"Yeah," she agreed. "I saw her talking with Cal Parker the night of the book signing; it looked a little tense, but I didn't think anything of it."
"I saw them too," I said, remembering seeing him stop to chat in the signing line, "but she was talking to everyone. What's their backstory, do you think?"
"Let's look it up," Denise suggested. She pulled out her phone and typed in their names.
"Aha," she said. "Look; they were in a society photo in Portland about four years ago."
"So they dated," I said.
"Looks like it," she said. "For at least a year; here they are the previous fall, at a charity gig in Bangor."
"She was there the night Cal died," I said. "She could have taken the flatiron before the signing." I tried to remember if I'd seen it after we opened the store, but I didn't remember.
Denise put down her scone and looked at me. "Are you suggesting that your ex-husband's girlfriend murdered Cal Parker on the beach behind your store?"
"She had means. She had opportunity."
"What about motive?" Denise asked. "Chuck you in jail so that Ted couldn't come back to you?"
"That ship sailed long ago," I said.
"She doesn't know that," Denise said. "But it's still a pretty weak motive for murder. I mean, most small businesses don't make it anyway..." She opened her mouth wide and covered it with her hand. "Oh, my gosh. I can't believe I said that. I'm so sorry, Max... I just wasn't thinking!"
"It's okay," I said, even though it didn't feel okay. What had I been thinking, buying this place, not getting a title search, and putting all of my money into this store? And why did my heart still ache a little at the thought of Ted with another woman? "I know you were just thinking out loud," I said.
She leaned forward and put her hand on mine. "I promise I will do everything in my power to help you make things work."
"I just hope it will be enough," I said.
21
Once Denise had left, I finished making the chocolate toffee cookies (eating six of them warm) and spent a good bit of time on my computer, compulsively looking up pictures of Kirsten Anderson. She was very glamorous, very successful, and had definitely been an item with Cal Parker. If they'd broken up, why did he come to her signing?
A bad thought came to me, then.
Did Ted know about him, and about Kirsten's glamorous past with the rich selectman?
And was it possible that he'd killed the man out of jealousy?
No, I told myself. My husband of almost two decades—and the father of my daughters—wouldn't be capable of such a thing. I felt traitorous for even thinking it.
I was scrolling through images of Kirsten looking annoyingly gorgeous when the front door opened, and Ted himself walked into the shop.
I jumped, almost falling off my chair. Then I quickly closed the window on my screen—a head shot of Kirsten in a low-cut black V-neck blouse—and looked up, forcing a smile. "What brings you here?" I asked. He was so familiar, and yet there was a distance between us that was unfamiliar.
"We're staying at the Ivy Gate Inn. Kirsten's writing, so I decided to come check on you. I heard that you had a bit of a nasty surprise."
"You mean finding the dead selectman next to the shop?" I asked.
"Yeah. That," he said. "Are you okay?"
The concern in his eyes made my heart hurt a little. "I am," I said. "But that's only part of the problem."
"What do you mean?"
I told him about the title issues.
"I wish you'd told me what you were doing," he said. "I've got contacts; I could have helped you."
"I know you would have, but I wanted to do it myself," I said.
He nodded. "I understand."
We were quiet for a long moment, and then I asked, "Do you know if K. T.—Kirsten—knew Cal at all?"
"She hasn't mentioned it," he said, his eyebrows going up a bit. "Why do you ask?"
"Oh, you might want to talk to her about that," I said, shrugging. "So. How was the lobster dinner after the signing?"
"We didn't go. Kirsten had a bit of a headache, so we went back to the hotel and heated up some chowder. She knocked off early, so I went and grabbed a few beers at the Salty Dog." He cocked an eyebrow. "Wait a moment. Are you suggesting one of us might have had something to do with what happened to that selectman?"
I debated what to do. I didn't want to interfere in his life, but there had been a murder. After a moment's hesitation, I decided that Ted probably should know what I knew. "Someone mentioned that she and Cal used to go to things together," I said. "Charity dinners and stuff."
He shook his head. "She never mentioned it."
