Death by Tea (16 page)

“He started it!” Rita's hand slapped me upside the head as she pointed at Albert. “He's accusing us of cheating.”

“You are!”

“I don't want to have to kick you both out,” I said in as reasonable a tone as I could manage. Lena was standing on the stairs, dish soap on her hands, looking as if she was willing to jump in and break up a fight if fists started flying. Her presence made me feel a little better.

“You wouldn't,” Rita said, taken aback. “After all I've done for you.”

“I can't have you fighting in here, even after hours.”

“We're just having a heated discussion,” she said. “This sort of thing happens all the time, doesn't it, Albert?”

He grunted and looked away.

“Maybe we should call it a night,” Jimmy put in. “I think we've all had just about as much stress as we can handle.”

That was met with a mild round of agreement.

I slowly stepped out from between Rita and Albert, afraid they'd start going at it again the moment I was out of the way. Dan was watching me with a smile. When he saw me glance his way, he gave me a thumbs-up before moving to help Sara up. There were tears in her eyes, and I felt bad for her. She'd just lost the man she loved, and here the others were, fighting over a stupid book. It was downright rude, if you asked me.

Rita huffed, gathered her book, and headed straight for the stairs, clearly put out. Everyone else was quick to follow.

I watched them go. Tempers were definitely flaring, yet I couldn't seem to figure out which one of the angry readers might have reason enough to kill David Smith. None of them seemed capable of it, really. I mean, when was the last time you saw a bookworm bash someone's head in? It just didn't add up.

But one of them did it; I was sure of it. Beneath all of the anger and accusations, someone knew the truth. I was determined to figure out who it was.

I needed to learn more about the Cherry Valley group, Dan Jacobson especially. Why was he the one who was kicked out and not someone else? And could he have come to Pine Hills early, before they asked him to join the group again? I needed to sit down and talk to him alone, without the others around, distracting me.

As the last of them left, I latched the door to Death by Coffee behind them, my mind a million miles away, and began the slow process of closing down for the night.

16

The house was still a mess when I got home. A part of me had hoped that it would all magically repair itself while I was gone. I felt that I deserved a break after everything that Buchannan had done to me lately. Why couldn't some well-meaning neighbor have come in, picked up the mess for me, and then left me with a freshly baked batch of chocolate chip cookies and hot coffee so I could sit back and relax and enjoy the evening for once?

I closed the front door with a sigh. Misfit was sleeping on the island counter instead of rushing the door. He looked as beat as I felt. I wondered what other mischief he'd gotten himself into while I was at work, and then decided I really didn't want to know. It would only mean more cleanup.

I dropped my purse onto the table, dug out my cell phone, and then headed into the living room to plop down on the partially shredded couch. Plumes of stuffing shot out of the cushion, to join the rest of it on the floor. I waved my hand in front of my face a few times to waft the remnants away before focusing on the little device in my hand.

What I really wanted to do was call Paul Dalton and ask him to come over. I didn't care if he helped me clean or if he simply sat down amid the mess and comforted me while I cried my eyes out. I was so exhausted, I could hardly think straight.

But Paul hadn't returned any of my previous calls, nor had he stopped by to make sure I was okay. I mostly wanted him to come over so I could talk to him. I didn't like leaving things hanging like that. If he was told to stay away from me, well then, he should have told me.

Yes, I was probably being overly sensitive, but I was in desperate need of someone to talk to. If I had Will's number, I might have called him instead. I knew where I could find it, but for some reason it felt invasive.
Let him give it to you, Krissy,
I told myself.
Guys like that. And it will show you he's truly interested.

I considered the phone for a good five minutes before dialing. It rang three times before someone picked up and answered.

“Krissy?”

The sound of the gravely voice just about had me in tears.

“Dad.”

“What's wrong, Buttercup?”

I hadn't said a thing, yet my dad already knew something was wrong. When I'd spoken, I hadn't sobbed the word. I didn't even speak in a way that would give away my feelings, outside of my voice being a little lifeless. But dads pick up on things like that. It is one of the best things about them.

“Oh, you know, murder and mayhem. The usual.”

I could hear the frown in his voice when he said, “Tell me.”

I let it all spill out of me in a rush. I told him about the book clubs, about the weird competition between the two towns. I told him about David Smith and the people of Cherry Valley, and how no one but Sara Huffington seemed to be upset the guy was dead. I left out the details about the cardboard cutout and Rita because, well, yuck. I didn't want him thinking that a cardboard version of him was keeping someone company during the night, even if it was true.

