Murder Actually (8 page)

 

Ex-husbands figured predominantly in my books. They were egocentric, manipulative and devilishly handsome. They made very good villains.

Grant was a good villain.

Grant had been one of the ‘good' bad boys at law school; the kind who drove a motorcycle and downed endless pints of beer while remaining on the law review and graduating
magna cum laude
. He swept me off my feet with his firm lips and blueberry-blue eyes and cotton polos. He was so handsome I couldn't believe any woman could look at him and not fall madly in love. We got married a few months later and were happy for almost three years.

That's when I caught him with Becky Stockton.

The divorce process itself was relatively painless since there were no children, and I was given the choice between the house we shared in Albany or the summer cottage in All Hallows. I chose the latter and began a new life for myself in the country.

I really had no desire to see Grant again, so wasn't prepared for his sudden appearance in my driveway. He was leaning against the driver's side, wearing a pair of Aviators and those jeans that could still make my heart race a bit. He moved to kiss my cheek, but I dodged at the last minute and he got a mouthful of hair. I was glad I hadn't washed it that morning.

“Hello, Betts, you're looking as stunning as ever.”

“Thanks. What do you want?”

He managed to look hurt. He was still handsome, and as I took in his chestnut hair and finely molded lower lip I felt the old pang in my chest. Better make the interview short.

“I wanted to see you, Betts. There's something I have to talk to you about.”

“Talk.”

“Please, it's important.”

I sighed and motioned towards the kitchen door. “Let's go inside.”

He followed me through and I turned on the coffeepot. He glanced around the warm gold walls and colorfully painted pottery. “The place really looks great, Betts, you were always clever with decorating.”

I raised a brow. Really? We were going to talk about my knack for decorating?

“What do you want, Grant?” I asked again.

He reached out a hand to pet Blue, who curled around his legs like a rub-grubbing traitor and then looked back up at me.

“I'm getting remarried.”

They say there's a spot on your neck where if someone hits you at just the right angle you can be paralyzed for life. I was pretty sure Grant had found that spot as I collapsed into a chair.

“Married? Why?” Before he could answer I plunged ahead. “You aren't good at marriage, Grant. You're a disaster. You're a
Titanic
of marital folly…a
Hindenburg
of wedded recklessness…an
Exxon Valdez
of conjugal madness…”

“Now, Betts,” he said soothingly. “Don't get yourself worked up. Our marriage was like oil and water.”

“Our marriage would have been fine if you hadn't screwed around.”

He ran a hand through his thick hair. “I told you, that was all a misunderstanding.”

“Really? What part did I misunderstand? The part where you and Becky Stockton were rolling around on your desk or the part where her tongue was rammed down your throat?”

“She kissed me!”

“You kissed her back.”

“Look, it was a really bad time for us. I know how upset you were about the baby…”

I held up my hand. “Are you blaming me?” I asked quietly.

“I'm not blaming at all! I'm just saying I'm sorry… about everything. I'm sorry about Becky and the baby…” His expression softened. “I'm really sorry about the baby, Betts.”

I felt tears gather somewhere and a hard lump in my throat.

The baby…

… my baby.

I cleared my throat. “Who is she?”

“Who?”

“Your fiancée, your beloved, your betrothed…”

He looked relieved. “Oh, right. Her name's Ainsley Adams. She's a reporter for the
Albany Sun
. You're going to love her, Betts.”

Men always said crap like that. I went over and put away the coffee mugs. We would
not
be having coffee.

“I'm not going to love her, because I'm never going to meet her. And Ainsley is a surname by the way.”

“Oh yes, you'll meet her,” Grant said confidently. “She's here in All Hallows.”

“Why?”

“Your town is big news. There've been two murders here, and Ainsley's been assigned to do a special report on violence in the sticks.”

I got up and opened the kitchen door. “Good for her. I'm sure she'll break the case wide open. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get ready for the Bracebridge Festival.”

Grant looked hurt, but I managed to push him out the door and leaned my forehead against the cool glass.

I didn't have time to deal with Grant.

I had
thirty pies to judge.

