“But neither do I,” sputtered Leslie. “What would I have to gain by—”
A disturbance in the hall stopped her and we all hurried to the door. Bryce St. John was being escorted toward the lobby by a police officer. He held Bryce’s arm, and Bryce’s hands appeared to have been secured behind his back. Another officer followed, carrying a large navy duffel bag.
“But Klara gave me that money to hold!” Bryce protested, resisting the pull on his arm. “I didn’t take it. And I certainly didn’t poison her to get it.”
“Sir,” the cop said sternly. “You’re under suspicion for murder and are being charged with assaulting a police officer.” He touched his free hand to his lower lip, which was split. A line of dried blood clung to his chin. “Don’t make things worse. Just move it.”
Bryce glowered at him, but he stopped struggling and walked quietly from then on. When he passed us by, he saw Franklin and his face instantly brightened. “Franklin. Tell them. I wouldn’t steal money from Klara. Tell them our quarrels were just friendly competition. I wouldn’t have hurt her. I loved her.”
I exchanged a troubled glance with Franklin, who obviously didn’t know how to respond. The cop jerked Bryce’s arm. “Sir. Now.”
Bryce reluctantly acquiesced. We watched in solemn silence as they left the hotel. My mind was racing. I couldn’t believe that they’d taken Bryce St. John. Was the money they found in his hotel room the same money that was missing from Ryan’s safety deposit box? If not, why would he bring all that cash to the festival? Was he telling the truth when he said that Klara had given it to him for safekeeping? Had Klara planned to use Ryan’s nest egg to run away with Bryce? But then, why would Bryce poison his lover? Or murder Joel? Surely he wasn’t the killer.
None of it made sense.
• • •
I HAD THOUGHT about having lunch at Espresso Yourself. It would give me the chance to see how Trey was doing and to share the news about Bryce with Makayla, but I was too worked up to stop. Not only that, but I certainly didn’t want to put myself in the middle of a pack of reporters. So instead of the coffee shop, I picked up a Thai chicken noodle salad and lemonade from How Green Was My Valley and sat on the edge of the fountain to eat. I didn’t really have much of an appetite at first, but the spicy peanut dressing kindled my taste buds, and in the peaceful calm of the park, I finished the salad with gusto.
While I ate, I thought solely about Bryce St. John. Was he the murderer? He seemed too affable to have such an evil streak in him. Dipping my hand into the fountain I stared up at the Nine Muses. “‘The devil’s agents may be of flesh and blood, may they not?’” I asked them, quoting Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Of course they didn’t answer. Water spilled from their hands, splashing into the pool. Just being in the park centered me and I felt better. I could not help that Bryce might be guilty of murdering his colleagues. I could not help that Ryan’s heart was broken. And I could not help that our festival had been sabotaged by events beyond my control.
But I could help an aspiring author realize his dream. It was time to do something positive. Throwing my trash away, I walked briskly to the Constant Reader.
To me, there is a special atmosphere in every bookstore, as if all the stories within the books are just waiting to come alive. The Constant Reader was no exception, and I found myself smiling as I meandered between the shelves looking for Jay. He was busy assisting a customer, so I checked out the cookbook display while I waited.
It seemed almost indecent to see Klara’s smiling face on the large poster display near where she’d had her book signing. Still, this was a better image to have in my memory than the one from Espresso Yourself. My jaw dropped when I saw the empty table beside the poster. At her signing the day before, there had been stacks of her cookbook, My Grandmother’s Hearth. Now there were none.
“It’s amazing how death sells, isn’t it?” Jay came up behind me. His voice was solemn and I sensed that he’d prefer Klara alive and writing, to a cash register stuffed with bills. “There was a run on her cookbooks this morning, and I’ve completely run out of everything she’s published. It’s been so crazy here that I haven’t had a chance to change the display.” He folded his arms across his chest and looked at Klara’s picture. “That poor woman.”
“Yes,” was all I could think of to say.
“You were there when she collapsed, weren’t you? It must have been horrible.”
