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EIGHT

I woke up the following day with my face mashed down on my keyboard. When I was on deadline, that wasn’t unusual. But I hadn’t been working on my book. I’d done a deep dive on all things James Brandt. He’d been divorced three times and was in his fifties. Thanks to plastic surgery and hair plugs, he appeared slightly younger, but not by much.

His divorces had been acrimonious, with the women claiming he was emotionally abusive. I could see that. He was not the kindest of men and had a chip on his shoulder. I wondered how he convinced anyone to marry him. His three ex-wives went on my suspect list. At the very least, I could see if any of them had been in town or signed up for the festival.

The list was growing longer. Even though they had been friends I added the mayor to the list, with Sebrena and her ex, Chef Patrick. Victims usually knew their killers. Okay, so I didn’t have any idea what the motivation for killing him might be—other than he wasn’t very nice—but at least I had some people to check out.

Several gossipy articles about him were tied to various female celebrities.

He won a couple of court cases in which he was accused of plagiarism. That wasn’t unusual for a top-selling author. It was one of the reasons I made things up rather than using true crimes as a basis for my stories.

I also took extra precautions. After I wrote each chapter, I emailed my drafts to myself as proof. No one could say after the fact that they’d come up with the same idea. So far, I’ve been lucky in that my books have never been challenged that way.

I’d written down a few things in my notebook, but at some point, in the early hours, I must have passed out. I glanced at my phone to see what time it was.

“Darn.” I’d promised Lizzie I’d help her with the bookplates and crowds for James’s posthumous signing.

After a quick shower, two cups of coffee, and a blueberry scone, I went to the bookstore. Instead of going around to Main Street, I went down the cobble-stone path behind the stores. I used my key to go into the back entrance and scared poor Lizzie to death as she was coming out of the office.

She dropped the pile of books she’d been carrying. We bent down to pick them up and bumped heads. We laughed. As identical twins, we often said or did things at the same time like some sort of hive mind.

We’d learned long ago to laugh at it.

“Sorry,” I said. “I fell asleep last night and forgot to set an alarm.”

“It’s okay. Several of the committee members are here to help, and Lolly is barking orders like the commander-in-chief she is.”

I laughed. Lolly was the grande dame of the court. Nothing in this village happened without her knowledge, and she had the respect of everyone in town.

I scooped up the books off the floor and handed them to Lizzie.

“How is it going?”

“It’s weird,” she said.

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Sebrena is acting like they’re her books. I mean, not like she wrote them, but that she helped give James his ideas. We know that isn’t true. You heard him on the panel. Most of his ideas were a meshing of true crime stories.”

He had said exactly that. Like many authors, he felt it added authenticity to use old crime cases in his work. Popular murder cases were often used as a basis for fictional mystery or thriller novels. It was a way for many authors to feel their books were more authentic. He’d said this after I’d given a flippant, “I make things up” when asked where my stories came from by someone in the audience at the chat the other night.

He’d just wanted me to look like I was a worse writer than him, but he’d also been telling the truth. He often credited the cases in his acknowledgments.

“Maybe this is her fifteen minutes of fame,” I said.

She shrugged. “I don’t know, she’s acting really weird. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Tell me what I can do to help.”

She handed me back the books I’d picked up off the floor. “Can you take these to the table, and I’ll get another load? We’re down to the last box, so it shouldn’t be long before it’s over.”

“But you had hundreds.”

She nodded. “It’s been a very busy morning. I put a post on social media that we had the bookplates. It’s the last chance for people to get autographed books from him, so the line was super long when we arrived this morning. Sebrena had James’s assistant re-post what I said about this being the last chance for fans. It isn’t just festival attendees who are here.”

“Good. At least, you won’t be stuck with all that inventory.”

“I just hope James actually signed these bookplates,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t put it past Sebrena to have forged his signature just to sell more novels.”

“Yikes,” I cringed. “Well, if she did, that’s on her, not you. And I’m sorry. It was my idea to use the bookplates.”

“No, don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful to move the inventory. I didn’t want to have to return them. But it’s the way she’s acting today, like she’s taking ownership of all things James. Go see.”

I headed down the hallway to find a long line snaking through the bookstore and out the front door.

“Would you like a picture?” Sebrena said to the next woman in line.

The woman appeared confused but nodded.

Sebrena held up one of James’s books, and the woman took a selfie with her.

“Who is she?” the woman asked me as she walked away from the table.

It was all I could do not to laugh.

“James Brandt’s agent, Sebrena Walker,” I said as if that explained the agent’s strange behavior.

“Ohhhh.” But it was clear the woman still didn’t understand why Sebrena acted the way she did.

Lolly and Scott were directing traffic in the store.

“Hi, Lolly, I’m here to help.”

