by Penny Plume
“Hopefully,” Olson said. He smiled and nodded to everybody.
“You will,” Kavanaugh said, like it wasn’t an option. “Garrett is going to assist. He knows all of you, and—”
“Holy cats.”
Kavanaugh stopped and looked at Jenna, who had just taken her first sip of the coffee. It had a flavor and richness she could only describe as utterly divine, and she struggled to keep the obnoxious phrase from burbling out of her.
“Sorry,” Jenna said. “Please continue.”
Lawrence scowled at her from behind his drink and hissed, “Get it together.”
Kavanaugh cleared his throat. “Olson and Garrett are going to interrogate you individually in the den.”
“It’s not an interrogation,” Olson said with a shaky grin. “Just a conversation. Just talking. Nobody here is under arrest, and if at any point you want to have a lawyer present, just say so.”
Garrett looked more uncomfortable than Jenna had ever seen him, including when she’d dragged him to Open Togas, the documentary about female sexuality in Roman times at the Lost Haven Film Festival.
“It’ll be whatever it needs to be,” Kavanaugh said, “and nobody needs a lawyer. You all just need to tell the truth.”
He told the room: “This is a tragedy, a disgrace. Ingrid was a friend and a prized member of this community, and her murder will not go unpunished.”
Jenna sipped her coffee and squinted at him over the rim. Was he sincere, or blustering? Trying to make the killer nervous, or campaigning to point fingers away from himself? She raised her hand.
Kavanaugh had his mouth open to say more, but when he saw Jenna’s hand he clamped it into a grim line and pointed at her.
“Are you going to talk to Detective Olson?”
Garrett’s eyebrows went up and he gave her a sharp head shake, just once.
Kavanaugh didn’t notice. “I’ll be consulting with him throughout the day, yes.”
“No,” Jenna said, “I mean as a suspect.”
The room was silent. Belma looked like she wanted a bowl of popcorn to go along with the show. Bart glared at her from his couch, ignoring Sherri’s attempts to soothe him. Wilford gave her a brief, sympathetic look before turning to Kavanaugh, waiting for the man’s response. Lawrence whispered, “Oh boy,” into his drink.
“Why would I be a suspect?” Kavanaugh said.
“Well, because…” Jenna briefly considered running through the reasons, then thought better of calling out a possible murderer in his own home, which she couldn’t leave. “Isn’t that why we came here, instead of the police station? To avoid rumors in town about, well, you?”
Kavanaugh’s tongue flicked out, just a brief flash. “I’m doing this for you people, and for the town. Not me. We want to resolve this as quickly as possible and move on, and somebody here has information that will make that happen.” He swept the room with his eyes, boring into everyone. “I already spoke to Olson, so don’t concern yourself with that. Now, any more pointless questions?”
“Who’s the side of beef?” Belma said.
Kavanaugh frowned. “The what?”
Belma wiggled a finger at the bodyguard, a wicked grin playing on her lips.
Kavanaugh glanced at the huge man. “He’s invisible. Ignore him.”
He pointed to the door to the right of the fireplace. “Now, my den is completely soundproof, so whatever you say in there stays in there. Unless it’s a confession, which would obviously become public knowledge. In fact, it would be very convenient and save us all a lot of time if whoever killed Ingrid would just confess right now.”
He waited. Nobody moved or spoke.
“If that had actually worked,” Olson said, “I’d have retired immediately.”
Kavanaugh gave a curt nod. “Have it your way, people. We’ll waste the day. As I said, the den is soundproof, but I don’t want everyone out here gawking when you suspects come and go, so you have most of the estate to entertain yourselves. Don’t go above the second floor, and stay out of this room unless you’re getting something from McTavish or coming to talk to Olson. We all clear on that?”
Everyone nodded except Wilford. “Can I stay here? I have my back to the door, and I don’t hear that well anyway.”
“No,” Kavanaugh said. “And you just volunteered to go first. I don’t want you dying before Olson gets a crack at you.”
Olson winced.
