He grinned. “Like me luvver.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry,” he said quickly. “It doesn’t mean lover. It’s a Cornish expression for someone you’re happy to see—perhaps a customer entering a pub: ‘Hello, me luvver.’”
“Oh that’s right. I think I heard that on an episode of Vera. Or maybe Doc Martin.”
“You like British TV shows?”
I nodded. “Movies too. I’m a rabid Anglophile going all the way back to childhood when I first saw The Railway Children. Watching Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, and Persuasion in my twenties simply confirmed it.”
“Ah, the classic Austen trifecta,” he said with a knowing smile. “Are you a huge Mr. Darcy fan as well?”
“Actually, Colonel Brandon appealed to me more. I mean, Alan Rickman?” I fanned myself. “That voice.”
“One of our country’s finest actors. Such a loss. He made a brilliant Snape.”
“My favorite Harry Potter character. Next to Hermione, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I saw Platform Nine and Three-Quarters at Kings Cross when I visited London a few years ago.” I smiled, remembering. “Great city, but this small-town girl preferred the countryside. Like Cornwall.” I fingered my silver Celtic earrings.
We rhapsodized about yummy Cornish pasties and ice cream and chatted about the other areas of England I had traveled to on my vacation. Tavish said he was looking forward to returning home to the Cotswolds in a few weeks after his book tour ended and he wrapped up other business.
“Sadly, I didn’t make it to the Cotswolds, but I hope to visit someday.” I sighed. “I know it’s considered the quintessential English countryside, with its bucolic villages and fairy-tale cottages. Maybe I should set one of my novels there so I can go over and do research. That way I can write off the trip.”
“Perfect. And when you come, I’ll be happy to show you around and take you off the beaten path to the places tourists don’t usually see.” He offered a warm smile.
Cool. A Brit and fellow author as my tour guide. Doesn’t get much better than that.
“You’ve got yourself a date.” Then I kicked myself. Date. “I’m so sorry about Kristi.”
Tavish’s smile disappeared and a shadow crossed his face. “Thank you.” I saw the glint of tears in his eyes. “I still can’t believe it. Kristi was so full of life. And so young.” He swiped at his eyes and released a shuddering sigh. “I rang her parents and told them last night.” His fingers tightened on his coffee cup. “I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like to lose a child.”
I nodded. Sometimes there are no words.
We sat in silence for a few minutes while Tavish composed himself.
Then I said quietly, “I want you to know I didn’t kill her. I know it looks bad, since my scarf appears to have been the murder weapon, but I honestly had nothing to do with it. My scarf went missing from the bookstore restroom just before your signing. I think someone stole it.”
“Most likely Kristi.” He rubbed his forehead and sighed. “She had a habit of taking things that caught her fancy but didn’t belong to her, no matter whose things they were—stores, strangers, friends, family … That’s one of the reasons we broke up. One of the many reasons,” he added sotto voce.
“Tavish, by chance did Kristi wear jasmine perfume?”
His eyes took on a pained expression. “Yes. Lotion too. It was her favorite scent.”
At least that was one part of the mystery solved. Now the question was, who had killed her? Could it have been someone else she had stolen from, or … I fixed my gaze on Tavish. “You mentioned an old boyfriend who’d been harassing Kristi and told Brady you think he could have killed her out of jealousy since she was now engaged to you. Or, rather, had been engaged to you until recently.”
Tavish nodded. “Yes. Tom Rogers. He was Kristi’s neighbor in LA, and they dated for a couple years. Tom is quite volatile, particularly when he’s been drinking. Kristi said he hit her a few times.” His eyes widened. “I just remembered. She also said that once when he was drunk and they were fighting, he started choking her. She kicked him and managed to break free. The next day when he was sober, he cried and told her he was sorry. That he loved her and would never do anything like that again.” He shook his head. “She took him back several times, until she finally had enough.”
“How soon did you two begin dating after she broke up with him for good?”
