Page 28

28

Tallus

W ith nothing else to do, Diem suggested we visit Delaney Mandel to give her an update. A quick phone call confirmed she was at home and not sitting vigil at the hospital like she’d been doing since her son was admitted.

“Don’t reveal too many details,” Diem warned as he parked the rental Jeep out front of the mansion. Both Mandel’s cars were in the driveway. “Our goal is to reassure her we’re onto something, but we don’t want to compromise our case.”

“What are we going to do if Irvin kicks up a fuss? He hasn’t exactly been the friendliest person, and if that’s his car, he’s probably home.”

“Leave him to me. Delaney is paying us, so it’s none of his fucking business.”

“It’s his son.”

Diem shrugged and maneuvered stiffly from the vehicle. The prescription the doctor had given him seemed to be helping, but he winced every now and then if he moved too fast or bent a certain way.

After expressing her horror over Diem’s condition, Delaney admitted us into the house, offering coffee, which we gratefully accepted. She guided us into the kitchen, where Irvin had set up a workspace at a granite-topped island, laptop and notebooks surrounding him.

The man eyed us irritably but said nothing, displeasure written all over his face.

The Mandel’s kitchen was immaculate. They owned all the latest gadgets and top-end appliances. Delaney’s means of making coffee involved an exquisite machine that easily cost more than my rent. I swooned.

“Regular coffee, espresso, latte, or cappuccino?” she asked, turning it on and pulling several bags of high-end beans from a nearby cupboard.

“Whatever’s easier,” Diem mumbled.

“Oh, latte, please.”

She let me choose a style of bean. They ranged from light roast to dark with every flavor note imaginable. I chose one and watched giddily as she filled the grinder and set up the machine for my latte.

“I need one of those,” I said under my breath, more to myself than anyone.

Diem caught my eye and winked. He didn’t exactly smile, but it was close. Love poured from his eyes, and I swooned again for the second time in five minutes.

Delaney guided us to a sitting room once our drinks were poured. We settled onto furniture that I’d only seen in showrooms. It was then I got a good look at Weston’s mother. She didn’t look any better than she had when we first arrived in town. Shadows hung beneath her eyes, and although I didn’t know what she usually looked like, she seemed gaunt and sallow. It was as though the life that had drained from her son had drained from her as well. She seemed ten years older than she had a few days earlier.

“Thank you for stopping by,” she said, hugging a mug of coffee between her hands. She had yet to sip it, and I wondered how many coffees had gone cold and forgotten in her grief.

“Your son didn’t have an accident,” Diem said, starting the ball rolling. “I told you that on the phone, and we’re very close to proving it.”

“Who’s responsible?”

I glanced at Diem, taking notes on how he approached a question we had yet to answer for ourselves. “Until we have proof, I don’t want to toss names about, but this could be much bigger than one attempted murder.”

“It’s not an attempt, Mr. Krause. It is murder. My son will not live.”

He nodded, swallowing hard enough that his prominent Adam’s apple traveled along his unshaven neck.

“Are you saying more people have died?”

“It’s possible.”

Delaney’s face crumpled as she stared into her mug. A single tear rolled down her cheek. “Are more children in danger?”

“If what we found proves true, more people could die,” I said. “Ma’am, we will solve this case. We will get justice for your son. Tell him that next time you see him.”

“I will.” Seemingly fortified by my words, she lifted her chin. “You will forever have my gratitude. If there’s anything I can do…”

I glanced again at Diem, whose attention was elsewhere. I followed his gaze and found Irvin eavesdropping at the door. The man’s face was cut from stone. He backed away with a look of disgust and vanished into another part of the house.

“Could we look through Weston’s room again?” Diem asked. “We have new theories and new information. Fresh eyes may help us see something we might have missed before.”

“Absolutely.”

Delaney guided us to the second level and Weston’s room. She peered around with a terrible longing in her eyes. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

Diem stood in the middle of the bedroom, scanning with a look of scrutiny.

“What are we hoping to find?” I asked.

“Those kids killed him, but I don’t know why. Weston must have crossed lines or had a falling out with someone. He was part of the club. He knew their secrets. Maybe a relationship soured. Maybe Duke’s jealousy caused a riff, and it came to a head. Maybe Chett got annoyed that Weston was interfering with his advance into the realm of coolness. Maybe Weston’s teenage hormones got the better of him, and he pressured Londyn into something she wasn’t ready for. Maybe he forced himself on her.”

“Maybe Loyal found out and was protecting his sister.”

Diem nodded, and we locked gazes. “Maybe.”

I scanned the room but couldn’t figure out how we’d find anything to support those claims. A phone would have been ideal. Teenagers used their cell phones more than computers nowadays. They communicated through text more than they talked to one another in person, but Weston’s phone was long gone.

“Social media?” I suggested, motioning to the laptop. “You can access almost all of them from a desktop. You don’t need a phone.”

Diem sat at the desk and did his thing. Teens these days were less fond of Facebook, so I wasn’t surprised Weston’s profile showed sporadic activity and nothing in the last eight months. Instagram was a different story.

While Diem browsed, I circled the room, seeking anything we’d missed before that might corroborate our theory about a feud. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I dug through the bedside table again, located the notebooks, and flipped through the pages a second time.

Finding nothing new, I replaced them and examined the framed articles on the wall. Ones representing stories from his favorite journalists, and a few written by his hero. His father.

