Chapter 8 #4
Even as I asked the question, though, I realized that it might not mean anything—I had no idea how long Vivienne had been out of prison, or how long she’d known the pardon was coming, or any of the details about her release.
But Graeme tilted his head at me as though he hadn’t thought about it before. He said slowly, “She emailed me the day before the conference started.”
“And you told her she could come?” Bobby asked.
“She’s Vivienne Carver.” When neither Bobby nor I responded to that, Graeme continued, “Of course I wanted her to come. Not only because of her books and her career, but because—well, everything else.”
“And it didn’t concern you that the person who exposed her and helped get a conviction was also going to be at the conference?”
Blotches of red rose in Graeme’s face. “That’s ridiculous. There was never any danger.”
“Meaning, you did consider it,” Bobby said, “but you chose not to tell Dash. Or the sheriff’s office. Or anyone.”
“But he’s fine,” Graeme said. And then he turned to me. “You’re fine. Vivienne assured me—”
“She assured you?” Bobby asked, his volume going from casual conversation with law enforcement to cease and desist.
“Bobby,” I said, “do you mind getting us some coffee?”
Bobby’s gaze swung toward me, and for a moment, the flat-eyed cop look there stopped me. But then he gave me a tight nod, directed another hard stare at Graeme, and made his way toward the Chipper stall, where Tessa was talking to Dr. Xu (also petting Cotton, Dr. Xu’s adorable yellow Lab pup).
“If you’re thinking of some sort of lawsuit—” Graeme said.
“No, nothing like that. I’m trying to figure out why Vivienne was here. And who else knew she’d be here. That kind of thing.”
Graeme adjusted his pen and clipboard. With what sounded like reluctant interest, he said, “You’re trying to solve her murder.”
“I’m curious.”
“Because you’re the chief suspect.”
“Okay, why does everyone think I’m the chief suspect?”
“Because I edited and published mystery novels for eleven years,” Graeme said, and for the first time, a hint of humor filtered into the words. “And because of your history with her. And because you found her. And—”
“Yes, got it, thank you.” I took a breath. “Is there anyone here who might have wanted Vivienne dead?” Before he could point out the obvious, I said, “Anyone else, I mean?”
“Well.” He tapped the pen against the clipboard.
“A lot of people didn’t like Vivienne. Jealousy.
And then, when the truth came out, everyone took it as retroactive proof—they’d all secretly hated her, and now they had a way to justify it.
But that’s not what you meant.” The pen stilled against the clipboard.
“Her agent is here. Her former agent, I mean.”
“Who’s that?”
“Margaux Mendez.” Graeme hesitated. “I don’t want to betray any confidences, but Margaux has been public about how she feels about Vivienne. She blames her for, well, everything that has gone wrong.”
“What? Like, losing contracts on Vivienne’s books, that kind of thing?”
“A lot more than that. If anyone hated Vivienne enough to kill her…” But Graeme shook his head. “I don’t know. Margaux hates her. But I can’t see her doing that kind of thing.”
I nodded, but I didn’t say what I was thinking: people killed each other all the time, for all sorts of reasons.
“What did Vivienne want to talk to you about yesterday?” I asked. “She stopped you in the hall, and she didn’t look happy.”
“Ah,” Graeme said. “That was a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding about what?”
Those red blotches swarmed his face again. “Really, it’s not related—”
“Graeme, I’m sure you’re trying to be discreet or conscientious or something, but Vivienne is dead, and someone killed her. Whatever she was upset about, it might have had something to do with it.”
“It didn’t,” Graeme said. “I promise.”
“I don’t think the sheriff will see it that way.”
Graeme gave a strange laugh. He turned toward the windsocks, which were still fluttering and popping in the breeze, but he continued watching me out of the corner of his eye. The signal seemed to mean: this conversation is over.
But amateur sleuths are not so easily deterred. (Just ask that old lady who killed all those people with a quiche—I’ll look up the title later.) So, I said, “What I can’t understand is why Vivienne was out in the grotto at all. Do you know why she would have gone there?”
“No. And I’m sorry, but I need to—”
“From what I understand,” I said, “she was supposed to be at her one-on-ones—”
Graeme flinched.
“What?” I said. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s what Vivienne was confused about. That’s what you don’t want to tell me.”
“Mr. Dane, I promise it’s not going to help you. If anything—”
“‘If anything’ what? You showed her something she didn’t understand. What was it?”
With a sigh, Graeme flipped through his clipboard. He stopped on a page of what must have been the full conference program—the organizer’s edition, with all his notes and extra information. Including the sign-ups for the author one-on-ones.
“I don’t know how this happened,” Graeme said.
“She was a last-minute addition, so I sent out a form to any attendees who had wanted a one-on-one but hadn’t been able to get one.
The spots filled up fast. I was scrambling, and I copied over the names and didn’t even look at them until Vivienne asked me to look up her schedule. ”
“Who was it?” I asked. “Who was supposed to meet with Vivienne during her one-on-one?”
Graeme turned the clipboard toward me.
And there it was.
At the top of the list.
My name.
“You were.”