Murder in March Read online

  "I'm Holly Sparkes, the manager," she said. "My grandfather, Aaron Sparkes, is the owner."

  "Detective Logan. I need to ask you a few questions regarding some phone calls you made?"

  "Really?" Holly frowned. "Whatever for? Who to?"

  "Esther Drummond. We recovered her phone yesterday and you left her two voicemails."

  "Oh, that's right! Ava, that's who I was telling you about just now. She came into the store yesterday, Detective..."

  "Logan," he supplied.

  "Detective Logan. Got it. Surely she doesn't think I'm harassing her? Oh, no! This is awful." Holly's face fell.

  "Nothing like that at all," said Detective Logan. He took a long look between us and the frown lines on his forehead deepened. "You three all know each other?"

  "We just met," said Mark.

  "Holly and I met a couple of days ago at the library dinner," I clarified. "We should get going now. It was nice to see you again, Holly." I grabbed Mark's hand and tugged him outside before Detective Logan could ask any awkward questions. "At least we know where Esther went," I said as Mark closed the door behind us, leaving Detective Logan and Holly together. "I feel bad for Holly. Esther got her so excited then let her down."

  "Bad enough to sign a hundred books and have them shipped to her?"

  "Almost that bad," I agreed, nodding.

  "We can arrange that. I'll make a call and set it up. She a friend of yours?"

  "I really have only just met Holly, but I like her, and I feel bad that Esther interfered with her business." Not to mention, she all but revealed my secret identity! Who else had Esther shot her mouth off to?

  "Like I said, easily fixed. Unless..." Mark paused.

  "What..."

  "Is there any chance Holly could have..." He mimed swiping his finger across his neck.

  "No! She was at the dinner last night too! Janey also saw her, along with countless others. I don’t know who exactly knows Holly but there were around forty people there!"

  Mark let out a relieved breath. "Well, we know Esther came to the bookshop and that she was talking you up. Anywhere else Esther could have gone?"

  I looked around. There were plenty of antique stores and gift shops and Blake's, a very fashionable clothing boutique. "I'm not sure, but I need to pick up some printer paper. Do you mind if we walk over to the print shop?" I still needed to print my copy of the manuscript that had been bizarrely pinned to Esther’s dead body. The thought made me shudder.

  "Not one bit. I'm at your disposal."

  I stopped, suddenly realizing how much of Mark's time I'd already monopolized. "If you need to get back to the hotel and work..."

  "The hotel is the last place I'd rather be at this moment in time. Besides, like I said earlier, I'm taking the day off if only to finally get to know the hottest author on my list."

  Hottest? I arched an eyebrow then dropped it again. Hottest probably meant hottest money maker, because ultimately, that was all I was to my publisher. I pointed to the print shop and swallowed my pride. "It's over there."

  We walked over and I pushed open the door. Antonio, the proprietor, was behind the counter. He looked up from his crossword puzzle and waved. "How may I help you?" he asked, setting down his pencil.

  I crossed over to the shelf near the door and grabbed the thick package of paper I regularly used. "I just need one of these," I told him as I carried it over.

  "Can I get you anything else? Printer ink?"

  "I'm fine for ink, but thanks anyway."

  "Can I get you anything, sir?"

  "Me? No. I'm using the business center at the hotel," said Mark.

  Antonio nodded slowly. "I heard about that business up there last night. Was the lady really murdered?"

  "It seems that way," I said. News traveled fast.

  "Awful thing to happen. You know, she was in here only yesterday. I remembered her from her name. She was quite a distinctive lady."

  My head shot up from where I rummaged in my purse for cash. I exchanged a fast glance with Mark. "Oh?" I said. "What was she doing in here?"

  "She said she came to print out something she was working on because there was a problem with the printers at the hotel; and then she got a phone call. I tried not to eavesdrop but she was talking on the phone something fierce. She did not sound like a happy lady. I doubt the person on the other end of the line was too happy either."

  "Was she having an argument?" I asked.

