Chapter 12
Ryker spent the morning trying not to think about Lori or remembering how good the sex between them last night had been. They’d made love like a couple of horny teenagers who couldn’t get enough. It had been the best sex of his entire life. He’d worried this morning in the shower about what he would do when she returned home to Chicago. It was then that he realized he had the perfect solution: he would convince her to move to Maine like she’d been considering. She just needed to realize Bleak Ridge was the perfect place for her.
He also spent a little time down at the dock where Cobain had been killed. The place was still wide open and had not been cordoned off to preserve the scene. Even though he searched the area, Ryker found nothing. At this point there was probably nothing left to find, which meant the only link between the killer and Cobain was Lori’s presence as a witness. He glanced at his Rolex and headed up to his car. He needed to get to the hotel. He didn’t want to keep her waiting.
She was standing outside wearing the sheepskin coat as he rolled up in front of the hotel. She didn’t wait for him to get out and open the door, but just got in on the passenger side, leaning across to kiss him. It wasn’t a long kiss, but it was meaningful.
“I went back to the crime scene,” said Ryker.
“Did you find anything?”
Shaking his head, he said, “I’m afraid not. They still don’t have any crime scene tape up. It’s just wide open. It’s almost like Middleton doesn’t want to find anything.”
“Is he really that incompetent?”
“Unfortunately, yes. But what makes it worse is that the dock where it happened isn’t even used much, so it’s not like it would be a huge inconvenience for people.”
Bleak Ridge was not a large town. In fact, Ryker often thought of it as a village—a fishing village, to be precise. Like a great many Maine coastal locations, Bleak Ridge had two main sources of income: tourism and fishing. What it also had was a first-class hotel, Bleak Ridge House, and a quaint village feel that many people enjoyed. Sometimes they complemented each other and sometimes they seemed to be diametrically opposed.
They pulled up in front of Everything Vintage. As she reached for the door handle, Ryker took her hand and placed it in her lap. Lori grinned at him.
“That’s sweet,” she said. “Completely unnecessary, but sweet.”
“I know, but it’s something my dad always did for my mom. It’s one of those things you see as a kid and think ‘ah, that’s what love is about.’”
“Okay, now it’s sweet and meaningful.”
Once again, she hadn’t shied away from the notion of love or of their having a future together. It might be a small thing, but at this early stage of their relationship, he’d take it. He got out, opened her door, and they entered the store. Like most of the shops on the main street, it was charming, clean, and well laid out. A little bell tinkled over the door as they stepped inside.
A lovely middle-aged woman with her hair pulled back walked out from behind the corner. Unless he was mistaken, it was the same woman who they couldn’t identify from the slide show the night before.
“Welcome to Everything Vintage. I’m Annette Hart. I own this place. Can I point you in the right direction for something, or did you just want to browse?”
“I’m Ryker McKay. I publish the Bleak Ridge Sentinel. I understand you sell vintage typewriters?”
“Yes, I do. They’ve become quite collectible. My inventory is kind of low at the moment, especially for the more economically priced ones. There’s a writer event in town and there seems to be a run on them. Were you looking for something specific?”
“No. My girlfriend is one of the featured authors and was saying she wanted one for her office. Do they all work?”
“Most do,” said Annette. “Typewriters, especially the truly antique ones, are pretty hard to kill.”
“Do you sell supplies, specific to vintage typewriters?” asked Lori. “Like spool-to-spool ribbons?”
Annette laughed. “Absolutely. In fact, there’s an enormous secondary market for those, as people like to try and figure out what was previously typed on them.”
“How would you do that?” asked Ryker.
“Well, spool-to-spool uses a single-pass ribbon. In other words, as each letter is typed, the ribbon advances just enough so that the next letter has an unused piece of ribbon.”
“That is really interesting,” commented Ryker. “I’m thinking of doing a piece on Antony Cobain—the author who died.”
“Such a tragedy. Do you know anything about it?”
“Not really. I understood he had a thing for vintage typewriters and wondered if he had wandered in here.”
Annette nodded. “He did. He was looking at one of my more expensive typewriters and was also interested in some of my more interesting ribbons.”
