Scotched (19 page)

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Authors: Kaitlyn Dunnett

BOOK: Scotched
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“Yvonne? Or Bill. Because if this is about that gum wrapper again—”
“It's not. That is, I wasn't thinking of that.” She hesitated. “Maybe it is.”
“Uh-huh.” Either way, this wasn't the time or place to discuss it. Giving Angie a friendly wave, Sherri strong-armed Liss out of the bookstore, across the street, and into the town square.
“Don't you want to hear what I found out?” Liss asked as Sherri hustled her along the now-deserted path.
“I suspect you're going to tell me whether I want you to or not.” Sherri was resigned to the inevitable.
Once they were inside Liss's cozy, inviting kitchen, Liss started talking, first sharing the theory Gordon had confided to her, along with her reasons for rejecting Nola as either murderess or suicide, and then revealing what she'd just discovered online and in her own library.
“You thought Yvonne killed both Jane and Nola so no one would find out she didn't write her own books?”
“Made sense to me.” Liss began to cobble together a meal out of leftovers.
“Only if you think killing the goose that lays the golden eggs makes sense. If you're right, then without Nola there would be no more Yvonne Quinlan novels.”
“She'll hire someone to replace Nola.”
“Using your logic, it makes more sense for Nola to have killed Jane. After all, if this ghostwriting thing came out, she'd lose a major source of income.”
Liss frowned.
“Besides, even supposing that Jane Nedlinger did reveal that Nola was the one who really wrote Yvonne's books, who would care? If they're good books, people will still buy them. Heck, throw in a little controversy and sales would probably skyrocket.”
“Yvonne's ego would take a hit. Did you hear her?” Liss popped a cube of cheese into her mouth.
“Sure. And she'd be just that ticked off if she really did write her own novels. It could be pure coincidence that Nola's writing seemed similar to you.” Sherri didn't say so aloud, but she was skeptical about Liss's ability to identify a writer's voice—whatever
that
was.
“Their styles aren't just similar, Sherri. The phrasing, the word choices ... it's just too big a coincidence for them not to have been written by the same person. And don't even suggest that Nola might have plagiarized something of Yvonne's. There would be too much chance she'd get caught and prosecuted, since Yvonne is famous and has been for years.”
“Still—”
But Liss stubbornly shook her head. “I read a lot, Sherri. The similarities are too striking to miss. I bet if you put Nola's book and one of Yvonne's into that computer program they used to try to determine if Shakespeare wrote some of the plays that scholars weren't sure were his, you could prove the probability is too high for two separate individuals to have written Nola's book and the Toni Starling series.”
Sherri held up a hand. “Wait a sec. Who's Toni Starling?”
“The detective in Yvonne's—I mean Nola's—novels. Do you want something to eat?” She gestured toward the food she'd set out on the table.
Sherri didn't even look at the offerings. “No, thanks. I've got to leave in a minute. Adam will be wondering where I am. Pete, too,” she added, and couldn't help but smile at the thought. She did enjoy having a husband to go home to. Then she jerked her thoughts back to Liss's accusations against Yvonne Quinlan. “Don't try to distract me. Lacking the scholarly software, I'm going to go with common sense. Let's say you're right about the ghostwriting thing. It still seems highly unlikely to me that Yvonne Quinlan threw two women off Lover's Leap. Just look at the physical aspect. Yvonne might have been able to push Nola around, but she wouldn't have been able to budge a behemoth like Jane.”
“That's one of my arguments against Nola killing Jane,” Liss reminded her. “But what if Yvonne and Bill were in it together?” She settled in at her kitchen table and popped a grape into her mouth. The two cats miraculously appeared, one on each side of Liss's chair. Lumpkin rapped a paw against her thigh.
Sherri leaned back against the kitchen counter and tried to think of the best way to talk Liss out of doing anything foolish. Not an easy task! “There are easier ways to handle the threat of bad publicity than killing someone,” she said at last. “Bill Stotz is her business manager, right? Wouldn't the simplest route have been to threaten to sue Jane if she put the story online?”
Liss's mouth quirked into a rueful smile. “That was Stu's idea, too. At the MSBA meeting,” she added when Sherri sent her a questioning look. “Sue Jane to stop her blogging about me being a magnet for murder.” She winced at the sobriquet.
“Ah. Figures.”
“Someone pointed out that it's hard to sue before the fact, and after—well, it's too late then. The damage is done.”
“There are other legal options.”
“And no one took them. So, back to Bill. You did say you saw gum wrappers up at the Leap.”
“Spearmint,” Sherri said. The picture suddenly came clear in her mind—soggy green wrappers lying just off the trail.
“Bingo.” Liss stopped with a glass of orange juice halfway to her lips, eyes alight.
“I take it that's the kind Bill Stotz chews?”
“Yes. I'm sure of it. I smelled it on his breath.” She set the juice back down, untouched. “So that's it. Bill killed them.”
“You'd better hope he didn't,” Sherri said. “The way you were throwing accusations around, you may have made yourself his next target.”
Liss gave an uneasy laugh. “Then I guess I should hope I'm wrong, but I don't.”
“Right or wrong, you need to stay out of the investigation. Let Gordon do his job.” Sherri was well aware that she was repeating advice Liss had already heard more than once from Gordon himself. Still, maybe this time she'd listen.
“Gordon seems to be set on Nola as the villain.” Liss speared a chunk of cold chicken with her fork, looked at it more closely, and put it back down. What looked like congealed cream of mushroom soup clung to it, along with a few stray grains of white rice. “What if he isn't even looking at any other suspects?”
For herself, Sherri liked Gordon's theory. It wrapped things up in a neat little package. Aloud, she said only, “Gordon Tandy's a good cop, Liss. You know that. And he's not closed-minded.”
“Maybe you could steer him toward Bill—tell him that
you
found Nola's book online.”
Sherri didn't get a chance to reply. At that moment, the back door opened and Margaret Boyd rushed in. She was out of breath and flushed, as if she'd been running.
“Did you see the news?” Margaret gasped.
Sherri glanced at the clock. It was twenty minutes past five. The first of three local news broadcasts had run at five.
“I saw it at the hotel and came straight home.” Margaret looked close to tears. “This is terrible, Liss. Just terrible. We've got to do something about it.”
They trooped into the living room so that Liss could turn on the wide-screen television she'd bought herself as a Christmas present. They were in good time to catch the 5:30 report. They watched the camera zoom in on Yvonne Quinlan's tear-streaked but still beautiful face. “Poor Nola,” she sobbed—prettily. “She was a wonderful woman. A true devotee of the genre.”
Nothing so terrible there, Sherri thought as the camera panned, giving a nice bit of publicity to Angie's Books, before coming back to the reporter. Sherri had been out in the square at the time, riding herd on the last of Yvonne's black-clad fans.
“The state police detective in charge of the case refused to comment on camera,” the reporter stated. Behind him, Sherri caught a glimpse of The Spruces. “An official statement will be issued tomorrow. In the meantime, we have learned from other sources that this is the second suspicious death at the same location in as many days, and viewers will recall that the seemingly peaceful little village of Moosetookalook was recently the scene of several other murders.”
The spot ended and a close-up of the studio anchorman came on the screen. He lifted one expressive eyebrow at his female cohost. “Makes you wonder, doesn't it? Is there a real-life Cabot Cove in the Western Maine Mountains?”
Margaret buried her head in her hands.
Liss groaned aloud.
Sherri sighed and slipped quietly out of the house, heading home. A quiet evening with her son and her new husband was sounding better by the minute.
 
