Over the course of my six-year career, I’d met many first-time and veteran authors. Some were so shy you could have an entire conversation without learning they’d been published. At the other end of the spectrum were authors who’d give you their book’s title and plot within the first few minutes of meeting you. Apparently, Fiona fell into the latter category. But why would a previously private person start running around town, opening up to people about her book? Had it been pride over her accomplishment? Or had she been concerned that in a town where she hadn’t had many friends, her sales would suffer?
“I remember seeing her at On A Roll a couple of months ago.” Corrinne crossed her right leg over her left and smoothed her skirt over her knee. “She referred to her story as a water-cooler book.”
Adrian cocked his head. “A what now?”
“It’s the kind of book that sparks discussion.” Corrinne gave me a thoughtful look. “Fiona and I had moved in similar circles for almost two years, yet that was the first and last real conversation we’d ever had.”
Interesting. What discussion had Fiona hoped her book would spark? “Have you started her book?”
Corrinne shook her head. “I bought it. And we have several copies in the library, but I want to finish the book I’m reading now first.”
Fiona had been excited at the thought of people talking about her book. Instead, everyone was preoccupied with her murder. Maybe the timing of her death wasn’t a coincidence. Maybe someone envied the attention she’d been getting because of her book. Jealousy was a strong motive.
Chapter 8
Three minutes after I returned to my office, I looked up from my desk to find Deputies Jed Whatley and Errol Cole standing at my door. Adrian, who’d escorted them, gave me a wide-eyed stare before drifting out of sight.
I gestured toward the two guest chairs in front of my desk. “What can I do for you, deputies?”
The bemused expressions the deputies exchanged reminded me that Peach Coast residents didn’t conduct business in a New York minute. Here, business transactions seemed to last a Georgia afternoon.
Jed removed his green felt campaign hat, revealing his balding pink pate. “Mornin’, Ms. Harris. Deputy Cole and I have a few more questions for you.”
I folded my hands on my desk. “What do you want to know?”
Errol set his hat on his lap as he took the chair beside Jed. He opened his notepad. “Ms. Jolene said you’d been with her from shortly after she left the storage room until you, Mr. Spence, and Ms. Jolene had found Ms. Fiona’s body. Is that right, ma’am?”
It took me a moment to untangle all of those Misters and Ms-es. “Is Jo a suspect in your investigation?”
Jed pinned me with a cool stare from his ice-blue eyes. “Now, could you maybe just answer our questions, please, Ms. Harris?”
I shifted my attention back to the junior deputy. “Yes, that’s right.”
Errol wrote something in his notepad. “And she stayed with you the entire time?”
“Yes.” Errol and Jed stared at me as though expecting something more. “Yes, she did.”
“You sure about that, now?” Jed pressed. “There wasn’t any time she left you alone or you wandered away from her, even to go to the bathroom?”
“She was always within my sight, and neither of us had gone to the restroom.” I wasn’t comfortable discussing my bladder habits with law enforcement.
Errol cocked his head. “Had Ms. Jolene ever discussed Ms. Fiona with you or mentioned her at all, ma’am?”
“Not before Saturday.” I was certain of that.
Jed pounced. “What’d she say to you on Saturday?”
His reaction startled me. In my peripheral vision, I noticed Errol poised to record my response. “She told me Fiona was in the storage room, collecting her books for the signing.”
Jed stared at me. “Is that all?”
I spread my hands. “Have I disappointed you?”
Jed scowled. “What was Ms. Gomez’s relationship with Ms. Lyle-Hayes?”
The older deputy was asking me the same question in a dozen different ways. Did he think I hadn’t noticed? “As I’ve said before, Jo didn’t have a relationship with Fiona. She was only working with her on the signing.”
Jed watched me closely. “What was Ms. Gomez’s demeanor prior to finding Ms. Lyle-Hayes’s body?”
My eyebrows knitted as I sat back on my chair, searching for the words. I had the impression Jed didn’t believe anything I was saying. “Jo was energized about the event. She was very social and introduced me to several people.”
