by Nancy Warren
“Not compelling evidence but damning all the same.”
“It seems so crazy to murder a woman to get a contract honored. Why didn’t he hire a lawyer?”
“Perhaps he didn’t have a contract. Perhaps it was Candace Branson’s word against his. No doubt he’d signed a nondisclosure agreement.”
“I hadn’t thought about an NDA. Of course, that’s the first thing she’d do. Let’s say she tied him up legally. If he went public about their deal, he would break it. So she had him.”
“It must have been a shock to see Tristan Holt at the book launch,” he said, pulling smoothly around a pair of cyclists.
“And he went to see her that night. What do you bet she’d made it very difficult for him to gain access to her. She’d have thought she was safe all the way over here in Ireland. She’d never believe he’d follow her from Cleveland.”
“And yet he did. And instead of fulfilling the contract, she had him thrown out of the party.” He tapped his fingertips on the steering wheel. “Or did she really?”
I turned to him. “What do you mean? We both saw it.”
“Maybe that was an act and they agreed to meet up later.”
“In her room.” I looked at him. “You’re not thinking…?”
“Where mortals are concerned, I’ll believe anything.”
As the miles peeled away, my attention was increasingly taken by the beauty of the scenery. Lochlan’s car was low and powerful, and it hugged the twisty road. I laughed with delight when I saw dolphins playing, watched over by soaring seagulls.
I could almost just sit back and act like a tourist except for the nagging feeling that a killer might be hiding out there somewhere.
We stopped first at Eagle Point, where there was a campground that housed both campers and tents. It seemed like a busy spot to me, but when Lochlan got out of the car, so did I. I came closer to him, and he turned. “Quinn, would you mind waiting inside the car with the windows rolled up? Just for a minute or two.”
It was such a weird request, I asked why.
He looked slightly uncomfortable. “Your heartbeat and your, um, scent are muddling my senses.”
“Right!” I said and pretty much ran around the side of the car and got in and slammed the door.
He walked away from the road and toward the camping park. He only went about ten feet. I could still see him. He was turning his head in a slow semicircle, scenting the breeze. He beckoned me, and I got out of the car. “There’s a faint hint of him about a mile this way.” He glanced down at my boots. “Will you come with me? Or would you prefer to stay here?”
I’d come all this way. I didn’t want to stay stuck in the car while Lochlan got to have the whole adventure. Besides, I had seen Candace Branson’s body. Whoever had done that to her ought to be punished. Lochlan’s idea of punishment might be a little different from mine, and I was determined to be present when the culprit was uncovered so that I could call the Gardai.
We set off away from the busy campsites. There was no path, and the ground was uneven and rocky in parts. I was glad to have my sturdy boots as we strode along. I knew when we’d reached the site because Lochlan put his arm out and gently nudged me behind him. Stealthily, we trod forward. The vampire all but soundless. Me cracking a twig and banging my boot against a rock.
Soon we came to a clearing. Even I could see that the ground had been flattened and slept on recently. However, there was no sign of habitation now. “Was he here?”
“Yes. And not so long ago.”
We began to search the area, looking for clues. I don’t know what I expected to find. A confession? The missing manuscript?
Whatever he was, Tristan Holt wasn’t one to litter. If I hadn’t already known that someone had slept here, I would have walked by and not been any the wiser.
We’d turned around and headed back to the car when Lochlan stopped and bent down. He rose holding a slip of paper. I recognized it as one of the flyers advertising the book launch.
Chapter 13
“So he was here,” I said as we looked at the brochure featuring A Killer in His Sights to be launched at The Blarney Tome in Ballydehag.
He nodded, and we headed back to the car.
I had that frustrated feeling you get when you run for a plane or a train or a bus and just miss it. You kept cursing fate. If only I hadn’t wasted so much time trying to shove myself in trousers that no longer fit. If only we’d discovered Candace’s body an hour earlier. We might have caught Tristan Holt red-handed.
Lochlan didn’t share my frustration. “He’s not left the area. We’ll find him.”
