Every Trick in the Book (12 page)

“Yes. But I don’t think he was in the room when I introduced myself. If he hadn’t
heard my name, he might have mistaken me for Melissa Plume. He gave that feather to
a woman he believed to be Melissa Plume to convey some kind of warning or message.”
I worked through my theory out loud. “He thought I was Melissa, so maybe, when I didn’t
react to the feather, his rage grew even stronger. The feather could have been his
way of saying, ‘I know you.’ Maybe it was supposed to terrify Melissa. It spooked
me, and I have no history with this man.”

I could practically hear the gears in Sean’s mind turning. When he didn’t respond
for several seconds, I asked, “What was in her hand?”

After another long beat of silence, Sean sighed. “We’re going to keep some of the
case details close to our chests, Lila, so don’t share what I’m about to tell you
with anyone.” He waited for me to swear not to discuss the contents of the note or
the photo with another soul and then continued. “The picture was of a Winnie the Pooh.
A stuffed bear. The note said, ‘
If you want to know how I got this, meet me in the restricted hallway. Walk until
you see an exit sign. Come alone or something might happen to the owner of this bear
.’”

“Why would she—?” I began but then stopped short. “Melissa’s son!”

“Yes,” Sean answered solemnly. “Silas. He’s four.”

This information hit me like a blow to the stomach. The vague recollection of a query
involving a toy bear tugged at the corner of my mind but was wiped away by the image
of a little boy clutching a Winnie the Pooh plush toy. The room suddenly felt too
warm, the air swelling in my lungs. I saw a little boy snuggling up to the bear at
night, hugging it when he was scared and taking it along to preschool, the yellow
fuzzy head poking out of the top of a zippered book bag. It was easier for me to focus
on the bear. To think about the boy, who would now have to grow up without his mother,
was far too painful.

“Does he know?” I asked in a choked whisper. “About his mom?”

“Not yet. I spoke with Ms. Plume’s husband at length. He has a different surname—Delaney.
Logan Delaney. His sister is taking care of Silas. Mr. Delaney is coming down on the
next flight.”

I visualized the shell-shocked husband walking through an airport terminal with the
blank and expressionless eyes of a zombie. I had to blink back more tears. “That poor
man. What did he say about the Winnie the Pooh bear in the photo?”

“That Silas carries the thing with him everywhere. He still has it, as a matter of
fact, so the one in the photograph was a decoy.”

Rage surged through my blood. “The murderer tricked Melissa?”

“Silas’s bear has a blue bandanna tied around his neck, and the killer must have known
that. The bear in the photo looks fairly new, but I doubt Melissa studied it too hard,
and it’s also wearing a blue bandanna.” Sean sounded sorrowful. “Her protective instincts
probably overruled all other emotions. She saw that picture and ran.”

I nodded, even though Sean couldn’t see me. “I’d have done the same thing. I would
have been totally blinded by fear for my son.” I glanced across the living room at
a framed drawing Trey had made for me on Valentine’s Day over twelve years ago. Yes,
I would most certainly have reacted exactly as Melissa had. “Did Mr. Delaney mention
Melissa having trouble with overly aggressive writers before?”

“Nothing beyond a few nasty phone calls or emails. He’d never heard the name Kirk
Mason, but that doesn’t surprise me since Mr. Mason doesn’t officially exist.”

My mouth had gone dry again. “I feel responsible for this, Sean. We invited a killer
to Inspiration Valley. My
agency accepted this man’s registration information at face value. He breezed into
our event under a false name and with malice in his heart.”

“It’s a book festival, Lila. No one expected you or anyone else from Novel Idea to
run the attendees’ IDs through a federal database,” Sean argued. “This happened because
an individual gave in to a darkness inside himself. End of story. You couldn’t have
stopped this. If the killer was Kirk Mason, then I was in the same room with the guy
and
I
didn’t stop him.” He sighed heavily. “Now we need to look ahead. I have to find Mason,
and you know how crucial these first few hours are. I can’t talk to you anymore, Lila,
until I have some answers. However, there’s something I may ask you to do.”

“Anything,” I quickly replied.

