A Novel Death: a Danger Cove Bookshop Mystery (Danger Cove Mysteries Book 10) (10 page)

I hung up on that cheery note and then lowered my forehead to the desktop. My garbled message probably hadn't helped convince the detective that I was innocent, or even partly sane. I couldn't seem to help my reaction around the police. It was like how I always felt guilty when a cop car pulled up behind me, even if I wasn't speeding—but about a thousand times worse. I second-guessed every word that came out of my mouth as I was saying it and generally just made myself look guilty. He'd probably think my message was just an attempt to throw blame at other people so he'd stop investigating me.

A small crowd was browsing the store when I came out, but I noticed with dismay a good number of them seemed to be more interested in pestering Burt for details on Cal's murder than buying books.

"It wasn't technically in the store," he said, leading the half-dozen people toward the back of the store. "It was in the alley behind the store. Here's the true-crime section."

"Have there been other notorious murders in this town? It has the perfect name for it," one of the young women said. She had long dark hair pulled back into two severe braids, a la Wednesday Addams. Her fashion sense was about as grim too, with a long black sweater over a short black skirt and plum-colored tights. A young mom in the children's section gave the girl and her friends a suspicious look before she ushered her toddler toward the door. It wasn't the first time I'd seen that happen in the last few days.

"I'm not sure what you mean by notorious," Burt said, eying the young woman with a skeptical squint. "Here's a book about serial killers in the Pacific Northwest that you might enjoy."

She took the book eagerly and then added another slim book on famous poisoners. By the time she and her friends left, I was feeling slightly better about the store's notoriety. Not that I was going to capitalize on the unfortunate incident, but at least it sold a few more books.

Katya ran out to pick up lunch, and I gave her a few dollars to get me a slice from Gino's Pizzeria. She returned with my lunch and with a breathless, wide-eye expression. "You'll never believe who I saw at the restaurant!"

She set the food down on the break room table and flopped into a chair while I got plates out of the cupboard. Then she whipped out her cell phone.

"Look, it's that ghostwriter. And he was with Ms. Evers." She showed me the image on her phone, obviously taken surreptitiously through a decorative plant.

I leaned forward and looked at the photo, studying the back of a woman's head and the shadowy face of the man who had been the last person to talk to Cal Montague.

"What were they doing there?"

"Having lunch," she said.

I glanced at the clock on the wall. "Think they're still there?"

She shook her head. "They left before the to-go order was ready. I think they were driving in Ms. Evers' car. It's a yellow VW Beetle, so you can't miss it."

I jumped up and grabbed the tablet that had the photos on it and started to scroll through, looking for any evidence that Gibson Knox had been talking with Cecilia Evers at the book signing. Maybe it was too much time spent ordering true-crime books to restock the store, but Gibson's sudden interest in Cal Montague's niece sent a shiver down my spine.

"Did they look, I don't know, friendly? Romantic?" I asked.

Katya shrugged and wrinkled her nose. "Romantic? No, I don't think so," she said, then tilted her head, her ponytail falling over her shoulder. "But I don't think Ms. Evers is married. And I haven't heard that she has a boyfriend."

A single woman, living alone, meeting up with the man who was possibly the last person to see her wealthy uncle before he was murdered? That sounded like trouble. I had a strong urge to find Cecilia Evers and warn her that Gibson Knox might be dangerous.

I had no idea where she lived, but I knew exactly where she'd be tomorrow—at Cal Montague's funeral.

While alive, Cal was popular enough to fill my bookstore to capacity. But dead? The man filled an auditorium.

The church was stuffed with mourners who had braved the gloomy weather, plus a good number of people who seemed to be looking around for celebrities. Those people were going to be disappointed. No one in the crowd looked remotely glamorous.

Except for my mother, of course, who wore a black sheath and matching long overcoat. With her blonde French twist and oversized dark sunglasses, she looked like she was dodging the paparazzi. But that was just how she dressed. No one paid her any attention.

Pippa Montague had the same glasses, I noticed, as she walked into the church with her son at her side. She removed her sunglasses, and her piercing blue eyes swept the room. From my seat in the back third of the church, it looked like she was tallying attendance at the event. She and David moved toward the front, followed by Cecilia Evers.

It was the first time I'd seen Cal's niece in person. She was petite, with pretty blue eyes that were red rimmed. Her face was pale, and she may have been the only person in the room who was showing genuine emotion. My heart went out to her as she passed our pew and continued on to sit next to David at the front of the church. Her cousin put an arm around her shoulders and patted her awkwardly, just as the pastor walked out to start the service.

Over the next hour, the Reverend Vickers led the service through numerous speakers, reading from poems that Cal loved and sharing remembrances of their times together. Then came an interminable video compilation that consisted of old photos and several video clips and then ended with the same black-and-white photo of Cal that was on his book jacket. When the lights came up, Cecilia Evers was crying on David's shoulder while he kept his arm around her, looking uncomfortable with the public display of emotion.

