Sherri hopped off the arm of Liss’s chair and stepped in front of Dan, preventing him from getting any closer to his rival. “Can I send someone else in for questioning?” she asked Gordon.
“We’ll handle it.” He appeared unaffected by Dan’s belligerent display.
The other officer, however, had been braced to step in. Liss fancied that he looked a little disappointed when he didn’t have to.
She stood and headed for the door, relieved when Dan followed her out. It was ridiculous for Dan and Gordon to act this way around each other. She’d made her choice. They both knew and accepted it. But no amount of talk seemed to make any impression on either of them. Was this what Nola had faced with Stu and Doug? No wonder she’d taken off on her own and left them both behind.
Liss felt drained, as limp as a wet dishrag. “I’ve got to get back to the dealers’ room,” she said, glancing at her watch. “It’s nearly one-thirty, and Angie needs me to cover for her during Yvonne Quinlan’s signing in town.”
But instead of heading up the stairs to the mezzanine, she came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the lobby. Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to go home, crawl into bed, and pull the covers over her head. The thought of smiling and dealing with customers or, worse, being stuck behind her tables with nothing to occupy her mind except thoughts she didn’t want to dwell on made her cringe.
Angie’s daughter, ten-year-old Beth, couldn’t handle things in the dealers’ room alone, but Margaret was already working at the Emporium’s tables. If she could be persuaded—
Ten minutes later, Liss was on her way out of the hotel with Sherri, who had offered her a lift into town.
Bill Stotz intercepted them just short of the exit. “What the hell is going on out there? There are police all over the place and someone said that Nola Ventress is dead.” Although Bill’s manner was combative and his voice loud, his face was ashen. “Is it true?” he demanded.
“I’m afraid so,” Liss said. “Last night.”
“Why wasn’t I told at once? How am I supposed to look after my client’s interests if I’m kept in the dark?”
“You’re Yvonne Quinlan’s manager?” Sherri asked.
“That’s right.” His gaze sharpened as he took in her uniform.
“Nola appears to have gone up to the cliff to leave flowers in Jane Nedlinger’s memory,” Sherri said before Liss could blurt out anything more sensational.
“You mean she fell off, too? Stupid women.”
Bill had no sooner made that insensitive remark than he caught sight of something behind Liss and Sherri and took off in that direction. Liss turned to see Yvonne just exiting the elevator and watched Bill corral her, whisper in her ear, and then hurry her outside by way of the verandah doors. Liss and Sherri circled around to the parking lot in time to see Bill hustle his client into a waiting limo.
“They’re on their way to the book signing,” Liss said. “Unless he was the one who left those gum wrappers up at Lover’s Leap and he’s really going on the lam. I still think he makes a good suspect in Jane’s death. Too bad I can’t come up with a reason for him to have killed Nola.”
“I wonder if he meant Nola was stupid to fall or stupid to want to honor Jane,” Sherri mused.
“He said women,” Liss reminded her as she got into the police cruiser. “Plural.”
During the short drive down the hill and into Moosetookalook proper, Liss said nothing more. In fact, she was trying very hard not to think about murder or suspects or suicide at all. She wanted to focus on putting her feet up, petting the cats, and vegging out.
Halfway home, they passed the gas station / convenience store Sherri’s father owned. Odd, Liss thought. There were three cars lined up at the single pump. She couldn’t remember the last time Ernie Willett had been obliged to deal with more than one customer at a time.
As they drew closer to the town square, she realized that there were also more cars than usual parked along both sides of the narrow road. “What on earth is going on?” she wondered aloud.
Then the square came into view and she gasped. There had to be a hundred people milling about and—even stranger—almost all of them were dressed in black.
“Funeral?” she asked.
Sherri shook her head. “The only body at Preston’s Mortuary is Lenny Peet. Jane and Nola were sent to Augusta for autopsy.”
“I’m pretty sure Lenny didn’t have this many friends.”
“His send-off isn’t until tomorrow, anyway,” Sherri said, “and there’s something off about the clothing. It’s not funeral black.”
