Murder by Page One Page 2
Spence’s voice drew my attention from the bowls of chocolate. “Nolan, I’d wondered if you’d make it to Fiona’s first signing.”
Nolan was a few inches shorter than Spence—perhaps an even six feet—and fit. Despite his graying close-cropped brown hair and tired brown eyes, he seemed youthful. It could’ve been the casual clothes he wore: powder green jersey, dark blue jeans, and blue sneakers. That’s right, sneakers.
Southerners—and admittedly, much of the rest of the country—referred to “sneakers” as “tennis shoes,” but that felt wrong to me. Not all sneakers were tennis shoes. Some were running shoes or cross trainers. To me, it was like referring to all carbonated soft drinks as “Coke.” Yes, Georgia was home to The Coca-Cola Company, but New Yorkers called it “soda.” You could take the woman out of Brooklyn, but you couldn’t take Brooklyn out of the woman.
Spence made the introductions. “Nolan Duggan, I’d like for you to meet Marvella Harris. Nolan’s the co-owner of Lyle and Duggan CPA, along with Fiona. Marvey is the director of community engagement with the Peach Coast Library.”
Nolan regarded me with an odd combination of welcome and wariness. “I read the interview with you in the Crier. You’re from New York.” I swear it seemed like he’d said, “You’re an alien.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Nolan.” I tilted my head and gave him my best nonthreatening smile. “Do you have a library card?”
Nolan gave me a blank stare. “I’ve never needed one. I’m at the bookstore all the time.” His gaze drifted to Jo and lingered before returning to me.
“Everyone needs a library card, Nolan.” I increased the wattage of my smile. “Why don’t you stop by the library Monday? I’ll help you with the application.”
“All right.” Nolan dragged out the two-syllable consent as though hesitant to make the commitment.
“Great!” Another customer. Another step toward a bigger budget.
An older woman and two younger men entered To Be Read. The woman marched with purpose, leading her contingent toward the signing area. If this had been New York, I would’ve suspected the trio was out to start something.
The woman’s face flushed as she brought her posse to a stop in front of Jo. “Where’s Fiona?”
I didn’t like her tone. Not one bit. All of my protective instincts toward my friend went on high alert. I glanced at Spence. “Who is she?”
Spence lowered his voice. “That’s Betty Rodgers-Hayes and her son, Bobby Hayes. Bobby is Fiona’s stepson. I don’t know who the other man is. I don’t think he’s a local.”
Nolan solved the mystery. “That’s Willy Pelt, Fiona’s friend from Beaufort, South Carolina. I met him when he was introducing himself to Ms. Betty and Bobby out in the parking lot.”
Now I was even more confused. “It’s nice of them to attend her event, but why are they so angry?”
Concern for Jo made me want to get a closer look at the wannabe mob. And I couldn’t deny myself the clusters any longer. I wandered over to stand behind Jo and reached for one of the individually wrapped candies.
“Wow!” Jo’s shout distracted me from my goal. She’d gestured toward Bobby’s right arm. Her voice was reverent. “Who did your ink?”
My attention shifted from the candy dish to the bold rendering of a large, well-fed, and vicious-looking snake drawn onto Bobby’s tanned arm. The orange, black, and brown serpentine illustration extended from his thick wrist, past his elbow to disappear beneath the sleeve of his faded red T-shirt. I suppressed a shudder. Snakes. I disliked them. A lot.
Bobby smiled shyly. As he turned his arm, I noticed several scratches on the back of his hand. “I got it done at a place out in Vegas.”
But…a snake? I had to ask. “Why did you choose a snake?”
He shrugged. “I like ’em.”
Why? But I let it go.
Betty’s sniff was unfiltered maternal censure. “Well, I’m sure I don’t know what got into his head to do such a crazy thing. It makes him look like a ruffian! And a snake? It’s evil.”
“Snakes aren’t any more evil than humans, Mama.” Bobby’s voice was quiet and respectful.