I felt a sting of tears in my eyes at her grief and saw my mother dab at her eyes with a tissue. I really hated funerals. I know no one likes them. But my aversion stemmed from my memories of my father's sudden heart attack when I was 10. I'd avoided funerals, memorial services, even wakes, if at all socially acceptable to do so, ever since then. Instead, I tried to spend the time in quiet contemplation of what that person meant to me and the impact they'd had on my life and on the world around them.

But an hour contemplating Cal's contribution to the world would not help me track down Gibson Knox, so I'd gutted up and put on a slightly more formal version of my usual work outfit—a dark-gray jersey dress, black tights, and boots. The boots had a slight heel, which gave me the illusion that I was tall. The dress had pockets, which just made me happy.

After a final hymn, the crowd began to exit the church. A graveside burial service would be held privately. I was grateful for that, because attending two funeral-related events was well over my limit. Scanning the crowd, I searched for the ghostwriter but came up empty.

When we walked out, I saw Pippa, David, and Cecilia at the door, shaking hands, like a receiving line.

"Does anyone else think that is just beyond the pale—having his ex-wife act the part of a mourning widow?" my mother hissed in my ear. From the buzz of whispers around me, she wasn't alone.

Alicia nodded on the other side of me and gave my mom a knowing look. We made our way through the receiving line, and when I shook hands with Cecilia, I had to fight back competing urges. First, to caution her to be careful around Gibson Knox. And then to hug her, because the poor dear was still fighting back tears.

I murmured words of condolences to David, who gave me a smile and nod when he recognized me. His mother's expression never changed, but that could be the Botox's fault.

The cool, damp outside air was refreshing after the long service in the packed church. I wasn't quite ready to head back to work.

"I'm going to go visit Grandma," I said. "I'll be back at the store in a little while."

Alicia tilted her head and gave me a concerned look. "Are you okay?"

I smiled. "Sure, I'm fine. Just haven't been up here in a little while and want to check in."

My mom squeezed my hand. "Want me to come with you?"

"No, I'm fine. Really."

With a little more coaxing, they walked back to the parking lot, and I walked around the church to the entrance to the cemetery. Several generations of Sinclairs were buried here. I guessed I would be too, someday. The family plot was on the far west side, which I could barely make out through the low fog that had wrapped itself around the town that morning. I walked in that direction, the sounds of the crowd falling away with each step.

I knew the way to the grave marker for Ruth Sinclair like I knew the way through my childhood neighborhood. My grandmother and I used to come up to bring flowers to my dad's grave, and we would walk around and look at the older section, remarking on the interesting carvings and the old dates. When I reached the familiar section, I had to blink back the tears to focus on the headstone. It was perfect—a simple shape with Grandma Ruth's name and vitals and below that an open book. I touched the stone and wiped away a tear.

Footsteps behind me ruined the solitude, and I glanced back over my shoulder and froze at the sight. A gray-haired lady was walking on the path, hurrying toward me. Her eyes were down, focused on the narrow strip of gravel.

It wasn't just any elderly woman—it was the one from the photographs of the book signing. There was something about her that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Maybe it was the memory of how she had been staring so intently at Cecilia and Karen. It could have been that she was a stranger in a small town, where everyone knew everyone else. Or it could have been the way she moved through the fog-shrouded headstones in her shapeless dress, evoking all the scary stories I'd ever read about banshees, ghosts, or other apparitions.

With a shiver, I quickly ducked behind a large monument shaped like an obelisk. I stood straight and leaned back against the marble as her footsteps grew louder.

When I judged that she was on the other side, I eased a foot to one side and slid around the corner, watching her walk away. She didn't seem to be looking at the graves and instead kept looking around. Then I saw who she was looking for—Gibson Knox. He pulled the collar of his overcoat up, obscuring part of his face, but I recognized him immediately.

They met up by a cluster of smaller headstones near the tall wooden fence that marked the edge of the cemetery. It was too far to hear what they were saying, but their exchange was animated with both of them motioning back to the church and at each other. I moved closer, staying behind the large monuments when I could. The gray-haired lady and Gibson Knox were far too involved in their discussion to even notice me, so I headed toward the end of the wooden fence where it connected to an older wrought iron section.

With Gibson and his friend distracted, I placed my hands on the cold metal and stepped up on the horizontal bar that ran about six inches from the ground. The fence wasn't that tall, and it had several loops of metal that made good footholds, and I was able to hoist myself up and over the top without doing lasting damage to myself or my favorite dress. Thank goodness for decorative scrolling and small feet. Sometimes being petite had its advantages.

