Chapter 7

At seven in the evening the next day, I parked the Jeep in the tiny lot of the Hastings Rock public library. Every spot was full, so I had to get creative, but I managed to make it work. Then I headed into the library.

It was a long, low building with hardboard siding and small windows, and it looked like it had been inspired by a shoebox. My guess was that it had been built (or at least commissioned) before Hastings Rock had established itself as a tourist destination, public funds being what they were. The evening was cool (of course), and although the day had been gray and drizzly, a rift had opened in the clouds, and sunset bathed the little town in gold. That sunny glow had tricked me again—my LEVEL UP T-shirt, shorts, and yes, the Mexico 66's weren't cutting it.

I assumed it was easier to enjoy the beauty of Hastings Rock when you weren't on the verge of hypothermia. The break in the weather had brought everyone out onto the streets again: a teenage boy lagging behind his family to take pictures of the ocean; a small crowd watching a busker do backflips; a kindly looking older woman comforting a crying little boy about a spilled ice cream cone. The woman was wearing a candy-striped apron, and it sounded like she was promising him a new one.

That made me smile; it had been a long day, with not much to smile about. Everything had started wonderfully with journalists thronging the gates to Hemlock House—word of Vivienne's death had spread. And although they hadn't stopped me from coming and going, I was painfully aware of cameras flashing and reporters shouting questions, microphones pointed at the windows of the Jeep, as I eased through the crowd.

I'd tried to find Pippi earlier, and although it hadn't been hard to get her address (Hastings Rock wasn't that big, and between Millie and Fox, they knew pretty much everyone and everything), I hadn't had any luck when I'd visited her house. Then Sheriff Jakes had called and asked me to come into the station. He must have believed that a night spent tossing and turning and stewing in my own guilt would have softened me up for a confession, but the joke was on him. Instead of submitting myself to Sheriff Jakes's pleasant company yet again, I'd called a defense attorney in Portland and spent most of the day juggling phone calls from the attorney, the sheriff, and (of course) my parents—they'd been ghoulishly excited for me, in case you were wondering. Dad kept saying if there was a trial, they'd definitely fly out.

In between calls, I'd stalked Pippi as best I could. The internet didn't have much to say about her personal life except that she was "happily married to the best man in the world for the last twenty years (I love you, Stephen!)" and "keeps herself busy with three growing boys (Dylan, you're not my favorite—stop telling Christian you are)." It was interesting, though, to learn that she was, well, prolific. That seemed like the politest word for it. She churned out dozens of novels a year, writing across various series and pen names, none of which appeared to be a secret. The reviews were…ungenerous, let's put it. Especially of the more recent titles. And while she had slapped New York Times Bestselling Author on literally every available (digital) surface, it looked like that had been only one of her many series, and even that one had declined precipitously in sales.

But the most important thing I learned was that she was going to be doing a public reading from a new work tonight at the Hastings Rock public library. That's the beauty about authors—even though we'll all tell you we're introverts and we're shy and retiring and we don't like people, shine a spotlight, and we'll tear each other's wigs off to be the center of attention. The reading was announced on Pippi's author website, on her Facebook page, in her Facebook reader group, on Twitter, and—I now saw as I stepped into the library—on a flyer tacked to the library's bulletin board.

Inside, the library matched the exterior: economy carpeting, particleboard furniture, fluorescent lights. Even with lights, though, the space felt cramped and dim, mostly because of the tiny windows. It smelled like aging book glue and newspaper ink and the perpetual damp of a coastal town. And coffee. That perked me up a little, because if there was coffee, there might also be pastries, and I hadn't eaten since—God, I didn't know when I'd eaten today. I made my way past the circulation desk, past the children's section, following my nose toward a multipurpose room so crowded that any fire marshal worth his salt would have immediately shut the whole thing down. I found a spot along the back wall between a woman wearing enormous glasses (she had a Nordstrom bag between her feet, and it was full of Pippi Parker paperbacks) and, on my other side, a woman in a fedora and trench coat. She had an unfiltered (and, thank God) unlit cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth. I found her, Sheriff Jakes, I wanted to say. I found the real killer.

