"No, not at all." She overheard a click and then him saying,
"Detective Alvin Placard speaking with Mrs. Marie Ellis. Permission has been given for this recording." Then there was a pause. "So Mrs. Ellis, tell me again why you called."
"I called about the symbol painted on Ms. Sylvia Bridge's wall at her murder scene."
"And what can you tell me about that symbol?"
Did she sense him moving toward the phone when he asked? Impossible to know. Yet she couldn't shake the feeling that she was possibly stepping right into a trap. To steady her nerves, she took a slow breath in through her nose and out through her mouth the way she was instructed in yoga.
"Mrs. Ellis?"
"I know where that symbol comes from. It's from the books of Marie Coren, the Dark King Cycle."
"Alright. Now how do you know that?"
Here it was, the moment of truth. This would connect her to this murder forever. Was she ready to do that? It no longer mattered if she was ready. She had opened the door and could no longer take it back. With her free hand, she pulled at one long hank of her hair. The sharp pain was enough to resettle her thoughts.
"Marie Coren is my maiden name. Those books are my books, so I'm intimately familiar with their every detail."
"Can you corroborate this in some way?" Detective Placard didn't sound surprised, but then again, that was probably unprofessional in his line of work. Marie rolled over and stared at the walls, then shifted her gaze to the ceiling. The mural on it was a wedding present from Naomie. She and Kevin together in what looked like slumber, peace wrapping around them. It had been too long since there was peace in her house.
"I have an old drawing of what the symbol looks like done by a local artist."
"And that artist is?"
Tying herself to this mess was one thing, but dragging Naomie into it was something she wasn't prepared to do. She had done nothing wrong.
"I don't remember."
"If you could, that would be wonderful. Give us another lead."
"I'm sorry, I really don't remember."
"That's all right. If you do, please be sure to let me know." The sense of being in a trap refused to fade. "About the symbol, how many people would you say know about it?"
"Thousands. Grave Silence has been out for three years. Maddening Whisper for two. Howling Laughter for six months. The symbol appears in all of them."
"So you're saying anyone who is familiar with your books would be capable of possibly recreating it?"
"Yes."
"Thank you," he said. Then he clicked off the tape recorder. "Thank you very much for that information, ma'am."
"You're welcome."
If there was a trap, it hadn't sprung yet. Perhaps she would get away from this unscathed.
"I want to ask you something about your husband."
"What can I do for you?" There it was. The trap.
"Your husband drinks a great deal, doesn't he?"
"I wouldn't say so."
"Well, I was following up his alibi and it appears he spent every night in a bar during the time that he was gone."
"I don't understand your line of questioning."
"I'm trying to ascertain if this is normal."
"Kevin is a good man."
"I do not doubt that, ma'am." Now she imagined him leaning congenially forward trying to win her trust so that she would confide in him. Wasn't that what detectives did? "I just want to try and get a line on your husband and understand his behavior. I guess, you could say that you and him are going through a rough patch, but that never lasts forever."
"I understand, why you want to know, but there's nothing wrong with Kevin. He has a drink or two now and then when he's home. He's not a heavy drinker. And his activities when he's out of the house are usually fine."
"Usually?"
"Yes, usually. I won't say he's never done anything wrong. He's a man." Why was she defending Kevin? He hadn't done anything wrong either. "I think I would like to end this conversation, Detective."
"I understand. Please understand, I don't mean anything by my line of questioning, I'm just trying to get a line on all the people who might have known and seen Sylvia in the last few weeks."
"I know you have to investigate, but my family has nothing to do with this. Have a good day, Detective."
With that, she hung up. For a moment, she held her breath and looked at the screen on the phone. It sat there with the call ended until it reverted to the home screen. As she stared, the urge to call Kevin surfaced, but she didn't really want to know where he was or what he was doing. It was a need to warn him that the Detective was still asking questions about him. She rolled over on the bed and put the phone down. Scrunching her knees up to her chest, she wrapped her arms around herself. Kevin was fine. Everything was fine. She had done her duty and told the cops what she knew. Most of it. As long as it never came back to bite her, then things would be fine.
