Chapter 4
Lori had made plans and scouted the signing’s seating chart in order to find the authors with whom she wanted to connect. She’d been surprised when her friends pointed out to her that meeting and networking with other authors was second only to spending time with readers. As it was only her second signing, Lori was woefully unprepared for just how busy she would be.
The first signing had been something of a bust and rescheduled after one of the authors was murdered. But for Lori it had been notable as she was introduced to and made fast friends with fellow members of the Mystery Writers’ Murder Club: Christie Crofton, Jessica Murdock, and Fiona Fowler. It had also shown them how good they were at solving actual mysteries. Since then, they had met monthly to solve a cold case from somewhere in Maine.
For someone who had fretted about being able to really connect with people, Lori found herself having the best time. Readers came and went, many buying books and others bringing ones they’d already bought. She’d had her picture taken with so many people she’d lost count, but she couldn’t remember a time when she’d had more fun. Her face hurt from smiling and laughing.
Someone had said that the editor/publisher of the local newspaper was going to be wandering around, taking pictures and making notes for a story he planned to write for his paper. In her head she envisioned someone like the character Perry White in the Superman comics—older, distinguished, almost parental in the way he dealt with people. What she wasn’t prepared for was the man who looked down at her.
If she’d thought Jessica and Fiona had fallen for hunks, she was going to have to redefine that term.
“Lori Sykes? I’m Ryker McKay. I’m the owner and editor of the Bleak Ridge Sentinel.”
He was gorgeous. Dark, wavy hair, just long enough to give him the rakish look of some male model from a romance novel. He was dressed in a button-down white shirt tucked in button-fly jeans, a dark belt, and boots. He exuded dominance and sexuality in a heady cocktail that was intoxicating.
Before she could respond, his name rang a bell. Ryker McKay. “The Ryker McKay? Didn’t you win a Pulitzer Prize when you were with the Associated Press?”
He nodded and smiled. Oh god, that ‘little boy smile.’ She could practically hear Alannah Myles belting out Black Velvet. Lori was pretty sure her heart was going to beat out of her chest.
“Ryker! Ryker!” called Antony Cobain as he moved through the crowd with a book bunny on each arm. He’d left his assistant to man his table to sell books and hand out signed bookplates. There was no personalization to any of his signatures.
Ryker looked down at her. “Help a guy out, will you? It took me two hours to get away from him last night.”
Not trusting her voice, Lori looked up at him and nodded.
“Ryker, dear boy…” started Antony.
“Cobain,” he said evenly. “I was just twisting Lori’s arm to give me an interview. She was telling me she was really pressed for time as she’s on another couple of panels, and she really only attends signings to be able to meet with her fans.”
“Not fans,” Lori said, finding her voice, “but readers.”
“Right. I heard you say that last night, and that you and the other members of the Mystery Writers’ Murder Club never call your readers fans. I really liked that when I heard it. It seems much friendlier and like you’re inviting them into your world to solve a mystery with you.”
“But I’m happy to make time to sit down with you. I thought the piece you won the Pulitzer for was inspiring and so frightening.”
“At the time, yes. I was really happy to put that village in my rearview mirror, as they say. How about breakfast in the morning? I can bring my camera and get some pictures to add to the ones I take of you here.” He looked at the line that had formed. “You ladies don’t mind if I get a couple of pictures with you and Lori, do you?”
They didn’t and easily crowded Cobain and the book bunnies away from her. McKay took some pictures and then leaned in, pressing a business card into her hand. “Thank you. What time?”
“No, thank you. I’m sure Cobain meant to treat me to some more of his acerbic, disdainful wit. You don’t need to take me to breakfast.”
“I meant what I said. I’d love to take you to breakfast or for a drink or whatever. All I’ve heard the whole time I’ve been here from authors and readers is how nice Lori is and how she makes time for people. A lot of authors took what you said last night about deepening characters to heart, and you have a big supporter in Millie Smith.”
Lori grinned. “She saved me from Cobain earlier today. I hate to think I look like I need saving from him.”
“Oh, you think we’re saving you? Hardly,” he snorted. “Millie and I think ‘polite’ is your default setting. I’m pretty sure you’d wipe the floor with his cold, dead carcass if you had a mind to. I know you have stuff tomorrow morning. There’s a bistro next door. Is seven too early?”
She shook her head. “No. Seven would be great.”
“Terrific. I’ll look forward to seeing you. I’m going to skedaddle before Cobain tries to take another run at me.”
Lori laughed out loud. “Did you just say ‘skedaddle?’”
“I did. It’s part of my ‘adopt a small coastal village in Maine’ plan. I figure if I drop in a few colloquial phrases here and there, I may be considered a local in twenty or thirty years, despite my being born and raised here.”
“If I decide to move to Maine, I might want a copy of your plan.”
“It’s yours, and you should move here. All kidding aside, it’s a great place to live. Besides, your friends in the Mystery Writers’ Murder Club all live here.” He looked at the line of people waiting. “I’ve kept you long enough. See you in the morning.”
