by Pam Stucky
“Enough to kill?” said Lily, skeptical. She grabbed a napkin to wipe up a drop of salsa she’d spilled.
“I have no idea. Edison was talking about her last night, and she didn’t seem like the most charming woman in the world,” Megan said.
“People don’t always talk nice about their exes,” Kevin offered.
“That is a good point,” Megan said, tapping her pen against the legal pad. She added two bullet points to her list: “Edison —> (no)” and “Daphne Wright —> (bitter ex-wife, yuk).” “Well, we can keep her on the list anyway, for now. What about while you were parking cars, Kevin? Anything unusual strike you?”
Kevin shook his head. “I was focused on trying not to drive anyone’s car into the mud. Romy’s agent, though, she was a number. Didn’t tip, for one thing. And she was yelling at her husband the whole time, up until another guest came near. Then she suddenly flipped, all smiles and saccharin. People like that, who talk in front of ‘the help’ like we’re not even there, can’t stand ’em.” He rubbed his head again.
Megan thought back to the night before, and her own decision this morning not to feed her guests. Emlyn hadn’t particularly impressed her, either. “They’re all staying upstairs at the library, you know. Emlyn and Baz, and also Romy’s sister and her husband. I have to admit, my subconscious must not like Emlyn as much either. I put her and Baz in the room that has the worst view. But it’s not like it’s a bad room. Anyway, I fed them last night because I didn’t think they’d want to go out, so they all came over to my apartment. She was really flirty with Edison,” Megan said, leaning back and stretching her arms over her head. “Emlyn was. Right in front of Baz. I mean, that means nothing. Like you said, just because someone is a jerk doesn’t make them a murderer. But for our investigative purposes, let’s say it could. Would it be enough motive that she saw Edison as a catch, a millionaire she could ensnare in her web, maybe divorce Baz, marry up? But Romy was in the way? Emlyn would have seen how Edison and Romy interacted. If she had her eye on the prize, she might have wanted to get the competition out of the way. She seems heartless enough.” On her legal pad, she wrote “Emlyn —> (gold digger?)” and underlined the name.
Lily laughed. “I get the feeling you aren’t adding Emlyn to your Christmas card list,” she said.
Megan rolled her eyes and smiled. “Not just yet,” she said.
“Hmmm,” said Max, unconvinced. “Well, I’ll put her down.” Once again he tapped away on his tablet.
“What about the sister and brother-in-law?” said Lily. “Why were they here? That seems like a long way to come just for a housewarming party.”
“But they’re sisters,” said Megan. “Of course she’d come visit.”
“Max, do you know who the beneficiaries of Romy’s will were?” Lily asked.
Max looked from Lily to Megan. “The sister,” he said. “Exclusively.”
“Not the husband?” said Lily. Max shook his head.
“It can’t be Sylvie,” Megan objected. “She’s too sweet. And her husband is … well, he’s polite, anyway.” Maybe Wade had been a little aloof, she thought, but he was kind enough.
“They’re staying with you, though, so maybe you can find out more,” said Lily. “Can’t hurt to talk to them and get a feel for their relationship with Romy. Maybe they secretly hated each other.”
“And—discreetly—” Max shot Megan a gentle warning look, “find out more about Romy. Who she was,” he said. “Find out if they knew whether she’d made anyone angry.”
“Or had any crazed fans,” said Lily.
Rae walked in and pulled up a chair, handing Kevin a beer and taking a sip from a bottle she’d brought out for herself. “Some of those fans are already in town,” she said, dipping a chip into the salsa. “I heard they’re having a vigil out at Emerson Falls Park this afternoon.”
“How did you hear that?” said Megan, amazed at the way information seemed to float through the air into Rae’s ears. “You’re not even open yet!”
“I hear things,” Rae said, shrugging, a satisfied smile on her face.
“A vigil?” said Max. “Anything official, or they’re just gathering there?”
“Just a gathering,” Rae said. She ate her chip and salsa. “Mmmmm. Dang, you people. I’m too good to you. This is delicious.”