I gave the room another glance—rows of chairs faced a temporary stage at the far end of the room, and every seat taken. On the stage, a rocking chair with a lace antimacassar and (no joke) another lace doily on the seat cushion sat next to a small end table. There was even an old-fashioned lamp. It felt like someone had picked the whole kit out of a grandmother's living room (a very frugal grandmother, mind you), and decided to use it as—what? A set?

Then I saw the coffee and, almost as importantly, the snacks. They were just the pre-wrapped kind, but my stomach still gave an enormous grumble. The woman with the glasses turned to look at me. The woman who was pretending to be Humphrey Bogart almost lost her cigarette. I squeezed out from between them, made my way to the coffee and snacks, helped myself to a CHOCOLATE CAKE ROLL (compare to Hostess Ho Hos), and was in the middle of pouring myself some coffee when—

"Oh my God, DASH!"

And then a hug delivered at Mach 3.

And then coffee everywhere.

And then Dashiell Dawson Dane saying things that are not normally said in public, especially not in a library, especially not in front of a little white-haired lady in a sweater that said WORLD'S BEST GRANDMA.

"I'm sorry," I muttered as I sopped up coffee with a handkerchief.

"You need more variety," the grandma said. "You got stuck in a rut there in the middle."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Millie said as she tried to help. In the process, she managed to mash my chocolate cake roll (compare to Hostess Ho Hos), spill the rest of my coffee, and upend an open container of creamer in a truly miraculous way that spattered the left side of my jacket.

"It's okay," I said. "Millie, stop, it's fine." She didn't stop, in case you were wondering, but between the two of us, we managed to clean up most of the mess, and then we shuffled out of the way so a bug-eyed man could get some coffee. He gave us a particularly nasty look when he found the creamer container empty.

"This is so exciting," Millie stage-whispered. "I can't believe we're doing this!"

The we in that sentence was probably something I should have anticipated.

"Are we going to charge up there and demand that she answer some questions?" Millie asked. "Are we going to shout, STOP!"

Everyone stopped. A mom bouncing her baby on her knee stopped. A librarian in a chokingly tight cardigan stopped. Even the bug-eyed man stopped halfway back to his seat. The woman who had been playing Bogart actually put her hands in the air, and then she took two stumbling steps and broke into a run. Fortunately, aside from the Bogart lady, they all seemed to know Millie, and the hum of conversation and activity began again almost immediately. A few people, though, seemed to be giving me a second look, considering me as though trying to place me. One of them was a burly man, a lumberjack type, beard, flannel, muddy boots—the whole getup. Our eyes met, and I looked away first. When I risked another glance, he was still staring at me.

"No," I whispered, dragging Millie a little farther along the wall. I gave an apologetic half-wave to the rest of the room. "We're not going to do anything."

"We're just going to let her get away with it?" Millie asked. "That doesn't seem like a very good plan, especially since the sheriff thinks you did it."

"No, we—" I stopped. I drew in a deep breath. "How about this? How about we wait and see how things go?"

Millie frowned. Then she nodded. "Got it, boss."

"Oh God, I'm definitely not your boss—"

"Welcome, everyone, to our monthly Reading Room Reading." The librarian in the strait-jacket cardigan had made her way to the front of the room, and now she stood there, hands clasped as she waited for our silence. The room settled down quickly (these were, after all, people who chose to spend their free time in a library), and the librarian continued, "We're so happy to have you here. Tonight, we're excited to be hosting one of our own. Pippi Parker is a native of Hastings Rock, and until yesterday's tragedy, one of our two celebrity authors. Before we continue with tonight's event, I'd like to ask everyone to join me in a moment of silence for Vivienne Carver."

Maybe it was the mention of Vivienne's name, but during the moment of silence, several wandering eyes came my way again. Nobody seemed to be able to place me, not yet, but my face felt hot, and I knew it was only a matter of time.

