The Readaholics and the Gothic Gala (14 page)

Brooke continued. “Mary had a few short stories accepted for online publications and then sold a couple to print magazines. You know,” she said, looking around at all of us, “I read a few of the stories. They were pretty good; at least, I enjoyed them. But not one of them featured a vampire or anything vaguely fantasyish or paranormal.”

Lola leaned in. “You're saying you think she stole Eloise's book?”

“I wouldn't go that far,” Brooke hedged. “I just thought it was a little odd that all her short fiction was slice-of-life type stuff, and then her first novel is all
about a vampire. It doesn't prove anything. Like I said, I just thought it was odd.”

“I'll bet Hufnagle's lawyer has hired someone to compare the linguistic style of Stewart's short stories with the novel,” Maud said. “You can't prove anything by subject matter, but writing style—that's a different matter.”

“What about her family?” I asked. “And where does she live now?”

“I didn't look into her family much,” Brooke said. “A couple of articles mentioned that her folks were divorced when she was ten and she lived with her mom and three brothers. I wonder if the other two look anything like Lucas. If so, they missed out on millions by not forming a boy band. Wouldn't matter the least bit whether they could sing or not.”

We all laughed, which eased the gradually building tension and frustration. I thought we were all a little edgy, feeling like we weren't making much progress, that we were missing something.

“The police had me come down to the station yesterday,” Lola said into the silence that followed the laughter. “They wanted my fingerprints.” She rubbed her thumbs against her fingertips like she was trying to remove ink. “They're still trying to link me to the murder, as if my bringing that metal stake to the party wasn't link enough.” Unusual bitterness sounded in her voice.

I put an arm around her shoulders. “The prints are just for elimination purposes, I'm sure. They already had mine on file,” I said. “From when Ivy . . .”

We paused a moment, remembering our sixth Readaholic, who had been poisoned in May.

“There's no way around the fact that I'm partially responsible,” Lola said quietly. “If I hadn't brought that weapon—”

“The killer would have used something else.” Kerry leaned forward to pat Lola's knee. “Don't beat yourself up, Lola. You're not responsible. The only one responsible is whoever stabbed Van Allen with it.”

Lola gave Kerry a grateful smile but looked unconvinced. As if knowing her mistress needed comforting, Misty jumped into her lap and began to knead her thighs, making little
prrrp
sounds. Lola patted her and I could see the tension leaking out of her with each stroke. To get us past the moment, I turned to Maud. “What about the Aldringhams, Maud?”

Maud sucked on her thin upper lip, unusually slow to respond. “I shouldn't have volunteered to investigate them,” she finally said. “Merle was . . . he and Constance were my friends, once upon a time. It felt wrong to go prying into their lives. However, I did it.” Like Lola, she had a notebook computer and referred to it now.

“I'll skip over their growing-up years and our college adventures, and get right to the stuff that might be germane.”

Darn. I wanted to hear about the college adventures. Maybe I could get Maud to talk over a margarita one day.

“When Constance hit it big with her books, Merle quit his job as an actuary. When Allyson came along, I guess you could call him a stay-at-home dad,
somewhat at the forefront of that movement, although they also had a nanny.”

“It's hard on a man, giving up his work identity,” Kerry observed.

Maud merely nodded and kept going. “More recently, the last eight or ten years, it looks like he's become a day trader, very active on the stock market.”

“That's a risky route to riches,” Brooke said. “My Troy played at day-trading for a while, but Troy Sr. put his foot down.”

“It hasn't paid off for Merle, that's for damn sure,” Maud said. “Over the past three years alone—the only years I could get the data for—he's lost over three and a half million dollars.”

Lola gasped. I refrained from asking how Maud had gotten hold of the Aldringhams' financial records. I knew she did some hacking, usually in the service of outing conspiracies.

“What an idiot,” Kerry said. “Surely they can't afford that kind of loss, no matter how well Constance's books are doing.”

