Final Chapter: A Megan Montaigne Mystery (Megan Montaigne Mysteries)

by Pam Stucky

“What?” said Megan, who had noticed the hesitation.

  “Nothing,” said Lily. “Just remembered something I’d forgotten. Nothing important.”

  Megan shrugged it off. “I saw Gus today, too,” she said. “Romy’s ex-husband.”

  “Oh?” said Lily, her interest piqued. “Was he in town?”

  “Uh, well,” said Megan, “some judgmental people might say I stalked him. Which would not be true. I happened to be outside the pool in Concrete when he got done with his morning swimming. Whatever. Why I was there is not important.”

  Lily gently shook her head as her eyes laughed.

  “Anyway,” said Megan, “something he said. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but it just occurred to me that I keep hearing this. He talked about how Romy was such a good listener—and then she’d take what she’d heard and write it into her books. Sylvie said Romy based a character in one of her early books on Sylvie. Or maybe it was more than one. I can’t remember. But my point,” she said, waving her glass of wine in the air to punctuate the fact that she did, in fact, have a point, “my point is, what if that was Romy’s common practice? And what if one of the people whose stories she listened to, didn’t very much appreciate having their story fictionalized?”

  “Interesting,” said Lily. “Very interesting. But how would we even know? There’s no way to know who all Romy talked to in her life, and we’d have to know that in order to match books up with their origin stories.”

  “Maybe …” said Megan.

  “Yes?” said Lily. “You have an idea?”

  “Well, it’s just … I mean, don’t be going around telling people,” Megan said, but the words were just precautionary. Lily was the most discreet person she knew. “Apparently Romy and Edison met a long time ago. At a support group.”

  Lily raised her eyebrows. “Oh?”

  “Romy was dealing with depression. And Edison was dealing with the fact that his wife was abusive.”

  This news was clearly a surprise to Lily. “Nooooo. Daphne?” she said. “The ex-wife?”

  “Yes,” said Megan. “Did you ever meet her?”

  Lily squinted, looking back in her memory. “Maybe. Just in passing. I feel like I might have but I couldn’t be certain.”

  “Well,” said Megan, “regardless, it sounds like Edison didn’t want people knowing about all that. Which is why he made up the story that he met Romy at some author event. I’m just thinking, what if he found out she wrote about him, and he thought the story seemed too thinly veiled, and he was embarrassed? Or if Daphne was violent, and she thought people would be able to tell that the story was about her. Would that be a trigger?”

  Lily looked around. “Where’s your laptop?” she said, putting her wine glass down. “I can’t remember all of Romy’s books, but I’ve read most of them.”

  Megan ran into her bedroom to get her laptop, turning it on as she came back into the room. “I’ve read many of them, but not all.” She pulled up a list of all the books Romy ever wrote, and the two started going down the list from the beginning, recalling the basic plots as best they could. After about thirty titles, they were starting to feel the futility of the effort. Then they got to Death of a Social Butterfly.

  “Wait,” said Lily. She read the description. “‘When a rich socialite turns up dead in her own pool, everyone believes it’s suicide. But the story takes an unexpected turn when her dark past is brought to light.’ I remember this one. The husband did it, because the wife beat him and he’d finally had enough.” She looked at Megan, her mouth open. “Do you think…?”

  A chill ran up Megan's spine. She checked the time: ten thirty. Too late to call Max with nothing more than a suspicion, based on a coincidence in a book Romy wrote years ago. She remembered then that she was living in Edison’s old home; she remembered how she used to think about the ghosts that seemed to live there, even though the house wasn’t old enough for ghosts. Could they have been ghosts of a different kind? Ghosts of the memories of the fights and violence? Megan looked at the walls, as though they held secrets. Maybe they did, she thought. Maybe they did.

  Then she remembered Edison’s words to her: If those walls ever start to talk, you’ll understand.

  Was that what he’d meant? Was he talking about the abuse he’d suffered here, in this house, at Daphne’s hands?

  She shuddered.

