The Ghost and the Mystery Writer (7 page)

“Why do you say that?” Danielle frowned.

“I think our mystery writer is the killer.”

“
W
hat are you talking about
?” Danielle watched Walt from her place on the parlor sofa.

Agitated, he paced the small room. The jacket of his gray three-piece suit suddenly vanished—as did his tie—leaving him wearing just his vest with his white shirt—its sleeves now rolled up (they hadn't been a moment earlier)—and his slacks, socks and black dress shoes.

“What you just told me.” Walt stopped pacing and turned to face Danielle. “All of that, Jolene getting killed under the pier, being hit with a wine bottle, having her rings removed. I didn't know the rings landed in a net, just that the killer tossed them off the pier. And I didn't know it was Jolene, just some older woman.”

“What do you mean you knew the killer tossed the rings off the pier? How would you have known that? And why would you accuse Hillary of being the killer?”

“Last night, I read all that—everything you just told me—up in Hillary's room.” Walt started pacing again.

Perplexed, Danielle frowned, considering Walt's words. She looked up at him. “Please sit down. You're making me dizzy.”

In the next instant Walt was sitting on the chair facing Danielle, a lit cigar now in his hand.

“Okay, run this by me again. You were in Hillary's room last night?”

“I know you don't like me going into the guests' rooms, but I saw she was still up when I went to the attic last night. I was curious to see if she was writing.”

“You know I hate it when you go into the guests' bedrooms. She could have been getting dressed or something, and that's just so creepy. I'd hate to think of a ghost lurking around in my room while I'm taking my clothes off. Couldn't you have just listened for the typewriter?”

“I suppose I could have, but that's hardly the point right now,” Walt snapped.

“What is your point, and why would you make some crazy accusation about Hillary being the killer?”

“I think she killed Jolene.”

“She didn't even know Jolene.”

“Danielle, listen to me, and forget for a moment I broke your rule about invading a guest's privacy.”

Danielle let out a sigh and leaned back in the sofa, crossing her legs while crossing her arms over her chest. “I'm listening.”

“When I went into her room last night, she was completely dressed in a flannel nightgown, from her chin to her toes. And trust me, if I decide to become a ghostly peeping tom, hers is not the room I would invade.”

“I didn't say you went in there with prurient intent, it's just that—”

“Yes, yes. I understand,” Walt said impatiently. “When I went into her room, she was writing on a legal pad of paper. By the looks of her room, it was not her only legal pad.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was paper strewn all over the place. She'd fill up a page, rip it off, toss it to the floor, and then write some more.”

Danielle shrugged. “So? What does this have to do with her being the killer? Sounds to me like she was getting all her ideas down. She did say she'd been experiencing writer's block, and it suddenly ended.”

“I read some of what she'd written.”

“I imagine for Hillary she'd be more offended knowing you peeked at her notes rather than peeking up her nighty.”

Walt scowled. “I may be dead, but even suggesting I'd want to peek up her nighty makes me want to kill myself.”

“That's not nice,” Danielle scolded.

“She's old enough to be my grandmother.”

“You mean granddaughter,” Danielle teased.

“Do you want to hear this or not?”

“I'm sorry. It's just been a long day, and I'm getting loopy. But Hillary did say she considered it bad luck to tell people about her storyline when she's early into a project.”

“Her story is Jolene's.”

“Jolene's? What do you mean Jolene's?”

“Everything you told me about the murder—even the rings being tossed off the pier—I already knew all that because Hillary had written about it. I read it. Her next book is about Jolene's murder.”

“That's impossible. When did you read her notes? This morning?”

“I told you, last night. Before I went up to the attic.”

Danielle shook her head. “No. That's impossible. You know how you are with time. I bet it was this morning. Hillary probably went out for an early morning walk, stopped by the pier, saw all the commotion, and then came back here and wrote down everything she had overheard and seen.”

“If that's true, why didn't she tell you she'd been to the pier this morning and seen the crime scene? I was there when Joanne told her about the murder. She pretended she knew nothing about it. In fact, she hasn't left the house since she got up this morning.”

“She did say she doesn't like discussing what she's working on. Ian suggested she writes about real-life murders, but never admits her ideas come from real life. You have to be wrong about her leaving the house.”

“Danielle, did Joanne arrive before you left this morning or after?”

“Before, you know that. She prepared breakfast. You sat there and watched us eat.”

“Didn't you tell me you discovered Jolene's rings—the ones tossed off the pier—after Jolene's spirit showed you were to find them?”