 

 

 

When I first moved to All Hallows I had the misguided notion that since I lived in the country I should know how to cook. This idea was reinforced by my agent, Paula, who told me readers expected the ‘Queen of Dessert Romances' to be able to at least make chocolate chip cookies without involvement of the local fire department. What they didn't expect, she said, was a lactose intolerant divorc
é
e in her late thirties who was lousy in the kitchen.

Point taken.

I immediately went to the baking supply store in Albany and spent a small fortune on muffin pans, loaf pans, Bundt pans, tart pans and double broilers. I struggled home with my purchases and spent the rest of the day poring over cookbooks, convinced the only thing standing between me and culinary expertise was practice, practice, and practice.

I was wrong. The only thing standing between me and culinary expertise was me, me, me.

I can't cook.

No, really. I know some people say that and the next thing you know they're whisking up half a dozen eggs and pulling an amazing flan from the oven. That's not me.

I really can't cook. Unless you count pouring a glass of white wine as preparing a meal (which, let's face it, I do), my culinary arts are limited to the preparation of mac n' cheese from the blue box, sandwiches on toast, and Twinkies on toothpicks (toothpicks optional).

I did my best to expand my repertoire, but after nightmarish weeks of burnt cake, blackened cookies and lumpy dough, I was forced to conclude I really couldn't cook.

Fortunately, I happened to be friends with one of the best bakers in North America. Julia Berry is a sensational cook. The things she could do with peanut butter and chocolate were just not right. When I wrote my first book,
The Tuesday Morning Brownie Club
, I consulted with Julia to ensure the recipe I'd chosen for Cherry Cheesecake Brownies could entice a man into bed. (It worked: Todd Alexander, Austin Romance Book Convention, 2008). Ever since then I've consulted with Julia for a thumbs-up or thumbs-down on my recipes. I feel slightly guilty for deceiving my fans regarding my alleged culinary prowess, but Paula assures me my books sell based solely on the brilliance of my writing.

Naturally, I'm inclined to believe her.

Over the years, Julia has been amused by my alleged baking skills, but when the Bracebridge Planning Committee asked me to judge the annual All Hallows Pie Contest, her pert little nose was out of joint.

“It's only pie, Julia,” I said soothingly. “You know you're more of a cake girl, anyway.”

She conceded the truth of my statement, but when I was asked to judge for a second year in a row she told me I was living a lie and she hoped I'd die from food poisoning.

I hadn't given her curse much thought, but when I arrived at the Bracebridge Festival that afternoon I felt there might be something to it. The part about food poisoning, anyway.

I never thought I'd say this, but it was too hot for pie.

The sun streamed between the rows of boxwood and foxglove, and the heat combined with the rain earlier in the day produced an atmosphere like a moldering hothouse. I wiped my brow and glanced around the festival grounds. Stalls crowded along the perimeter of the park offered homemade jams and jellies, organic honey, personalized infant sweaters, Native American wind catchers, wooden toys, gourmet dog biscuits, knitted tea cozies, fresh sweetcorn and used books. St. Anne's was hosting its annual rummage sale, and I watched two energetic old ladies wrestle over a dingy mauve cardigan.

I bought a hearth rug decorated with rabbits and weathervanes, and a pot of strawberry rhubarb jam. By the time I finished shopping my dress had bunched and creased in unattractive ways and I felt dangerously close to melting as I walked across the field to the refreshment tent.

Inside was even worse. There wasn't a breath of air in the space, which was redolent of turkey sandwiches, body odor, and stale perfume. I got a glass of iced tea and gingerly sat down on one of the warm plastic chairs. As I fanned myself with a festival bulletin, I noticed Marshall and Bootsie crossing the field. I tried to slink down in my chair but it was too late.

“Elspeth!” Bootsie yelled and waved her hand. “Marshall told me about your agent! I'm so freakin' excited!”

I smiled at her wanly as they approached. “I'll call next Monday, Bootsie. In the meantime, why don't you get together your first three chapters and make sure they're perfect? It would help if you wrote a synopsis, too, of…what was it,” I swallowed bravely. “
Of Demon Bondage
?”

