by Nancy Warren
I hesitated to do it, but he had to know, so I told him about Philip spotting Bartholomew out in the garden the night before.
He didn’t look surprised or shocked, more resigned. “I’m going to have a quiet word with Bartholomew Branson. If he’s taken to killing people, he’ll have to find a new home. Devil’s Keep is a safe refuge for our kind, but it won’t remain so if it harbors murderers.”
As his closest neighbor, I was very happy to hear that. “Philip also said that Candace got a phone call around two in the morning.”
Lochlan glanced at me. “Did she take the call?”
“She did. And he thinks she spoke for ten or fifteen minutes.”
“That’s interesting.”
“I thought so too,” I said. “Who calls someone in Ballydehag at two o’clock in the morning?”
“When it happens to me, it’s usually an international call. They forget to calculate the time zones correctly.”
Since I’d been woken more than once by one of my friends in Seattle who had that very issue, I agreed with him. “Now we need to find out who she was talking to in the middle of the night. According to Philip, her mobile’s missing.”
“I’m sure the police can get hold of her phone records. It just takes time.”
“And we need to find out what Bartholomew was doing there.”
“I’m going to find out.” His voice sounded steely and very annoyed. I reminded him that Bartholomew hadn’t killed his ex-wife. Probably.
“It doesn’t matter, Quinn. He can’t show himself to mortals. He’ll put all of us in a very difficult position.”
I hadn’t thought about that. “What happens when a mortal finds out about you?”
He sent me a sharp look, and I said, “Normal mortals. Not people like me.”
“We have ways of erasing people’s memories. But we’d prefer not to do it. There’s always a risk the memory loss will be permanent.”
Good to know.
“So if Bartholomew had accidently been seen by his ex-wife, he could have made the problem go away?”
He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “We could. But he probably didn’t know that.”
Darn it, that put Bartholomew Branson back at the top of the suspects’ list. “But Philip only thought he saw Bartholomew on the grounds. And we have to remember it was dark. That really doesn’t prove he was there.”
“No, it doesn’t. But if Bartholomew Branson was there, I will find out.”
“I don’t know. What did he really have to gain? I mean, to give the dead woman credit, she was definitely pushing to keep his name and his legacy alive. For a guy that craves fame the way he does, maybe that would have been a good thing.”
He didn’t look convinced. “He was furious when he found out. He wants to write his own posthumous manuscripts, don’t forget.”
As we grew closer to the castle, I said, “You could just drop me at the cottage.”
He turned to me. “You’re deep in this, Quinn. I want you to be there when I talk to Bartholomew. With you there, he may be more inclined to tell us the truth.”
I’d never thought I was the kind of person that encouraged truth-telling, but okay. We entered the castle, and it was like the party had never existed. Everything had been cleared away so efficiently. I’d have asked for the name and number of his cleaners, except I doubted very much I could afford them.
He strode up the stone stairs, and I followed. Bartholomew was sitting in the castle library reading, appropriately, A Body in the Library by Agatha Christie. It was the next selection in our vampire book club.
Oscar Wilde was sitting in the other chair reading Alexander Pope. He glanced up at Lochlan bearing down on Bartholomew and then at me and said, “Oh dear. Has somebody been a naughty vampire?”
Before Bartholomew could answer, Lochlan was in his face. “I hope you’ve got a good explanation for why you were seen at O’Donnell House last night?”
Bartholomew looked suddenly nervous, his gaze darting between me and Lochlan. “I didn’t do anything.”
“And yet you went there against my express orders. You were seen.”
He put his book down and leaned back, closing his eyes. “Oh, man. I’m not used to this undead thing. I was hot under the collar, I admit it. I went over there intending to talk some sense into Candace, not that I could ever do it. Maybe I just wanted to give her a good scare.” He held up his hands. “Before you lay in on me, I know I’m not allowed to do that. And I caught myself in time.”
I didn’t believe him. Maybe it was my witchy senses or he was a really bad liar, but I did not believe him. I stepped forward. “That’s not true. You were seen inside O’Donnell House.”
Lochlan flicked a gaze my way but didn’t say a word. In the same way I had known Bartholomew was lying, he knew I was.
However, my bluff worked. The author turned vampire got all huffy and said, “I swear I didn’t kill her.”
“But you did go in O’Donnell House. If you didn’t kill her, what were you doing in there?” I asked.
“I waited until she was asleep. I only wanted to see the manuscript. See if this guy she hired was any good. If I didn’t like it, I was going to swap out his manuscript for mine.”
“You were going to what?” I yelled. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that would be? You’re dead, Bartholomew. You have to stay dead.”
“I know, I know. But don’t forget I was married to that woman for more years than I care to recall. Believe me, she’s a snorer. I waited until she was full-on snoring and then I let myself into the room.”
Even though I was furious with him, I was relieved. If Bartholomew had the missing manuscript, then Tristan had been telling the truth. I held out my hand. “Give me the manuscript.”
He opened his eyes and his hands wide. “I don’t have it. It wasn’t there.”
Oddly, now I did believe him. “The manuscript wasn’t there? Are you certain?”
