“Who?” asked Seymour.
“A man came to the store yesterday posing as a reporter for Independent Bookseller magazine. He wasn’t.”
“He wasn’t?” asked Sadie. “How do you know?”
“I know,” I said. “Because everything about him was fake.” As Jack Shepard’s ghost pointed out, of course, but I didn’t want to believe him at the time.
“But that doesn’t prove anything,” said Sadie.
“Believe me, he was the agent,” I said. “His eyes lit up like July Fourth fireworks when I mentioned the event had been taped.”
“He must have made a killing,” said Seymour. “Considering the tape’s news value.”
“What news value?” Sadie asked, outraged. “Authors are like everyone else. They keel over and die every day.”
“That’s not why they’re playing it. Listen!” Seymour pointed at the television.
On the screen, the image of Timothy Brennan’s final moments were replayed, but this time a tinted circle highlighted the water bottle in Brennan’s hand.
“. . . Authorities will neither confirm nor deny that foul play is suspected in the death of this best-selling mystery author,” the announcer said. “Though no suspects have been identified, CNN has learned that the Rhode Island State Police crime lab has conducted a toxicology study on the contents of the bottle, which the local police impounded the night of Brennan’s death.
“An anonymous source tells us there is evidence the bottle had been tampered with. Meanwhile, first-edition copies of Shield of Justice with the unique stamp authenticating its purchase at the bookstore where Brennan died are now going for as high as $300 a piece on eBay. In other news . . .”
“It’s on every channel,” Seymour crowed. “I saw it this morning and came to warn you.”
My shoulders slumped, and I held my head. Yesterday had been bad enough. If every news channel was carrying this story, then who knew what was coming next? Sure, I wanted Buy the Book to be profitable, but praying for rain doesn’t mean you welcome a hurricane!
“The police suspect murder,” Sadie murmured, her face pale.
Well, I had tried to warn her, but Sadie had chosen to ignore the signs. I reached out and took her hand. With the other, Sadie lifted her glass and swallowed some ice tea, all the while staring at the television screen.
My own reaction could best be described as muted. Given my conversation with Jack, the syringenapping by Josh, and the conversation I’d overheard when I’d eavesdropped on Shelby and Kenneth, I wasn’t all that surprised at this development. The hidden syringe had obviously played a part in corrupting the water bottle. But what had been in that syringe?
“What did they mean, ‘the bottle was tampered with’?” Sadie asked.
“Poison!” Fiona Finch said, her cheeks rosy with exhilaration. “I’ll just bet the cops found traces of deadly poison in that water bottle.”
“The problem is, I don’t see how that’s possible,” I said. “I randomly selected the bottle myself from over a dozen set aside especially for Brennan.”
“Did you set them aside?” asked Seymour.
“No. It was Linda Cooper-Logan who told me they’d been set aside. She started helping me with the refreshments after some of the guests started swarming the table.”
“You’re not suggesting Linda murdered Brennan,” said Seymour.
“Of course not! None of this makes any sense. How could the killer have known which bottle I’d grab of the dozen? And if they were all poisoned, then why didn’t anyone else get sick and die? After Eddie and his partner arrived that night, they took the bottle I’d given to Brennan as evidence, but that’s all they impounded. We were all cooped up in the store for hours giving statements, and there were plenty of people who ended up drinking from those reserved bottles of Brennan’s—even me. And, like I said, none of us got sick or died.”
“You know, Pen . . . that’s pretty incriminating,” said Seymour, lines furrowing his forehead.
“What’s ‘pretty incriminating’?”
“Well . . . you said it yourself: You were the one who handed the bottle to Brennan—which would be opportunity. And your store is profiting from his death—which would be motive.”
“I know, I know. I’ve thought of that already,” I said.
But Sadie wouldn’t hear of it. “Don’t be ridiculous, Seymour! Penelope is not responsible for anyone’s death!”
An image suddenly came over me: my hand on the polished knob, the door swinging open, my late husband’s pinstriped pajamas, arms raised like wings on the fourteenth-floor ledge. I winced.
“Sadie, calm down,” said Seymour. “Pen didn’t kill Brennan. I know that. I’m just saying it doesn’t look good. That’s all. And I just think Pen should be ready for the State Police to question her again.”
“Well,” Fiona said with a self-satisfied smirk, “I don’t know how one bottle could have been tainted and not the others. But I do know one thing . . .” Fiona tapped the papers on the coffee table.
“If it is murder, then I’ve solved the crime!”
Sadie and I gaped at Fiona. Seymour slammed down his ice tea, sloshing liquid onto the coffee table—much to Fiona’s annoyance. She snatched up the papers before they were saturated.
“Are we ready to pay attention now?” Fiona asked. We all nodded like schoolchildren.
“On the night of Timothy Brennan’s death, Mr. and Mrs. Franken returned to the inn and had a huge argument. Why, they were so loud you couldn’t help but hear every word.”
“And if you couldn’t hear every word you could always place an empty glass against the wall,” Seymour quipped.
“Was it Mr. Franken doing the arguing?” I asked.
“No,” Fiona replied, glaring at Seymour. “It was Mrs. Franken. She was screaming about some woman.”
“Ah,” said Seymour. “Entrée la femme.”
“Huh?” said Sadie.
“Enter the woman,” Fiona translated.
“How do you know it was a woman?” Seymour asked.
Sadie and I nodded. Good question.
“I heard her name,” Fiona replied, not a little indignant that her eavesdropping skills were being questioned. “It was Anna.”
“Anna? Are you sure?” I asked, surprised. I’d expected her to say “Shelby.”
But Fiona seemed certain. “Mrs. Franken kept repeating that she knew all about this Anna, and how dangerous this Anna was.”
“Obviously Mrs. Franken suspected foul play,” said Seymour, scratching the back of his neck.
“Darn right,” Fiona replied. “Mrs. Franken kept repeating that this Anna person killed her father. But I also got the distinct impression that she thought her husband was somehow involved in her father’s death, too. They argued for a while, then things got very quiet. When I made up their room in the morning, I discovered that Mr. Franken had spent the night on the love seat.”
“Anna Worth,” I murmured.
“Who?” asked Seymour.
“Oh, Anna Worth!” cried Sadie. “Of course! She was there in our store the night Brennan died.”
“And she is?” asked Seymour.
“The cereal heiress,” said Sadie. “Worth Flakes and Nuts. She’s the one got herself in all that trouble for shooting her bodyguard’s gun at her boyfriend in front of that New York nightclub.”
“Why, Sadie Thornton,” said Fiona, “I’m impressed that you remembered that whole Anna Worth scandal!”
“Of course,” said Sadie with a wave of her hand.