The Readaholics and the Gothic Gala (8 page)

“I think he was here specifically for the Celebration of Gothic Novels.” She wrinkled her nose as a particularly sharp odor drifted from the composter, then shut the hatch with a thud. “You said he was at all of the events. That's what he came for.”

“What's what he came for?”

“Something—or someone—involved with the festival.” She gazed at me unblinking from behind her glasses, which were speckled with tiny mulch bits. “The timing is too coincidental otherwise. Think about it: Stranger comes to town, attends three events associated with the gothic festival, and then is killed by someone not tied into the festival? Uh-uh. I'll bet you next month's heating bill that it's all related to Gemma's shindig.”

“You don't bet.”

“True.” She smiled, her teeth dazzling against her dark complexion. “I'm still right.” Grabbing the wheelbarrow's handles, she trundled it back toward a shed. I
picked up the pitchfork and followed. Misty had disappeared. “We need to talk to the people in town for the festival, the authors.”

I thought about reminding her that the police were on the case, but I knew she felt irrationally guilty because her spike had been the murder weapon, so I merely said, “Who do you want to start with?”

W
e decided to start with Maud Bell, since she had an in with Constance Aldringham and her family. Maud endorsed both Lola's analysis and her plan to talk to the visiting authors.

“You know Sandy sets out munchies and has a little happy hour at the Columbine every evening at six,” Maud reminded me when I called. “It's really for guests, but Merle invited me and Joe for tonight. Joe left this morning for Costa Rica to photograph spider monkeys, so why don't you and Lola come along? As much business as you throw Sandy's way, I know she won't mind giving you a handful of peanuts and a glass of wine. We can casually work Van Allen into the conversation and see how people respond.” Her voice rang with enthusiasm.

I felt a little uncomfortable crashing Sandy's happy hour, so I called her to make sure it was okay. She said she was happy to have us, but Lola insisted on bringing a bottle of wine anyway, even though she doesn't drink. I picked up a Chianti at the liquor store while Lola cleaned up, and then we met Maud outside the Columbine. Maud looked a tad chicer than usual in a silvery gray knit tunic that set off her silver, white, and gray
hair to perfection. She wore it over slim black slacks and looked like a model for a senior living magazine. I wondered if the extra effort was for Merle.

We climbed the B and B's steps, three abreast, and I fought the urge to link elbows and compare us to Charlie's Angels. We really needed Brooke to be the Angels, though, since she looked so much like a young Jaclyn Smith. Actually, since there weren't any black Angels or senior citizen Angels over the course of the show's run, I needed to think of another trio of sleuths we could be. Unfortunately, the only trios that came to mind were the Three Stooges and the Kingston Trio. Since I didn't plan to break into song or poke anyone in the eyes, they didn't seem apropos. I puzzled over it for a minute, thinking that as many mysteries as I read, I should be able to come up with a crime-solving trio, but they were all duos (Nick and Nora, Rizzoli and Isles, Elvis Cole and Joe Pike) or hard-core loners.

I let go of that train of thought as Maud pushed the door open. A muted babble of conversation greeted us, coming from the parlor where I'd seen Constance and Allyson the other day.

“Let's do it,” Maud whispered, taking the lead and striding into the room. Lola and I followed in her wake.

The small room felt crowded. Bottles of liquor and wine sat on the wheeled cart where the coffee urn had been the other day. The garnet-colored drapes were half-drawn, framing a rectangle of twilight, and sconces provided a warm glow. An Aubusson rug (or reproduction) cushioned the hardwood floors underfoot and made the room feel cozier. What looked like all of the
inn's guests were assembled for free drinks, chatting in twosomes and threesomes: The Aldringham family had one corner staked out, Francesca Bugle and Mary Stewart chatted with the movie producer, and Lucas Stewart poured himself a hefty tot of bourbon before returning to a conversation with Sandy.

“Maudie!” Merle caught sight of her immediately (almost as if he'd been on the lookout) and came forward to kiss her cheek.

“Joe's off to Costa Rica,” she said, “so I brought Amy-Faye and Lola along. I think they want to hear stories about our activities at Berkeley.”

Merle looked uneasy, which made me want to hear about what had gone on at Berkeley.

