Every Trick in the Book Page 8

  Throughout Bentley’s speech, I kept glancing around, feeling as if I were in a magical library in which characters in the books had stepped out from the pages. The enchantment was marred, however, by my uneasy awareness that Kirk Mason was one of the black-shrouded individuals in this very room and I couldn’t recognize him.

  Dinner was a delicious romp through different taste experiences. The tapas stations set up by the Nine Muses Restaurant presented a fantastic feast. I filled my plate with shrimp satay and a dollop of peanut sauce, a quinoa salad with tomatoes and a hint of cilantro, sliced sirloin with capers and onions, little fresh spring rolls with fresh vegetables, and grouper in a tantalizing curry sauce. I relaxed my no-alcohol resolve to complement the meal with a dry, crisp Riesling, and for dessert I simply could not resist a chocolate orange pot de crème.

  After dinner, Sean and I went from table to table under the pretense of chatting with the guests, but we had no luck finding Kirk Mason. Even as we spun on the dance floor, we both kept a lookout for the sinister man, noting every Edgar Allan Poe who passed by. Still, Mason eluded us.

  As the evening drew to a close, the last dance was announced. The Valley Warblers, who were surprisingly good at jazzy numbers, crooned out Nat King Cole’s “The Party’s Over.” Sean took me in his arms, and I molded into his embrace. For a brief time the synchronized swaying of our bodies allowed me to forget about Kirk Mason, Edgar Allan Poe, and everything else. There was just my Greek warrior.

  The dance ended all too soon. Almost instantaneously, it seemed, we were saying good-bye to the partygoers, blowing out candles, and taking down decorations. The hall had to be ready for tomorrow’s workshops, and although the maintenance staff would do the cleanup, the decorations were the responsibility of the agency.

  I gathered the pumpkin candles into a box. Sean started taking down the bat and cat streamers. Still humming “The Party’s Over,” I began daydreaming about what might transpire later when Sean took me home.

  However, I was startled out of my reverie by Vicky, who was dressed like Virginia Woolf. At her side was Franklin, looking remarkably like an older Sherlock Holmes.

  “Lila, did you move those barriers to the restricted section?” Vicky stuck her hands in the pockets of her long sweater and eyed me accusingly.

  “The hallway where Kirk Mason came after me? No way.” I put down the box I was holding. “Why?”

  Alerted by our conversation, Sean came over. “What’s up?”

  “The barriers have been pushed aside. I know for a fact they were in place when I draped those cobwebs over the doorway earlier.”

  “And I swear they were still in position during dinner,” added Franklin.

  “But not anymore,” insisted Vicky. “Come along, I’ll show you.”

  Sean followed Franklin and Vicky, and I stayed close behind him. My earlier uneasiness returned, and the image of Kirk Mason came to the forefront of my mind.

  “See? It’s as if someone hurriedly pushed them out of the way.” Vicky pointed to the opening that led into that dark hall. “Even the cobweb is torn.”

  The two wooden barriers had been roughly shoved clear of the doorway, one rammed up against the other. And the large synthetic cobweb that hung across the entry had been ripped in half, unveiling the portal into the black passageway that had been the site of my encounter with Mason.

  Sean went closer and examined the cobweb. “From the direction of the tear, it looks as if someone split it by running out of the hall rather than going in.” He looked up. “Does anyone have a flashlight?”

  “I have a torch,” Franklin said in an English accent. He pulled a thin black Maglite out of his pocket. “I know Holmes wouldn’t have had one, but I believe in always being prepared.”

  Sean took it from him. “Thanks. I’ll go check it out.” Flicking on the light, he shone it into the darkness and ventured across the threshold.

  I could not stay behind wondering what Sean might find. I inched behind him and followed, heartened to discover that Franklin and Vicky were coming as well.

  We crept after Sean, following the dim illumination of the flashlight beam shining in front of him. Our footsteps echoed quietly in the dank corridor and we carefully stepped around the rubble, making our way through the passageway, peering around Sean to see what he was seeing on the floor up ahead. A curved white shape glowed in the darkness.