His cool assurance was irritating but also reassuring.
I clicked my seatbelt back on, and once more we headed down the ocean road. Twice more we stopped, and while I stayed in the car, Lochlan got out to do his bloodhound thing. Both times he got back in the car with a shake of the head.
But the third time, I could tell just from looking at him that he’d caught a scent of his quarry. He remained with his head raised in one spot, utterly still. Goosebumps rose on my arms. If I was Tristan Holt, I was certain I’d feel the hairs on the back of my neck start to rise.
I got out of the car without being fetched and came up beside Lochlan.
“Stay behind me. And don’t speak. Stay as quiet as you can.”
I nodded, and we set off. I stayed behind Lochlan, worried that my jangling heart and nervous sweat would get in the way of his tracking. I didn’t see any evidence of tents or other people, but he remained on the course he’d set himself, striding off in virtually a straight line. I nearly screamed when a rabbit broke cover and ran right in front of me, but otherwise I managed to keep my mouth shut.
At length we came to a patch of flat ground beneath a tree.
In the clearing was a dark green pup tent that had seen better days. But more interesting than this was our quarry himself, sitting on a flat rock with his back resting against a tree trunk. He had a portable stove, and he was drinking coffee from a tin mug.
He was reading Bartholomew’s latest book, appropriately named A Killer in His Sights.
“Good day to you, Mr. Holt,” Lochlan said, sounding as pleasant as though they’d just bumped into each other on the high street of Ballydehag.
Tristan Holt nearly jumped out of his skin, splashing hot coffee on his bare hand, which made him curse and struggle to his feet. He looked surprised, angry, and guilty all at once.
“What are you doing here?”
“It’s a fine day for a drive. Quinn and I decided, after the exertions of Bartholomew Branson’s book launch, to take a day off. Have a bit of a holiday.”
Tristan Holt didn’t look thrilled to see either of us. His gaze darted between the two of us. He looked like he wanted to scamper away the same way that rabbit had done when I stumbled across it.
“I see you’re staying in the area. Doing some touring of our fine coastline.”
“It’s not a crime.”
“Bit of a gray area that, isn’t it? You’re meant to take advantage of the fine camping parks we have here in Ireland. Or, even better, you could have stayed in O’Donnell House. That’s a beautiful bed and breakfast right in Ballydehag itself. No doubt you didn’t know it was there. The proprietor’s only recently opened it.”
I almost felt sorry for poor Tristan. Lochlan was toying with him the way Cerridwen did if she was lucky enough to catch a moth.
“I couldn’t afford it.”
Lochlan looked puzzled. “Now that’s a funny thing, isn’t it, Quinn?”
Thanks for bringing me into this. Obediently I asked, “What is?”
“Wouldn’t you think a young man who’d just come into some money would be able to treat himself to a nice bed and breakfast?” He looked significantly at the camp coffee. “Karen Tate does a lovely full Irish breakfast.”
Tristan was wearing the same moth-eaten sweater he’d worn last night, and I suspected the full Irish breakfast was one in a lon
g line of things that he hadn’t indulged in since he’d arrived in the Emerald Isle.
He took a step forward. Foolhardy, I thought, given the size and cool menace of Lochlan Balfour. “Can I help you with something?”
I had to quell an urge to jump in front of him in case Lochlan went full-on vampire. But I should have known better. Lochlan was as smooth and icy as a glacier.
“I’m rather hoping you can help us. You see, Quinn and I know that Bartholomew Branson never left an unpublished manuscript.”
His cheeks grew ruddy, and his jaw set. “So? What’s that got to do with me?”
“Well, a great deal, I believe. Quinn feels, and I agree with her, that you might be the author of a mysterious manuscript that Candace Branson revealed to the world last night. After you left, that was, so you missed the excitement.”
As I watched Tristan Holt, it was almost comical. I could see the pride of the author wanting to acknowledge his own work wrestle with the deal he’d no doubt made to keep his mouth shut. He settled on, “What makes you think I know anything about an unpublished manuscript by Bartholomew Branson? I never met the man.”