“Would you be willing to let me interview you for my article? I’m hoping it’ll get picked up by the wire services. It would give my story a little more local color.”
She hesitated for just a moment.
“It could be great advertising for your store,” added Lori. “Can you show me which typewriter he was interested in? I really don’t know much about them, but I do want to get a nice one.”
Annette indicated the back wall of her shop. “Right this way. It’s a No. 5, which was launched in 1900 and is considered to be the first truly modern typewriter. It’s in excellent condition. It’s also very pretty. Some of them aren’t.”
She showed Lori the typewriter. Ryker looked over her shoulder and whistled. Lori elbowed him playfully and said, “That seems pricey for an old typewriter.”
Annette gave them an indulgent look. “I’m afraid your friend doesn’t know much about them. This one is still fully functional, has all its original parts, and is in pristine condition.”
Lori ran a finger lightly over the casing. “It is lovely. And you have ribbons that could be used on it? Did they even have ribbons back then?”
“Absolutely,” said Annette, smiling. “In fact, the Underwood family founded the company in 1874 and began by making typewriter ribbons and carbon paper. Their largest customer was Remington. When Remington began making their own ribbons, the Underwoods decided to go into direct competition and began manufacturing typewriters.”
“Did you know Cobain well?” asked Ryker, taking a shot in the dark.
Annette swiveled her head to look at him. “I wouldn’t say ‘well.’ He was a frequent patron of the shop both in person when he was in the area and also by mail order. I’m one of the few suppliers in the Northeast who has a nice selection of truly vintage ribbons.”
“Are there people making knock-offs?” asked Lori.
“Oh, heavens, yes. It takes a discerning eye to tell the difference. I had a guy in here trying to peddle a bunch of fakes once. I just hate that. My customers trust me to sell only genuine antique ribbons. I feel so badly that Mr. Cobain has died. I liked his books, and he was, after all, a good customer.”
“I’ll have to think about the typewriter. It’s a bit more than I was planning to spend,” said Lori.
“I completely understand. If you decide you don’t want to spend that much, I have others. Quite honestly, if you’re thinking about making a collection, I would probably start with one or two of the others, but if you have a collection or just want one as an art object, this Underwood would be a showpiece.”
“Thank you. I’ll give you a call to set up an appointment for an interview. I’d like to do it here and take some photos of you and your shop.”
“That would be fine. Thanks for coming in, and if I can help you, please don’t hesitate to call me now or in the future.”
“I will. Thanks.” They headed out to the Range Rover. Once inside the SUV as he pulled away from the curb, Lori asked, “Now, what?”
“I think we need to go talk to Middleton. I wonder if he’s even talked to the typewriter lady. By the way, she was a bit overpriced. Those typewriters can be picked up for less than that.”
He was always reminded what a small town Bleak Ridge actually was when he had to go from one end of town to the other—two stoplights on the one main street did not make for a long journey. He parked in front of the station and felt a silly kind of gladness when Lori waited for him to open the door. Once inside, they were shown to the interview room.
“This is the same awful room they had me in when Cobain was murdered,” she said.
“I think it’s the only interview room they have,” laughed Ryker, picking up her hand. “But this time I’m with you, and if Middleton steps out of line, I’ll shut him down. The chief of police…”
“Bleak Ridge has a chief of police?”
“You don’t think they’d leave Middleton in charge, do you? The chief basically takes his marching orders from the town council and ignores what’s going on. He’s always going here or there to do public speaking engagements. The one thing he really doesn’t like is less-than-glowing articles in the newspaper.”
She grinned. “My hero,” she said in a simpering voice, clasping her hands and bringing them up to the side of her face.
Before he could respond, Middleton walked in, wiping crumbs from his pants, loosening his tie, and focusing on Lori. “The officer out front says you think you have something to tell me?” He looked at Ryker. “Why are you here?”
“For one thing, there’s been a murder. All your obfuscation won’t change that fact. As far as either of us can tell, you’ve done absolutely nothing to try and figure out who murdered Cobain.”
“I understand you and Ms. Sykes have been keeping company,” Middleton sneered.
“The status of my relationship with Ryker is frankly none of your business. But for the record, Ryker and I are lovers.”