“If I can’t track down a photo of this guy, I’d like you to come to the station and
meet with our sketch artist.”

“Of course. I doubt I’ll ever forget what he looks like.”

Sean said good-bye, and after wishing him luck, I hung up and sank deeper into the
couch cushions. There had to be something I could do to help bring Melissa’s murderer
to justice. Once again, I recalled her description of writers whose blind passion
for their work had caused them to cross a line. Perhaps Kirk Mason had done just that
with other agents or editors. If he’d queried several agencies or publishing houses
using the same pen name, perhaps they had a more complete record of him. Perhaps they
even knew his true identity. I resolved to reach out to my fellows in the publishing
world as soon as possible. Unfortunately, most of them wouldn’t read or respond to
my email until Monday.

By then, the Dunston Police might have Kirk Mason in custody. I wanted to believe
that, because the alternative
was too frightening. The idea of Kirk sneaking around the festival tomorrow filled
me with dread. True, he could no longer disguise himself as Edgar Allan Poe, but it
was possible that he didn’t care and was willing to risk his freedom for the sake
of his work. Perhaps he believed that by becoming famous as a cold-blooded killer
he would finally land a book deal.

Curling my hands into fists, I grabbed the steel letter opener from my little desk
in the corner of the room and held the blade up to the firelight. I watched for a
moment as the yellow and orange flames licked the metal until it seemed to glow in
my hands. I then stuffed the letter opener in my purse.

If Kirk Mason planned to hurt another person at a book festival set in
my
town and sponsored by
my
agency, he was going to have to get by me first.

EVEN THOUGH SUNDAY’S
workshops had nothing to do with the agency, we felt it was important for Novel Idea
to maintain a presence at the festival. With that in mind, some of us had registered
for classes. I’d signed up for a demonstration on paper and book making, Franklin
was attending one on book repair, and Flora, a seminar on illustration. Jude and Zach,
who had no interest in the workshops, would be taking turns at the agency booth, and
Vicky would continue manning the registration and information desk. I offered to relieve
her for the afternoon, knowing that things would be winding down and it would be a
quiet job where I might have the chance to read through some manuscripts.

Approaching the town hall that morning, I felt for the letter opener in my bag, reassured
in knowing I had
something with which to defend myself. If only Melissa had had something with her
when she’d been lured into that deserted corridor.

The Dunston Police had anticipated that the news of Melissa’s death would draw a significant
media presence, and it had. Early this morning, television vans had grabbed all the
parking spots closest to the old town hall’s entrance and intrepid reporters were
filming backdrop scenes while I was still at home drinking coffee and putting on makeup.
In response to Bentley’s considerable influence, a trio of policemen arrived before
the festival opened for the day and cordoned off a wide area leading from the sidewalk
to the front doors.

“No members of the media inside,” they told the disgruntled journalists. “This is
a private event and it’s too late for you folks to register.”

A reporter called out, “What ever happened to freedom of the press?”

One of the veteran cops smirked and answered, “You can be as free as you wanna be
as long as you stay on the other side of this rope. If any of the book people feel
like talking to you, they’re all yours, but if you stick one toe on the wrong side
of this rope, the only footage you’ll get is of me putting you in the back of my car.
Got it?”

It appeared that none of the media felt like arguing with the man, who bore a close
resemblance to Paul Bunyan. Flora, who climbed the steps seconds behind me, commented,
“I truly believe that officer could carry an ox in each arm without breaking a sweat.”

I responded by quoting a line from Shakespeare’s
Measure for Measure
. “‘O! it is excellent to have a giant’s strength, but it is tyrannous to use it like
a giant.’”

“Tyranny can be quite useful at times,” Flora quipped in reply, glancing back at the
colossal policeman with admiration.

When I walked through the door, the din of voices besieged me. People milled about
the main hall; more, it seemed, than had been there for both of the previous conference
days. As I made my way to the registration desk, I glanced about, wondering if Kirk
Mason was among the attendees. Would he be so bold as to show up here today?

“What’s going on?” I asked. “Are all these people signed up for the classes?”

