“But what if the murderer strikes again?” said Jane. “They should let people know what’s going on.”
Sherman nodded. “I agree with you on that point,” he said. “Do you recall in the movie Jaws when the town council voted to overrule the sheriff’s wishes and keep news of the shark’s presence a secret so as not to spoil the lucrative summer tourist trade?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t seen the movie,” said Jane, surprised that Sherman had.
“The council’s decision was a grave error,” Sherman continued. “A great many more people died because of it. Of course it was necessary for the plot, and this is real life, but the principle is the same.” He sighed happily. “I do so love a good monster movie,” he said.
Jane looked at Sherman and wondered what other surprises were in him. “Do you think whoever killed Jessica might do it again?” she asked.
“It’s always a possibility,” said Sherman. “But let us hope not.”
Something puzzled Jane. “If the police want to keep this quiet for now, why are you telling me?”
“First, because of your connection to the Abernathy woman. Second, because you are a writer.”
Jane didn’t understand. “What has that got to do with it?”
“You’re used to considering multiple possibilities for a plot,” Sherman replied. “Perhaps something you think of will aid in the investigation.”
Another question occurred to Jane. “Who found the body?”
“Beverly Shrop,” Sherman said. “At least she’s the one who telephoned the police last night, so I assume she was the first to see the body.”
“Last night?” said Jane.
“Just before midnight,” Sherman said. “As I understand it, Miss Shrop was leaving the fairgrounds following the closing of the festival and walked by the dunk tank, where she saw the body.”
“And how did you find out about it?” Jane asked him.
Sherman’s eyes twinkled. “I am a newspaper editor,” he said. “It’s my business to know everything that happens.”
“In other words, you have a friend in the police department,” said Jane.
“I have many friends,” Sherman said. “It’s possible that some of them work in the police department. As I said, it’s my business to know what’s going on.”
“And yet you’re going to keep this a secret until they make an official announcement on Monday,” said Jane. “Interesting.”
Sherman chuckled. “Isn’t it though,” he said, standing up. “And now, my dear, I have a date with a bowl of oatmeal and a poached egg. I bid you a good day.” He walked toward the door of the restaurant. “Of course, if you think of anything that might be of interest regarding this story I would be most appreciative if you would think of me.”
“Of course,” Jane said. “You’ll be the first to know.”
Sherman disappeared into Sunnyside Up, leaving Jane to ponder what she’d learned. Again she was left with just one question: Who had killed Jessica Abernathy?
She supposed it could be a coincidence and that the murderer had chosen Jessica for reasons having nothing to do with who she was. In fact, that made the most sense. She was, as they say, in the wrong place at the wrong time, Jane thought. Although it seemed more accurate to say that she was in the wrong place at the right time or the right place at the wrong time, depending on your perspective. At any rate, she had been there at the same time as the murderer, which ultimately was the only thing that mattered.
There was nothing to be done about it at the moment, though, so she drove home. After making herself a cup of coffee, she went into her office. Jessica’s email was still open on the screen. Jane looked at it, wondering if it was the last email the editor had sent.
She was about to delete it when something caught her eye. The email had been sent at just after midnight that morning. “But Sherman said Beverly Shrop called the police just before midnight,” Jane informed Tom, who was still asleep in the sunspot on her desk. “How could Jessica have sent this message if she was already dead?”
Chapter 25
“You missed my panel this morning,” Byron said as he handed Jane a cup of punch. “In which I revealed to an enrapt audience the real Jane Austen.”
Jane sipped the punch, which was overly sweet and tasted of ginger ale and cranberry juice. “On the contrary,” she told Byron. “I didn’t miss it one bit.”
Byron laughed. “Everything I said was most complimentary,” he assured her. “I told them that despite whatever criticism has come your way by virtue of your being a popular author, your ability to capture the caprices of the human animal are unmatched.”
Jane bent her head slightly in his direction. “I thank you,” she said. “That was very kind.”
“Of course, I also told them you were a frustrated virgin and possibly a lesbian,” Byron added.
Before Jane could reprimand Byron they were interrupted by the arrival of Lucy and Ben.
“How did your panel go?” Lucy asked Byron.
“Did no one come to hear me?” said Byron in reply. “I’m deeply wounded. But as it happens, Jane and I were just discussing that very subject. If I do say so my—”
Jane cut him off. “They’ve done a wonderful job with the decorations, don’t you think?” she said. “It hardly looks like an Elks Lodge, does it?”
The building in which they were standing was a simple wooden structure built in the 1930s to house the local Order of Elks. To be exact, it was the home of Lodge 1372. The lodge currently had seventeen members, almost all of them over the age of seventy. Two of them—Grady O’Byrne and Felix Malden—happened to be the gentlemen with whom Jane had quarreled that very morning.
In addition to the Elks’ regular Wednesday meetings (at which they mostly smoked cigars, drank whiskey, and told dirty jokes) the lodge was used for monthly spaghetti suppers sponsored by the fire department, Saturday night bingo organized by the local Red Hat Society, and any other community event that had no other permanent home. It had a kitchen, a single bathroom (there were no lady Elks when the lodge was built and so they had not anticipated the need for a women’s restroom), and a storage area for chairs and whatever else needed storing. Other than that, the lodge was one enormous room, which made it ideal for events involving large numbers of people.
Tonight it had been turned into a re-creation of a Regency drawing room, or at least as reasonable a facsimile as could be manufactured using flowers, card tables, and half a dozen large sofas and twice that many chairs arranged around three sides of the room. On the fourth side was a small raised bandstand on which stood a piano.
Several dozen people moved about the room, sitting on the sofas, talking in excited voices, and enjoying the various edibles arranged on the tables. With very few exceptions they were all dressed in period costumes. This included Lucy, Ben, and Byron. Jane, however, wore a simple red silk dress, sleeveless and hemmed above the knees.
“Where’s your costume?” Lucy asked.
She was teasing. She knew full well that Jane had never intended to wear one to the dance. In fact, Jane had never intended to even come to the dance. It was only because Lucy had asked her that she was there. And why Lucy was so eager to attend still baffled her.
“I feel quite underdressed,” Jane remarked, looking around at the outfits being sported by other attendees. She examined Lucy and Ben’s costumes. “Those are rather good,” she remarked. “Where did you get them?”
“We lucked out,” Lucy answered. “Last year the college theater department put on The School for Scandal. I have a friend who worked on it, and she managed to snag these from the wardrobe closet for us.”
“Ah, yes,” said Jane. “Walter and I saw that. I believe your dress was worn by Lady Teazle in act two.” She patted the lapel of Ben’s jacket. “And this belongs to the dastardly Sir Benjamin Backbite,” she informed him. “Fortunately for you, the clothes do not make the man.”