“It was,” I said without elaborating. I didn’t want to linger on the subject a second longer. “But Jay, I didn’t come here to talk about Klara. I have some news for you.”
He glanced at a customer leafing through a book and signaled to his assistant. “I’ll be in the back,” he told her. Then he turned to me. “Let’s talk in private.”
The room at the rear of the store was just the way I imagined a bookshop’s office to be. Stacks of books of all sizes on the floor, shelves overflowing with books, papers on the desk. It looked like something out of Dickens, except for the computer.
“Sorry for the mess,” he said as he took a mound of paperbacks off his guest chair. “I never have enough room for everything.”
“It’s perfect,” I said. “Very bookish.” I picked up the slim blue volume on his desk and saw that it was a collection of poetry. I opened it to a random page. “‘I carry your heart with me,’” I read aloud. “‘(I carry it in my heart) I am never without it.’”
“E. E. Cummings,” he said.
“Are you a big fan of poetry?”
He shrugged. “I love all genres of writing. That book was from the display celebrating National Poetry Month and I’ve been reading it during my breaks. It’s amazing how much emotion a poet can convey in a few lines.” Sitting down, he indicated the chair he’d emptied. “Have a seat. What did you come to tell me?”
I returned the poetry book to the desk. “Two pieces of good news, actually. First, your short story, ‘Diner in the Rough,’ has won first place in our short story contest. You’ll be awarded your prize at the final festival event this afternoon. Congratulations.”
He broke into a huge grin. “Really? That’s awesome.” He raised his hands and punched the air above him.
I laughed. “It was well deserved, Jay.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, still smiling. “But there’s more.”
“More?” He held on to the armrests of his chair as if to keep himself from floating away.
“You remember The Alexandria Society by Marlette Robbins?” I asked.
He nodded vigorously. “I loved that book. It’s too bad Mr. Robbins isn’t around to write a sequel. I can envision so many plots stemming from those he introduced in that amazing first novel.”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about. The book’s publisher wants a sequel, and Jude and I have been looking for a writer who’s up to the challenge of serving as ghostwriter. It’s been difficult, because Marlette’s voice is so unique and spellbinding that we haven’t found anyone who could write in the same vein.” Pausing, I could see that Jay was hanging on my every word, as if he could anticipate what I was about to say but afraid to hope for it. I continued. “Until now, that is. Jay, we believe we’ve found the person to author Marlette’s sequel. You.”
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” he asked in a tremulous voice.
I nodded. “We’re confident that if you submit a good proposal, the publisher will agree with our opinion and offer you a contract. Do you want to write the sequel? It’s a huge commitment.”
“Are you kidding me? Of course I want to write it! It’s been my dream. I have half a dozen manuscripts tucked into drawers, but I never imagined . . .” He leapt out of his chair and grabbed my hand, shaking it. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
His enthusiasm was contagious and I found myself grinning. “It’s not definite yet, you understand.”
“I know, I know. But I have so many ideas. I bet I can wr
ite a bang-up proposal.”
“Tell you what,” I said, standing. “Call Vicky and set up a meeting with Jude and me. Bring your ideas, and we’ll get a proposal ready for the publisher by the end of the week.”
“I will. Thank you, Lila. You’ve made me a very happy man.”
I left Jay’s office feeling more content than I had in days. My world was in balance once more. I was doing what I loved—changing the life of an aspiring author. And in the process, we were continuing Marlette’s legacy.
Considering the two heinous murders this weekend, I hoped that balance had been restored to Inspiration Valley as well. Perhaps having Bryce St. John in custody meant that the person who had tainted our town was off the streets.
If the police had the right man, that is.
Chapter 12
IT WAS TEMPTING TO LINGER IN THE CONSTANT READER. The bookshop was a haven and I could easily picture myself settling into one of the leather-upholstered chairs and whiling away the rest of the day reading about imaginary people and places. It was an attractive thought, and as I headed for the exit, my fingertips touched the colorful spines of the books in the fiction section. Since I’d met with Jay, the gilt lettering imprinted into the cloth and leather covers seemed to shine a little brighter and I was filled with happiness at the thought that his novel would one day find a place on these shelves.