  We all saw the conspicuous item at the same time and stopped.

  “What is that?” whispered Vicky.

  “Let’s find out.” Sean moved toward the shape, shining the flashlight directly on the surface of the mysterious object, which seemed to have increased in mass as we neared.

  It was a familiar shape, yet it didn’t make sense for such a thing to be here, residing in the middle of the shadows, surrounded by silence.

  “Oh no.” Sean lurched forward, crouching onto his ankles and drawing in a quick breath. The air about us changed, becoming heavy with questions. And with fear. “Call an ambulance!” he shouted. The volume of his command was intensified in the lonely corridor.

  Vicky and Franklin raced back to the entrance while I squatted next to Sean. “Who is it?” As the question left my lips, I recognized the high-collared cape, the white makeup, and the red-tipped fangs. “Melissa!” Her eyes were closed and she wasn’t moving.

  Sean held her wrist, feeling for a pulse. “You know her?”

  “Yes. She’s an editor from New York. I had coffee with her this morning.” I dropped down but Sean held me back.

  “Don’t come too close,” he said, handing me the flashlight. “Shine the light for me.”

  Trying to hold my hand steady, I directed the beam on Melissa as Sean placed two fingers on her neck.

  “No,” he whispered angrily, and at that moment I saw a dark inkblot shape the color of deep burgundy wine on the floor beneath Melissa’s head. My eyes met Sean’s as the implication sank in.

  “Point the light over there.” Sean gestured at a brick lying not far from Melissa. It was stained the same dark red as the floor.

  “Someone killed her,” I croaked, my eyes welling with tears. “Someone ended her life using that brick.” Weakened by despair, I lowered the flashlight. “I bet it was that Kirk Mason.”

  Sean said nothing. He exhaled slowly, shaking his head in disgust, and I knew he was also feeling grief and anger over Melissa’s murder.

  I suddenly went cold as another thought came to mind. “What if Mason thought Melissa was actually me? What if I was supposed to be his target?”

  Staring at Melissa’s waxy visage, I believed that I’d never feel warm and safe again.

  Chapter 6

  NOISES INVADED THE TOMBLIKE STILLNESS OF THE corridor. I both welcomed and resented them. I knew that the voices bouncing off the walls meant reinforcements were on the way. Members of the police force were hastening toward us. I could practically hear the clink of their gear, the swish of their uniforms as they moved, and the tread of heavy footwear on the lobby’s marble floor. They’d enter the gloom fearlessly, filling the silence with the sound of their tasks. The darkness would be banished by portable lights, and while that was a relief, those same lights would put Melissa on display, highlighting her wounds and the lack of life in her body. She would no longer be a smart, savvy, inspirational editor from New York. Her roles as wife and friend and mother would lose their significance.

  Instead, her identity would forever be changed to “the victim.” Her name, her lovely face, and the way her eyes danced when she laughed would not be considered relevant. People would examine her injuries, take pictures of her corpse from all angles, and write reports on the cause of death. File folders would be filled with evidence statements and crime scene data. They would smell of printer toner and cigarette smoke, holding not the slightest trace of her sweet pea scented perfume.

  I looked at Sean and saw that his mouth was pinched into a thin, grim line. It was as if he was also reluctant to yield this woman to the
ministrations of his colleagues. The warmth that had fled from me upon discovering Melissa’s body returned as I stared at this strong, sensitive man. Dressing in gladiator attire, he should have appeared incongruent in the dim space as he knelt beside my fallen look-alike, but at the moment, he appeared as fierce and powerful as Hercules.

  “You’d better go join your coworkers,” he told me, but I shook my head in defiance.

  “I’m not going anywhere. It wouldn’t be right. She doesn’t have anyone else. I don’t want to…” I trailed off.

  Sean took my hand and squeezed it gently. “You don’t want to leave her. I know. But this is a crime scene now, Lila. And I’ve got to assist in any way that I can. Finding out what happened to this woman is my responsibility.”

