A Novel Death: a Danger Cove Bookshop Mystery (Danger Cove Mysteries Book 10) (3 page)

Detective Lester Marshall flashed his badge, just the way I'd seen it done in a thousand cop shows and movies. And from the way he strutted around the bookshop, I had a feeling that he'd practiced that flash in the mirror to get it just right.

"Is there some place we can talk?" he asked.

I looked around the bookshop, which was now empty of customers but filled with police who were questioning Alicia, Burt, Karen, and now, me.

The aftermath of my discovery of Cal's body was a blur. I recalled screaming for Burt, then calling the police, and Alicia giving a shocked crowd the news that the author was unavailable for the reading. Then she had immediately burst into tears and added, "Because he's dead."

And that had set off a riot of gossip the likes of which Danger Cove would not see again anytime soon. While I was being quizzed by Danger Cove's finest, other officers had initially attempted to question all of the customers. That had been too difficult to do at the bookstore, so an officer got names and contact information for the customers, but the staff was ordered to stick around.

Even cleared of customers, there were very few places left to sit and talk. Alicia was sitting on the bottom steps to the loft, next to another plainclothes detective who had a friendlier look about him as he took notes in a slim notepad. Karen was at the top of the stairs, telling her story to another officer.

Burt was sitting at the counter, arms crossed, and glaring at a young, muscle-bound cop who looked like he might be a stripper posing as a police officer. Katya was sitting on a chair that had been set up in the front room for the reading, while a friendly, older uniformed officer wrote down the information from her driver's license.

"I guess we can sit over here," I said, leading Detective Marshall to the quiet nook in the rear of the bookstore where the children's books were on display.

We sat in the two available chairs, which were low and small, even by my standards. Detective Marshall had to fold his legs nearly in half to fit in the child-sized furniture.

"Had you met Mr. Montague before today?" he asked, taking out a pad of paper. I'd promptly forgotten all the other officers' names, but the detective had introduced himself with a business card, which I clutched in my hand.

"No."

"And he was scheduled to speak at six o'clock?" The detective read this off a flyer that he'd grabbed from the counter.

"Yes, that's right."

"And you found him at twenty past six o'clock?"

"Yes."

"Where was he prior to, well, uh, before he was shot?"

"He was in the break room, there," I said, pointing toward the door that was at the end of the short hallway. It was only a few feet from the back door to the alley. "He was signing books."

The detective nodded and took some notes.

"Who else was in there with him?"

"Uh, me. And his publicist, Karen Dale, came in a few times. My employee, Katya Potter, brought him coffee."

Detective Marshall gave a stern nod. "There was a lot of coffee in there."

"He was particular about his coffee," I said. "It took several attempts to get it right."

The detective tilted his head at my tone, and I realized that I might have sounded less than charitable toward the dead man. "I mean, we worked very hard to make sure everything was to his liking."

I offered a smile that felt very forced and that the detective could no doubt see right through.

"What other things weren't to his liking?"

"Oh, just a few little details he wanted us to handle. His publicist brought him some cookies he requested. And he wanted to make sure the temperature in the bookstore wasn't too warm."

"Is that when he threatened you?"

"What? He didn't threaten me."

"Your employee, Katya, said that she overheard Mr. Montague tell you that he'd walk out, and that would ruin your business."

Katya must have been outside the break room when Cal had made that remark. "I didn't take that as a threat. He's a sort-of famous actor. I'm sure he's used to people catering to him."

"And you refused to do that." The detective nodded and wrote some more notes.

"I didn't say that. I tried very hard to make sure he was happy."

"Because if he wasn't happy, your event would be ruined."

"That's not a motive to murder someone," I said.

"You'd be surprised. I've seen people killed over far less," he said with a knowing smile.

I doubted that. He was a detective in Danger Cove. It was a charming village on the edge of the sea, and despite its name, it was a safe place to live and to visit. I hadn't spent that much time in Danger Cove lately, but I couldn't imagine Detective Marshall investigating crimes more serious than bike thefts or serial traffic infractions.

