Every Trick in the Book (14 page)

“Those are yours, Trey,” I’d protested with a smile. “You walked a mile to get all
of those treats.”

He’d given me a hug, pressing his shining head of chestnut hair against my belly.
“But I want to share with you, Mom. You share things with the person you love the
most, right?”

Tears pricked my eyes, and though I was reluctant to let go of the memories, I turned
my attention back to my mother. “Thanks for bringing me back to that moment,” I told
her warmly. “And nothing would make me happier than to see you and Trey seated at
my table tonight. I’ll give him a call.”

“No need,” my mother assured me. “I already let him know we were expected and that
you were servin’ chicken in some kind of sauce. See you soon!”

Marveling over my mother’s insight, considering I had planned on making chicken piccata
with a side of snow peas and a small mound of wild rice for Sean, I watched the departing
festivalgoers stream through the lobby. The last two classes had let out and everyone
was exiting. Several camera crews were waiting on the sidewalk to capture sound bites
on the murder of Melissa Plume. Even though the ambitious reporters were hoping for
new information to squeeze into the six o’clock reports, I doubted the attendees had
anything to offer other than gossip. Tall tales and ridiculous theories had been circulating
around the old building since the doors opened this morning.

As Vicky and I packed up the last of the agency’s literature, I realized that today’s
police presence had definitely made me feel safer. I hadn’t seen any sign of Kirk
Mason, but I was still plenty nervous about the possibility that he hadn’t left town.
Thank goodness Trey and Althea were coming over. Halloween had never been a spooky
holiday for me
before, but the knowledge that a murderer was loose transformed the approaching night.
These last hours of October loomed ahead like a thundercloud. I was likely to be jumping
at the slightest sound and peering out the windows at my dark yard in search of a
shadow moving in the blackness.

With the festival officially over, I was thankful to have a meal to prepare. Shopping
and cooking a nice supper for my mother and son would occupy my mind until I returned
to work Monday morning and could start researching Melissa’s coeditor as well as the
unstable author who’d threatened my look-alike.

I spent an unusually long time selecting ingredients at How Green Was My Valley and
purchased all kinds of rich and comforting food that wasn’t on my grocery list. In
addition to snow peas and a box of long-grain wild rice, I selected a wedge of creamy
Brie, a block of Havarti, two apricots, a bunch of red seedless grapes, a French baguette,
a bag of chocolate-covered raisins, and a bottle of pinot grigio. I knew the lemon,
vanilla, and almond flavors of the wine would be the perfect accompaniment to chicken
piccata. At the register, the cashier handed me a lollipop decorated with a white
icing ghost.

“It’s mango flavored,” she told me. “All organic and completely delicious.”

She didn’t need to twist my arm. I loaded my groceries into the basket behind my scooter’s
seat, pulled the wrapper from the candy treat, and popped it into my mouth. I paused
there for a moment, my weight resting on my leather seat, the scooter’s engine still
quiet, and felt the bliss of fruit-flavored sugar coating my tongue.

The scene around me was breathtaking. Perched on my scooter I gazed upward and watched
the sun sink behind
the perimeter of trees surrounding Inspiration Valley. It sent its last gasps of light
shooting into the foliage, igniting a fire of scarlet, russet, and marigold hues across
the base of the hills. There was a distinct line of shadow where the light could no
longer reach, and above this demarcation the forests had been plunged into darkness.
I was literally witnessing night laying claim to the land.

The air became much cooler and I shivered, suddenly longing for the small fireplace
in my living room and my warm and cozy kitchen. I bit my lollipop into small pieces
and turned on the scooter, pointing it toward home. As I drove, I couldn’t help glancing
in my side mirror, fascinated and slightly chilled by the surrender of the day.

By the time I pulled into my driveway, there wasn’t a sliver of light left in the
sky, but Althea’s turquoise truck was parked along the curb at the end of my flagstone
walk. My mother and Trey had made themselves comfortable in the pair of rockers on
my front porch.

“Why didn’t you go on in?” I gestured at the pottery chicken perched by the doorframe.
“You know where I hide the spare key.”