Lochlan smiled. It wasn’t a very friendly smile. “Let’s just say it wasn’t coincidental, us having the launch in Ireland. Quinn and I know quite a bit about Bartholomew Branson’s literary estate.”
I almost snorted. I knew way more about his literary estate than I ever wanted to. “There was no undiscovered manuscript. Was there?”
He shook his head. “I can’t talk to you about this.”
I stepped in now. I didn’t know if we were playing good human/bad vampire or what, but maybe it was time for a more sympathetic approach.
“I know you signed an NDA.”
He looked at me sharply but didn’t agree or disagree with me. However, I had his full attention. “I know you went to see Candace Branson last night at the bed and breakfast.”
He didn’t look scared now. He just looked mad. “Did she tell you that? What did she do, complain that I scared her? You saw her slap my face. Why would I go back for more?”
“Why did she slap you like that?”
He took a sip of coffee, and I thought he was buying himself time to think up a good reason. He came up with, “She misunderstood me. Thought I was coming on to her.” He shook his head.
“Tristan. We know you went to see her last night. What did you do with the manuscript?”
“Nothing. She’s crazy, and she’s mean.”
He finished his coffee and stomped over to the pot. “I’d offer you coffee, but I only have one cup.”
I didn’t say anything. If we stood here, he might keep talking. Sure enough, he said, “Anyway, if we did have a contract, and I’m not saying we did, and she never paid me the second half of what she owed me, and I’m not saying that she didn’t, the way I figure it, the work reverts to me.”
I was no literary attorney, and I wasn’t remotely interested in who might or might not own his Branson knockoff. I wanted to know who’d killed Candace. “So you did see her last night. And before you try and argue that you didn’t, I should tell you that your muddy running shoes were seen in the front hall by the door.”
I glanced down significantly at the mud-encased running shoes he was wearing right now. I had no idea if they were the ones that Karen Tate had seen, but he didn’t know that.
“So what if I did have a meeting with Candace Branson? Is it a crime?”
Now bad vampire took over. He stepped close and loomed over Tristan Holt. “No. But murder is a crime.”
The young author glanced at me with appeal and shock in his eyes. “What?” The word came out in a frightened whisper.
Since he’d asked me, I answered, “It’s true. Candace Branson was murdered last night. Do you want to tell us what happened?” I pulled out my mobile phone. “Or do you want to wait for the cops?”
“Cops?” He looked around as though there might be a camera crew behind us and this was one of those shows where you make public fools of people.
Then he looked back at me and said, his voice trembling now, “You’re serious.”
“Who would joke about murder? Of course, I’m serious. Look, I don’t think you’re a killer, but you have to tell us what happened.”
Okay, I did think he was a killer, but I’d seen that line on TV and it sounded really good.
He sipped his coffee, then tossed the rest on the ground and placed his cup carefully beside the coffee pot. He stood, put his grubby hands in his hair and squeezed as though he might be thinking about pulling tufts of hair out. “I didn’t kill her. I wouldn’t.”
“Then you’d better tell us exactly what happened.”
Tristan Holt looked seriously worried, as well he might. He’d confirmed that he’d been in Candace Branson’s room the night she was killed. If he wasn’t the murderer, he was probably the last person who had seen her before the murderer arrived.
All we needed now was to find the manuscript with him and they’d be slamming the cell door shut on Tristan Holt.
Lochlan glanced at me, and I knew we were having the very same thought. He said, “Quinn and I reckon that the person who has the manuscript is the one who killed Candace Branson.”
I was looking at Tristan carefully as Lochlan said the words, and he looked ill. “Yeah, well, I don’t have it. And you’re not the police. Why don’t you quit harassing me?”
Lochlan turned to me and said in a conversational tone, “He’d tell us to get off his property, but he’s got no rights here.”
I actually felt a bit sorry for the young man with dirt under his fingernails. I didn’t think this was how he’d planned his Irish vacation.
