“Hey,” he said, answering after one ring. “I was just about to head over there. Are things winding down?”
I surveyed the hall. People were packing up, hugging one another, and waving good-bye. “Yes. We close up shop in a half hour. Sean, Makayla told me about the woman Melissa was arguing with. Have you been able to track her down?”
“I figured she’d tell you about that. No, we haven’t found the mystery woman yet. But Makayla’s account does add another suspect to our list. The killer may not have been Kirk Mason after all, though we won’t know until we locate him.”
“Did you meet with Melissa’s husband? How is their little boy doing?”
“He’s young and doesn’t really understand, but while his father was on the phone with him he kept asking for his mother.” Sean was quiet for a second. “The husband is grief-stricken, but on the flight over he remembered something. There’s an editor at Melissa’s publishing house who has some animosity toward her. This guy, a Mr. Ruben Felden, claims she lured an author from him—one who subsequently ended up on the bestseller list for nearly a year. Apparently, this author specifically requested Melissa as her editor, even though Ruben was originally approached by her agent. He maintains that Melissa influenced the agent to bring the author over to her. And you won’t believe this, but Mr. Felden’s hobby is creating art with ornithological motifs. To be more specific, he makes murals and sculptures using feathers.”
“The raven feather!” My brain was churning. “Do you think Felden could be Kirk Mason?”
“He wasn’t at the office today; in fact he’s been absent for a few days. New York’s finest are trying to locate him. And this guy may or may not be Kirk Mason, Lila. The general description of this man could fit, but we don’t have details yet.”
Suddenly I knew how I could help. “Sean, I can assist you with that. If I go to the office—”
He sighed. “Please keep the investigating to the police, Lila. Remember what happened the last time you got involved.”
I didn’t want to travel back to those memories. This time my participation would be different. After all, I was the one who had access to information on publishing houses and their editors. At the office I could research this man who was angry with Melissa.
When I first became a literary agent, I hadn’t anticipated that my love of books would end up bringing me in close contact with a murderer, but I wasn’t going to back down now. It didn’t matter whether the killer was an aspiring writer or an established editor. What mattered was that this warped individual had murdered a good woman during my agency’s festival. Now, I was going to use all my resources to bring that person to justice, and I wasn’t going to stop because the event was over or because Sean had asked me to. This crime was personal and I was involved. End of story.
Chapter 7
WHEN SEAN SHOWED UP AT THE OLD TOWN HALL, HIS face was pinched and grim and I sensed he was about to deliver a piece of bad news. Unfortunately, my instincts proved correct.
“I’m sorry, Lila,” he said softly, touching the tip of my chin tenderly. “I can’t come for supper tonight. We’ve got a dozen interviews to conduct regarding the argument Makayla witnessed between Melissa and a female writer, and then I’ve got a conference call with a fellow officer in New York.”
My heart sank. I’d really needed Sean’s company tonight. It wasn’t just the murder that had me feeling down—though Lord knows that was enough to cast a pall of gloom over the entire weekend. There was something unaccountably disheartening about the festival coming to an end. All around me, attendees were shouldering the ocher-colored canvas bags provided by Novel Idea, saying good-bye to friends and acquaintances, and heading out into the crisp October afternoon. The final classes were almost finished and the food service kiosks were closing down. The vendors who’d sold scores of bookmarks, writing journals, funky mouse pads, and inspirational posters were placing their remaining wares into boxes.
“A rain check, then,” I’d told Sean, mustering a smile. After all, bringing Melissa’s killer to justice was far more important than my having a case of the blues.
He’d hardly made it out of earshot before I began dialing my mother’s number.
She picked up after the first ring. “So you’re cooking for me tonight? And Trey, too?”
“Is there a tarot card layout that predicts supper invitations?” I asked acerbically.