  "I'm not sure; but she said she'd sooner ‘kill them than let that story get out.’ Then she paid for the printout and gave me the fiercest glare, like I was listening," Antonio said. He widened his eyes as he leaned in conspiratorially and we waited before he added, "And then she stormed out and slammed the door so hard, I thought the glass would shatter!"

  Chapter Nine

  My friend, Cynthia, was just leaving the Coffee Corner Café when we arrived. I introduced her to Mark, fussed over her little boy, and made small talk with her mother. We agreed to catch up later and Cynthia cheerfully waved as they left.

  We scooted over to a small table in the corner. Half the tables were filled with people in parties of two, three, and four, some families and friends, and a couple sharing a muffin. I thought I recognized them as the chefs from the library's literary dinner but I didn't know either of them well enough to say hello. Plus, they both looked like they only had eyes for each other. I held back a small sigh at the sweet signs of romance, something starkly lacking in my life. They looked a lot happier than the three women I recognized from high school. All were pretty and popular but their lives seemed to have peaked back then; and judging by the scathing looks they shot me, they hadn't moved on. Soulla Jenkins, the curvy, olive-skinned brunette facing us, was still the ringleader. For some reason, she strongly disliked me back in junior high. She glanced at me, then at Mark, and leaned in to whisper to her friends.

  I turned away. It was always best to ignore Soulla and her petty friends. The waitress had just deposited coffees and a plate of chocolate chip cookies in front of us. I reached for one, connecting with Mark's fingers as he did the same.

  "Sorry," he said, pushing the plate toward me. "Ladies first."

  "Thanks." I took one and tried not to analyze the little, electric shock I received from the unexpected graze of our fingers for too long. The cookie was deliciously sweet and I savored it while forcing my thoughts to return to the purpose of our mission. "Detective Logan can trace the call Antonio overheard."

  "So long as Esther used her cellphone," Mark pointed out.

  "Why wouldn't she use her cellphone?"

  "People have second phones for all kinds of reasons."

  "Are any of them good?" I wondered. I couldn't think of anyone who had two cellphones.

  "Work and personal business is possible, but you're right, Detective Logan can trace calls from both. If the call came from someone local, whatever Esther said to the mystery person could be our missing motive for her murder. It sounded like she had a big secret."

  "I'm still sure Esther didn't know anyone local. If she had, she would have lorded her superior knowledge of Calendar over me, even though I live here." I nibbled the cookie and tried not to sound too disparaging. I should probably have been doing something more useful, like liaising with Esther's office, or calling her husband, Derrick, with my condolences, or even arranging to send flowers, instead of wandering all over town like a private investigator. My new action heroine would have had no such worries; she would have picked up some major clues by now!

  Mark huffed a laugh, surprising me back to the present, and staring down at his coffee. "I'm sorry Esther gave you such a hard time," he said, his voice softly sympathetic.

  I shrugged it off. "I tried to never take it personally."

  "That sounds wise."

  "Did you speak with Derrick?"

  "Yes. He'd already been notified by the police and I think he was still in shock. He was struggling to process it when his sister arrived and I thought I
should leave them to it."

  "He must be devastated."

  "I can't imagine. Ava, I'm puzzling over a few things. Since we got here, Esther's movements were very limited. We know when she arrived at the hotel because we flew in together and I rented a car and drove us here. When we got to the hotel, we took off to our rooms and then we met again for lunch when you joined us. After that, we assumed Esther went to her room because we saw her go upstairs, but what if she didn't? I didn't see her again until the evening and we only spent an hour together. We didn't have breakfast together on the morning she died. I had mine sent up to my room and I didn't see her at all that morning. We know that she took a taxi into town yesterday morning."

  "We also know she definitely came here to Main Street because both Holly and Antonio, the guy at the print shop, confirmed that, and we know she returned and argued with someone else at the hotel in the hours before she died."

  "That's what puzzles me. It doesn't leave her a lot of time at all to meet with her killer, assuming she knew the person."

  "Maybe she did, literally, run into someone she knew. Maybe it was one of those random, freak occurrences. We should find out whom she was talking to on the phone," I decided.

