Chapter Twenty-One
Sam had finished her usual morning routine when Charlotte called her.
“Everything okay?” asked Sam.
“Yes. This is becoming a pattern, isn’t it? I’m sorry for bothering you. Am I interrupting your breakfast?”
“No, no. I’m all done with that. What’s going on?” asked Sam.
“I haven’t gotten around to calling the police yet about Margaret’s tote bag,” said Charlotte.
“I know. I should have done it right away. But I had another delivery truck come in, then I had a bunch of chatty customers, then my mom called me and there was something I needed to help her with. Anyway, I went back into the bag.”
“You found something else?” Sam thought back to when she was at the shop. She’d felt like they’d really gone through it. But then she realized that as soon as she’d seen Margaret’s printed email from Gerald/Geraldine, she’d stopped searching through everything.
“That’s right. Do you mind running by? I hate doing this over the phone.”
“No problem. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
As good as her word, Sam was back in the shop just ten minutes later. Charlotte gave her a rueful look. “Sorry again. I just figured I’d give the bag another quick look before I called the cops. I didn’t really think I’d find anything else in there, but I think I did.”
Charlotte’s hands were gloved, and she handed Sam another pair. “Just because the police might dust for fingerprints or something.” Then she handed Sam some neatly-typed pages.
Sam skimmed one of them. “I’m not sure I’m getting the full context of these. It sounds like Margaret, for sure. She’s talking about ‘academic circles’ and ‘old betrayals.’ People who ‘can’t handle competition.’”
“I know,” said Charlotte. “This looks to be part of her memoir draft, from what I can tell.”
“Memoir or tell-all?” muttered Sam. “She’s not happy with somebody.”
“That’s what I thought, too. I wish we had more pages. These might even be from her outline, not the draft. There was one other part there, too. She said something about some people couldn’t handle ‘being shown their limitations.’”
Sam said slowly, “Who do we think she was talking about?”
“It could be anyone Margaret hurt through the years. There’s a letter in that stack, too. From a publisher, it looks like.”
Sam sifted through them until she found the letter.
She glanced at the letterhead. It was the same publisher that Claire had contacted for her own book.
Sam read part of the letter out loud. “Regarding your memoir, we’ve attempted to contact the relevant parties mentioned in chapters four and seven for comment.
Please confirm you’ve secured necessary releases.
” Sam looked over at Charlotte. “Who would need to be contacted?”
“I guess anyone she wrote about. If it’s potentially libelous. I mean, that’s a small press. They wouldn’t be able to handle major lawsuits.”
Sam said, “Do you think it’s about Dylan? That he couldn’t handle being ‘shown his limitations?’”
“Maybe. Or maybe Claire? She was very upset about Margaret’s feedback. Could it be her?”
Sam said, “Maybe. But I don’t understand what she means by ‘academic circles’ unless it’s her contacts in publishing. Or the bit about ‘competition.’”
Charlotte made a face. “I guess it’s not very helpful after all.”
“I think the papers are giving us information, but we don’t have enough background to understand it. I’m guessing the police probably have the rest of her memoir, so they might have more ideas. Margaret must have kept it at her house.”
Charlotte sighed. “And now I’m going to have to call them and tell them they missed Margaret’s tote bag.
” She paused. “Actually, I might just drop it by there, myself. I can close the shop for a few minutes and run it by the station. I hate to have police cars outside the bookstore again. It can’t be good for business. What are you doing now?”
Sam thought it through. She usually had a game plan for her day at the very start, but Charlotte’s call had interrupted that process. “Dylan works at the community center, right?”
Charlotte nodded.
“I might run by there and see if he’s over there and available for a quick chat. It’s a nice public place to meet up with him, just in case. I can say I’m there getting pamphlets for their activities. Then I might run by and help Olivia out at the food pantry. She usually volunteers today.”
Charlotte said, “See you later, Sam. And thanks.”
The Sunset Ridge Community Center occupied a sturdy brick and wood building on the edge of downtown, its wide front porch dotted with rocking chairs that usually hosted retirees.
This morning, the parking lot was only half-full.
The weekday crowd of senior exercise classes and yoga for moms hadn’t yet arrived.
Sam pulled into a spot near the entrance and walked into the building.
She’d been there dozens of times for various town meetings and community events, but had never really paid attention to the layout.
The main entrance opened into a large multipurpose room that could be divided with accordion partitions.
To the right, a hallway led to smaller rooms used for classes and workshops.
To the left, administrative offices and a small library tucked into a corner.
Dylan’s workshops would be in one of those classroom spaces if he were there.
The lobby smelled faintly of coffee and the distinctive scent of whatever industrial cleaner they used on the linoleum floors.
A bulletin board near the entrance advertised everything from yoga to council meetings.
She scanned it quickly and saw a flyer for ‘Creative Writing Workshops with Dylan Morrison, MFA.’
So, Dylan had a Master of Fine Arts. She’d forgotten that, if she’d ever known in the first place. Could he have been in those ‘academic circles’ Margaret was talking about? Could he have been a teaching assistant for her?
Sam could hear voices from the classroom area.
She made her way down the corridor, her footsteps echoing slightly on the polished floor.
She peered inside one classroom and saw Dylan there.
