Chapter 11
“I’M HERE BECAUSE I WAS WORRIED ABOUT YOU, MOM,” Trey said, keeping his gaze averted from where Sean hid behind the door.
I hadn’t expected this answer and gave him a quick hug in response. Deciding it would be prudent to move the conversation out of the front hall, I said, “Come on into the kitchen. I know it’s spring, but I’ll make us some hot chocolate. If nothing else, it’ll soothe my nerves.”
“Sounds great.” Trey’s voice was full of relief. Without looking at Sean, he hurried down the hallway.
Covering a smile with my hand, I turned to Sean. “Go on, cover up that manly bod of yours.”
Sean wore an expression of dismay. “I thought he knew about us . . .”
“He does,” I assured him. “But it’s one thing to be aware that your mother is involved with someone and quite another to show up at her place to find the man she’s dating in his boxer shorts. This isn’t how kids care to picture their mothers. To Trey, I’m the woman who cooks and gardens and nags him to turn down his music or clean up his room. He doesn’t see me as a single woman with an active love life.”
“It’d be even more active if people didn’t keep dying in this town,” Sean grumbled and then jerked his thumb toward the bedroom. “I’m going to make myself decent. Should I give you two some privacy?”
I shook my head. “That’s sweet, but if Trey drove home in the middle of the night because of me, then he’s really worried. I could use your help convincing him that I’m not in any danger.”
“You got it.” Sean stepped out from behind the door and tiptoed down the hall, trying to move lightly on his feet. Holding the gun by his side, his movements were a bit ungainly and I couldn’t help but chuckle.
In the kitchen, I took a bar of semisweet chocolate from the cupboard and began to chop it into pieces. As I worked, I asked Trey to tell me what had spurred him into coming home.
“Inspiration Valley is all over the news, Mom,” he said. “Two celebrity chefs dead in a single weekend. Murdered. Chefs involved in a festival you helped arrange. I was just finishing my last big project due before spring break when this reporter appeared on the TV screen in the common room. She was doing interviews right in front of Espresso Yourself. I took one look at that yellow police tape and I thought about you working away in your office right upstairs and . . .” He trailed off but not before I heard the catch in his voice.
I put the knife down and went to him. Squeezing his wide shoulders, I whispered, “You were scared for me. Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry you had to go through that. And when you were working on a project, too. I should have called to tell you that I was okay, but I had no idea the news of Klara’s murder had become public already.”
“The media got wind of the case late this evening,” Sean said upon entering the kitchen. He held out his hand to Trey. “Sorry about how I answered the door. How are you, Trey?”
Trey took Sean’s hand and smiled. “I’m glad to see you, actually. Knowing you’re here means that my mom is safe.”
Sean sat down at the table and I poured several cups of milk into a saucepan and set it on the burner over low heat. While Sean recapped all that had happened, I whisked the milk, added a tablespoon of pure vanilla extract and a sprinkle of cinnamon, and then let the mixture simmer for a minute. Trey interrupted Sean’s narrative every now and again with a question and though I wasn’t listening closely to the words, I enjoyed hearing the voices of my two men entwining.
Picking up the cutting board, I pushed the chocolate into the pot and added a few tablespoons of confectioners’ sugar. I watched the chocolate turn the milk a luscious golden brown and inhaled deeply. With my eyes closed, I imagined the scene in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in which Willy Wonka’s guests catch a glimpse of the chocolate waterfall.
His whole factory must have smelled just like this kitchen, I thought, pouring the steaming liquid into three large mugs and garnishing each drink with a squirt of Reddi-wip. After serving Sean and Trey, I joined them at the table. As they both blew on their hot chocolate, pushing curls of steam into the air, I felt a rush of contentment. Here, in this warm room filled with conversation and the scents of cinnamon and chocolate, I was truly at ease. The outside world and its groundless displays of violence were held at bay within this cozy space and I wished we could remain here forever, in my little haven of food and light and love.
“This is really good,” Sean said after he’d taken a sip of his drink. “Sure beats the powdered stuff.”
“My mom would never use that.” Trey informed him proudly. “I remember coming inside on a winter’s day feeling like I was frozen from head to toe and she’d have hot chocolate waiting. Plus, she’d give me a whole bowl of marshmallows to go with it. That was awesome, Mom.” He toasted me with his cup. “You always did special things for me. Thanks.”