Liss's phone started to ring moments after Sherri left. She hung up on three reporters in a row and then let the fourth call go to the answering machine. In between interruptions, she gave her aunt the capsule version of her afternoon, ending with her confrontation with Yvonne and Bill at the bookstore.
Margaret said nothing, but her face creased into a deep frown.
“What?” Liss leaned forward in her chair, toward Margaret, who was seated on the sofa.
“I think you're right about that ghostwriting business. Do you remember that I told you how Nola lived all over the place before she returned to Maine? Well, she was in Vancouver for quite a while. She could easily have met Yvonne there. That's where her vampire series was shot.”
“Did Nola work in the film industry?”
“I don't know, but now that I'm thinking about it, she was always making up stories when she was young. Stands to reason she might have tried her hand at scriptwriting. And she must have had some connection to Yvonne. How else could she have gotten such a big name to come to her little conference?”
“Bill Stotz said he arranged it. Yvonne claimed she'd never met Nola before she arrived at the Cozy Con.”
“Now, I know that isn't true. I don't remember exactly what Nola said to me, when we were setting things up for the conference, but I got the distinct impression that she and Yvonne were already on friendly terms. Not bosom buddies or anything, but more than mere acquaintances.”
“That's what I thought, too.” Liss leaned back in her chair, arms folded across her chest. “So Yvonne lied to me. And it's clearly important to her to keep the ghostwriting secret. That means she might well have committed murder to hide the truth.”
“Does it have to be murder?” Margaret asked. She toyed with the thistle pendant she wore and avoided Liss's eyes. “Why couldn't Nola have fallen by accident, just as that Nedlinger woman did?”
“But Jane Nedlinger didn't just fall.” Liss repeated Gordon's theory that Nola had killed Jane and then committed suicide out of guilt over her crime.
“No,” Margaret said firmly. “No, that explanation won't wash. Nola put too much effort into this weekend not to see it through. Even being arrested in the middle of the conference would have been preferable to killing herself that way.”
“That's what I tried to tell Gordon.” She grimaced. “I also promised him that I'd let him handle things.”
“Well, you can't,” Margaret said. “No matter how much better a verdict of murder/suicide might be for the town and the hotel, the truth needs to come out. I owe Nola that much for talking her into coming here in the first place.”
“Finding out that Bill and Yvonne did it wouldn't be a bad outcome,” Liss mused. “At least they aren't local people.”
Margaret switched her attention to the fringe on the sofa cushion. “It's the local people I'm worried about.”
“You aren't seriously suggesting that either Doug or Stu was responsible for Nola's death? We've known both of them forever.”
At Margaret's stricken look, Liss could have bitten her tongue. Anyone could kill. They both had reason—more reason than she liked to think about—to know that. But she couldn't apologize for her thoughtless words. That would only make matters worse. Instead, she expanded on her reasoning.
“Nola left Moosetookalook a long time ago. Doug has a new wife and a son. Stu just isn't the type to hold a grudge that long. He loses his temper, explodes, and then it's over.”
But that image bothered her. What if he'd exploded up at Lover's Leap? At Nola?
When the phone rang again, both women jumped. Liss grimaced as she listened to the message—another demand for an interview. Muttering to herself, she went from room to room, unplugging every extension in the house. For good measure, she burrowed in her purse for her cell and turned that off, too.
By the time Liss returned to the living room, Margaret had pulled herself together. “You're right, Liss,” she said. “Neither Doug nor Stu would have any reason to want to kill Nola now. And, of course, neither one of them knew Jane Nedlinger. But someone committed murder, and I want that person caught and punished. I want Nola's name cleared. And if Gordon Tandy isn't looking in the right place, then we have to help him.”

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