After the moment of silence, the librarian continued with an introduction of Pippi. I listened carefully for anything I might have missed, but it was mostly broad statements with an abundance of goodwill behind them—how wonderful Pippi was, how talented, how insightful into the human condition. When the librarian had finished, everyone applauded as Pippi stood from the front row and made her way to the rocking chair. I fought a wave of the giggles as I realized that she was going to sit in the rocking chair as she did her reading. Story time for adults, I thought. And I realized maybe I needed something to eat, and maybe I needed more sleep, because I had a mental picture of all of us sitting on the story-time rug while Pippi read from her rocking chair, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek. Will Gower, I thought distantly, never had this problem. Will Gower was never hunkered in the sallow lighting of a gin joint, hand on his gat, fighting a fit of the tee-hees. Yet another way I was not Will Gower.

"I'm so grateful to be here tonight," Pippi said. She looked like the photos I'd seen online: the same pixie cut of platinum-colored hair, the same boxer's jaw, eye shadow the exact same color as a witch's poison. Her voice had a dollhouse affect, as though she'd spent most of her life working with small children. "Even though my heart is broken by the loss of my dear, dear friend Vivienne."

Millie gave an un-Millie like snort and whispered, "Real broken-up. I heard she spent all day getting splashed at a wine bar in Astoria. Like she was celebrating."

That was interesting, and I might have asked a follow-up except the bug-eyed man had turned in his seat to stare at us—it had been a Millie whisper, after all.

"But I know my beloved Vivienne would have wanted us to carry on. And so, tonight, I'd like to dedicate this reading to her memory." She turned her face up—either toward heaven or, just as likely, the water-stained acoustic tiles—and said, "We love you, Vivienne."

A murmur of gratification and approval rolled through the crowd. The bug-eyed man wiped his eyes. The woman with the Nordstrom bag burst into tears.

"Tonight, the work I've chosen to share with you is very special to me. This is a new story. Completely new, in fact. Nobody has seen it yet—not even my agent."

Another gratified murmur rippled through the audience.

"It's going to be the start of a new series, and let me tell you—" She leaned forward in the rocking chair, and her exaggerated whisper had the familiar hokeyness of old-school children's programming. "—it's going to be a knockout!"

Excitement. Thrills. A man in a wool tie pinched the woman next to him, which she didn't appear to appreciate.

"The working title is Teahouse Tizzies," Pippi said, "and I hope you enjoy it." She cleared her throat and began to read. "Dolly Ford was so very happy. It was the happiest time of her life. She looked around the room at her friends, who had gathered for their weekly session of tea and knitting. And she was so very happy. She had entered the fullness of the ripeness of her years with a deep, deep happiness—"

There was more, but I couldn't listen to it (take that however you will). My mind kept going back to three facts: first, Pippi was reading from Teahouse Tizzies; second, I'd found a manuscript of Teahouse Tizzies in Vivienne's desk; and third, most problematic, Pippi had told everyone that no one had seen this story before. And I knew that wasn't true—not only had Vivienne seen it, she'd stolen it.

But why lie about that? Why pretend no one had seen it if, at some point, she must have given Vivienne a copy? Was it simply to make the audience feel special? Pippi certainly seemed hopeful that this new series would buoy up her flagging career, but in that case, why not capitalize on the scandal of Vivienne's death? With Vivienne gone, Pippi could have told any story she wanted—that they were best friends, that they'd been collaborating, that her relationship with Vivienne had been the inspiration for Dolly's best friend—uh, I wanted to say her name was Ruth. Maybe that would have seemed a little shameless, but what was I supposed to expect from a woman who brought her own lamp to an author reading?

I was so caught up in my thoughts that I didn't realize the reading had ended until applause broke out. The librarian in the disturbingly form-fitting cardigan stood near Pippi's rocking chair and said, "We'll now open the floor to questions."

Hands shot into the air.

Millie's hand shot into the air.

I had a single instant to think: Millie, no.