Max dipped a chip into the salsa. “Could use more cilantro, though,” he said. He looked at the assembled motley crew. “Could any of you make it to the vigil this afternoon? See if you can talk to the fans, keep your ears open, see if they have any theories or information? I’ll go, too, but I don’t know how much they’d say to me in my uniform. Sometimes that turns people off. Maybe you can strike up some conversations.”
“Undercover civilian work,” said Megan with mock earnestness. “We’re on it, Cap’n. I’ll see if the staff can cover the library for a couple of hours for me, but I’m sure they can. Lily, are you in?”
“Unfortunately not,” Lily said. “Those very fans are taking over the B&B, and I promised Steve I’d be there to help watch over everything. He’s been doing so much of the work lately. I can’t abandon him again.”
Megan turned to Kevin. “How about you? Are you off work this afternoon?” She realized she wasn’t entirely sure what Kevin was doing for work these days, but she guessed it was an assortment of odd jobs.
Kevin lifted his shoulders. “I could go for a bit, sure.”
“What time are they all gathering at the park, O Oracle?” Megan said, looking at Rae. “I’m assuming you know, since you seem to know everything.” She leaned back in her chair and looked out the window. It was getting near opening time, and the locals would be swarming the pub soon.
Rae winked and took drink of her beer. “About one,” she said. “They’re stopping here for burgers first. Someone tipped them off about Rae’s Famous Burgers. Which reminds me,” she said, getting up, “I need to get cooking.”
Max checked the time. “Quarter to eleven now,” he said. “Okay, I’ll plan to be at the park around one. Megan and Kevin, if you hear anything, let me know. Or Lily, someone at the B&B might say something interesting. Keep your ears to the ground.”
Lily mocked putting her ear to the ground. “Yes, sir.” She stood. “I’ve got to get back to the inn. Megan, I’ll try to come by soon. We’re due for a night out, once Deputy Max figures this all out.” She gave warm hugs all around and left.
Kevin gulped the last of his beer and stood. “I’m out, too. See you at the vigil,” he said to Megan. He gave Max a quick salute, and followed Lily out the door.
Megan stayed in her seat, her mind tumbling. Max watched her, knowing she had a thought brewing, but waiting for it to finish cooking. Finally, Megan looked at him. “Max,” she said.
“Yes, Megan?” he said with a smile.
“There are four people in my house, all of whom are, potentially, murder suspects.” Her mind was so focused on the mystery at hand that she didn’t even notice she was finally referring to the space as “my house.” “Do you think I should be worried? None of them is actually guilty, right? They can’t be. Emlyn is the most likely of all of them, but I can’t imagine her drowning someone.” She pursed her lips. Could Emlyn drown someone? Maybe? This idea did not sit well. Having guests was one thing. Harboring a murderer? Well, that was not in the job description.
“Not even with her husband’s help?” said Max, his eyebrows raised.
Megan gasped. “So you think they did do it? Do you?” A chill ran through Megan's blood. The locks on the doors to her apartment, they were all new and fresh … they should hold …
“I’m not saying that,” said Max. “What I’m saying is, I can’t rule anyone out yet. Emlyn and Baz are each other’s alibis, and that’s not particularly convincing.”
“I don’t have an alibi, either,” said Megan pointedly.
Max paused, then looked down at his tablet, and back at Megan. “And I haven’t ruled you out, yet, either,” he said.
>
Megan's mouth fell open, but she had no words. It was time to solve this murder.
SEVEN
By noon, the sun’s rays had burst through the clouds and the day had turned unseasonably warm, so Megan decided to walk the mile and a half from the library to the park. In Megan's opinion, Emerson Falls, the waterfalls from which the town and the park derived their names, was one of the world’s best hidden secrets. Emerson Falls, the town, was tucked into a loop of land that extended out between Highway 20—the North Cascades Highway—on the north, and the Skagit River on the south. Unlike many of the small towns in the area, most of tiny Emerson Falls was not located directly on the highway; people were more likely to go to Emerson Falls by intention than by mistake. As such, very few people accidentally tumbled upon Emerson Falls, the waterfalls. Instead, cars raced by on the highway, never realizing that this masterpiece of nature was less than half a mile away. But Megan knew, and she was excited to have a reason to visit. “I need to come out here more often,” she said to herself as she walked toward the park.