  “Daphne’s alive, right?” said Lily. “Daphne’s not actually, secretly, Romy? Do we know for sure that Daphne and Romy are two different people? I mean, in the book it’s the wife of the abused guy who ends up dead. Maybe …?”

  “Of course they’re two different people,” Megan said, but her tone held no certainty. Where was Daphne, after all? “No, Romy was married to Gus for … well, decades. She couldn’t also be Daphne.”

  Lily lifted her shoulders. “You hear those stories about people who live two lives. Carrying on living in two towns, two families, two homes, and they get away with it for years. You never know,” she said.

  “There is no way Romy lived two different lives and also wrote two or more books a year. Just impossible,” Megan said. But was it?

  Lily closed the lid on Megan's laptop. “Well, regardless, I need to get going. Breakfast comes early at the inn,” she said. She stood and wrapped up again in her coat.

  “Text me when you get home,” Megan said, as she walked Lily to the door.

  “I will do so,” said Lily. “Now don’t worry about it. Lock the doors and get some sleep.”

  “So very comforting,” said Megan. She gave Lily a hug and sent her on her way.

  Coming back into her house, she remembered the gift baskets. She quickly piled all the gifts she’d bought into the baskets, along with the much more appealing additions Lily had brought, then took them out into the hall to place outside the doors of her guests. As she returned to her own apartment, she noticed the door to downstairs was open again, and a soft light filtered through. Megan tiptoed to the grand staircase and peered down into the space below. There, she saw Sylvie sitting by the fireplace. She held a book in her hand, but her eyes were lost in the fire, lost inside a memory she could never live again.

  ELEVEN

  Megan slept poorly, her night filled with bizarre dreams. She dreamed that she was herself and Romy and Daphne all at once, but nobody could see her anywhere she went. She had two husbands, one of whom was Gus. In her dream she called the other one Edison, but when she woke, she realized the face on the man had been that of Zeus. And in her dream, she had beaten him. She hadn’t been able to feel the blows as her hands landed on his body, but his blood pooled in bruises under his skin as he looked on with pleading, begging eyes. Finally, in an act of self-preservation, Edison/Zeus pushed back, and she fell, face-first, into a pool. She didn’t struggle. She breathed the water into her lungs, welcoming the end, letting the cool liquid fill her until there was no air left in her, only water and blood. Slowly, she sank to the bottom of the pool, looking up through the wavy depths to see Edison/Zeus looking down at her, yelling out at her something that she couldn’t hear. From the bottom of the pool she calmly watched his mouth in its screaming frenzy. Then the blood from his bruises spilled over into the water, darkening it, blotting out all light until she could no longer see.

  She woke up in a pool of sweat.

  The moon was waning but again its light was shining in her window whispering secrets she couldn’t understand. Wisps of low clouds floated past the moon and wove themselves through the shadows of the treetops. The river sighed and hummed on its never-ending journey from the mountains to the Puget Sound. A hush lay over the world.

  Megan lay awake in the dark for a while as her mind tried to sort dream from reality. “None of this is happening,” she said to the moon. If only that were true, she thought.

  Soon, she fell back asleep. She did not dream again.

  * * *

  When she next woke, the day was already dawning to bright sunshine. Groggily, Megan tried to recall what da
y it was. “Friday,” she finally said to the room. The memorial would be tomorrow. Then, she hoped, she would have her home to herself again.

  Still in bed, she stretched and snuggled into the blankets. April nights were cold enough that she hadn’t switched from her flannel sheets yet. These sheets, soft and warm in her favorite buttercup yellow that felt bright even in the depths of winter, had been a gift to her from Zeus three years before. They were starting to get threadbare in places, but Megan couldn’t part with them. Logically, of course, she knew that there was nothing in the sheets of Zeus that wasn’t in her heart and mind. But still she clung to them as if that meant she didn’t quite have to say goodbye. “Maybe next winter,” she said out loud to the sheets, and she sighed.