“Just a few weeks. We met at a Hollywood party where my agent was trying to score me a movie deal. Kristi was the bartender.” He released a sigh. “Tom called Kristi constantly, begging her to take him back. She changed her phone number, so then he started following her. She got a restraining order against him, and that seemed to do the trick for a while. After we were engaged, however, he began calling her at work and harassing her again. One night he even showed up at my beach house totally wankered and shouting obscenities. I called the police, and they arrested him for disturbing the peace and violating the restraining order. Last I heard he was in jail, but I suppose he could have gotten out by now.”
I wondered if I should tell Tavish that not only had Kristi’s ex-boyfriend gotten out of jail, but he had been staying just a few short miles away in a nearby motel as recently as yesterday—or if I would get in serious trouble with Brady for revealing what was supposed to be confidential law enforcement information. I wrestled with the right thing to do. On one hand, my loyalty lay with my longtime friend and boyfriend of one of my best friends. On the other hand, I felt an affinity to Tavish as a fellow writer and mystery author. An author whose ex had been brutally murdered using my scarf as the murder weapon. I fingered my paisley scarf as I considered what to do.
“Is something wrong?”
“Sorry.” I shook my head and decided to just go for it and take my chances with Brady later. “There’s something I need to tell you—”
The door of the bakery banged open, jangling the overhead bell. “Where is that English SOB?” bellowed a hulking tanned surfer type in board shorts and a tank top that made him look like he was fresh off a California beach. “I’ll kill him!”
Tavish turned around. When the bulky beach boy saw him, he charged our direction with a roar, black rubber flip-flops slapping the linoleum, wild straw-colored hair flying behind him. “You killed her! She’s dead! You killed my beautiful Kristi,” he yelled, tears streaking down his red face.
“No, Tom.” Tavish stood up and calmly faced the larger man. “I didn’t.” He cocked his head to one side. “Odd to find you here, however. You are quite a long way from home. I assume you followed Kristi from LA. Perhaps you’re the one who killed her.”
The wild-haired man decked Tavish, who stumbled backward, tripped over his chair, and fell to the floor.
Chapter Four
Waves of alcohol wafted off Kristi’s crazed ex-boyfriend. When he bent over to punch the downed author again, I jumped up and yelled, “Hey!”
As I approached the agitated drunk, he straightened up, wiping the snot off his face with the back of his meaty hand. Trying to focus his wet bleary eyes on me, he growled in a deep voice, “You want a piece of this too, lady?”
“Why don’t you calm down and take a seat. How about some coffee?” I signaled Bea.
“Don’t want any damn coffee and don’t want any damn woman tellin’ me what to do!” He staggered and raised his snotty fist, but before he could swing, I stepped in close and kneed him.
Hard.
He let loose an expletive that would have made my tender readers blush as he doubled over, clutching his nether regions.
Tavish raised himself to a seating position, rubbing his jaw. “Are all Wisconsin women like you?”
“Not all. My dad taught me self-defense in junior high.”
“Way to go, Teddie-girl!” crowed coffee shop regular Fred Matson. He pounded his cane on the linoleum floor. “You really gave that so-and-so what for.”
> Bea hurried over with ice for Tavish just as Brady Wells and Augie Jorgensen entered the restaurant.
“What’s going on here?” Brady’s eyes flickered between the bent-over Tom to the still-on-the-floor best-selling author.
“That’s the man I told you about—Tom Rogers, Kristi’s ex,” said Tavish, getting to his feet and holding the plastic bag of ice to his jaw. “He came in here quite sozzled and belligerent, yelling all sorts of nonsense. Then he punched me in the face.”
Sozzled? Must add that to my British slang repertoire.
“He sure did, Sheriff. I saw the whole thing,” interjected the elderly Fred. “The big guy there was going to hit this skinny English feller again while he was down for the count, but instead our Teddie up and kneed him in the you- know-whats.”
“Nice one, Ted.” Brady high-fived me. “Maybe we should make you an honorary deputy.”
Yes, you should. Then you can share your official information.
Augie winked at me. Then, at Brady’s direction, the deputy cuffed the sniveling Tom.