“Looking forward to it.”
He turned away, and she watched him move through the crowd with the kind of predatory grace one saw in panthers. The crowd swallowed him up and Lori turned back to her readers.
As she was winding up for the day, she was pretty pleased with how it had gone. Her table had been busy all day and she only had a single book left out of the more than seventy-five she’d brought with her.
Sighing happily, she broke down her banner and put her table runner and other paraphernalia she’d brought with her away. She shook her head as she realized she had one book and absolutely no swag left. Yep. It had been a good day.
Taking her things back to her room, she opened up her laptop, intending to write. The fact was she’d brought it downstairs to the signing room, thinking she might have some time to make a few notes for the rest of her work in progress. It never happened. She’d never even had a chance to open the case. Feeling a bit restless, she changed out of her professional but approachable author clothes and headed out for a walk along the seawall. She had to admit that this was another thing Maine had over Chicago—she could go for a walk in relative safety.
It was cold but bracing as opposed to freezing. She pulled her knit ski cap down, tucking her sable brown curls up under the hat.
Every teacher she knew in Chicago had begun to ask themselves if answering their calling to teach was worth risking their lives. No longer did a teacher have to just worry about a disgruntled parent or a kid with a pocketknife; now they had to worry about a student with a semiautomatic rifle and a grudge, a death wish, or a desire to be famous.
The death of her aunt and an incident at a nearby school had clarified her desire to explore another passion—writing. She and her aunt had talked extensively about the things her aunt regretted while her aunt was in hospice, waiting for the irreparable injuries to her liver and kidneys to finally claim her. The injuries had been sustained when Viola was hit by a drunk driver. What stuck with Lori as she’d stood at her aunt’s graveside was that her aunt’s deepest regret was that she had not followed her dream to become an author.
Her aunt Viola had had an offer from a major publisher in her hand when her mother had died, and Viola had been called home to care for her younger siblings. Instead of pursuing her dream of becoming an author, she’d done the “right” thing, eventually marrying a man and abandoning her dreams.
The reading of her aunt’s will had been shocking, as it left minimal bequests to her own children. Well—shocking to them, but Lori didn’t blame her Aunt Viola one bit. Lori didn’t much care for her cousins. When her aunt had required hospice care, her children stuck her in the cheapest nursing home they could find and left her there. Lori had found a beautiful facility in the country that had been created and maintained for people at the end of their lives. It was run mostly on bequests left to them. Lori had assumed Viola would do the same.
As her children had squawked and Lori had hidden her smile, the lawyer had raised his hand for silence.
“We need to finish this,” intoned the attorney, “but before I continue, all of you should know that the will is perfectly lawful, and Viola was in full command of her faculties. She left the rest, residue and remainder of her estate to her, and I quote here, ‘beloved niece, Lori Sykes, with the provision that she use it to fund a two-year sabbatical to establish a new career as a successful author.’”
It was hard to tell who was most shocked: Viola’s children, who erupted into threats and accusations, or Lori. She’d thought she was here to pick up a large check to take to the hospice. They’d talked about Lori giving birth to her dreams of becoming an author. They’d even talked about her taking a two-year sabbatical to do just that.
As her cousins stormed out of the attorney’s office, he held her back. “They have no legal grounds on which to challenge your aunt’s will. It’s the only reason they got anything at all. You know she had me liquidate her estate right after you moved her into Return to Eden Hospice in order to ensure she gave you as much money as possible and that there was nothing left for her children to squabble over. I know they’re your cousins…”
“We were never close,” Lori said quietly.
“I can understand why. Viola, who was as much a friend as a client, once referred to them as a ‘detestable lot’ and wondered how they turned out the way they did.”
“You never met my Uncle Raymond, did you?”
The attorney laughed. “I do recall the one time I had to interact with him.”
“Well, there you have it. What happens to any intellectual property my aunt might have had?”
He smiled. “Viola’s manuscript. I fear it is lost forever. I did go through her house personally to see if I could find it. From her description of your talks, I thought you might like it, but I couldn’t find it.”
“That’s because she gave it to me for safekeeping. It’s in a safety deposit box at the bank.”
“Good girl. Then it would be part of the ‘rest, residue, and remainder’ of the estate. May I ask if you plan to do anything with it?”
Lori nodded. “I read it. It isn’t bad, and for the time she wrote it, it’s extraordinary. It’s a great whodunit in the style of Agatha Christie. I thought I’d revise and update it—flesh it out into something new and exciting—and then publish it as a co-write. I’d planned to do it this summer, during the school break.”
“What a lovely tribute to Viola. I think she would have loved that. Before you leave, I have one last thing to give you.” He reached into his desk. “It’s a note she left for you. She handed it to me in the sealed envelope. I have no idea what it says.”
