Francesca Bugle leaped up. “It’s a mistake. That’s not for sale,” she said, striding toward Cletis, poppies bobbing with each step. “I don’t know how that got mixed up with the sale items.” She held out a hand, clearly expecting Cletis to hand it over.
He peered down at her with a puckish grin. “Not so fast, little lady. This auction is for a good cause—you can’t just change your mind about donations. Perhaps you’d like to make a bid?” He held up the envelope and waggled it.
Francesca forced a smile. “Five thousand dollars,” she said. In the stunned silence that followed, she added, “I’m happy to support the scholarship fund. I wouldn’t be a writer today if I hadn’t gone to college on a scholarship.”
Cletis brought his gavel down. “Sold, to the lady with the flowery hat.” He handed the envelope to her with a courtly bow, and she returned to her seat. The crowd applauded her generosity and she acknowledged them with a wave and a more natural smile. From my vantage point, standing near the stage, I could see her furrowed brow when she sat. She removed her hat, scratched her head, and riffled through the envelope’s contents. I knew she was trying to figure out, just as I was, how the manuscript had ended up on the auctioneer’s table.
Chapter 4
During the intermission between the auction’s end and the story contest, Francesca bulled her way through the crowd to me, expression ominous.
I forestalled her with upraised hands. “I have no idea how that got into the auction, Ms. Bugle,” I said. “I’ve never seen it before. If you didn’t put it up there . . .”
“It’s my latest manuscript,” she said. “My publisher would kill me if it got out before publication day, which isn’t until next year. They’d probably void my contract and make me give back my advance, which was what we call in the biz a ‘significant deal,’ the most I’ve ever gotten.”
No wonder she was willing to cough up five grand to get the manuscript back. “I’m so very sorry. Do you want me to ask Cletis—”
She interrupted me with an impatient wave. “That old coot won’t know.”
“Who had access to it?” I asked, unable to help probing the mystery.
She shot me a look. “You’re a sharp one, aren’t you? My assistant, of course, and my researcher. Then there’s my agent—she had a copy—and the folks at the publishing house. . . .”
“A long list, in other words.”
“True. But how many of them are here?” She left me, craning her neck and swiveling her head, as if trying to spot the traitor in the crowd coming back from the bathrooms.
I let out a long phew as she bustled away. I looked around for Shannon Vela, the actor I’d hired to read the short stories. The original plan was to have the kids read their own stories, but one of the finalists was a boy with a painful stutter, and the principal had asked if, in fairness, we could find someone to read all the stories. Shannon, a decade older than me, had recently returned to Heaven from New York City, where she’d made a living as an actor, even having a Tony-nominated supporting role in a Broadway play.
She hurried in now, svelte in slim black slacks and a matching cropped jacket over a gray cami. Black was a habit she’d picked up in Manhattan, she said, and she couldn’t afford to toss her whole wardrobe just because she’d moved back to Heaven. Her husband had gotten her a red plaid lumberjack shirt for her last birthday (I knew because I’d organized the party and been highly entertained by her expression when she unwrapped the shirt), but I had yet to see her wear it.
“Sorry I’m late, Amy-Faye,” Shannon said, her voice low-pitched and as smooth as molasses. “Jack picked today of all days to upchuck on the living room carpet. I had to do something about the stain before it set.”
I couldn’t remember if Jack was her terrier or her son, so I merely said, “Yuck. Glad you made it. Are you ready?”
She nodded, and lifted the slim blue folder she carried. “Printed out the stories this morning. My, those kids are talented, aren’t they? That vampire one—”
I hadn’t read the stories, but I nodded, and urged her toward the stage as Gemma went to the podium to welcome the audience to the story contest. She’d be introducing Shannon in a second, using the biographical notes I’d written for her. It constantly surprised me how many people wanted the event organizer to write remarks, toasts, or introductions for them. I joked sometimes that if I ever put together a conference on weapons of mass destruction, someone would expect me to come up with a few words about anthrax and nukes. The crowd had shrunk a bit—only to be expected—but it was still a respectable gathering. I spotted the jeans-clad guy with the crew cut from Book Bliss sitting alone in the second to last row, flipping through a book’s pages. He must really be a fan of gothics. The three finalists sat at the end of the front row, two girls and a boy, the former in their Sunday best, the latter in jeans and a hoodie. They all looked nervous, with one girl clutching the armrests of her chair so hard her knuckles gleamed, the boy chewing on a hangnail, and Axie’s friend Thea swinging her foot so hard her shoe was in danger of sailing onto the stage.
