When I returned to the library, a lively discussion was already under way.
“I still don’t think it would be possible,” Bernadette said.
“What’s that?” I asked, taking a seat next to Kelly Rowley.
“Bernie doesn’t buy the premise of Tey’s story Brat Farrar,” Ophelia said.
I settled back in my chair. “Which part?”
“The idea that one person could successfully impersonate another,” Bernadette replied, her face brightening as she gazed over my shoulder. “Oh hello, Mr. Kepler. Glad you could join us. It will be nice to have an author’s input in the discussion.”
“Not a fiction author, though. And please, call me Scott.” He crossed the room to stand next to me. “Mind if I sit here?” he asked, motioning toward the adjacent empty chair.
“Of course not,” I said absently, my thoughts occupied with my concern over the discovery of that piece of Tara’s costume. Surely the girl didn’t kill her own father … I took a deep breath to calm my nerves as I scooted my chair over slightly to allow Scott to sit down. “Now, what were you saying, Bernadette?” I asked, leaning forward. “Something about Brat Farrar? I do love that book. One of my favorites from Tey.”
Bernadette pursed her lips. “Oh, nothing against the story or the writing. It’s just that I don’t think anyone could impersonate a missing family member so well that they couldn’t be detected.”
“Really?” Pete clasped his hands over the slight bulge of his belly. “Knowing how foolish people can be, I can accept that particular plot point without much effort. I mean, just think of some of our patrons.” He shared a knowing look with Sandy.
“And it’s not an unusual convention in mystery stories,” Todd said. “Patricia Highsmith does something similar in The Talented Mr. Ripley.”
Bernadette dug her heels into the pile of the rug. “But the protagonist in that book doesn’t actually encounter family members. Not under his assumed identity anyway. I just think family would know their own.”
Pete leaned back in his chair. “Never underestimate the gullibility of the average joe.”
Bernadette cut Pete a sidelong glance. “You’re saying you think most people would be fooled by someone impersonating a supposedly long-dead family member?”
“If years had passed, yes. Especially if the person was a child when they disappeared. People can change dramatically as they age.” Pete glanced at Sandy, who was studying her manicure as if the chipped polish on her nails held some secret clue. “And not just their appearance.”
“That is true,” Ophelia replied. “Believe it or not, I used to be dreadfully shy.”
“But that’s just growing and maturing,” Todd said. “Other characteristics, like vocal or physical mannerisms, don’t change much. At least I don’t think so.”
Scott shifted in his chair. “Tey did ensure that Brat was schooled by someone who knew the family well. He didn’t just show up and try to pass himself off to the family without possessing all the pertinent information.”
“Yes, she handled that well. Otherwise, I think the story would’ve seemed preposterous.” Sandy looked up and met Scott’s gaze. “The way Tey handled it, I could suspend my disbelief.”
Bernadette narrowed her eyes. “I still say it wouldn’t work. The family should’ve questioned Brat more, in my opinion. That would’ve seemed more realistic to me.”
Kelly Rowley, who’d kept her head bowed over her tightly clasped hands ever since I entered the room, murmured, “You’d be surprised what people will accept as the truth, if they really want to believe it.”
I turned to her. “You mean the family accepted Brat’s story primarily because they wanted it to be true?”
Kelly lifted her head, shoving her hair behind her ears. “Of course. Wouldn’t you, if your beloved nephew or brother had come back from the dead? You’d desperately want to believe, so you’d overlook the red flags and convince yourself that the impostor was telling the truth.”
Scott, leaning forward, templed his fingers before addressing Kelly. “Good point, Ms. Rowley. It adds an interesting psychological dynamic to the story, don’t you think?”
“Please call me Kelly, and yes, I suppose it does.”
I noticed the deep lines bracketing Kelly’s mouth. She was distressed, but then, so were all the others, despite their attempts to appear calm. A surreptitious glance around the room revealed that Sandy was twisting the hem of her T-shirt between her fingers, Pete was repeatedly tapping his foot against the rug, and Bernadette had rolled her notes into a baton she gripped like a weapon. Meanwhile, Ophelia gnawed on her pinkie nail every few seconds. As for Julie—she cradled her now-empty wineglass between her hands so tightly that I feared it would crack.
She sure sucked that down fast, I thought, as Julie leapt to her feet and stalked over to the draped desk to pour another glass. But of course they’re all tense, like me. Sitting in a room with a possible murderer will do that to a person.