  "My hacking skills are limited. Yours?" Mark quipped.

  "Even fewer than yours," I guessed. Why didn't I possess the same skillset as my action heroine? With a few keystrokes, I would have obtained all the information I needed or the contacts that could lead me to it. "So, there were two arguments in one day that we know about. Could it have been the same person?"

  "That's possible. How did Esther get back to the hotel?" Mark asked. "We never considered that."

  "I don't see her walking. She probably took the same taxi service."

  "We should track them down and talk to them."

  "That's easy," I told him. "There's only one taxi firm in town and their office is a few minutes away. Let's walk over there after we finish our drinks." While I sipped my almond latte, I glanced at the couple I recognized from the restaurant. Above the table they were smiling at each other as they made notes on a notepad they shared between them. The man scribbled something, made a new note and the woman laughed. From his hand movement, it looked like he drew a heart. I glanced down and noticed that their ankles were touching, and their feet were entwined. I sighed. My characters, Jessica and Ryder, never behaved as madly in love as this pair. No matter what I'd written, it seemed like my characters deeply disliked each other. I'd never been able to give them this kind of happy simplicity.

  "Do you know them?" asked Mark, glancing in the couple's direction.

  "Oh. No! That is, I recognize them. They both work right down the street at Belle Rose. I was thinking that my characters don't behave like them."

  "Characters?"

  "The ones from the book that everyone hates," I reminded him.

  "I see." Mark glanced over again. "They do seem very happy."

  "It's in everything they do, isn't it?" I remarked, turning my attention back to Mark before the couple realized they were being observed. I didn't want to make them feel uncomfortable. "The way they smile at each other. The little hand gestures and how they always lean in close together. Even their feet are entwined." It was hard not to be a little envious.

  "When was the last time you went people watching?"

  "Oh, um..." I frowned. "I don't recall. I write so intensively that I don't get a lot of time for anything else."

  "Maybe that's what it is. Maybe you just need to get out more often."

  "You sound like my parents."

  "Perhaps they're right!" said Mark and I laughed. "You know, that could be it! If you're not regularly observing interactions between people, you're not able to convey how a person, much less a couple, behaves. Perhaps you've exhausted your stock of prose and you need a new spark. Dr. Mark Boudreaux prescribes plenty more outings, and possibly a total change of scenery."

  "A total change of scenery?"

  "You write big, exotic romances, but you live in a small town. A very beautiful town, but small nevertheless. You need to experience something new, something exciting. Your writing will reflect it."

  "Believe it or not, this town can be very exciting." I thought back to some recent occurrences in town that more than shocked our community.

  Mark raised his eyebrows. "I believe it."

  If I could call that horrible event excitement… Thinking of Esther, my interest in Mark's words faded, but I had to concede he was probably right. A change of scenery could have been very helpful. I just failed to see how it could be done. Perhaps if I thought about it some more, a way would magically appear to me.

  "You could come to the city," said Mark.

  Okay, that way arrived faster than I thought.

  "The city?"

  "Yeah. You know it. Tall buildings. Subterranean trains whizzing around. Nice restaurants. All kinds of people to observe."

  "Oh, yeah… that city," I joked, playing along. "I've been there already."

  "For a few days at a time, sure, but what if you had an extended visit?"

  The only person I ever visited there was Esther and apart from a few working lunches or dinners, I didn't have anyone else to socialize with. When I wasn't working, I explored the city by myself, taking endless trains to see things I'd only ever seen on TV. On my last trip, I ventured into Bloomingdale's, Saks and Macy's and toured the observation deck of the Empire State Building. When I got home, I embellished those stories for my parents who thought I lived an impossibly glamorous life. "I don't know anyone there."

  "Sure you do." Mark pointed a thumb at himself.

  "Is this your great solution for how to keep an eye on me until I write a decent book?"

  "I won't deny that hasn't crossed my mind. It will be easier to work together if we're in close proximity, and I'll be able to help you more too. Think it over. It might be the very change you need."

  Of course, Mark was thinking about work. What else? Keeping me nearby to have an eye on me was all about turning in a bestseller. It had nothing to do with Mark wanting to hang out with me on a personal level. My heart sank… just a little.