I stared at him in astonishment and tried not to tear up. Instead, I smiled gratefully and ruffled his hair. “I have to admit that I’ve missed not being able to look after you. But you’re a man now, Trey. Look at this role reversal. You were so worried that you left school to check on me.” The realization of what he’d done suddenly hit me. “Wait. What about your midterm exams? Your projects?”
“Relax, Mom. I took my last test Friday and emailed my paper to my prof before I left. Trust me, it’s cool.” He shrugged. “Guess I’m just starting my break a little early. It’s a good thing. I mean, Sean can’t be with you all the time, right? He’s got a bad guy to catch.” He eyed Sean seriously. “Are you close to doing that?”
Sean sighed. “I wish we were. We have too many suspects in this case and not enough hard evidence with which to convict any one person.” He shifted his gaze to meet mine. “You should be forewarned that none of the chefs will be free to leave Inspiration Valley until the murderer has been apprehended.”
The idea of having to listen to an endless stream of complaints from the inconvenienced celebrities made me groan. And then I considered the other people who’d been present when Klara collapsed. Would I have to try to reassure Carter, Carrie, Dennis, and Annie, too? Any one of these people could be a murderer.
“Was arsenic the poison used on Klara?” I asked.
“Yes,” Sean said. “Because this is a high-profile case, the lab results were fast-tracked and the report was very clear that a significant amount of arsenic was stirred into Ms. Patrick’s coffee.” He studied the wisp of whipped cream floating on the surface of his chocolate and frowned. “She ingested enough poison to put her body into a state of crisis. Arsenic attacks multiple systems at once and that’s why you saw such a range of symptoms, Lila.”
I recalled how Klara had rapidly progressed from feeling dizzy and feverish to being too weak to stay seated in her chair. I thought of how she became confused and then nauseated, how she’d developed an accelerated heart rate, and lastly, how her body had jerked and convulsed on the floor as she was wracked by seizures. “It was awful,” I told Trey and he covered my hand with his.
Sean pushed his mug away, folded his arms, and leaned heavily on the table. “Our best guess is that the killer poured arsenic into Ms. Patrick’s coffee at the fixing bar. Apparently, there was a knot of people gathered there at the same time, giving our culprit the perfect cover.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “And there wasn’t a person in that space who didn’t have some sort of grievance against Klara. I suppose they all spent their interviews pointing fingers and declaring their innocence.”
As I expected, Sean didn’t respond. There was a limit to what he’d discuss with me, particularly in front of Trey. Deciding on a different tack, I asked, “What about Makayla? Surely you don’t think she’s responsible for an iota of this villainy?”
“No, I don’t. Our forensic team has finished gathering all the available evidence and she’s free to open for business in the morning.”
“Then it’s only a matter of time until you find the killer. After all, his or her fingerprints will be on Klara’s coffee cup.” I felt a surge of hope. “You’ll probably know by the end of tomorrow, right?” I glanced at the digital clock on the microwave. “Or today.”
Sean wore a troubled expression. “At this point, we haven’t found a single trace of arsenic in the trash bags my team removed from Espresso Yourself. Not on a cup, a napkin, a wooden stirrer, nothing. And no cup with Klara’s name on it, either.”
“How can that be?” I asked in dismay.
“I don’t know,” Sean admitted and then gave me a faint smile. “But don’t be discouraged. We’ll find something somewhere. Anyway, Makayla’s done all she can to help us. You won’t have to worry about her losing business. I expect she’ll have a line out both doors minutes after she hangs up her open sign, especially with tonight’s media coverage. By first light, every network will be sending a team and they’ll all park right in front of your building, Lila.”
I didn’t like the sound of that and neither did Trey. “Are you going to work tomorrow, Mom, even though it’s Sunday?”
I nodded. “All the agents are working this weekend.”
Trey frowned. “I’d better come to work with you, Mom. Reporters can get pretty pushy and I don’t want any of them messing with you.”
He sat back and puffed out his chest, trying so hard to look tough that I nearly smiled, but I managed to keep a straight face. “That would be nice, Trey. Maybe you could lend Makayla a hand, too. She hasn’t had much time to rest and recover after what happened and I bet she could use a strong, hardworking young man by her side.”
