The whole thing seemed underhanded. It made me feel dirty.
It also solidified my hunch that Roger Balthasar was a strong suspect.
“So there’s no proof,” I pressed Travis, “of Roger having paid off the local police to stop or slow the investigation?”
He shook his head. “Not so far.”
Hmm. Melissa’s death had fallen off the media grid and social networks. Danny thought Roger’s influence might have had something to do with that. I wasn’t so sure that one man could have enough clout to suppress all those forms of communication.
“And what does Cashel Sullivan have to do with all this?” I remembered Travis’s earlier comment but didn’t understand it.
My financial advisor gave me a goading look. A familiar one. “You’d already know if you’d finished Albany’s book.”
“Cashel was in rehab?” I guessed. “And Albany wrote about it?” Instantly, I felt sympathetic toward her brother. I knew Travis cared about his longtime friend, but . . . “Addiction is a serious problem, Travis. Exposing him could hurt his recovery.”
Travis gave a tolerant sigh. “Slow down, Sherlock. Cashel lives in Southern California now. That’s all I meant. If you’d read Albany’s memoir, you’d recognize him. He’s ‘the surfer.’”
Aha. In her book, Albany had used descriptive nouns—the surfer, the boss, the father, the underling, the teacher—to refer to people, without using their real names or mentioning their true roles in her life. “She didn’t veer too far from the facts when ‘lightly fictionalizing’ her memoir, then. Good to know.”
I vowed to speed-read through the rest of Albany’s book immediately. As I may have mentioned, however, I tend to procrastinate. Plus, the online media coverage of Albany had been even more riveting than her (admittedly hilarious) memoir. She was a natural in the limelight. Some of the memes she’d inspired were definitely meanspirited, but that’s the Internet for you—full of people who believe that snarky takedowns are the ultimate in wit. Albany couldn’t have helped that.
“Albany’s memoir is fictionalized enough,” was Travis’s opinion. “There are fewer hurt feelings to worry about that way. Whether you think so or not, Albany is a good person.”
I wanted to believe him. I truly did. But if embellishing the facts to make them more sensational (and salable) was “good,” then I needed vocabulary lessons. I wasn’t blinded by sentiment.
It was possible, I knew, that usually sensible Travis was.
“I’m sure you’re right,” I conceded. “At the moment, Albany might be a ‘good person’ who’s being targeted by a killer.”
“So we’d better keep digging,” Travis agreed. He gathered his paperwork, then gave me an empathetic look. “Sorry to break the bad news to you about the childhood-bedroom movie scam.”
I scoffed. “I was only kidding. I knew it was fake.”
I wished I had. It was no fun having my illusions shattered. Thanks to my unusual upbringing, I knew how to speak several languages. I knew how to properly present a gift (with both hands) in Sri Lanka. I knew how to use a Bangalore squat toilet with no muss and no fuss. But a few gaps still remained.
“Anyway, duty calls!” I told Travis. “I’ve got to run. Josh Levitt invited me to the Christmas cookie swap at the Sproutes Sentinel, and it starts in half an hour. So while I’d like to hang around here discussing tax returns and quarterly reports—”
“Go ahead.” Cheerfully, Travis waved me away. “Believe it or not, I’d rather eat cookies than perform financial analysis, too. Have a few for me—especially if they have those sugar cookies with the frosting and sprinkles. They’re my favorite.”
I’d do better than that, I promised myself. I’d bring back those cookies for my friend. With that in mind, I headed out.
Nine
You might be surprised to learn that an official Christmas cookie swap is something I’ve never attended. Not in an expert capacity, and not on an amateur basis, either. In my mind, a traditional cookie swap is a very American type of event—and there’s not much call for active experimental archeologists (and their inquisitive, chocolate-loving offspring) in the United States. That’s why my parents and I traveled the world so much.
From the start, I was entranced. Josh Levitt graciously met me in the lobby of the Sproutes Sentinel offices, then escorted me farther in. We wove past cubicles and desks, TV monitors and meeting rooms, passing by and chatting with dozens of newspaper staffers. It was evident that Josh was well liked, and that he enjoyed his coworkers, too. The staff seemed like a family.