But Betty was on a roll. She continued as though her son hadn’t spoken. “Of course, he works in a hardware and repair shop full of ruffians. Well, I told him it’s a good thing he does. Otherwise he wouldn’t have any kind of job with filth like that covering his body.”
Bobby gave a long-suffering sigh. “They’re good guys, Mama.”
“Your body is a temple, Bobby. A temple.” Betty was breathless. Her brown hair fluttered above her sturdy shoulders with indignation. “Well, he can’t ever get a decent job working in a decent place, now can he, looking like that?”
Bobby shook his head, never once raising his voice. “Just let it alone, Mama.”
Jo pushed up the left sleeve of her sweater to reveal the silver, black, and gold sketch of a decorative cross inked onto her forearm from wrist to elbow. “If he ever wanted to try a new career, I’d hire him here at the bookstore.”
Betty’s brown eyes stretched wide. “Well, yes…” As Betty appeared to struggle to contain her true reaction, her son studied Jo’s cross with avarice.
If the older woman had asked me first, I would’ve warned her that Jo was the absolute wrong person to turn to for a sympathetic ear on the topic of tattoos. But she hadn’t asked me. And for the record, yes, I was amused by Betty’s predicament.
Personally, I wouldn’t get a tattoo. I couldn’t fathom withstanding that much pain. But if I were to—and the odds were slim to none—it would be an image of Batgirl. I’d always admired the superhero. And—bonus!—Batgirl’s alter ego, Barbara Gordon, was a librarian.
“It’s nice that you’ve all come to support Fiona.” I turned to Fiona’s friend. “Especially you, Mr. Pelt, coming from South Carolina.”
Willy glanced up from his wristwatch. He seemed surprised that I knew his name, then he noticed Nolan. Willy inclined his head in a silent greeting to Fiona’s business partner, the expression on his pale, square face pleasant but vague. He drove his fingers through his shock of thick auburn hair. “I’ve known Fiona’s family for years.”
“I wonder what Fiona will do now?” Nolan’s attention bounced from Jo to the rest of the group. “Will she give up her share of the business to write full-time?”
It was a good question, although I knew most authors continued to work full-time. Popular media’s depiction of fiction writing as a lucrative career was greatly exaggerated.
Betty snorted. “Well, she doesn’t need a job, now does she? Not like the rest of us. When Buddy died, he left her well provided for. The rest of us have to work for a living.”
The bitterness in her voice seemed to come from far more than envy of another person’s good fortune—literally and figuratively. Then I made the connection: Fiona Lyle-Hayes. Betty Rodgers-Hayes. There was a story there, one that could explain Betty’s hostile disposition.
“I was wondering the same thing.” Willy crossed his arms over his chest. His brown jersey and tan slacks were slightly wrinkled, as though he’d recently pulled both from a suitcase. Had he just driven into town from Beaufort? How long that had taken? “Her late uncle left her his vacation property. The house’s in good shape, and the land is pretty. It’s in a quiet area on the outskirts of town where she could write without being disturbed.”
Bobby shoved his broad hands into the front pockets of his navy blue cargo pants. “She’ll probably go on a lot of tours.” He sounded disappointed, as though he was going to miss Fiona’s company.
“This is ridiculous.” Jo’s words ended the discussion. Her eyes flashed with irritation as her gaze swung to the back of her store. Her ponytail arched behind her. “The signing has started, and Fiona still hasn’t brought out her books. Now, I’m going to have to hustle to help her set everything up.”
“So will I.” Spence’s voice came from behind me.
Jo stopped long enough to give us a grateful look. “Thank you, but I can’t ask you to work for me. You’re here as guests.”
Spence arched a thick black eyebrow. “We’re also your friends. Let us help.”
“Okay, since you’ve twisted my arm.” Jo turned to continue her agitated march down the aisle. Her ponytail swung back and forth in a tsking motion. “I wish she’d let me and my team handle her books from the beginning. Unloading them now will be disruptive to the other authors who got here early and actually set up.”
I struggled to both keep up with Jo and speed read the titles on the passing shelves. We were in the young adult section. I loved young adult fantasy novels. I hesitated in front of a newly released title. Spence nudged me along.