“You’re a good lass,” she said. “Can you check with your sister to see how many books we have left? Rob’s going down the line to see how many readers we have. I don’t want them waiting in line if we don’t have any books to sell.”

“Right. I’ll check with Lizzie.”

Lizzie put the books she’d been carrying on the table with Sebrena.

“Lolly sent me to find out how many books are left,” I said.

“This is the last of them,” she said.

I counted fifty-six. “Okay, I’ll let her know.”

Sebrena still had a large stack of signed bookplates in front of her. When she was busy with a fan, I snatched one and stuck it in my pocket. I planned on comparing the signature to one of the books James had signed for the auction happening later in the festival. I’d been there and witnessed him signing those books.

If Sebrena had forged them, it’s not like I could do anything about it. I’d make my sister and the store look bad if I called her out. But I needed to know how far Sebrena would go to ensure James remained a bestseller. Her behavior was beyond suspicious.

Now that we knew James had some toxin in his system when he died, it would have been easy for her to poison him.

But why kill her cash cow?

Unless, he wasn’t going to be hers for much longer. He’d been displeased with her about his accommodation for the trip. And more than once on the panel, he’d mentioned how his agent made sure she had her claws into everything he did.

Had he been thinking about switching agencies?

Her behavior was odd, but was she guilty of killing James? Money was often a great motivation for murder.

Then it hit me. Where was his laptop? I’d gone through the cottage before the police arrived and hadn’t seen one. The older manuscript looked like it had been written on a typewriter years ago, but the newer one was clean and clearly straight off a printer.

James had been working on something new; he’d mentioned that during one of the panels. Maybe he didn’t travel with his laptop, but that seemed unlikely to me. I was addicted to mine. My whole life was on there, and I seldom went anywhere without it. But James may have been different.

Or someone took it when they murdered him . But why ?

My gut said it had to do with information. Someone didn’t want him revealing something in his new book. At least, if I were writing a murder mystery, that would be the why of the story.

But this was a very real murder.

Sebrena was my prime suspect, given her odd behavior and penchant for greed.

“Aren’t you Mercy McCarthy?” a woman asked.

I’d been staring down at my shoes and raised my head to find her gazing at me quizzically.

“I am.”

“Is everything okay?”

I smiled. “Yes. Just making up stories in my head,” I joked. “Can I help you with something?” She was about sixth in line for James’s book.

“If it’s not too much of an imposition, would you mind signing my books? I heard this was your sister’s shop, and I was hoping I might see you. I was late getting here yesterday and missed your signing.”

“Of course,” I said.

She hauled a small crate loaded with books beside her. “I only have the first seven in the series with me. Can you sign them all?”

I smiled. I loved my fans so very much. I wrote because I loved to tell stories, but the bonus was that others enjoyed them as well. This made my week.

“Why don’t you give them to me? I’ll do that while you wait in line for James’s book. Do you want them autographed or just signed?”

“Oh, these are for my keeper shelf. Can you sign them to Jill?”

“I’ll do that.”

She handed over the books and I took them back to Lizzie’s office to sign them.

By the time I’d finished, she was up to the table where Sebrena handed her James’s book.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Jill said. “He was a great writer.”

Sebrena gave her a strained smile. “It was a great loss for us all. Do you want a selfie?”

Jill frowned. “Uh, no thanks.”

Sebrena waved her away.

I handed her the autographed books. She grinned. “I’m so excited about meeting you. Thank you for signing all of these.”

“No problem,” I said. “Thank you for reading my books.”

“Oh, I’ve read every word you’ve written. Through the years you’ve helped me get past some difficult times.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” I said. I was sure my cheeks had a blush on them, as my skin heated from the inside out.

“Can I take a selfie with you?” she asked me.

I nodded as Sebrena gave us the evil eye.

I was glad I’d thought to add makeup this morning, even though I’d been running late.

“Let me do that for you,” Lizzie said as she came up behind Jill.

“Thank you,” Jill said as she handed her the phone.

We took a couple of photos, and others in line asked if they could do the same.

Sebrena didn’t seem to like me drawing attention away from her or James’s books, but I didn’t like disappointing people. Some authors would only sign books or take photos during signings or special events, and others made people pay for the privilege.

I was not one of those people. I was grateful for every reader who picked up one of my books, whether that was in a bookstore, on their e-reader, at the library, or listened to them. Reader generosity allowed me to live a life I could never have imagined when I first started out.

After I’d finished with the photos and signed a few more books, it was time for me to do my reading.

I had to race home for my tablet. Then, I headed to the community center, which was up the hill near the church. The place was packed as people streamed in, and I was surprised that there wasn’t a single seat available.

The mayor was up at the front, talking with one of his assistants. He waved me over.

