by Pam Stucky
And to that end, she decided to give Edison a call. Back in her own kitchen, she rang him up, and he answered immediately.
“Megan!” he said, his enthusiasm almost startling her in its contrast to Wade and Emlyn. “What can I do for you?”
“Hey, Edison,” said Megan, feeling herself smile at his warmth. How could a person not like Edison? Her mind wandered briefly to his ex-wife, Daphne. How could she have wanted to hurt this kind man? But the book, she thought. Death of a Social Butterfly. Stay focused. “Say, are you around this morning? I have some library thoughts and if you have time ….”
“Sure!” said Edison quickly. “I’m just back from my run. Into the shower and then I can come over. Will that work? Conference room over there? Maybe downstairs? I like the view. I miss that view, to be honest. The house was too much but the view was great.” He spoke quickly, like his words could chase something away.
Megan felt like her heart was beating faster just to keep up with him. “That’s perfect,” she said. “I’m ready whenever you are. Just buzz and I’ll come on down.”
“See you in about thirty,” Edison said, and the line went dead.
Megan looked at the phone in her hand. Should she be offended by the fact he hadn’t even said goodbye? Megan decided to chalk it off to his high energy, and let it go. She looked at the time—just after nine—and went off to make a sweep of the library before heading to the basement level to meet with Edison.
The morning was quiet. She loved this time in the library, when she could be alone and imagine that the public library was all hers. She breathed in deeply as she descended the grand staircase. Even though the library had only been open a short time, already the musky smell of old and new books gently permeated the air. From halfway down the stairs she could see over the tops of all bookshelves—or the “stacks,” as they called them in the library business. She recalled the conversation she’d had with Romy about how every book held a part of someone’s mind; how a library was like a room full of brains. When she was younger, Megan had thought that if she could have a superpower she’d want to be able to talk to the characters in books. Have conversations with them and be their friends. Make them come to life. She knew some of the characters in her favorite books so well that they felt like long-lost companions. The fact that she couldn’t actually ever talk with them in real life had frustrated her to no end back then. And still now, even, sometimes. Megan once joked to Zeus that she didn’t fully trust anyone who hadn’t at some point secretly wished for their own letter from Hogwarts. “You’re a wizard, Megan,” Hagrid would say, and she’d be swept off to a place where magic was real and everything was possible. Who wouldn’t want that? Or who wouldn’t want to visit Middle Earth (perhaps minus Sauron or Smaug the Impenetrable) and have second breakfasts with the hobbits? Who wouldn’t want to walk through the back of a wardrobe and find a whole other world?
Megan smiled to herself as she walked through the stacks, lining up the spines of the books and pulling anything that was out of place. Every section—whether non-fiction, biography, children’s, general fiction, all of it—every section had its own aura, she thought. Biography made her think about courage and the strengths and frailties and common struggles of humanity. Non-fiction made her think about the passing of time and all the things she wanted to do in life. The children’s section brought on nostalgia for an innocent age she could never regain. Adult fiction reminded her of authors’ delightful, irrepressible imaginations. If asked, Megan could wax rhapsodic about the invention of language and about communication and how, above all else, humans need stories as much as humans need air.
She sighed with deep contentment. In so many ways, this library was home.
A vibration on her phone told her Edison was at the downstairs door, and she raced down the back stairs to meet him, stopping quickly in the mystery section to pick up a copy of Death of a Social Butterfly. The lower level was largely the domain of Owen Scott, a young man who had grown up in the area, gone off to the University of Washington to get a degree in Philosophy, and then found himself back by the Skagit River, looking for a job. Megan had been the one to interview him, and had been charmed by him instantly. He was the kind of person who was hard to get to know, in part because he was shy and quiet about himself, but also in part because he was so attuned to the person he was talking to. He shifted all the focus off of himself in such a way that people never realized until much later that they’d only talked about themselves. And the next time he saw them, he’d remember everything: ask how that meeting had gone or how they’d liked their trip to Canada or how their mother was doing since the surgery. He was quiet and he was kind and he did his work with great care, and while the rental services were not yet booming, he nonetheless labored tirelessly over the library’s social media website, making sure everyone knew about new books that came in, reminding them of the rooms available to use, or sharing photos of the river taken from his office window.