“Yes. I searched everywhere.”
Which put Tristan, who definitely did have a copy of the manuscript, back on the hot seat.
“What time was this?” Lochlan asked. Oh, good question. I should have thought of that.
“About three a.m.”
There didn’t seem to be any more to be gained, so we left them reading. We went into Lochlan’s office, and he shut the door behind us. Actually, it was more like a slam.
“This room’s completely soundproof, it can’t be bugged, and we can’t be overheard. You can speak freely.”
That was great, but I didn’t know what I wanted to say. Except, “Did you believe Bartholomew?”
“Oddly, yes.”
“So what on earth is going on? All along we’ve thought that Candace was killed because of that manuscript. But what if she wasn’t? What if it was something else?”
“Such as?”
I shook my head. “I have no idea. But something’s not making sense here. We have a B&B full of people who wanted that manuscript, and they all claim not to have it. Tristan Holt admits to visiting Candace Branson after midnight, and he had a copy of the manuscript, but he claims it was his own copy. As he’s the author, it makes sense that he’d have one.”
“Except, as you pointed out, if he didn’t bring his laptop with him to Ireland because of weight, would he really cart about a sheaf of paper?”
“Then there’s that. When Bartholomew searched Candace’s room at three in the morning, the manuscript was gone.”
“And if he heard her snoring, we know she was still alive.”
“Right. Which means that Tristan Holt isn’t our killer.” I all but held out my hand for the ten euros.
“Not so fast. Who’s to say he didn’t come back again? Perhaps that was him calling her at two in the morning.”
“You know what I think?”
He shook his head, looking amused. “What is it you think?”
“I think there are too many possible killers and too few people who don
’t have reason to lie to us, which makes it really difficult to find Candace’s killer.” I glanced at my watch. “And I should try to get a couple of hours of work in at the bookshop.”
“You know Dierdre loves working there.”
“That’s nice, and I really appreciate the help, but I’m paid to work there. I don’t want Lucinda to think I’m shirking.”
“I’m sure Lucinda will be delighted with your profits this month. You’ve worked hard on the launch of Branson’s novel. You deserve a little time off.”
I stared up into his gorgeous face. “Seriously? You consider tracking a killer a holiday? If I take time off, I might like to go to Paris or spend a day at the spa. Not sleuthing.”
“Duly noted.” He picked up his car keys. “Come on. I’ll drive you to the shop.”
“Actually, drop me at home. I’ll change into something a little more businesslike than yoga pants.”
Chapter 17
The following day, I tidied the children’s section, which left my mind free to puzzle over Candace’s murder. We seemed to have arrived at an impasse. If she’d been murdered for that manuscript, then where was it? All I could think of was that the killer had disposed of it, realizing, after the murderous rage had passed, that holding on to that manuscript was the equivalent of waving around a smoking gun.
Even if they’d hidden it somewhere and retrieved it later, the minute that manuscript surfaced, whoever produced it was buying themselves a one-way ticket to jail.
There was something missing. I suspected the police were as confused as we were. Irving had been asked to remain a few more days while the police pursued their inquiries, but without hard evidence, they couldn’t hold him. Irving being Irving, I was sort of surprised he hadn’t gotten belligerent and demanded to leave, calling on his rights as an American. But he’d been remarkably easygoing about the delay. Why?
So many whys and not nearly enough becauses.
I reordered The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe series into the proper sequence, and then I heard the door open with a new customer. Before I turned to see who it was, I felt a chill. The hairs on the back of my neck didn’t just rise; I felt as though a woodpecker was banging away on the top of my spine.
I rose to my feet, wincing a bit because I’d been too long crouched in the same position. I really needed to work out more. And as I turned, I found myself confronting Tristan Holt. No wonder my awareness had kicked into overdrive. And right now, my flight or fight response was following it. The scruffy, young guy with dirt under his nails might well be a vicious murderer of bookish women.
Since I couldn’t think of a thing to say, I just stared at him. He stared back at me for a moment that seemed to last several thousand years. Finally, when I couldn’t stand it anymore, I asked, “What are you doing here? The last time I saw you, you were running away.”
That seemed to break the ice. He took a step forward. And I took a step back. He said, “I came back to help the police by telling them everything I knew about Candace. I told them I was in her room that night and—everything.”
“That’s the right thing to do. Good for you. But then why did you act so guilty yesterday?”
“I was just so shocked when you and the tall, scary dude came to my campsite, told me Candace Branson was dead and practically attacked me.”
“To be fair, it wasn’t really an attack. We just wanted to find out what you knew.”
“Believe me, it felt like an attack.”
I could see how that could happen, if he was innocent. “I’m really sorry if we startled you.”
“Startled me? I didn’t even know Candace Branson was dead. Then you’re throwing accusations and suggesting that if I had the manuscript, I must be the murderer. I panicked. That’s why I took off.”
I felt guilty now. We’d scared him away from his temporary home. From the look of him, Tristan Holt hadn’t spent the night at a Hilton hotel. He looked pale, exhausted and grubbier than the day before. “Did you go back and get your tent?”
