Chapter 16
Lori
She got into Annette’s aging Bronco and they headed to the store.
“I really don’t think I should be doing this. I have nothing to hide, and even if I was Cobain’s ghostwriter, there’s nothing illegal or even unusual about it. Lots of famous writers have ghostwriters.”
“That’s what Jonathon Lockwood said. I was kind of surprised, but then I guess it doesn’t really matter. I mean if the ghostwriter is being fairly compensated, and the author whose name is on the book is ensuring the quality and is happy with it, who am I to judge?”
“Well, there’s compensation, but then I would think the author might want to at least acknowledge the ghostwriter’s help. Maybe call him or her some kind of editor or something. I think that would make the ghostwriter feel more appreciated.”
Lori shrugged. “I think it falls under work for hire and the intellectual property would belong to the author.”
“Well, wouldn’t it be incumbent on the author to make a claim against the ghostwriter?”
“I doubt it. The author would have what they wanted, unless the ghostwriter had failed to give them a new manuscript for which they had been hired or had embedded something in the document that rendered it useless unless the author acceded to the ghostwriter’s demands.”
“But why do I have to prove anything to you and McKay?” she asked peevishly.
“You don’t. If this is bothering you that much, you can just drive me back to the hotel, and we’ll call it a day.”
“I can’t do that, and we both know it. You boxed both of us neatly into a corner.”
For someone who had nothing to hide, Annette certainly seemed annoyed. Hoping to lighten the mood and find out more information, Lori asked, “I saw you and Detective Middleton together earlier this afternoon. I know it’s none of my business, but you two looked like you were into each other.”
Annette shot her a scathing look. “Did it? He wasn’t at my store today.”
“Hey, it’s none of my business,” she said, glancing at her phone. Still nothing from Lockwood. “But it looked like you were dropping off some home-baked goodies at the station. I doubt they’d take anything from anyone unless they knew they could be trusted.”
“I was just talking to the receptionist. I’ve known Adele for years.”
“Yes, but it was Middleton you shared a kiss with out by your car.”
“How do you know that?”
“Ryker and I saw you. Look Annette, neither Ryker nor I want to get you in trouble, and you don’t fit the description of the guy I saw killing Cobain.”
“Do you and your fancy boyfriend always stick your noses into everybody’s business? For your information, George and I have been dating for years. It’s not a big secret. The chief doesn’t know, but then the chief only knows what George tells him. Everybody else in the department knows George should have been promoted but the head of the town council is George’s ex-brother-in-law. His sister became a recluse and finally moved away. Her family blame George.”
Annette pulled into the alley next to her shop. Lori checked her phone again.
“Are you coming or not? I don’t have all night. Some of us have to work a regular job that requires more than sitting around in negligees eating bonbons.”
“That’s romance writers,” said Lori distractedly. “Most people think mystery writers look like Angela Lansbury or Professor Trelawney from Harry Potter. Most of us who write do so in some kind of casual top with pajama pants or leggings. But we do work hard.”
“I’m aware. But you have all day to do it. At least Fiona Fowler has her bookstore. You just inherited money and now live the carefree life.” She pointed to a big box behind her counter. “That’s where the used ones go. The re-inked ones are on the shelf.”
“Don’t they make new ones?” Lori asked.
“Of course they do. They’re reproductions. True connoisseurs want to use as close to the original as they can. The new ribbons use an inferior ink and can gunk up a vintage typewriter. I make my own ink that’s almost identical to the original ink. I re-ink the used ribbons by hand, one at a time, and then sell them.”
“This is going to take forever,” Lori groaned.
“You’re the one who insisted on examining them.”
Lori sighed. “I know Annette, and I’m sorry you feel put out. As I said, if you don’t want to do this, I’ll just call Ryker and let him know I’m walking back to the hotel. But if I stay, you shouldn’t feel like you have to help or babysit me. I’m sure Ryker will be along when he can. I’ll be fine.”
“You have an awful lot of faith in a man you’ve known less than a week.”
“I know. It seems weird, but I guess sometimes it just happens that way.”
“I guess. Hopefully he’s not playing you for a fool. I know he needs a sizeable infusion of cash to bring the paper up to what he wants it to be.”
They hadn’t talked about money, but she didn’t believe even for a second that Ryker was after hers. But maybe they should talk about that. If he needed cash for his business, why was he booking some big, fancy vacation?
She texted Lockwood again, and there was still no answer. Hating herself for doing so, she texted Fiona.
Lori: How much do you know about Ryker McKay and the Bleak Ridge Sentinel?
Fiona: Not a whole lot. He won the Pulitzer Prize, got shot up pretty bad pulling soldiers out of a burning transport truck that hit an IED. Why?
Lori: Is he hurting for cash?
Fiona: I wouldn’t think so. He comes from “old money,” not on his father’s side, but his mother’s. Why the sudden interest?
Lori: I’m kind of falling in love with him and somebody just suggested maybe he was after my money.
Fiona: LOL! Christie or Jess maybe—you or me? Doubtful. He’s a good friend of Slade’s and Thorn’s, I can’t imagine he’d have any nefarious purpose for romancing you other than the fact that he was giving the guys shit about taking all the best girls. Slade suggested you were still available.
Lori: I’m going to kill your husband.
Fiona: Please don’t. I’m really enjoying getting laid on a frequent and regular basis! Seriously, I’ll ask Slade, but I’d be willing to bet everything I own that Ryker McKay is a good guy.
Lori: No; don’t worry Slade with it. When I think about it, you’re right. Slade and Thorn wouldn’t be good friends with some guy who wasn’t as honorable as they are. He saved guys from a burning transport?