Owen was not scheduled to be at work for a couple more hours, though. The lights were off downstairs, but the rooms had been built with as many floor-to-ceiling windows as the structure would allow, and the daylight was already pouring in. Megan could see Edison at the door, and waved through the window at him.
“Hello,” she said, opening the door wide.
“Megan!” said Edison, holding out his arms for a hug but waiting to see if she was up for it. Megan decided she was, and moved in. During the brief embrace, she thought about how much she missed that, being surrounded by strong arms and a warm torso. But before she got too lost in memories, she pulled away.
“Good to see you, Edison,” she said. “I thought maybe the small conference room out front? I don’t mean for this to be so formal. It just seems like a nice chance to use these rooms, since the view is so great.” She led the way to a room that faced the river, let him choose his seat first, and sat down. As she did, she saw his eyes settle briefly on the book in her hand. His face remained unchanged for a few long seconds, and then he looked away at the view outside. Megan tucked the book under the table onto the seat of the chair beside her.
“Lawn’s looking good,” Edison said. “Lots of tulips. People like that, bright and cheery flowers. Daphne even liked them. Gardeners coming in regularly like they’re supposed to?”
“Yep,” said Megan. “They’re the best. Leo, the head gardener, has some plans for the area. There’s so much space both inside and out, and we haven’t yet figured out what to do with it all.”
Edison’s eyes glazed over just slightly as he stared out at the river. “I’d been talking with Romy about the theater idea, building a little theater out of that enormous garage. She was really into it. Thought it could be fun to have a theater named after herself. ‘The Romy,’ that was her suggestion. ‘Come see a show at The Romy.’ She had a good laugh over that one. Thought it was hilarious for some reason.” He didn’t laugh.
The thought passed Megan's mind that it might be a nice thing for Sylvie to do with some of the money she would get from Romy’s estate, but she decided it would be tactless to say so. “Maybe the town can do some fundraising to make that happen,” she said instead.
Edison looked at her with unexpected candor. “So what’s up, Megan?” he said. He seemed to be concentrating on not looking at the chair next to Megan.
“Well,” Megan started, “just some thoughts on the guest rooms, first. With all these people staying here, I’ve noticed some things we hadn’t thought about before. Like laundry. I’m happy to step in to an extent,” she said, while thinking that maybe she wasn’t all that happy about it, really. “But if people stay longer, you know, they may need to wash some things. I’m wondering if we could think about installing a washer and dryer for guests to use.”
Edison had set his phone on the table, and now he picked it up: something to do with his hands. He twirled it absentmindedly and tapped it against the finely burnished wood of the table top. “We didn’t expect this, did we?
I suppose I thought having the guest suites up there was just a way to use up some space. Didn’t think we’d turn you into a hotelier. That’s not been entirely fair to you, has it?” He furrowed his brows, thinking. “We certainly can think about that. Were you thinking something near the linen closet? That’s pretty big, isn’t it?”
“I think that would work, yes. I appreciate that you see it’s … well, unexpected is the best word for it, I guess. Maybe it’s not. Horrifying is the best word. But unexpected, too.”
“How’s everyone doing?” Edison asked, now running his thumb around the edge of his phone.
“Well, Baz has left, I just found out,” Megan said. “Wednesday. I don’t know if he asked Max, or told Max. I feel bad that I didn’t notice. I think Sylvie’s having a rough time. She goes down to the reading area at night a lot, in the library.”
“The reading area?” said Edison. “Why there?”
“It’s a nice, quiet spot,” said Megan. “I like to go there, too, when the library is closed. It feels … I don’t know. It feels safe somehow.”