He made a sound of derision. “No. I was scared you’d have more heavies waiting for me.”
I was old enough to be his mother, and I couldn’t stand the idea that I’d deprived him of his shelter. He must have slept under the stars last night. “Do you have a place to stay?” I wasn’t going to put him up in my cottage. I might feel bad, but I wasn’t suicidal. But I wondered if I could find him a place to say somewhere in Ballydehag.
He surprised me by saying, “Yes.” Then his gaze dropped, and he looked a little embarrassed. “I’m on my way to O’Donnell House.”
My eyebrows flew up at that. “You are? Do you know how much that place costs?”
“Philip Hazeltine is lending me the money until we get the manuscript sorted out.”
“Philip Hazeltine?” I couldn’t get my head around this.
“Yeah. After I ran away from you, I ended up at the beach. I sat there for hours trying to figure out what to do. I knew I had to talk to the cops, but then I figured, if Candace was gone, maybe Bartholomew Branson’s agent would be interested in All Fall Down.”
All I could think of was how cunning he was. If he had killed Candace Branson, his plan was breathtakingly simple and brilliant. With her death, and since the contract hadn’t even been completed, as he hadn’t received the second part of his payment, I was willing to bet the rights reverted to him. He was in a pretty good position. His story only had to be halfway good that somebody was going to pay a lot of money to publish it. So he’d approached Bartholomew Branson’s agent. Nice.
Of course, he might not be the murderer, and then he got a little more credit for coming back to give what help he could to the Gardai, but the upside to himself was still very huge. His career was about to take off, and he had to know it.
And in visiting me? There could only be one reason. “You’re looking for your manuscript back.”
He shook his head. “No. I don’t need it. I backed up to the cloud. All I need is internet and a printer.”
“So why are you here?”
“I just wanted to tell you. In case we ran into each other or something. And besides, you were cool when I first arrived here and didn’t know anybody. You invited me to the party.”
I felt like he’d smacked me. “And by inviting you, I wonder if I started a chain of events in motion that ended up with Candace Branson’s death.” I could almost picture a line of dominoes, the last one being a little doll figure of her standing with the microphone announcing at the launch party that she had in her possession a brand-new Bartholomew Branson manuscript.
I wasn’t sure why the ghostwriter being in attendance would put her in more danger. I just had a sneaking suspicion that it had.
“Is it weird?” I asked him.
“Is what weird?”
“That you’re staying in the bed and breakfast with agents who were fighting over that very manuscript and Branson’s old editor.”
He shook his head. “No. It’s an incredible opportunity.”
I looked at him. “You’re a smart guy who just wrote a thriller full of twists and turns. Who do you think murdered Candace Branson?”
He looked serious and nervous all at the same time. “I honestly don’t know. I didn’t like her, and she totally stiffed me over my fee, but I hate thinking that somebody strangled her and stole my manuscript.” He sent me a steely glare. “And let me be perfectly clear that it wasn’t me who strangled her.”
“It makes no sense,” I said, repeating what I’d been saying in my own head all afternoon. “Why kill the woman for the manuscript? Anybody who knew what she was up to would figure out that the real author would have a computer file of the manuscript.”
“My theory is that the killer didn’t know there was a ghostwriter,” he said. “I sat by the ocean most of yesterday afternoon thinking it all through.”
I was so caught up in this whole conspiracy, I’d completely forgotten the obvious. “You’re right. Most of the people a
t that launch believed it was a legitimate manuscript.”
“It’s not like Candace was bragging about the fact that she’d hired somebody to impersonate her dead ex-husband.”
“So who did know? Who knew your secret?”
“She did, obviously. I did, even more obviously. And the lawyer who drew up the contract. I’m not sure anyone else was in on the plan.”
“What about Irving? He and she seemed like they were pretty close. More than agent and client.”
“Yeah. I picked up on that too. If she did tell him, I never knew anything about it. I only ever met with her and the lawyer who drew up the contract. He’s still in New York. I checked.”
“What about your lawyer?”
He pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I couldn’t afford one. And I was stupid enough to trust her.”
“I have to ask, who did you tell?”
He looked a little shifty. “I signed a nondisclosure agreement. I already told you that.”
“I know, but this was a pretty big break. You must have told someone you knew you could trust. Your girlfriend? Your mother?”
“Becca Morley,” he said in a low voice.
“Becca Morley? Who’s she? And was she here on the night of the gala?” I felt like that was all we needed, yet another suspect in a complicated murder investigation.
He shook his head. “She’s my critique partner back at home. I told her.”
“You used a critique partner when you were ghostwriting for somebody else?” And I’d thought he was so smart.
He shook his head as though I was not so smart. “Obviously not. I just wanted to tell her.”
The way he shifted from foot to foot and wouldn’t meet my gaze gave me the answer right away. “You like her. You were trying to impress her.”
“Maybe. Probably.”
“Tell me about Becca Morley. Could she have told someone?”
“She promised she wouldn’t, but how would I know if she had?”
“You need to find out. You’re going to have to phone her and tell her what’s going on. If there’s any connection…” My words trailed away.
