Someone who had it in for Tavish? Enough to set him up to take a fall for murder? Now we were getting somewhere. I puffed out a sigh of relief. With two possible suspects to check out, it wouldn’t be long before we found the real murderer and cleared Tavish’s name and mine.
I texted Char. You busy?
Char: Nope. The shop’s dead at the moment.
Me: I’ll be right over. I need your help.
* * *
“Who has it in for Tavish?” I asked as I strode into the Corner Bookstore ten minutes later.
“Say what?” Char’s ponytailed head snapped up from the book she was reading behind the counter.
“You were going to talk to some of your librarian friends and dig into Tavish’s past to see if anyone might have a grudge against him? You texted you’d found someone.”
“Oh yeah. I forgot about that after his stalker’s husband got picked up.”
I plopped down onto the stool opposite her. “Well, now that Annabelle’s husband has been released, your boyfriend has returned to Tavish as his number-one suspect. I need to figure out who the real murderer is, so give me the scoop on this guy.” I tucked a stray curl behind my ear. “Or girl?”
“Guy.” Char set down her book, picked up her iPad, and began swiping the screen. “He’s an author—well, a wannabe author. He accused Tavish of plagiarism after his third novel, Blood-Soaked Flowers, hit the best seller list.” She handed me her iPad.
A younger Tavish with longer hair smiled out at me under the newspaper headline “Bestselling Author Found Innocent of Plagiarism.” Scanning the news article from several years ago, I learned that a middle-aged Indiana man had accused Tavish of stealing his novel idea. Ronald Simms claimed that he had sent his manuscript, Petals Dripping With Blood—terrible title—to Tavish’s agent, William Charles, three years before Blood-Soaked Flowers was released. Simms said the agent rejected his novel, but then took Simms’s idea and developed it with his younger, more marketable client, Tavish Bentley, the new golden boy of publishing.
The article quoted William Charles of the Charles Agency saying that his client, Tavish Bentley, had been thoroughly vindicated. “Tavish is a talented writer and compelling storyteller,” Charles said. “I’m not surprised someone else tried to ride the coattails of his success. Frustrated wannabes seem to come out of the woodwork whenever a new author makes it big.”
I continued reading. The court had ruled that although the titles were similar and both books included the death of a woman in a garden, that was where the similarities ended. There were no verbatim passages, comparable characters, or even similar plot lines. Simms’s book was a horror story about a serial killer who left dripping bloody roses atop his myriad female victims, while Tavish’s tale of suspense involved an assassin who wound up having to kill a woman in a garden as collateral damage after she saw him kill his intended political target.
I swiped the screen. Another photo appeared—this one of a mousy middle-aged man with a bad sandy-haired comb-over in thick, black-rimmed glasses, scowling at the camera. The caption identified him as Ronald Simms, author of Petals Dripping With Blood. Simms was a poor loser. He responded to the judge’s ruling by yelling, “I should have known. The rich always win. A poor guy like me didn’t stand a chance. Forget David beating Goliath. That’s just a fairy tale.”
Tavish, on the other hand, against his agent’s advice, had declined to seek financial recompense from Simms, who was having a hard time making ends meet. Instead, he simply got a cease-and-desist order against the Indiana author.
I passed the iPad back to Char. “Okay, so this Ronald lost his plagiarism suit, but that was several years ago and he didn’t make any vindictive threats or anything.”
“Not in print,” Char said, “but Zoey, my librarian friend in Gary, said he’s been nursing a grudge against Tavish ever since. Ronald Simms self-published a couple books—really bad ones, she says—and has spoken at local library author events where he repeatedly complains that he should have become the famous best-selling author, not Tavish Bentley. He claims the only reason Tavish has the success he does is because he stole his idea and resembles Colin Firth.”
“Tavish does look a little like Colin Firth,” I admitted, “but that’s not why he’s a best-selling author. Tavish is a wonderful writer. This just sounds like typical sour grapes from a jealous wannabe.”