"I didn't kill Cal Montague," I said, narrowing my eyes at the detective. "I barely knew him."

"Do you own a gun, Ms. Sinclair?"

"No, I do not," I said with emphasis.
How could he even think that?

I stood up from the little chair, and Detective Marshall followed, though it took him more work and several audible grunts to get upright.

"Do you have any further questions for me, or may I leave?" I asked.

"We're done, for now." His voice indicated that he was not nearly done with me.

I started back to the break room, but it was full of cops, so I went instead to my tiny office, which was basically a converted closet under the stairs. Grabbing my purse from the desk drawer, I decided I would just do without my coat that was hanging in the closet in the break room. I locked the office door behind me, then turned and ran smack into Detective Marshall.

"One further question," he said. "Do you have access to a gun? In particular, a small-caliber handgun? Like maybe a .22?"

His more detailed question jogged something loose in my memory, and I frowned.

"Oh. Actually, yes. I guess I do," I said. "My grandmother had a .22 pistol. I guess I inherited that."

Detective Marshall's smug smile said that he knew I'd been lying to him.

"I forgot about the gun. I haven't shot it in years."

"But you have shot it? You know how to use it?"

"I took it to a shooting range one time, years ago," I said.

"And where is that firearm now?" he asked.

My frown grew. He wasn't going to like my answer.
I
didn't like my answer.

"It's in my office."

He looked almost triumphant at my admission.

"It's in there?" He nodded to the door I'd just locked.

"Yes, it is," I said with a sigh. I was so used to it being there that I hardly even saw it anymore. "Grandma Ruth used to keep it in the safe."

"Show me."

I unlocked the office door, and then we crowded into the tiny space. I dialed the combination to the safe, opened it, and peered in. In the back behind the still-empty bank bags was a shiny handgun.

Detective Marshall called for a crime scene technician and ordered him to extract the gun. I was shooed away from the office and watched from several feet away while they bagged up the gun, labeled it, and discussed sending it off for testing.

Burt came up behind me. "That gun hasn't been fired in a good five years. Ruth's distance vision wasn't great, and she said it was getting too depressing to go to the range any longer."

He put a hand on my shoulder. "Don't you worry. They're not going to find any GSR on it."

"GSR?"

"Gunshot residue. It tells them if a gun's been fired recently," he said.

"Miss, I'll need to check your hands," a tech said.

I looked over at Burt, who gave me a nod. The tech swabbed my hands—back and front—and around my wrists.

"That's just to see if you fired a gun recently," Burt said.

I breathed a sigh of relief. There wouldn't be anything tying me to the murder, because I hadn't killed Cal, but just having the detective question me made me feel guilty.

"Unless you wore gloves," Burt added. "The GSR would be on the gloves."

I glared at him. "I didn't shoot anyone."

"Of course not," he said.

Alicia walked up behind me, on the other side of Burt. "It's a good thing that they're taking Ruth's gun. It will clear you."

"Thanks," I said, hoping that this process was quick. Not just because I didn't want to go to prison for something I didn't do, but also because there was someone out there who had just shot a man in cold blood.

"Ms. Sinclair, I'll let you know if we have further questions for you," Detective Marshall said. "In the meantime, make sure you're available if we have any questions."

"He's saying don't leave town," Burt said. "But that, of course, is a pretty damn stupid thing to say, since you're not under arrest, and he has no authority to force you to stay within the Danger Cove boundaries."

Burt gave the detective a stern glare. Detective Marshall walked off without responding.

"Katya feels bad that she had to tell the police about your argument with Mr. Montague," Alicia whispered.

I glanced over at the teenager, who was still talking with one of the officers. "Of course she had to tell them everything," I said. "But it wasn't really an argument. He'd just been, well, kind of a jerk."

Burt nodded with a knowing look on his weathered face. "Sounds about right."

"And it certainly wasn't anything worth killing someone over," I said.

"Don't you worry," Alicia said. "We believe you."