I caught up with Jo. “This won’t endear her to the other members of her group.” I remembered the way Zelda had acted, as though Fiona was She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
“I don’t think Fiona likes them, either.” Jo’s tone was dry.
“What makes you think that?” Spence asked.
Jo glanced at us over her shoulder. “It’s just a feeling I got from her when we were organizing this signing.”
Jo crossed into the storage room. Spence and I were right behind her. The room was dimly lit in comparison to the main part of the store. Empty boxes stood to the side, waiting to be flattened for recycling. Step ladders and carts were stored in a corner for easy access. Shelving affixed to the walls held office supplies such as paper, printer inks, packing tape, markers, and box cutters. In the center of the room, two matching dark wood tables balanced open boxes of books still to be shelved. On the far table, Fiona’s books had been unpacked, only needing a cart to carry them out. But who would operate the cart?
Was I the only one feeling uneasy? “Where’s Fiona?”
In front of me, Jo frowned as her store owner’s attention seemed to catalog the room’s contents. To my right, Spence appeared to be scanning the room, searching for the source of the disquiet. I stepped forward.
“Marvey, wait.” Spence’s voice stopped me.
But not before I saw the body, lying in a pool of blood on the far side of the rear table.
I must have rocketed a foot into the air before landing on semi-solid ground. Spence’s large, strong hands gripped my shoulders to steady me.
Jo gasped. “Oh, my God. Fiona.”
Chapter 3
“Don’t touch anything.” Every mystery I’d ever read came crashing back to me. “We have to call the police.” My voice was sharp, pitched loud enough to be heard above the blood rushing in my ears.
On the outside, I may have appeared to be keeping it together. On the inside, I was screaming. The stench of death was a sour taste in my mouth. I wanted to spit it out, but that would contaminate the crime scene.
“The police. Yes, you’re right.” Jo was in shock. We all were. Fortunately, we’d been together when we’d found Fiona. I would’ve hated for Jo to have discovered this tragedy on her own.
My muscles shook as I helped her to the door. I tugged at her as I called over my shoulder to Spence. “Do you have a handkerchief?”
He pulled a plain white cloth from the back pocket of his jeans and held it out to me. “Why do you need it?”
“Oh, my God.” Jo was mumbling to herself. “I can’t believe this. Fiona.”
I pressed my palm to the small of her back. She was shaking even more than I was. I was afraid she’d come apart. I turned to Spence. “We need to secure the room, but I don’t want to leave prints on the door.” My voice sounded so far away. I had to get out of here.
“I’ve never seen a dead body before.” Jo looked at me. Her eyes were blank.
Spence pulled the handkerchief from my reach. “Help Jo. I’ll close the door.”
“Ever,” Jo whispered.
Neither had I. Using both arms, I steadied her. I half-carried, half-dragged her from the room as I made myself put one foot in front of the other. The door clicked behind us as Spence shut it. If only I could slam a door against the image of Fiona’s corpse, but it was burned into my skull. With deliberate steps, I led us to Jo’s office, away from that chamber of death. A sinister presence still weighed on my shoulders like a backpack stuffed with encyclopedias.
What happened? Who did it? And why?
I settled Jo on a green cushioned visitor’s chair, then collapsed onto the one beside it.
Since Jo wasn’t in any condition to call the sheriff’s office, Spence circled her desk to use her phone. He reached past her orange University of Florida coffee mug for the receiver and punched in nine-one-one. “I’m calling to report a murder.”
It felt like hours, yet took less than ten minutes for sheriff’s deputies to arrive, accompanied by an ambulance. The piercing screams in my head had quieted to a low whine, but the virtual backpack of encyclopedias still clung to my shoulders.
The deputies had announced the murder before the emergency medical personnel had appeared with the gurney carrying Fiona’s body under a thick white sheet. Shock had filled the store, thick enough to break with a jackhammer.
Jo had declared the book signing over. She was slowly recovering from her initial devastation. The glass of water one of her staff had pressed into her hand was helping. She’d flipped the Open sign in the front door to Closed, but the deputies had directed everyone on the premises to remain for witness interviews.