She took the envelope. “Thank you. I think I’ll wait to read it until tonight. I’ll turn on my gas fireplace, pour a glass of prosecco, and toast my aunt’s life while I read her last letter to me.”
“You were expecting the letter, weren’t you?”
“Yes. She often wrote me letters, telling me things that she felt too deeply to express verbally or in person. I cherish them. They, too, are in the safety deposit box.”
That night, curled up in her chair, she lifted her wine glass and opened the envelope.
My dearest Lori,
As you are reading this, know that I am at peace with my death and now reside in the Kingdom of Heaven.
I left this letter with Arthur to give to you after the reading of the will. I assume my children are outraged and stormed out of his office threatening to contest it. I only wish I was still around to see that. Don’t you worry about that. Arthur and I made sure my wishes would be carried out. I left money in a trust account with Arthur in case they try. They will not prevail.
They say most of those facing the end of their life don’t regret so much the things they did as the things they didn’t. I have to say, that is most definitely the case with me. My dearest wish is to save you from that. My hope is that you will take the money, which is substantial, take the sabbatical you are entitled to, and give life to your dreams—our dreams really.
Do what I didn’t have the courage to do. You have a God-given talent. Don’t let it go to waste. Tell your stories, live your dreams—for both of us.
I love you, my darling girl.
Viola
She’d made a promise to her aunt that night to follow their shared dream and used the sabbatical and her aunt’s bequest to establish herself as an author. She’d published her first book as a co-write with her deceased aunt. It had been a moderate success and had given her confidence in her ability to create mysteries people wanted to read. Her next book had become even more successful, as had every subsequent book.
When she was invited to speak at the author event in Bleak Ridge, she’d been terrified and thrilled at the same time. While she hated public speaking, she’d been considering a move to Maine and attending the event would give her a chance to look around. She was riding high on the popularity of her latest novel, her new friends who felt like she’d known them her whole life, and her newest work in progress.
It was as she was trying to write in the corner of the bistro next to the hotel that Antony Cobain, an extremely successful author, had verbally assaulted her, making scathing remarks about her books, and eroding her confidence, leaving it smashed and scattered all around her.
Even Jessica’s assurance that he was a hack and wrote formulaic and predictable gritty crime novels had done little to restore her belief that she belonged here and had something worthwhile to say. So, she’d gone out for a walk. Cobain was probably tucked into his bed, blissfully unaware that he was a bully. Lori shook her head. Screw that, he was probably rollicking in bed with one or more book bunnies—those gorgeous girls who went from event to event, hoping for a night with a famous author. Lori always thought it was unfair that it was always women looking to snag some sex with a male author. Why couldn’t there be some hunky male equivalent for female authors?
Lori stopped and shook her hands, cracked her neck, and did her best to shake off Cobain’s disdainful words. He wasn’t right. He wasn’t. She was good at what she did, and her popularity, sales, and readership all said she was moving in the right direction.
So, screw you, Antony Cobain.
Spinning on her heel, Lori headed back to the hotel. Room service should still be available. She thought about being sophisticated and ordering a bottle of good wine along with maybe a charcuterie board. Screw that. She was going to order their blue cheeseburger, onion rings, and a Diet Coke. Resolved that she was going to ace her part in the panel discussion, she made her way along the harbor walk.
As she began to climb the stairway, she heard a muffled sound…what she thought might be a cry for help, if she was being fanciful. She turned toward where she thought the sound was coming from. The fog was playing havoc with direction, but she thought she saw some movement down on a moonlit pier that overlooked the tranquil bay. She moved toward the sound and the movement.
It appeared that someone—a man—was fighting for his life. The struggle continued until the man ceased to move. His attacker shook him a couple of times and the victim seemed to go limp. Lori cried out, and the assailant looked towards her, gave a final, brutal jerk to his intended victim, and tossed him aside. Running away, he jumped into a small speed boat waiting at the end of the pier.
Lori pulled out her phone to call 9-1-1 and cursed herself for not checking the battery before leaving her room. There was none. Nothing. The phone was as dead as the proverbial doornail. Trying to decide whether or not to try and render assistance was far more complicated than it should have been. If whoever was down there was still alive, she should absolutely try to help.
If, on the other hand, he was dead, being first on the scene might not be the best idea. After all, there didn’t appear to be any other witnesses, and cops could get really pissy if you disturbed anything. She’d learned that lesson at the event in Kennebunkport.
It made far more sense to simply run up the stairs and try and get help. But if he was still alive, rendering aid might be the difference between life and death. She was certified in CPR. Deciding it would be easier to live with her decision if she tried to help, she ran down to the pier, stumbling and twisting her ankle. Reaching the unmoving victim, she said a quick prayer that he was only unconscious and not dead. Her prayer was not answered when she shifted the man to his back and found evidence of no pulse.
It was only then that she recognized the identity of the victim. It was Antony Cobain, and it looked like he’d been strangled with what appeared to be the ribbon of a vintage typewriter.
Well, isn’t that just swell.