Trey stood up, collected our empty mugs, and put them in the sink. “Well, this strong, hardworking dude is beat. Goodnight, Mom.” He leaned over and kissed my cheek and then gave Sean an awkward little wave. “Goodnight, ah . . .”
“Call me Sean. You’re the man of the house, after all. We should be on a first-name basis.”
Clearly pleased by the suggestion, Trey picked up his backpack from the hall and jogged upstairs.
“We’d better try to get some sleep, too,” I said. “In a few hours, you’ll be doing your best to solve two murder cases and I’ll be trying to mollify our celebrity chefs as well as their assistants and family members while silently wondering which of them is a killer.”
“Keep your eyes and ears open,” Sean said as I turned off the lights.
I let him go on ahead and stood for a moment in the dark kitchen. Visions of what the day would bring had driven the warmth from the room and I rubbed my arms, feeling a sudden chill. How quickly the shadows had filled in the voids left by our voices. Unbidden, I thought of Klara and of the speed with which life had been stolen from her.
After checking to see that the front door was locked, I joined Sean beneath the covers. I drew as much comfort as I could from his body heat and the steady rhythm of his breathing, but it seemed like a long time before I was able to let go of the day’s images and surrender to a series of fractured and disquieting dreams.
? ? ?
SEAN HAD BEEN right in his prediction that every television network would have a van parked outside my office building the next morning. In some places, they’d double-parked. Trey and I passed an angry cameraman arguing with a stony-faced policeman over the ticket placed beneath the blade of his windshield wiper.
“Should we go straight upstairs?” Trey asked.
I cast my gaze over the throng of people on the sidewalk blocking the entrance to Espresso Yourself and shook my head. “We’d better check on Makayla. The café must be mobbed and I want to make sure she’s all right.”
We decided to push our way through the crowd lined up at the lobby entrance, and even though we received a few indignant cries of “No cutting!” or “Can’t you see the line?” no one tried to bar our path.
Inside the café, all was orderly. Every seat was occupied and people were standing almost shoulder-to-shoulder around the tables. I noticed that almost everyone held a beverage or an Espresso Yourself take-out bag and that Makayla was amazingly composed. She moved with her customary grace, listened to the orders as they were relayed to her by the cashier, fixed the drinks, and smiled at every customer. She didn’t seem the slightest bit perturbed by the masses of people gathered outside, all of whom were desperately eager to gain entry.
Edging around a man holding a cappuccino in one hand and a microphone in the other, I stepped up to the counter.
“How are you this calm?” I asked Makayla. “And more important, how are you keeping this lot in line?”
She gave me one of her dazzling smiles. “I have an occupancy limit, so the only folks I’ll let in are bona fide customers. These folks can stay for fifteen minutes and then they have to make room for those waiting outside. Anyone who argues isn’t served.” She shot a warning look at a man in a trench coat and then lowered her voice. “As for the radio and television folks, I told them that I’d be happy to talk during my next break. Can I help it that I don’t have time for a break for at least another hour or two?” She winked at me and then spotted Trey. “Trey! Lord, are you a sight for sore eyes! Have you grown two feet since Christmas or am I shrinking?”
Trey’s cheeks reddened. “I was wondering if you could use some help. I’m on spring break so I’ll be in town for the next ten days.” He waved his hand around the café. “But it looks like you’ve got everything under control.”
“Trey Wilkins, you are the answer to my prayers,” Makayla said and pointed down the hall. “Open that closet and get yourself an apron. You’re hired. And your first job is to act as my bouncer.” She turned to me. “You okay with that, Mama?”
“I am,” I said, knowing Trey would watch over Makayla while treating her customers with courtesy. “Just don’t encourage him to punch any reporters. Inspiration Valley has enough bad press at the moment.”
Makayla grunted and placed a cup on the counter. “Your caramel latte.”
I grabbed her hand and whispered, “Are you really okay?”
“Really and truly,” she assured me. “Tossed and turned all night like I was a fairy tale princess with a pea the size of a boulder under my mattress, but I wasn’t worried about this place. Folks know I didn’t hurt Klara. Besides, they need me. They’ve got to see my face, hear my hello, and let me put a cup of the best coffee in the world in their hands before they can do the things they’ve got to do. Their day won’t be the same without me.” She grinned. “Just like mine wouldn’t be the same if I didn’t see you. Or Mr. Matthews. Or Mrs. Crosby. Do you get what I’m saying? We’re all connected.”