The stories were all five hundred words or less, so it didn’t take Shannon long to read the first one and then introduce its author. The teen rose, flushing, and acknowledged the applause with an embarrassed wave. Shannon embarked on the second story and I knew it was the boy’s by the way he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and mouthed the words along with her. He raised his hands over his head like Rocky when introduced, and the crowd laughed. When Shannon started in on the third story, I noticed Thea frown and say something to the boy. He shrugged in response.
Before I could puzzle out what was bothering her, Mary Stewart the Living stood up, arms straight down at her sides and hands fisted, and said, “Is this some kind of joke?”
Shannon stopped speaking and peered down at Mary over the top of stylish reading glasses. “I’m sorry?”
“That’s not my story,” Thea said softly. Getting braver, she said more loudly, “That’s not my story.”
Uh-oh.
“So sorry—there must be some mistake. . . .” Gemma fluttered, looking to me for help.
The crowd began to murmur and shift restlessly in their chairs. I climbed the four stairs to the stage and pulled Shannon away from the microphone. “The last story should be by Thea Jensen,” I said, checking my list, “and it should be called ‘A Night in Amarantha.’”
“Well, this is the one I got last night, and it’s by someone called Eloise Hufnagle,” Shannon whispered.
Not good. That was the woman Mary Stewart had mentioned at Book Bliss, the one who was suing her. How had Shannon gotten—? That could wait. Right now, we needed to get the show back on the road. “Do you have Thea’s story?”
“Sure. It’s the last one.”
“There were only supposed to be three. We’ll straighten this out after. Just read Thea’s story and let’s get through this.”
With a smile, I stepped to the mic and said, “I apologize for the delay. Just a mix-up, folks. Shannon will now read Thea’s story, ‘A Night in Amarantha.’”
Mary and Thea subsided into their seats, Shannon read beautifully, and the three authors came onstage to proclaim the boy’s story the winner. He bounded up the stairs to accept his prize, doing the Rocky thing again to the crowd’s amusement. Gemma closed by thanking the judges and reminding folks about the costume ball, and the audience began to drift out. I wished I could leave, too, but with Mary Stewart and her brother bearing down on me, along with Shannon and Gemma, I wasn’t going to be able to escape.
They all talked at once. “My sister’s book—” “—e-mail last night—” “—don’t understand why—”
I held up a hand, trying to convey a calm I wasn’t really feeling. “Shannon, you said you got the story last night. How was that?”
Pushing her reading glasses atop her head, she said, “I got an e-mail, l
ike with the others, saying it was a late finalist. I didn’t think anything of it.”
“Was the mail from my mom, like the others?” I knew my mom, as one of the judges, had been in charge of forwarding the finalists’ stories to Shannon; I’d given her the e-mail address myself.
“Now that you mention it,” Shannon said, brows drawing together, “I think it was from the kid, that Eloise.”
“She’s not a kid,” Lucas said. He ran a hand through his thick black hair and it fell back perfectly into place.
“This is all about embarrassing me,” Mary put in, tears making her eyes glitter. “That woman—” She stopped and her eyes widened. “She’s here, isn’t she? She’s here to cause trouble.” She looked over her shoulder as if expecting to see Eloise Hufnagle creeping up on her.
Lucas slung an arm around her shoulders. “I told you we should have gotten a restraining order after what happened in Birmingham.”
“What happened in Birmingham?”
Lucas gave me a brooding look. “That woman accosted Mary in the street and flung a jar of blood on her.”
Gemma gasped and put a hand to her mouth.