“You need to arrest the English dude,” Tom said in a high-pitched falsetto, still feeling the aftereffects of my knee. “He killed my Kristi!”
“Is that right?” Brady lifted an eyebrow. “I heard a somewhat different story. How ’bout we go on over to the jail and you can tell me your version?”
“Jail?” Tom blinked. “I’m not going to no stinkin’ jail.”
“Yes you are.” The sheriff flanked his deputy and took hold of the drunken man’s arm as he read him his rights. “Now let’s move.”
“You’re arresting me?” Tom stared dumbfounded at Brady as the sheriff led him to the door. “On what charge?”
“Drunk and disorderly to start with. Possibly assault. Possibly more.” The trio exited the building.
“Well don’t that beat all,” Bea said, fanning herself. “My goodness!”
“First that murder yesterday and now this,” Fred said, his eyes wide. “Most excitement we’ve had in Lake Potawatomi since Vern Jones reeled in that big ole lake sturgeon twenty years ago. That sucker was huge! Seven feet long and almost two hundred pounds. Biggest fish I ever saw. Why, I’ll betcha—”
Before he could launch into one of his lengthy fishing monologues that made me want to poke out my eyeballs, Bea linked her arm with his and deftly led him back to his counter seat up front. “I remember that. Whoo-boy, didn’t it take him close to an hour to land that sturgeon? You want some more coffee, Fred?”
“Bless you, Bea,” I murmured under my breath.
“Is it fishing tales you don’t like or fishing in general?” Tavish asked as we returned to my back-corner table.
“Bite your tongue. One does not grow up in a lakeside town and not fish—unless you are my mom and hate slimy worms. It’s the fish stories—especially those I’ve already heard at least a dozen times. I prefer stories where I don’t know the ending in advance.”
“Cheers to that.” Tavish raised his coffee cup to mine. He took a drink and grimaced.
“Cold?”
He nodded and set down his cup. Then he pointed to his fat lip. “Not quite the stiff upper lip we Brits are supposed to possess.”
“Do you want to go to the doctor? I can take you.”
“Thank you, but there’s no need. Nothing is broken. Just a little bruised.” He offered a wry smile. “Including my pride. I’m not used to a woman fighting my battles for me.”
“Seriously? Well, get over that. I’d have done it for anyone—no matter their sex.” I shook my head. “Growing up, I hated those movies and TV shows where women stood helplessly by doing nothing—other than crying or screaming—while the man got beat up. I vowed then never to be one of those helpless females.”
“You’re certainly not that.” Tavish flashed me a wide grin. “Rather than making a sexist statement, however, I should be thanking you.” He inclined his head. “Thank you for coming to my aid, Wonder Woman.”
“You’re welcome. Too bad I didn’t have my Golden Lasso of Truth on me. I could have used it on that guy to find out if he killed Kristi.”
As the words left my mouth, I thought of how Tom had reacted when he saw Tavish—how he had accused him of Kristi’s murder. Was it a ploy to draw suspicion away from himself? Then I recalled the tears on Tom’s face and the genuine pain in his eyes. Could it have been drunken guilt over what he had done? Or did he truly believe Tavish had killed the woman he loved? “His” Kristi? Now gone forever. If that was the case, then Tom was innocent.
The question was, was Tavish guilty?
* * *
Curled up with Gracie and my laptop on my shabby chic floral couch later that afternoon, I tried to focus on A Dash of Death, the latest installment in my small-town mystery series, due to my editor next month. My thoughts, however, kept returning to the real-life mystery right here in Lake Potawatomi.
Finally, I gave up. I saved and closed my work-in-progress file. Then I opened a new Word document, typed in KRISTI KILLER at the top, and began making notes. Tom Rogers, Kristi’s neighbor and former boyfriend, seemed like the ideal prime suspect—the abusive alcoholic jealous stalker ex-boyfriend who kept harassing his ex and would not leave her alone, until she finally had to file a restraining order against him. The boyfriend who once choked her and was clearly possessive and obsessive about her, referring to her as “his” Kristi—the same boyfriend who had spent time in jail, lived across the country, and just happened to have been in the area when she died.
