“That makes her a suspect, too,” said Milner.
“Except she was nowhere near her husband or the bottled water,” said Fiona. “Remember, a murderer needs access as well as motive. Bunny was back in New York.”
“She could have hired someone,” said Seymour. “A hit man from Planter’s Peanuts, maybe.”
“Not funny,” said Sadie.
“We’re forgetting something,” said Fiona. “What about Kenneth Franken? With Brennan out of the way, Franken could resume his ghostwriting career.”
“Ghostwrite for a dead author?” said Milner. “That’s crazy!”
“Not so,” Sadie replied. “V. C. Andrews has been dead for a decade, but somebody is writing new V. C. Andrews novels, because one is published every couple of years.”
“Maybe they’re written by Anna Filactic,” quipped Seymour.
I was pretty sure Fiona was headed down the wrong path again. If Kenneth Franken used the syringe to tamper with the bottled water, I could see why he had to get rid of the syringe. But why would he hide it in the women’s room? Jack had already pointed out to me that someone would easily notice a man going into the ladies’ room in a crowded bookstore.
Then I remembered the way Kenneth Franken stormed off in search of his wife’s makeup case yesterday afternoon—a makeup case Deirdre claimed was lost in the women’s room! Could it be that Kenneth and Josh were working together, to kill Brennan and frame Deirdre?
I dismissed that idea immediately. If Kenneth hid the syringe in the women’s room on the night of the murder, he could certainly have retrieved it when he and his wife returned the next day. And if he was the one who’d sent Josh Bernstein to retrieve it, then he could have told the young assistant where he’d hidden it and not forced Josh to search for it. And that’s exactly what Josh had to do—he’d had to search to find it.
No. In my mind, Kenneth Franken was no more involved with the murder of his father-in-law than his wife was. Beyond that, I couldn’t prove a thing because right now, Josh Bernstein was the only key to unlocking the mystery.
“Maybe the Staties have it right,” insisted Seymour. “The money trail leads right to Deirdre.”
“Or Kenneth Franken,” Brainert countered. “With Brennan out of the way, he could have taken over the Shield series the same way Kingsley Amis took over the James Bond franchise after Ian Fleming passed away.”
“Eeesh! I couldn’t finish Colonel Sun,” said Milner with a groan.
“Oh, yeah. As if every one of those Fleming novels was a masterpiece!” Seymour shot back.
“Boys! Let’s not turn this into a reading group!” Sadie cried.
“Brainert did that already,” said Bud, chuckling.
“Only to prove Penelope’s point about Kenneth,” Brainert shot back. “Look, Kenneth had a good motive for murder. Not only the franchise, but also the other woman. Didn’t Penelope say he’d been carrying on with that woman from the publishing house? Shelby? Well then, Franken had a motive to frame his wife for the crime as well.”
The room was silent for a moment as everyone considered Brainert’s point. Fiona spoke first.
“So you’re saying that Kenneth Franken might have killed his father-in-law, framed his wife for the murder, and is now poised to take over the literary estate and live happily ever after with his mistress? Why, that’s so devious. So cruel. So monstrous . . .”
Then Fiona nodded with enthusiasm. “I like the way you think, Brainert.”
Except for one thing, I thought to myself. A woman had to be involved in the murder in some way—because the syringe was hidden in the women’s room on the night of the crime. “Right, Jack?” I asked silently.
Right as rain, doll.
“That lets Deirdre off the hook, of course,” I quietly added, “because she wouldn’t frame herself—and the syringe turning up in her room was too pat, anyway.”
On the money again, babe, said Jack. It’s a big, fat frame job with Deirdre posing pretty in the picture. But she doesn’t fit, and she didn’t do it.
At that point, the Quibblers’ meeting degenerated into several private conversations and even a loud argument. Linda and Milner drifted over to me, Milner glancing at his watch.
“We’re heading home,” he said. “We’ve decided to open up tomorrow, after all, which means four in the morning is our rise-and-shine time.”
“What happened to your day off?” Sadie asked. “You never open on a Monday.”
“We do now,” said Milner. “If tomorrow proves half as busy as today and yesterday, we’ll make a killing.”
I rose and unlocked the front door for them, my polite good-night smile fading. Why did Milner have to use that particular turn of phrase? I thought. But what happened next made the words almost prophetic.
Linda was apologizing—again—for Milner’s Oreos when we all saw the scarlet lights flickering down Cranberry Street.
“I think there’s been an accident,” Milner declared.
That much was obvious. I glanced down the street to see one of Quindicott’s three police cars. A long black limousine was parked at an angle. No, not a limo, I realized with a shiver. It was the van from Arthur J. Tillinghast Funeral Home on Crawford Street.
Just then I heard the siren. An ambulance from Rhode Island General—fourteen miles away—squealed to a halt near the police car.
I hurried outside. The night was chilly, the wind biting. Paramedics had jumped out of the ambulance and hurried to a spot where a small crowd had gathered. Whatever they were looking at was obscured by Seymour’s ice cream truck.
I stepped off the curb, and Eddie Franzetti suddenly grabbed me.
“No, Pen, you don’t want to see this.”
Milner and Linda stepped past me and out into the street. Linda squealed and covered her eyes. Milner turned pale and led her back to the sidewalk. More people moved out of the shadows, and Eddie rushed to move them back.
Despite Eddie’s warning, I moved onto the street. The paramedics were down on their knees over a crumpled form lying in a puddle. No, not a puddle. Blood. It was blood.
The side of Seymour’s truck—which held placards touting Orange Push-ups, Chocolate-Covered Luv Bars, and frozen yogurt—was splattered with it. And the window Seymour sold ice cream out of was shattered. The side of the truck was dented from an object’s impact—I shuddered to think of what that object was.
I heard voices. Snatches of conversation.
“He just flew in the air . . .”
“Don’t know who he is . . .”
“One of them strangers . . .”
“It was Zeb Talbot. . . . I recognized his truck. . . . Zeb didn’t even stop. Musta been soused again. . . .”
Officer Franzetti appeared at my side. “Go inside, Pen,” he said. “There’s nothing you want to see here.”
“What happened?”
Eddie cocked his hat. “About half an hour ago, Zebulon Talbot reported his truck stolen from out front of the Quicki-Mart. He’d left the keys in the ignition and the motor running when he went in for a pack of smokes.”
Eddie shook his head. “Teenagers, probably . . . it’s happened before, though they don’t usually pull this kind of stunt until the end of football season. Those high schoolers do stupid things to impress one another—and sooner or later someone always gets hurt.”
Eddie’s eyes met mine. Years ago, a stupid drag-racing stunt had cost Eddie a best friend and me a brother.
“Who is it?” I asked.