THE NEXT MORNING WAS SO BEAUTIFUL THAT IT WAS easy to forget about my encounter with Kirk Mason. The late October sun set the ocher and paprika petals of the chrysanthemums in my garden afire and illuminated the lavender asters until they glowed.
I had bought an old Radio Flyer wagon at my neighbor’s yard sale, lined it with hay, and set it on my front porch. I then stuffed it with miniature gourds of all shapes and sizes. The yellow, green, and creamy white vegetables looked terrific mixed in with a dozen small pumpkins.
Now that my son was independent and living away from home, I wasn’t too interested in decorating for Halloween. However, there were plenty of children in our little subdivision who’d be ringing my doorbell in hopes of acquiring a few pieces of candy, so I hung a wreath of black cats and witches on the front door just to show that I welcomed trick-or-treaters. In fact, I’d had to hold off buying bags of candy for fear I would eat them all before the big night.
This year, Halloween fell on a Sunday. Because it was a school night, the neighborhood committee had voted to send the kids around just after sunset. They could collect their goodies, burn off some of the sugar they’d eaten, and be home at a reasonable time. The elementary kids had to be at the bus stop at seven o’clock each morning, so I knew their Halloween evening would be a low-key affair. I, for one, was glad. After a three-day book festival, it would take every ounce of remaining energy to drag myself off the sofa. It would be all too easy to ignore the doorbell and gorge on snack-sized Milky Way bars, but I knew I wouldn’t let the children down.
I was getting ahead of myself, however. There were still two more festival days to get through, and I was ready to face Day Two. Even though my sleep had initially been riddled with anxiety thanks to Kirk Mason, I’d woken well before my alarm sounded feeling surprisingly well rested. Lingering over my breakfast in a kitchen cheerful enough to dispel the gloomiest of memories, I’d filled in the Dunston Herald crossword before putting on my favorite autumn work outfit. My camel-colored skirt, espresso brown cashmere sweater, and polished leather boots made me feel chic and youthful. Hopping on my scooter, I quickly indulged in one of my favorite fantasies in which I starred as a wise and glamorous celebrity, known and admired by everyone in the literary and publishing circle. It was easy to pretend that all the automobile drivers were staring at me. The majority of them probably were casting curious glances in my direction. After all, I was the only woman in her midforties zipping around Inspiration Valley on a canary yellow Vespa.
I loved being able to fit in tiny parking spaces all over town, but today, I didn’t try to get close to the old town hall. My heart was featherlight and the world was bathed in vibrant color and I wanted to walk a few blocks. Between the pumpkin banners hanging from each lamppost, the holiday-themed shop decorations, and garden urns filled with the perky faces of orange and purple pansies, Inspiration Valley was an autumn utopia. Leaves scuttled across my boots in a blur of red, brown, and gold until I left them behind and jogged up the front steps and into the lobby of the spacious stone building.
Vicky was already in her position at one of the check-in tables, a thermos of hot tea and a banana stationed by her right hand.
“Good morning,” I said brightly, my voice bouncing around the cavernous lobby. “I’m going to grab a cappuccino from Makayla. Can I get you anything?”
“No, thank you.” She indicated her thermos. “I only drink noncaffeinated herbal teas.”
I nodded, though I couldn’t imagine achieving a state of mental acuity without a significant jolt of caffeine first thing in the morning. “Danish? Bagel? Something to accompany your banana?”
Vicky’s mouth turned down in disapproval. “Too many processed carbohydrates. I prefer to begin my day with fruit and whole grains.” She gave her plum-colored cardigan a prim tug and eyed me closely. “Are you all right after yesterday’s excitement?”
Not the noun I’d have chosen, but I wasn’t about to correct our formidable office manager. “I am. One of today’s guest speakers, Sean Griffiths, is a police officer. He’s agreed to remain in the building until the conference is over this afternoon. I’ve already given him a thorough physical description of Kirk Mason, and since Mason is rather hard to miss, Sean—I mean, Officer Griffiths—is certain to spot him if he dares to make an appearance.”
“That’s good.” Vicky produced her camera from her purse. “Should Mr. Mason be foolish enough to enter by the front door, I’ll be prepared to take his photograph and email it directly to the police station.”