And the killer is probably doubly afraid, fearing detection. I glanced over at Todd Rowley, who appeared calm. But only if I ignored the whiteness of his knuckles as he gripped his chair arms.
“You mean if Brat had been trying to fool people who weren’t emotionally invested in his story being true, it would’ve been a lot harder?” Sandy asked, before unclenching her fingers and smoothing out the bottom of her T-shirt.
“Well, sure.” Scott sat back and stretched out his long legs. “As Kelly observed, the family wanted to believe, so they were more receptive to lies.”
As I side-eyed him, I registered the rigidity of his normally mobile face. Even he might be a murderer. I hated the thought, especially since I still had hopes that his interest in Julie might offer her a better boyfriend option than Lincoln Delamont, married or not.
Or perhaps, like the family in Brat Farrar, I was just seeing what I wanted to see. Desperately hoping to prove that Julie was not the killer, I was probably looking at all the other guests with more suspicion than necessary. I absently ran my fingers through my hair, spiking it before smoothing it down again when I realized what I was doing. “Lies and deception are at the core of most mystery novels, aren’t they? Interesting how they get handled by different authors. Tey seems to want to make Brat likable, despite his deception. In her case, I think it works, don’t you?”
“Oh, definitely,” Ophelia jutted out her chin.
I suppressed a nervous giggle. With her long neck and slightly beaky nose, she looked like an ostrich.
“Maybe that says something more about the readers than the characters. I mean, most people root for Ripley in the Highsmith books, and he’s a sociopath. Or psychopath.” Pete shrugged. “I always get those mixed up.”
“But a clever one,” Scott observed dryly. “I think that’s part of the attraction to that type of character—someone can be despicable, but if they’re clever enough, and implement intricate plans that entertain us, we forgive them, and maybe even cheer them on.”
Todd unclenched his hands and glanced around the room. “Confess it, we all feel that way. I think it’s our strange attraction to morally gray characters. Perhaps because they are more psychologically compelling than someone who is simply good or evil?”
I nodded. “Ruth Rendell was a master at creating that sort of character. Flawed, yet fascinating.”
“Didn’t she also write under a pen name?” Sandy asked. “I think we read one of her novels for book club a while back, but it was under a different name.”
“Barbara Vine,” Todd said, with a glance at his wife. “One of Kelly’s favorites, isn’t she, dear?”
“Yes.” Kelly stared down at her hands, which were clasped in her lap. “She had such an incredible ability to get inside the head of even the most damaged characters and make you care about them, even while you deplore their actions.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Wine sloshed over the rim of Julie’s glass as she stalked across the room. She plopped down in a chair and took a long swallow before continuing. “Someone’s been murdered—someone we all knew, even if only for a day—and here we sit, discussing literature like a bunch of overeager undergrads.”
“It’s better than sitting at home with our own thoughts,” Sandy said, with a quick glance at her husband. “I told Pete we had to come. The breakfast and lunch rush kept me so busy I didn’t have to think earlier today, but as soon as that was over …” She took a deep breath. “Well, I just got so antsy, I told Pete we had to attend this discussion.”
Julie flung the hand clutching her wineglass toward Pete and Sandy. “And to prove neither of you was the killer? I know that’s why most of you are here. Putting on a good show.” She yanked her hand back.
Thank goodness it’s the white, I thought, as droplets of wine flew from Julie’s glass.
“That would be the smart thing to do, even if you were guilty.” Scott raised his eyebrows as he looked across at Julie. “But protesting too much could also be a clever tactic.”
“As would appearing totally cool and firing off snarky comments,” Julie spat, jumping back to her feet.
So much for my matchmaking, I thought.
“Excuse me, but I think this was a mistake.” Julie strode across the room, plunking down her wineglass on the desk before fleeing into the hall.
I carefully set my own glass on the floor next to my chair and stood. “Not to worry. I’ll go and see if she’s okay. You all just carry on with the discussion. And please, enjoy some of this,” I added, motioning toward the snacks before I exited the room.
A slam confirmed my suspicion that Julie had dashed out onto the front porch. I followed, mentally rehearsing what I might say to my friend. Even though I didn’t want Julie to think I suspected her of killing Lincoln, I did want to learn more about their relationship.
But as the front door closed behind me, Julie wheeled around and jabbed a forefinger at me. “You think I was mixed up in this, don’t you?”