Errol continued writing in his notepad as he spoke. “And then when she found Ms. Fiona’s body, how would you describe her reaction to that?”
“She was deeply upset.” Jo’s pale, stricken expression filled my mind. I heard again her disjointed words. “We all were. She was shaking so badly, I had to help her from the room.”
“Thanks for your time, Ms. Harris.” Jed gave me a dubious look as he got up somewhat stiffly from the chair. In contrast, Errol popped out of his seat.
My gaze swung to Errol, then back to Jed. “Is there anyone else you want to ask me about, deputies? Members of her writing group, her business partners, or family? They’d known Fiona much better and much longer than Jo.”
“No, thank you, ma’am. There’s no need.” Jed slapped his hat against his right thigh as he prepared to leave.
I stood behind my desk. “Isn’t it too early to be so focused on one person?”
Jed rubbed his upper lip. “You have a lot of experience with homicide investigations now, do you, ma’am?”
I inclined my head, conceding the deputy’s point. I couldn’t allow my concern for Jo to make me lose sight of my limitations. “No, Deputy Whatley. I don’t have law enforcement experience. But I can’t sit quietly when I know my friend didn’t commit this crime you appear ready to charge her with. Have you found the murder weapon?”
Jed sighed. I thought I saw a brief flash of understanding in his eyes. Really brief. “We’re searching the store and the surrounding area again, ma’am. I’m sure it’ll turn up.”
I struggled to contain my frustration. “If Jo had stabbed Fiona multiple times, she would’ve been covered in blood. How do you explain that she wasn’t?”
Jed threw up his arms. “She’s the only one with the opportunity, ma’am.”
“Apparently not.” So this was what it looked like when an innocent person was being railroaded. “The killer had opportunity—and motive. What’s Jo’s motive?”
Errol frowned. “We don’t have one yet, ma’am.”
“That’s because she didn’t have a reason to kill Fiona.” I spread my hands. “Jo’s innocent. You’re wasting your time pursuing the wrong person.”
Jed grunted. “Now, why don’t you just let us do our job, ma’am? Do we come in here and tell y’all how to arrange your books?”
I arched an eyebrow. “If I’d scattered our books all over the parking lot, I’d hope you’d speak up. That’s what I’m doing for you.”
“You have a nice day, Ms. Harris.” Jed smiled without humor. “Come on now, Errol.”
The deputies left my office, taking with them any lingering doubts that Jo was panicking for nothing. It was clear the deputies were fixated on her for Fiona’s murder, and they were determined to make the crime fit the suspect.
“You didn’t have to come, but I’m glad you’re here.” Spence welcomed me into his home Monday evening.
“I want to help, and our dinner guests will arrive soon.” I smiled at his backward red University of Georgia baseball cap and crimson apron. In white block letters, the apron read, I Cook, Therefore, I Am.
Spence returned my smile. “A gift from my mama.”
“I like it.” I’d briefly stopped at my house after work to check on Phoenix, but I hadn
’t taken the time to change my clothes. Spence didn’t appear to be put out by this.
He closed his front door, then beckoned me with his arm. “Follow me.” He led me through his spacious living room.
I thought I could see my reflection in his wood flooring. “You have a beautiful home.”
“You say that every time you visit.” Spence tossed the comment and a smile over his shoulder, never breaking stride toward his destination.
“And I mean it every time.”
“Thank you.”
We entered his equally spacious dining room. It had a warm, inviting feel with dark wood furnishings and gold-and-crimson accents. The dining set looked expensive. Its rectangular table was long enough to accommodate eight people. I idly wondered where Spence had hidden the two spare seats. The remaining six chairs featured polished veneers and ladder backs.
“You’ve already set the table. It’s lovely.” I moved my gaze over the gold porcelain plates and matching napkins. I was somewhat disappointed. That was a task I could’ve handled. I wasn’t certain about the cooking.