As my favorite Vivaldi concerto danced through the speakers, the late afternoon sunshine bathed the coffee-table books displayed by the front door in a soft glow. I thought of a quote by Gilbert Highet, a literary critic, who’d once said that books were not lumps of paper, but minds alive on the shelf. That’s exactly what I was feeling at the moment—I was among friends as real and vibrant as my mother or Makayla, and I was reluctant to leave them.
Still, there was work waiting for me at the office and, hopefully, exciting new writers waiting to be discovered. Possibly, there were more unique and powerful voices like Jay Coleman’s in the queries piled on my desk. I might have given Jay the news of his lifetime, but his jubilant reaction to it had reignited my own passion for the written word. Determined to catch up on my stack of unread letters and proposals, I cast a final look at the book-filled paradise and stepped outside into the balmy spring air.
The Vivaldi piece continued to play in my head and I hummed along as I walked, enjoying the sunshine and the scent of freshly cut grass. Municipal groundskeepers were busy in the town park; mowing, pruning, and exchanging spent pansies for pink and white vinca, purple coleus, and sweet potato vines. Rich, dark mulch had been spread beneath the newly trimmed boxwoods and dwarf holly bushes, and all around the park’s perimeter, onlookers sat on benches, their books or magazines forgotten as they watched the landscapers transform the flowerbeds.
I recognized a man sitting on a bench shaded by a magnolia tree. He had his elbows resting on the top of his thighs and his chin in his palms. A newspaper lay on the seat next to him and I knew what the headline read. Deciding to postpone my return to the office, I made my way to his side.
“Hi, Ryan,” I greeted him quietly. He sat so still that I was afraid any sudden noise would make him jump.
Instead of being startled, he moved in slow motion, as if he were underwater. Glancing up at me through glassy eyes, he released a heavy sigh and said, “It’s so beautiful here. I wish it weren’t. I wish there was rain or snow and not a single flower. No birds singing. Right now I hate their songs. It’s like they’re mocking me—reminding me what happiness sounds like.”
Gesturing at the vacant end of the bench, I said, “May I?”
Nodding absently, he reached over, folded the newspaper in half, and tossed it on the ground behind us.
I couldn’t blame him for not wanting to see the photograph of Klara and the bold letters proclaiming her murder. Part of me believed that he couldn’t bear to look at the article because it caused him pain. This would confirm the fact that he loved his wife and was in the initial throes of an awful grief. On the other hand, I still felt I had to view Ryan Patrick as a murder suspect. The front-page reminder that Klara had been poisoned might be causing him a different sort of agony: the kind created by intense feelings of guilt or regret.
Sean wouldn’t approve of my conducting an investigation, but he had his hands full interviewing Bryce and figuring out the meaning behind the duffel bag of cash discovered in his hotel room. Things looked bad for Bryce indeed. Not only was he in possession of all that money, but he’d also been at the coffee shop when Klara collapsed and he could have put the arsenic in her coffee. And yet, he’d been the only one who’d tried to save her. Ryan hadn’t. He’d sat in shock, watching another man attempt to resuscitate the woman he supposedly loved. So was Bryce guilty? Or had someone else poisoned Klara? Like the man sitting within inches of me?
I needed to know the truth about Ryan Patrick and I wasn’t going back to Novel Idea until I had it.
“Do you really think it was him? Bryce?” Ryan asked as if he’d read my thoughts. “Is it possible that he was just using Klara to get to our nest egg? Those funds would be enough to keep that floundering restaurant of his afloat.”
I could tell that it had been difficult for Ryan to speak Bryce’s name. “If that’s the case, the police will find out,” I said by way of comfort.