  “And mine!” I was surprised by my vehemence. “I had coffee with her today. She went out of her way to help me with one of my client’s projects.” I pointed toward the main room where the party had been held, my ire rising. “Melissa was just down that hall, eating the same food we did. She was talking shop and encouraging writers and laughing. Look at her now! Why? Why is she here?”

  My tirade finished, Sean helped me to my feet and wrapped his arms around me. “Something drew her to this place. And if the killer was able to succeed in convincing an intelligent woman to enter a dark and deserted corridor alone, then he had leverage over her. That makes me think he wasn’t after you.”

  I curled my hands into fists. “It doesn’t matter which of us he wanted. If Kirk Mason—”

  “We can’t jump to any conclusions, Lila. We don’t know who did this.” Sean’s tone was firm. His arms slid away from mine, and I could feel a chasm growing between us as his professional side took over. He was about to continue when he suddenly eased the flashlight from my hand and pointed the beam at Melissa’s right hand. It was curled around a crumpled piece of paper. I only saw it for a moment, but I could tell that the paper was made of thick stock, like a notecard. The edge of a photograph protruded from between the card’s folds. Every fiber in my being longed to reach out and pry the card loose from the woman’s fingers. I wanted to know what had led her back here, what had lured her to her death. The answer was inside that note or on the photograph; I was certain of it.

  Sean sensed the tension in my muscles and pivoted me away from Melissa. “Come on, hon. I can’t touch it, either. No gloves.”

  He escorted me toward the lobby, holding an index finger out to his coworkers from the station as they passed by. I knew that the signal meant he would immediately return to the crime scene, leaving me to wrestle with my shock and fear without his comforting presence.

  And that’s exactly what happened. Franklin and Vicky had rounded up the rest of the agents and they were waiting in the lobby, huddled close to one another as if they were all seeking shelter from a rainstorm. Sean spoke hastily to Vicky, but Jude interrupted their conspiratorial exchange.

  “I’ll take her home. She’ll be safe with me,” Jude told Sean and whoever else was within earshot. “And I’ll stay as long as you need me,” he added in a low whisper only I could hear.

  Sean nodded his thanks, made eye contact with me for a brief second, and then disappeared down the dark corridor. At that moment, I began to question whether I really wanted to be in a relationship with a cop. We’d hardly seen each other over the last few months, and now, when I wanted Sean with me most, he wasn’t available. I knew I was being selfish and childish, but seeing Melissa had stripped me of my usual aplomb. I didn’t want to be alone tonight. Glancing at Jude, I nodded in gratitude. He draped his coat over my shoulders and put a protective arm around my waist.

  The faces of my coworkers mirrored my own. The news of Melissa’s death had frozen their expressions into blank stares. They each gave me a sympathetic nod as I said good-bye, and I knew they were too stunned to do more than that.

  “I hope you have something stronger than wine at home,” Jude said as we turned to leave. “You need a shot of the hard stuff.”

  I managed a rueful smile. “I always keep a supply of Jim Beam on hand. My mother won’t drink anything else. After I moved in, she made me put a bottle on my shopping list before I could finish unpacking my first box.”

  Jude raised his brows. “Amazing Althea. Maybe she knew that you’d be in need of a splash of whiskey tonight.”

  “Maybe. Her intuition is better than most people’s, but she never warned me of any danger lurking at the book festival,” I said, refusing to mention the warning she’d delivered after I’d broken my mirror on moving day. Once again, anger welled within me. I had no one to take it out on so I directed it at my mother, and I murmured darkly, “I guess there are limits to her psychic powers.”

  I drew the coat lapels tighter over my chest, feeling one of the tresses from my wig brush against my skin. I pulled the collection of curls from my head in disgust. All traces of the gaiety I’d felt earlier in the evening were gone, evaporated like the wisps of smoke from the spent candles in the jack-o’-lanterns. The other agents had piled all the hollowed pumpkins from the party tables into a large garbage can, and the topmost pumpkin stared at me over the can’s edge, its slanted eyes and crooked grin morphing into a wicked leer.

  “Get me out of here,” I pleaded, and Jude didn’t need to be told twice.

