Chloe hung up, ripped off a message, and held it out to me. “Mr. Daulton left Portland earlier than he expected.” She ripped off a second one. “This is his lunch order.”
I glanced from one slip of paper to the other then gaped, stunned, at Chloe’s delicate features. “I thought you said you had no phone experience.”
She flipped her hair out of her eyes again. “After my parents divorced, I spent every school afternoon sitting in my father’s front office with his secretary, doing my homework. Amber was pretty cool, even though Dad was sleeping with her. Basically, I’ve got six years of expert phone skills. I just didn’t do the talking.”
I blinked. Chloe was a deep well with a still surface. I suddenly understood why her mother had been so desperate to get her out into the world. She was a girl who could drown in herself too easily. I’d been there once, right after college. But maybe what she hid in her depths could be nurtured and shared. And the girl was a goddess with that telephone.
I made up my mind. “You start tonight at five thirty. We have a book signing event, and you’re going to help me put it on.”
7
“I love my fans. Without them, the gargantuan ego my critics accuse me of possessing would not have been possible.”
Raymond Moore, 1956
Mr. Daulton arrived right when he said he would—all six foot three of him, barrel chest, and wild brown hair. He thanked me graciously for his meatball sandwich and, with it in one hand and his suitcase in the other, retreated to the Oubliette. Though his arrival had been without fanfare, I knew from experience that Al Daulton was about as intense a writer as I’d ever met, seeking “authentic” experiences to pepper his time-traveling thrillers. Sooner or later, he’d shake things up, and I was already mentally bracing for the adventure.
I spent the rest of the afternoon jumping from one task to another to prepare for the evening’s book signing. Rex and Svetlana, sensing the relative quiet of Moorehaven was about to be disturbed, retreated to the second-floor sunroom to laze.
At one point, I headed upstairs to ask Lake if he could lend a hand again, but the man was fast asleep, looking like an exhausted calendar model as he sprawled across the bed. I spent a little too long drinking him in before gently closing the door.
Five thirty rolled around far too soon. The alarm I had set in my room went off just as I finished zipping up my blue, knee-length hostess dress. Its bodice rode a little low, but at least the full skirt didn’t hug my thighs. I could still manage a professional appearance despite my double-Ds. Part of me hoped that Lake would join the party and appreciate that my dress matched his eyes, and part of me didn’t care what anyone thought. I looked great, and I knew it. A last spritz of hair spray and a check in the mirror, and I was ready. I slapped off the alarm and made my way out through the pantry.
Chloe arrived at my door at the same time Emily showed up with our catering order. Emily wore a big smile of anticipation, but Chloe, wearing black low-rise slacks and a button-front white shirt as if she’d come straight from waitressing, sported more of a deer-in-the-headlights look. I put them together and let Emily show her what to do with the platters of food.
Chloe sniffed appreciatively toward the tray of mocha doughnut balls. “And no snacking,” I called after her.
“But I’m hungry!” Chloe protested.
“Next time, eat before the event.”
“I did, but that was half an hour ago.”
Teenagers. Shaking my head, I hurried over to the author table where Paul would sit to do his signing. I performed a last-minute check of the layout. His favorite signing pen rested in place on what would be his left. The tabletop was covered with hard copies of Prince of Night stacked three deep with small placards atop them at both front corners of the table, proclaiming Paul’s bona fides and touting his latest published work with solid, starred reviews. A tall, slender banner stood open on its tripod feet next to the table, bearing his latest book’s cover art and the words, “Paul Sheen, New York Times Best-selling Thriller Author.”
“Okay, all good here. Do not bump anything,” I muttered to myself. I headed into the library to double-check that I’d set up the audience chairs for Paul’s reading. About twenty chairs fit comfortably in the room, thirty if I crammed them in like economy airplane seats for our most popular author readings. Paul merited about twenty-four chairs.
Paul himself entered the library through the door from the small parlor, sporting a matte black suit with a white shirt and no tie. His serious expression put me sharply in mind of Mr. Reese, Jim Caviezel’s character from Person of Interest, who would fit into Paul’s novels with no difficulty at all. “Do we have enough chairs?” he asked.
