Every Trick in the Book Page 9

  “That Silas carries the thing with him everywhere. He still has it, as a matter of fact, so the one in the photograph was a decoy.”

  Rage surged through my blood. “The murderer tricked Melissa?”

  “Silas’s bear has a blue bandanna tied around his neck, and the killer must have known that. The bear in the photo looks fairly new, but I doubt Melissa studied it too hard, and it’s also wearing a blue bandanna.” Sean sounded sorrowful. “Her protective instincts probably overruled all other emotions. She saw that picture and ran.”

  I nodded, even though Sean couldn’t see me. “I’d have done the same thing. I would have been totally blinded by fear for my son.” I glanced across the living room at a framed drawing Trey had made for me on Valentine’s Day over twelve years ago. Yes, I would most certainly have reacted exactly as Melissa had. “Did Mr. Delaney mention Melissa having trouble with overly aggressive writers before?”

  “Nothing beyond a few nasty phone calls or emails. He’d never heard the name Kirk Mason, but that doesn’t surprise me since Mr. Mason doesn’t officially exist.”

  My mouth had gone dry again. “I feel responsible for this, Sean. We invited a killer to Inspiration Valley. My agency accepted this man’s registration information at face value. He breezed into our event under a false name and with malice in his heart.”

  “It’s a book festival, Lila. No one expected you or anyone else from Novel Idea to run the attendees’ IDs through a federal database,” Sean argued. “This happened because an individual gave in to a darkness inside himself. End of story. You couldn’t have stopped this. If the killer was Kirk Mason, then I was in the same room with the guy and I didn’t stop him.” He sighed heavily. “Now we need to look ahead. I have to find Mason, and you know how crucial these first few hours are. I can’t talk to you anymore, Lila, until I have some answers. However, there’s something I may ask you to do.”

  “Anything,” I quickly replied.

  “If I can’t track down a photo of this guy, I’d like you to come to the station and meet with our sketch artist.”

  “Of course. I doubt I’ll ever forget what he looks like.”

  Sean said good-bye, and after wishing him luck, I hung up and sank deeper into the couch cushions. There had to be something I could do to help bring Melissa’s murderer to justice. Once again, I recalled her description of writers whose blind passion for their work had caused them to cross a line. Perhaps Kirk Mason had done just that with other agents or editors. If he’d queried several agencies or publishing houses using the same pen name, perhaps they had a more complete record of him. Perhaps they even knew his true identity. I resolved to reach out to my fellows in the publishing world as soon as possible. Unfortunately, most of them wouldn’t read or respond to my email until Monday.

  By then, the Dunston Police might have Kirk Mason in custody. I wanted to believe that, because the alternative was too frightening. The idea of Kirk sneaking around the festival tomorrow filled me with dread. True, he could no longer disguise himself as Edgar Allan Poe, but it was possible that he didn’t care and was willing to risk his freedom for the sake of his work. Perhaps he believed that by becoming famous as a cold-blooded killer he would finally land a book deal.

  Curling my hands into fists, I grabbed the steel letter opener from my little desk in the corner of the room and held the blade up to the firelight. I watched for a moment as the yellow and orange flames licked the metal until it seemed to glow in my hands. I then stuffed the letter opener in my purse.

  If Kirk Mason planned to hurt another person at a book festival set in my town and sponsored by my agency, he was going to have to get by me first.

  EVEN THOUGH SUNDAY’S workshops had nothing to do with the agency, we felt it was important for Novel Idea to maintain a presence at the festival. With that in mind, some of us had registered for classes. I’d signed up for a demonstration on paper and book making, Franklin was attending one on book repair, and Flora, a seminar on illustration. Jude and Zach, who had no interest in the workshops, would be taking turns at the agency booth, and Vicky would continue manning the registration and information desk. I offered to relieve her for the afternoon, knowing that things would be winding down and it would be a quiet job where I might have the chance to read through some manuscripts.