Someone had set up the Christmas cookie exchange in one of the largest meeting rooms. Danny would have found the place claustrophobic, thanks to its low ceilings, fluorescent lights, and overall air of nine-to-five clock punching. But I found the space was nicely upgraded by the ornamented Christmas tree in the corner, the multicolored lights strung from the ceiling, and the strands of garland that had been taped along the edges of the tables. The tables been pushed against the walls and topped with festive holiday-print paper tablecloths. Atop those were plates of different Christmas cookies, some humble and some elaborate.
There were so many offerings that it was almost impossible to detect the tablecloth pattern beneath them. Each plate bore a printed cookie description and an identifying baker’s number.
“You weren’t kidding about the cookie contest,” I told Josh in an undertone, marveling at the setup. “I didn’t expect all this—coded numbers, a secret ballot, professional taster cups.”
“Spit cups” had been provided for the use of tasters who didn’t want to munch their way through the entire selection, only to wind up with a winner several hundred calories later. Josh told me they weren’t used much, though.
“It’s a lot less formal than it looks, trust me,” he said. “In fact, I’ll bet you twenty bucks that my editor wins. Again.”
I was affronted. “You’re on! Because you’re going to win. I helped you, didn’t I? You’ve got this in the bag, Josh.”
We each took paper plates, then circled the room with everyone else, talking while holiday music played. Everyone was friendly and lighthearted, jokingly evaluating the offerings and calling out teasing critiques of butter cookies, thumbprints, spritz, and peanut butter blossoms. I tried cookies shaped like candy canes, cookies flavored with nutmeg and other spices, and molasses cookies with vanilla icing. There were cranberry-orange cookies with white chocolate, sugar cookies with silver dragées, and impossibly thin, sugary creations shaped like snowflakes.
There, amid all the fun-loving Sentinel employees, I felt downright convivial. They welcomed me into their midst with tales of past cookie Bake-Offs, stories of Christmas decorating, and invitations to experience one of Sproutes’s most traditional attractions: the annual Santa’s locomotive ride for kids.
“All the kids show up in their pajamas—bundled up with all their warm winter gear on top, of course,” Josh explained. “Then they jump onto a miniature steam locomotive, scream and go crazy while having cookies and hot chocolate, then get driven around by ‘Santa’ on a temporary track at the Sproutes town park.”
“Aww, that sounds nice.” I mentioned the municipal parade downtown that someone had told me about, with lighted floats and holiday balloons, and the charity ornament auction, too. “I’m volunteering a few chocolate houses. Zach asked me to.”
I described my contribution, explaining that my houses would be similar to gingerbread houses, only 100 percent chocolate.
“Mmm. That sounds like my kind of thing!” someone said.
I turned to see a pleasant-looking woman of about fifty, wearing a tunic-length sweater with pants tucked into boots.
At her arrival, Josh practically saluted. He definitely stood up straighter. “Linda, this is Hayden Mundy Moore, the chocolate expert I told you about,” he shared amid the holiday hubbub. “Hayden, this is Linda Sullivan, my editor.”
“Linda Sullivan?” I grasped her hand, meeting her gaze with a straightforward l
ook of my own. “Any relation to Albany?”
Her smile warmed me. “She’s my daughter. But don’t worry—not everything in that book of hers is true!” she assured me.
If it had been true, I recalled, Linda Sullivan would have had cause to be resentful of it. The memoir’s “mother” character was a manipulative control freak who cried at the drop of a hat.
“Still, it must be surreal to see your family depicted in a best-selling book,” I chatted. “Especially a holiday memoir.”
“A ‘lightly fictionalized’ holiday memoir,” Linda reminded me gently. “It’s really a work of fiction, with just enough grit to titillate and enough love to add verisimilitude. I’m a writer. Albany’s a writer. I understand the impulse to exaggerate.”
That made sense. Still . . . “But the holidays are sacrosanct!”
Her agreeable expression never faltered. But something in the perplexed way that Linda angled her head niggled at me.
It appeared very similar to the way that Travis had looked at me earlier, I realized, when we’d discussed the childhood room-shrine issue. Maybe I was culturally out of step again, I guessed. I was out of sync with my sleep schedule, still jet lagged. Probably, I wasn’t thinking with the clarity I needed.