Liss started to laugh, causing Sherri to gawk at her.
“I just figured it out,” she said. “These people are here for the book signing. They aren’t mourners. They’re fans of Yvonne Quinlan—the actress who played Caroline Sweet, the undead heroine of Vamped.”
Chapter Eleven
Liss sat in the Canadian rocker in her bow window, feet up on a stool and a mug of herbal tea—mostly ginger—in her hand. From this vantage point, she had a clear view of the line of fans trailing out of Angie’s Books and winding around through the town square. Angie had opened the door twenty minutes earlier, and those waiting to meet Yvonne Quinlan had inched forward at a slow but steady rate ever since. The book signing was supposed to last two hours. Liss had a feeling it was going to run longer.
She was glad for Angie’s sake. A big crowd meant good sales.
She closed her eyes, but as soon as she did, she saw Nola’s body again. She swore crossly. So much for putting murder out of her mind!
Resigned, she tried to reorganize her thoughts and envision Gordon’s scenario. Little Nola did not succeed in defeating massive Jane. David might have slain Goliath, but he’d had a slingshot. Liss just couldn’t picture what Gordon proposed. She hoped he was also looking into other possibilities.
“I will not interfere,” Liss said aloud. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t satisfy her curiosity about a few minor points of interest.
Off the living room, Liss had a combination library and home office. A computer sat on her desk, recently upgraded for high-speed access and tricked out with a wireless router so she could download e-books to a newly acquired reader. She still preferred the feel and smell of a real book, but she had to admit that the instant gratification was nice. It took about two seconds to order a new title from the online bookseller. Being able to enlarge the font was a nice bonus, too.
Liss wasn’t sure what she expected to find on the Internet. Maybe there was nothing to find. But she could see no harm in typing Nola’s name into her favorite search engine. A moment later, she started scrolling through the hits.
There weren’t many. The First Annual Maine-ly Cozy Con had a website. There had been little advance coverage in Maine newspapers, but a couple of mystery-oriented organizations listed upcoming events and named Nola as contact person. Another link led to an e-book store. Without much hope of discovering anything new, Liss clicked on it.
What came up surprised her. She glanced at the author bio and saw that, yes, it was Nola. An ad to buy an e-book subscription popped up and she quickly deleted it. Returning to the book page, she read the description of the unoriginally titled Contract for Murder, then selected the button that would take her to a free sample chapter and began to read.
Stu had mentioned Nola’s goal of becoming a best-selling novelist, but he’d also seemed to think she’d never sold anything, let alone made money at it. Contract for Murder read well, even though the blurb at the e-book site indicated it had never been published in print format. The copyright date was 1988.
Liss finished reading the free sample, bought the rest of the book online, downloaded the electronic file to her e-reader, and carried the device back to the rocker in the window. She was vaguely aware that the crowd in the town square was smaller, but her attention remained fixed on the words on the screen in front of her. Nola’s book was a mystery, and it wasn’t half-bad. In fact, the more Lis
s read, the more familiar it seemed. Not the plot. She was sure she hadn’t read this particular story before. But there was something about the writing style that rang a bell.
Liss frowned. Nola had written only this one book. It had said so right there in the author bio on the website. In fact, that had been the only information in Nola’s bio. There hadn’t even been a photo. Liss read to the end of the next chapter and stopped again, trying to puzzle out what she was feeling.
Her gaze shifted to the view from her window in time to see a news van from one of the Portland television stations pull up in front of Angie’s Books. Liss swore under her breath. It was probably too much to hope for that they were just there to cover the book signing. Had word already leaked out about the suspicious deaths of two women staying at the hotel?
She kept watching. A reporter and cameraman went inside. Ten minutes later, they came back out, moving at a good clip, got into the van, and drove off. It was impossible to tell if they were heading for the hotel or back to the studio.
