Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Roz’s head whipped toward the sound as half the audience stood and even Enolia startled. Not part of her act, then, she thought.
“Who was that?” Roz asked as everyone started talking at once.
“Where was that?” Alden exclaimed. “Out back, I think.” And he was off and running, pausing only long enough to down the rest of the champagne and plop down the glass.
Roz wasn’t going to let him have all the fun. She sprinted behind him as he skirted Enolia and plunged into the back hallway. A couple of other men were on their heels, ready to help whoever was in crisis.
She practically ran into Alden’s back after he burst through the back door of the bookstore. He’d stopped just outside, then took a hesitant step forward. Roz had to step aside to see around him. She sort of wished she hadn’t.
A woman crouched next to a figure crumpled on the pavement, a man whose jacket and hair showed signs of burns.
Roz knew him by his shoes. Because not enough was left of his face to identify Wayne Vandershell.
“Are you all right?” Alden was asking.
No, Roz thought, but then she realized Alden was talking to the hysterical woman. It was Sheryl.
Oh, no.
This was horrible.
And it was going to be extra complicated to cover this story if their correspondent was involved.
Roz hated herself for thinking of that right now, but it was a fact, and they had to deal with it.
This was a story, and given it happened at a reading by the famous Enolia Honeywood, it was potentially a big one.
Sheryl looked up at Alden. “It’s Wayne,” she gasped.
“Come away from—come away from him,” Roz said. She’d almost said “Come away from the body.” She was ninety-nine percent sure it was a body, but Sheryl didn’t need to hear that word right now.
Roz stepped forward and helped Alden guide Sheryl away from the former Mr. Vandershell.
“You,” Roz snapped at one of the horrified men gaping at the scene. “Call 9-1-1. Ask for police and an ambulance.”
Just in case, she thought. But she knew in her heart they were going to need the medical examiner.
Roz heard the man’s call as she wrapped her arms around the trembling Sheryl, who sobbed into her shoulder.
People spoke behind her, disembodied voices.
Alden told curiosity-seekers who’d come to the back door to stay inside.
Mae exclaimed and then ushered everyone in.
Enolia, apparently speaking from the hallway, offered to continue the reading, but Mae asked her to move on to the book signing.
Which all felt sort of weird, but it would be even weirder to hear Enolia Honeywood perform a scene about a murder when it looked like one had just occurred in the alley behind the shop.
Two strips of businesses on parallel streets backed up to this alley. It was a through road, but it was barely big enough for a trash truck, and it was one-way. It didn’t get much traffic. Still, a killer could’ve driven or even walked through here with no trouble at all, if that was what happened.
Was there a killer? Or was this an accident?
All of this went through Roz’s brain as she patted Sheryl’s back and forced herself to look over the woman’s shoulder at the scene. At the body. It was a mess.
Alden quietly took notes on his phone and, even more quietly, a couple of photos. They would never run anything that graphic in The Courier-Beacon, but photos were information, and they were going to need as much information as they could get.
Just then, Hai slipped out the back door, camera in hand.
Roz knew he’d try to get something tasteful they could run in the paper.
But she didn’t want to be in a photo, and she didn’t want Sheryl in one, either.
She shook her head slightly at him and pointed to the scene, and he nodded and changed angles.
Sirens sounded, closing quickly. That was one good thing about a small town—the police were never far away.
The guy who’d made the phone call was hanging back, trying not to look.
The other one had gone inside the back door, mumbling something about keeping people away.
Which was a good idea, because this had crime scene written all over it.
Her eyes strayed back to the body, then drifted to something in the street. Pieces of something? Was that some kind of shotgun shell? She didn’t know much about guns, but Alden did. She’d ask him later.
The sirens were loud, now, and Roz blinked as new players entered the scene. She released Sheryl to a female medic from the newly arrived ambulance. The other paramedic knelt to examine Wayne Vandershell. It took him only a moment to verify what Roz already suspected.
It wasn’t him who said what she was thinking, though.
“This doesn’t look good,” came a familiar voice behind her.