“We’re good. Besides, it looks better to have to get more chairs than it does to have empty ones.”
Paul wagged a finger toward me. “I like your thinking.”
Skylar slipped in behind him, wearing a beautiful red dress with a plunging neckline. “How’s it going? Are you nervous or excited?”
Paul drank her in. He took one of her hands in his and rubbed his thumb across her knuckles. “Excited. Definitely excited.”
I blinked. Wow, how did I not see that coming? What I get for reading mysteries instead of romances.
Voices reached the main hallway. My first guests were arriving, so I excused myself, leaving the smoldering lovers alone with the complete collection of Moore’s novels, research books, and contemporary fiction. Moore hadn’t written much romance into his crime fiction, but when he did, it resonated. If two authors were going to share a passionate kiss, Moorehaven’s library was the perfect room to do it in.
Emily’s brother, Roddy Scott, and his wife, Gwen, chatted their way into the front parlor. Naoma Jassley was there, prim in a periwinkle suit, already scribbling notes for her article on the signing. The young producer, Devin, showed up with his faithful shadow, Kyle, and soon fell into an animated conversation with Naoma. A few other locals and a couple of folks I didn’t know—probably tourists who had seen my flyer in the hotel lobby—followed them in. I glanced around for Lake, but right then, Paul appeared by my side, smiling and shaking hands, and just like that, my event was off and running.
During the mingling, a good two dozen other guests arrived. Mercer Braxton, Chloe’s dad, strolled in and caught sight of his daughter as if he’d forgotten she was working at Moorehaven tonight. He awkwardly accepted a cup of punch from her, nodded his thanks, and wandered into the crowd. My neighbor, Tyleen, and her son, Sebastian, who ran the pet psychic business on the corner, chatted with the local florist, Wallis, whose shop was a few blocks away. I overheard Cecil’s name in their conversation, but everyone hushed as I approached.
Wallis, a thirtysomething who had arrived in her favorite pastel pink dress, made a point of never outshining her flowers. “Thanks for the bouquets for the event,” I told her. “They arrived in perfect condition, as usual.”
She nodded her wispy blond bun in her usual my condolences way. I swear the woman had never once cracked a smile in the six years I had known her. Every single event, every conversation, she treated like a funeral. I had no idea why. “I just want you to know, Pippa, that I appreciate your business.” She took my hand and patted it as if I were newly bereaved.
Here she goes again. “Can I get you some punch?” I moved off with a bright smile before she could answer then let my cheeks collapse in relief once I was out of her reach.
I collected two cups of punch and stopped to encourage Chloe, who was working the punch table. As she filled two more punch cups with rich red liquid, I said, “You’re doing great.”
Her look conveyed her disappointment at my betrayal of her expectations. “I’m catering.”
I lifted my lower lip and nodded in a silent yup. “We do a lot of that here. You’ve got a steady hand, and that helps.” Chloe’s lips mo
rphed into a genuine smile before she could stop them, and I felt reassured in my choice to bring her on.
As I walked away with punch in my hands, I caught her sneaking a treat from Emily’s table when the caterer wasn’t looking. She stuffed it in her mouth whole and nearly choked on it when Naoma asked her a question. I winced, hoping her gaffe didn’t end up in that week’s publication. I could see the headline now: “Moorehaven Intern Starves Guests.” I might need to feed her myself before these events, as a public service.
I handed Wallis her punch, but I heard loud laughter from a cluster of people surrounding Uncle Hilt across the room. Before she could engage me in conversation again, I said, “Excuse me, will you?”
“Of course, Pippa. Anything you need.” Such a creepy, soothing tone. I shuddered and moved off to circle the room.
As I approached the jovial knot of guests, I overheard another name from a different conversation—and it wasn’t Cecil’s. It seemed that a few of the locals had only shown up for the chance to ogle Lake as Cecil’s likely killer. I was a hairsbreadth from firmly asking them to leave the premises when their voices suddenly hushed midsentence. The awkward, wide-eyed expressions on their faces made it clear that Lake had just walked in and that he had heard them.
