick smile spoke of a memory.
“What?”
But Margaret only shook her head. “If you want to know anything about Nola Ventress’s past, you’ll have to ask Nola herself. You know I’m not
one to gossip.”
Unlike so many who made that statement, in Margaret Boyd’s case it was true. Still, Liss persisted. “Are you close friends? Were you then?”
“Not particularly, no. But you know small towns. There are few secrets. Still, if she prefers to keep her youthful indiscretions safely buried, then you and I both should honor her wishes.”
Liss’s eyebrows shot up at the hint that Nola had a scandal in her past. She couldn’t help but wonder if Jane Nedlinger had unearthed the details during her short stay in Moosetookalook. Had Nola felt threatened on a personal as well as on a professional level?
Margaret grimaced at her niece’s expression. “It’s nothing all that bad, Liss. Just something Nola isn’t likely to want to rehash more than thirty years later. And no, I won’t say another word. I already feel guilty for pressuring her to come back here in the first place. I just wanted to bring business to the hotel. That’s my job, after all. But I let her down. I promised her she could stay right in the hotel the whole time she was here and that she wouldn’t have to go into the village at all.”
“I was the one who took her to the MSBA meeting.”
“She doesn’t have good memories of Moosetookalook,” Margaret said, ignoring Liss’s attempt to absolve her of guilt. “I was hoping she’d leave here with better ones. And bring the conference back to The Spruces in future years.”
“There’s no reason she shouldn’t,” Liss said. “She’s just upset right now over Jane Nedlinger’s death.”
“That was an accident,” Margaret said in a firm voice.
“A convenient accident.”
“Don’t go making something out of nothing, Liss.”
Liss shrugged and tried once again to shake off the uneasy feeling that had haunted her throughout the day. “You’re right. I’m letting my imagination run away with me. I’m sure it’s just the influence of all the talk of murder and mayhem at this conference.” She forced a smile. “The next thing you know, I’ll be blaming Jane’s death on vampires.” She told her aunt about Yvonne Quinlan’s extemporaneous bit of plotting.
Scotched Page 9