“Except when he’s drunk,” Char said. “Then Ronald Simms’ gripes escalate into revenge fantasies and muttered comments like, ‘Tavish Bentley will get his one of these days. I’ll make sure of that.’”
My pulse quickened. “Is that right?”
Char pulled out a Red Vine from the stash she kept beneath the counter. “Zoey said that a couple weeks ago when Simms was in the library and learned that Tavish’s latest novel had made it onto the New York Times best seller list, he lost it. She said his face got all red and a vein in his forehead popped out. He yelled that he was going to make Tavish Bentley pay and when he was finished Tavish wouldn’t know what hit him. Then he stormed out.”
“Now it’s getting interesting.”
“You haven’t heard anything yet.” Char’s eyes gleamed behind her reading glasses. “Zoey has a friend who works with Ronald. She said he called in sick earlier this week, and when he returned Friday, he seemed smug and self-satisfied. Later, when people were talking about Kristi’s death, followed shortly thereafter by Annabelle’s murder and speculating about Tavish, Zoey said Ron Simms was positively gleeful and said, ‘It took a while, but he finally got his.’”
Could it be? Did we have a viable suspect at last? “Wait a minute, let me think,” I said, trying to put it all together. I ran through the chronology aloud. “Kristi was killed on Monday, Annabelle was murdered late Thursday or early Friday morning, and this Ronald was out sick until Friday morning?”
Char nodded.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“I don’t know.” Her brow puckered above her glasses. “Am I?”
“Ronald Simms lives in Gary, Indiana,” I asked. “Right?”
“Yep. He’s a native son, born and raised. He’s a Realtor—not a very good one, according to Zoey—and the treasurer of the chamber of commerce.”
I tried to picture a map of the Midwest in my head. “My geography’s a little rusty. Where exactly is Gary again?”
“Northern Indiana, near the Illinois border.”
“You’re kidding.” I pulled out my phone and did a quick search. I raised my eyes to my best friend. “Gary is only twelve miles from Calumet City, which is just two hours from here.” Oh. My. God. Ronald Simms could have driven to Lake Potawatomi late Thursday night, murdered Annabelle in the wee hours of Friday morning, and easily made it back to Gary in time for work that same morning.
But why would he have used one of your scarves? He doesn’t even know you, my inner Sherlock pointed out.
Maybe because framing me would also hurt Tavish? The vegan reporter from the Wisconsin Spectator had linked me to Tavish after our first dinner at Caldwell’s—the dinner that Annabelle had so loudly and publicly crashed. And several of the diners at the restaurant that night had posted photos of the confrontation on Facebook—photos that clearly showed me with the celebrity author. Some had even posed the question, “Tavish Bentley’s new girlfriend?” as Sharon had pointed out to me with a huge grin. If Ronald Simms kept close tabs on Tavish, he would have read the article and seen the photos—photos that may have further fueled his revenge fantasies.
I shuddered.
Don’t get ahead of yourself now. Don’t forget Jewel.
I filled Char in on Harley’s sister Jewel and my idea of going to see her—although she had now dropped far down the suspect list in light of this new Ronald information.
We looked at each other. “Road trip,” we said in unison.
Before we left town, however, there was something important I needed to do—finish my book. All I had left to write now wer
e the final few pages of the last chapter, and I could whip those out in an hour or two, since I knew exactly how it was going to end. Normally when I finish writing, I walk away from the book for a few weeks to let it—and me—rest. Then I return to it with fresh eyes and read it from beginning to end, fixing any plot holes and making any necessary tweaks or changes before sending it on to my editor. This time, though, I did not have the luxury. I needed to prove myself to my publisher.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The next morning, after hitting send on A Dash of Death and knowing I would likely be gone much of the day, I took Gracie for a long walk and asked Joanne to feed her later and let her into the backyard a couple of times while I was gone.
