by Jessica Beck
“Agatha Christie wrote something like that once,” Bev added.
“We didn’t kill him!” Paige said. “Can you imagine me doing anything with that fool? I’m just sorry that I’m the one who’s going to clear his name.”
“I care deeply for you as well, Paige,” Brad said smugly.
Evidently that was the last straw. “Get out of my shop!”
“Come on. Lighten up,” Brad said, trying to smooth things over with her.
“I said get out and I meant it. All of you!”
There was no questioning the sincerity of her command. We all left the bookstore, but before I could apologize for making her admit to what she’d done the night of the murder, Paige slammed the door in my face. Once this was all over, I had some serious fences to mend there, but I couldn’t worry about that at the moment.
Brad looked at us all and grinned. “You heard the lady. I’ve got myself an alibi.” He paused as he studied Bev and Simon for a moment before adding, “Unless my count is off, that just leaves the two of you.”
“Don’t forget Alexa,” Bev said.
“Of course you’re right. So, we have it narrowed down to one in three. I like the odds.”
“Anybody could have killed John Rumsfield,” Simon protested. “It doesn’t necessarily mean that any of us did it. I’m quite sure he’s been making enemies for years.”
“But no one else is around,” Brad said. “Not that it matters to me.”
He took off walking down the street.
“Where are you going, Brad?” Bev called out.
“I’m going to have a nice little chat with the chief of police, and then I’m getting out of this town, and I’m never coming back.”
After he was gone, Simon looked at Bev. “Should we go back to the hotel?”
“We might as well,” she said. “I’m glad you drove us here.”
“What about Brad?” I asked.
“Let him get his own ride back to the Bentley,” Bev said. “Personally, I hope he has to walk the entire way.”
After they were gone, I realized that Brad had probably been right. Our field of suspects had now been narrowed down to one of three writers.
Which one was a murderer in real life though, and not just on paper?
There was nothing more I could do at the moment, so I walked across the street to relieve Emma from her duties at Donut Hearts.
Sometimes it was nice having a semblance of sanity in a world that appeared to have gone completely mad.
Chapter 18
“Where have you been?” Jennifer asked me as soon as I walked into Donut Hearts. Elizabeth and Hazel were already there as well.
I glanced at my watch. “Am I late? I didn’t think we were meeting for another twenty minutes,” I said.
“We couldn’t wait, not after what happened after we left the bookstore last night,” Elizabeth said.
“You must have been terrified,” Hazel added. “I can’t believe you found another body, Suzanne.”
Why did everyone keep saying that? Was I becoming some kind of dark omen, finding bodies wherever I went? “Me, either,” I said, waving to Emma and then taking my seat. The ladies already had their treats and coffee, and my lovely assistant brought me a mug as well.
“Want anything to go with that, boss?” she asked me with a smile.
“No, this is good.” I took a deep sip, and then I turned to find my fellow club members still staring at me. “Don’t worry, it’s not contagious.”
“We didn’t think it was,” Jennifer said. “Should we go ahead and get started?”
“Let me just duck in back and grab my books,” I said. “I’m interested in discussing detailed plotters versus spontaneous writers today. It should be really interesting comparing and contrasting the two styles.”
“Actually, there’s no need to get them at all,” Elizabeth said. “If it’s all the same to you, we want to jettison the book discussion this month entirely.”
“Why would we want to do that?”
Jennifer took a deep breath, and then she explained, “It seems a little silly talking about a few made-up murders when there was a real one right across the street less than thirty-six hours ago. If it’s too painful for you to discuss though, we don’t have to talk about it.”
Jennifer may have said it, but it was clear that they all wanted to talk about what had happened to John Rumsfield. I might get away with brushing off other people, but these women were my friends. “Okay. It’s fine by me. What do you want to know?”
“What made you go into the bookstore in the first place?” Hazel asked me.
At nearly the same time, Elizabeth asked, “Was there much blood?”
While Jennifer said, “I’d love to hear all of it.”
“Okay,” I said, lowering my voice so the folks nearby wouldn’t be subjected to my retelling the experience. “I was driving to work when I saw that the front door of the bookstore was open across the street. I called the police, but while I was waiting to be connected, I could swear I heard someone inside.”
“Was the killer still inside?” Jennifer asked, hanging on every word.
“No, it was most likely just my imagination. Evidently John Rumsfield had been dead for hours by the time I found him.”
“So that explains why you went in by yourself. You wanted to investigate in case someone was in trouble,” Hazel said approvingly.
“That’s why. Anyway, I started flipping lights on as I worked my way to the back, but the one in the break room wouldn’t come on, so I turned on my heavy-duty flashlight, and I used it to look around. I saw something on the floor that I didn’t recognize. As a matter of fact, at first I thought it was a painter’s tarp or something, but the closer I got, I started realizing that it was a dead body.”