“Maybe to some people, the holidays are untouchable. We Sullivans are more freewheeling than that. It’s a good thing, too! Otherwise, the past few months would have been very difficult for us.” Linda gave me a confiding smile. “At this point, the whole family is making up new anecdotes to include in Albany’s follow-up book. There’s talk, you know, of a sequel.”
I hadn’t heard that. “A sequel?”
“Yes, with a summertime vacation theme.” Linda glanced at Josh, bringing him into our conversation. “There’s plenty of material there! In the meantime, I’m doing my part to help.”
“Oh, are you Albany’s cowriter? Or her editor?”
A jolly laugh. “Not a chance! Albany is very secretive about her work, at least until it’s finished.” Linda winced. She put her hand to her temple in what appeared to be a habitual, reflexive gesture, then gave me a pained smile. “What I’m doing isn’t so much writing or editing as it is supporting.”
I wanted to ask if she was all right, but Josh interrupted.
“The Sentinel is running a Christmas in Crazytown–themed crossword-puzzle contest to promote the show,” he explained, unconcerned about Linda’s ailment. “You have to complete all the weekly crosswords in the run-up to the show’s opening, then submit them for a grand-prize drawing to attend the premiere.”
Linda nodded while the cookie swap and Bake-Off continued around us. I have to say, that room full of cookies smelled scrumptious. Sadly, Josh’s was the only all-chocolate entry.
“The contest is the least I can do,” the editor explained. She carelessly shook out a couple of pain relievers and washed them down with some punch. It absolutely wasn’t wassail. “Albany forbade me to give interviews or even have her book reviewed—which is unfortunate, given the readership the Sentinel has.”
I’d been under the impression the newspaper was struggling. I was certain that’s what Josh had told me. I puzzled over it.
Was Linda Sullivan hiding something about the Sproutes Sentinel? I couldn’t quite envision it. Yes, she was exclusionary Albany’s mom. Opportunistic Ophelia’s mom. Rude Cashel’s mom.
But frankly, Linda seemed much too kind to have raised three such self-involved twerps. Maybe her husband was horrible? Albany’s dad remained a mystery to me—the final Sullivan secret.
I was starting to hope that someone in the family would justify my dislike of Albany. Cashel had almost done it, but then he’d apologized—seemingly sincerely. I would have preferred thinking that the Sullivans were awful people, just as depicted in Albany’s memoir, rather than face my own shortcomings. My territorial feelings about Travis were embarrassing.
I’ve never claimed to be perfect. But I’m always striving to be better. To be kinder, more patient, and less suspicious.
My hopes for self-improvement stood at a crossroads with my sometime amateur sleuthing activities, though. It was tough to tamp down on suspicion when you needed to assess suspects.
Speaking of which . . . I pulled a regretful face at Linda Sullivan. “It’s too bad all those readers will be disappointed.”
Her gaze hardened slightly. “Disappointed?”
“Yes, when Christmas in Crazytown doesn’t open. You can’t win tickets to a sold-out holiday show that closes before it debuts.” I imagined throngs of eager Sproutesians wielding completed crossword puzzles, storming the Sentinel offices.
“Yes, well, that can’t be helped, can it?” Linda shot Josh an irked glance, as though blaming him for bringing me—and my pessimistic take on her prize drawing—to the cookie swap. “All we can do is hope that poor Roger is able to pull through this.”
And that the show will go on, was the unspoken sentiment.
It was odd to hear someone express such sympathy for Roger Balthasar, though. He seemed so unlikable. I guessed that Linda was a more openhearted person than me, because she went on.
“And poor Melissa!” The editor heaved a melancholy sigh. “Without her, none of this would have happened for Albany. There would be no best-selling book, no holiday show . . . nothing at all.”
I wondered if that was exactly what Linda wished were true. She couldn’t really be as unbothered as she seemed by her daughter’s tell-all memoir, could she? It couldn’t be easy having your family’s dirty (Christmas) laundry aired in public. She couldn’t have prepared, either. As far as I knew, Albany’s book had been a juggernaut, timed so that the holiday show followed very closely on the heels of the memoir’s publication.
There were rumors of a Hollywood film in the works, too. Although that might change, I knew, now that Melissa was gone.