  Approaching the town hall that morning, I felt for the letter opener in my bag, reassured in knowing I had something with which to defend myself. If only Melissa had had something with her when she’d been lured into that deserted corridor.

  The Dunston Police had anticipated that the news of Melissa’s death would draw a significant media presence, and it had. Early this morning, television vans had grabbed all the parking spots closest to the old town hall’s entrance and intrepid reporters were filming backdrop scenes while I was still at home drinking coffee and putting on makeup. In response to Bentley’s considerable influence, a trio of policemen arrived before the festival opened for the day and cordoned off a wide area leading from the sidewalk to the front doors.

  “No members of the media inside,” they told the disgruntled journalists. “This is a private event and it’s too late for you folks to register.”

  A reporter called out, “What ever happened to freedom of the press?”

  One of the veteran cops smirked and answered, “You can be as free as you wanna be as long as you stay on the other side of this rope. If any of the book people feel like talking to you, they’re all yours, but if you stick one toe on the wrong side of this rope, the only footage you’ll get is of me putting you in the back of my car. Got it?”

  It appeared that none of the media felt like arguing with the man, who bore a close resemblance to Paul Bunyan. Flora, who climbed the steps seconds behind me, commented, “I truly believe that officer could carry an ox in each arm without breaking a sweat.”

  I responded by quoting a line from Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure. “‘O! it is excellent to have a giant’s strength, but it is tyrannous to use it like a giant.’”

  “Tyranny can be quite useful at times,” Flora quipped in reply, glancing back at the colossal policeman with admiration.

  When I walked through the door, the din of voices besieged me. People milled about the main hall; more, it seemed, than had been there for both of the previous conference days. As I made my way to the registration desk, I glanced about, wondering if Kirk Mason was among the attendees. Would he be so bold as to show up here today?

  “What’s going on?” I asked. “Are all these people signed up for the classes?”

  Vicky shook her head. “Not by a mile. Somehow word got out that there was a murder at the festival, and now we’ve got curiosity seekers mixed in with legitimate attendees…” She sighed. “Once the first sessions start, I’ll weed out the people that shouldn’t be here.”

  “Just be careful,” I cautioned. “There might be a killer in the crowd.”

  At the Espresso Yourself kiosk, the lineup for coffee stretched long. I was just debating whether I’d get to the front of the line in time to make my workshop when Makayla waved me over.

  “I’m making your latte right now,” she said, despite the disgruntled looks being directed her way. “When this hubbub dies down, we need to talk. Are you holding up okay?”

  I nodded. “Thanks,” I said, taking the cup she handed me. The warmth in my hands gave me unexpected comfort. “I’ll come back after my class.”

  Despite feeling unsettled because of Melissa Plume, I was looking forward to this workshop. A newcomer to Inspiration Valley, Sandra Pickwick, was teaching it. She’d recently opened a stationery store in town called Pickwick Papers, which sold, among other things, beautiful handmade cards, notepads of handcrafted paper, and unique journals and scrapbooks. On its opening day I had visited the shop and purchased a set of notecards decorated with delicate violets. I had asked Sandra how the violets had been incorporated into the paper and added that I’d like to try making cards using blossoms from my gar
den, so Sandra suggested I sign up for this class.

  Just by the entrance was a table containing merchandise from the shop. I spent a minute admiring the beautiful wares before finding a seat near the door, on which I placed my jacket.

  At the front of the room, tables were set up with pieces of equipment and materials. One table had two large bins on it, another, two blenders, and a third, a large paper press consisting of two flatbeds that could be forced together with a large screwing mechanism. Sandra Pickwick, wearing black slacks and a blue flowered blouse, stood at the lectern studying her notes.

  I approached her and reintroduced myself.

  “I remember you,” she said. “You were very intrigued by our floral collection.”

  “That’s why I’m here. I’m curious to see how that beautiful paper is made.”

  She leaned in close. “Is it true?” she whispered. “That someone was murdered here yesterday?”