  Across the café, Soulla and her friends got up and walked out, leaving a table littered with crumbs and empty cups. Each of them carefully ignored me but I thought I saw Soulla steal a glance at Mark. I pretended not to notice.

  "Let's go to the taxi office," I said, my interest in the coffee rapidly waning. The café, with its people and steady stream of chatter, suddenly felt too hot and cloying.

  "Lead the way," said Mark. He got up when I did and we pulled on our jackets. Outside, the breeze was gone and the weather had turned a little warmer. I didn't feel the need to zip up my jacket, so I left it open.

  "It's just a block down this way," I said, leading him away from Main Street to the cluster of businesses that occupied the streets beyond. The taxi office was located in a very small sliver of a building. A few chairs and a couch took up the only available room beyond the desk where the receptionist sat, operating the phone line and a computer system.

  "I can get you a car in five minutes," said the receptionist, looking up as we entered. She had big, dyed red hair and cat's eyes behind round glasses with thick rims, and seemed much more interested in looking at Mark than at me. So much for redhead solidarity!

  "No, that's okay, we don't need one," I said when she shifted her gaze to me.

  "Then you wandered into the wrong building, honey."

  "Actually, we wanted to ask you about a car that picked up our friend yesterday," said Mark.

  "Ever thought about asking your friend?"

  "We would if we could," he replied. "She was picked up from the Maple Tree Hotel yesterday morning and we think she was driven into town. Do you know where she went?"

  "Sure, but I can't tell you. Strictly confidential."

  "It might be of critical importance. Our friend was murdered," said Mark. "Any help you could give us would be more than appreciated
."

  The lady's hand flew to her mouth. "That was your friend? Well, let me see..." She turned her attention to the computer and tapped a couple keys. "I wouldn't normally give out the information but I heard about what happened and it's just awful. Terry felt really bad about it too."

  "Terry?" I asked.

  "Terry Croft. He picked Mrs. Drummond up and dropped her off at Main Street outside Sparkes’ Bookshop. Said she was in a terrible mood."

  "Did he know why?"

  The lady shrugged. "No, but he said she looked very pale too. Like she just had a fright."

  "Do you know where we can find Terry? We'd like to fill in some of the blanks for the family," said Mark.

  "Detective Logan came by here an hour and ago and asked him to go down to the station. I figure he's still there since he hasn't come back yet. Terry wouldn't hurt a fly, you know. He's the most placid man."

  "I know him," I said, "and I agree." Terry was a friend of my father's and I'd known him for years. He and my dad both divorced around the same time, which only increased their time together. Terry was best man at my father's wedding and both were regulars at the pub on the next block. Terry was also one of the biggest softies I'd ever met. He barely let anything affect him, which gave him the right sort of temperament for driving a taxi. He was great with helping old people and their bags, and had a calming influence on the tourists who occasionally drank too much and needed shipping back to one of the nearby ski resorts.

  "That's right." She squinted at me over the rims of her Coke-bottle glasses. "You're Ryan March's daughter, aren't you? He and Terry have always been good buddies."

  "They are," I confirmed. "Thanks for your help. If Terry comes back, please tell him I came by and I'll try and catch up with him later."

  "I'll let him know. Hey, was it true your friend represented Miranda Marchmont?" she asked suddenly. "I just love her books."

  "I have no idea," I lied as I hurried away before she could ask Mark or me another question.

  I was sure I wouldn't have any problem finding Terry later. If he didn't get in touch with me, and I didn't run into him, my dad would know how to find him. Since I had plans with Dad later, that wouldn't be too hard. What worried me more was the news on the street about Miranda Marchmont, which was spreading much faster than I expected. In a gossipy, small town like Calendar, by the end of the week everyone would know a famous author secretly resided here, and then the digging would start. Everyone would be on a quest to find out exactly whom the mysterious writer could be. Great kudos would surely get bestowed on the sleuth who came up with the author’s true name, which they'd be able to dine out on for months, if not years.