“Yes, but technically, she showed MacDonald. But he couldn't see her.”

“And until then, what did everyone think had happened to the rings?”

“That the killer had them. So?”

“Danielle, I may sometimes get confused about time, but I know I read Hillary's notes before Joanne arrived this morning—before you ever found those rings. Before anyone knew the killer had tossed them off the pier. As I said, Hillary was wearing her nightgown. She wasn't wearing a nightgown when she came down for breakfast this morning, was she?”

Danielle opened her mouth to say something, but closed it again. She sat quietly on the sofa, considering all that Walt was telling her. “You're saying Hillary wrote about the murder before it happened?”

“Or minutes after. Do you know when Jolene was killed?”

“I'm not sure. I know Jolene stopped in the Pier Café about an hour before it closed. I'm pretty sure it closes at midnight. If so, she was killed sometime after eleven. Exactly what time, I don't know.”

“I know it was around midnight when Hillary came home last night.”

“Came home? She went out last night? When I went to bed, she was watching television in the living room. She didn't say anything about going out.”

“After you went to bed last night, Hillary left the house. She was gone for a couple hours. I was watching television in here when she got back. I know it was a little before midnight because I was watching a movie—it was almost over. It ended at midnight. I still don't know the killer's identity.”

“I thought you just said it was Hillary?”

Walt shook his head. “I was talking about the movie I was watching. I was just about to find out who the killer was when Hillary came home. When she finally went upstairs—after making me miss the end of the movie—I stayed down here for a while flipping through the channels. When I went upstairs an hour or so later, I noticed the light on in her room, and that's when I went in and read some of what she wrote.”

“That's just a creepy coincidence.”

“I hardly think it's a coincidence.”

“It has to be,” Danielle insisted. “I can't imagine that nice little old lady killed Jolene in cold blood.”

“Perhaps she just witnessed the murder and wrote about it. According to what she wrote, the killer was a man.”

“And not report the murder? Just come back here and start using it as—what is it Ian calls it? Oh—story fodder.”

Walt shrugged. “I just know what I read.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, each lost in his or her private thoughts. Finally, Danielle looked up at Walt and asked, “When I mentioned the rings being tossed over the pier, why did you say the killer didn't keep the tenth ring?”

“Because according to Hillary's notes, after the killer removed Jolene's rings—although she does not refer to the victim by name—she wrote that the killer put all the rings into his pocket. He goes to the end of the pier, throws the rings into the ocean, and then discovers one ring still in the pocket, which he then throws off the pier.”

Danielle shivered. “That is so creepy.”

“I don't see how this can be a coincidence. Under the pier—a wine bottle—ten rings—the killer gets rid of the rings. No, if Hillary wasn't involved in the murder, at the very least she witnessed it.”

“You said she wrote all this on a notepad? I thought she typed her stories?”

“She probably does. What I read weren't lines from a book—they were notes. Ideas, thoughts. Perhaps part of her creative process.”

Danielle stood up.

“Where are you going?”

“Upstairs to talk to Hillary.”

“Do you think that's a good idea? Perhaps you should instead talk to the chief.”

“I'll talk to him tomorrow. But I need more. If I call him now, he could interview her, but I doubt she'll admit she witnessed a murder and failed to report it.”

“He could read what she wrote.”

“I seriously doubt he'd be able to obtain a search warrant to look through her notes or read the manuscript she's working on.”

“It's your house,” Walt reminded her. “You can give him permission.”

Danielle wrinkled her nose. “I don't know about that. I don't think I've the legal right to let the police search my guests' private property. I'd probably end up getting sued, and if it was illegal, he couldn't use anything he found anyway.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don't know. Wing it for now, I suppose. But you can come with me and be my bodyguard. Although I should be safe as long as Hillary doesn't have any bottles of wine up in her room.”

B
efore heading upstairs
, Danielle stopped in the kitchen, placed a slice of chocolate cake on a small plate, and poured a glass of cold milk.

“You're eating cake now?” Walt asked. “I thought you were going to talk to Hillary.”

“This isn't for me. I have to have some reason to interrupt her writing.”

Walt silently followed Danielle from the kitchen and up the stairs to the second floor. When they got to Hillary's door, Danielle juggled the glass of milk and small plate in one hand while using her free hand to knock on the door.

“Come in,” Hillary's voice called out.

“I thought you might need a little nourishment,” Danielle told her when she entered the room, carrying the cake and milk.