  “There was…” I stopped myself, unsure of what to say. I knew that I shouldn’t reveal anything about Melissa, since the police had yet to release an official statement. “The incident is under investigation. That’s all I know,” I lied, glancing at my watch. “I’d better get to my seat.”

  As I sipped my coffee, I scanned the room for Kirk Mason and listened to Sandra introduce herself to her audience. Among the twenty people in the room, I knew Mason wouldn’t be there, but I’d keep looking for him until he was apprehended. Everywhere I went, he’d be a shadow lurking on the fringes of my vision.

  Shifting my thoughts, I directed my focus to Sandra.

  “You all probably know that the first paper was made by the ancient Egyptians; the word ‘paper’ deriving from the name of the papyrus plant. The Egyptians pressed sliced, wet sections of papyrus stems together and then dried them. Paper that we are familiar with today is made of pulped cellulose fibers like wood, cotton, or flax.” She pointed to two large containers on the table beside her. “Today, we’re going to press paper out of cotton and hemp. The result will be thicker and more fibrous paper than what you usually use, but we can adjust that by the amount of processing we apply, and we’ll add some decorative elements into it, like flower petals and seeds. The hemp and the cotton have been soaking overnight, and the hemp has also been cooked with some soda ash, so they are ready to be turned into paper. When they’re pressed, we’ll do a quick dry with some blow-dryers, but they won’t be completely dry until tomorrow.”

  She continued to describe the step-by-step process of producing paper, which included mashing the pulp in a blender, adding dye if desired, and pressing the pulp between towels in the large paper press.

  “Now we’re all going to get our hands into it and make some paper. Half of you come to the hemp, the rest to the cotton.”

  I now understood why registration was limited for this workshop. We each had to wait our turn at the press, adding our unique character to the paper using dye or flower petals. I chose to make hemp paper, since Trey worked with the material for other purposes at the co-op and I thought it would be fun to write him a note on it. I crumbled some dried cornflower petals into mine and pressed in a few thin stems as well.

  The ninety minutes allotted for the workshop went by quickly. Proudly carrying my homemade paper, I sought out Makayla at the Espresso Yourself kiosk. Business had slowed down when I arrived, and there were only two customers in line.

  “Look what I made,” I said to her after she handed a chai latte to the person in front of me. I held out my sheet of paper, the blue cornflower petals providing a striking contrast to the textured, slightly beige speckled paper. I felt a little like a schoolgirl showing off her project, but I was proud of what I had produced.

  “That’s beautiful,” Makayla said, stroking the soft, fibrous sheet. “Are you going to pen some sweet nothings to a certain hunky policeman using that special paper?” She wriggled her eyebrows.

  My peripheral vision caught a movement of black, and I immediately turned, thinking the shadow might be Kirk Mason. A woman wearing a black sweater walked past us toward the exit. I exhaled in relief and then saw that I’d gripped my homemade paper so tightly that a deep crease had formed in the right-hand corner.

  “Girl, you’re as jittery as a fly in a pond full of frogs,” Makayla said, touching my shoulder. “Not that I blame you, considering what happened yesterday. I’m going to make you a nice peppermint tea. I’m cutting off your caffeine supply.”

  The refreshing mint of the tea did calm me, even while I told Makayla about the events of the previous day. As I went on to explain why I was sure that Kirk Mason was the murderer, she frowned.

  “I wouldn’t put all my eggs in one basket,” she countered gently. “Like I already told the police, baristas are keen observers. Yesterday, for example, I saw Melissa Plume arguing with another woman right at this very table.” She tapped her finger on the tabletop. “And how could I not remember Melissa? When that woman ordered a caramel latte and I turned and looked at her, you could have knocked me over with a feather. She was your twin, Lila! Melissa introduced herself and we got to talking. She seemed like a great gal.” Her face lost its typical illumination for a moment. “What a terrible shame.”

  “It’s amazing how alike we were,” I noted sadly, but if Makayla was aware of another suspect, I needed to be fully briefed. “How did the argument start?”