The library was situated in the southwestern corner of the town, in an expanse of land that jutted out into a curve of the river. The falls themselves were on the eastern side of the town, a bit inland from the river that their waters emptied into. As she strolled east along the riverside trail, Megan breathed deeply. The trail itself had been graveled over in the past, but native and non-native plants were poking their green tips through the rocks and growing along the edges in their indomitable quest for life. She spotted the ever-present and invasive reed canary grass, and wondered as she often did whether invasive plants would one day take over the world. Alongside the reed canary grass grew rushes and other grasses, and the ubiquitous Oregon grape.
About halfway between the library and the falls, she came upon a small riverside park, a memorial garden planted some hundred years prior in honor of Adeline “Addie” Emerson, first wife of Chester Robert Emerson, for whom Emerson Falls (both waterfalls and town) had been named. As was the way with so many women in her time, Addie had given her husband five children before she was twenty-seven, then met her death while giving birth to the sixth. Chester had declared that the plants within the park should reflect Addie’s English–Scottish–Dutch heritage, and to this day, volunteers dutifully maintained the English yew and field roses, the Scottish gorse and heather, and a riot of tulips, all now in glorious bloom. A short white picket fence, recently painted, marked the perimeter of the park. Megan was tempted to slip through the gate and sit a while on the bench with its ancient plaque:
In Memory of
beloved Wife and Mother
Adeline Rose Emerson
Ever in Our Hearts
However, with her goal in mind, she walked on.
A rustling sound in the bushes stopped Megan in her tracks. The rustling stopped, too, and Megan wondered if she’d been mistaken. “Don’t be a snake,” Megan whispered to whatever had made the noise. She hated snakes, regardless of whether they could hurt her. She froze, and slowed her breathing in an effort to hear better, but for many long seconds there was no movement from anywhere, not even a whisper of the wind. Then, suddenly, in a flurry of movement, a bird burst out of the bush and flew away. Megan put her hand to her heart as it raced in response to the sudden activity. “A hawk?” Megan said, squinting into the sunshine for any identifying features before the bird was out of sight. Medium-sized bird with a large head; long, rounded tail with dark brown stripes and a white tip; dark gray cap; yellow feet. “Cooper’s hawk,” she decided. “Goodbye, Cooper’s hawk,” she said to the quickly disappearing creature, and then continued on her journey.
Eventually, she left the riverside trail, crossed the main road in town, and followed the escalating roar of the waterfalls until she reached the park. Although people were already gathering near the gazebos, Megan first headed deeper into the park to pay homage to the waterfalls.
Rivers were loud, Megan thought as she approached, but nothing could match the unrelenting thunder of these falls. And she loved it. Somehow, the roar of these waterfalls could push out thoughts of past and future; the noise filled her ears and her soul and left room for nothing but the present. Megan inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the scents of the forest: the rich, damp earth; the slight mustiness of the bark of the trees; the cool, mist-thickened air; the freshness of evergreen needles and moss; the mineral smell of the rocks as the water sloughed off infinitesimal grains, smoothing them out over millennia. The falls and the forest always seemed to lecture Megan about patience and time and priorities, about being in this moment even while paying homage to eternity.