I faced the doorway, pointedly ignoring my rude guests. Lake stood there, hands in his jean pockets, face uncertain. I offered him a warm smile as I approached. “Good evening, Mr. Ivens.”
“You look fabulous in blue,” he said.
I tried to keep my smile demure, but the left side of my mouth was pretty darn ecstatic and pulled away into a full grin. “Oh, this old thing?” I quipped.
His eyes reluctantly left mine and scanned the room. “Looks like a great party you’ve got going. I wasn’t thinking, though—I should just—”
I raised my chin. “No, you are absolutely invited to stay and eat, even if you don’t feel up to mingling. Some of us here in Seacrest don’t get out much.” An affronted, “Well I never!” rose behind me, but I ignored it for the social fart it was.
“Come on in, and get some food. Emily’s doughnut holes are to die for.” Lake winced at my words, and I felt an uncomfortable flush heat my cheeks. I took him reassuringly by the elbows. “Oh, God, my stupid mouth. I didn’t mean that at all. I’m so sorry.”
Though he smiled and tried to wave off my apology, I could see he was upset. There would be no privacy within earshot of the vulture-like locals, either, so I ushered him into the hallway and down to the small parlor. I closed the door behind me, creating a small sanctuary of calm, and directed him toward one of my green chairs. I took the other, perched forward, elbows on my knees.
He sat back, leaned an elbow on its armrest, and rubbed his forehead with his index and middle fingers. “I feel so helpless, you know? I must’ve seen the killer. Somewhere in my head, I know who he is. But I can’t remember, so the police think it might be me.”
“Don’t worry, Chief Craig will find the killer. He may be a couple doughnuts shy of a heart attack, but he’s good at his job. You don’t have to solve the case tonight.”
“But I want to.” He sat forward entreatingly, palms out. “This could all be over in minutes if I could only remember.”
I clasped his hands and squeezed. “Don’t do this to yourself. It’s not your fault, Lake. We all have flaws and imperfections foisted upon us by an unfair world. My guests’ characters are all trying to solve problems. They don’t know everything when their books begin either. But they have to accept where they are if they’re going to move forward. And they rarely do it alone. You’re not alone. In fact, right now, I happen to be right here with you.” I smiled winningly.
He squeezed my hands and coughed a small laugh. “Thanks, Pippa. You’ve been so generous and helpful. I really appreciate—”
I waited, smile hovering, for him to decide how to finish his compliment, but his forehead suddenly wrinkled in concentration. He closed his eyes, held my hands, then started to squeeze them.
“Lake?” I worried he was having some sort of seizure.
“No, it was…” His eyes popped open, and he let go of my hands. He mimed holding something like an axe handle. “This. I was holding something this way on the Mazu. It was dark, and I think the Mazu was still docked in the marina.”
I put a hand on his knee, thrilled with the minor breakthrough. “That’s great, Lake!”
He squeezed his eyes shut again and made a concentrating face, but no more details came to him.
I patted his leg to snap him out of it. “Maybe you should take a break and eat something. I don’t want you to get another nasty headache. Come relax with everyone. Maybe something will sneak into your mind when you’re not looking.” I didn’t want to acknowledge the cynical suspicion that had tiptoed into my mind—that Lake had been brandishing the weapon that killed Cecil. Nothing means anything until you know everything, I told myself, quoting Uncle Hilt’s fictional namesake, Hilton Gray.
Lake’s shoulders slumped. “As long as it’s not another blow to the head, I’ll take it.”
Feeling hopeful that we were making progress toward solving Cecil’s murder, I ushered him back into the hallway.
Before we turned the corner into the big parlor, though, he grabbed my hand. “I remember I was shouting—when I was holding that thing.” He mimed the axe handle again.
I glanced toward the doorway to the parlor. No one had heard him. “What were you shouting?”
He went still with the effort of trying to remember, but after a minute or so, he sagged in defeat. “I can’t remember. It’s like trying to remember a dream after you wake up. I remember that my mouth was moving, but the words are just a blur.”