What I saw of his home, both inside and out, reinforced my impression of him as Peach Coast’s Bruce Wayne. The classic A-line brick structure was the anti-bachelor pad.
His kitchen was awesome. Standing at the threshold, I marveled again at the high ceiling and the black, white, and silver surroundings. The modern appliances were arranged for the chef’s comfort and convenience. The endless counter space offered more than enough room for food preparation.
“You know, for a hobby, you certainly take your cooking seriously.”
He gestured toward my Devil in a Blue Dress pendant. “As seriously as you take your hobby.”
Warm accents kept the contemporary space from crossing the line into cold and sterile. Crimson dish towels hung from hooks, garnet-and-emerald potholders rested beside the black stovetop, and gold curtains covered the window above the sink.
A quick survey of the tidy kitchen revealed how busy Spence had been even before I’d arrived. He’d mixed the ingredients for the chicken and cut the green beans. The oven was warming, and a pot of water was heating on the stove.
“What can I do to help?”
Spence turned toward his center island, on which he’d arranged the ingredients he’d need for the menu, baked chicken and peaches served with Georgia green beans. We’d bought most of the ingredients, including the chicken, yesterday. “I have everything under control. Just keep me company.”
I swallowed a sigh of relief but felt compelled to push the issue. “That doesn’t seem fair. You’re doing all of this because I asked you to.”
“We’re doing all of this to help Jo.” He gave me a half smile. “Besides, I don’t like help in my kitchen. Too many chefs…” He left unspoken the rest of the well-known maxim about culinary conflicts.
“Well, in that case, let me get out of your way.”
Chapter 9
I settled onto one of the matching white barstools near the island. “The deputies questioned me again today.”
Spence gave me a sharp look as he placed peach slices on top of the boneless chicken breasts. “Whatley and Cole? They questioned me too. I’d thought Jo had been exaggerating about the deputies’ interest in her, but now I see why she’s so concerned. They have focused on her as their top suspect.”
“Just because the murder happened in her store. That reasoning is weak at best.” I glanced again at the ingredients as I pondered the gravity of Jo’s situation. Would my librarian coworkers be able to give us insight that would help clear her name? Did I know the right questions to ask? I unclenched my fists and rubbed my damp palms against my slacks.
Spence sprinkled brown sugar, ginger, cloves, and lemon juice over the chicken and peach slices. I’d read about the entrée on the internet. Peaches and chicken sounded like a weird combination to my New York City sensibilities. But since Spence was doing me the enormous favor of hosting this event, I planned to smile and clean my plate.
A wave of warm air wrapped me as he opened the nearby oven to insert the chicken. “The only motive they have for Jo seems to be a disagreement she and Fiona had over the bookstore event.”
I set the alarm on my cell phone for half an hour, the cooking time for the chicken dish. It was the least intrusive way I could think of to help. “What disagreement?”
Spence straightened away from the oven. “Something to do with the placement of Fiona’s books in Jo’s store.”
“Oh, come on.” I thought my eyes would roll right out of my head. “As a motive for killing someone, that theory sounds like a nonstarter. What are you hearing about the murder?”
Spence gave me a somber look from over his shoulder as he added salt and the green beans to the boiling water. “People are concerned about a killer being in Peach Coast. They’re asking questions about Jo and Fiona, but I don’t have the sense that anyone believes Jo’s the killer.”
“They’re looking for a fast arrest.” I remembered Floyd’s observation. Grumpy Santa was wise. “I just hope their fear doesn’t compromise their objectivity.”
“I hope so too.” Spence returned to the kitchen island to chop the garlic.
I eyed the onion. “May I chop the onion for you?”
He gave me a kind smile. “I’ve got it.”
“You really are controlling in the kitchen, aren’t you?” His only response was another smile. I changed the subject rather than push my luck. Creating fancy dinners was out of my comfort zone, but sitting idly while others did all the work made me feel worse. “I’ve heard you’ve hosted other dinners for the librarians. I imagine you know them well.”