Somehow, her sweet support managed to make me feel even more guilty.

"It looks like they're going to be here awhile," Burt said. "Your car's blocked in by the crime scene tech. I'll drive you to your mother's house."

"Thanks, Burt. You can just take me home," I said.

He shook his head. "I have my orders. Your mother said to bring you to her house."

I started to object, but that would only put Burt in the middle of a mother-daughter spat. He didn't deserve that. And frankly, I wouldn't mind seeing my mother right now. She may criticize my hair, my clothes, and my career, but she was my mom, and she also made me feel safe.

And that was just what I needed.

I was awake before my alarm buzzed on Tuesday morning. It was my first day back at the bookstore, and my brain had already helpfully come up with a thousand ways it was going to be horrible. Would anyone want to come to a bookstore where an author was just murdered? Would Detective Marshall come back to grill me more about Cal's death? Was I going to have to return the call from the reporter at the
Cove Chronicle
?

I'd started the coffeepot before I hit the shower, and by the time I was dressed, the house was filled with the aroma of fresh-brewed dark roast. As I poured myself a large mug, I heard a tapping on the back door. Through the window I saw my mother hold up a white bag from the Cinnamon Sugar Bakery.

"Good morning! Rise and shine!"

I paused with my hand over the doorknob. I wanted those donuts. But I wasn't sure if I was ready for my mother's morning cheer. After a brief pause, I unlocked the back door and let her in. She bent down and gave me a quick hug, enveloping me a cloud of Chanel.

"Thought you might like some breakfast," my mother said, setting the bag on the counter and taking off her designer sunglasses. "You know, on your first day back after…"

She waved her hand and wrinkled her nose.

"The murder?" I prompted.

"Yes, that. How are you holding up?"

She'd been with me most of the last two days, so she should know how I was handling the fact that a celebrity author was just murdered at my bookstore. But I merely nodded and took a sip of the coffee and then put the donuts on a plate.

"I'm fine," I said. "Would you like coffee?"

She nodded, and I prepared her coffee as I knew she liked it—black with a teaspoon of sugar.

"Have you talked to your employees?"

When the coroner had finally taken Cal's body away, the police put up yellow tape and stationed an officer outside to protect the crime scene. They hadn't released the scene until noon the next day, after the officers had searched and photographed the alley from every angle. I'd kept the store closed the rest of the day on Sunday out of a sense of propriety. It had just seemed too soon to reopen after such a dreadful event. And we were always closed on Mondays, so this was the first day back since Cal's death.

By now, everyone who had been at the event had probably been questioned—even my mother's garden club. In the days since Cal's death, being one of the persons questioned was quickly becoming a status symbol in Danger Cove.

"We were only closed for one extra day," I said. "Alicia and Burt are both working today. Katya has to be in school. I'm sure it will be fine."

That was a lie. I was pretty sure that my subconscious was onto something with all the dreams about doom and gloom.

"After all the excitement Saturday night, and then talking with that detective yesterday, I could hardly sleep a wink," my mother said, setting out paper napkins and then taking a seat at my kitchen table.

"You spoke to Detective Marshall?"

"There was no way they could interview everyone Saturday night. There were far too many people there," she said. "He finally got around to questioning me yesterday afternoon."

"Did he say anything? Like, were there any developments?" I asked, helping myself to a sugar-coated donut. I was still uneasy about the way the detective had latched on to my supposed argument with Cal Montague before his untimely death. I wasn't too uneasy to enjoy the donut, though. The new baker at the Cinnamon Sugar Bakery knew her stuff.

"No, he just had a bunch of questions. I'm sure it was routine. Had I seen anything out of the ordinary, or heard the gunshot? And he wanted to know if you had a temper or had ever acted out violently, but that was pretty much it. It was a short talk."

I nearly spit out the bite of sweet fried dough. When I managed to swallow, I waved an impatient hand at my mother. "Go back. Go back to the part where he asked about me."

"Oh, he just asked if you had a temper," she said.