Her eyes tracked to the phone again. Call him. The need was there and becoming insistent. Call him. Make small talk. Do something.
She laid there motionless.
When Kevin came through the door an hour later, she was sitting in the living room with "Grave Silence" in her lap. She hadn't called him and looked up almost surprised to see him standing there. The flowers appeared in her vision as almost an afterthought.
"Marie."
He said her name and she broke from her position, tossing the book back in the chair and throwing herself in his arms. There was the comforting sound of his heart beating under his t-shirt.
"Hello, dearest," he said. Leaning in, he kissed the top of her head. "I've missed you."
The breakfast dishes were still sitting on the counter in the kitchen. Their fight hadn't passed the twelve hour mark. Yet she was there in his arms and that was all she wanted. He hadn't been arrested while he was away. "I brought you flowers."
"Thank you." Marie wiped the beginning of a tear out of her eye and took the bouquet. "2 dozen roses."
"Yes, because you deserve them much more than I deserve you."
Her mind flashed back to that morning and him on his knee for her. The resurgence of hurt feelings was there. But maybe he was trying. It was so hard to tell sometimes.
On her lips were the words to tell him she had talked to Detective Placard, but the smile on his face enticed her to keep her mouth shut. It wouldn't do him any good to know. Things were okay again. Everything was fine now that he was home.
"They're beautiful. Thank you."
"Why don't you put them out where you can enjoy them?" he asked. "You always did love roses."
"Yes, they've always been my favorite."
"Oh, wait, before you go, there's one more." Kevin's smile was theatrical, to her it read as fake, but he was going to do a trick.
They were standing less than three feet apart and she still didn't see how he managed to get that rose from wherever he had hidden it into his hand. It would just be one of his secrets forever. In truth, she didn't need to know. Make it a part of his charm.
CHAPTER TEN
The air was full of flowers; they appeared to be taking flight from the grass to hang like ornaments in the air. Naomie turned in a circle throwing her arms out to drag her fingers through the flying petals. They caught in her hair and caressed her face as she twirled.
Naomie rolled over on her side away from Ray and collapsed deeper into her dream.
There were roses, lavender, and daisies flying all around her. The air was thick with their perfume, cloying and mingled. Laughter rolled out of her mouth as she danced. A sudden shot, like a pistol, fired behind her. When she turned, there was a mirror standing in the lawn.
It was a silver backed mirror standing eight feet tall. As she watched, another grew from the field to match it. They stood face to face. Naomie took slow steps toward them. The flowers were disappearing from the sky in clumps. Her eyes were elsewhere though. When she reached the space between the mirrors, Naomie stared at
her reflection. Her black hair was not piled on her head as it would normally be when she was sleeping, but rather hung down sweeping her shoulder blades with its length. Her bare feet had been in the grass moments ago, now they were standing on a sheet of glass. Her feet slid as she turned in a circle only to find herself surrounded by her own image.
"What's going on?"
There was no one to answer her. Naomie was slammed to the floor as it suddenly rushed up to a new height. Beside her, a divan appeared clad in black silk. Beneath her hand, a vanity came to life. Its smaller mirror reflected her dress which had changed from the athletic wear she had gone to bed in. Now she wore skin clinging green and silver. It hung from her in deep drapes, snarling around her legs. Unbalanced, she landed on her side on the divan. Her feet grew sparkly silver heels. Her hair lifted from her shoulders and wrapped itself into a close bun. Her collar grew white and frothy around her neck and extended toward the floor.
Her stomach churned as she looked at herself in the multitude of mirrors. Her dream dripped with an edge of dread as if there were something she couldn't see waiting to snap her up. Naomie struggled up from the divan and made herself stare into the mirror. Her skin had gone the ashen color of death and her eyes were dark pools in her face. She inspected her face with her fingertips, her nails were scarlet.
