“I’m so glad you came tonight, Shelby . . . may I call you Shelby? Good. And you can call me Pen. That’s what my friends call me, and I do consider us friends.”
Shelby’s brow furrowed. Good. She was obviously hoping to intimidate me, aiming to take control through her superior demeanor. My sudden shift to cheerful, friendly friend seemed to throw her off balance.
Now get going with the dumb hick act, advised Jack. Really start yammering. Talk her ear off, but don’t give her a chance to peep until she’s practically itching to shoot off her mouth, too.
“I just didn’t know what to do at first,” I babbled. “I found this strange thing, and I didn’t know what it meant or where it came from! Then I was watching the news with my aunt—you know my aunt, Sadie—and I saw the most disturbing thing . . .”
My words came faster than the side-effects list on a commercial for prescription antidepressants. And Shelby Cabot’s head was bobbing like a dashboard puppy’s.
“I saw that Mrs. Franken had been arrested by the police for killing her father!” I continued. “You did hear that, didn’t you? Well, that’s such a strange thing to happen in a town like this, and what I found was strange, too, so I thought maybe because both things were so . . . so—”
“Strange.”
“Yes—strange—that maybe these two things were somehow connected. And then there was that hit-and-run—”
Shelby’s eyebrow went up. “Hit-and-run?”
“Right here in front of the store. But that couldn’t really be connected with anything, now, could it?”
“I suppose not, Mrs. McClure. You said—”
“I found a strange thing? I most certainly did!”
“Where is it, then?” Shelby asked, her tone impatient.
“Where’s what?” I asked blankly.
Pouring on the syrup a little thick, doll.
“Oh, you mean that thing!” I exclaimed. “Well, I guess I thought it best to leave it where I found it. . . .”
As my voice trailed off, I watched Shelby carefully.
You do scatterbrained swell, said Jack. Just like Gracie Allen.
I wasn’t quite sure whether to take that as a compliment.
After a moment, Shelby squinted at me, as if she couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or disgusted. Then with the flourish of a woman completely confident in her superiority, she turned on her heel and swiftly walked back to the community events space, straight to the women’s room.
Jackpot, baby. She’s going for it.
I followed right behind. “I mean it was such a strange thing. So very strange!” Now I was Doris Day. “A strange, strange thing . . .”
Shelby charged right into the bathroom. I entered, too, squinting against the fluorescent glare. Without hesitating, she went right for the paper towel dispenser anchored to the wall. She popped open the cover and reached inside, behind the large roll. She felt around for a moment but came up empty.
Bingo, said Jack. That’s exactly where Josh Bernstein found the syringe.
“Oh,” I said, wringing my hands. “Silly me. You’re looking for it there. I moved it the other day. Put it in a safe place.”
“But I thought—”
Before Shelby could say another word, I spun on my heels and rushed out of the women’s room, my nerves shaking as I raced through the large community events space and toward the register counter.
“Safe place!” I called. “Right over here!”
I exhaled with relief when I’d finally made it to the designated spot. Shelby took the bait. She was right on my heels.
“Where did you put the syringe, Penelope?” she said. Her voice was no longer arrogant. It was low and harsh. Ugly. Threatening.
I turned to face her, my hands no longer flapping, my tone no longer flighty. I forced my gaze to lock evenly with hers.
“Why Shelby, I never said it was a syringe.”
Shelby blinked. Her confident mask faltered. I took a step toward her. She backed away.
“How many bottles did you contaminate with the nut extract?” I asked. “One or two? Or all of them?”
Shelby took another step back. Then she raised her chin and looked down her nose at me.
“Enough,” she replied. “I almost laughed out loud when you personally handed him one of the tainted bottles.” Then Shelby frowned, her eyes distant. “But I used a little too much peanut oil, I’m afraid. Salient House lost a very profitable author. But then, they were going to lose him anyway.”
You nailed her, kid, now keep her yammering, get her to finger lover boy. Confess to being in on Josh’s murder.
Shelby looked at me. “You probably won’t believe this, but I didn’t mean to kill Timothy Brennan. I only wanted to make him sick, too sick to make his asinine announcement—”
“About dropping the Shield series?”
“That franchise was just starting to pay off again. Even the backlist was moving. It would have been such a blow to my company—”
“To Kenneth, you mean, since it was Kenneth Franken who actually wrote those last three Jack Shield novels. The franchise was a success because of Kenneth’s ghostwriting work. And that’s who you really cared about, wasn’t it?”
More of Shelby’s composure melted.
Remember, said Jack. Poke a few holes in her armor and she’ll deflate like a balloon.
“How did you find out about Kenneth’s ghostwriting?” Shelby demanded.
“I can read, Shelby. And so can a lot of other people. I saw how he’d mined The Neglected to jump-start the Jack Shield series again. But it was only a matter of time before someone else—someone in the press—made the connection and figured out that the last three novels were ghostwritten, especially with Kenneth Franken accompanying Brennan on his author tour.”
I watched Shelby’s wincing reaction.
“Oh, I get it now. Bringing Franken along was your idea, wasn’t it? So you’d have a stand-in waiting in the wings when Timothy Brennan collapsed. You were just waiting to drag Kenneth Franken in front of a microphone and reveal to the world that he really wrote those last three books, weren’t you?”
“Kenneth is weak,” said Shelby. “He refused to stand up to his father-in-law. Refused to promote himself and his writing. He’s a literary genius, so he’s far too sensitive when it comes to these things. It’s a tough business. He doesn’t understand how tough.”
“I see. So you graciously stepped in, because Kenneth needed someone with brains to manage his career. Someone like you. And Josh Bernstein? How did he fit into all this? Why did he have to die?”
“Josh was always ambitious,” Shelby replied. “But not smart. He figured out that Kenneth and I—well, you know what he figured out. That was bad enough, but he wouldn’t stop there.”
“He saw you tampering with the water bottles that night and then rush into the women’s room,” I guessed. “He knew you hid something in there.”
“I tried to distract him, sent him off on that fool’s errand for throat spray. But it didn’t work.”
“So Josh was never part of your plan.”
“He had plans of his own. Blackmail. I told him I’d meet his demands if he planted the syringe in Deirdre’s luggage. He did as he was told, but poor Josh met with an accident before I could return the favor. Not my fault.”
My eyes drifted to the floor. Then I smiled. Shelby must be running out of clothes, because she was wearing the same shoes she’d had on earlier—I could see the brick-red mud from Embry’s lot still on them.