“You remembered!”

I didn't have the heart to tell her no one could forget such an awful title as she continued.

“It's ready! Seriously, it can't get any better. When Marshall told me the good news I even went back and did a bit of editing. I added two more love scenes, including one in a hot tub which was kinda tricky since I wasn't sure where the arms and legs went. Luckily, Marshall was there to help me figure it out.”

Marshall's expression of beaming congeniality slipped a bit at such a public disclosure, but he quickly rallied.

“You did all the work, sweetie,” he said happily.

“Yes, I know. Anyway, I've put in a few tweaks here and there but it's finally ready. I've always thought paranormal erotica and bondage go hand-in-hand, don't you?”

As there was no possible reply to this question I turned to Marshall. “Thanks again for your help at the bank.”

“No problem, Elspeth. Chief Liddell arrived a few minutes after you'd gone. He said he was sorry he missed you.”

I bet he was, I thought. “I'm sure I'll catch up with him later.”

Marshall smiled again. “Yes, that's what he said.”

Bootsie led Marshall away, and he cast a wry smile and gave me a thumbs-up sign. “Fortune favors the brave,” he called out over his shoulder. I smiled back, but I was pretty sure fortune favored those not introducing Bootsie Spright to their agent.

I finished my drink and left the refreshment tent.

Whoever said music was the food of love obviously never heard Sissy G and the Wailers play the All Hallows Bracebridge Festival. I couldn't conceive of sounds less likely to induce romantic notions, although a number of couples had dutifully taken the dance floor and swayed to the screeches from Sissy's violin. I saw most of All Hallows had come out for the festival, and I observed my fellow townsfolk with a writer's eye: the curmudgeon, the spinster, the misanthrope, the wealthy merchant, the malcontent, the amateur detective…I noticed Julia standing by a grove of hostas and waved her over.

She came running up looking sweet and cool in a baby blue sundress. “Do you have any new leads?”

I nodded. “Let's find a seat.”

We found a park bench and I told her about the gun and the blackmail note. When I finished Julia observed me in admiration. “Wow, Betts, you really are a detective! Just like Ms. Weebles!”

I ignored the last part of her statement. “The blackmailer obviously thinks Jasper Ware was a hack, but why? Because he wrote mysteries? It doesn't make sense. And if we assume the manuscript in the box was Jasper's new book, why should he hide it? And why is it handwritten? Jasper told me he only used a typewriter for his books.”

“Maybe he did both,” Julia suggested. “Typing and writing?”

“I don't think so. Once you start typing you wouldn't go back to writing. It takes too long and hurts your hand.” I shook my head. “Jasper mentioned solving a real life mystery, and I have a feeling he was trying to discover the identity of his blackmailer. Maybe he already had and that's why he was killed. But I keep coming back to that dagger. I mean an antique dagger! It's surreal. Why would anyone take a dagger to a book reading?”

Julia grinned. “Maybe they read one of your books?”

“Not judging by my royalties.”

“Maybe someone hid the dagger earlier in the day?”

I shook my head. “Again, why? If the murder was premeditated and someone wanted to kill Jasper, why would they wait until there was a big crowd and why would they use a dagger?”

“Poetic justice?” Julia suggested. “So the crime would look like Jasper's book?”

“It still doesn't make sense. Alex Ware collects antique weaponry, but the police haven't found anything missing from his collection and his fingerprints weren't on the weapon. And then there's our client. Nora claims she gave that scarf away but what if she's lying? What if she and Alex were having an affair and he killed Jasper and she killed Violet? The only problem there is that Nora's housekeeper would have to be in on it too, and would have to be lying about the alibi. That seems like a lot of people to keep quiet. I just don't know what to think.”

I sat back and looked over the grounds of the Bracebridge Festival, deeply troubled. I was sure that somewhere in the crowd of shiny, happy faces was a double murderer.

“Well, well, look at the two roses in the thorns.”

I grimaced. Grant's compliments always sounded awkward, as if someone was paying him to say them.

