I stared, disbelieving, at the headline and the photo splashed across the front page. How had he ended up dead in our ocean? He’d been here working on his next masterpiece mere hours before.
I fled back into the kitchen, forgetting to trade the boots for my slippers. They had to be Ethan’s—he was a giant beanpole with matching giant feet, and my own size eights slid around inside them with enough room to add another person. But I barely noticed, despite my not-very-graceful entrance.
“Do you know who died?” I burst out, waving the paper at him. He turned around again, curious now.
“No. You mean last night? The person in the water died? Who was it?”
“Jason Holt!” At his blank stare I let out a sigh of impatience, conveniently forgetting that I hadn’t known who the guy was when he’d been sitting right in front of me day after day. Although in fairness, I was well acquainted with his work, I just didn’t recognize him in person. Which had to be in my favor, right? I was more impressed with his output than his looks. “The author? The guy who was here in the cafe yesterday? And like every day before that for the past couple weeks?”
Now Ethan’s eyes widened. He rubbed his red beard, a sure sign he was thinking. “You’re kidding. The one who’s been coming in here to work?”
I nodded.
“Wow.” He leaned against the counter. “I didn’t really pay attention to his stuff, but wow. What happened?”
“I figured you probably haven’t read him. Don’t you just read self-help stuff?” Ethan was very devoted to his spiritual practices and improving himself. I think it’s what kept him able to deal with me and my tendency to run manic. He’d been telling me about the benefits of meditation for years. And I believed him. Honestly, I did, but sometimes it was really hard to put into practice.
“Hey. So what if I do?” he asked, indignant. “You should try it more often, Maddie. It really does help. Especially when you’re struggling with … issues.”
I frowned. “Subtlety is not your strong suit. We all know I have issues. And I didn’t mean to say it’s a bad thing. I’m just saying, I didn’t figure crime writers topped your list. And I don’t think we know what happened yet.” I scanned the article, bits and pieces of the story jumping out at me. It was basically the same as the online article I’d refreshed to death last night. A call around 7:30 p.m. about a man in the water near the marina. Anonymous. Cause of death as yet undetermined. Police are searching for witnesses who may have been in the area. The author hails from the West Coast.
A West Coaster. Who felt the need to come to a nearly desolate island during the cold weather, likely to work. Why hadn’t he picked a remote corner of Hawaii or somewhere warm? Maybe the nice weather would have been too much of a distraction. Either way, it was terribly sad. How had this happened? Had it truly been a tragic accident? I thought of Adele’s flip comment earlier about stupid tourists drinking and walking along the water. Of course I hadn’t known Jason Holt, but my gut said that wasn’t right. A suicide? Maybe.
It was hard to believe an acclaimed author like Holt, who’d enjoyed so much success of late, would kill himself, but I knew outward success wasn’t always a good barometer when it came to these things. It wasn’t crazy to imagine that Holt could’ve had demons buried beneath those stacks of best-selling books. And anyone not accustomed to the isolation of hanging out here on the island during the winter—well, it wouldn’t do wonders for a bruised psyche.
This was probably why the police had wanted to talk to Leopard Man. Maybe they knew he’d been in the area and thought he might have seen something. Maybe Leopard Man had witnessed this guy having an altercation with someone. Maybe the crazy woman had caught up with Holt after she’d left here. She had seemed to recognize him.
Or maybe he’d seen Holt walking along the wall above the water chugging from a bottle of whiskey, just like Adele said. Anything that could help them understand what had happened to our erstwhile guest. But something about that didn’t add up for me.
Ethan still watched me, waiting to hear if I had anything else to say. “No good answers,” I said, tossing the paper on the table and picking up my abandoned cup of coffee. “Jeez. I can’t believe this.”
“Believe what?” Val came into the kitchen, already perfectly coiffed and ready to go, probably to another meeting about table settings with Ava-Rose. Her eyes locked with Ethan’s and she blushed a little as she smiled at him.
It was funny watching Val go all gooey over a guy. She hadn’t been that way about her ex-husband, at least not for a long time. Before Lucas, it probably would’ve made me vaguely ill, but since I was kind of mushy about him—at least for now—I thought it was cute.
Everything in Val’s life seemed to be going right these days. I’d always known she’d been wasting her talents when she married Cole and gave up her dream of moving off-island and working in the fashion industry, but now it looked like she’d found her true calling—planning parties.
I focused on her, wondering what this news would do to her mood. “Jason Holt. He’s the dead guy in the water,” I said.
Her eyes widened and her hand flew to her mouth. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.” I pointed to the paper.
She grabbed it off the table and skimmed the story, making little noises of dismay as she got further along. Finally, she looked up at me, still clutching the paper. “That’s terrible. They have no idea what happened?”
“You know what I know,” I said.
“What about Becky?”
“Obviously, Becky only knows that, too,” I said. “Given that her staff wrote the piece.” Which might or might not be true. Becky could be sitting on a scoop waiting for permission to print it. And she’d be all over this one. It was a high-profile story and would attract national media, given Holt’s celebrity. She would definitely want to be the lead outlet breaking this story despite the heavy hitters from all over probably flying in right now to get a piece of the action. In fact, if she wasn’t, I fully expected heads to roll all over the island. Breaking this story would give her mad credibility. And possibly get the paper some award or another. “But I don’t know. I haven’t talked to her since last night, and she was just hearing about the guy in the water, too.” I didn’t mention the whole Leopard-Man-in-hiding piece of the puzzle. Val wasn’t known for her discretion, although she’d become much more thoughtful about those types of things after being the brunt of a lot of gossip over the summer.
Come to think of it, Grandpa would probably want me to tell her and Ethan to stay quiet about Leopard Man’s visit last night. I wouldn’t put it past Ellory to corner them with a seemingly innocuous question.
“That’s really sad.” She spun around to Ethan, her eyes going wide again. “You know, his last meal could’ve been what he had here! Something you made. Do you remember what he had?”
Ethan shrugged and looked to me for help. I thought for a second. “Coffee,” I said finally.
Val frowned. “That’s it? I’d hoped he had something he at least enjoyed.”
“Why wouldn’t he have enjoyed my coffee?” Ethan asked. “I make excellent coffee. Don’t I, Maddie?”
“Of course you do. And why does it matter?” I asked, exasperated.
“I don’t know. Becky could do a story on it. How this was the last place he spent time at before his tragic death.” She shrugged. “It could get you some more publicity.”
“I don’t need that kind of publicity,” I muttered. “‘Cat Cafe: Last Stop Before Death’ isn’t exactly the type of headline I’m going for.”