Everyone murmured hellos and Sandy beckoned us toward the drinks trolley. “You didn't need to do that,” she said, taking the wine bottle Lola proffered, “but thanks. It won't go to waste. Who knew authors drank so much?” she whispered to me as Lola helped herself to a ginger ale and joined Maud with the Aldringham clan. “Although I will say that reading Constance's latest book almost drove me to drink. What dreck! I didn't make it past the second chapter. Give me a good biography any day.” She tidied up the bottles, and said, “Stick around as long as you'd like—I've got to check on Dave. He's got a nasty cold, and you know how men get. Two sneezes and a cough and they're acting like they've got bubonic plague.” We laughed and she bustled away, holding an empty bottle by its neck.

Pouring myself a scant glass of white wine, I edged toward the group made up of Francesca Bugle, Mary
Stewart, and the movie producer, who was holding forth about his upcoming release. He was dressed all in black again, trendy glasses pushed up on his head. He held a tall glass with the remnants of a gunky green smoothie coating the sides. I tried to dredge up his name—it was something weird that started with a
C
. Casper? Cuba? Cosmo! Cosmo Zeller. Mary greeted me with a smile and Francesca edged over to make room for me.

“—ad placement on
The Walking Dead
,
Grimm
,
Gotham
—just fifteen-second spots to whet viewers' appetites. You'll start seeing them next week. Just tell me if they don't make you jump!”

When he paused to slurp down the last bit of his smoothie, Francesca said, “The casting is almost complete on
Barbary Close
.”

“Unfortunately,” Cosmo jumped in, “Jennifer Lawrence had a prior commitment, so we're still looking for our Avalon. That casting will be crucial to the movie's success. Avalon's got to be beautiful and innocent, but with a core of steel.” He wrapped the fingers of his right hand around his clenched left fist, to demonstrate the core of steel. “Young girls identify with her. You”—he nodded graciously at Francesca—“have the soul of a twenty-two-year-old to be able to make Avalon so real.”

“Well, I was twenty-two once,” Francesca laughed. She wore another hat tonight; this one was royal blue with three little feathers sticking up from one side.

Mary's expression said,
Not recently
, although she didn't verbalize it.

“We're thinking about filming right here in your
quaint little town,” Cosmo said, looking at me. “The gazebo by the lake, the downtown district, the mountains—all of it says ‘Barbary Close' to me. We'll cast some of the locals as extras, put this town on the map.”

He clearly expected me to applaud or at least gush, but all I said was, “Sounds like a good thing for the town.” Taking a deep breath, I used his comment to bring up the topic I was here to pursue. “I'm glad the murder Saturday night didn't make you think Heaven wasn't a suitable location. We have an extremely low crime rate. The victim wasn't from Heaven and I doubt his killer was, either, so I'm sure there's no reason not to film the movie here.”

There was dead silence for a full fifteen seconds in our little circle. Cosmo stared into the dregs of his smoothie, Francesca worked her lips in and out, and Mary fingered a strand of her red hair. She finally asked, “So the police have identified that poor man, the one who was murdered?”

Nodding, I said, “Trent Van Allen. Did you know him?”

She reared back. “Me? Of course not. Why would I know him?”

Without answering, I looked from Francesca to Cosmo. “How about you?”

“I don't even know why you'd ask that,” Francesca said, pulling her chin back so she looked like a turtle and giving me a frosty look.

I blinked disingenuously. “Well, he was from out of town and he went to all the book events, so I thought he might be connected to one of you.”

“You mean like a deranged fan stalking one of us?” Mary asked, casting a look over her shoulder as if expecting to see a dark figure advancing on her with a raised butcher knife.

“Possibly,” I said.

“I've already got that batty Hufnagle woman following me around,” Mary said. “I think that fills my quota of deranged stalkers. The murdered guy must have been following you.” She smiled sweetly at Francesca. “Or maybe Constance.”

“A deranged fan,” Cosmo mused. “If we spin it right, that could drum up a lot of free publicity for the movie. Too bad he didn't break into your house, or attack you.”

Francesca, Mary, and I shared a look, totally in accord for the moment. “‘Too bad'?” Francesca asked tartly. “‘Too
bad
'?”

“Oh, I wouldn't have wanted you to get hurt,” Cosmo backpedaled quickly, holding up a defensive hand. “I only meant—”

“Come to think of it,” Francesca said slowly, “someone did break into my room here.”

“What?” Mary squeaked. “And you didn't say anything?”

Cosmo Zeller took advantage of the opportunity to edge away, holding his glass up as if he was going in search of a refill.

“When?” I asked.

Francesca shrugged. “I didn't notice anything missing, so it didn't seem worth making a fuss about. It was Saturday sometime. When I got back from the high school, I knew someone had been going through my things.”

Saturday. That was when I'd seen Van Allen skulking around the inn.