Dad listened like he always did. Any time I had any problems at all, I just needed to call him up and he would let me regurgitate all of the details without interruption. He was good like that, always had been. Without Dad, I probably would have needed professional help long ago.

“And there was no indication of a break-in,” I said.

“Has a key come up missing?” Dad asked.

I paused, a frown slowly creeping over my features. “No one said anything about a missing key,” I said. Could it be that easy? Had the killer stolen one of the store keys? It would explain a lot.

And what if that wasn't the case? Could the killer be someone who worked for me? I hoped not. I so didn't want to have to start accusing my friends and employees of killing someone. If I felt lonely now, just wait and see how I'd feel once I'd alienated everyone I knew.

I sighed in frustration. “I'm sure none of this would have happened if they hadn't been reading
Murder in Lovetown.”

“They're reading my book?”

Oh crap. “Well, yeah,” I said, feeling dumber than ever. I mean, I love my dad and all, but there's a point where you have to draw the line. Pine Hills was my getaway, my chance to start my own life, yet I was still living in my dad's shadow. Everything from Death by Coffee, to the books we sold, to the book the stupid book club was reading, all went right back to him.

I needed to be my own person. I didn't want to drag him into this more than he already was by my dumping on him.

“Well, I'll be,” Dad said. I could hear the pride in his voice. “It might not be one of my best works, but to have them read it together . . .” He actually sniffed as if he was tearing up. “Maybe I should come down and talk to the group about the novel.”

“No!” I reined back the shout so it didn't quite rattle the phone. I swallowed back my panic and went on in a calmer voice. “That's not necessary. Besides, the Cherry Valley group would continue to complain that it is an unfair advantage to have you come here. They've already tried to weasel out of it because of me.”

“I see.” He sounded disappointed.

“Maybe next time,” I promised him, though the thought of him in town terrified me. If Rita saw him, I had no doubts that she would be all over him, possibly even go as far as to try to drag him back home with her. I didn't want to have to beat her off with a dishrag, but I'd do it if I had to.

“Maybe.” He sighed. “I guess it probably wouldn't be a good idea, especially since someone has died. You'd think they'd just cancel the thing and try again next year.”

“I know, right?” I still was struggling with that myself. “But if you knew these people, you'd understand. I'm not sure there is a sane one amongst them.”

“Hmm.”

I frowned into the phone. “Hmm?” I echoed, making it a question. It wasn't like my dad to make inarticulate sounds.

“Are you sure sanity comes into this?”

My frown deepened. “What do you mean?”

“I know you don't understand these people very well, Buttercup, but from the sound of things, they mean well.”

“Outside of whoever killed David Smith.”

“Of course.” He groaned as he settled in, telling me he was getting ready to lay on the wisdom. “But what about those who had nothing to do with the man's death? They love books and are willing to take the time to discuss them each and every year. You might not understand their methods, but I'm sure this has been developed over the years to where both sides agree with how it works. Perhaps you should consider joining yourself. Then perhaps you could see things from their point of view.”

“Uh . . .” The thought of joining the Pine Hills book club was enough to put me off my dinner. It was bad enough I spent time at the writers' group, listening to Rita prattle on about everything but her writing. Most of the time, the women would gossip for a good hour before spending the last thirty minutes reading their work. I could only imagine what it would be like at a book club meeting, especially now with David's death. The gossip would never end. “I'll think about it.”

“You do that.” There was a slight pause before, “How has work been?”

“Better,” I said, happy to be off the murder and the possibility of him coming down. “Business has been steady for the last few months.”

“I detect a ‘but' in there.”

I smiled. Of course he did. He noticed everything. James Hancock was a mystery writer for a reason. “But it feels like we aren't making enough money based on the amount of customers coming in.”

“How's that?”

“I don't know.” Frustration was trying to set it. We should have been skating by easily, and yet it seemed as if something was holding us back. “Maybe we need to raise prices or something. We have two new hires, so that could be it, too. Before, it was just Vicki and me.”

“Maybe,” Dad said. “Or perhaps you need to look harder at everything and see where the money is leaking from. If you believe you should be doing better, then I'd bet you are. Check the bills and make sure you aren't being overcharged for something.”