I squeezed her hand. “You’re the heart and soul of this town, Makayla.”
“Then you’re its poetry,” she said. “I know you’re broken up over these terrible deaths, Lila, but don’t let one wicked person undermine how important it is for all of us to celebrate words and food and fellowship. Don’t let them steal that from the readers and writers and fans who came to be a part of Books and Cooks.”
Squaring my shoulders, I promised her that I wouldn’t. After wishing Trey good luck, I took my latte and headed up to my office, vowing to pour all of my energy into the short stories I should have read yesterday.
I thought of one of my favorite quotes from Margaret Atwood and spoke it aloud as I mounted the stairs. It filled me with strength and renewed my commitment to my job. “‘A word after a word after a word is power.’”
The killer’s power was significant, but it wouldn’t last. Words would. And that’s what I meant to focus on now.
? ? ?
DESPITE BEING DISTRACTED by my conversation with Makayla, I was able to sit quietly at my desk and read through the contest entries Jude had given me. The one he and Bentley had chosen as the best was definitely a cut above the others. And Jude was right. This writer had the same spellbinding voice as Marlette had had in his novel. If the short story author were willing to make the commitment, we’d found our ghostwriter for Marlette’s sequel.
Eagerly, I pulled up the contestant list to see the writer’s identity and was thrilled to discover that it was Jay Coleman, the owner of the Constant Reader. I knew that Jay was an avid reader and book lover, but I had no idea that he was a talented writer as well. I was delighted by the thought of informing him that he’d won. After all, he was a friend and neighbor and one of the kindest people I’d ever met. Smiling, I gathered all the papers into a folder and headed to Jude’s office.
“You aren’t going to believe this,” I said after rapping on his door and walking in. Jude looked up from his computer monitor. Unlike yesterday, his appearance was completely professional. His tie was in a perfect knot at his collar, which was buttoned to the neck, and his shoes were still on his feet. I placed the file folder on his desk and took a seat in his guest chair. “The winner of our short story contest is Jay Coleman.”
“The bookstore owner? That’s great.” He leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head. “One of our own, and a bibliophile at that.” He grinned. “Do you agree that his writing style is similar to Marlette’s and that we should submit his name to pen the sequel to The Alexandria Society?”
“Definitely. I’ll go over and tell him at lunchtime. The news should make his day.”
Jude sobered. “I guess our final Books and Cooks event won’t be the happy celebration we’d intended, with two of the chefs murdered and the other participants under suspicion.”
“I know. Bentley will give a small speech and then we’ll announce the winners of the writing contest and the reader-voted best cookbook award and that’ll be it.” I gave a rueful shrug. “Our festival didn’t quite turn out the way we expected, did it?”
“No, but there’s no way we could have foreseen what transpired. I only hope things can return to normal soon.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Shall we get back to work? Let’s figure out the other placements for the contest and put together some kind of proposal for Jay.”
Our mood had altered with the talk of the past days’ tragedies, and without further discussion we got on with our tasks. We worked diligently for a while, and were wrapping things up when Franklin tapped on the door.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, stepping into Jude’s office. “But I have a favor to ask of you, Lila.”
“It’s okay, we’re almost done. What can I do for you?” I shuffled papers together.
“I just received a phone call from Charlene Jacques. She is most distressed. Apparently, the police have obtained warrants and are searching all the rooms. Leslie Sterling was with her when she called, and I think they are frightened by the goings-on. They asked if I’d keep them company during the search. Of course, I said yes, but . . .” His cheeks flushed pink. “I’m not very good at dealing with semi-hysterical women and I wondered if you’d come along to help with the handholding.”
“Absolutely.” I welcomed the opportunity to be at the Magnolia Bed and Breakfast while the police were present. If they found something, I’d be one of the first to know it, giving me the opportunity to put everyone at ease during the festival’s final event.
? ? ?
CHARLENE AND LESLIE were sitting side by side on the bed when we arrived. They looked like two nervous schoolgirls, clinging to each other, their eyes wide as marbles.