Vicky shook her head. “Not by a mile. Somehow word got out that there was a murder
at the festival, and now we’ve got curiosity seekers mixed in with legitimate attendees…”
She sighed. “Once the first sessions start, I’ll weed out the people that shouldn’t
be here.”

“Just be careful,” I cautioned. “There might be a killer in the crowd.”

At the Espresso Yourself kiosk, the lineup for coffee stretched long. I was just debating
whether I’d get to the front of the line in time to make my workshop when Makayla
waved me over.

“I’m making your latte right now,” she said, despite the disgruntled looks being directed
her way. “When this hubbub dies down, we need to talk. Are you holding up okay?”

I nodded. “Thanks,” I said, taking the cup she handed me. The warmth in my hands gave
me unexpected comfort. “I’ll come back after my class.”

Despite feeling unsettled because of Melissa Plume, I was looking forward to this
workshop. A newcomer to Inspiration Valley, Sandra Pickwick, was teaching it. She’d
recently opened a stationery store in town called Pickwick
Papers, which sold, among other things, beautiful handmade cards, notepads of handcrafted
paper, and unique journals and scrapbooks. On its opening day I had visited the shop
and purchased a set of notecards decorated with delicate violets. I had asked Sandra
how the violets had been incorporated into the paper and added that I’d like to try
making cards using blossoms from my garden, so Sandra suggested I sign up for this
class.

Just by the entrance was a table containing merchandise from the shop. I spent a minute
admiring the beautiful wares before finding a seat near the door, on which I placed
my jacket.

At the front of the room, tables were set up with pieces of equipment and materials.
One table had two large bins on it, another, two blenders, and a third, a large paper
press consisting of two flatbeds that could be forced together with a large screwing
mechanism. Sandra Pickwick, wearing black slacks and a blue flowered blouse, stood
at the lectern studying her notes.

I approached her and reintroduced myself.

“I remember you,” she said. “You were very intrigued by our floral collection.”

“That’s why I’m here. I’m curious to see how that beautiful paper is made.”

She leaned in close. “Is it true?” she whispered. “That someone was murdered here
yesterday?”

“There was…” I stopped myself, unsure of what to say. I knew that I shouldn’t reveal
anything about Melissa, since the police had yet to release an official statement.
“The incident is under investigation. That’s all I know,” I lied, glancing at my watch.
“I’d better get to my seat.”

As I sipped my coffee, I scanned the room for Kirk Mason
and listened to Sandra introduce herself to her audience. Among the twenty people
in the room, I knew Mason wouldn’t be there, but I’d keep looking for him until he
was apprehended. Everywhere I went, he’d be a shadow lurking on the fringes of my
vision.

Shifting my thoughts, I directed my focus to Sandra.

“You all probably know that the first paper was made by the ancient Egyptians; the
word ‘paper’ deriving from the name of the papyrus plant. The Egyptians pressed sliced,
wet sections of papyrus stems together and then dried them. Paper that we are familiar
with today is made of pulped cellulose fibers like wood, cotton, or flax.” She pointed
to two large containers on the table beside her. “Today, we’re going to press paper
out of cotton and hemp. The result will be thicker and more fibrous paper than what
you usually use, but we can adjust that by the amount of processing we apply, and
we’ll add some decorative elements into it, like flower petals and seeds. The hemp
and the cotton have been soaking overnight, and the hemp has also been cooked with
some soda ash, so they are ready to be turned into paper. When they’re pressed, we’ll
do a quick dry with some blow-dryers, but they won’t be completely dry until tomorrow.”

She continued to describe the step-by-step process of producing paper, which included
mashing the pulp in a blender, adding dye if desired, and pressing the pulp between
towels in the large paper press.

“Now we’re all going to get our hands into it and make some paper. Half of you come
to the hemp, the rest to the cotton.”

I now understood why registration was limited for this workshop. We each had to wait
our turn at the press, adding our unique character to the paper using dye or flower
petals.
I chose to make hemp paper, since Trey worked with the material for other purposes
at the co-op and I thought it would be fun to write him a note on it. I crumbled some
dried cornflower petals into mine and pressed in a few thin stems as well.