Gideon dropped Tempest and her new tire back at Fiddler’s Folly. Tempest knew he had work to do, so she assured him she could change a tire herself. It was true.
After doing so, she checked in on her grandfather, who was happily chatting with an elderly man and a thin and energetic greyhound who resembled its owner. The trio were breakfasting at the outdoor dining table.
With her grandfather hardly noticing she’d departed, Tempest slipped into her jeep and headed to the outskirts of town. She had a meeting with the property manager of the Whispering Creek Theater. She’d considered canceling, but she could at least get the key today.
Facing her fears. That’s why Tempest had signed a lease to rent the empty theater. The plan was to practice the show she was producing later that year. She’d gone back and forth to Vegas a few times in the last couple of months, letting her young friend Justin watch Abra while she was gone, but after she’d sorted out logistics, now came the important part: What story was she going to tell during her farewell show?
She knew, of course. Part of her had always known. If she could pull it off.
This was the theater where her mom had vanished. Tempest wanted, more than anything, to find out what had really happened to her mom and aunt, to tell their stories. Justice. Closure. She wasn’t sure what it was. She only knew she needed to bring things full circle here. As soon as her grandfather was cleared, she’d figure it out.
The theater’s parking lot was empty except for a lone car. An electric SUV with shiny silver paint. Tall weeds grew through crevices in the asphalt in most of the lot, but the SUV’s owner had selected a far-away spot in a pristine area the weeds hadn’t yet conquered. Stepping out of her jeep, Tempest stepped around a bunch of flowers she only knew as “sourflowers,” those bright yellow flowering weeds from her childhood.
A couple of playhouses had continued to use the theater in the year after Emma Raj vanished, but after a few strange incidents, rumors spread that the theater was haunted. Not serious rumors, but theater types were superstitious already (she knew never to say the name of “The Scottish Play”). Most likely the bigger motivating factor was that nearby theaters had better management and amenities. Performances migrated elsewhere, and for the last two years, Whispering Creek Theater had sat empty.
The property manager stood in front of the vaulted wooden door that led into the run-down theater, a distasteful look directed at a spiderweb. In a motion disguised nearly as skillfully as something Sanjay or Tempest could have done, she wiped the web aside with a tissue and was smiling brightly as soon as Tempest reached her four seconds later, leaving no evidence a spider had even looked at the theater’s door.
“I don’t mind a few spiders,” said Tempest.
The woman’s smile faltered. “I wasn’t made aware of the current condition.…”
“It’s fine.” Tempest swept her eyes over the abandoned building, a combination of excitement and trepidation building every moment. She didn’t miss many things about Las Vegas, but she missed the gasps from the audience. Their spontaneous smiles. The sense of wonder replenishing their childhood dreams.
“I can give you the number of a good cleaning team, if you’d like.”
“It’s really fine. I don’t mind.”
The confused property manager handed Tempest the keys and, after a few pleasantries that must have been mandated in a customer-service training manual, retreated from the abandoned theater to her pristine vehicle. Tires screeched as she pulled out of the empty lot.
The heavy wooden door squealed so loudly as Tempest pulled it open that it nearly disguised a different sound. Another car pulled the parking lot.
A woman with hair as pitch-black as Tempest’s, though rail straight instead of wavy, sat behind the wheel. After turning off the engine, nothing happened for seven seconds. Indecision? Lavinia Kingsley stepped out, her face splotchy and subdued. Dressed in a black dress that reached her ankles, she looked the part of a grieving widow.
“My mom said you stopped by.” Lavinia’s dress billowed as the wind picked up. “I thought you might be here.”
Alone.
Even if Lavinia had good reason to kill Corbin and wasn’t a deranged serial killer, Tempest still didn’t like the idea of being alone with her in the deserted parking lot under the barren hillside above that was too steep and rocky for homes. They had only a few birds for company. Oh, and one squirrel. Though the squirrel was running in the opposite direction. Its floppy tail disappeared around the trunk of a tree.
“I wanted to thank you for bringing over the food from your grandfather,” Lavinia said. “Those cookies are Ma’s favorite. More than anything at Veggie Magic.” She hesitated. “I’m sorry for what happened to him.”
“He didn’t—”
“I know he didn’t hurt Corbin. Even with what he…” She hesitated again. “You know about what happened between them?”
“The restraining order.”
“I didn’t want Corbin to do it. He could be so vindictive. Darius and Ashok knew I tried to stop him. I couldn’t stop him, but I made sure Ash got a free meal whenever he came to Veggie Magic.” She shook her head. “Your grandfather wouldn’t even let me do that for him. He always left so big a tip that it covered everything.”
“That sounds like him.”
“I know he’d never kill anyone. We all know that.”
“Except for that new detective and the DA.”
“I told them to look into Corbin’s fans. That’s all that makes sense. People are passionate about books. His books evoked strong feelings in his readers. They’re the kind of people who would create a bizarre death for him. That has to be it.” Lavinia squeezed her keys as the words poured out of her.
“You told the detective?”