At least the book signing seemed to be going well. Perhaps a dozen fans were still waiting to get into the store to have Yvonne sign their books. Angie would be ecstatic. She’d been so worried that she’d ordered too many of Yvonne’s titles. Now she was probably wondering if she’d run out. Liss was glad she already owned her own copies of all of them. She’d been a fan of the series since the first book. Yvonne’s writing style was—
Struck, Liss swiveled her head around to stare at the door of her library/office. “Huh,” she said aloud.
Taking the e-book reader with her, she left chair and living room in favor of shelves packed with mystery novels, including Yvonne Quinlan’s. It took only a few minutes of reading first one novel, then another, to confirm the incredible theory that had popped, full blown, into her head.
Nola’s book, Contract for Murder, had seemed familiar to her for a good reason. The writing style was identical to that in Yvonne Quinlan’s work. The two women shared the same voice. It wasn’t easy to describe exactly what that meant, but Liss was sure of one thing—one person had written all the books.
She wandered back into the living room and once more stood staring out through her bow window. Only three people remained on the porch of Angie’s Books. The signing was almost over.
There were two possible explanations for what she’d found. But which was correct? Either Nola had plagiarized an early work by Yvonne Quinlan. Or Yvonne Quinlan hadn’t written any of her mysteries—Nola had. Maybe Nola Ventress had become a successful, best-selling author, after all—as a ghostwriter.
That would explain the sour look on Nola’s face in the dealers’ room when she’d overheard Yvonne talking about what inspired her to write and how she went about plotting her novels. It must have been hard enough not to be able to take credit for her creations, but to have to listen to someone else claim them—that would have been infuriating.
As soon as Liss accepted that her theory was valid, subsequent events fell easily into place. Ghostwriters were nothing new. Celebrities often hired other people to write books for them, then insisted they’d done all the work themselves. But that nugget of information, in the hands of someone like Jane Nedlinger, could have been made into an explosive exposé.
The threat that she would reveal all had given more than one person a motive for murder.
Sherri had been providing crowd control for Yvonne Quinlan’s book signing ever since she dropped Liss off at home. She was inside Angie’s Books when Liss walked in. At almost the same moment, the last customer left. Angie flipped her OPEN sign to CLOSED. Yvonne Quinlan, seated at a cloth-covered table near the back of the store, paid no attention. She was too busy signing the few copies of her books that remained. Bill Stotz stood next to her, also oblivious, intent on something he was doing on his BlackBerry.
Angie beamed at Liss. “The signing was a huge success. I’m so glad I agreed to host it. This was the best day I’ve had since I opened the store.”
“I’m glad you’re pleased,” Liss murmured, but she was already moving past Angie toward Yvonne and Bill.
Yvonne finished signing stock and carefully flexed the fingers of her right hand—to relieve the cramping, Sherri supposed. She’d stacked the books she’d just autographed in a neat pile, but the rest of the table was in disarray. In addition to a scattering of pens, it was littered with discarded Post-it Notes with the names of fans written on them—a practice that had ensured that Yvonne would spell them correctly.
Sherri cleared her throat before she spoke, knowing that her friend hadn’t seen her standing in the shadows, but Liss didn’t even glance her way. “Liss? What are you doing here?”
Liss ignored Sherri’s question. She had a strange look on her face.
Although Sherri had been about to leave, anxious to get home to Adam and Pete, she stayed put. Every instinct told her there was trouble brewing, but she had no idea what kind.
When Liss reached the signing table, she flattened both hands on the cloth-covered surface and fixed Yvonne Quinlan with a cold-eyed stare. Momentarily startled, the actress-turned-author made a quick recovery and reached for one of the hardcover books in front of her.
“Lisa, isn’t it?” she asked. “I’m sorry. I thought everyone had gone, but I can add a personal inscription above my signature.”
“It’s Liss, not Lisa, and I’m not here to buy an Yvonne Quinlan novel. I have, however, always enjoyed reading mysteries written by Nola Ventress.”
Yvonne blinked at her. Her hands fluttered, as if she didn’t know quite what to do with them. Then, very carefully, she placed her signing pen beside the open book and stood up. “If you don’t want an autograph, then I guess I’m through here.”