“Sorry, but I don’t share your confidence in the local law enforcement. Maybe if I were sleeping with one of the officers, I could show the same amount of faith,” Ryan said snidely. And then he instantly shook his head. “Forgive me, Lila. You’ve gone out of your way to be kind ever since Klara and I arrived.” He studied his hands as if they were unfamiliar to him. “Now she’s gone, my kids are shut up in their rooms, and the members of the media are circling like sharks that have caught the scent of blood in the water.”
“The press can be capricious,” I said sympathetically. “One moment they’re celebrating your success and the next, they’re taking your most painful and private experience and sharing it with the world.”
He grunted. “All those sycophants at the TV station. They’ll attach themselves to another celebrity like that.” After snapping his fingers, he laced them together so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “I know I’m the only one who’ll truly mourn Klara’s passing. Bryce was a fling, my kids never bonded with her, and she was too competitive to form any lasting friendships. Women either idolized her or wanted to supplant her. Take Leslie or Charlene, for instance.”
I’d certainly learned that the visiting chefs were prone to petty squabbles and jealousy, but it was Ryan I wanted to focus on now. “You were her true companion,” I said softly. “Her genuine other half.”
“Yes,” he whispered miserably. “She would never have risen to such heights without me, but I savored her success. Even though I was behind the scenes, we shared the spotlight. Her triumphs were mine as well.”
I frowned. “I remember your saying something about Klara being nothing without you. Were you referring to her career?”
“It goes back to the day we first met,” Ryan began, his gaze fixed on some point in the middle distance. “I was working at a small-town television station in the Midwest. I hosted a cooking show and did other kinds of on-location reporting to make ends meet. But it was the cooking I loved best.”
This came as a surprise to me. “You’re a chef, too?”
Ryan let out a humorless laugh. “I was an army cook, not a chef. Whatever my title, I’ve always had a way with food. What I could never develop was a television personality. Klara, on the other hand, was a natural in front of the camera. She was hired at the station to do general grunt work, but one day I asked her to assist during one of my shows. She didn’t know the first thing about cooking, but the viewers loved her. So did I. We started dating and I groomed her to take over as host.”
“What about her Dutch grandmother and all those stories about her heritage?”
“A fabrication,” Ryan answered blandly. “I’m the one with the Dutch connection
, not Klara. My audience, which became hers over time, loved the Dutch-inspired cooking angle. I know I’m using a silly pun, but they ate it up. It was foreign and homey all at once. So we gave Klara a Dutch grandmother. But she couldn’t say the words correctly half the time. I’d sit with her and drill her on the proper pronunciation, but she always struggled with foreign languages. I even had to coach her on the pronunciation of French and Spanish dishes. She was hopeless, but it didn’t matter.” He smiled, lost in his memories. “She charmed her way to the top.”
As I tried to take in this information, I wondered if anything about Klara Patrick had been genuine. “Was your family from the Netherlands?”
“No, I was stationed there. My base was American, but we abided by Dutch laws and regulations and interacted with the locals quite a bit. I was fascinated by their culinary history, of course, and picked up a few traditional dishes on my own, but what I really wanted was to learn from one of the townsfolk.”
“And the Dutch oma? Where does she come in?”
He looked directly at me for the first time since I’d sat down. “That’s how I viewed Mieke. As a grandmother. She was out late one night, walking home from a friend’s house where she’d been playing cards with two other elderly ladies, when a man attacked her. I just happened to be passing by, interrupted the mugging, and gave the assailant such a shiner before he got away that he was pretty easy to identify the next day.” Blushing a little, he stared into the middle distance. “The mugger had been assaulting women for weeks before I came along. Mieke was so grateful that she offered me a reward. When I found out she owned a small café, I begged her to teach me how to cook Dutch dishes.”
Completely absorbed by Ryan’s tale, I imagined the old woman and the heroic young Army cook standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the café’s kitchen, talking and laughing as they chopped fruits and vegetables or stirred pots on the stovetop. “You two must have grown close.”
Books, Cooks, and Crooks (A Novel Idea Mystery) Page 17