“We don't grow roses in All Hallows; the soil has too much clay,” I said shortly.

“A milkweed in your case then, Betts.”

Grant turned to the woman at his side and pulled her forward. “Ainsley Adams, this is my ex-wife, Elspeth Gray, and her friend and my colleague, Julia Berry. Julia does public relations work for Essex. Girls, this is Ainsley.”

We regarded each other intently. I saw a young girl in her mid-twenties, her blonde hair shaped into a bob and her make-up what you would expect from someone on television. I couldn't imagine what she saw when she looked at me. My country wardrobe of twinsets and tweeds, which had seemed so classical and elegant, now seemed dowdy and old-fashioned in comparison to her sleek sheath dress. It didn't help matters that she had a glass of something sparkling and cool in her hand, and I almost licked my lips as I watched the sweat run off the glass.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Elspeth,” she cooed sweetly. “Grant's told me so much about you.”

I rather doubted Grant and Ainsley spent their free time talking about me, but I reluctantly accepted her pathetic little handshake. I hated limp shakers; they made me want to grind their bones to make my bread.

“Grant tells me you write romance books,” she continued. “I'm afraid I don't have much time for fiction, but I'll be on the look-out for yours next time I'm at the library.”

Great, I thought, I'll tell Paula you want to read my books for free.

She shook Julia's hand and we stood admiring the view of the hostas.

“Are you enjoying your stay in All Hallows?” Julia asked.

“I'm actually here on business, and Grant was kind enough to offer to accompany me. I'm reporting on your little murders, Elspeth.”

The way she said ‘your little murders' got me riled.

Julia must have read my mind. “It's quite a big deal here,” she said frostily. “Elspeth and I are investigating the case.”

I could have cheerfully strangled my best friend as Grant choked into his drink and Ainsley looked at us with her big, blue eyes.

“Oh yes, are you detectives?”

I felt myself flush with anger and hoped I didn't look as hot as I felt. “We are private investigators,” I said firmly. “Now, where did you get that wine?”

She looked at me and smiled. “Grant had the foresight to pack a bottle. It's out in the car. Grant, darling,” she batted her eyelashes up at him. “Can you be a dove and get Elspeth a glass?”

“Don't bother; I don't really like white wine.”

Julia suppressed an exclamation of surprise and Grant observed me in amazement. “Since when?”

“Since our divorce,” I shot back at him.

He didn't respond and Ainsley gave a delicate cough. “It must be so exciting to be both a writer and a detective.”

“You have no idea.”

“Do you have any leads I can use for my news program?”

I shook my head. “Sorry, everything I have is privileged information.”

Ainsley pouted beautifully and Grant was reproachful. “Don't you have any information you can share, Betts?”

“Sorry, not for the press, no comment. I see someone I really need to talk to, if you'll excuse us? C'mon Julia,” I grabbed my friend and hustled her away.

“That was rude, Betts,” she said reproachfully.

I agreed as we headed for Alex Ware. “I know, but as you're so fond of pointing out, we're in the middle of a murder investigation.”

I approached Alex and adopted a sympathetic expression. “I'm so sorry for your loss.”

He shook my hand and nodded. “Of course, poor Jasper…and Violet. It's unbelievable something like this could've happened here. I don't know if you remember my wife,” he pushed Coco forward. “M'dear, this is Elspeth Gray.”

“I know who she is, Alex. I'm not likely to forget the book reading.”

Alex looked uncomfortable. “Where are my manners? Let me get you some drinks.”

He hurried away, and I left Julia and Coco to follow him to the refreshment tent.

“Alex, did you meet Jasper upstairs the night of the book reading?”

He regarded me in astonishment. “How did you know about that?”

“Nora has hired Julia and me to investigate the murders.”

Alex shook his head and sighed. “Nora should stop wasting her money and let the police do their job.”

I decided to show him Nora wasn't wasting a dime. “Bootsie Spright said she saw you go upstairs that night at Inkwell.”

Alex nodded. “Yes, as I've told the police, I went upstairs to talk to Jasper.”

“Did you send him a note?”

His brow wrinkled. “A note?”