Chapter 8 #3
“Don’t talk to anyone,” I said. “Don’t go anywhere alone. And don’t annoy, antagonize, bother, or otherwise make nuisances of yourself, because let me tell you: killers do not like that.”
Charlie nodded agreement.
AJ said, “Nobody likes that.”
Thatcher tugged his beanie down again and said, “Into the abyss.”
“Excuse me!” The voice behind me had a chirpy insistence that suggested this social interaction was going to happen whether I liked it or not.
When I turned around, the florid-faced man who had been so excited about A Work in Progress the evening before was crowding me.
Today, he was dressed in a pork pie hat, a pink button-up, and plaid shorts.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but I saw you get on the bus, and I would have killed myself if I didn’t take the chance to say hello. ”
He leaned over me, hands braced on the seats, smiling with one-hundred-percent focus. It sent my social anxiety meter into the red.
“Uh, hi,” I said.
Bobby, ever the good boyfriend, stretched past me to hold out his hand. “Bobby Mai.”
“Spenser. Like the poet.” He shook Bobby’s hand, and for a moment, the smile bent in Bobby’s direction. An instant later, though, it was focused on me again. “This is my lucky day. You don’t know how nervous I was to meet you in person. Thank goodness you’re so easy to talk to.”
I made a noise in my throat and tried to nod.
“How do you know each other?” Bobby asked.
“Spenser—” I began.
“I’m obsessed with A Work in Progress,” Spenser said. “I’m literally one of those crazy fans.” He laughed, and it had that same forced chirpiness. “God, I wish I could—” He mimed squeezing something between his hands. “—get in that head of yours and see all the amazing ideas you have.”
Because I was turned toward Spenser, I couldn’t see Bobby, but I felt the change: a stillness that hadn’t been there before.
“Do you mind?” Spenser asked, and without waiting for a reply, he dropped into the seat across the aisle.
“I have so many questions. Will Gower is such an amazing character. How did you come up with him? Who is he based on? He’s so dynamic.
God, I love him so much. And the mystery!
How did you come up with—” He hesitated, clearly not sure if he was about to spoil the book, and said, “The twist. At the end.”
“I choked on a piece of Laffy Taffy,” I said.
Spenser stared at me. And then he let out a manic laugh—threw his head back, kicked his legs out, the whole deal.
I reached behind me and grabbed Bobby’s knee.
Fortunately, at that moment, the bus jolted to a stop, and we all swayed in our seats. (Mrs. Nelson wasn’t taking it easy on the brakes, either.)
“Here we are,” Bobby said. “I’m sorry I’m going to have to steal Dash from you now.”
“No fair,” Spenser said. “You get him all the time!” He flashed that too-intent grin. “I tried to sign up for a one-on-one with him, but Mr. Author here wasn’t offering any.”
“I didn’t expect—” I mumbled.
“And I kept waiting and waiting in case he changed his mind, but he never did.” Spenser’s tone suggested this had been a real failing on my part.
“And then they had to give me a one-on-one because I’d paid for it, hadn’t I, and do you know who they stuck me with?
Vivienne Carver. God, I almost died. When I think about what she put you through, I want to—” He made that squeezing gesture with his hands again.
“And I tried to introduce myself to her, to tell her I was looking forward to seeing her later, and she was so rude. Not like you at all.”
“I’m sorry that didn’t work out,” I said—which yes, I know, was perhaps the stupidest thing anyone has ever said in their entire life. But by that point, I was having a hard time getting a deep breath, and the bus was closing in around me, and my brain was doing a high-wire act.
“Go ahead,” Bobby said to Spenser. “You first.”
Cutting his eyes in a way that was strangely conspiratorial—like we were both annoyed with Bobby for meddling—Spenser heaved himself to his feet, said, “See you soon! I can’t wait to talk about book two,” and made his way off the bus.
Charlie immediately poked their head into the aisle. “Did you hear him?”
“He totally killed Vivienne,” AJ said. She was making notes on her phone.
“That bit about the one-on-one,” Thatcher said. “That’s where he gave himself away.”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I pressed one hand against the nubby upholstery. My other hand was still latched onto Bobby’s knee. He rubbed my back slowly.
“Come on,” Charlie said. “Before he gets away!”
The three ducklings hurried past us on their way off the bus.
My eyes shot open, and I called after them, “He can’t get away! We’re at the same conference!”
But they pretended not to hear me.
And then it was Bobby and me.
“You okay?” Bobby asked.