  “Melissa was sitting here reading through some notes when this other woman plunked herself down in the chair opposite her. After a few minutes, things got tense between them and the other woman kept pointing her finger angrily at Melissa. I was busy with other customers so I didn’t hear what they were saying, but they were causing quite a ruckus. Then the other woman got up, knocking her chair over, and shouted, ‘You’ll regret this!’ And then she ran off. Made quite a spectacle of herself.”

  “What did Melissa do?”

  “She apologized to everyone, picked up the chair, and then left, too.”

  I was having a difficult time envisioning a woman luring Melissa to her death using a picture of Silas’s teddy bear, but I couldn’t mention this to Makayla since I’d promised Sean I wouldn’t tell anyone about the photograph. Instead, I argued, “But would a woman have the strength to strike Melissa down?”

  “This woman was pretty combative. And those finger points were meant to be a threat. I don’t have to be an FBI profiler to read that kind of body language,” Makayla insisted. “Besides, that wasn’t the only time I saw this crazy lady. She confronted Melissa again last night and her claws were showing even more then.”

  “When? At the costume party?”

  Makayla nodded. “I was just arriving and heard raised voices in the parking lot. I saw an Edgar Allan Poe push a vampire against a car, so I ran over to see if everything was all right. The vampire was—”

  “Melissa!” I interjected, sitting forward. “But Kirk Mason was dressed up as Edgar Allan Poe last night. How do you know it wasn’t him?”

  “I know a man when I see one, Lila,” Makayla said with a snort. “This Poe had green eyes, auburn hair, and a whole face full of freckles. It was as if someone upturned the pepper shaker and started sprinkling. Only one person at this festival had that face. And no matter how tight that gal’s suit coat was, she couldn’t hide those double Ds! Not many Poes running around with that bra size, no, ma’am.”

  I sat back in my chair and sighed. “What happened after you approached them?”

  “I asked if everything was okay and the green-eyed woman glared at me and said, ‘We’re fine.’ When I looked at Melissa, she told me not to worry. But I hung around long enough to hear the woman roar, ‘You’ll be sorry. I’ll make sure of it!’ before she stalked off like a lioness on the prowl. Melissa and I walked into the party together, and she told me that the woman was an irate writer with the personality of a spoiled pop princess.”

  “Do you think she was capable of murdering Melissa?”

  “It didn’t occur to me then that she might be dangero
us.” Makayla shook her head. “But after I heard what happened to Melissa, I thought about her words some more and decided that she might have gone off the deep end. So I told the police everything that I saw.”

  I pondered Makayla’s narrative. Had the green-eyed woman lured Melissa to her death? Could her hostility have turned into a murderous rage while they were in that dark, lonely corridor? My certainty that it had been Kirk Mason began to waver. “What did the police say?” I wondered.

  “Not much.” She frowned in disappointment. “If only I’d heard her name, the police would stand half a chance of finding her. But Melissa never said it.”

  “I wonder what they were quarreling about.”

  “Maybe Melissa rejected her book and the woman took leave of her senses. Of course, killing someone over a book is pretty damned over-the-top, but you know writers better than most. Nuttier than a bag of circus peanuts at times, aren’t they?”

  “‘There’s the scarlet thread of murder running through the colorless skein of life,’” I said, quoting Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. We both stared blankly at the shifting crowd, unable to comprehend the workings of a murderer’s mind.

  I HAD BEEN correct in assuming that my shift at the information desk would be a quiet one. The festival was winding down and people didn’t approach me except to say good-bye. I had brought along some manuscripts to read, but I was too distracted to concentrate. I kept going over all the reasons I thought the murderer was Kirk Mason and saw him in every thin man with black hair who walked by, but Mason did not make an appearance. I was also watching out for a green-eyed, freckle-faced woman with short auburn hair, but didn’t catch sight of her, either.

  The tireless police officer was still at his post. I was convinced that he hadn’t moved from his position once today. I’d yet to see him eat or drink anything, and he’d only changed his formidable posture to exchange a few words with Sean before resuming his military stance again.