Kavanaugh said, “That’s it, people. Let’s get moving. Wilford, into the den. The rest of you,” he flicked his hands toward the rest of the house, “scatter. And don’t steal anything.”
5
Jenna had no idea where to go, so she followed Bart, Sherri, Lawrence, and Belma up the three steps and into the front hall. For the first time, she noticed Sherri was dog-free.
“Where’s Mr. Wolfie?”
“He likes to sleep in,” Sherri said. Bart took her hand and they started toward one of the staircases.
Lawrence said, “So what is there to do in this castle?” He was almost done with his drink, rattling the glass to shake everything loose from the ice cubes.
“Nothing, really” Bart said. “We have a game room, indoor pool, a gym. Uh, there’s the movie theater, the library…” He looked at Sherri. “What else?”
“Outside is nice.”
“Oh yeah, the gardens and stuff. The beach. But I don’t think my dad wants anyone leaving the estate, so, you know. Stay away from the fences.”
Jenna hadn’t heard much of the last part. “You said library?”
“Yeah, second floor, take a left.”
Jenna felt pulled that way but didn’t want to run—might seem rude.
Belma said, “Does the pool have a Jacuzzi?”
Bart hesitated. “Yeah.”
“Does it have a dress code? I didn’t bring my suit.”
Bart grimaced and yelled, “McTavish!”
The man appeared in the entry to the receiving room. “Sir?”
“Belma needs a bathing suit. A one-piece.”
“Right away, sir. Anyone else?”
“Why not,” Lawrence said. “But can you just hold onto it for me? I need a few more drinks before I’ll be ready to share water with Belma.”
“You just want to pee in the pool with no witnesses,” Belma said.
Lawrence shrugged and finished his drink.
“I’ll leave a stack of assorted suits and robes in the pool room,” McTavish said. He pointed down the hallway to his left. “Simply follow the hall to the end and take the stairs down.” He dipped his head and left.
Belma wandered down the hallway. Bart and Sherri headed for the stairs.
“What are you guys going to do?” Jenna said.
“I have some things to do up in my rooms,” Bart said. He put extra emphasis on the plural. “But they’re on the third floor, family only. Sorry.”
They started up the stairs.
Jenna asked Lawrence, “How about you?”
“First, I’m getting another drink. I’ll plan my next event based on how strong it is. Let me guess: you’ll be in the library.”
Jenna’s feet did a little tap dance.
Lawrence turned back toward the receiving room, and the bar. “If I see you in there, it’s because I’m lost.”
“You’re missing out,” Jenna said. She went up the stairs as fast as she could without spilling any coffee, and was sure she could smell the books before she was halfway up.
The hallway at the top of the stairs was open on both sides, looking down into the front hall and the receiving room. Lawrence was behind the bar fixing his own drink, which would probably be a lot more powerful than the first.
Jenna paused and watched him pick through the dozens of bottles. She’d seen him drink before, but never drunk. Was he trying to get there because of nerves? Guilt? Or was he just taking advantage of free high-end booze?
She considered going back down and talking to him about Ingrid, maybe bring up the rumored job at K
avanaugh’s resort, but the library was right there…
She glanced to her left. A set of double pocket doors was partially open and she caught a sliver of leather-bound spines. That did it. Besides, it was probably better to let Lawrence pickle a bit more, get anything he might be hiding to float up to the top.
The hallway was wide enough for four people to walk arm-in-arm. High ceilings were framed with intricate, polished crown moulding, and wall sconces cast a soft yellow light that showed doors along both sides down to a tall, curtained window at the end of the hall.
The double doors were first on the left, and Jenna eased them further apart and stepped through with a thrilling mix of trepidation and giddiness. She held her breath. The room felt heavy and soft, insulated from the outside world by the rows and rows of books lining the walls.
Thick wooden shelves ran floor-to-ceiling. They were filled with dark, hardcover spines bound in leather and cloth, the titles and author names pressed in gold and silver foil. Book sets with their perfect alignment of blue, maroon, and brown stripes on the spines, along with ascending volume numbers left-to-right, were so satisfying to Jenna’s book nerdiness she actually felt her neck flush.