"And you said…"

"I said you often acted impulsively," she said, and gave my hand a reassuring pat.

"Mother! You told him I act impulsively? I don't act impulsively! He thinks I shot Cal Montague."

She shook her head. "I'm sure you're overreacting. Of course you didn't kill anyone."

"Detective Marshall doesn't know that! And I am
not
impulsive."

My mother tilted her head and gave me a skeptical stare. "What would you call that whole email debacle?"

"A mistake," I conceded. "But I am not impulsive. And I do not have a temper."

She took a sip of coffee and looked like she wanted to disagree with me. Her skeptical expression said she was reliving all my childhood tantrums.

I groaned and rolled my head, trying to relieve the knot of tension in my neck. "Do you think I should talk with a lawyer?"

"What? No. The detective had to rule you out of what I'm sure is a very long list of suspects. Like, Pippa, for instance. That woman holds a grudge."

"I suppose so," I said. "You don't think he's asking other people about me, do you? What if it gets around Danger Cove that I'm a suspect?"

My mother gave me a stern look. "Meri, honestly. That's not going to happen. You're not a suspect," she said and then shook her head with a laugh. "You're so dramatic sometimes. I swear you get that from your father's side."

She was right about that—nothing flustered Kimberly Sinclair. If she were the one under investigation by the police, she'd probably just give them a dismissive wave and a disappointed look, and they'd move on to another suspect. Maybe I should give that a try.

"I need to go open the bookshop," I said, standing up and taking my donut with me. "I just hope it's not dead—oh!"

I caught my mother's reproachful glance.

"I know. I know. That was an unfortunate word choice," I said. "What I meant was, I hope this doesn't keep customers away from Dangerous Reads."

I made a mental note to think before speaking, then kissed my mother good-bye and finished getting ready for work.

Despite my poor phrasing, I really was worried about how the community was going to treat the bookshop now that it was the scene of a murder. I couldn't imagine parents bringing their children to browse for books in the cozy new kid-sized room that was just yards from where a man was shot.

Turns out, my fears were unfounded.

Cal's murder was proving the adage that there was no such thing as bad publicity. From the time I hit the front door until I managed to catch a breath after the lunch rush, the store was busier than I'd ever seen it before. Sure, a lot of the traffic was from people who just wanted to see where the famous celebrity author was killed. But out of a sense of guilt, they were buying books—especially Cal's memoir.

I pushed through a knot of tourists who were gawking at the stack of books by the counter and jumped to help Burt ring up customers, while Alicia directed some black-clad teenagers to the true-crime section to find books about celebrity murders. It looked like we were having a hard time keeping that section stocked.

"Is this really where he was killed?" a teenage girl asked.

"I'm afraid so," I said. "Are you interested in reading his book?"

She shook her head. "No, I don't know even know who he is."

The girl's mother picked up the book. "It's signed?"

"One of the last signed copies," I said with a nod.

She paid cash, and I wondered how fast it would show up on an online auction site. It felt a little morbid to sell his signed copies at full retail price, but a sale was a sale.

The bell over the door chimed, and Detective Lester Marshall walked in and surveyed the store like he was examining a crime scene. Which, technically, was true, but only the alley. Meeting my gaze, he gave me a nod.

"Are you free to talk, Ms. Sinclair?" he asked, eyeing my customers as if they were all suspects in Cal's murder.

"Sure, just give me a few minutes," I said and returned to the customer in front of me, who was now gawking with bold curiosity. I rang up her purchase, threw in a bookmark, and left Burt to handle the counter.

The detective wandered around the store, stopping at the stack of Cal's books. He picked one up and brought it with him when I led him back to the break room.

"Have you read his book?" he asked, sitting at the round table.

I offered him coffee, which he declined, and took a seat across from him. "Yes. Well, I started it. I'm not done yet."