She turned around. It was Deputy Duke Dawson, an old friend and occasional date back in high school, with thick golden-brown hair and a perpetual sunburn.
He was accompanied by brown-skinned Officer Naya Byrd, her black hair pinned in a neat bun, her sharp, dark eyes taking an inventory of the details.
“Is he dead?” Duke asked.
“Yes,” Roz and the paramedic said at the same time.
“Sorry,” Roz added. “I’m a little shook up.”
“Roz.” Duke gave her a look of kind concern. “Did you find him?”
“No, Sheryl did. Sheryl Pugh.” Roz pointed to Sheryl, who now leaned against the bumper in the open back doors of the ambulance with a blanket around her shoulders, talking to the paramedic.
“We came out of the bookstore when we heard her scream,” Alden added.
Duke’s eyes narrowed. He’d made it clear he didn’t like Alden much, partly because Duke hadn’t quite given up an interest in Roz. “Did you touch anything?”
“No, sir,” Alden said.
“Me neither,” Roz added.
Duke sighed. “Good. Naya, I’ll call the ME if you call FIS.” The medical examiner and the forensic team, Roz realized.
“No problem. And you two need to step back,” Officer Byrd told the reporters. “Way back. Into the store.”
“We’re not doing any harm here,” Roz said.
“Now, Roz, you have to let us do our job,” Duke said. “You’ve seen all you can see anyway. We can talk later.” He lifted an eyebrow, and she got it. He’d give her more than he put in the police report, but she had to play nice.
“Fine. Let me say a word to Sheryl before we go.” She walked over to the ambulance, not asking permission first. Because she knew Sheryl would be Duke’s next stop after his phone call.
“Sheryl, are you OK?” Roz asked her.
Sheryl let out a shuddering sigh. The medic patted her shoulder and walked toward the body, leaving them alone. “I’ll be OK, I guess. It’s just such a shock.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Listen, the police are going to want to talk to you. I advise you to get a lawyer. If you don’t have one, give me a call. I’ll see if our publisher can lend you ours.”
“But this has nothing to do with the paper,” Sheryl said.
“Maybe not, but you might be treated as a suspect.” Roz lowered her voice, spotting Duke walking toward them as Alden hovered by the back door. “Do you have a lawyer?”
“If there’s one thing I got out of my divorce, it’s a lawyer. I’ll call her right now and see what she says. I think she has a colleague who can help me.”
“Good.” Roz gave her a hug.
“Thanks for being so nice.” Sheryl’s reddened face and watery eyes tweaked Roz’s heart.
“Of course. I’m so sorry.”
“Roz? It’s time.” Duke had his hands on his duty belt and a small frown on his lips.
“All right. I’ll call you later,” she told Sheryl, then nodded at Duke and slipped by him before he could say anything else. Officer Byrd was across the alley, on her phone.
Roz met up with Alden by the door and tried not to look at the body, but the image was burned in her brain. She felt a little shaky.
Alden slipped an arm around her and guided her into the back hallway of the shop, past the two restrooms, a closet and the office.
“Did you tell Sheryl to get a lawyer?” he murmured.
“Of course.”
“Good girl.”
Roz lifted an eyebrow at him. “Duke won’t think so.”
“Maybe Duke likes bad girls.”
“But I’m always good.”
“Except when you’re not,” Alden purred.
She snorted softly, feeling her face heat. Maybe it was an inappropriate time to flirt, but his teasing took her mind off what they’d just seen. And knowing Alden, that was exactly what he’d intended.
They reentered the main room. Enolia Honeywood sat at the table by the podium, signing books. It appeared she’d already worked through most of the queue; maybe a dozen people remained.
“Did you get a book?” Roz asked Alden.
“No, I didn’t. I guess I won’t now.”
“You should.”
Alden gave her a funny look. “Really?”
“Yes. I want Enolia to know your face. And I want you to tell her you write for the paper and want an interview.”
Alden smiled. “So we can ask her about what happened here today.”
“Not just that, but yeah. You can get your celebrity gossip, too.”
“With a side of murder,” he said. “I’ll do it.”