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 garden, 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?”