Every Trick in the Book (23 page)

“Mom?” Trey stepped over the threshold. “I hope I’m not interrupting. Nana said you’d
be expecting me.”

I smiled broadly at the other man in my life and walked around my desk to hug him.
“Not at all, Trey. You can interrupt me anytime.” I was about to suggest that we go
downstairs to Espresso Yourself, but then thought better of it, since I was planning
to propose a clandestine operation to my son. “Can I get you a coffee from the kitchen?”
I asked instead.

“No, thanks. I’ve stopped drinking caffeine. It’s totally addictive, you know.”

Raising my eyebrows at what were probably Iris’s words coming out of my son’s mouth,
I gestured toward my guest chair. “So what’s up?” I asked as I lowered myself into
my own seat.

“Oh, nothing specific. Just wanted to hang out with you for a bit…” His voice trailed
off. “I’m feeling kind of unsure about things at the co-op. Like, how long I want
to stay there? And if it’s really what I want to do with my life.”

I tried to keep my expression neutral in order to not reveal how much this delighted
me. If he were beginning to question his future at the co-op, then perhaps he would
seriously consider going to college in January. “Have things changed that much for
you? You were so fulfilled at first,” I ventured.

“
Some
things are good,” he said, his cheeks flushing pink, and I knew he was thinking of
Iris. “But like I told you before, the meditation center is off-limits to me and that
makes me feel like an outsider. I mean, I’m either a member or I’m not, right?”

I nodded. “I can imagine how being excluded would make it seem that way.” Folding
my hands on the desk, I leaned forward. “I have an idea of how we can figure out what’s
going on there.”

“You do?” He looked up, his eyes bright. “It wouldn’t get me or anyone else in trouble,
would it?”

I knew his unvoiced concern was for Iris. “I can’t imagine that it would. What if
I hired one of your Dunston friends to go to Red Fox for a meditation session? I’d
give him the money to pay for it, and he’d report back to us on what happens in there.”
I could see the wheels turning in Trey’s mind as I spoke. “That way you could discover
if it’s in keeping with your philosophies and if you’d still want to stay there. Or
not,” I added quietly.

“You mean he’d, like, go undercover?”

“I guess you could say that.”

He sat back in his chair. “It might work. But, Mom, those meditation sessions are
pretty expensive. A couple of hundred bucks.” He looked up at the ceiling, as if answers
were written there. “I bet Jeff would do it. You remember Jeff Morgan, right?”

I did remember Jeff. He was one of the boys with whom Trey had gotten into trouble
last spring for destroying school property. “Didn’t he go away to college?”

“Nah. He said he decided not to go in the end, but I don’t think he got accepted anywhere.
Anyway, his dad gave him a job at the car dealership and then Jeff moved out and now
he’s living with his girlfriend.” He nodded vigorously. “Yeah, Jeff’d definitely do
it. How much would you pay him?”

“What would he expect?”

“I bet he’d do it for a hundred bucks.” Trey looked at me with concern. “Can you afford
three hundred dollars to do this, Mom?”

“Trey, I’d do anything to help you. You know that, right?”

He smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, I know.”

“And it’s worth it if it helps you to figure your life out.”

Trey looked at his watch and stood. “I gotta go. I have a delivery to make in Dunston.
I’ll talk to Jeff while I’m there.”

I walked him to the door and he turned to give me a big bear hug. “Thanks, Mom, for
listening. And for having my back.”

“You’re welcome, Trey.” I watched him as he headed for the lobby, feeling pride in
how he was maturing. Abruptly, he stopped and turned.

“I forgot to ask about that college admissions deferment—how long is it good for?”

Despite my excitement over his question, I calmly replied, “Only until January. Are
you thinking you might go after all?”

“Just considering all my options.” He grinned and then was gone.

THE NEXT MORNING
I entered Espresso Yourself in better spirits than I’d been in for a while. Having
slept soundly the previous night and knowing that Trey was reconsidering his future
had me feeling cautiously optimistic.

Makayla had just handed a coffee to a customer when she saw me. “Morning, girl. You’re
looking chipper as a chipmunk today.”

“I am feeling good. Good enough to have a cranberry orange scone with my latte.”

She reached for a cup. “Take a seat. I’ll come and have breakfast with you.”

When she brought our beverages and scones to the table, she handed me a copy of the
Dunston Herald
. “See this headline? Bad stuff happening in Dunston.”

I unfolded the paper as she sat down.
Local
Author Murdered!
screamed out from the front page. I felt as if my heart stopped beating for a second
and I gaped at Makayla. “Do you know who?”

She shook her head. “Read me what it says.”

My hands started to shake. “Makayla, I know her! I was at her house the other day.”
Taking a deep breath, I continued reading:

I couldn’t read any further. My eyes kept traveling over the words “clutching a stuffed
toy.” It was impossible to ignore the similarity of this morbid detail to T. J. West’s
proposal in which his victim had a teddy bear lying next to her. Nor could I ignore
that Tilly had been seeing a man matching his description all over town. I myself
had observed him at the bar in Dunston, and now his abrupt disappearance seemed especially
suspicious. I suddenly found it difficult to breathe and dropped the newspaper. It
fluttered to the table.

“Honey, you’ve gone white as a fish belly,” Makayla said with concern. “Are you okay?”

I could barely get the words out. “I…I think I know who killed her,” I croaked.

Makayla’s eyes widened. “Who?”