Edison’s eyes clouded over. “I liked to sit by those windows, too,” he said. “When this was my house.” He brought himself back to the present quickly. “So I’ll talk with the board about laundry and what else we might need to make it easier on you when you have to be an innkeeper. I’m not here today just to talk about laundry, though,” he said. It was neither an accusation nor a question; just a statement letting Megan know he knew the truth. “What’s up?” His glance fell in the direction of the chair on which Megan had put Romy’s book.
Megan took a deep breath. Confrontation was not her strong point, and what’s more, she wasn’t even sure what she wanted to ask.
Edison watched her stumble for words for a few moments, then took the plunge for both of them. “That’s an interesting book you’ve brought with you,” he said, nodding his head toward the chair.
A warmth spread up Megan's chest and neck, and the air felt close and thick. “Well, now that you mention it…”
Edison burst out with a great guffaw. “Now that I mention it!” he laughed. “You just happened to have that book in your hand when you came to a meeting with me that you asked for, but I’m the one mentioning the book?” He swirled his phone between his fingers and tapped it again on the table top. “Who told you?”
Megan cleared her throat. “Who told me what?” she asked. She genuinely wasn’t sure which facts he was asking about, and didn’t want to play too many unplayed cards.
“About Daphne,” Edison said, leveling his eyes at Megan. “About how I met Romy.” He held her gaze for an uncomfortable amount of time, but Megan didn’t look away. Finally, Edison broke eye contact. As if he’d been still for too long, he stood and started pacing the room. His sudden agitation worried Megan. Had this been a bad idea? What had she been thinking, inviting a murder suspect here without someone else present? Quickly she scanned the room. The doors were unlocked. She could run if she needed to. And if he decided to block a door, well, how hard could it be to break through a windowpane? Probably harder than you think, she thought.
Edison was still waiting for an answer: unusual patience from this usually irrepressible man. He stopped behind a chair and leaned over slightly to hold onto on to its back, patient, like a cat waiting for its mouse.
“Well, I guess it was Sylvie,” said Megan. “The other night, downstairs. Upstairs, I mean. Upstairs from here. The reading area. We were just talking about …”
“About who killed Romy?” said Edison. He squinted his eyes. “You think I killed Romy?”
“I don’t … I don’t have any idea who killed Romy.”
“You think I have a motive, though. A reason to kill.”
Megan paused and took a breath. “I’m just trying to figure it all out,” she said.
“I heard you talked to Gus the other day, too. You’re just going around playing detective?” he said.
Don’t get caught up in his emotions, Megan told herself. Stay focused. She looked out the window, letting the flow of the river smooth the edges of her mind. “You talked to Gus, too?” she said.
“Maybe you’re not the only one trying to get to the bottom of all this,” he replied.
She looked at him, carefully, trying to see cues. She’d read a few books on how to tell whether people were lying. Not breaking eye contact, inability to keep their stories straight, hiding their mouths while they’re talking, fumbling over their words. What else?
She studied his posture. The arch of his eyebrows. The lift of his shoulders. The tightness of his jaw. The way his green-blue eyes bore into hers. But not in an attempt to deceive her, she thought; he wanted desperately to be believed.
A wave of relief passed over her as she realized: she believed him.
“Oh, Edison,” she said with a long sigh. “What happened to Romy?”
The tension drained from his face and body, leaving behind only grief and exhaustion. “I don’t know,” he said.
The book next to her pulled her attention. She picked it up and put it on the table. “Well, then, let’s figure it out,” she said. “Tell me about Daphne.”
Edison shook his head. “Romy, Romy, Romy,” he said, reaching for the book. “Loved that woman, but she did have a way of mining her friendships for literary fodder. Have you read this?” He flipped through the worn pages, stopping about a third of the way through and then paging through more slowly until he reached the point in the story he’d been looking for. For a minute, the room was silent as he re-read.
“I read it a long time ago,” Megan said finally. “Obviously I didn’t know it was about you at the time. I don’t think I even knew you at the time.” She watched as he continued to read. After a few more minutes, he closed the book and pushed it back across the table.