“Oh, Franklin. Lila. We’re so glad you’re here,” said Leslie, letting go of Charlene and standing. “The police have rifled through all of my things. The audacity. It’s given me a terrible headache.” She massaged her temples.
Charlene twined her fingers together. “They don’t really believe that Leslie or I had anything to do with Klara’s death, do they? That we brought arsenic to the festival?”
Leslie glared at her and then turned back to us. “We just want to go home. Can you help us do that, Franklin? After all, you were the one who invited us to this place.”
I touched her arm. “I’m sorry, Leslie, but no one can leave until the police say so. They have to find out who murdered Joel and Klara, and until they can identify the culprit, everyone is a suspect.”
Charlene snorted. “Not everyone. I’m sure they don’t think you or Franklin did it.”
Franklin cleared his throat. “That’s because we have no reason to want them dead.”
“But neither do I,” sputtered Leslie. “What would I have to gain by—”
A disturbance in the hall stopped her and we all hurried to the door. Bryce St. John was being escorted toward the lobby by a police officer. He held Bryce’s arm, and Bryce’s hands appeared to have been secured behind his back. Another officer followed, carrying a large navy duffel bag.
“But Klara gave me that money to hold!” Bryce protested, resisting the pull on his arm. “I didn’t take it. And I certainly didn’t poison her to get it.”
“Sir,” the cop said sternly. “You’re under suspicion for murder and are being charged with assaulting a police officer.” He touched his free hand to his lower lip, which was split. A line of dried blood clung to his chin. “Don’t make things worse. Just move it.”
Bryce glowered at him, but he stopped struggling and walked quietly from then on. When he passed us by, he saw Franklin and his face instantly brightened. “Franklin. Tell them. I wouldn’t steal money from Klara. Tell them our quarrels were just friendly competition. I wouldn’t have hurt her. I loved her.”
I exchanged a troubled glance with Franklin, who obviously didn’t know how to respond. The cop jerked Bryce’s arm. “Sir. Now.”
Bryce reluctantly acquiesced. We watched in solemn silence as they left the hotel. My mind was racing. I couldn’t believe that they’d taken Bryce St. John. Was the money they found in his hotel room the same money that was missing from Ryan’s safety deposit box? If not, why would he bring all that cash to the festival? Was he telling the truth when he said that Klara had given it to him for safekeeping? Had Klara planned to use Ryan’s nest egg to run away with Bryce? But then, why would Bryce poison his lover? Or murder Joel? Surely he wasn’t the killer.
None of it made sense.
? ? ?
I HAD THOUGHT about having lunch at Espresso Yourself. It would give me the chance to see how Trey was doing and to share the news about Bryce with Makayla, but I was too worked up to stop. Not only that, but I certainly didn’t want to put myself in the middle of a pack of reporters. So instead of the coffee shop, I picked up a Thai chicken noodle salad and lemonade from How Green Was My Valley and sat on the edge of the fountain to eat. I didn’t really have much of an appetite at first, but the spicy peanut dressing kindled my taste buds, and in the peaceful calm of the park, I finished the salad with gusto.
While I ate, I thought solely about Bryce St. John. Was he the murderer? He seemed too affable to have such an evil streak in him. Dipping my hand into the fountain I stared up at the Nine Muses. “‘The devil’s agents may be of flesh and blood, may they not?’” I asked them, quoting Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Of course they didn’t answer. Water spilled from their hands, splashing into the pool. Just being in the park centered me and I felt better. I could not help that Bryce might be guilty of murdering his colleagues. I could not help that Ryan’s heart was broken. And I could not help that our festival had been sabotaged by events beyond my control.
But I could help an aspiring author realize his dream. It was time to do something positive. Throwing my trash away, I walked briskly to the Constant Reader.
To me, there is a special atmosphere in every bookstore, as if all the stories within the books are just waiting to come alive. The Constant Reader was no exception, and I found myself smiling as I meandered between the shelves looking for Jay. He was busy assisting a customer, so I checked out the cookbook display while I waited.
It seemed almost indecent to see Klara’s smiling face on the large poster display near where she’d had her book signing. Still, this was a better image to have in my memory than the one from Espresso Yourself. My jaw dropped when I saw the empty table beside the poster. At her signing the day before, there had been stacks of her cookbook, My Grandmother’s Hearth. Now there were none.