“It turned out it wasn’t real blood,” Mary said. “It was an ooky stage blood, but it still ruined my dress.”
“And it’s a gross thing to do,” I added.
“We should call the police,” Gemma said, more decisively than usual.
“And tell them what?” Lucas rounded on her. “That someone mailed a story to Shannon here and lied about it being a contest finalist? Ooh, scary. They’re not going to give a damn about that.”
Taken aback by his scathing tone, Gemma looked like she might cry. Lucas seemed much less attractive all of a sudden, gorgeous hair and dark blue eyes notwithstanding. “It’s a good idea, Gemma,” I said. “I know someone at the police department and I can talk to him, let him know what the situation is. Maybe he’ll have an idea.”
“Thank you,” Mary said, throwing her shoulders back. Clearly, she was ready to move on. She managed a brave smile. “I’m not going to let this poor, deluded woman ruin my experience here in Heaven. Where’s that young man whose story won? I’ll take a photo with him and his family. They’d probably like that.”
Lucas rolled his eyes. “You won’t need me for that,” he said. “I’ll bring the car around.” He followed his sister out of the auditorium toward the hall, where the babble of voices suggested there were still a few people hanging around.
Shannon put a hand on my arm. “I’m sorry if I—”
“Not your fault,” I assured her. “And it’s no big deal. You did great.”
She flashed a smile. “Thanks. If you don’t need me for anything else, I’ve got an appointment with my Bissell steam cleaner. Mitch and I are coming tonight, so maybe I’ll see you. I’m coming as Morticia Addams. Remember The Addams Family?”
Before my time, but I’d seen a couple of episodes in reruns. With her long dark hair, she would make a great Morticia. “I’ll look for you. Can I have those?” I gestured to her file folder with the stories.
She handed it over. “All yours.”
I flipped through the folder after she left, not sure why I’d even asked for it. I’d look at it later. Right now, I needed to dash home and put on my costume before driving to the Club to make sure everything was in train for the ball. I wanted nothing more than to kick my shoes off, relax in a bubble bath, and spend the evening watching anything as long as it didn’t have a gothic vibe—Big Bang Theory, maybe—but that wasn’t an option. Reminding myself that my paycheck for organizing all of today’s events would pay my office rent for next month, I exited the auditorium, stopping to thank Cletis on the way and remind him that we were working together again on Friday for an event at the First Baptist Church of Heaven. I’d always thought that churches that could say they were located in Heaven had a leg up on other churches.
On my way to the main doors, I spotted Axie commiserating with a glum Thea, who was gnawing on a red spiral of licorice. I detoured toward them. “Great story, Thea,” I said. “Sorry it didn’t win.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Catch you later, Ax.” She drifted away, shoulders slumped.
“Axie,” I started, “were you and Josh in the auditorium the whole time I was gone?”
Giving me an anxious look, she asked, “Uh-uh. Was I supposed to be? I was mostly in the auditorium, but I put up the signs.” She pointed to a neatly lettered placard that read, “Auction and Story Contest This Way!” with an arrow. She crinkled her brow in thought. “And I went to the drinking fountain to fill up my water bottle.” She jiggled the half-empty disposable bottle.
“Did anyone come in the auditorium while you were there?”
“Just the janitor.”
“What did he look like?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t really notice. Josh and I—I’m sorry if I screwed up, Miss Amy-Faye.”
I hugged her. “You didn’t screw up, Axie. I’m just trying to figure out how Francesca Bugle’s manuscript got mixed up in the items for sale. It could have happened at Book Bliss, too. I don’t know how long Gemma had the auction items boxed up in her stockroom. No biggie. Don’t worry about it.”
Her face lit up with a thought. “Maybe I could help you find out. I could track down the janitor and ask him—”
I was shaking my head before she finished. Lola would not thank me for encouraging Axie to neglect her studies in order to play Nancy Drew. “It’s really no big deal. Concentrate on making Thea feel better.”