Two wide, free-standing shelves stood in the middle of the room, parallel to the door and tall enough she could barely reach the highest row. The bronze bust of a man—maybe Theodore Roosevelt?—was perched atop the nearest shelf smirking at her, along with a globe that looked old enough to not include most of Antarctica.
Intentional or not, the width of the shelves was genius. They were wide enough to block the far wall and give that area a sense of complete privacy, yet still allowed one to stand in the doorway and see the far corners and be irresistibly drawn to them.
The far right corner held a straight-backed chair and built-in reading desk below a tall window bundled in thick curtains. The desk had a yellow legal pad and a pen set, perfect for taking notes, but Jenna was drawn to the far left corner. A deep, plush chair was tucked there, close to the only other window in the room. She pictured herself on a December day, curled in the chair beneath a heavy blanket with snow brushing against the glass, sipping hot chocolate and lost in the pages.
Mrs. Jenna Kavanaugh…
She shuddered. As amazing as it would be to have this library every day, it wouldn’t be worth spending any time with Harrison Kavanaugh.
But as town historian, did she have any power to commandeer a personal library? Common sense told her the answer was no, but these books were gorgeous, so…maybe?
She walked the perimeter of the room making mental notes of which books she wanted to spend time with. When the list hit double digits she took her phone out and started jotting the titles down so she wouldn’t forget, and she was so engrossed in the prospect of reading them all she didn’t hear the two men enter the library.
“Who are you texting?”
Jenna fumbled the phone, her thumbs jabbing nonsense onto the screen below her perfect list. Harrison Kavanaugh stood in the doorway, his bodyguard looming to the side, still unblinking.
Jenna said, “What? No one, jeez. You can’t do that to people.”
“Wrong,” Kavanaugh said. “What are you doing in here?”
Jenna frowned. What would anyone be doing in a library? She was basking in the books.
“Are you lost?” Kavanaugh said. “No, hold on. You have those cute little bookshelves in your shop, don’t you? And you’re the, what, town recorder.”
“Historian,” Jenna said.
“That’s what I said. You like my personal selection?”
I love it, she thought.
Outwardly, she shrugged. “I’m still perusing.”
Kavanaugh said, “I hope you don’t have any plans to record any of this for the town’s history. The faster Lost Haven forgets about all of this, the better.”
“Why is that?”
He nodded at the phone. “Are you taking notes?”
“Only on books.”
To the bodyguard: “Check the phone.”
The bodyguard stepped forward with his hand out.
“I’m just writing down book titles,” Jenna said.
“Right,” Kavanaugh said.
The bodyguard didn’t say anything, just kept his hand out.
Jenna held the phone up to his face. “There, see? I’d let you hold it but you might smash it by accident.”
The bodyguard peered at the screen. He turned and told Kavanaugh, “Books. She doesn’t have a signal in here anyway.”
“Good,” Kavanaugh said. “I don’t want you calling or messaging anyone—especially the other people here—while this is going on. I’ll confiscate phones if I have to. And don’t take any notes. None of this will ever leave my house.”
He turned and left.
The bodyguard glanced at Jenna’s phone screen again, one eyebrow up.
“Satisfied?” Jenna said.
“Hardly.” He started after Kavanaugh. Over his shoulder, he said, “You don’t have any Aurelius or Seneca on your list.”
Jenna fumed.
She stalked the bookshelves, scowling at the innocent spines and muttering into thin, crisp pages as she examined fonts and first sentences. First sentences were an accurate indicator of an author’s worth, in her opinion. But no matter how many times she read the opening lines in these books, she couldn’t focus long enough to get from the opening word to the last. She was too angry.
Check my phone, huh?
Tell me not to message anyone?
Order me not to record anything for the town’s history? To not do my job?
And worst of all: Question my reading list?
She slapped a leather-bound copy of Marcus Aurelius’ On Stoics shut and shoved it into its slot. Just a bunch of natterings about trying to stay cool.
What does that big lump know about books?