Fiona: Yep and took heavy fire from enemy snipers. They weren’t sure they could save one of the legs it was shot up so bad. But he survived with both legs intact and worked his ass off to get it pretty much functional. And then there’s the whole getting the girls out of a burning building. Talk about a romantic hero.
Lori: Thanks, Fi. My love to Slade. We’ll talk soon. Love you.
Fiona: Same to you. Slade just got home and was reading over my shoulder. He’s a sneaky SOB like that. He says Ryker doesn’t need your money. He’s got his own—like Jessica’s kind of money.
Lori: Tell Slade Thanks.
That put her mind at ease. She would talk to Ryker about what Annette suggested and apologize for ever doubting him. Lori began sorting through the ribbons, picking one at random. It was tedious work, made longer when she got the knack of actually reading them and making sense of them.
Reaching for another ribbon, she pulled it up and began sorting through it. The ribbon, or at least the typing, was smudged. Turning on the flashlight app of her phone and holding the ribbon directly over it made it easier to read. She began deciphering the distorted letters and they began to sound familiar. Pulling out her notebook she began to write them down and then drawing lines through where the space would be between the words.
“Holy shit!” she whispered.
She typed what she had deciphered into her writing app on her phone. She asked for it to search for the same wording. It took a minute or two and as she suspected, it was a passage from one of Antony Cobain’s books.
Lori didn’t have time to register the sensation of something settling around her neck when it pulled tight, yanking against her skin. “You just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?”
She made a grab at the noose that was tightening and cutting off her air, managing to get her fingers between it and her throat. She could tell it was a typewriter ribbon and recognized the voice as that of Annette as darkness closed around her.
* * *
RYKER
Ryker followed Ezra back to the hotel, where they encountered Jonathon Lockwood. He appeared to be worse for wear.
“Is he drunk?” asked Ryker, now concerned for Lori.
“He’s been about half drunk since Cobain died.”
“Were they close?”
“Antony Cobain wasn’t close to anyone, but there was a rumor he and Lockwood were in cahoots and then had a falling out. You don’t really think I killed Cobain, do you? I mean, I didn’t like the guy, but then, neither did anyone else, including your lovely paramour.” He said the last with a leer.
“For the record, Lori is my girl and I take great offense to anyone making disparaging remarks about her in any capacity. That was your one freebee. Don’t do it again.”
“Hey, McKay, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. The fact is, I like her. She’s a really nice gal and one hell of a writer. If you two found each other, then good for you. Seriously.”
“If you didn’t do it, then who do you think did?”
“The ghostwriter, and no, I don’t know who that is. But there are rumors that whoever it is has gotten tired of living in the shadows on the crumbs Cobain has been tossing out.”
Up in Ezra’s room, Ryker went through the drawers and Ezra even opened the safe and let him examine the contents. It looked like Ezra was not their guy and was not trying to hide anything. When he handed him the only spool-to-spool typewriter ribbon, Ryker found there was nothing but some boring notes Ezra had made for himself.
“I like the clickity-clack sound the keys make. I type out notes for the plot—even make an outline, but then I use that to write the book on my laptop. It’s inefficient to write an entire book on a typewriter. You can’t edit it effectively there.”
Ryker was pretty sure Ezra wasn’t involved. There was a knock on the door and Ezra peeked through the peephole, turning back to Ryker with a grin. “You got some ‘splainin to do,” Ezra said in the worst imitation of Desi Arnaz that Ryker had ever heard.
With a grin, Ezra opened the door and let Detective George Middleton into the room.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” shouted Middleton. “I told you and that writer girl to stay out of police business.”
“What business would that be, Detective?” Ryker responded, standing his ground. “You haven’t even registered a crime. I suggest you do that before the MCU finds out you’re fucking around on their turf.”
“You threatening me, McKay?”
Ezra sat down on the end of the bed and looked between the two men with a grin on his face. He was enjoying this.
“No threat, just a gentle suggestion, followed by the threat that if you don’t, I will. Something makes me think that you, either directly or indirectly, have knowledge of the crime of Antony Cobain’s murder.”
“You can’t intimidate me, McKay.”
“I don’t doubt that. You’re too stupid to be intimidated. And I don’t care if you’re intimidated or not, I’m just telling you I’m going to the MCU with what I know, including your unwillingness to turn over this case or even properly investigate it.”
All the warning bells in Ryker’s head that had kept him alive in some of the darkest hellholes in the world suddenly started ringing. Lori was in trouble, and he knew it.
“I think you and I had better take this downtown,” Middleton said, reaching behind his back and pulling out a pair of handcuffs.
“I wouldn’t let him use those on me unless he bought me dinner first,” quipped Ezra.
“Ezra…” started Ryker.
“I know I’m going to regret this,” Ezra said, standing up and bringing a wine bottle that had been sitting beside him down on Middleton’s head.
“I owe you.”
“I know. I want an invitation to the wedding.”
Ryker grinned. “Done.”
“Should I call the cops?”
“You just clobbered one of their own. Call the MCU and ask to be put through to Slade Rafferty or Thorn Wilder. Tell them I’m going after Lori and give them the Everything Vintage address.”
“Will do. I’ll handcuff our friend here to something solid so if he wakes up, he won’t be able to interfere. Be careful.”
“Thanks,” Ryker said, running down the hall to the hotel’s only elevator. When he didn’t hear it moving, he sprinted to the stairwell and ran down the steps as fast as he could, rushing out into the night and hoping he wasn’t too late.