"I understood they exchanged a few words the other night."
"Kirsten and Cal?" He looked startled, and then gave me a suspicious look. "Are you suggesting that the woman I'm dating is a murderer?"
"No!" I said. "I just... I'm trying to figure out what happened. I was hoping maybe if she knew him, she could shed some light on the situation."
"Why does it matter?"
I held up my stained fingertips. "Because I don't want to go to jail," I said.
And even though chances were slim, I also didn't want my children's father sleeping in the same bed as a murderer, I thought but didn't add.
The rest of the afternoon was slow, but I was anxious, feeling like I should be doing something, but not sure what it was. Once the store closed, I took Winston for a quick walk, then went upstairs and put on moose PJs and my favorite slippers, even though it was only eight o'clock. I made myself a sandwich, giving Winston a little bit of my turkey, then pulled my cookie recipe book out of the shelves and flipped through until I found one of the girls' favorites: oatmeal thins.
I called Audrey as I gathered the ingredients, but my call went straight to voicemail. I called Caroline next; same thing. Sighing, I put down the phone and focused on the cookie recipe—and the issues that had haunted me since the book signing.
I had just pulled the pan out of the oven when the phone rang. I glanced at it; it was Ted. Twice in one day! I felt my shoulders tighten, and my heart rate sped up. "Hello?" I said cautiously when I picked it up.
"Someone's... someone's attacked Kirsten," he said.
"What? What happened?"
"I don't know," he said. "I just got back from picking up Chinese food, and she's... there's blood everywhere, and she's unconscious, and I don't know what to do, and..."
"Oh my God," I said. "Where are you?"
"At the Ivy Gate Inn," he said. "Room 232."
“Have you called 911?”
“Yes; they’re coming.”
I wasn't surprised he'd called me; I'd been in charge of all medical issues from the time we got married, and he'd been happy to leave it all to me. It must have been automatic to call me when there was a medical crisis. "All right, hang in there. I'm on my way."
22
The Ivy Gate Inn was one of Snug Harbor's beautiful former cottages, and only a few blocks from the bookstore. I parked my CRV on the street and hurtled into the reception area, where a startled-looking young woman stood behind the front desk. I glanced down at myself and could see why; I was still in my moose pajamas, with giant bear-paw slippers on my feet. "Where's Room 232?" I asked.
"Up the stairs to the left," the woman answered, then said, "Can I help you with something?" but I was already thundering up the stairs.
I pounded on the door, and Ted swung it open. He gave me a quick up and down. "Wow."
"I was in a hurry," I said tartly. "Where is she?"
"Over here," he said, pointing to the enormous king-sized bed. There, sprawled across the satin coverlet, was Kirsten, wearing a silk teddy. Her oval face was pale, and her dark hair was matted with blood.
"Oh, no," I breathed. "That's a bad head wound. Is she breathing?"
"She is," he said, running a hand through his thinning hair and kneeling by her side. The tenderness in his eyes as he brushed a stray hair from Kirsten’s face
felt like someone pressing on a bruise.
"Who could have done this?" I asked.
"I don't know," he said. "I went out to pick up food, and when I came back..."
I knelt beside her and reached over to take her pulse. Her skin was clammy, but warm. "Her heartbeat is strong, at least. And her breathing's steady, so that's positive; I don't think there's anything we can do until the paramedics get here but monitor her, unfortunately." I scanned the area. "What was it that hit her?"
"A rock. It's over there." He pointed to the corner, where a bloody rock lay. Blood mottled the wallpaper; it looked like whoever had hit her had hurled it at the wall in anger.
I sat back on my heels and took in the room. A plastic bag with two styrofoam containers lay on the floor by the door; from the scent of ginger and garlic, I was guessing it contained Ted's favorite Chinese takeout dish, Kung Pao chicken. "Did anyone see you leave?" I asked.
"Just the front desk person, I guess," he said. "I wasn't really paying attention. She called in the order about forty-five minutes ago, and put it under my name. I left a half hour ago; I was only gone about twenty minutes."