  “Okay!” she said with determination. “Time to get up.” She flung off the sheets and sat on the edge of the bed. “What is our game plan today?” She looked around the room and thought how Zeus would have laughed at its extravagance. He had been a simple man with simple needs. A tent, a thermos, a campfire. Maybe a thin pad under his sleeping bag, if he was feeling fancy. Anything more than that was more than any person needed, he’d say. But in secret, Megan knew, in secret he’d loved a good lush bed as much as she did. The flannel sheets had not been just for her. She would wake up and see him next to her, surrounded by the soft yellow, and in the candor of sleep his face would be wearing a smile of peace.

  “I wish you were here now,” she said, looking at the pillow on the other side of the bed. She wanted to talk to Zeus about Romy, about the house full of strangers, about Gus, about how relationships fell together and how they fell apart. She wanted to hear his thoughts on Edison and Daphne and how their life turned stereotypes on their heads. She wanted to trade insights on how that might have made Edison feel, how shame could maybe lead a person to crime.

  She just wanted to talk to him again, about anything.

  Megan's balcony beckoned to her, so she quickly prepped a breakfast of oatmeal with a topping of berries and some chia seeds. Oatmeal in one hand and a hot mug of coffee in the other, she headed outside. Her Adirondack chair was coated with a thin morning dew, so she headed back inside for a towel. After wiping down the chair, she sat and planned out her day.

  “The guests,” she said, watching the steam rise from her coffee. She should stop by and check on them, see if they needed towels or laundry or anything. It occurred to her that if she was going to have guests on a regular basis, it might not be a bad idea to see if the library board, or Edison, would consider installing a washer and dryer upstairs that guests could use. Item number one on her list for the day: check on the guests.

  “And then?” she asked the river. It was still running high from the spring rains. This would have been one of Zeus’s favorite times of the year. It had seemed to Megan that higher water should mean a calmer river, but Zeus had told her the truth was just the opposite. Most river rafting companies wouldn’t run rafting trips when the water was this high. On a day like today, Zeus would have been out early to get the best routes all to himself.

  Megan shook her head to bring herself back to the present. “And then,” she said, “Edison.” With her new idea of installing the washer and dryer, she’d have a reason to talk to him. How to bring the conversation around to the book Romy wrote, though, the one that seemed to have been based on his life? Well, she’d worry about that later. For now, she’d worry about housekeeping. Literally.

  Half an hour later, Megan was showered, dressed, and in the hallway outside her door. A quick glance told her that Sylvie and Wade had found their gift basket, but Emlyn and Baz must have not yet stepped outside. Megan suspected Sylvie would have picked hers up on her way back in from her night downstairs in the reading nook. She decided to head to their room first.

  Almost a minute passed after Megan knocked before Wade answered the door. He was dressed impeccably, crisp white shirt and khaki pants, no tie, polished shoes, looking ready for a day at work. “Yes?” he said. There was no unkindness to his tone, but neither was he welcoming.

  “I, uh, I was just wondering if you needed anything,” Megan said.

  Wade took in her question as though it was being run through a translator before entering his ears; like he was waiting, patiently, for her words to make sense. “Do we need anything?” he said, finally. Calm, passive, indifferent.

  “Like, new sheets or towels or anything.” Megan suddenly felt awkward, but Wade’s face changed to understanding and he nodded.

  “Oh, yes. If you could leave us some new towels and sheets, I think Sylvie would like that,” he said. “Just leave them outside the door.” He paused. “You were the one who left the basket,” he said, as though he’d just realized where the assortment might have come from.

  “Yes,” said Megan. “I … well, I’m not sure what to do in … this situation. I wanted to let you know I was thinking of you.”

  Wade nodded again. His silence drew out long. Megan wondered if he always spoke like this, taking his time with the words on their way in and their way out. How could Sylvie stand it? Megan wasn’t sure she’d be able to. She’d want to jump in and give him the words she expected, or maybe needed. Sylvie must have the patience of a saint. “It is not a usual situation,” Wade said. Again he nodded, and it seemed to Megan he was agreeing with thoughts before releasing his words into the world. “We appreciate the gesture.”

  “Of course,” said Megan. “You’re welcome.”