  He led me out into the night and drove me home under a black and starless sky.

  AFTER TWO FINGERS of whiskey, the shock had loosed its hold on me and I was left feeling drained and taciturn. I apologized to Jude for being such bad company and told him that I’d prefer to be alone with my thoughts. He left reluctantly and only after I promised to call him if I felt the slightest bit scared.

  My body was weary, so I lit a fire and stretched out on the couch, watching the flames flicker as I replayed my conversations with Melissa Plume. I recalled her mentioning that she’d had several uncomfortable exchanges with aspiring writers and that a few of those authors had behaved inappropriately after she’d rejected their work.

  “They crossed the line. Those are the exact words she used,” I said to the crackling kindling in the fireplace, my eyes glazing as I got lost in the memory. Had she rejected Kirk Mason’s work? Did he kill her because of the rejection?

  The heat of the fire made the room feel close and cozy. Setting the whiskey tumbler aside, I pulled my purse over to the couch and dug around inside for Melissa’s business card.

  I hadn’t looked at the card when she’d first given it to me, and I don’t know what compelled me to do so now, but the moment it was bathed by the soft, dancing light of fire I drew in a sharp breath.

  Wasting no time, I dialed Sean’s cell phone.

  “Lila?” His voice was filled with concern and I instantly regretted how I’d entertained thoughts of breaking up with him earlier.

  “Sean, I think Kirk Mason is the killer.”

  A pause. “Have you remembered something specific?”

  “Just a conversation Melissa and I had about writers. For some reason, it made me want to look at her business card. I’ve got it right here in my hand.” I tilted the card so that the shadows from the flames stretched over its creamy surface like twitching fingers. “She had a black feather embossed on her card, probably because her last name is…was…Plume.”

  Sean caught on right away. “And Mason dropped a raven’s feather on your table during the pitch appointment session.”

  “Yes. But I don’t think he was in the room when I introduced myself. If he hadn’t heard my name, he might have mistaken me for Melissa Plume. He gave that feather to a woman he believed to be Melissa Plume to convey some kind of warning or message.” I worked through my theory out loud. “He thought I was Melissa, so maybe, when I didn’t react to the feather, his rage grew even stronger. The feather could have been his way of saying, ‘I know you.’ Maybe it was supposed to terrify Melissa. It spooked me, and I have no history with this man.”

  I could practically hear the gears in Sean’s mind turning. When he
didn’t respond for several seconds, I asked, “What was in her hand?”

  After another long beat of silence, Sean sighed. “We’re going to keep some of the case details close to our chests, Lila, so don’t share what I’m about to tell you with anyone.” He waited for me to swear not to discuss the contents of the note or the photo with another soul and then continued. “The picture was of a Winnie the Pooh. A stuffed bear. The note said, ‘If you want to know how I got this, meet me in the restricted hallway. Walk until you see an exit sign. Come alone or something might happen to the owner of this bear.’”

  “Why would she—?” I began but then stopped short. “Melissa’s son!”

  “Yes,” Sean answered solemnly. “Silas. He’s four.”

  This information hit me like a blow to the stomach. The vague recollection of a query involving a toy bear tugged at the corner of my mind but was wiped away by the image of a little boy clutching a Winnie the Pooh plush toy. The room suddenly felt too warm, the air swelling in my lungs. I saw a little boy snuggling up to the bear at night, hugging it when he was scared and taking it along to preschool, the yellow fuzzy head poking out of the top of a zippered book bag. It was easier for me to focus on the bear. To think about the boy, who would now have to grow up without his mother, was far too painful.

  “Does he know?” I asked in a choked whisper. “About his mom?”

  “Not yet. I spoke with Ms. Plume’s husband at length. He has a different surname—Delaney. Logan Delaney. His sister is taking care of Silas. Mr. Delaney is coming down on the next flight.”

  I visualized the shell-shocked husband walking through an airport terminal with the blank and expressionless eyes of a zombie. I had to blink back more tears. “That poor man. What did he say about the Winnie the Pooh bear in the photo?”