“It’s not about me,” he said. “Romy explained to me, over and over, that it was inspired by me. She said I could be inspirational to other men who were in my situation.” He shook his head. “That was a load of bull. If anyone had known what was going on between Daphne and me, and if they’d known I knew Romy from our group, they would have guessed. But it wouldn’t have upset me nearly as much as it would have upset Daphne. Being seen as the perfect beauty, the perfect socialite, was everything to her.” He gazed around the room. “This used to be my workout room,” he said, then he paused. “Mostly she was verbally abusive. Manipulative. Threatening me and my career if I didn’t give her what she wanted. Trying to keep me isolated from my friends and family. Lying about me to make me look bad. But she did like to hit me and to throw things at me.” His eyes went to the corner of the room. “I kept the free weights there. She liked the three-pound dumbbells. She had pretty good aim, actually.”
The words “why didn’t you leave her sooner?” wanted to fly out of Megan's mouth, but she stopped them in time. Domestic violence, she knew, was complicated. And besides, that’s not what they were here for this morning.
“How did Daphne feel about Romy?” she asked. “Did she know about this book?”
Again he shook his head. “As far as I know, she never found out about the book. If it wasn’t a glossy magazine with pictures of celebrities and rich people in it, she wouldn’t read it. She wouldn’t have known. But as far as Romy, she didn’t like her. Daphne was furious when I divorced her.” A tiny smile curled the corner of his lips. “Especially since she got almost nothing.” He looked Megan in the eyes. “Always get a good lawyer,” he said.
“I’m so sorry you went through all of that,” Megan said. “I don’t really know what to say.”
“That’s just it,” he said. “No one really knows what to say, if they even believe you.” He shrugged. “Was Daphne capable of killing Romy? Absolutely. Did she have motive? In her mind, I’m sure she has a motive to kill just about everyone. Did she do it? That I don’t know.”
“You said she lives around here?” Megan said.
“Yeah, so far I haven’t managed to shake her.
Lives a few towns over. I try to pretend she doesn’t exist.”
“Was she the jealous type?”
“Was she the jealous type?” Edison repeated, laughing. “Was she! Every hair on her head was jealous. Everything anyone else had, she wanted. If she wanted something, she expected it to be given to her. She was the epitome of entitled and the epitome of jealous.”
Megan pursed her lips. “If you don’t mind my asking…”
Edison anticipated the question. “What did I ever see in her?” he chuckled. “We were young. I thought I knew what I wanted. I thought I knew her. I thought she loved me.” He paused and looked at his left hand, where the ring once sat. “I was wrong.” He leaned back and folded his arms. Megan took this as a sign not to press any further.
“Okay. Well, what about the night of the party. Did you notice anyone? Was anyone acting strange? Doing anything … I don’t know … suspicious?”
At this, Edison laughed. “Well, there was that one guy carrying around a bloody axe, do you mean him?”
Megan gasped, then caught herself. “You almost got me. Okay. So there wasn’t anyone doing anything overtly suspicious. But think back. Who did you see with Romy? Was anyone mad at her? Anyone glaring at her from the other side of the yard?”
“Not really,” he said. “Courtney stuck by her side most of the night, and Emlyn did, too. Baz sort of wandered around aimlessly. Sylvie and Wade hung out in the house, mostly. Just a lot of well-wishers, people networking, and then the more they drank, flirting.”
“What do you know about Courtney?” Megan asked. “She doesn’t strike me as the warmest person.”
“No,” he said, leaning forward again, “but she’s efficient. She took care of everything for Romy. I think Romy trusted her. She was never a micromanager, Romy. She was more than happy to have other people taking care of details for her, and Courtney was good at what she did.”
“What all did she do?”
“Oh, everything and anything, I suppose. From buying groceries to managing the household to some accounting and paperwork to taking the car in when it needed repairs. Pretty much everything.”