“Nothing but Twizzlers will make Thea feel better,” she said, “and I had a bag on hand to give her, just in case. She’s convinced herself that licorice has some sort of mood-elevating property. I think she’s doing something for the science fair with Twizzlers.”
I had a feeling Thea wasn’t going to win any prizes at the science fair, either.
At the front door, Al Frink was snapping the legs down on the folding table he’d used for the auction registrations. “That Cletis is a hoot, isn’t he?” Al said. “He looks like he walked out of one of those old Western movies. I’m betting that ‘gosh darn, pardner’ routine of his is an act,” he added shrewdly. “He took one look at the sales list and added up the total in his head. And he rode out of here on a Mercedes, not a horse. I was loading stuff up and I saw him get into a navy blue S-class with tinted windows. Sweet ride.”
“Did we make a lot?”
“Seven thousand four hundred and two dollars,” Al said.
I whistled. “That’s a lot.”
“Yep. Gemma Frant was floating six inches off the ground when she left here. Of course, she’s so hippie-dippie she practically needs a tether anyway.”
Al was not known for censoring his opinions of people, including important clients. Before I could tell him for the pazillionth time to be more discreet, he handed me a flowered hat.
“Someone turned this in. I think it’s Miss Bugle’s.”
“I’ll drop it at the Columbine on my way home,” I said, sighing. My hot bath was beginning to look like an unattainable fantasy. “Good work today, Al. Just the costume ball to get through now. What are you coming as?”
“Poe. Did you know he went to West Point before he started writing and got all creepy? One of my friends from high school got an appointment to West Point. He gave it up after a year, like Poe, but he kept his uniforms. He couldn’t stand all the rules—rules for what to wear, rules for how to fold your socks, rules for how to eat. We all tried to tell him he wouldn’t like it, but he was all about being an army officer. Watched Taps too many times. Anyway, he’s letting me borrow one of his uniforms. And I’ve got a stuffed raven that says ‘Nevermore.’ It’s proximity activated, like those Santas that go ‘ho-ho-ho’ if you walk past them in department stores near Christmastime? ‘Nevermore, nevermore,’” he croaked, beaming. “Maybe I’ll bring it to t
he office and keep it on my desk.”
“Don’t you dare,” I said, tucking Francesca’s hat under my arm and making my escape.
Chapter 5
The Columbine is Heaven’s nicest B and B. The building dates from the late 1880s, when the town was incorporated as Walter’s Ford, and Sandy Milliken and her husband, transplants from the East Coast, spent beaucoup bucks fixing it up. It sits on a quiet, treelined street a block from downtown, and it isn’t hard for tourists to locate—its pale tangerine paint with the carnation pink gingerbread makes it visible for miles. In the spring, hanging baskets of pink and orange petunias, pansies, marigolds, and other flowers add to the colorful effect. At this time of year, with the nights already dipping below freezing, Sandy had replaced the hanging baskets with potted mums in bronzes and creams that sat on either side of each of the six stone steps leading to the Victorian B and B’s double oak doors.
I nudged one door open and entered. The foyer, graced with wide-plank oak floors, Laura Ashley fabrics, and a Tiffany chandelier, murmured of history and the expensive restoration. It smelled like lemon furniture polish. It was quiet at this time of day with most guests dressing for the costume ball, I guessed, and Sandy and her husband working on their never-ending to-do list of repairs, modernizations, and routine maintenance. She’d told me once that they’d had no idea what they were getting into when they left their Madison Avenue jobs to take on the B and B.
“I imagined that my having a background in advertising and Dave being in finance would be useful when we bought this place,” Sandy had said. “We’d have been better off with a plumbing certificate and a high school class in woodworking!” Her droll expression made me grin.
I could just leave Francesca’s hat on the registration counter, but I was reluctant to do that. Before I could call out for Sandy or Dave, I heard voices from the room ahead of me on the left. It was a small parlor, decked out with reproduction Victorian furnishings, where Sandy kept hot coffee and tea going all day. I walked toward the room, but something about the intensity of the voices, lowered but intermittently audible, made me hesitate.
The Readaholics and the Gothic Gala Page 4