Char and I had spent hours strategizing and perfecting our plan the night before, with Sharon’s help. We’d invited our third Musketeer to come along with us to do a full-on Charlie’s Angels investigation, but mornings at the Lake House are always busy and Sharon had to make breakfast for a full house.
“If you’re not back by five tomorrow, though, I’m sending out the cavalry.” Sharon adjusted her mom’s gray wig over my curls.
I didn’t want anyone recognizing me from my author head shot as Darlene had the last time I’d tried—badly—to go incognito, especially since I’d become better known recently due to Brittany’s beauty blog insinuations and the Facebook photos of Tavish and me at dinner. And I definitely didn’t want Ronald Simms to recognize me. For this investigative trip, we’d decided that I would pretend to be Char’s meek and aging mother who wouldn’t garner a second glance from anyone. Unlike my mother. The idea was for me to be invisible.
“Magazines say once a woman turns fifty, she becomes invisible to society in general,” Sharon opined, “but especially to men.”
“I doubt that,” Char said. “I think it’s more like sixty. Jennifer Aniston is a year or two over fifty. She is definitely not invisible.”
“Well sure, but she’s Jennifer Aniston,” Sharon said.
“Focus, girls, focus,” I said. I checked out my image in the full-length mirror and didn’t recognize myself. Baggy tan pants, nondescript oversized beige linen blouse, no scarf, green garden clogs, gray wig, and no makeup, save for the lines Sharon had penciled in around my lips and eyes. I looked like a mousy, boring woman in my late sixties or early seventies, someone who would easily blend into the background.
Sharon gave my drab outfit a final once-over. “Remember to slouch to hide your height, Teddie,” she instructed.
“Yes, Mom.” I slumped my shoulders and became even more invisible.
We had told Brady, Tavish, and Jim we were having a girls’ night, and during that girls’ night, while Sharon gave me my invisible makeover, we had all agreed not to tell the three men about today’s fact-finding mission out of state. They would only object or try and do the protective-male thing, and this was something we two Musketeers could handle on our own.
Since Char, my pretend daughter and trip companion, didn’t have her photo plastered on the back of any books and hadn’t been to Calumet City or talked on the phone to Jewel Murphy, we agreed that she would take the lead in questioning the two possible suspects. I would stay in the background and observe how they reacted to Char’s subtle probing. That would reveal which one was the killer—although I was now leaning toward the frustrated indie author.
The comic book shop where Jewel Murphy worked opened at eleven o’clock on Mondays, and we had found out she was working the early shift so determined to get there early. That would also give us plenty of time to make our one o’clock appointment with Ronald Simms twelve miles down the road in Indiana. Zoey, Char’s librarian friend in Gary, had worked out our cover with her pal Linda, who worked in Ronald’s real estate office and could not stand him. Linda had told Ronald we were a mother-daughter duo planning to move to Gary from Chicago and would like to look at houses Monday afternoon.
“He was practically foaming at the mouth when I set up the appointment.” Char hung up the phone after talking to Ronald Simms and rubbed her hands on her jeans. “He was so slimy and obsequious, and that was just on the phone. Imagine what he’s like in person.” She made a face.
“Obsequious isn’t bad,” I said. “You can use that to your advantage.”
* * *
As soon as we left Lake Potawatomi and hit the open highway, Char turned to me and said, “Remind me the usual motives for murder again?”
“Money, passion, and revenge,” I said. Before I had begun writing my first Kate and Kallie murder mystery, I had spent time researching murder and the varied motives for committing one. I needed to understand what would drive someone to kill before I could write a believable mystery, and what I discovered was that generally—unless the murderer was a stone-cold sociopath who killed simply to display his or her power over others—the motives seemed to fall into one of the three overall categories of money, passion, and revenge. Crimes of passion were often committed in the heat of the moment, while money and revenge crimes were usually premeditated and more thought out.
“Well, if that’s the case, then I think our realtor friend Ronald is a much more likely suspect than Annabelle’s sister-in-law Jewel,” Char said. “What would Jewel’s motive be, anyway?”