"Who are you?"
In the mirror to her right, a face appeared. No, not a face, a harlequin mask with a mouth.
"Are you well, my lady?"
Naomie stared. The mirror was talking to her.
"What's going on?"
She awoke with those words on her lips, but the silent room had nothing to offer. For a few moments, she stared out the window at the full moon hanging low. Was it early or late? It was hard to tell in those moments when sleep was just leaving. Whatever it was, that had been a strange dream. Blinking it away, she turned over and snuggled into Ray's arms. He curled around her more by instinct than design and sniffed her loudly.
"Pig," she murmured even as sleep stole back into her eyes and made them heavy.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Moll had been at her table in the back of Hannibal's Bazaar for three hours. It had been a productive morning for a Saturday away from home. Sitting back, she considered the scene before her. Timothy was in deep trouble against the Gravekeeper as he attempted to get to the crystal skull before the apparition. He had just skittered into a cell following a glimmer he could barely see. The Gravekeeper followed close at hand. In the next few lines could be Timothy's salvation or his loss and she didn't quite know which direction the trouble was going to go. Picking up her cup of coffee, she brought it to her lips. It was cold again, time for another refill. As she went to get up, she noticed a man standing nearby holding flowers. He wore the coveralls of a mechanic with his name embroidered where a breast pocket would go.
"Ms. Coren," he said. Marie looked him over one more time, considering whether she wanted to engage in conversation with him. He obviously knew who she was, but she didn't know the first thing about him and being approached by fans could sometimes be a scary thing. When he held the flowers out to her and used them to get closer, she recoiled back a little. Once he drew close enough, he laid them down on the table.
"I just wanted to say hello. I'm a big fan." He drew back the baseball cap on his close cut gray hair.
"I see," she said. Marie didn't carry mace or a weapon of any kind. She had always been relatively safe wherever she went. Now she wondered if that was a bad thing to be so trusting. Still she was in a public place where she was well known and there were people around, browsers and coffee sippers. No, she could relax, there was no danger here. "Well, thank you for the flowers."
"I read that they were your favorite." The small bouquet was of yellow roses. Marie couldn't immediately remember the significance of yellow in the language of flowers. However, she didn't think it was anything bad. After all, he had come to her in one of her best known places and not at her home, which was supposedly a well guarded secret but the truth was someone who snooped would find it easily enough. "I noticed that you leave them for your mother."
That statement took her back a moment. Her mother? Cecilia Coren was dead and had been since Marie had graduated from college. It had been a cruel summer that one. She received her degree only to find out that her mother had inoperable malignant cancer. Not that her degree actually had anything to do with it, but for Marie those two things were inextricably linked. So much so that she didn't display her degrees in her home or office. It brought back bad memories.
"I'm sorry, you noticed?"
"I work at Mossy Oak cemetery," he said. "I'm a groundskeeper. I've noticed you there a time or two. I've seen you kneeling there at your mother's grave."
Was he keeping tabs on her? He might be. Marie blinked slowly to calm her nerves. He was a groundskeeper. He spent a lot of time there. He wasn't specifically there watching her, no matter what her panicking brain was telling her.
"And I recognize Mossy Oak in your books."
It wasn't a far stretch. Authors use places they know. Mossy Oak cemetery was a place Marie had become intimately familiar with.
"I'm sure better scholars than me have already pointed out the similarities between our town's Mossy Oak and Amaranth's Rosewood, except we don't have a giant oak tree rose bush hybrid, just the oak tree." His voice took on the rambling quality of someone who is talking to keep another person in place. "The funny thing is I saw a hole near the oak this morning. Looked freshly dug."
"Okay?" Where was this going? Her interest was piqued, but only a little. One could say a fraction.