Diem cursed under his breath as he clicked through a few screens on another social media site. He didn’t seem to be having better luck than me. I approached the stacks of magazines in the corner and discovered a few hardcover books behind them, wrapped in Mylar book covers like the ones we’d seen at the library. I noted the stack on our first visit but dismissed them as unimportant. Their transparent plastic protective wrap seemed to suggest they didn’t belong to Weston, which made me curious.

Ignoring Diem’s grumbling, I examined the stack more closely. The book on the top of the pile was a memoir. The subtitle suggested the subject was a journalist of some notoriety. I’d never heard of the guy. I opened the flap and located the Port Hope Public Library stamp inside, as I suspected I might.

I moved the memoir aside. The next book was another text about the art of journalism spanning two decades. The third and fourth covered the same topic. The book on the bottom of the pile stood out and gave me pause.

Like at the cabin, it was the only fiction among a collection of nonfiction.

And it wasn’t just any book.

“Hey, D. Look.”

I angled the book in his direction so he could read the title. The Crimson Veil . “This is the one book from Ambrose’s series that was missing from the library. Weston had it checked out. Coincidence?”

Diem abandoned his task and jerked the book from my hand, staring at the cover. He turned it and thumbed the various tabs sticking out of the side. They marked pages and were filled with handwritten scrawls. Not bookmarks. Annotations.

“Not a coincidence.” Diem opened the book to one of the marked pages.

At the same time, a gruff voice from the doorway said, “I think you two have poked around long enough. Time to go.”

Startling, Diem slammed the book and shoved it into my arms. He spun to face Irvin. I feared my surly boyfriend might get caustic with the indignant man at the door, but he didn’t. They stared at one another for a long time. Diem’s gears visibly spun.

“Your wife said we could—”

“Get out.”

Diem seemed to consider, slapped the laptop closed, and told me to put the book back.

“But we need it to—”

“Put it back.”

I replaced the book in the pile and followed Diem out the door and down the stairs, Irvin close enough on my heels to make my skin crawl.

The man shuffled us into the front hallway and out the door, slamming it in our faces. I didn’t know where Delaney had gone, but she didn’t come to our rescue or tell her husband we were only trying to help.

Diem didn’t say much as we got into the rental. He drove us back to the B&B, where we earned a caustic glare from Madame Ivory herself upon entering the building. Gone was her gentle demeanor and accommodating personality. I didn’t know what we’d done to upset her, but we didn’t hang around to ask.

Only when we were secure in our room did Diem speak. “Find that book online.” He threw me the iPad. “Download it. The first tab was page fifty-six.”

I sat on the freshly made ruffled bedspread and searched for The Crimson Veil . It was the fourth in the series. It took a hot minute to figure out how to download it since Diem’s iPad didn’t have a reading app installed. I went through the process of adding one before purchasing the e-book.

Diem paced. “The blurb. Start there. Read it out loud. We need to work this one like we did at the library.”

I located the blurb and did as he asked. “Detectives Angler and Raven are put to the test when the body of a veiled woman is discovered in an ancient churchyard. Their elusive killer has struck again, and his MO is more baffling than ever. The body is dressed in a crimson gown and holding a velvet box containing a gold ring. The detectives work to discover what message their killer is trying to leave them this time.”

Diem stopped pacing and met my gaze with a deep frown. “Why did Weston check this book out?”

“Maybe he was reading the series. Could it be part of an initiation ritual to be in the club?”

“But he marked passages. I didn’t get to read what he put on the tabs.”

“He’s a scholar and likes to take notes. Maybe it’s nothing.”

“Or he discovered something he wasn’t supposed to find.”

I stared at the blurb again. The same eerie fingers that had tickled the back of my brain before returned. Diem was right. This book had caught Weston’s eye. But why?

“Look up page fifty-six.”

I did, but it was a chapter heading, and after examining it further, I decided eBooks and paperbacks didn’t align the same. Diem agreed. “What should we do? I could skim the parts around it and see if something pops out.”

Diem removed his phone from a pocket and checked the time. “I don’t expect to hear from Doyle until later today, if at all.”

“What do you suggest?”

He considered and took the iPad from my hand. “Shuffle over.”

I moved to lean against the headboard. Diem joined me, grunting as he got comfortable.

“Do you need more meds?”

“I can’t yet.” He eyed the remains of the whiskey but didn’t reach for it. Instead, he opened the eBook and read.

Out loud.

I didn’t question or tease him. I curled against his side, let him wrap an arm around me, and listened. Diem was the furthest thing from an enthusiastic storyteller. He mumbled his sentences and gave no inflection to dialogue, but it was one of the most intimate, nonsexual moments we’d shared, and I soaked it up. I had an aversion to reading but could get used to this.

I closed my eyes and pretended I was watching an episode of Criminal Minds . When the two main detectives were called to the churchyard because a body had been discovered by a woman out for a walk, I paid close attention to the details that were described. In a murder mystery, every little thing was important. The author’s job was to cleverly bury clues in the text so the reader would hopefully miss them. I wanted to be the smart detective who saw the truth.

A third of the way through chapter four—what might have amounted to page fifty-six if we were reading the paperback version—I bolted upright. The nagging thought at the back of my mind sprung forward, assaulting me with such force I gasped. “Oh my god.”

“What?”

“I know who our killer is.”