“Oh, chocolate cake!” Hillary said brightly, turning from the small desk where her antiquated typewriter sat. “That's so sweet of you!”

Danielle smiled, set the plate of cake and glass of milk on the desk, and glanced around the room. She spied a stack of yellow sheets of paper sitting on the corner of the bed. Cursive handwriting filled the top page of the stack, but from where Danielle stood, she couldn't read what was written.

“This cake is so moist,” Hillary said after taking her first bite. “I love chocolate.”

Danielle nodded to the stack of papers. “Do you write out your story before typing it?”

Hillary glanced to the papers and then shook her head. “No. But writing my ideas out by hand, it seems to get my creative juices flowing. If I have writer's block, it can help.”

“You mentioned your writer's block ended.”

“Yes, it certainly has!” Hillary cheerfully announced. “Last night this story just came to me, and I grabbed my pad of paper and just started jotting down notes. Before I knew it, I had worked out my plot. At least the important parts.”

“How did you get your idea for this story?” Danielle asked, still standing.

Hillary took a sip of milk before saying, “It just came to me. Like they always do. I guess I just have a wild imagination.”

“Where does this story take place? I know you don't like to talk about your work when you first begin writing, but I thought perhaps you could tell me at least that.”

Hillary set the glass of milk back on the desk and smiled up at Danielle. “Well, you did bring me up this delicious piece of cake, so I suppose I can at least tell you that. But I don't think it will be much of a surprise. My story will take place in a little town just like Frederickport. Of course, I'll give it another name, make it a fictional place. I don't like to write about real locations.” Hillary took another bite of the cake and then another.

“Why is that?”

“For one thing, people are always trying to say my stories are based on real events—which they aren't. They come from my imagination. The minute I use a real location, I'll have to be careful what I write about my characters or someone will insist I've based those on real people from the town.”

“Since you're a murder mystery author and your next story is taking place in a town based on Frederickport, I don't suppose your victim gets killed under the pier. Now that would be a little creepy.”

Hillary set her fork on her now empty plate and looked up at Danielle. “Why is that, dear?”

Danielle shrugged. “Well, that's where poor Jolene—the woman who was killed last night—was murdered. Under the pier.”

“Really? I thought Joanne said she was murdered on the beach.”

“Yeah, but under the pier.” Danielle studied Hillary.

“You know what it says in Ecclesiastics,” Hillary said brightly.

“Ecclesiastics? Umm…no…what?”

“There really is nothing new under the sun. Which means all stories have already been told. So it's not unusual for a fictional murder mystery to have some similarities to a real-life case. It doesn't mean the author borrowed from the real-life events.”

Hillary picked up her empty plate and glass and handed them to Danielle. “This was really sweet of you, dear, but I really need to get back to work.”

Reluctantly, Danielle took the plate and glass. She glanced over to the pile of papers on the bed before leaving the room with Walt.

“
E
xactly what did that accomplish
?” Walt asked as he followed Danielle back down the stairs.

“Nothing really. I was hoping to have more to tell the chief,” Danielle whispered.

“Are you going to say something to him?”

“I have to. I'd love to get my hands on her notes first. But I don't see that happening.”

“I could probably help you there,” Walt suggested.

Danielle shook her head. “No. If you spirited away the pages she wrote about Jolene's murder—”

“Spirited away?” Walt laughed.

“Isn't that what you'd be doing?” Danielle entered the kitchen and set the dirty dishes in the sink before turning to face Walt.

“I suppose so.”

“Anyway, that would practically be stealing them from her room, and all it would do is verify what you said you read. The chief couldn't use them to force Hillary to admit she knew something about the murder, not if they were obtained illegally. So what's the point?” Danielle glanced nervously at the kitchen door leading to the hallway.

“I suppose you're right.”

Danielle turned back to the sink. “I just can't believe she had something to do with the murder. It just feels all wrong—in spite of what you read.”

“Perhaps I overreacted,” Walt suggested. “The more likely scenario, she witnessed the murder and, for whatever reason, decided not to come forward.”

Turning on the water faucet, Danielle began rinsing the dirty dishes. “If she did witness the murder, I find her attitude extremely bizarre…and creepy.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Call the chief. See if I can go back down there and talk to him before he goes home for the night.”

When Danielle got off the phone fifteen minutes later, she told Walt her talk with the chief would have to wait; he had left the office for the night and was not answering his cellphone.