“I have the introduction ready, but is there anything you’d like me to add?” he asked. He was in his late fifties and dyed his hair black. He had a handlebar mustache and a long beard. He looked more like someone who hung out in SoHo or Greenwich Village back home rather than a small-town Irish mayor. However, his heavy Irish brogue was unmistakable, even if it sometimes made him difficult to understand.

“I’m sure whatever you have will be fine. Can I ask you something really quick?”

He glanced at his phone. We still had ten minutes before the event began.

“Yes,” he said.

“Were you friends with James Brandt?”

“We ran with some of the same crowd,” he said. “He was bookish, even back then.”

“Would you say you were friends with him?”

He frowned. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

“I just found out he was from here, and I was curious why he never mentioned it. I noticed that it wasn’t in his bio. We live in such a beautiful town, and I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t admit it.”

The mayor rolled his eyes. “I think he was embarrassed about coming from such a small town,” he said. “It took us forever to get him here for this event.”

“Was it because he was a snob?”

The mayor’s eyebrows went up. “No love lost between you, I see,” he said.

“I didn’t really know him,” I said. “But I noticed he was somewhat abrupt and rude. Was he always that way?”

“Aye,” he said. “That one always had a sharp tongue. When he went off for university, it was as if Shamrock Cove no longer existed.”

“So, you didn’t stay in touch?”

“We chatted at various events when I was in Dublin through the years. But we weren’t particularly close anymore. When he left town, we weren’t on the best of terms.”

“Oh? Why was that?”

He bristled as if the memory made him angry.

“Fancied himself a ladies’ man and thought nothing of dating anyone he wanted, even if the girl in question was with someone else.”

So, this was a pattern .

Jealousy was a great reason for murder. Well, there was no good reason to kill someone. But jealousy was up there for the most popular motivations.

“He dated your girlfriend?”

“Aye,” he said. “But I wasn’t the only one.”

“That must have made you very angry.”

“At the time, I was young and immature, so yes. We had some words, and I may have given him a walloping.”

“Mature or not, that wasn’t a nice thing for him to do. I don’t blame you for punching him.”

“I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but James was never a particularly nice or kind person. When I look back on our time together, I sometimes wonder why we ever became friends.”

“Was he a writer back then?”

“Aye, he actually formed the literary club at school. We all fancied ourselves writers back then. That was how we all became mates. Though, I’d known him since primary school.”

Something else to follow up on later. Maybe one of the members had written the other manuscript.

“Did he have any enemies other than those who he had stolen girlfriends from?”

“Enemies? I don’t know if I’d go that far. Did he hurt some pride and deserve a bollocking? Yes. But I don’t know that he had enemies. When he became famous, most people forgave his eccentricities of youth.”

“And you were one of those people?”

He shrugged. “I might have married Sheila, if he hadn’t taken her from me.”

“Wait, Sheila, the police officer?”

He smiled. “Aye, that’s the one. If we stayed together, I might never have become mayor.”

“Why is that?”

He cleared his throat. “Let’s just say she was wild back then, and I might have found myself in a wee bit of trouble.”

“But she became an officer of the law. She couldn’t have been that bad.”

He shrugged. “Says you.”

What did he mean by that?

I’d have to talk to Sheila. I had no idea she’d run in the mayor’s circle back in the day. During her off hours, she was prone to wear older punk or rock star shirts and wasn’t the prim and proper type. But she believed in law and order, and she was a great officer. Everyone in town adored her.

“Is there anyone who might have wanted him dead?”

He frowned. “Why would you ask that? ’Twas an accident.”

“It’s my author brain going crazy. Uh, I was just curious. Did you have time to go visit him at Shamrock Cottage?” I was determined to find out who his guest had been.

“No. I spoke with him after your panel, and then later we’d seen each other in the pub. He was killed by an accident with the bookcase. Are you putting that in the story you are working on?” He seemed genuinely curious.

“I may. The whole thing is rolling around in my mystery writer’s brain,” I said as if that explained everything. Evidently, the detective hadn’t relayed the latest information about James ingesting some toxin to the mayor.

If James had been murdered, I was certain his agent was responsible for the author’s death. Her behavior was strange and erratic. Proving it was another matter.

But I had to keep my options and mind open to other suspects. The more I learned about James and the people he ran around with in school, the more I wondered if the past had something to do with his death.

“Like I said, I wasn’t the only one whose woman he stole, but that was all water under the bridge. And it was years ago. We’re all past that now.”

But were they? That kind of betrayal wasn’t forgotten easily. It was just part of human nature to hold a grudge.

James had done the same thing with Sebrena, and then dumped her, even though she was still his agent. The anger between her and Chef Patrick was proof of how long hurt feelings could last.

“It’s time,” his assistant said.

The mayor headed to the podium.

He seemed cagey when I asked about the past.

Could he have killed James?

From what I’d learned about him over the last few months, the mayor wasn’t the type to get his hands dirty.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t hire someone else to do it.