“Well, maybe those will come back with time.” I ushered him into the gathering with a hand on his shoulder and helped him load a plate with delicious food.
He insisted on sitting in a corner of the room to eat. Then he shooed me off to mingle with my guests. I left him reluctantly, and not just because of my social obligations.
Uncle Hilt’s gravelly voice reached my ears as he entertained a small clutch of rapt tourists. “Yes, actually, Hilton is my given name. It’s right there on my birth certificate: Hilton Bartholomew MacKellar. My mother, God rest her, was a, what d’you call ’em, an early adopter. She got hooked on Raymond Moore’s very first Hilton Gray novel, The Indigo Racket. All us kids are named after characters in his novels: Mae, Hilton, Jocko, Sal, Greta, Elise, and Ambrose.”
“What did Mr. Moore say when you told him that?” a willowy brunette in a business suit asked.
Hilt grinned cockily. “He asked me for their addresses, including my mother’s, and mailed them all signed copies of the books the names came from. Said it was the best gift an author could ask for. Though I bet his first publishing deal was better, he was too polite to say so. Great man, Ray Moore. I miss him still.” Hilt lifted his glass in salute.
I smiled to myself and angled toward a large cluster across the room. A circle of about a dozen people stood chatting near the signing table, and Paul and Roddy were at its center.
“I’m not kidding! He wrote me as my own evil twin in Prince of Night. If you haven’t read it, you have to get a copy tonight. That smarmy club owner? Totally me!” Roddy exulted, lifting his punch to toast the author.
Paul chuckled. “I even named him Ricky, with Roddy’s permission, using the other half of his name.”
“I know! I’m famous! Roderick Roddy, Roderick Ricky. I love you, man. You’re the best.” Roddy sounded like he’d indulged at his club before heading over to the signing.
I spoke up. “You two have a pretty strong bond when it comes to Prince of Night, don’t you? It’s set in New York City in the 1920s with illegal booze flowing in all the best scenes. What was the inspiration for the decision to base a character on Roddy?”
<
br /> Paul and Roddy shared a look, and I knew I was on to the secret Emily had shared with me earlier. “It’s actually a secret—” Paul began, but Roddy overrode him.
“Aw, heck. The council’s already voted, so I might as well say it. I’m donating my basement to Seacrest!” He threw his arms wide as if his announcement were worthy of the exaggerated pageantry.
Low murmurs and puzzled looks circled the listening guests—not exactly the impression he’d been hoping to make. I glanced back at Emily, at the catering table. Her mouth was drawn in worry. But Roddy was a good showman. He leaned forward and raised a hand for emphasis. “You see, it’s an old family secret that the lower floor of my grandfather’s grocery used to be a speakeasy during Prohibition. They called it Epicurus’s Lantern.”
That earned Roddy the reaction he was waiting for. I wouldn’t need to poll anyone. I just observed their faces. Most everyone showed interest.
Devin stepped forward. “Mr. Scott, is there any chance you would let us explore your basement to capture images of its current state?”
I headed back for Emily’s table while Roddy laughed off Devin’s request. “Sorry, kid. The place is a mess. Hazardous, even. That’s one of the reasons I’m donating it to the town. After we hire a restoration crew, the speakeasy will be safe to access for any and all visitors to Seacrest. That’s the gift I want to give to the world.”
As I picked up a caramel-drizzled doughnut hole, I murmured to Emily, “I don’t think you have anything to worry about regarding the speakeasy.”
We both turned our attention toward Roddy. Devin seemed disappointed with Roddy’s reply, but he said, “I’ll have to come back when it’s finished, then.”
I told Emily, “You know you’ll get good publicity when the journalist is that excited about the topic.”
Emily shrugged, but she stood a little straighter. “Funny, the things you convince yourself are true when you want to believe someone you love. My mother taught me to hate the speakeasy, so I did. But I see now that Roddy’s right. I should’ve trusted him from the start.”
Smugglers & Scones Page 7