Althea shrugged and made no move to get out of her chair. “I knew you were on the
way. Besides, there’s nothin’ like a Halloween sunset. You can just feel the kiddies
bouncin’ up and down with anticipation, beggin’ their mamas and daddies to hurry,
hurry, hurry!” She reached over and poked Trey in the ribs with her index finger.
“You sure you don’t want to grab a pillowcase and run around with the tykes? I know
what a sweet tooth you’ve got.”

Trey smiled at her indulgently. “I’ll just eat the good stuff out of Mom’s trick-or-treat
bucket. I’d actually be doing the
kids in this neighborhood a service. Maybe she could hand out dental floss or toothbrushes
instead.”

I pretended to be horrified. “Do you seriously want my house to be covered in eggs
and toilet paper?”

With the grace of an athlete in his prime, Trey unfolded his long frame from the chair
and crossed the porch to where I stood. He wrapped his arms around me and gave me
a tight squeeze. “I heard about what happened at the festival. Are you okay?”

I returned the embrace; relishing his scent of wood smoke and the goat’s milk soap
he helped produce at the co-op. “I’ll be all right, honey. But let’s not talk about
it tonight. I only want to hear about you. That always makes me feel better.”

He stepped back to pick up the grocery bags. He peered into them and grinned when
he saw the delicious ingredients I had purchased to prepare dinner. “Wow, Mom. This
looks way better than candy.”

“So which chicken did you go with?” Althea wanted to know. “Piccata, Parmesan, or
marsala?”

“Not marsala,” I said, opening the front door. “You still don’t like mushrooms, do
you, Trey?”

His mouth turned down in disgust. “I think they’re gross,” he replied and walked inside.

I gave him time to settle at the kitchen table with a cutting board boasting an array
of plump grapes, sliced Havarti, and salty wheat crackers before I asked what was
wrong. After she poured me a glass of pinot grigio and sat down with her tumbler of
Jim Beam, Althea nodded at Trey encouragingly.

“Come on, get it off your chest. Whatever’s troublin’ you
has been sittin’ on your shoulders like a big, fat cat.” When Trey said nothing, she
continued. “I know you men like to keep things to yourselves, but women have a way
of seein’ a problem from a different angle.” She leaned forward on her elbows. “Go
on, son. Spill.”

Trey released a heavy sigh. “Something’s changed at the co-op. In the beginning, I
felt like I really fit in there, you know? They got who I was. And I had stuff to
offer them, too, like the new product designs. Everything’s been going so great. I
have friends, a job, and…” He left the rest unsaid, but I knew he was thinking of
Iris Gyles. Trey had had a crush on her from the moment they’d met, but I didn’t know
if she felt the same way. Could she have turned down his romantic advances? Was he
nursing a broken heart or had something more serious happened?

“Please tell me it’s nothing violent,” I murmured softly, and he quickly shook his
head.

“Jasper spent all summer telling me how the co-op didn’t operate in hopes of making
a profit—that the people of Red Fox were looking, you know, for something deeper.”
He blushed, slightly embarrassed over having to find words to aptly describe the socialist-type
lifestyle he’d adopted. “But he’s been charging kids my age to hang out with us. They’re
not working or anything. They just meditate with him for a few hours and then go.
And they seem totally cool about paying him what he asks.”

I dipped the last of the chicken cutlets in an egg wash before coating it with breadcrumbs
and poured some oil into a skillet. As the flame of the cooktop burner sprung into
blue life, I said, “Do you think Jasper is taking advantage of these kids?”

Trey shrugged. “I dunno. But I heard him talking about
buying all these expensive space heaters and laptops and stuff. And people have never
had to pay to walk the trails or to just find a quiet place to chill out before. We
don’t own the land.”

“Yet Jasper’s actin’ like he’s king of the mountain?” Althea guessed.

“Yeah. He’s just…different than when I first moved up there.”

Even though I was focused on browning the chicken, I could sense Trey’s reluctance
to bad-mouth the co-op’s leader. Still, he sat rigidly in his chair and the grip on
the cheese knife was too firm. My son was truly troubled.

I waited for the chicken to cook, transferred it to a plate covered with paper towels,
and then placed my hand on my son’s shoulder. “Can you talk to him? Tell him that
it doesn’t feel right to collect money from people who just want to get away from
it all for a bit?”