Emerson Falls was actually made up of several separate drops and turns, and Megan took the time to follow the winding half-mile nature loop along the water’s edge and through the forest of ancient Douglas firs and Western Red Cedars and other conifers that towered overhead. Twenty years prior, at one of the most dramatic points of the falls, a bridge had been built that let visitors safely get up close to the rampaging water. This was one of Megan's favorite spots, and she stopped there now. In times of low water the stream split here into three thready falls, but after the spring melt or heavy rains the three ribbons joined to become one waterfall, raging and spraying mist onto camera lenses and glasses and filling the air with mist. The water was high now, and the bridge somewhat slippery, so Megan clung to the railing for balance, not caring in the least as the water soaked into her clothes. For several long minutes, she stood watching the water, mesmerized as always, breathing deeply and slowly and feeling as if somehow she were a part of the breath of the earth.
The canopy of ancient trees kept out most of the sunlight, even near the path cut by the tributary, and Megan soon grew cold. She promised the waterfalls she’d return, and walked back to the more open, grassy area of the park.
While she’d been admiring the waterfalls, the crowd had grown. Certainly there weren’t hundreds of people there, but there were dozens, maybe fifty or more. Megan was amazed. She’d known Romy was popular but she’d had no clue so many readers would come out to little Emerson Falls to mourn.
People were milling about without much direction, murmuring in their low tones in small groups. Many of them were carrying dog-eared copies of their favorite Rosemary Grace Garrison books. Some looked like they’d been crying; others were hugging and laughing softly as they chatted about their favorite books, characters, and scenes. Near one of the park’s large open gazebos, a woman had set up a table where she was busily slipping short candles into small paper cups, to catch the wax after they were lit. Megan guessed this meant they intended to keep the vigil going at least until dark. She walked over to the woman and smiled in what she hoped was an appropriately warm but grief-filled way.
“Hi, I’m Megan,” she said.
The woman stopped what she was doing and briefly shook Megan's proffered hand. “Iris,” she said. “Are you a Rosette or a Romite?”
Megan tilted her head to the side. “Sorry?” she said.
“Rosette or Romite? The two main fan groups?” Iris said, as though this was something everyone should know.
“No,” Megan said, shaking her head. “I live here. I’m the town librarian. What’s the difference between a Rosette and a Romite?” Her wet clothes clung to her and she looked around for a sunny spot she could escape to next.
The woman picked up her task again, slipping candles into the end of the cups. “Not much, really. The Rosettes came first, and generally like Romy’s earlier work better. The Romites came along later, not knowing there was already a fan club, and gave themselves a new name.” She shrugged. “Sort of like Trekkers and Trekkies, I guess.”
“Trekkers and Trekkies?” said Megan, thinking that there was much in this world she did not know.
“Different groups of Star Trek fans. I don’t know the difference there. I’m a Rosette, but I like the Romites, too.”
Uncertain what to say, Megan nodded with solemn agreement. “That�
��s good,” she said.
“I can’t believe she’s gone,” said Iris. She paused her work. “If you live here, do you know anything about how she died? All we’ve heard is she drowned. Some are saying it was murder.” She whispered the last word like a forbidden secret.
Megan nodded. “I don’t know much myself. I think they’re still working to figure it out.” She took a breath: time to get sleuthing. “Do the … Rosettes and Romites, the fans, do they have theories on what happened? If it is murder, that is. They’re not sure, yet.” She worried that she might have said too much.
“Oh there are plenty of theories,” Iris said, her voice rich with disdain. “But obviously it had to be Gus. He was so mad when she left.”
Megan was surprised. From what Romy had told her, the divorce had mostly been kept out of the tabloids. How would Iris know how Gus had felt? “People think it was Gus?” she said.
“I think it was Gus. He lives nearby, could have gotten over here really easily. Then the next morning he’d go off to swim at eight like he does every morning, and any blood he’d had on him would have been washed off in the chlorine,” Iris said.
“I don’t think there was blood,” Megan said, but her mind was on the last part of Iris’s comment. “He swims every morning?”
“At the public pool in Concrete,” Iris said, like everyone knew this and Megan was silly for asking.
“At eight?” Megan asked.
“At eight,” Iris said. She glared at Megan, then coughed a smoker’s cough. Megan waited patiently for the episode to subside. Finally, Iris had her breath again. “Why? You looking for a swimming partner?”