“Thanks for clearing that up for him,” chuckled Ryker.
“I saw a man murdered, Detective Middleton. Granted, it wasn’t close up, but still, I found it very unsettling, and the fact that you don’t seem to have done anything is very upsetting. Doesn’t it bother you that a visitor to your town was murdered?”
“You and your lover keep throwing the word murder around like it’s a done deal, and that determination has not been made by anyone other than you. I am not at liberty, nor do I have any responsibility, to share the details of my investigation with you and your washed-up boyfriend.”
Ryker rose from the table. “Enough, Middleton. I may not be attached to the Associated Press anymore, but I still have friends there as well as other prestigious papers. I’m sure they’d like a story about a bumbling detective who can’t find his ass with both hands and a map purposely not preserving a crime scene, treating a witness like a suspect, and basically doing nothing about finding a killer. Trust me, it’ll make for interesting reading.”
Lori rose to stand beside him. “I think the MCU might want to know about this, as well. And we don’t have to go through channels. I can just mention it to my friends in the Mystery Writers’ Murder Club, one of whom is married to Slade Rafferty and another is engaged to Thorn Wilder.”
“I doubt the Chief will like either of those scenarios,” said Ryker.
Middleton hopped up out of his chair. “There’s no need for that. I was at that party last night and no one stuck out as a potential suspect. I sent the typewriter ribbon to a forensics lab, and they couldn’t isolate anything. It was old and had been handled by a lot of people. There was really nothing for them to find that they could say conclusively pertained to whatever happened to Mr. Cobain. Everyone I talked to last night liked the guy and couldn’t think why anyone might want to hurt him, much less kill him. Besides, Ryker, your girlfriend there didn’t give us much in the way of a description—big, bulky, and wearing a hoodie isn’t overly helpful.”
“Well, I’m sorry I didn’t use the zoom feature on my phone to video it for you. But my phone was dead so if I could have done that, I could have more easily called the cops.”
“You tampered with the body,” Middleton accused.
“I tried to offer assistance,” countered Lori. “I don’t know who you talked to but very few people liked Cobain. He was a misogynist jerk.”
“If that’s true, and I’m going to go off of who disliked him, you just put yourself in my crosshairs as a potential suspect. You were overheard having words with him at the bistro and several people did say he had made disparaging remarks about you.”
“Don’t be stupid Middleton, Lori didn’t kill him.”
“Says the guy who’s boning her. She doesn’t have an alibi.”
Ryker realized that they may have underestimated Middleton. He might not be the sharpest arrow in the quiver, but he was malicious and territorial.
“I’m the one who reported the murder,” said Lori.
“And what a perfect way to divert suspicion.”
“You don’t believe that any more than I do,” said Ryker.
“Maybe and maybe not, but a case could be made against her.”
“Listen to me, Middleton,” warned Ryker, “if you try to pin this on Lori, I’ll destroy your reputation.”
“That’s slander…”
“Nope. I’ll do it in the paper, which would be libel, but the truth is an absolute defense to a charge of slander or libel.”
“I hate to be the voice of reason when Ryker is defending me, but honestly, Detective Middleton, have you even tried to trace where the typewriter ribbon came from?”
“What is it with you and this damn typewriter ribbon?”
“It’s the murder weapon, you jackass,” said Ryker.
“Babe, please, take a breath. I don’t want you locked up in jail, I have plans for you tonight, and they don’t include some kind of conjugal visit.” She turned back to Middleton. “We talked to Ezra Kane, who seemed almost gleeful that Cobain was dead. And there was a slideshow presentation that showed a picture of him and a woman who sells vintage typewriter ribbons.”
“Hmm, that might be helpful,” said Middleton. “I’ll look into it, but I really have to insist that you both steer clear of my investigation. I’d hate to have to arrest you for obstruction of justice.”
Ryker took her hand. “Come on, babe, we’re out of here. And for the record, Middleton, that charge would never stand up in court, and I’d sue you personally and the department.”
They left the interview room and were headed out the door when he saw Annette chatting with the receptionist. He squeezed Lori’s hand to get her attention, and they both watched as Annette appeared to be dropping off a foil-wrapped plate. Catching their eyes, Annette smiled and waved.