“I can’t imagine how that must have felt,” Elizabeth said. “We read about murder all of the time in our books, but I can’t imagine actually seeing a dead person up close.”
“At least I didn’t witness the crime itself,” I said. “I just saw the results.”
“Still, I can’t help but be curious about it,” Jennifer said. “We all are.”
“I took a few pictures with my cell phone, but I don’t think you’ll like them,” I told the ladies. I knew that I shouldn’t have mentioned the photos the moment the words left my lips, but it was too late to take them back now.
“They’re on your phone? Still?” Hazel asked, clearly a little unsettled by the idea.
“It’s instinct for me to record the crime scene at this point,” I said. “I wanted to document what I found.”
Elizabeth asked in a soft voice, “Can we see them?”
“I don’t know. One of the shots is kind of disturbing,” I warned them.
“We’re grown women, Suzanne,” Jennifer said. “We can take it.”
“Hazel? What do you think?”
She looked down at her hands, started to reluctantly nod in agreement, and then she abruptly stood up. “I thought I could do it, but it turns out that I can’t. I’ll wait for you outside.”
“We don’t have to look, either,” Elizabeth said, imploring her friend not to leave.
“It’s probably not a good idea, anyway,” Jennifer added.
Hazel was not to be dissuaded. “No, you both want to see them. That’s fine with me, as long as I don’t have to look. I’ll wait out in the car for you.”
I couldn’t stop her, and in a moment, she was gone.
“I’m sorry I mentioned it, ladies,” I told the other two. “I didn’t mean to upset Hazel.”
“She’ll be okay,” Jennifer said, and then, after taking a deep breath, she added, “I’m ready. How about you, Elizabeth?”
She nodded in agreement, and I kn
ew that I couldn’t back out of it now, no matter how much I wanted to tuck my phone back into my pocket and forget all about it. I chose to show them the bloodied book first, it being the least offensive of the lot.
“I have to say, that’s more than a little disturbing in and of itself. Seeing it in the movies or reading about it is one thing, but that’s someone’s real-life blood there,” Elizabeth said with a frown.
“Is it significant to the case?” Jennifer asked.
“That’s still to be determined. Listen, you two. We don’t have to go on.”
“No, we can handle it,” Elizabeth said, and Jennifer simply nodded.
I pulled up the bookend next.
“That’s what the killer used?” Jennifer asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes, so it seems,” I admitted. I saw that she’d turned a little green around the gills. “What’s wrong?”
“I bought that same bookend for her at Christmas two years ago,” Elizabeth said.
“I’m sorry, but after seeing that, I’m not at all certain that I’ll ever be able to look at them again,” Jennifer said apologetically.
“I know I wouldn’t keep them if I were you. Throw them away, donate them, stick them in your attic for all I care, but for goodness sake, don’t leave them out. I’ll buy you something to replace them.”
“That’s sweet of you to offer, but no thanks,” Jennifer said.
Both women looked shaken up, and I was about to refuse to show them John Rumsfield’s body when Elizabeth said, “Suzanne, if it’s all the same to you, I believe that I’ll skip the last one. I need some air.”
“I’ll go with you,” Jennifer said.
Both women stood, and as they headed for the door, I began to apologize. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Jennifer said as she stopped. “We practically begged you to show us. We just weren’t ready to see them after all.”
“I don’t know how you even function after seeing something like that in real life, up close and personal like that,” Elizabeth added.
“I didn’t ask for it; it was just bad luck on my part.”
“But you’re still digging into what happened, aren’t you?” Jennifer asked me in all seriousness.
“I found the body. That makes me vested in figuring out who did it in my mind. If they get away with it, then the nightmares will be for naught.”
“You’re having nightmares?” Elizabeth asked, and then she corrected herself immediately. “Of course you are. Why wouldn’t you?” She then turned to our leader and said, “I’ve suddenly lost my appetite for murder, fictitious or otherwise. I’m taking off.”
“I’m right behind you,” Jennifer agreed.
Was I losing them forever because of my thoughtless offer to show them crime scene photos? “You’re coming back, aren’t you?”
“Not today, but next month, certainly,” Jennifer said, and then she patted my hand. “I’ll email you about the next book selection in a few days. Better yet, maybe I’ll stop by and we can have some coffee and a treat, just the two of us.”
“I’d like that very much,” I said.
After they were gone, I wondered about my own reaction to what I’d found earlier. Hazel, Elizabeth, and Jennifer were smart, strong, well-balanced women, and yet they hadn’t even had the stomachs to view a photo of the murder victim’s body. What did that make me, someone who could not only see it but remember to take photos of it in the moment, and the rest of the crime scene? Had I become so inured to what I’d done in the past that it didn’t affect me as much anymore? If I’d grown that hardened, then maybe this should be the last murder I ever investigated, no matter what the circumstances might be. I yearned for the time of innocence I’d felt before I’d found my first body, that of a customer and friend, Patrick Blaine, dumped in front of my shop. Since then, I’d been on a spiraling decline where dead bodies were not nearly as rare as they once were. Maybe it was time to take a step back and reevaluate my life choices.
