TWENTY-FOUR

Angelica was in high spirits, bubbling over with news about where she wanted to put the new-to-her rug. Ginny had used her lunch hour to track down a vintage dining room suite that might be suitable for the mansion. And with no one to man the grill, the Bookshelf Diner hadn’t opened that day.

Angelica seemed bored with Tricia’s news about Lois and the library board. And though she had no other plans for the evening, Tricia was motivated to leave her sister’s early. But when she got home, she felt restless, so she decided to change into her nightgown and robe.

Tricia was about to settle into her bedroom’s reading nook when her phone pinged. It was a text from David.

How’s my lovely lady?

Instead of texting a reply, Tricia scrolled through to David’s number on her contacts list and poked her phone’s call icon. He answered right away.

“Hey, what’s up?”

Should she tell him about her e-mail from Brian Woodward? Not yet, she decided.

“I’m all alone,” she said, feeling sorry for herself.

“I’m sure Miss Marple would have something to say about that. I’ve been thinking I might get a Beta fish so I have someone to talk to when I can’t be with you.”

“Fish have even less to say than cats,” Tricia pointed out.

“That’s true. I’ve only got another six weeks of classes, and then I have a whole month without them. We can spend a lot of quality time together then.”

“Promise?”

“I do.”

That is, if he didn’t lose his job and pack to return to his parents’ home. She didn’t voice that concern. There was no use burdening him with her fears. Instead, she asked him about his day, and he answered with another heartwarming encounter he’d had with one of the library’s younger patrons. He loved that job and had such a good rapport with the kids. It would be such a shame if it had to end.

“How about you?” David asked. “Did you do any sleuthing?”

“Only a little.”

“Tell me all about it.”

She gave him the short version of all she’d learned that day and waited for him to comment.

“You know, it seemed odd that Lauren just left the library without saying a word to anyone or even trying to collect her honorarium. What happened to her between when she left the library and when we found her?”

“Yes, the missing half hour. Lauren had to run into her killer in the parking lot. Why would she let the person in her car? When I’m in a dark lot, the first thing I do when I get in the car is lock the doors.”

“It was a rental car, right? Maybe she didn’t immediately know where the lock button was.”

“Maybe,” Tricia agreed. “As I recall, I heard one of the officers say the car was in park, and the keys were in the ignition. I suppose the killer could have been waiting, and when Lauren entered the driver’s side, he jumped right in.”

“Who says it had to be a man?” David asked.

“Well, a lot of men kill women.”

“And women kill men quite often, too.”

Tricia couldn’t argue that point. “I bet the killer was wearing latex or other gloves, or we probably would have heard if any DNA was collected from the car or under Lauren’s fingernails.”

“Yuck!” David said. “Chief McDonald hasn’t discussed that with you, has he?”

“He didn’t discuss much of anything with me,” Tricia remarked.

“When would he have the opportunity to do so?”

Oops. Tricia hadn’t mentioned her conversation with the chief the evening before. She did so, and David didn’t seem to react to the news, which was a small source of relief. She mentioned Becca joining the chief, as well.

“Maybe they’ll get together. I can tell you how lonely it is when you arrive at a place like Stoneham, not knowing anyone, and he was here months before me. Becca, too, right?”

“Yes. But…I don’t know; Becca can be a bit caustic. I don’t think she’s right for Ian.”

“How many people have told you I’m not right for you?” David asked.

“Nobody,” Tricia said emphatically.

“But?” David prodded.

Tricia said nothing.

“I know what they’ve been saying. I’ve heard it—been teased about it. I’m sorry we aren’t closer in age, but I’m not sorry to be with you. I just wish I could get through my last two semesters quicker.”

“One thing I can say from experience is that time goes much faster than you think,” Tricia lamented.

“Not when you’re studying for a test.”

“Will you have to study tomorrow?”

“I’ll let you know. Right now, I need to get back to work. It’ll all be worth it in the end.”

“Yes. Well, when you finally stop burning the midnight oil, sleep well, my love.”

“You, too. Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Good night.”

Tricia ended the call and set her phone down. Almost immediately, the shop’s landline rang. She didn’t answer it after the shop closed, and after the third ring the call went to voice mail.

“Ms. Miles…this is Brian Woodward.”

Tricia nearly tripped in her haste to grab the phone.

“Hello? Mr. Woodward. This is Tricia Miles.”

“I found your store’s number online. I hope you don’t mind me calling instead of using e-mail. I find it tedious when I can wrap up a conversation in a few minutes.”

“Thank you for giving me the time.”

“I Googled you,” Woodward said. “I see that you own a bookstore and have been associated with several murders in the Stoneham area.”

Tricia laughed. “I didn’t commit them.”

“But your name is linked to them,” Woodward said flatly.

Tricia sobered. “Yes. In the past, I have helped the police with their inquiries. Like Lauren, I have an interest in true crime.”

“I see. Maybe you ought to start a podcast,” he said flippantly, but there was an edge to his tone.

“I only listen to them. However, I managed to get a copy of Lauren’s true-crime manuscript,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t ask how. “I wasn’t able to verify anything about it.”

“That’s because it’s fiction. Lauren had this idea of writing a novel like a true-crime account. It was going to be a breakthrough for her…if it was ever published.”

“Have you read it?”

“A couple of chapters. I’m not into murder mysteries.”