“It’s amazing how death sells, isn’t it?” Jay came up behind me. His voice was solemn and I sensed that he’d prefer Klara alive and writing, to a cash register stuffed with bills. “There was a run on her cookbooks this morning, and I’ve completely run out of everything she’s published. It’s been so crazy here that I haven’t had a chance to change the display.” He folded his arms across his chest and looked at Klara’s picture. “That poor woman.”
“Yes,” was all I could think of to say.
“You were there when she collapsed, weren’t you? It must have been horrible.”
“It was,” I said without elaborating. I didn’t want to linger on the subject a second longer. “But Jay, I didn’t come here to talk about Klara. I have some news for you.”
He glanced at a customer leafing through a book and signaled to his assistant. “I’ll be in the back,” he told her. Then he turned to me. “Let’s talk in private.”
The room at the rear of the store was just the way I imagined a bookshop’s office to be. Stacks of books of all sizes on the floor, shelves overflowing with books, papers on the desk. It looked like something out of Dickens, except for the computer.
“Sorry for the mess,” he said as he took a mound of paperbacks off his guest chair. “I never have enough room for everything.”
“It’s perfect,” I said. “Very bookish.” I picked up the slim blue volume on his desk and saw that it was a collection of poetry. I opened it to a random page. “‘I carry your heart with me,’” I read aloud. “‘(I carry it in my heart) I am never without it.’”
“E. E. Cummings,” he said.
“Are you a big fan of poetry?”
He shrugged. “I love all genres of writing. That book was from the display celebrating National Poetry Month and I’ve been reading it during my breaks. It’s amazing how much emotion a poet can convey in a few lines.” Sitting down, he indicated the chair he’d emptied. “Have a seat. What did you come to tell me?”
I returned the poetry book to the desk. “Two pieces of good news, actually. First, your short story, ‘Diner in the Rough,’ has won first place in our short story contest. You’ll be awarded your prize at the final festival event this afternoon. Congratulations.”
He broke into a huge grin. “Really? That’s awesome.” He raised his hands and punched the air above him.
I laughed. “It was well deserved, Jay.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, still smiling. “But there’s more.”
“More?” He held on to the armrests of his chair as if to keep himself from floating away.
“You remember The Alexandria Society by Marlette Robbins?” I asked.
He nodded vigorously. “I loved that book. It’s too bad Mr. Robbins isn’t around to write a sequel. I can envision so many plots stemming from those he introduced in that amazing first novel.”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about. The book’s publisher wants a sequel, and Jude and I have been looking for a writer who’s up to the challenge of serving as ghostwriter. It’s been difficult, because Marlette’s voice is so unique and spellbinding that we haven’t found anyone who could write in the same vein.” Pausing, I could see that Jay was hanging on my every word, as if he could anticipate what I was about to say but afraid to hope for it. I continued. “Until now, that is. Jay, we believe we’ve found the person to author Marlette’s sequel. You.”
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” he asked in a tremulous voice.
I nodded. “We’re confident that if you submit a good proposal, the publisher will agree with our opinion and offer you a contract. Do you want to write the sequel? It’s a huge commitment.”
“Are you kidding me? Of course I want to write it! It’s been my dream. I have half a dozen manuscripts tucked into drawers, but I never imagined . . .” He leapt out of his chair and grabbed my hand, shaking it. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
His enthusiasm was contagious and I found myself grinning. “It’s not definite yet, you understand.”
“I know, I know. But I have so many ideas. I bet I can write a bang-up proposal.”
“Tell you what,” I said, standing. “Call Vicky and set up a meeting with Jude and me. Bring your ideas, and we’ll get a proposal ready for the publisher by the end of the week.”
“I will. Thank you, Lila. You’ve made me a very happy man.”
I left Jay’s office feeling more content than I had in days. My world was in balance once more. I was doing what I loved—changing the life of an aspiring author. And in the process, we were continuing Marlette’s legacy.
Considering the two heinous murders this weekend, I hoped that balance had been restored to Inspiration Valley as well. Perhaps having Bryce St. John in custody meant that the person who had tainted our town was off the streets.
If the police had the right man, that is.