“It was probably housekeeping,” Mary said dismissively.

Francesca shook her head. “No, because the maid hadn't been in yet. My bed still wasn't made up and I didn't have fresh towels.”

Sandy had a couple of college girls who helped her with the cleaning on weekends when the inn was full.

“I know I locked my door when I left to go to Book Bliss, but it was unlocked when I got back. And the things in my tote, where I keep my notebooks, research files, and laptop, had been disarranged.”

“Jewelry?” Mary stroked the moonstone necklace circling her neck.

“Didn't bring any.”

“You should tell Sandy, and maybe the police,” I said.

Francesca gave me a world-weary look. “Hon, the police aren't going to get excited about a break-in where nothing was stolen. They've got better things to do—like catch whoever killed that Van Alston guy.”

“Van Allen,” I said. “Trent Van Allen.”

“That was the dead guy's name?” Without my realizing it, Lucas Stewart had come up behind us. Now he looped an arm over his sister's shoulders and gave us all a smile. I wondered if he knew how devastatingly sexy it was the way his eyes crinkled the tiniest bit at the corners.

I nodded. “Did you know him?” I asked, knowing his answer in advance.

“Never saw him before Saturday,” he said.

“You saw him?” Mary slipped out from under his arm and stared at him.

“Heck, yeah. He was all over the place. He asked a question about pen names at the panel thingie in the morning, and he was seated on the far right of the auditorium during the auction. He didn't bid on anything, though. Then, I noticed him at the costume ball. Well, I mean, he was damn noticeable, being the only one not in costume.”

“You've very observant,” I said.

“Have to be, in my line of work,” he said.

“Which is?” I tried to guess what Lucas did for a living. I ruled out the obvious, like underwear model and soap opera actor, since I couldn't see that those would require any observational skills.

“I'm a bodyguard.”

I blinked at him and Francesca said, “Well, I never!”

He grinned, pleased to have startled us. “Yep. I'm between jobs at the moment, and thought I'd tag along with Mary on this tour after what happened in Birmingham.”

“Fat lot of good you've been,” Mary said, clearly irritated. “Where were you when I got into it with Eloise Saturday night? Too busy flirting with anyone stupid enough to give you one iota of encouragement.”

The glance she threw at Allyson Aldringham made it perfectly clear whom she was talking about. Mary was clearly one of those sisters who took a somewhat proprietary interest in her brother's romantic life. I grinned to myself at the idea of being jealous of any of
my brother Derek's hapless girlfriends. Of course, he went through them quicker than an allergy sufferer went through Kleenex during ragweed season, so I didn't even meet most of them. Come to think of it, my youngest sister, Natalie, had gotten into it once with Derek when he took a girl she didn't like to a friend's wedding. Maybe the jealousy was a younger sister–older brother thing.

Lucas gave his sister a darkling look. “Mare, we talked about this—”

“Do you carry a gun?” Francesca interrupted.

“Sometimes,” Lucas said. To forestall Francesca frisking him, he said, “I'm not carrying now. This assignment didn't seem to warrant it. Besides, these hands”—he held them up—“are lethal weapons.”

He smiled and I couldn't tell if he was serious or making fun of himself. Before I could puzzle it out, something smashed through the window and glass went flying.

T
here was a loud thud, followed by the tinkle of glass falling like sharp rain. I caught my breath and put a hand over my eyes to shield them.

“Get down,” Lucas shouted. A couple of people dropped to a crouch. Merle Aldringham threw his arms around Maud to shield her, leaving his wife to fend for herself. Hmm. Allyson grabbed a pillow from the sofa and held it up. Someone let out a strangled yelp. Lucas raced for the door, and his footsteps pounded toward the main door, which creaked open suddenly and slammed shut.

After a moment of silence, when nothing exploded or went up in flames, I straightened and edged forward to inspect the missile. Everyone quickly gathered around.

“A brick,” Constance said with disgust. “Hardly a threat to life and limb.” She eyed her husband, who had sheepishly let go of Maud.

“Really, Merle, I can take care of myself.” Maud laughed, shaking her top to scatter any glass slivers, and running her fingers through her hair. “Bricks aren't nearly as nasty as the tear gas canisters the police used to break up our Vietnam War demonstrations, or as lethal as the Kent State riot.”

“I'm bleeding,” Allyson announced, at the same time I spotted the note rubber banded to the brick. Lola used a napkin to stanch the trickle of blood on Allyson's hand, and I nudged the brick over with my foot. I read it aloud. “‘You won't get away with it.'”