“A writer. A harmless murder mystery writer. Or so I thought.” I put my hands over
my mouth as the horror of the situation hit me full force. Makayla wrapped her arm
around my waist to steady me. “I was wrong,” I murmured, staring at the newspaper
and its dire headline. “God help me, but my mistake may have cost Tilly Smythe her
life.”

FEELING SICK TO MY STOMACH, I GRABBED THE
newspaper and left a stunned Makayla sitting at the café table while I raced upstairs
to my office. Vicky said something to me as I rushed by, but I ignored her.

There was a pounding in my head, like a rush of floodwaters, and it almost overpowered
my ability to function. My whole body was trembling as I fell into my desk chair and
dialed Sean’s number.

“Please,” I prayed into the receiver. “Please pick up.”

He did, but his first words were a curt “I can’t talk to you right now.”

“You have to! It’s about Tilly’s murder,” was my abrupt response. Suddenly, I released
all the anger I felt over my own blindness at Sean. “I think I know who killed her,
but if you’re too busy to listen, let me speak to another officer!”

I could hear an intake of breath on the other end and I
tensed, expecting Sean to lash out at me. Instead, he softly said, “Excuse me for
a moment,” to someone nearby and I realized that he hadn’t been alone. The sound of
a door closing came through the speaker and then Sean spoke again. “I was just about
to interview Tilly’s husband, Lila. I shouldn’t have answered my phone, but…well,
now that I have, tell me what you know.”

The image of Tilly’s husband, sitting grief-stricken and stunned beyond all reason
in one of the department’s interview rooms, filled me with shame. What was I doing,
picking a fight with the one man who’d go to the ends of the earth to see that justice
was served?

“I’m sorry,” I said. My apology was not just for behaving like a petulant child, but
also for not mentioning T. J. West to Sean the night before last. I knew there was
no hope for atonement, as the damage was already done, but I could at least give the
police a solid lead. “Tilly mentioned seeing a man around town. He fits the description
of a writer I met during a pitch session at the book festival. Sean, the guy’s manuscript
contains details freakishly similar to Tilly’s murder. I only know what I read in
the
Dunston Herald
, but it was enough to give me chills.”

“What’s the writer’s name?” Sean asked, his tone professional and direct.

“He only gave me his pseudonym, which is T. J. West. I have his email address and
I’ll ask Vicky to look up his mailing address. West must have put one on his registration
form or we wouldn’t have been able to send him materials for the book festival. Vicky
probably has his credit card number or a copy of his check on file as well.”

Sean sucked in a quick breath. “Can you email me this man’s book? Right away?”

“I’ll do better than that. I’ll drive it to the station this minute. That way, I can
show you the scene I mentioned without your having to hunt for it.”

There was a pregnant pause and I feared that Sean didn’t want me around right now.
I couldn’t begin to fathom what the last twenty-four hours had been like for him.
I wondered when he’d first heard about Tilly’s murder and was both surprised and hurt
that I’d had to learn of her death by reading about it in the newspaper. Why hadn’t
he told me? How could he let me discover what happened to her like this? Did he care
so little for me?

“Okay,” he finally answered. “But I’m reluctant to have you come to Dunston. You’ve
been through enough lately and I want to spare you any more pain.”

I felt a rush of warmth. Sean hadn’t called because he’d been trying to protect me.
He knew that Melissa’s death had taken its toll on me, but I was stronger than he
realized and there was no chance of my standing aside. Not now. Not when I felt responsible
for what happened to Tilly. “Sean, if I’d told you about West sooner, Tilly might
be still alive. I deserve to feel pain. I’m coming in.”

“You don’t know that. I’ve told you before that it’s dangerous to jump to conclusions.”
He instilled his voice with tenderness. “And, Lila?”

“Yes?”

“I know you’re upset, so drive carefully,” he cautioned gently. “That Vespa should
only go so fast over mountain roads.”

After promising to arrive in one piece, I printed out T. J. West’s first three chapters,
synopsis, and a copy of his original email. I then rushed out to Vicky’s desk and
asked her to look up the writer’s address.

“It’ll have to wait until I finish my current task. Ms. Burlington-Duke would like
me to make a few phone calls for her.” Vicky gave a satisfied tug to her charcoal
gray cardigan.

Her self-possession rattled me. “Those phone calls can wait. This writer might be
a murderer. He may very well have killed two women. Wives and mothers. So I need that
address and I need it now.” I was practically snarling.

Vicky studied me for a second, swiveled in her chair, and pulled open a file cabinet
drawer. “His name?” Her tone was calm and even.

“T. J. West.”

Her nimble fingers raced over meticulously labeled manila folders. She withdrew one
and, without opening it, handed it to me. “Thank you,” I said, shoving the folder
into my laptop case. “And I’m sorry for how I spoke to you just now. I feel helpless
and responsible and scared, like I have no control over anything.”

Vicky gave me such a warm smile that the tears I’d been desperately trying to hold
back nearly spilled onto my cheeks. “Don’t worry, dear. You just do what you need
to do.” She hesitated and then reached into a desk drawer and drew forth a stainless
steel flask. “I keep it for emergencies. Would you like a sip?”

I gaped in astonishment. Puritan Vicky, who wore starched blouses and orthopedic shoes,
who drank herbal tea and refused to eat complex carbs, who ran the agency with the
efficiency of a drill sergeant, kept a flask in her desk! The revelation forever endeared
her to me and I managed a weak smile before politely refusing her offer.

“Everyone has secrets,” I mumbled as I jogged down the steps and outside to where
my scooter was parked. I didn’t
know the extent of T. J. West’s secrets, but I knew that if anyone could unearth them
and expose them to the light, it was Officer Sean Griffiths.