“Yes, it’s heartbreaking,” I said solemnly. “Melissa was so young to have died so suddenly. And at Christmastime, too!”
We three stood soberly, paying silent tribute to the show’s second producer, with plates of gaily decorated cookies held incongruously in hand.
“Yes, well . . .” Josh piped up gamely, as cheery as he ever was. “You know what they say. The Christmas show must go on!”
Linda smiled. “You’re right, Josh. Or at least, a few of our readers agree with you. We’ve received plenty of letters.”
“Really?” I was interested, especially since public reactions had plummeted elsewhere. “What kind of letters?”
But the Sentinel’s editor didn’t elaborate. Instead, her focus pivoted to me with new attentiveness. Enlightenment, even.
“I just realized!” Linda exclaimed, pointing at me. “Hayden Mundy Moore! You must be Travis’s Hayden,” she guessed with a twinkle in her eyes. “He talks about you quite a lot, you know.”
“Really?” I shouldn’t have been sidetracked, but I was. Travis’s Hayden. That was me. “What does he say?”
“It’s not what he says. It’s how he says it.” Linda took my arm, waved away Josh, then guided us both to a more private corner of the cookie swap. “I’ve known Travis Turner since he was a gangly swim-team star working on the yearbook club.”
I felt riveted. I’d always wondered about Travis’s past. Now it looked as though Albany’s mother might be the key to unlocking it. So far, Linda’s story checked out. Travis had mentioned his love of swimming; it persisted to this day. I could easily envision my studious friend joining a club, too.
“Travis and Albany have been friends a long time, I know.”
Linda’s laughter was positively engaging. “More than friends! They’re practically siblings. If I had a nickel for every time I fed Travis Turner spaghetti and meatballs after swim practice or kept him and Albany going through finals week, supplied with milk and oatmeal cookies, I’d be retired right now.”
Aww, that was sweet. I pictured that wholesome scene, with Travis and Albany bent over schoolbooks and Linda whipping up homemade
treats on the fly. My own mother hadn’t baked much. She’d been busy making groundbreaking archeological discoveries and inspiring me to travel the world. I wanted to know more.
“Was he as serious then as he is now?” I asked. “Did you ever meet his parents? I understand Travis moved to Sproutes with his mom.” His dad’s whereabouts had gone unmentioned when Danny had briefed me about my keeper’s past. “Where is the upper-crust part of Sproutes, anyway? I’m sure that’s where—”
Linda looked startled. “Upper crust?” She gave me a baffled smile. “Travis didn’t grow up anywhere fancy like that. He was one of those free-lunch kids. I think that’s why he enjoyed my spaghetti and meatballs and oatmeal cookies so much, honestly.”
Free-lunch kids? Travis had grown up poor?
The idea clashed so strongly with my image of “Harvard” that I couldn’t speak for a minute. This new reality refused to mesh with my assumptions about Travis’s privileged past.
I wanted to pepper Linda with questions—to find out all the details I could—but that was the moment when the cookie swap judging began. Someone paused the Christmas carols that had been playing. Several someones shushed the Sentinel staffers present. A dark-haired woman sashayed to the secret ballot box, then reached for the portable microphone being offered to her.
Transferring it to her was Josh Levitt. He fumbled with the device, clearly nervous, as he stood beside the newly arrived presenter. When I looked closer, I realized why. Tansy Park was the judge. Her star power lent an electric air to the event.
“Thanks, Josh.” Tansy seized the microphone herself, then raised it to her smiling, lipsticked mouth. “Hello, Sentinel!”
A raucous cheer rose to greet her. Several staffers applauded. A few wolf whistled. A man near me stood transfixed, gazing at Tansy with a mixture of incredulity and admiration.
The actress accepted the crowd’s adoration, seeming perfectly at home in the spotlight—which, of course, she was.
“Humph,” Linda groused beside me. “Some acting, right? You’d never know Tansy made Albany’s life a living hell when she arrived to work on the show.” Linda didn’t seem able to help herself. “Not until after she’d won the starring role, of course. Until then, it was all sweetness and light. Like that.” The editor grimaced at Tansy, annoyed at her presence.
The Peppermint Mocha Murder Page 11