“Not so fast.” Liss grabbed Yvonne’s arm, preventing her escape.
“Hey, now!” Bill Stotz objected. “You’re out of line.”
Sherri stepped closer. Such behavior was very unlike Liss. Something had clearly gotten under her skin but, for the life of her, Sherri couldn’t guess what it might be.
Very slowly, Liss released Yvonne, but she continued to hold her gaze. “I just want the answer to one question. Was Nola Ventress your ghostwriter?”
Again, Bill stepped in to protect his client. “Don’t dignify that with an answer,” he barked at Yvonne, and gave her a little push in the direction of Angie’s back door. He sent a formidable glower over his shoulder at Liss. “Where do you come off making an accusation like that?”
“Is it false, then?” There was a clear challenge in Liss’s tone of voice.
Yvonne turned back halfway to the exit, the fight-or-flight conflict plain on her heart-shaped face. “Of course it is.”
“And if it were true, you’d deny it anyway,” Liss muttered.
Bill chewed harder on his gum, as if that action might aid in his thinking. Sherri had seen ballplayers use the same trick to concentrate on a pitch.
“I never even met Nola Ventress until I arrived at The Spruces,” Yvonne declared.
“Then why did you agree to be guest of honor at a conference no one had ever heard of?”
Bill slid an arm around Yvonne’s shoulders. “I set it up. Yvonne goes to at least one small conference every year, to showcase how accessible she is—a ‘real person’ mingling with her fans. These occasions aren’t easy to schedule, let me tell you, what with all her film and television commitments.”
“I wouldn’t think an acting career leaves much time to write novels, either.”
Yvonne’s look shot daggers. Liss should have resembled a porcupine. “I write my own stuff,” she insisted, her words clipped and cold. “All by myself. The only one who has a hand in the process is my editor, and she has to listen to me if I don’t like one of her changes. That’s in my contract.” On that exit line, she gave a haughty toss of her head and left the building.
Bill was right on her heels. “That’s my girl,” he murmured, sounding proud as a new papa.
“Your girl and N
ola Ventress have a writing style that’s extremely similar,” Liss called after him. “Nola’s novel is online as an e-book. Read it for yourself.”
Bill turned back again, this time framed in the doorway. “That won’t be necessary. I don’t know what you think you’ll accomplish by this absurd accusation, but you should know that even if Yvonne did use a ghostwriter—which she does not!—there’s nothing illegal about that practice. There are, however, confidentiality considerations. I have no personal experience with this, you understand, but I do know that ghostwriters customarily sign contracts that forbid them to reveal their part in the process. Ever. If Nola Ventress earned her living that way, she’d be in a lot of trouble—financial and legal trouble—if she decided to talk about her clients.”
Lecture delivered, he went to join Yvonne in the back of the waiting limo.
“Whew,” Sherri said. “Did you hit a raw nerve or what?” Bill Stotz had come across all outraged and huffy, but he’d been sweating bullets.
“A fat lot of good it did me,” Liss grumbled. “I didn’t get anything out of either of them.”
“What were you expecting, a confession of murder?” Sherri’s eyes widened when she caught sight of Liss’s expression. “Geez, Liss! How stupid is that?”
“It’s only stupid if one of them really did murder Jane and Nola. And you were right here to protect me and make an arrest. You’ve got a gun and everything.”
“You didn’t know I was here when you came in.” Sometimes her friend’s impulsive behavior scared Sherri to death.
“I had to try, Sherri. When was I going to get another chance to confront Yvonne?”
“Yvonne? Or Bill. Because if this is about that gum wrapper again—”
“It’s not. That is, I wasn’t thinking of that.” She hesitated. “Maybe it is.”
“Uh-huh.” Either way, this wasn’t the time or place to discuss it. Giving Angie a friendly wave, Sherri strong-armed Liss out of the bookstore, across the street, and into the town square.
Scotched Page 16