I nodded.
“That was a lot,” he said, still rubbing my back.
I shook my head. The worst of the anxiety had eased; I was breathing more or less normally now, and that claustrophobic tightness was gone. My brain even seemed to be coming back online.
“Sweetheart?” Bobby asked.
I cleared my throat. “I’m fine. Thanks.”
Several seconds passed before Bobby said, “I know he likes your book, Dash, but—”
“He’s a nutjob, and don’t let him get too close, and definitely don’t go with him to a second location?”
Bobby tilted a look at me that suggested I wasn’t as funny as I thought I was. But all he said was “Be careful.”
That was all I needed—I wrote one book, and heck, I self-published it, and somehow I’d gotten myself into a Misery-style situation.
What would happen when Spenser found out that I was completely stalled on book two, and that I had no ideas for a sequel (let alone a series), and for all intents and purposes, Will Gower had lived his one, brief fictional life, and my writing career was over?
(Also, is it weird that I remember the lady from Misery making good ice cream sundaes? That’s the kind of detail I fixate on, apparently.)
Since that didn’t seem like a helpful line of thought, I grabbed the headrest in front of me and got to my feet. “Let’s see if we can catch Graeme.”
The day was still bright and clear, the sky a pale blue, fluffy clouds patterned along the horizon. A stiff breeze made me shiver inside my jacket; it snapped the windsocks that lined the sidewalk, and it carried the smell of good coffee and warm, delicious carbs.
The writers from the bus had already spread out and were slowly making their way through the market—one of them stopping to talk to Mr. Irving about his huckleberries, another stopping to browse the McGimpsey twins’ soaps and candles.
Bliss and Althea Wilson, who owned Ancient Mariner Antiques, had even brought out some of their easier-to-move items—a couple of bentwood chairs, music boxes, a large black velvet Elvis (in this one, he was holding what appeared to be an astronaut cat).
The coffee smell was coming from a stand with a sign that said CHIPPER.
Our local coffeeshop didn’t have a stall at the farmers market year-round, but on chilly days, they made a killing.
Tessa was currently working on the chalkboard menu.
(Apple crumble latte was one of the options, and yes, I was determined to make Bobby buy me one.)
And, of course, Fox and Indira were there—Indira’s baked goods were one of the highlights of the farmers market.
Fox was lounging in a folding chair, dressed in a coat made entirely of feathers, a fluttering silk scarf, and an extremely—prejudicially—ruffled shirt.
They were gesticulating wildly with a bubble pipe while Indira checked something on her phone.
When Indira finished whatever she was doing, she said something and pointed, and Fox stood and began rearranging the individually packaged cookies.
To put it politely: I goggled.
Listen, there aren’t a lot of times that anybody tells Fox what to do—much less that Fox actually does it.
“Did you see that?” I asked Bobby.
“Head in the game,” he said and squeezed the back of my neck. And let me tell you: if we’d been at home, that casual sports lingo and physical contact would have ended in Bobby getting himself dragged upstairs and seriously taken advantage of.
Graeme hadn’t made it far; he stood near the entrance to the market, examining his clipboard.
“Hey, Graeme,” I said as I approached. “Great idea with the outing.”
“We try to do this wherever we go,” he said. “We choose destinations. People want a chance to see more than the conference center. I need to mention that there is a twenty-dollar fee. For the bus, you understand.”
“Right, sure.”
As I got out my wallet, Graeme said, “Did you need help finding something?”
“Hmm?”
“You were looking at your conference schedule.”
“No, thanks.” I took out a pair of twenties and handed them over. “I haven’t had a chance to say this yet, but I’m so sorry about Vivienne.”
Graeme bared his teeth in that weird not-smile. “We weren’t close.”
“Oh. Okay. Yeah, I meant more the conference—”
“Did someone say something?” he asked. “Is there a problem? What happened?”
“Uh, no problem, no.” But Bobby and I shared a look that said: No problem besides the murder.
“It’s so strange that she was here,” I said. “How did that even happen?”
“Vivienne always comes to Northern Noir,” Graeme said. “It was one of her favorites. And since we’re in her hometown this year, it only makes sense that she’d be here.”
“But she was in the state penitentiary,” Bobby said.
Graeme studied Bobby as though Bobby were some kind of idiot. “Yes, obviously. I meant since she was released.”
“I guess that’s what I’m curious about,” I said. “When did Vivienne contact you about attending the conference? Registration closed months ago.”