  Wade didn’t answer, but stood looking at her. He’d seemed warmer at dinner the other night, but now he was closed off. Megan imagined the strain must be getting to him, as it was to her. She looked at him more closely and noticed a weariness in both his face and in the slight slump of his shoulders.

  “So, just leave the dirty towels and sheets outside the door, and I’ll, uh, come get them,” Megan said, “after I leave you new ones of course.” With every passing day she felt more like she was earning her keep in this spectacular home. It did not, it seemed, come without a price. “If you need anything else,” she said, and she leaned her head toward her own apartment, indicating: you know where to find me.

  Wade nodded. Megan blinked and imagined him as a bobble-head doll. Just in time, she stopped herself from telling him to have a great day. A great day was probably not what one had just a few days after one’s sister-in-law was murdered. She nodded in return, and walked away as he closed the door.

  At Emlyn and Baz’s door, Megan first stooped to pick up the basket that was still waiting outside. She knocked. Emlyn took even longer to get to the door. She, in contrast, was still in her pajamas and bathrobe, her face shiny with a night moisturizer she hadn’t yet washed away.

  Emlyn said nothing, but looked at the gift basket in Megan's hands, her critical eyes scrutinizing it and Megan much in the way Courtney’s had.

  “Good morning, Emlyn,” said Megan, brightening her voice to make up for Emlyn’s lack of enthusiasm. “I thought I’d come by and see if there’s anything you need? Towels or sheets or anything?”

  “Oh yes,” said Emlyn, opening the door wider, indicating Megan could come in. “Now’s fine.”

  Megan realized Emlyn thought Megan was offering maid services; that she’d strip the bed and gather up the towels herself. That is not going to happen, she thought, setting her mind even though much of her thought it would be easier just to give in. “Oh, I didn’t bring them with me,” Megan said, her tone a little less bright and her kindness a little more forced. “I’ll bring them by and leave them outside the door for you. You can leave the used linens out here and I’ll pick them up.” She looked around the room. Dirty clothes and discarded shoes lay on the floor where they’d fallen. A crumpled towel had been abandoned across the back of a wooden chair, making Megan shudder internally as she hoped it wasn’t wet and leaving a mark. Papers were strewn across the small desk, including a very thick stack held together by a giant, bright red binder clip. A laptop sat on the unmade bed, a browser page open to what seem
ed to be some sort of celebrity gossip page. “Has Baz gone out already this morning?” Megan asked. The bathroom door was open, and no one else was in the room.

  “He left Wednesday,” said Emlyn coolly. “He had to work.” Now that she realized Megan wasn’t going to clean up, she started to close the door.

  Megan felt herself blushing. Could she have noticed Baz was gone? Should she have noticed? It wasn’t as if anyone was required to check in with her. Another point to bring up with Edison when she talked with him: this guesthouse was going to need some rules and guidelines. “Oh, I see,” she said. She placed the gift basket on the small table just inside the door. “Just some things I thought you might like,” she said. “I’m sorry I haven’t checked in before.” She wanted desperately to ask Emlyn if she’d be leaving soon, too, but she couldn’t think of a way to phrase it that wouldn’t offend. “You’re staying for the memorial tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Through tomorrow, then flying back east on Sunday,” said Emlyn. “I’ve got Romy’s last book and the publisher wants it out as soon as possible.”

  Megan felt a surge of relief. Now if she could just get Sylvie and Wade to leave, too .… She felt awful the moment the thought crossed her mind, but still, she would be glad for them all to be gone.

  “I hope you have a safe flight,” Megan said. “I’ll be here if you need anything. I’ll drop off the towels and sheets later.”

  “That’s fine. Have a nice day,” Emlyn said, and closed the door. The way she said it made Megan feel she was not entirely concerned with whether Megan actually had a nice day.

  “You too,” Megan said to the door. She headed down the hall to a closet that held extra linens, toilet paper, and the like, for the guest rooms, pulled out the clean sheets and towels, and left them outside the guest room doors without knocking again. “They’ll find them,” she said under her breath, feeling slightly guilty but also slightly defiant. She was a librarian, not a housekeeper.