“Who is ‘you' and what is ‘it'?” Maud asked. “I hate sloppily used pronouns with unclear antecedent references.”

“It's got to be Eloise,” Mary said, looking a little pale.

Sandy arrived, drawn by the commotion probably, and took in the situation with one quick glance. “I'm calling the police.”

Before she could dial, Lucas strode back in, breathing hard. “I couldn't catch him. I heard running footsteps, and I took off after him, but he got away in a car. I wasn't close enough to get the license, or even the make.” He smacked a fist into his palm in frustration.

“Or her,” Mary said. “Oh, Lucas, it had to be Eloise.”

His eyes narrowing, he said, “If so, she's escalating. The fake blood was a nuisance, but this—that brick could have hurt someone.”

It hardly seemed possible, but he was even sexier when he was worried and intense.

Mary wrapped her arms around herself. “Oh, do you think she's trying to kill me? Is my life in danger?” She shivered.

I couldn't help but think she was overdoing the melodrama a bit. Apparently, Maud agreed.

“If so,” Maud observed drily, “she's the least competent assassin ever. She threw a brick through the
window, for heaven's sake; she didn't spray the room with an AK-47.”

“The police are on their way,” Sandy announced. “Let's move into the breakfast room—I don't want anyone cutting themselves on all this glass.”

I didn't know if she was more worried about people dripping blood on her expensive rugs or of getting sued.

She made herding motions and we all trooped across the hall into the pretty wainscoted breakfast room with the antique buffet, six square tables already set for tomorrow's breakfast, and long windows hung with gold velvet drapes. Lucas immediately crossed to the windows and drew the drapes across them. It looked like he was taking his bodyguard duties a little more seriously. Sandy, eyeing her variously nervous, irritated, and unsettled guests, ducked out of the dining room and returned minutes later with the drinks trolley. Constance, Merle, Lucas, Mary, and Francesca dove for it. I still had my original glass of wine, but I set it down and helped myself to a bottled water. Lola was refilling her ginger ale and asked in a low voice, “Do you think the note is about the murder?”

I shrugged. “I don't know. Could be. Or it could be about the manuscript-theft lawsuit, like Mary thinks.”

“Or something else entirely,” Lola said.

A young female HPD officer I'd never met arrived before we could hash it out any further. I wondered if she was new—she might be the replacement for Officer Ridgway, who had supplemented his department paycheck by selling information on HPD activities. She
earnestly inspected the brick and wrote down what we had to say about the incident. Bagging the note, she suggested Sandy put plywood over the broken window for the night, told us to call if anything else happened, and left. Sandy disappeared in search of a whisk broom to clean up the glass, and I held the dustpan while she brushed stuff in. We discussed an upcoming sorority reunion she was hosting, and I agreed to come over on Saturday morning to help her plan the event. Lola, Maud, and I left as soon as the police officer drove away.

“Ice cream?” I suggested as we stood on the walkway. I hadn't even finished one drink; I figured I deserved a little indulgence. I was pretty sure I had nothing edible in my fridge, so the ice cream could be dinner.

“You're on,” Maud said. “We can do a debrief.”

“We're not in MI5,” Lola said, chuckling. “But I'm up for a strawberry fro yo. Why don't we try that new yogurt place where Allenby's used to be?”

We rendezvoused at the yogurt place, a small storefront on the edge of the downtown district, squashed between a Western boutique called West of Eden and a Thai restaurant. On a Monday at dinnertime, we were the only customers in the brightly lit and tiled place. Our footsteps echoed. I filled my cup with a blend of coffee and chocolate yogurts and topped it with Heath pieces and chocolate sauce. If you're going to indulge, might as well go whole hog, right? Lola stuck with strawberry yogurt and fresh fruit, while Maud indulged in a key lime yogurt with gummies and
crumbled animal crackers. When we had weighed the yogurt and paid up, we went back outside to one of the three metal tables arranged on the sidewalk. It was a clear, quiet evening, without much traffic. The aroma of coconut and curry drifted from Lanna Thai. There was a definite nip in the air now that it was dark, and I was glad for the drapey gray sweater I'd pulled on before going to the Columbine.

“I'll start,” Maud announced.

No surprise there—Maud was never shy about offering an opinion, an observation, or a comment.

“The Aldringham household is one unhappy place,” she said, licking a bit of green yogurt from her upper lip. “In a way, it's a study in how time exaggerates our dominant characteristics, I think.” She sounded a little melancholy.

“How so?” Lola asked.