There were at least twenty people in To Be Read, including Jo, Spence, me, Jo’s employees, and the authors participating in the book signing. Three deputies were conducting witness interviews in separate parts of the store. A fourth was watching over us. Was he there to comfort us during this time of distress, or to prevent us from coordinating our stories? The New Yorker in me dismissed the idea of Southern hospitality and went with option two.
Since Jo, Spence, and I had found Fiona, the deputies interviewed us first. Jo led a tall, baby-faced lawman to her office. A petite female deputy escorted Spence to a sitting area near the magazines.
An older deputy brought me back to one of the reading spaces in the children’s book section. He was going to conduct the homicide interview in the company of The Cat in the Hat, Curious George, and Madeleine. My stomach took a tumble. Would I ever reminisce over those stories again without the memory of Fiona’s murder?
The deputy waited for me to sink into the overstuffed mint green armchair before plunging into the orange one beside me. He cleared his throat. “I’m Deputy Jed Whatley, ma’am.”
“Marvella Harris.” I gripped my clammy hands together on my lap and shifted my shoulders to release some tension.
He looked at me askance. “How’d you spell that?”
As I spelled my name, I absently took in his uniform: short-sleeved white shirt and olive-green pants. He hadn’t removed his green campaign hat.
Jed lifted cool blue eyes and caught my gaze. “And you’re one of the people who discovered Ms. Lyle-Hayes’s body in the storage room. Is that right, ma’am?”
Peach Coast residents spoke so slowly compared to New Yorkers. I could’ve made a pot of coffee and two slices of toast—buttered—before Jed finished asking his question.
“Yes.” I kept my answer short to compensate for lost time.
He scanned his surroundings, taking in the section’s bright yellow walls and kid-sized bookcases as though seeing them for the first time. “I didn’t know they were having a signing here today.”
That was disappointing, considering all the work Jo had put into promoting the event, including the fliers and posters in the library. His admission silenced the screams in my head once and for all.
I flexed my shoulders again. “I’d never met Fiona, but I unde
rstand she was excited about the signing.” I rubbed my eyes to erase the nightmare-inducing image of the deceased woman. Her wounds. Her sightless sea-green eyes. Her blood.
Jed recorded my remark in his notepad, then followed with seemingly routine questions about the events proceeding our discovering Fiona’s body. Where had I been? Who had I been with? Had I noticed anything out of the ordinary? Finally, he lowered his pen and paper.
He sighed as he stared across the store. “I wonder why Ms. Gomez would let Ms. Lyle-Hayes back there in the storage room by herself? Are non-employees allowed to go poking around in the storage area? I’d think only employees could do something like that. Wouldn’t you?”
I shrugged. “You should ask Jo.”
Jed’s attention meandered back to me. His eyes narrowed as though he didn’t like my response. “Why do you suppose Ms. Gomez let her back there?”
Knowing Jo and her empathetic nature, the answer was obvious to me. “I’m sure Jo understood that Fiona would be nervous about her first-ever book signing. She probably gave Fiona time alone to prepare so she’d feel more confident when the event started.”
Jed wrote that down. “Did you see anyone near the room, either walking away from it or loitering in the area, before you went in, ma’am?”
“No.”
He nodded as he made another note. “Did you observe any of the customers acting strangely? Did anyone ask after Ms. Lyle-Hayes?”
“Her friends and family. And I didn’t notice anyone acting strangely.” Then a hint of a memory asserted itself, seeming to contradict my statement. “Although Nolan Duggan, Willy Pelt, Betty Rodgers-Hayes, and her son, Bobby, all kept checking the time.”
Fiona’s business partner, Nolan, and her friend, Willy, had frequently consulted their wristwatches while we’d waited for Fiona. I’d noticed Nolan’s silver-and-gold Gucci watch and Willy’s stainless steel Movado. They were attractive—and expensive—accessories. Betty also had repeatedly checked her peach Timex, and Bobby had looked at his black cell phone more than once during the brief period I’d been with them.