His dark curly hair looked like it hadn’t been combed that morning, and he wore jeans and a faded band T-shirt.
Even from behind, she could see the tension in his shoulders.
A couple of adult students were coming her way with notebooks in their hands, heading out of the class.
Dylan didn’t turn around, so Sam knocked lightly on the doorframe. “Dylan?”
He turned quickly, almost dropping the folder he was holding. When he saw her, surprise flickered across his features, followed quickly by wariness.
“Sam.” He set the folder down carefully. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said, stepping into the room and gesturing at the pamphlets on the table. “I wanted to pick up some information about the workshops. I thought I might run into you here.”
The wariness in his expression didn’t quite fade, but he nodded. “Sure. We’ve got information on everything right here. You’re interested in doing some creative writing? Poetry?”
“Maybe. Or I might share it with a friend of mine who could be interested.”
Dylan nodded. “There’s no judgment here. It’s supposed to be a fun class that can help you explore your creativity. I’d love to have you or your friend sign up.”
“I like the idea of a no-judgment zone. It sounds very supportive.”
Dylan said in a bitter voice, “Yeah, that’s what we’re aiming for. There are places that don’t have that. It can make it really tough on your confidence, especially when you’re just starting out. I hate to say it, but book club just wasn’t that way.”
“It seemed like Margaret had a lot of strong opinions.”
“Yes. On everything,” said Dylan. “But things should be better now. Aside from her, it was a very supportive environment. And you need that kind of support and encouragement, whether you’re exploring books or your own writing.”
Sam said carefully, “I understood Margaret was writing too, so you’d think she’d understand. A memoir, wasn’t it?”
Dylan frowned. “How did you find out about that? What did you hear?”
“Not much. Charlotte found some memoir pages in some of Margaret’s things that she’d accidentally left at the shop. They’re with the police now.” At least, Sam hoped they were. Especially considering the kind of reaction the mention of them provoked in Dylan.
Dylan went pale. “With the police? What did the pages say? Did Charlotte tell you? Did they mention me?”
“I don’t think the pages were very specific. What’s wrong, Dylan?” Sam edged closer to the classroom door in case she needed to make a quick exit.
He noticed Sam moving her hand to her pocket to pull out her phone. He raised his hands, trying to look nonthreatening. “I’m sorry. Sorry, Sam.” He plopped down into a chair and buried his face in his hands. “What a mess,” he muttered.
Sam kept holding her phone but sat nearby in a chair.
“What’s going on? Is there something Margaret knew about you?
Something she was planning on exposing? If there is,” she added gently, “it’s probably a good idea to let the police know.
They’re sure to find out, anyway. That way you can get ahead of it. ”
Dylan nodded, his head still in his hands. “Right. I know.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t have the MFA I said I had.”
“I see.” If he didn’t have the master’s degree, he lost a lot of credibility, especially considering he was teaching courses at the community center.
Dylan said, “I’ll lose my job here. That’s how I got the workshop gigs. I told them I had a graduate degree. I can’t believe this is happening.”
“And Margaret found out? How?”
Dylan’s laugh was bitter again. “How did she find anything out? She stuck her nose into everything. I guess she must have taken it upon herself to do some poking around and see if I had the degree. She threatened to expose me.”
“How? Was she going to put it in her memoir?”
Dylan said, “Who knows? She decided to just torture me by telling me she was going to tell people and then didn’t do it.
I didn’t know if she was going to call up the community center or tell people by word of mouth.
Or maybe write about it in her memoir. I had no idea. I’ve been terrified for weeks.”
They were quiet for a few moments as Sam tried to absorb the new information and Dylan tried to get control of his emotions.
He finally said, “You realize how guilty this is going to make me look to the cops. They’re going to think that I killed Margaret because she was going to expose me as a fraud.
Because that’s what I am, a fraud. But I’m not a killer.
I was relieved when she died, of course.
That makes me feel awful. But I didn’t murder her. ”
“And Gerald?”
Dylan said, “Of course I didn’t murder Gerald. I can’t believe he’s dead. It’s like I’m stuck in this nightmare that won’t end.” He paused. “You’re the one who found Gerald, aren’t you?”
“No. But I’d spoken to him right before he died.”
Dylan shook his head. “I’m guessing that makes you a suspect, too.”
“The police aren’t really happy about my proximity to both victims. I found Margaret, of course. And then I’d had that contact with Gerald shortly before his murder.”
Dylan said, “I can’t believe anyone would kill Gerald. He was such a great guy. He was super-creative, too. I thought he’d make a great author.”
Sam wouldn’t spread Gerald’s secret further. Claire knew, but that was different; she’d been his friend.
Dylan was quiet for a few moments. “There was someone else who wasn’t happy about Margaret’s memoir. Pamela.”
“She wasn’t?”
Dylan nodded. “She kept asking Margaret what she’d written. Margaret just smiled and said, ‘The truth.’ Pamela looked kind of sick when she said that.”
What could Pamela have been worried about? A retired librarian, volunteering at a retirement home? It seemed unlikely Margaret and Pamela’s paths would cross.
Dylan said, “I’m going to head back home now.” It was a pointed remark.
“Of course. I’m sorry.”
Dylan headed out quickly, with Sam several paces behind.