Maud gave it some thought, knitting her brow. “Well, Merle always was a persuadable guy, the kind of guy who went along to get along. Now it's almost as if he's so in the habit of doing whatever Constance wants that there's not much Merle left. I have a feeling that chatting with me is the first rebellious thing he's done in many years, and that's not much of a rebellion, heaven knows.

“He worked in an accounting firm the first ten years or so after they got married, but it sounds like when Constance hit the big time, he quit. He says he's day-trading now.”

“That can be really hard on a marriage,” Lola observed. “When one partner is totally dependent on the other.”

“Especially when the ‘other' is Constance Aldringham,” Maud said tartly. “When we were in college, she was always looking out for herself, only interested in a cause if there was something in it for her. She always had to be in charge, had to be the center of attention. Now she's a black hole sucking in everything that comes within her gravitational pull.”

I raised my brows. “That sounds a bit . . . harsh.”

Maud gave a wry grin. “You're right. I'm just angry on Merle's behalf, and on Allyson's. Have you heard the way she talks to that girl? When they were at our place Saturday night, it was ‘Allyson simply can't hold a job' and ‘All of Allyson's friends have their own places now, but she's simply not ready,' with the girl sitting right there. She's so dismissive and hurtful, it makes me want to pop her.” She paused and worked her jaw from side to side. “We used to be friends.”

Lola put a hand on Maud's arm. “Friendships run their course.”

“Looking at them makes me wonder which of my qualities has become more prominent as I've aged,” Maud said.

“Your independent spirit,” I put in before she could come up with something negative.

“Your passion for making a difference in the world,” Lola said.

“Thanks,” Maud said with a grateful smile. “I have done my part to keep our local government and business folks honest with my blog.” She twitched, as if to shake off her unusually reflective mood, and said, “Now, that Allyson . . . Merle hinted that she's got issues.”

“What kind?” I asked, crunching on a large chunk of Heath candy.

“He wasn't very clear on that. I got the feeling she'd maybe been in trouble with the law, but I could be wrong.”

“Drugs?” I asked.

“Possibly. Or it might just have been that she never finished her degree and can't hold a job. She's been living at home and working as Constance's personal assistant for over a year now, Merle said. She was involved with some unsuitable guy, and when that went bust, she moved back in.”

“Not so unusual these days,” Lola said. “Lots of the middle-aged folks who come to Bloomin' Wonderful talk about having their kids move back home after college. It's hard for kids to find jobs these days, to get on their feet. That's why I'm so happy Axie is working for you, Amy-Faye. I think having some work experience under her belt will give her a head start. Not to mention that it helps her understand the value of a dollar.”

“Not much these days,” Maud groused. “You know the Washington pols and the bankers are like this”—she entwined two fingers—“and they're conspiring to set policies that disadvantage—”

A car with a bad muffler rumbled past, drowning her out. I jumped in before she could get into full spate. “Francesca said someone broke in to her room on Saturday afternoon. She said they didn't take anything, but she's sure someone went through her things.”

“That's strange. Maybe it was the maids,” Lola said.

“That's what Mary Stewart suggested.”

We ruminated on it for a moment, but when none of us could make anything of it, I said, “Did anyone react to the name Trent Van Allen? Did you get the feeling anyone knew him?”

Maud shook her head. “I didn't pick up on it if they did. I tossed the name out while all the Aldringhams and Lucas were standing there, and they all acted as if they'd never heard it. It's too bad we didn't have a photo to show them. Constance seemed to think Wallace Pinnecoose killed him—that they were up to some kind of financial hanky-panky together.” She blew a raspberry.

“And Merle seemed inclined to think it was a random murder,” Lola said.

“A serial killer who just happened across the stranger who just happened to be hanging out in Wallace's office?” I didn't try to hide my disbelief.

“I didn't say it made sense.” Lola smiled.

“There has to be a connection between Van Allen and someone involved with the gothic festival,” I said, frustrated. “It doesn't track otherwise.”

“Maybe the police have come up with something,” Lola said.

“Fat chance.”

Maud had little regard for “society's authorized forces of repression,” as she referred to anyone in a uniform. Well, maybe not Girl Scouts or flight attendants.

Lola stood. Stacking our empty yogurt cups together, she put the spoons inside them and carried them to
the trash can near the curb. “I've got to get going. I told Axie I'd pick her up from Thea's in ten minutes.”

“And I'm freezing,” I said, standing and rubbing my hands together. “I'll call Hart in the morning and see what he has to say about the brick.”

With quick hugs all around, we headed for our cars and home.