"Well, it got me thinking about your first book, Grave Silence, and how they dug up the skull there among the roots of the oak. And well, I had always wanted to meet you. I'm sorry I didn't bring a book for you to sign, but it got me thinking I should take some time today and meet you. Had to get a clean coverall and some flowers because you don't meet a pretty woman covered in dirt and empty-handed."
Marie glanced at the flowers again. They were beautiful and the more he talked, the more he seemed like a harmless old codger instead of a possible murderer.
"I see," hadn't she already said that? This conversation wasn't so long she needed to repeat herself. "I was just getting up to get myself a fresh cup of coffee. Would you like to walk with me?"
"Of course."
They left the laptop set up on the table. No one would take it, Marie counted on that. Going up to the counter, Marie offered her cup to the barista.
"Give me another, Lisa."
"Sure, Mrs. Ellis."
"Ellis?" the old man asked.
"My married name."
"Oh, I'm Stephen Smith."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Stephen." Marie put her hand out to shake. He took it gently and kissed her knuckles.
"You are a sight of a pretty woman. My Beth might have been jealous, rest her soul."
"That's quite a compliment," said Lisa as she handed Marie's cup across the counter. "Refills are fifty cents." Marie had already gone through two dollars worth of refills, mostly because she put the cup down and when she picked it up again the coffee was cold so she had to get another cup. It was a tossup whether she had actually consumed one full cup of coffee.
Marie put the fifty cents down on the counter, only to have Stephen replace it with two quarters of his own.
"The least I can do is buy my favorite writer a cup of coffee," he said.
"Thank you. I appreciate it, but I really can buy my own coffee."
"Please, let me be a gentleman. It's been a good while since I could buy a lady anything."
She didn't insist. It was a fifty cents cup of coffee, not worth a huge issue.
"So Stephen which is your favorite book?" Lisa broke in while Marie was testing the temperature of her cup with her lip.
"Of Ms. Coren's books, I truly enjoy 'Maddening Whisper'. The struggle of two women who are trying to place their claim upon the world, but held b
ack just a little by something. Young Keyana intrigues me."
"I think my favorite is the newest one, 'Howling Laughter,' there's something extra creepy about the magician turned rogue that the Jester is."
"Each of them is twisted in their own way," Marie said. Being a fly on the wall for a discussion of which one of her books others liked was always eye opening. There were so many different reasons given.
"Answer me one question though." Lisa wiped down the counter with a bar towel. "Are they based on real people or not?"
"What do you mean?"
"I think I see what she's getting at. Are your character based on real people that you know?"
At that, Marie smiled. "I'm sorry but that's a trade secret and I wouldn't want it getting out that I use real people just in case someone wants to sue me for defamation."
Lisa, despite being a bright girl, looked a little lost at the word 'defamation'. Instead, she smiled, wished them both a good day, and moved on to the next customer who had come up while they were talking. Marie and Stephen moved away from the counter to the small bar where Marie could add cream and sugar. Adding just enough cream to get the swirl, Marie studied her companion. He wasn't a big man, but that didn't mean much. Being a groundskeeper was more about willingness to work than any particular physical archetype.
"So I guess you watch over my mother's grave all the time?"
"She's one of the many tenants at Mossy Oak; I see them all in turn throughout the year. Try to keep the grass cut to an acceptable length so no one gets lost. Sometimes it's hard in the winter when the snow comes, trying to keep the paths shoveled and those," he stopped, groping for a word. "Ground level markers can disappear on you if you're not looking. Most of the headstones will stand up regardless, but every so often I have to go out there and prop one of them up. That's not quite an all day job but it can be a dickens if you're not careful."
They adjourned back to Marie's table. Marie sat down behind her computer and looked at the screen. Timothy was right where she had left him, running for his life. What was she going to do with him? That was a very good question. One to which Marie did not know the answer. Being a discovery writer meant that you found out a lot of things on the first run through.
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