The question was, how were we going to see inside his backpack? Or inside his tent? He wasn’t exactly inviting us in.
Once again, Lochlan took over. “I have a mind to buy a little tent like this for myself. It must be very nice to wander around Ireland so unencumbered. Lightweight, is it?”
Tristan looked both shocked at the sudden change of subject and highly suspicious. As he should. “It’s all right. It’s old, though. You’ll find much lighter ones now.”
Lochlan strode towards the entrance. “Mind if I take a look?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
But it was too late. The vampire was already unzipping the front fly and pushing his head and torso into the tiny space. It was almost comical. I could have told him that if he’d really been looking at buying a tent, he should look for something a lot larger.
“Hey! I don’t want you in my stuff. Get out of there.”
Lochlan emerged but, unfortunately for Tristan, or fortunately for us, he had Tristan’s backpack in his hands.
The young author flew at the vampire and tried to tug it away from him, but Lochlan was bigger and stronger. He had the top of the bag open in mere moments and, looking at me with an expression of triumph, he pulled a familiar-looking sheaf of papers out of the pack.
“Care to explain?”
I was sorry to find we’d been right. I’d warmed to the young writer. I didn’t want him to be a killer.
Tristan backed away now, suddenly bright red in the face. “That’s my copy.”
Lochlan shook his head. “I did say whoever had that manuscript was most likely Candace Branson’s murderer.”
“No. No, I tell you. I printed off a copy for myself. It’s not the one she was showing off last night.”
Lochlan looked at me with eyebrows raised. He might be a tech wizard, but a lot more of his existence had occurred before technology than after it. I nodded. If I was the author, I’d be carrying around a copy of the manuscript too.
“Give us one good reason to believe this isn’t Candace’s manuscript,” I asked him.
He looked wild-eyed. “I can’t. If I had my computer here, I could show you. But I didn’t bring it with me. I’m traveling light. My laptop’s back in Cleveland.”
“How convenient.”
Then
I looked at him. “If your laptop was too heavy to bring, what on earth are you doing lugging around a paper manuscript of a book? That has to be a lot heavier than most laptops.”
“Okay. I’ll tell you. And I’m breaking my nondisclosure agreement by talking to you about this at all,” he said, as though that mattered now. I suspected that once the person you made a contract with was dead, the contract was pretty easy to break.
“Take us back to the beginning,” I said. I suspected he needed a little bit of time to catch his breath and harness his wits so he could tell his story in a coherent fashion. It didn’t look good for Tristan Holt, but I strongly believed in giving everyone the benefit of the doubt.
“I guess it started when I entered a writing contest. I’ve been writing all my life. I took creative writing in college and, even though I’m not a big fan of Bartholomew Branson, there was a contest with a couple of thousand dollars in prize money, and they promised that Branson’s agent himself would read the novel. I was hard up for cash, I always am, but more important, I thought, what if I could get my work in front of Branson’s agent? You have no idea how hard it is to get an agent to look at your work. So I entered the contest.”
That sounded very much like something a university student in creative writing might do.
“Did you win?”
He shook his head. “I came in third.”
“Bummer.”
“I thought so. I got a hundred bucks, and somebody’d obviously read the manuscript because I got some nice comments back. I filed it away and forgot all about it until a couple of months ago. I got a call.”
A couple of months ago, Bartholomew Branson had fallen off a cruise ship and supposedly drowned. “Who was on the other end of the phone?”
“You have to ask? Candace.”
“Candace Branson phoned you?”
“Yes.” He said it in a belligerent way. Like I might not believe him. Because I mostly didn’t.
“What did she want?”
He began to bang his fist on the trunk of the tree he was leaning against. I doubted he even knew he was doing it. “She wanted to have coffee. She said she’d gone over the top entries in the Bartholomew Branson contest. At that point, he’d only been missing a couple of weeks, and I got the idea that she missed him so much, she wanted to talk to somebody who loved his work.”