I tried to grab her wrist and pull her hand back down, but it was like a nightmare, and I was so slow.

"Let's see—" the librarian tried.

"Did you kill Vivienne?" Millie asked.

The question sucked all the air out of the room. Nobody moved. I was intensely aware of Pippi in that moment. That was a trauma response, part of my brain informed me. Hyperprocessing sensory input. Everything clear and frozen like a photograph. Pippi's lips parted. That boxer's jaw sagged. Her cheeks slackened, and then a hint of color rose in them.

She burst out laughing.

The sound seemed to release everyone else. Murmurs ran through the crowd. A baby began to cry. The bug-eyed man turned in his seat to glare at Millie and mouth, How dare you?

But Pippi kept laughing. She rocked once in her chair, like this was so much fun, and then, through her laughter, said, "Oh my goodness, no."

Her voice still held that dollhouse quality, that porcelain preschool affect. But her eyes had hardened, and the red in her cheeks was more pronounced. She stood, and the rocking chair rocked behind her. She scanned the crowd, clearly seeking out the source of the question. When she saw us, she put her hands on her hips. "Honestly, Millie, I'm hurt that—ah ha!"

If you've never heard someone say, Ah ha! in real life before, you're missing out. It's simultaneously unbelievable and amazing. It was slightly less amazing when Pippi's arm shot out, and she pointed straight at me. "I see what's going on here. Ladies and gentlemen, we have someone special with us here tonight. Allow me to present Dashiell Dane, the man who murdered Vivienne Carver."

Gasps. Shock. A little old lady shook her fist at me. The lumberjack on the far side of the room shifted his weight and started breathing loudly. The word that came to mind was stentorian.

"I didn't—" I tried.

"He didn't kill her," Millie said, and this time, her standard Millie volume was an asset because her voice carried clearly over the crowd. "We're trying to figure out who did, and we think maybe you did because—" Millie stopped. And then, without any apparent hesitation at the treachery, she said, "Tell them, Dash," and pushed me forward.

It was only one staggering step, but it carried me into a clearing in the aisle, and I felt every eye in the library on me. (Two particularly buggy eyes, for the record, were looking particularly hateful.) "You know what?" I said. "There's been a misunderstanding—"

"The misunderstanding," Pippi said over me, "is why the sheriff hasn't arrested you yet. Did you know Vivienne offered this man a job? She took him into her house, gave him shelter under her roof, and to pay back that kindness, he pushed her out her window."

"Technically, I think it was the balcony," I said, which I realized, in hindsight, wasn't as helpful as it had sounded in my head.

"Someone grab him!" a frightened voice called from the audience.

A man shouted, "Call the sheriff!"

Pippi had a strange expression on her face, and it took me a moment to recognize it: she was trying not to smile. "He hated Vivienne, you understand," she said, and there was something so stagey about her voice, so artificial, so purposefully projected, that I looked around—and that's when I saw the man in the front row who was recording her on his phone. It was a show, I realized. The whole thing was a show. "He hated her because she was talented and successful and a brilliant writer. And he hated her because he can't write anything himself."

For a moment, the only thing I could think was: how? How had she learned that? How did she even know who I was? I'd barely been in Hastings Rock a couple of days, and I hadn't even known Pippi's name until the night before. How could she know anything about me, much less something about my writing?

But that confusion only lasted a moment before anger surged up, and I said, "I barely knew Vivienne. I certainly didn't hate her, and I did not murder her." Rage swept away my hesitating and procrastinating and indecision. The words came to me the way they did when I was doing my best writing, when everything seemed to flow. It was like I could hear Will Gower saying them: in a high-rise apartment, the windows lashed by rain, a crowd of suspects gathered for the dramatic reveal. "When did you learn Vivienne had stolen your story?"