M
acDonald spied
Steve Klein's car parked down the street from the bank, at the diner. Instead of going home, MacDonald pulled behind the bank manager's vehicle and parked. Inside the restaurant, he found Steve sitting alone at a booth. When the waitress greeted him and asked if he would like a table, he waved her away and headed toward the bank manager.

“You're a hard man to get ahold of,” MacDonald said when he reached Steve's booth.

Steve, who was just about to take a bite of his burger, set it down on his plate and smiled up at MacDonald. “Sorry I didn't get back to you, but it's been a crazy day.”

Without asking, MacDonald took a seat at the booth. “I've had a crazy day today too.”

Sheepishly, Steve picked his burger up and, before taking a bite, said, “Yeah, Jolene. I can't believe that.”

“I understand you saw her last night.”

“Yes. At Pier Café. I would have gotten back to you after you called, but it really has been a crazy day at the bank, and I figured you wanted to talk to me because I was at the pier last night, but I really didn't see anything that might be of help.” He took another bite of the burger.

“Why don't you let me be the judge of that.”

Steve picked up his beer and took a drink. “Okay. What do you want to know?”

MacDonald started to say something and then paused a moment and then asked, “Why are you eating alone?”

Steve smiled. “The wife is in California, visiting her sister. I'm batching it.”

“Ahh. Pier Café last night, diner tonight?”

“Pretty much. The wife is always nagging me about eating red meat. When she's home, all we eat is fish and chicken.” Steve took another bite of the burger.

“Carla told me Jolene talked to everyone who was in the diner last night.”

“Yeah.” Steve set his burger on his plate and picked up his napkin. He wiped off his mouth and looked over at MacDonald. “She stopped by my table. Didn't stay long.”

“Carla said she wasn't with anyone last night.”

Steve shook his head. “No. She came in alone. Didn't stay long. But she seemed to know everyone in the diner. I noticed her going around the tables, saying hello to everyone.”

“Did you notice if she argued with anyone last night?”

“Argued?” Steve frowned.

“When she went around talking to everyone, was it all friendly? Or did you notice anyone who might have been unhappy with Jolene?”

“You don't think someone who was in the Pier Café last night murdered her, do you?”

“I'm just trying to cover my bases.”

“From what I understand, Jolene was mugged last night. I heard her rings were taken. I can't believe someone from Frederickport, someone Jolene knew, killed her. Not for her jewelry.”

“Jolene wasn't an easy person to get along with.”

Steve let out a snort and said, “Tell me about it.” He picked up his burger and took another bite.

“What can I get you, Chief?” a waitress asked. She held a pitcher of water. MacDonald hadn't noticed her approach the table.

“Some water would be good. I won't be eating, just keeping Steve company while he eats.”

She smiled and filled the empty glasses on the table.

When they were alone again, the chief asked, “You have a problem with Jolene?”

“Problem?” Steve shrugged. “She was on the museum board with me. Millie thought she'd make a good replacement for the board member we lost.”

“She didn't?”

“I think her attitude made Danielle Boatman change her mind about donating the Thorndike emerald. We're a nonprofit, and we can't afford to be alienating any wealthy members.”

“I heard something about that.”

Steve shrugged. “I suspect Jolene's attitude toward Danielle was out of jealousy. Danielle has money, and Jolene had lost hers.”

“I heard she was having money problems.”

“She came to me for a loan. She was about to lose her house.”

“That bad?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah. Her estate was tangled up with Renton's. Money she had loaned to the law practice. Whoever wrote up the loan agreement didn't protect Jolene's interests.”

“Renton maybe?”

Steve shrugged again. “Doug was still alive back then. It doesn't matter now. Jolene's dead. I imagine her daughter will have to sort it all out.”

“You said she came to you for a loan? I assume your answer was no?”

Steve picked up his beer and took a sip before answering. “There was no way I could give her a loan. She simply didn't have the assets or the income.”

“Last night, did you see who left after Jolene?”

Steve downed the rest of his beer. “That would probably be me. I don't remember anyone else leaving the restaurant after Jolene. But I could be wrong.” He picked up what remained of his hamburger.

“When you went outside, did you see Jolene? Maybe walking on the pier?”

“When I went outside, she was nowhere around.”

“Did you see anyone on the pier?”

“There were a couple of guys fishing.”

“Do you know who they were?”

He shook his head. “I really didn't pay any attention, and there wasn't much light. Might have been someone I knew, maybe not.”

“And you never heard anything suspicious?”

“No. Nothing. Like I told you before, that's why I didn't think it was a big deal if I didn't get right back to you. Nothing really to tell.”