"Was the door ajar when you got back? Did you lock it when you left?"
"What is this, the third degree?" he asked, a familiar touch of asperity in his voice.
"I just want to understand what happened," I said. "Cal Parker was hit over the head, too. I'm wondering if the same person attacked both of them."
He looked up at me, and our eyes met over Kirsten's prone form. "I don't know what I'll do if she dies."
Again, the pain welled in my heart. I was glad we were no longer married—we hadn't been a good match—but seeing him care for another the way I'd wanted to be cared for was hard. "I'm sure she'll be fine," I said with a calmness and confidence I did not feel. "Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm her?"
"Of course not!" he said. "Everyone liked her."
"Did she talk with anyone while she was in town?" I asked. "Anyone she knew?"
"Only her fans at the store," he said. "We've spent most of the time... well... here," he said, flushing as his eyes strayed to her silky teddy. When Ted and I had walked down the aisle just over 20 years ago, this was about the last situation I pictured us being in a few decades down the line.
"She was dating Cal Parker once," I reminded him.
"But he's dead!" he said.
"Yes," I said. "But it's possible that whoever attacked him also attacked Kirsten. Maybe it was somebody they both knew."
"No," he said, shaking his head vehemently, and again running his hand over the top of his head, a familiar gesture. "This has got to be random. A break-in gone wrong. A burglary..."
"Is anything missing?" I asked, putting a finger on Kirsten's wrist to monitor her pulse, which was disturbingly fluttery; would the EMTs ever get here? We both glanced around the room; the drawers were untouched, and there was no sign of anything being rifled through.
"Not that I can tell," he said.
My eye was caught by a button on the floor. "What's this?" I asked.
"I don't know," he shrugged, squinting at it. "Maybe it was from the previous guest and the maid staff missed it. Who cares? I just want her to live.”
I grabbed my phone and took a picture of the button; there was a bit of light blue fabric still attached to it, as if it had been ripped off a shirt cuff or collar. Had Kirsten done that trying to defend herself? I glanced down at her hand; one of her manicured nails was broken, and a bruise was blooming on her left forearm. A defensive wound?
Almost automatically, I glanced at my ex-husband's shirt; to my relief, he was wearing a collared polo shirt, which I didn't recognize but was yellow and had all of its buttons attached. I pulled up my phone camera again and took a picture of the rock in the corner. Would Kirsten survive? I wondered. Would she be able to tell us what happened?
And was I right that the same person had attacked both Cal and Kirsten?
And if so... why?
It felt like hours before the paramedics arrived.
"Is she going to be okay?" Ted asked as they squatted over her.
"We'll take her in and do everything we can," the taller of the two said.
"She'll be okay, though?"
"We'll let the hospital staff evaluate her," the woman said tersely, glancing up at her partner. "Our job is to stabilize her and take her in; you'll have to talk with them. Are you family?"
"She's my girlfriend; we're together," he said.
"Does she have family?"
"Her mother," he said. "She's in Portland... should I call her?"
"Better safe than sorry," she replied, which told me all I needed to know. The outlook wasn't good.
I didn't recognize the police officer on duty who came shortly after the paramedics, but he recognized me. As they worked on Kirsten, he turned to me. He looked just a few years older than my daughters. So young.
"You're the one who found Cal Parker, right?" he asked, tablet in hand. He had freckles and red hair, and looked like one of the boys in a Norman Rockwell painting. Except for the technology and the police uniform, that was.
"Right," I said.
He glanced over to where the paramedics were strapping Kirsten to a stretcher. "How do you know the victim?"
"She's my ex-husband's girlfriend," I said.
"Ex-husband's girlfriend," he repeated slowly. "And how did you come to be in their hotel room?" he glanced around. "This is their hotel room, right?"
"He called me when he found her. I usually take... er, took care of medical issues in the house. I came over to be with him."
"So she was already down when you got here?"
"That's right," I said.
He glanced over at my ex-husband, then asked, in a low voice, "Is your ex-husband a violent man?"
"He never laid a finger on me the twenty years we were married," I told him. "This happened while he went out to pick up Chinese food."