“I thought possibly revenge for her sister-in-law co-opting her favorite author, but that seems pretty lame now,” I admitted. “I guess I was willing to entertain any possibility to save my career.” And Tavish, I thought, although I didn’t say it aloud. I had finally told my fellow Musketeers when we got together last night what my editor had said about needing to prove my innocence to my publisher of the libelous accusations against me. After all, that’s what friends are for.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Sharon had said. “That’s ridiculous. So is a morality clause. What is this? 1950?”
“Hollywood had them back in the day,” Char said, “and recently some publishers started using them as a safeguard against all the sexual harassment and sexual misconduct allegations that have been coming out against high-profile authors.”
“I can understand that,” Sharon said. “But what does that have to do with you, Teddie?”
“Bottom line?” I said. “If an author’s reputation is tarnished, it can hurt sales. That’s why I have to prove my innocence once and for all.”
Pondering the concept of innocence as Char and I headed to Calumet City, I figured the only thing Jewel Murphy was likely guilty of was having lousy relatives. “I think you’re right, Char,” I said thoughtfully, “Ronald Simms is a far more likely suspect than Jewel. It’s obvious he’s bitter and been nursing a grudge for years after losing his plagiarism suit, and then, of course, there’s Tavish’s subsequent success. What’s that saying? ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold.’ Ronald definitely had it in for Tavish, and what better revenge than pinning murder on his best-selling nemesis? It wouldn’t get him any money, but he’d finally have his revenge.”
Unconsciously, I raised my hand to play with my scarf, but then remembered I wasn’t wearing one with today’s disguise. I felt a bit naked without my signature accessory. “Let’s pop in on Jewel anyway, since we’re going to be so close. Then we can definitively eliminate her from our short list of suspects.” I puffed out a sigh that lifted the bangs on my hot gray wig. “I sure wish we had a longer list.”
“I hear ya, but I can’t think of anyone in Lake Potawatomi who would kill two people they’ve never met before, can you?”
“Nope,” I said, “except maybe Wilma Sorensen, just to get some new gossip going. She’s been in her element since all this happened.”
“Fred Matson’s enjoying it too,” Char said. “Keeps telling everyone it’s the most excitement the town has had since Vern Jones caught that big-ass lake sturgeon a couple decades ago.”
“Maybe Fred and Wilma should get together.”
“Yabba-dabba do.”
Pulling into a parking space in front of FreakaComics, I double-checked my gray wi
g in the mirror to be sure it was on straight. I noted with satisfaction that the age lines I had penciled in again that morning easily made me look like I was in the Medicare age bracket.
“Ready?” Char checked her phone. “The store just opened, so if we’re lucky, Jewel won’t have any customers yet.”
“Yep. Let’s do this.”
The bell over the door jangled as Char pushed it open. Slouching in behind her in my innocuous beige, I clutched my oversized tote, trying to appear as unobtrusive as possible.
Inside the cramped shop, a riot of color assaulted us. Blood-red walls sported framed posters of Superman, Batman, Spider-Man, Captain America, Thor, Wonder Woman, X-Men, and a host of other superheroes. Beneath the posters, shelf after shelf of flimsy comic books sporting men, women, and other creatures with bulging biceps and colorful costumes beckoned. Rows of metal racks holding even more comic books, T-shirts, and cheesy superhero figures took up the center of the store.
A young tattooed woman behind the counter with straggly shoulder-length green hair looked up from her dog-eared copy of The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. “Can I help you?” she asked, sounding as if that was exactly the last thing she wanted to do.
“I hope so,” Char said. “I saw your store and just had to stop. My little brother loves Marvel comic books, especially Spider-Man, and his birthday’s coming up, so I wanted to get him a few.”
It was only half a lie. Augie did love Spider-Man comics, but his birthday was still seven months away.
Murder Most Sweet Page 18