She stepped away, then went back and patted the book, apologizing for the rough, unfair treatment. It wasn’t the book’s fault Kavanaugh and his goon were dangerous morons.
Jenna stopped, took a deep breath. The books and her frustration were distracting her from something very important: Kavanaugh thought he was being smart, but everything he said and did only reinforced her suspicions that he was responsible for Ingrid’s death.
And he wasn’t going to get away with it.
Jenna went to the wide doorway, looked left and right. Lawrence was probably wandering around with his second drink—maybe he was tipsy enough to spill something against Kavanaugh.
But first things first.
She added Aurelius and Seneca to her reading list, closed the app before anyone could see it, and left the library.
Lawrence was in the game room, a right turn down the first-floor hallway and through a door on the right. Jenna could hear billiard balls clacking together as she got to the doorway and peeked in.
“Want some company?”
Lawrence didn’t have a pool cue—he was just rolling balls across the felt, trying to knock them into pockets. “Why not?”
He stepped back from the pool table and turned in a slow circle until he found his drink on a table behind him.
“Is that number two or three?” Jenna said.
“Mm.”
“Four?”
Lawrence tipped it until ice cubes slid against his face. He set the glass down and smacked his lips. “Is poor Wilford still in the torture chamber?”
“I think so,” Jenna said. “I peeked on my way by and the door is still closed.”
“Gonna get in trouble with Daddy K, sneaking around like that. Can you imagine growing up in this place? All this stuff to do, and probably not allowed to do any of it. No wonder Bart’s a…well, Bart.”
“Yeah,” Jenna said. She leaned a hip against the pool table and glanced at the doorway: empty. “Sometimes I wonder how Sherri puts up with him.”
Lawrence frowned. “Only sometimes?”
“Listen, about those two—you said we need to keep an eye on them
. Do you think they really had something to do with Ingrid’s death?”
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. They were both seriously miffed when she laughed off their offer to buy her little café. And then when it looked like she was going to scuttle old man Kavanaugh’s resort plans…” Lawrence suddenly looked at the ceiling, peering into the corners. He grabbed a nearby lamp by the neck and stared straight into the bulb.
“What are you doing?” Jenna said.
He blinked at a giant framed photo of some horse race and whispered, “Do you think this room is bugged?”
“Bugged? By who?”
“Shush! By the owner, stupid.”
“Maybe,” Jenna said. “Probably.”
She thought about what Belma had told her, the possibility that Lawrence would be the head baker for the Lost Haven Resort.
“But I’m not afraid of Kavanaugh, Lawrence. What can he do? He’s already trying to put us both out of business. I’ve got nothing to lose here. How about you?”
“Well, there is the possibility that he’s a murderer, so, you know.”
Jenna said, “But he was here with a bunch of lawyers all evening, including the time Ingrid was killed. That’s what Bart said, anyway.”
“Oh, good ol’ Harrison wouldn’t get his hands dirty with the manual labor part. But he’d pay somebody to do it, just like he does with everything else.”
“Who do you think? The bodyguard?”
“That gorilla? I don’t know—was Ingrid smashed into itty-bitty pieces?”
Jenna flashed on the body. Ingrid had been hit very hard on the top of the head, and the bodyguard was certainly tall and strong enough to do something like that. Was he a bodyguard/assassin?
She said, “I’ll poke around a little, see if he was here with Kavanaugh the whole time.”
Lawrence narrowed his eyes and jostled the ice cubes in his glass, deep in thought. “If the bodyguard was here, then of the other three—Kavanaugh, Bart, and Sherri—the only one who could have physically gone in and killed Ingrid is Bart.”
“You don’t think Sherri is strong enough? She has that stand up paddle board thingy.”
“No, I mean physically able to be in the same room as Ingrid. Kavanaugh was here, and I heard and saw Sherri cleaning her store for at least an hour before the meeting, sweeping our beloved sand out. Poor thing had sand stuck to her skinny little legs, all the way up to her knees. You know how it is, the stuff never ends.” Lawrence brooded at the horse photo. “Who knows, maybe it would be good to tear Main Street down and start over.”