“No, they can't,” Maud admitted. “They're inches away from being foreclosed on. They really need for
Autumn of the Lynx
to be a blockbuster. A movie deal would help, as well. I suspect that's the real reason they're still hanging around Heaven. Constance wants to work on Cosmo Zeller to option her novel.

“As if that weren't enough—” She paused to build suspense. “There's Allyson.”

“What about her?” Kerry asked in a “get on with it” voice.

“I'm not quite sure. She was expelled from three private high schools, but I can't find out why. Accessing private school files is harder than breaking into DoD computers,” she complained. “They're all so paranoid about being sued. I actually called one of her former headmistresses, said that Allyson had applied for a job with me and I was checking her references—”

“Smart,” Brooke said.

“—but I got the runaround. She hemmed and hawed and said that she didn't feel she could be of use, since Allyson had left their school so long ago. She made a point of saying that Allyson had not graduated from her august academy, almost as if she didn't want Allyson's name associated with the school.”

“Did Allyson ever graduate?” Lola asked. She shifted to look at Maud, and Misty jumped down, affronted that her napping place was unsteady. She came toward me and poked her nose into my glass, which I had set on the floor. I nudged her away.

“She got a GED,” Maud said, “and then she scored a thirty on her ACT. She's bright enough, so I don't think her school troubles were related to grades.”

“Lots of bright people blow off classes,” Brooke said.

“Derek,” I said. “He's at least as smart as I am, but he couldn't have cared less about his grades, so he was a C student all the way through high school. Drove my folks batty.”

“Does she have a criminal record?” Kerry asked.

Maud pointed an approving finger at her. “I wondered the same thing. If she does, it's as a juvenile and
it's sealed. I couldn't find anything on her as an adult, and I know my way around the courthouse databases. I can't help but think it might be drug related. Her folks had plenty of money; she was an only child with a mother who was more involved in her work than in mothering, and a father who, well . . .”

Maud petered out, clearly not wanting to say anything too negative about Merle. She swiped to the next screen on her notebook. “I called a couple of other people in California—it doesn't matter who. I made it sound like I was writing an unauthorized biography of Constance.” She looked up. “It never ceases to amaze me how many people are willing to dish the dirt, given the slightest opportunity. Anyway, I picked up rumors that Constance had an affair some years ago with a writer.” She named a thriller writer whose books routinely debuted in the top ten on the
New York Times
bestseller list. “His wife apparently found out and confronted Constance. What I wouldn't have given to be a fly on the wall during that encounter.” She grinned.

“I never did like his books,” Kerry said.

“My source said that Merle knew—the wife made sure of it—but that he and Constance worked it out. When they came for drinks the other night, they acted like a normal married couple, maybe a little bored with each other after more than thirty years, but not at each other's throats, not even in that passive-aggressive Updikean way. Sure, Merle still thinks about me in a ‘What might have been?' sort of way, but he's absolutely not interested in pursuing it. And he wasn't even before
he met Joe and saw how we are together. Except that Constance is a bestselling author, they could be any late middle-aged couple from any suburb in America.”

She sucked on her upper lip again. “It's . . . deflating,” she said after searching for the word. “We were such firebrands in our youth, sure that we were going to save the world, bring clean water to Africa, reveal government conspiracies, get equal opportunities for blacks and women. And here we are, forty years down the road, with nothing to show for it. Well, a few more wrinkles, a hip replacement or two, and a medicine cabinet full of laxatives and statins. Millions of people in Africa die from easily preventable diseases each year, we've got the most corrupt and least transparent government in my lifetime, education costs are out of control, and—”

“Since when are you such a Whiny Wendy?” Kerry broke in. “Just in the past couple years you've uncovered the last mayor's kickback schemes and gotten me elected—”

“Yeah, so happy about that,” Maud said, tongue in cheek.