Trey opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything, his eyes became
guarded and he averted his glance. “It’s cool. I’m sure Iris will handle it.”

Althea and I exchanged worried glances, but I knew we wouldn’t get another word out
of Trey. Instead of trying to elicit more information, I blended chicken stock, white
wine, lemon, garlic, fresh basil, and capers. At the sound of the doorbell, Trey leapt
up from the table to answer the door, his face transformed by a boyish grin of anticipation.
While the piccata sauce was thickening, I had time to catch a glimpse of a pint-size
Miss America, a devil missing his two front teeth, a wounded soldier, and a fairy
with a glittering purple dress. Trey gave the children generous handfuls of candy
and wished them a happy Halloween.

“Go easy on the treats,” I chided, waving my wooden
spoon at him. “Or I won’t have any left to eat while I watch
Ghostbusters
later tonight.”

Trey grabbed several boxes of Milk Duds and brought them into the kitchen. “Then these
are mine. Can’t handle cheesy flicks without them.”

“You’re going to watch the movie with me?” I was thrilled. When Trey was younger,
we’d always spend Halloween night sampling from his trick-or-treat bag while
Ghostbusters
played on the small television set in our living room.

Althea gestured toward the front yard. “He’s already got a change of clothes in the
truck. Neither of us thought you should be alone tonight. Strange things can go on
when spirits are roamin’ around.”

“It’s not the spirits I’m worried about,” Trey insisted, studying me gravely. “The
book festival killer is still out there and I don’t want you to be on your own, Mom.”

I gave him a grateful smile, once again noticing how brawny he’d grown after months
of manual labor, fresh air, and healthy food. “I’ll definitely feel much safer with
you in the house, Trey.”

He smiled, pleased that I thought him a worthy protector.

“Maybe you can get that hunky cop to spend tomorrow night with you. It’s about time
that man unlaced his boots and stayed for a spell. A
long
spell,” Althea said with a leer and then refilled her tumbler with another inch of
whiskey.

Ignoring her, I poured the thickened sauce over the chicken and garnished the cutlets
with sprigs of fresh parsley. After putting several spoonfuls of wild rice on each
plate, I lifted the lid from the pot of snow peas. Steam billowed forth, flushing
my face with heat. The rush of warmth made me think of Sean.

Trey and Althea were right. I didn’t want to be alone. Not
tonight. Not tomorrow night, either. I was ready for Sean to become a real-life Paris
to my Helen, for him to lay down his shield, kick off his sandals, and take me in
his arms. I was just getting to the part in my fantasy in which Sean’s fingers were
deftly removing my long, white Grecian dress when Trey asked me to pass the pepper
shaker. At the same moment, the doorbell rang and I offered to handle the next batch
of trick-or-treaters.

As I walked to the door, I made another silent vow to help find Melissa’s killer.
As soon as he was caught, I could have Sean to myself, and when that time came, I
was going to show him just how passionate a middle-aged single mother could be.

WHEN I ENTERED
the office on Monday, the first day of the new month, its uneasy atmosphere was like
a tangible entity. The enthusiasm over the success of the festival was blighted by
Melissa’s murder, and my coworkers were unusually listless.

Instead of hunkering down to work at our desks, we hung about the coffee room, hugging
our mugs as we dissected the events of the weekend. Zach paced back and forth while
Flora and Vicky dipped their tea bags in and out of their cups in tandem. As conversation
lulled, Jude pushed back his chair with a loud scrape and stood.

“I need to get to work. I’m sending out an offer of representation this morning.”
Without further elaboration he strode out of the room.

Vicky dangled her tea bag over her cup before dropping it into the trash. “I, too,
must tick some items off my list,” she said. “There are numerous wrap-up tasks from
the
weekend cluttering my desk, including sorting through the scores of photos I took
and entering the number of people who preregistered for next year’s festival in my
database.”

Following Jude and Vicky’s lead, the rest of us headed for the door. There was a stack
of proposals waiting for me, and the manuscripts I’d intended to work on at the festival
still needed to be read. Before tackling those, however, I intended to research Ruben
Felden, the editor at Melissa’s publishing house, and try to discover the identity
of the mysterious green-eyed woman.