“I even gave the police some of the strangest letters.” She paused. “Corbin wasn’t always like this, you know. When I first met him, he was a completely different man. He loved writing and everything related to it. By the time my café was a success, I was living a full life, with hobbies I truly enjoyed like my book club. But Corbin? His career had gone the opposite direction. He started refusing to come to Veggie Magic because it was so successful—he said it was because it was crowded and noisy. We never managed to have children, and we were each so busy pursuing our separate lives that I shouldn’t have been surprised by his affairs. I was angry, yes. I wanted him out of my life. But I didn’t really want to kill him. I was just angry when I spoke to you. I didn’t—”
“Is that why you followed me here?”
“You say it like—” She broke off and swore. Then laughed. Not a timid or fake laugh, but a throaty, unstoppable howl. “Email and text messages are the worst. I thought I was helping put you at ease by coming. So you could look me in the eye and know I didn’t kill him.”
Lavinia didn’t step closer to Tempest, but she did as she said and looked Tempest in the eye. In front of a theater where hundreds of people once told lies for a living, the apparent sincerity was less convincing.
“You don’t have to worry,” Tempest said. “The police aren’t focused on you.”
“I don’t want you to think I’m the one who did it, either.” A look of disgust came over Lavinia’s face, but it wasn’t directed at Tempest. She unclasped her hand, revealing indentations in her palm where she’d been gripping her keys. It was more than a depression in the skin. Something sticky. Had Lavinia drawn blood? She wiped her palm on the skirt of her dress and turned back.
Tempest could have taken the opportunity to let Lavinia leave, now that she’d said her piece, and get to work at the theater. But Lavinia had been ready to share her thoughts. That’s why Tempest had made up a story to go to Lavinia’s house that morning in the first place. Lavinia might have facts that could get Grandpa Ash cleared.
“You really think it was one of his fans?” Tempest called after her.
Lavinia paused at the door of the car. “Who else would do such a thing?”
“None of them were in the Oxford Comma with us.”
“You think his death is an impossible crime like in one of the books we read in the Detection Keys book club?”
“It is.”
Lavinia turned her face to the sky. The cool wind blew her hair around her face. “I know you’re right. I wish you weren’t.”
“How long have you known the women in the book club?”
Lavinia tucked her hair behind her ear and gave Tempest a frosty stare. “Long enough that I’d hate to think one of them is responsible. But after Corbin’s betrayal … I know better than to trust someone simply because I’ve known them a long time. But the women of the Detection Keys … we understand each other.”
“You named the club after the famous British club of mystery writers.”
That got the hint of a smile from Lavinia. “You’re right. The name pays homage to the U.K.’s Detection Club, the group of writers who founded the social club during the Golden Age of detective fiction. We’re not writers, but we love their books. Each of us has a name that begins with one of the letters in the word ‘KEYS.’ It was Ellery who thought of that, since she loves puzzles. I’m Lavinia Kazumi Kingsley, so I’m the ‘K.’ Ellery and Sylvie are obvious.”
“And Ivy is your ‘Y’: Youngblood.”
“It all came together at Veggie Magic. Sylvie and Ellery were two customers who loved to linger after their meal to talk about mystery books. They always tipped generously, so we didn’t mind that they stayed so long. One day I heard Sylvie and Ellery bemoaning their book club, in which the women only wanted to read the hot new books recommended by celebrities and often spent more time picking out the wine for the meeting than actually reading the books. I’d also seen Ivy reading classic mysteries by herself at the café. I proposed the four of us get together for a trial book club meeting over coffee before Veggie Magic opened for the day. Sylvie was skeptical about inviting Ivy, since Ivy is so much younger than the rest of us. She suspected that Ivy thought of classic mysteries as a fad, like high-waisted jeans and fanny packs.”
“I bet Ivy knew more than any of you.”
“She did. It was clear straight away that even though she was young, she was a perfect fit.”
“Plus she made the ‘KEYS’ possible.”
Lavinia turned her face back to the sky. “I never should have let your grandfather insert himself.” The warmth that had been palpable in Lavinia’s voice when she spoke about the Detection Keys was gone. Now her voice was cold. Ominous, even. It was like she was a completely different person. “I knew something was going to happen that night.” Lavinia snapped her gaze back to Tempest. “I knew. Ever since Corbin wrecked my typewriter—”
“It wasn’t him.”
“What?” Anger flashed in her eyes.
“He was in New York meeting with publishing people at the time. He only got back the day before the séance.”
“No. That’s impossible. It had to be him. Maybe he asked one of his twisted fans to do it for him. Whatever it was, he was behind it. He was like that character, the Raven, from his first novel.”
Tempest felt her skin prickle. Did Lavinia believe he could turn himself into a raven? “You don’t really think—”
Lavinia laughed. This time it was a haunting, shrill laugh, like a banshee from the pages of folklore come to life. Tempest had never heard such a sound from Lavinia before. Was it grief, or something more?
“I don’t think he flew from Forestville to Hidden Creek,” Lavinia said, “if that’s what you mean. But his attempt to turn around his literary decline transformed him into a man so different from the one I married nearly thirty years ago. His quest consumed him. He’s the Raven, all right.”