"She was attacked while he was gone," he said, not sounding convinced. "Is that what he told you?"
"It is," I said. "But Kirsten Anderson and Cal Parker used to date. I think whoever killed him may have attacked her, too."
He glanced over at Ted again. "Used to? Is your ex the jealous type?"
"I told you, he didn't do it," I said. "Look; I found a button on the floor; it looks like it was torn off of a blue shirt. My husband... er, ex-husband's wearing a yellow shirt."
"He could have changed before you got here," the young officer pointed out. I guessed that was true. "You referred to him as your husband," the officer then pointed out unhelpfully. "Where were you this evening, Miss..."
"Sayers," I told him. "Max Sayers. I was at the bookstore until Ted called."
"Was anyone with you?"
"My dog," I said.
"I won't ask him to give you an alibi," he said, his mouth twitching into a slight grin. "Can anyone else confirm your whereabouts?"
"Not after I went up to my place, above the shop. We closed at six; I think the last customer was at 5:30."
"Who was that?"
"It was a tourist; I'm sure I can look up the credit card information when we get back."
"Please do that," he said. He glanced over at the rock in the corner. "Recognize that?"
"It's a chunk of granite," I said. "Those things are kind of everywhere, aren't they?"
"They are," he admitted. "Going to be hard to trace that. Although maybe there will be fingerprints."
"Maybe," I said, not sure of how well rocks took fingerprints. "I just hope she's okay."
23
It felt like weeks had passed by the time I left the Ivy Gate Inn, still thinking on what had happened as I closed the front gate behind me and looked back up at the imposing building. Although Ted and Kirsten had gone to the hospital, the lights in their corner room were still lit, and I wondered what had happened in Room 232. Had Kirsten sent Ted to pick up dinner so she could meet someone in the inn, and had it gone wrong
? I couldn't imagine meeting a lover for a ten minute rendezvous while your boyfriend went out to pick up Chinese, though; nor could I imagine greeting anyone I wasn't interested in romantically wearing a silk teddy. It didn't make sense. I got in the car and drove down the darkened street away from the inn, passing Scooter Dempsey's office as I turned the corner. The office windows were darkened, but the dim streetlight faintly illuminated the horse in the painting over the reception chairs. Scooter and Cal had been business partners of sorts; would he have any inside information on the connection between the attacks on Cal and Kirsten?
My nerves were on edge the whole way back to the shop; even though it was only a few blocks, it seemed like miles. I locked the door behind me and double checked the rest of them, grateful that there was no sign of broken glass or forced entry.
I headed upstairs and got ready for bed, brewing myself a cup of chamomile tea and snuggling into bed with Winston, but even the latest Tonya Kappes camper mystery couldn't calm my racing mind. The little Bichon was unperturbed, and curled up calmly beside me, but I found myself anxious, half-listening for the sound of breaking glass downstairs. I'd had a second lock installed on the door to the apartment from the shop, and I planned to get a security system soon, but the budget only went so far, and after what had happened tonight, I was more than a bit on edge.
I put Tonya's book aside a few chapters in, then tossed and turned for an hour, the image of Kirsten's blood-matted hair appearing every time I closed my eyes. Sleep wasn't coming; I needed something to take my mind off things. And one of the benefits of living right above a bookstore is that you have 24-hour access to a smorgasbord of literary distractions.
Winston half-opened one eye as I wrapped myself in a bathrobe and unlocked the door to the stairs, hitting the light switch as I made my way down to the shop below.
My eyes darted to the glamorous head shot of K. T. Anderson standing on the table of her signed books. Was she doing okay? I'd texted Ted, but hadn't heard back. I considered the stack of Fast Money books on the table. I hadn't read Kirsten's latest, and wasn't sure I wanted to. I debated it for a moment, then morbid curiosity won out. As I reached for one of the signed hardbacks on the stack, I realized I still hadn't done anything with the copy behind the counter from the signing; the one Scooter had asked Kirsten to sign, then abandoned at the cash register.
A Killer Ending Page 14