A breeze ruffled my hair, carrying with it the scent of water and a sharp longing to escape to the beach. “I heard you talking with Lincoln by the carriage house.” I cleared my throat. “I wasn’t trying to spy. I just stumbled upon you two, but when I realized you were having an affair …”
“We weren’t!” Julie’s chest rose and fell rapidly. “Yes, we were considering it. That’s what this weekend was about,” she added, in a quieter tone.
“But then he showed up with his wife and daughter in tow.”
“Yeah.” Julie turned aside. Gripping the porch railing with both hands, she stared at the craftsman bungalow across the street. “And yes, as you’ve undoubtedly guessed, he was my mystery man. We met when Lincoln visited Bookwaves a couple of times. It was just friendly at first—a few shared lunches and strolls on the boardwalk and that sort of thing. But then we started chatting online, and well”—Julie tossed her head, making her long ponytail bounce—“things got more involved.”
“I assume he led you to believe he’d soon be free to date you openly?”
Julie expelled a gusty sigh. “Yes, he told me he was getting a divorce, that he’d already moved out of the house he shared with his wife.”
“And he never mentioned his daughter.” I moved close to Julie and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. It seems he wasn’t very honest.”
“He was a good liar, I’ll give him that. He had me completely fooled.” Julie turned her head to look at me. “But I didn’t kill him.”
“I know you didn’t. The problem is, you do have a motive. Which means we need to be careful. Don’t lie to the police or anything, but I’d make sure they know the whole story. And be clear about the fact that you didn’t plan to encounter Lincoln’s family. That will remove any suspicion that any of your actions could’ve been premeditated. I mean, I’m sure you wouldn’t even have attended the costume party if you’d known Lincoln wasn’t going to be alone.”
Julie looked away. “Naturally, I was shocked when I saw Lincoln had included his family in what was supposed to be our romantic getaway. I couldn’t understand why he would do that, even if he had lied about being legally separated. And yes, it made me angry. It was like he was rubbing his deception in my face.”
“Okay, you were angry. But what actually went through your mind? Did you think maybe he wanted to break up with you?”
“Perhaps. Or maybe he hoped I’d just accept the situation.” Julie turned to face me. “Like I’d agree to be his secret mistress forever, or something.”
I shook my head. “I know better. You’d never stand for that.”
“You better believe it.” Julie crossed her arms over her breast. “I wasn’t about to continue to sneak around. Not this girl.”
“And that’s what you were telling him when I overheard the two of you?”
“Basically. And, in case you missed that part, I broke it off with him too.” She scrunched her nose. “I informed him that I had no intention of ever speaking with him again, either online or in person.”
“Well, I hope you told the authorities that. I mean, if you broke it off, why would you feel compelled to kill him?” I looked my friend up and down. “Anyway, it’s important that you were the one to end the relationship. Make sure the police know that.”
Julie bowed her head, hiding a clear view of her face. “Sorry to inflict this soap opera on you. I know I was stupid. So very stupid.”
As I heard Julie’s voice crack on that last word, another scenario flitted through my mind. Maybe Lincoln hadn’t taken Julie’s dismissal well. Maybe he’d tried to force himself on her. Maybe Julie had struck him in self-defense …
But she would’ve had to have grabbed that knife and the key ahead of time. Which makes it premeditated. No, that can’t be right. Maybe Lincoln took the key, as well as the knife, planning to lure her into the carriage house and threaten her. Although that seems out of character for him, from what little I observed. I shook my head. I couldn’t sort all this out on my own.
I need my Sherlock, I thought, with a swift glance toward Ellen’s house. “Why don’t you run on home? I can make your excuses to the others.” I motioned toward the door. “Did you bring a purse or anything? I can grab your stuff if you want to wait out here.”
“No, I just carried my phone and my keys in my pocket. And thankfully I walked here, so no worries about me driving after drinking.” A single tear skittered down Julie’s cheek, streaking her blush. “Sorry, it’s just so much to take in, all at once …”
I gave her a quick hug. “I totally understand. It has to be rough, discovering Lincoln’s true nature and then experiencing the shock of his death. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”
Julie’s lips trembled. “I know you mean well, but I can’t …” She dashed more tears from her eyes with the back of one hand. “You don’t know everything, and I can’t tell you. Not now.”
I stepped forward and patted her arm. “It’s okay. Go home. Relax. It will all get sorted, sooner or later.”
Julie pulled away so roughly that my hand flew up in the air. Turning on her heel, she made for the steps. “I know,” she called back over her shoulder. “That’s what worries me.”