“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?”