But I wasn’t going to even consider it until after John Rumsfield’s killer was unmasked.
Chapter 19
“Is it closing time yet?” Grace asked me as she came into Donut Hearts just before eleven.
“We still have ten more minutes, and seven donuts left to sell,” I told her.
“If I buy all seven, will you lock the door now?” she asked me with a wicked grin.
“Done and done,” I said with a smile. “As a matter of fact, you don’t even have to buy the donuts.”
“I don’t mind a bit. Keep the change,” she said as she slid a ten across the counter.
“Do you really want them?”
“Who knows? I might get hungry later tonight. Box them up.”
I opened the kitchen door and called back to Emma, “Do you have any problem with us shutting down early?”
“Let me think about it. No,” she said instantly afterward with a grin.
“That’s what I figured,” I replied.
I boxed Grace’s donuts and set them aside, and then I started my shutdown procedure. As I ran the register report, I counted the money in the till, and we came out even to the penny. I hadn’t rung Grace’s ten up, and when Emma joined us, I handed the bill to her.
“What’s this for?” she asked.
“Grace is buying you lunch today,” I replied. “Isn’t that sweet of her?”
“Thanks, Grace,” Emma said, folding the bill up and stuffing it into her jeans without even asking us why.
“You’re most welcome,” she said.
I finished filling out my deposit slip, and as Emma headed for the door, she asked, “Do you want me to drop the deposit off on my way?”
“That would be great,” I said as I handed her the bag.
Once she was gone, Grace asked, “So, what have you been up to this morning?”
“What makes you think I’ve been doing anything?”
“Suzanne, we’ve been friends too long for you to try that with me. You know something, and what’s more, you’ve been dying to tell me since I first walked in the door. I’m a patient woman, but even I have my limits.”
“Really? Do you honestly consider yourself patient by any definition of the word?” I asked her, smiling.
“Okay, not so much, but things have been happening. Am I right, or have I misread the situation?”
“No, you’re correct. You’ll never believe who came into the donut shop this morning.”
She raised an eyebrow as she asked, “Maybe not, but are you really going to make me guess?”
“No. Abner came by first thing, and it turns out that he has an alibi.”
“Don’t tell me he was involved in some kind of secret liaison,” Grace said.
“No, actually, he was in hotel jail. He tried to break into Brad Winslow’s room, and he got caught. Before you ask why he was doing a little B&E on the side, it turns out he was going to brace the author to convince him to read his manuscript after John Rumsfield refused to give it more than a cursory look.”
“That sounds like something Abner would do. How did Brad react to the intrusion?”
“He wasn’t there,” I said. “Evidently he and Paige were having one last fling, though Paige didn’t think that was what it was at the time. They had a huge fight afterwards, and they were still arguing even while the publisher was being murdered.”
“My, you have been a busy little bee,” Grace said. “I’m surprised you had time to sell any donuts at all today.”
“That’s not even all of it. Brad, Simon, and Bev came by the shop, and we went over to see if the writers could figure out who killed John Rumsfield for themselves.”
“And Paige just l
et you all into the bookstore, even Brad?”
“She was reluctant at first, but I didn’t know why until she and Brad had another fight, this one in front of the rest of us.”
“Man, I knew I should have called in sick today and hung out with you,” she said. “Did the liar’s club come up with anything?”
“It seems they agree that it was either a rash, unpremeditated act, a deliberate murder made to look like a frame job, or a case of mistaken identity.”
“Wow, that covers a lot of ground. I’m stunned no one suggested Rumsfield tripped and fell, hitting his head on the bookend on his way down.”
“That never came up,” I said, “but it’s probably as good a theory as any at this point. I wonder why no one thought of that.”
“Probably because an accident doesn’t make it murder, and those three probably always have homicide on their minds, since it’s how they earn their livings. Where was Alexa when all this was going on?”
“Evidently she refused to participate. She thought they should let the police handle it, since it was a real-life murder and not a fictional one.”
“I bet that didn’t make her very popular with the rest of the group,” Grace said. “It kind of makes her look a little guilty, doesn’t it? I know there’s a popular belief that murderers like to revisit the scene of the crime, but I can’t imagine going back to a place where I killed someone.”
“I can’t, either,” I said. “At least we’ve narrowed our field of suspects down to Simon, Bev, and Alexa now.”
“Assuming it was one of the writers on the panel who did it,” Grace said. “We both met John Rumsfield, and neither one of us was particularly taken with the man. I can’t imagine he’d have such a narrow list of folks who might want to see him dead.”
“Probably not, but as far as we know, they were the only ones in town, and evidently his trip was planned at the last minute, so no one else had any warning that he’d even be here.”