I crept along the other side of the wooden fence until I could hear the voices getting louder. While I could hear them, I couldn't see them. But there was a small knothole in the fence that might let me have a view. I put my toes up on the wooden edge of the lower brace and steadied myself by holding on to the tree branch above my head.

It wasn't a great view, but I could see Gibson Knox's profile as he smiled at the gray-haired woman.

"…and she was just so beautiful," the woman said.

"Did you get a chance to talk to her?" he asked.

"Oh no, I couldn't."

"This is a perfect opportunity. You could introduce yourself as a friend of Cal's. She adored him, and she'd love to hear old stories about him from Hollywood. You could lure her away from the crowd with that."

The woman sighed. "I know. I know. I had a cover story all ready, but when I went through the receiving line, I froze. I took her hand, Gib, and I just started to cry."

He smiled and nodded. "I understand. Maybe the graveside service?"

"No. I'm not going to that. It's private, and I don't want to intrude. I should have approached her, but there are too many people here. Who knew he was so beloved?"

"I certainly didn't get that impression on my previous visits," Gibson said. "We need to prepare her. She's going to find out."

My nose itched, and I tried to alleviate it by making faces. This seemed to make it worse, and I knew I was about to fall into a sneezing fit. That would certainly blow my cover. I let go of the branch with one hand and squeezed my nose, which seemed to help, but my eyes were starting to water like crazy.

"If you don't go to the service later, how are you going to talk to her?"

"I just don't know. But I didn't come all this way to chicken out. I'll do it, Gib. Just like we planned."

The voices started to get faint, and I realized they were walking away. When they were far enough that I could no longer hear them, I let go of the branch, jumped to the ground, and doubled over in a sneezing fit.

"Bless you."

The deep and deeply amused voice behind me startled me, and I jumped, then tripped and fell backward onto the wet grass. I looked up to find Dr. Adam Whitaker looking down at me, a half smile on his face.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, scrambling to my feet.

He reached down to help me up and then nodded toward a house at the far end of a deep lot.

"I live here."

"You live by the cemetery? Isn't that, you know, a little creepy?"

"The neighbors are quiet and keep to themselves—usually," he said, quirking an eyebrow at me. "What were you doing?"

There wasn't a good cover story, so I just went with the truth. "Eavesdropping."

He smiled, and I was starting to think that my first impression of him was wrong. He wasn't nearly as grumpy as he'd initially seemed. And when he smiled, his face softened. He was attractive either way, but I preferred him smiling.

"Who were you eavesdropping on?" he asked.

I brushed some wet leaves off my butt and straightened my clothes. Damn. Just 10 minutes earlier I had actually looked put together for a change, and of course he had to catch me with my eyes watering, my nose running, and my ear pressed against a fence, spying on strangers. Just my luck.

"I'm not sure yet, but I think they're involved in Cal Montague's death," I said, starting back toward the iron fence. "I am pretty sure they have something to do with his murder."

Adam raised his eyebrows and tilted his head as if he hadn't heard me correctly, but he kept walking with me.

"Isn't that something best left to the professionals?"

"I am a professional."

He looked skeptical. "A professional what?"

"A professional public relations and media manager."

"Forgive me if I doubt your investigative skills," Adam said with a hint of a smile.

"You're forgiven. But I've already found out that Cal was probably visiting his ex-wife before the reading. That's more than the cops have found."

Adam grimaced and shook his head a little. "Because she has a buff-colored cat?"

"Yes."

"They're actually quite common. There are other people who have those cats."

I frowned up at him, and he gave me a shrug.

"But you won't tell me who."

"Give me a name."

A list of Cal's known contacts in Danger Coves scrolled through my brain. There weren't many—his ex-wife, his son, and his niece. But Pippa said she hadn't seen Cal in years, and David was in Los Angeles until he learned of his father's death.

"I don't know. Maybe his niece, Cecilia Evers?"

Adam's head turned quickly, and he stared at me a moment. When he answered, his words were cautious. "Not that I'm condoning you getting involved in this investigation, but you might want to talk with her."

I smiled and began to scale the fence, which was easier with Adam's assistance. I jumped onto the ground on the other side and turned to face him. He was leaning with his hands on the metal fence, a curious expression on his face.

"You're very interesting."

"Thanks." I figured he meant crazy, but I decided to take it as a compliment.

"Be careful," he said, his eyes serious.

I grinned. "Of course."

With my new lead, I headed back toward the parking lot, turning at the gate to see if Adam was still there. He was standing at the fence, watching me, and I waved as I let myself out. He was a curious man, and I wanted to know more about him. Where was he from? How did he end up in Danger Cove? My mind spun through all the questions I had—and conveniently ignored the fact that he made me sneeze.

That was a trifling problem. I had big problems to deal with first. Like where Cal had been before the murder and who killed him.