“I went to high school with Corrinne’s younger brother. He was a couple of years ahead of me.” He set aside the garlic and started slicing the onion. “I haven’t had a dinner party since Viv joined the library, though.”
“I admire you for knowing so many people in town.”
“It helps that I was born and raised here.” There was humor in Spence’s answer. He put a modest amount of butter into a skillet and sautéed the chopped garlic and onions. “And running the newspaper keeps me connected to the community.”
I’d never asked, but I estimated Spence’s age to be in his early- to mid-thirties, a few years younger than Corrinne. Peach Coast was a beautiful and charming town. The people were friendly. But Spence was a young man. Did this town have enough to offer him? “Have you ever wanted to live anywhere else?”
“I’ve lived in other places.”
My curiosity roared to life. “Oh? Where?”
He turned off the pot and drained the green beans. “I completed my undergraduate studies at Stanford. And got my master’s at NYU.”
New York University? “That’s my alma mater.” My eyes widened in shock. “We could have passed each other on campus.”
Spence chuckled as he dried the green beans. “I’d have noticed.”
“Not in that crowd.”
“I would’ve noticed.” His voice was low, but insistent. “I worked for newspapers in Chicago and D.C., but Peach Coast has always been home. I knew I’d come back.”
He put additional butter in the skillet with the sautéed garlic and onions. Then he added the cooked green beans, red wine vinegar, chicken broth, cilantro, and salt and pepper. He turned the burner on low and covered the pan.
He caught me setting my cell phone’s alarm for the fifteen minutes the green beans needed to cook. This was according to my previous research on the Georgia green beans side dish. He raised an eyebrow. I shrugged. It went against my nature to not help.
I put down my phone. “A strong sense of community seems to be in your family’s DNA.”
“It could be.”
“I think that’s why all your holdings are named after the town rather than your family.” I studied Spence’s broad back as I exp
ounded on my theory. “It’s The Peach Coast Crier, not The Holt Daily News. The Peach Coast Inn, not the Holt Hotel. And it’s the Peach Coast Community Bank, not the Holt Benjamins or something like that.”
Spence smiled at me from over his shoulder again. “We’ve never discussed it, but you do make a good point.”
Yes, I had, and I was sticking to it. “Is that also the reason you started hosting these dinners, to keep in touch with the community?”
“And because I enjoy cooking.” He turned from the oven. “It seems like a waste to make these meals for just one person.”
“It’s very generous of you. The library team is excited.”
“It’s my pleasure. And for dessert, we’re having peach cobbler.”
My jaw dropped. “You bake too?”
Spence laughed. “I picked up the cobbler from On A Roll. I know my limitations.”
There was something about watching a man taking over the cooking in the kitchen. It was almost exotic. Granted, my father and brother had cooked meals for our family. But with them, the vibe in the kitchen had more of a sense of cooking-for-survival. With Spence, the kitchen was a joyful place.
The sweet scents of the chicken and peaches, and the spicy aroma of the Georgia green beans, filled the room. I inhaled deeply as my appetite woke up. “Are these recipes your favorite?”
Spence shrugged his broad shoulders. “They’re easy to make and familiar to me, but I don’t really have a favorite. I enjoy cooking regional meals. They keep my Southern roots alive.”
“If they taste as wonderful as they smell, you may have converted me.”
His warm chuckle rolled across the room. “I guarantee this meal will convert you.”
“How long have you been cooking?”
“According to my parents, all my life. All of the men in my family were amateur chefs.”
My eyes widened with amazement. “The women in your family must’ve loved that.”
Spence’s smile didn’t come as easily this time. He’d mentioned his father had died several years ago. At times, I could tell he was still grieving. “My mama loves to cook too. My parents were pretty competitive in the kitchen. They were always trying to outdo each other with complicated dishes, which was great for me. It inspired me to try new recipes. And I never missed a meal. I struggled with my weight for years.”
Murder by Page One Page 6