“I will.”

“And Buttercup?”

“Yeah, Dad?”

“Be safe. I know this man's death has nothing to do with you, but I don't want you taking any risks. You don't have to try to be a hero. You are already one.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said with a blush.

We said our good-byes and I hung up, feeling only marginally better. Normally, a talk with my dad made me feel lighter, made everything seem to line up properly, yet this time I felt as if I were walking through a hazy cloud that blocked all of my senses. I was confused, lost, and saw no way out of it. We'd barely talked about David Smith, which was sort of the entire point of my call, yet what else could he have said? It wasn't like he could tell me who killed him.

I heaved myself off the couch and looked around the disaster of the room. I needed to clean in the worst way, yet I didn't want to do it alone. I bit my lip, considered the phone a moment longer, and then finally made the call—the one I should have made from the start.

It rang only twice before Paul answered with a sharp “Yeah?”

“Hi, Paul, it's me.”

There was a pause. “Krissy?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” He cleared his throat. “I'm kind of busy right now.”

“That's okay.” I felt stupid for calling, but what else was I supposed to do? I couldn't keep wondering why he was avoiding me. It was bogging me down, adding to my already cluttered mind. “What time do you get off?” I asked, determined to see this through. Despite everything, I still wanted to see him. And besides, if nothing else, I could tell him about the photograph I'd found at Ted and Bettfast. I didn't want to drag Sara's name through the mud, but it might be the only way I could show him I was helping.

There was an even longer pause before, “Tonight wouldn't be good,” he said, knowing what I was going to ask before I said it. “I have a ton of work to do here and I need to get home to the dogs.” Paul had a pair of huskies I'd never seen with my own two eyes. “Let me call you tomorrow sometime, okay? We can figure out something then.”

“Okay.” I frowned. I couldn't tell if he was blowing me off or was legitimately too busy to see me tonight.

“It might be late. Is that still okay?”

“Sure.”

I fought back an urge to cry or scream or do something to vent my frustrations. A part of me did understand why Paul was keeping his distance, but come on, I was suffering here. If only he'd say something kind, ask me if I was okay, then I could forgive him. As it stood now, I was starting to wonder if Buchannan's disdain for me was affecting Paul's own judgment.

“Krissy? Are you still there?” Paul sounded annoyed. I must have been off in my own little world for longer than I thought.

“Yeah, I'm here.”

“I have to go. I'll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I said, but he never heard it. I was listening to an empty line.

I shoved my phone into my pocket and considered what to do. Tonight, I had to clean; there was no getting around it. If I left the house a mess now, chances were good it would remain that way up until the moment I was smothered in it. There was no way I was going to let that happen, especially if Paul might come over tomorrow night. I doubted he'd want to sweep me off my feet even if he could find them in the mess. And there was no way I was going to have him sweep the floor for me.

I began picking up the worst of the mess, mind elsewhere. If I was cleaning tonight and not talking to Paul—and I hoped seeing him—until later tomorrow night, I needed to find something to do to fill the hours in between. I wasn't about to sit at home and sulk, that was for sure.

As far as I could tell, there were no clues on who could have killed David at Death by Coffee. If there were, the police had already taken them. When I talked to Paul, I'd have to ask him if they'd found anything, though I'd need to do it in a way that wouldn't make him suspect that I was prying information out of him. I had a feeling he wouldn't look positively on that, and I was already on thin ice with him as it was.

I'd already talked to the members of the Cherry Valley group and had even gone into David's room at the bed-and-breakfast, but outside the provocative—to say the least—photograph of Sara, I'd learned nothing.

But there was one member of the group I really hadn't had a chance to talk to. Dan was new in town, and while I'd asked him a few questions I hadn't gotten all the answers I needed. I was certain he knew more about the death than he was letting on.

I carried the torn-up magazines and couch fluff to the trash, where I threw them away with a sigh. Misfit watched me lazily, though I did think I detected a mischievous grin beneath all of that fur.

“This is your fault, you know?” I scolded him before heading to the hall closet for the vacuum. Misfit took one look at it and bolted down the hall, where he would hide beneath the bed until the loud sounds stopped.

I hardly paid him any attention. I had only one thing on my mind. Tomorrow, I was going to ask Dan more about David Smith. Nothing would stop me from learning everything he knew, not even Buchannan or the fact I might very well be going to interrogate a murderer.