On paper, Tom was perfect. Yet as I knew from watching TV mysteries and writing a few myself, the first, most likely suspect rarely turns out to be the murderer. As I recalled Tom’s grief-stricken face that I had seen up close and personal, it was hard to reconcile such grief with his murdering the object of that grief. Maybe he was just a good actor. He had certainly delivered his lines convincingly. What was it he had said about Tavish again? “He killed my Kristi!” What made him think that? Hopefully, I would know more after Brady finished questioning him.
Yeah, in your dreams. Brady is not going to share investigative information with you.
I sighed and added another name to my list of possible suspects, as much as I did not want to: Tavish Bentley.
Then I typed out what I knew about Tavish and Kristi. They had become engaged only a couple of months ago, but Tavish had cut it off with her recently. Just a few days ago, in fact. Why? Besides the fact that he realized she was a klepto. Earlier at the bakery, he had said there were many reasons they had split up. Whatever those reasons, Tavish did not seem broken up about the engagement—or Kristi’s death, for that matter, unlike Tom with his tears. People grieve differently, however. Not everyone wears their heart on their sleeves. It could simply be a case of classic British reserve. Besides, Tavish had teared up over Kristi at Andersen’s.
Thinking some more, I added one more name to my list: Melanie Richards, Tavish’s publicist, who had vigorously come to his defense when she overheard us speculating about whether Tavish might be the killer. Was that just a matter of loyalty to her employer, or something more? It would not be the first time a young, impressionable employee had fallen for her older, attractive, and famous boss.
Don’t forget rich. The man has at least half a dozen best sellers under his belt.
Perhaps Melanie had decided to eliminate the competition, leaving her an open field for her boss’s affection.
No, that did not make sense. The efficient Melanie, who kept close track of Tavish’s calendar, would have known he and Kristi had broken up. Probably not the details, since that famous English reserve would have prevented Tavish from sharing them, but at a minimum he would have informed his publicist of the broken engagement, simply for the sake of scheduling. After Tavish ended things with Kristi, he was back on the market again—no need to kill his ex-fiancée to have a chance at him. Besides, both Sharon and Char had separately remarked how well Tavish’s assistant had managed his book signing, expertly movin
g along long-winded fans, helping Char set out more copies when the stock ran low, and maintaining a constant, professional presence throughout the event. No one had said anything about her being absent from the signing at any point. I crossed out Melanie’s name.
That left only two suspects: Tavish and Tom.
Aren’t you forgetting the mystery woman from the restroom?
I added Unknown Bookstore Babe to the list.
Gracie poked her head beneath my elbow. Pet me! Pay attention to me! Get off that stupid ’puter.
“Aw, are you feeling neglected?” I scratched my Eskie behind the ears. “Does someone want some loving?” Closing my laptop, I set it on the antique steamer trunk that served as my coffee table. Then I stretched full out on the couch, laying my head on my “Home Is Where the Dog Is” pillow. Gracie stretched out on top of me, her sweet white face inches from mine. I stroked her fur and stared into her beautiful dark eyes. Woman’s best friend stared back at me adoringly.
* * *
Growing up, I had always wanted a dog, but my minimalist mother, who prided herself on an immaculate, clutter-free home, refused to consider it. “Not in my house. Too high maintenance. Dogs shed and make a mess. Hair everywhere.”
Instead, I would go get my dog fix over at Grandma Florence’s house. Grandma always had at least two or three dogs running around her home. For a brief period she even had five dogs at once after taking in two senior, ailing golden retrievers from the pound to save them from the kill list.
Once I moved out into my own place, I got my first dog, Atticus, a tawny spaniel-mix rescue named after one of my literary heroes. Atticus lived up to his name—a finer, more noble creature I have never known, and he was a far better and more loyal companion than most of the men I have dated. When my beloved spaniel died, I could not imagine ever getting another dog again.
Murder Most Sweet Page 4