“—and caught on to that scam the school board was running, and wrote about how the Colorado Department of Transportation was wasting money with inefficient road-gritting operations, and dozens of other things, some of which were annoying, and some of which made a real difference in this town or the state. Pat yourself on the back, for heaven's sake, rather than moaning about how you haven't come up with a cure for malaria. You can only do what you can do. You make a greater difference in more people's lives than
any six people I know.” She sat back and
pfft
ed her bangs out of her eyes, her gaze challenging Maud to disagree with her.

“You're right, Kerry,” Maud said, looking surprised.

“Never thought I'd hear those words come out of your mouth,” Kerry said.

We all laughed.

“No more moaning. I guess I'm feeling unwontedly introspective, what with having Merle show up out of the blue and all. But I'm done with that now.” She clicked off her notebook. “Let's go around and see who we each think did it. My money's on Sharla, the vic's girlfriend. Face facts: It's usually ones nearest and dearest who most want to do away with you. I can't explain why she would come to Amy-Faye after the fact, when it looks like she's gotten away with it, but maybe she needs help finding that car and the package in it.”

I raised my brows; I hadn't thought of that. “I think it was Cosmo,” I said. “He seems to be on a financial precipice. If Van Allen had something on him that would upset the applecart, well . . .” I looked at Kerry.

“I vote for Mary Stewart,” she said. “I flat don't like the woman.” She sat back with her arms crossed and looked at Lola.

“I don't think we can make an informed decision without knowing more about Trent Van Allen,” she said, pursing her lips. “It would be like trying to record an experiment's results before adding one of the chemical agents to the mix.”

She made a good point. “Van Allen's like that creep Jack Favell in
Rebecca
,” I said slowly. “He's vaguely
unsettling and out of place until you understand his relationship to Rebecca. Then, you see what his true role is.”

“You might have something there.” Maud nodded.

“Lola abstains,” Kerry said, keeping us on task as always. “Brooke?”

My best friend looked around the room before saying, “I guess I'd go with Francesca Bugle. What Kerry said about her not having a background—I think that's a little odd. And she's so energetic and decisive and looks strong. I can see her confronting someone like Van Allen and, depending on how he reacted, things getting out of hand. Her books always have such twisty plots, too—she's totally capable of covering her tracks.”

I whooshed out a breath, disappointed that we hadn't accomplished more. Lola, sensing my mood, leaned in and said gently, “It's all good, Amy-Faye. Pooling our information like this—it will help in the end.”

I gave her a grateful smile and began to collect glasses and crumpled napkins. The women stood to leave. “So what's our next step?” I asked as we gaggled toward the tiny foyer.

“Find the station wagon,” Maud said, at the same time Lola said, “Learn more about Trent Van Allen.”

“I'll talk to Hart tonight—” I started.

“I'll bet you will,” Brooke said sotto voce, with a sly smile.

“—and see if he can tell me more about Van Allen. Maybe we could team up tomorrow and look for the station wagon. Lola, I can help you make deliveries in the morning and we can look.”

“Great. Eight thirty? Here, puss-puss,” she called
Misty. The gray cat loped over and deigned to let Lola pick her up.

Brooke and Maud teamed up and Kerry said she had a house-hunting client to squire around in the morning, but would get her son, Roman, to go out with her in the afternoon. “He can drive,” she said. “He's seventeen and still doesn't have his driver's license. The practice will do him good.”

I locked the door after them and hurried to my phone to see if Hart had texted. He had. Twice. One of them warmed my cheeks and I started to text a reply, but then dialed his number. I walked into my bedroom and sat on the bed to take off my shoes, almost hanging up before he answered. It had been a darn long time since I'd slept with a man, and I'd forgotten how awkward the first conversation the day after could be. I hadn't spent the night. He'd walked me down to my van sometime after one o'clock and we'd kissed and made plans to see each other this weekend. Now the sound of his voice made me hesitate. “Hi,” I said. I tossed my socks toward the hamper. Two points.

“Hi, yourself.” He sounded amused. Maybe it hadn't been so long since he'd had a day-after-the-night-before conversation. “Last night was special. I went around with a smile on my face all day long.”