Since his death I had tried again to read Cal's autobiography. But oh, it was a struggle. The writing wasn't bad—crisp, clear, and engaging. But the stories he told made me wonder what he was thinking. In the pages he came across as catty, callous, and very full of himself. And when it came to his former lovers, Cal's only nod to discretion or chivalry was the use of initials or thinly disguised names.

The detective flipped to the first page, read a few lines, then frowned. "Maybe I'll have to read this," he said, sounding none too happy about that.

"It's $24.95, plus tax," I said.

The detective looked put out that I'd charge him for the book, but I had a store to run. After a moment of sustained eye contact, he reluctantly reached into his wallet and pulled out a twenty and two fives. I smiled. "I'll get you a receipt so you can get reimbursed by the department."

He gave a frustrated harrumph.

"What can I help you with today, Detective? Other than reading materials, I mean." I was hoping that his calm demeanor meant that the tests on the gun were back and it was just a hilarious mix-up that led him to imply that I was a murderer.

He closed Cal's book and took out a small notepad. "I'm trying to pin down Mr. Montague's schedule for Saturday, and there are some gaps, so I wanted to run the timeline by you again."

"Sure, whatever you need." I wasn't entirely comfortable talking with him, but I figured it was better to cooperate. If I didn't, he might suspect me of a being Cal's killer. More than he already did.

"What time did he come to the bookstore?"

"The signing was to start at six o'clock, and he agreed to sign books beforehand, so he was going to come at five."

"So he got here at five?"

"No. Karen Dale, his publicist arrived at five," I said. "Cal came separately and arrived about a half-hour late."

The detective made a note of this and frowned. "That doesn't help me at all. It makes the gap in his schedule larger. Did he mention anything to you about where he'd come from?"

I shook my head. "No, we didn't talk about that. I know he was staying at the Ocean View Bed and Breakfast. We didn't talk about his schedule. Karen Dale organized everything, and she would be the one to talk about that."

Lester frowned again and gave me the impression that I was being difficult.

"And refresh my memory, but you were in here with him alone for about a half hour before the signing was to start?"

His memory wasn't faulty. He was trying to catch me in a lie. I straightened in my chair. "On and off. I had to run out a few times to help out in the store, but mostly I was here with Mr. Montague. Sometimes Ms. Dale or Katya was in here with us."

"Did he get any phone calls? Any text messages?"

"No, not while I was here." I didn't even recall seeing Cal with a phone while he was in the bookstore.

"Okay, well, thanks for your help," he said, but with a sigh that made it clear I hadn't helped at all. Then he pulled out a case and set it on the table, opening it up. "I'll just need to take your fingerprints."

My heart thumped at the words. "What? Why?"

"We need to have prints from as many people who were here as possible. To rule you out," he said.

"Oh, I guess that's okay," I said but still felt like a criminal when he rolled my fingers across the glass screen of the portable device. "Do you have to print everyone?"

"At least the employees. We found a lot of prints on the back door, so we'll need to rule out everyone who usually touched the door."

"I can send the other employees back, if you'd like," I said.

He nodded and thanked me, and I started to go back to the store. Then I stopped in the doorway.

"Are the tests done yet on my grandmother's gun?" I asked.

He shook his head. "We had to send that out to the lab. It may take a week or more to get those results," he said, watching me like a hawk.

By the time the detective left, I'd convinced myself that my fingerprints were all over the back door, which was likely true, and had somehow migrated to the murder weapon, which would be impossible. I doubted my prints would be on my grandmother's gun, even. And the police weren't even sure that it was even the same type of gun as the murder weapon yet. But it definitely was a gun that killed poor Mr. Montague.

I shivered at the memory of his lifeless body, the surprised expression frozen on his face.

The crowds died down as the dinner hour approached, and Burt volunteered to work until closing. I went back to the small office tucked under the stairs near the biographies and general nonfiction section. My grandmother used the space for her bookkeeping tasks, but since I'd computerized everything, all I needed was my laptop. The office, which was barely larger than a walk-in closet, was probably going to be converted to storage soon. As I opened the door, the phone rang, and I picked up the receiver to help Burt out.