How sad, Tricia thought.

“That said, it was based on an incident from Lauren’s past.”

“You mean the murder was committed for petty reasons?”

“Yes.”

“Did Lauren have a contract for this book?” Tricia asked.

“She was writing it on spec,” Woodward replied.

“I see,” Tricia remarked.

“So, what do you think you know about Lauren?” Woodward asked.

“Lauren seemed frazzled and anxious on the night of her death.”

“For several reasons. She was scheduled for hand surgery the week after her death, and was dreading it.”

“Did she tell Betty Barnes about it?”

“You mean the woman who supplied the books for the signing?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, yeah—but the bitch insisted. Somehow, she cowed Lauren into doing it.”

Betty could be forceful.

“What else?” Woodward asked.

“I know Lauren feared for her safety and spoke with her former boss Becca Chandler about security concerns.”

“Lauren thought hard about accepting the invitation to speak in her adopted hometown.”

“And why was that?” Tricia asked.

“Because she feared facing someone from her past. Lauren told me she’d been bullied as a teen, and lately, she’d been getting bombarded with hateful messages and threats. She learned to guard her back but felt she had to accept personal appearance requests to keep the Cuddly Chameleon series in front of the public.”

That seemed logical.

“But it was somehow different lately?” Tricia asked.

“Yes.”

Tricia considered her next query and decided she ought to try to draw out Woodward before getting to harder questions. “How was Lauren as a collaborator?”

“To be honest, it wasn’t a factor. We never met—or even talked—until I’d illustrated five of her books.”

“Is that unusual?” Tricia asked, somewhat surprised.

“Not at all. I’ve illustrated scores of books and have only spoken to or met less than a handful of the authors I’m associated with. The publishers tell me what they want, and I deliver.”

“But you did meet Lauren before the night of her death.”

“Yes. We made a few appearances at conferences. We got along quite well.”

“Were you romantically involved?” Tricia asked, hoping the man would answer honestly. Surprisingly, he laughed.

“Lauren was ten years older than me.”

Tricia’s cheeks suddenly burned with embarrassment. She was twenty years older than David, who valued her for her life experience and knowledge and didn’t judge her by their age difference. Just how shallow was Brian Woodward?

“So, you weren’t even friends?”

“I wouldn’t say that. Once the series was a success, we exchanged e-mails and, as I said, promoted the series together at bigger book events. And we became friendly acquaintances. I’ll miss her,” he said sadly.

Tricia waited a few seconds before continuing. “What will happen to Lauren’s character?” Tricia knew that other writers would often take over a series as successful as the Cuddly Chameleon, and the books would continue to be published long after the original author’s death. It happened with the likes of Tom Clancy and other big-name authors who’d passed away.

“I have a contract for three more books. I’m waiting to hear from my agent.”

“The night of Lauren’s death,” Tricia began. “Why did you meet her at the library?”

“As I’m sure you know, I don’t live all that far from Stoneham.”

Yes, just twenty or so miles across the state line.

“Lauren asked me to come to the signing as moral support. I wasn’t up for a personal appearance and didn’t want to be put on display, so I told her I’d be there in the audience and we could talk afterward.”

Tricia considered the artist’s description…on display. Yeah, that accurately described some author (and apparently artist) meet and greets. Not every author felt comfortable in the limelight. Tricia had hosted authors whose books entertained the masses, but who were uncomfortable when it came to face-to-face promotion. Writing was a solitary occupation, after all.

“As I mentioned, I saw you and Lauren speaking near the library’s checkout counter.”

“I thought her appearance was a disaster but didn’t tell her so. She was pretty upset about how it had gone. She said she was thinking about returning to her B and B room, grabbing her stuff, and heading home. I encouraged her to do so.”

“But she didn’t have the opportunity to do it.”

“No.” He uttered the word with such sadness and finality. “I could kick myself for not hanging around to make sure she was safe. I’ll carry that with me for the rest of my life.”

“I’m sorry for the loss of your collaborator,” Tricia said.

“Yeah, so am I. For all her eccentricities, I’ll miss Lauren,” he said again.

“Has the Stoneham chief of police contacted you yet?”

“Yes. He said someone—presumably you—had identified me.”

“I did.”

“We spoke for ten minutes or so. He updated me on the arrest of the man who’d harassed Lauren. And I’m to return to Stoneham to make a statement.”

There didn’t seem to be much more to say or ask.

“I appreciate your speaking with me,” Tricia said.

“It didn’t help, though, did it?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Tricia said, but inwardly conceded that he was right.

“I don’t suppose we need to speak again,” Woodward said.

“No,” Tricia agreed.

“Then I guess I’ll just watch the news for updates on Lauren’s case—if there are any—and hope for closure.”

“I hope you’ll find that soon,” Tricia said sincerely.

“Thanks. Well, good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

Tricia put down the receiver. She’d hoped speaking with Woodward would give her a greater understanding of who Lauren was. Instead, she felt less informed.

Miss Marple wound around Tricia’s feet. Cats had a way of grounding a person. Tricia petted her kitty before heading back down to the kitchen to give Miss Marple her nightly treat. With nothing better to do, Tricia retreated to her bed with another Hercule Poirot tome, but it wasn’t enough to keep the day’s frustrations at bay. She finally gave up and turned off the light.