Shock cracked Pippi's mask. She gathered herself, but her words were stumbling when she said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course you do. There are dozens of drafts of Café Capers in Vivienne's desk. A forensic analysis will show that she lifted the plot and characters from Teahouse Tizzies. Your new book wasn't a secret project that nobody else saw. Vivienne saw a copy, and I think I know why. You took it to Vivienne because you needed help. Because your books weren't selling. And Vivienne turned around and stole it. You and Vivienne weren't friends. In fact, you didn't like each other, and I imagine lots of people can testify to the fact you and your beloved Vivienne were always at each other's throats. Two authors living in the same small town. Two authors with big egos. Two authors who write such different kinds of stories. Only you never had Vivienne's success. You never had the TV show, the celebrity status." I spared her a slice of a grin. "You never solved a real murder. So, I'm curious: when did you learn she was plagiarizing your work? Did you blackmail her? Did you threaten her? Did she refuse to pay, and things got out of hand?"

Terror tightened Pippi's face, compressing her features until she looked older than her years. Her voice cracked as she shouted, "I have an announcement!"

Again, it's a treat if you've never experienced it in person.

"I have an announcement," she said again. "I didn't want to share this until I'd spoken to Vivienne's family, but I'm going to tell you now because—because this horrible man is desecrating her memory. Yes, Vivienne and I had our differences. But we respected each other. We shared a love of the craft. And, by the end, we loved each other like sisters. I'm proud to announce that Teahouse Tizzies and Café Capers are sister novels, and they are a co-written project by Vivienne Carver and Pippi Parker. Vivienne's last work. And also her greatest. It was an honor to work with a talent of such literary genius, and I'm excited for everyone to see what two great writers working together can accomplish. Vivienne, this book is for you."

"Good Lord," Millie said under her breath.

Excited conversation broke out among the crowd. One man was clutching a Pippi Parker paperback to his chest like he was about to swoon. The white-haired lady who had commented on my swearing was trying to take a picture of me with her iPad. The lumberjack, still staring at me, was breathing harder.

"And to honor my friend and creative partner," Pippi said, "I will assume the mantle of Matron of Murder. Vivienne's life work was the pursuit of justice, in her stories and in the world. There can be no greater tribute than for me to take up her torch and continue that work. And to begin, I vow to you, Vivienne—" This was directed to the water stain again. "—that I will not rest until I have helped the sheriff convict this man of your murder."

"You have got to be kidding me," I said.

"And I will be offering an exclusive patrons-only podcast about my investigation into my best friend's murder and my work as the new Matron of Murder to patrons at the Pippi's Pep Rally tier and above. Please consider signing up for the full year to provide me with the financial support I need to pursue my creative dream. Er, justice for Vivienne."

"Do you have a QR code?" a man asked, waving his hand frantically from the audience.

Millie was agape. When she looked at me, she said, "That woman does not miss a trick."

Somehow, I managed to say, "Let's get out of here. This is insane."

But as I took a step toward the door, Pippi called out "Not so fast! For my first dramatic revelation, ladies and gentlemen, I will reveal Dashiell Dane's motive for murdering Vivienne."

"You already revealed my motive," I said as I ushered Millie toward the exit. "You told everyone I hated her because I'm a failure at writing."

"But killing Vivienne wasn't enough for you, was it? You had to have more. You had to have everything. And, in order to have it, you had to get rid of Vivienne."

"I didn't—"

"Ladies and gentlemen, I discovered today—to my horror and chagrin and ultimate outrage—that Dashiell Dane is Vivienne's sole heir."

It was like something vast came down and crushed every sound in an instant. There was a slight, thunderous echo that might have been only in my head. I couldn't seem to keep moving; even Millie looked rooted to the floor.

"No," I said. "That's not—"

"It's true," Pippi said over me. "My source at the county recorder's office confirmed that Mr. Dane is the new owner of Hemlock House. I'm sure the sheriff will be both interested and grateful when I share this information with him."

Grateful wasn't the word I would have chosen, I thought dully. Gleeful, maybe. Because even though I had no idea how what Pippi was saying could be true, if it was true, it could only mean one thing: I had a rock-solid motive for murdering Vivienne Carver. And until now, a lack of motive was the only thing that had kept the sheriff from arresting me.