“You were the one who stole the truck,” I said as soon as the realization came. “You were the one who ran Josh down.”
Shelby smiled, tight-lipped. In the dim light, with her hair raked back, her face resembled a skull. “You think you know a lot—”
“For a small-bookstore owner?”
“And as a small-bookstore owner, Mrs. McClure, you ought to know exactly what you’re messing with when you mess with me. Salient House is the largest publisher of fiction in the English-speaking world. How long would your little independent bookstore survive without access to novels by Maxwell Cushing, Louise Harper Mars, Anne Wheat, and all the other big best-sellers we publish, along with their backlists? You don’t have a syringe. You don’t have anything. And if you make a nasty accusation you can’t prove, I’ll make sure Salient House sees you as a bad risk and cuts you off—completely!”
I shrugged. “Well, Ms. Cabot, I admit that losing George Young as a sales rep would be sad, but we’d simply place our order through Ingram. Or Baker and Taylor. As an independent store, Salient House can’t very well tell those independent distributors who to sell to. And if they tried, let me see now—what would our hick-town lawyer call that? Restraint of trade, maybe?”
Shelby was fast losing her composure. Her empty threats weren’t scaring the chick from the sticks. She glared at me, looking trapped.
Time to pull the trigger, toots. She still hasn’t spilled her guts.
“So how could you do it, Shelby? Murder? Double murder? Is Kenneth Franken really worth it? You must really love him.”
Shelby’s brow furrowed; her lips slightly quivered.
“That’s none of your business,” cried Shelby. “Just tell me what you want. I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.”
Keep goring the bull, babe.
“Shelby, isn’t the real question: Does Kenneth love you? I mean, if he really loved you, then why is he in Providence right this minute, trying to find a lawyer for his wife? And not with the woman who murdered for him?”
This is it. She’s going to finger Franken as her accomplice .
“He’ll come around,” Shelby said through clenched teeth. “He loved me once. He’ll love me again. Once he sees what I’ve done for him. Once I tell him. And I will, after his wife’s good and convicted.”
I did my best to maintain my composure, but I couldn’t help at least blinking in surprise. “You mean it’s over? Between you and Kenneth?”
“Not over. Just interrupted. He pretends to love his wife, but I know how he really feels—about her. About me.” Shelby’s eyes became glassy, creepy. “You’re just like Kenneth,” she rasped. “You eat the sausage but you don’t have a clue what it takes to kill the pig. I used my networking contacts to introduce Kenneth to the right people, in New York and in Hollywood. He has an agent now. Because of me. He’s in negotiations with Visionwerks to write a feature film because of me—”
“But the film deal is based on the Jack Shield novels, isn’t it?” I pointed out. “And Timothy Brennan was the one who controlled all the rights? So his consent would be needed for any film deal to be made.”
“Brennan was an egomaniac. And he’d become lazy. He didn’t want to write the books anymore, but he wanted to take the credit and most of the money. And then he became angry—and jealous—that the books Kenneth wrote were so much better, so much more popular, than his own.”
“So that’s why Brennan was ending the series,” I guessed. “He didn’t want his son-in-law—the high-and-mighty ex-college professor—to show him up.”
“He was a stupid old bastard!” said Shelby. “All Brennan had to do was keep his mouth shut and let the Hollywood deal go through. Everything would have been fine! Brennan would have made lots of money, and Kenneth would have started a new career on the West Coast—far from Brennan and that doggy-faced wife of his.”
“Then you really did use the right amount of oil, didn’t you, Shelby?” I said. “Enough to kill Brennan, because deep down you knew he’d never let Kenneth succeed.”
“So what?” Shelby said. “I’m glad Timothy Brennan’s dead. And you should be, too. Look what it’s done for your store!”
Keep going, kid. Hang in there.
“I understand now,” I said with feigned sympathy, trying not to throw up. “You did it for love . . . for Kenneth . . . and to save the Jack Shield franchise.”
Shelby nodded slowly, clearly skeptical of my act, but hopeful, too—and desperate for an ally. “Do you see what I was up against, Mrs. McClure? Do you really see?”
“Yes, of course! A great literary talent like Kenneth Franken was being crushed by the selfish ego of a”—I nearly bit my tongue—“a foolish has-been. Somewhere along the way, you and Kenneth had fallen in love. You had an affair with him, but he went back to his wife, so you devised a plan to change the order of the universe, tilt the earth so he’d roll back into your lap, bringing the Shield franchise right along with him. How am I doing, Shelby? Am I right?”
Shelby’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You seem to understand everything, which tells me that maybe you do have the syringe—the real syringe.” She held out her hand. “Give it to me. Now.”
“No, Shelby,” I said. Slowly, my stupid grin flat-lined. Now it was Shelby’s turn to yammer on like a crazy person.
“You can’t prove anything!” she cried. “Even if you have the syringe. Why would I kill Brennan, anyway? What possible motive could I have? I’m not the one profiting from Brennan’s death—you are. You’re the one who handed Brennan the tainted bottle, a moment that was caught on tape, by the way. Have you seen CNN lately? If I were the police, it’s you I would arrest.”
“But you’re the one who knew how particular Brennan was about his appearances, so you didn’t return my calls on purpose—to make sure there’d be chaos when you all arrived. It was you who set aside those tainted bottles and you who told Deirdre to inform the rest of us, so you wouldn’t be implicated,” I said when her tirade ended. “Of course, nobody will believe anything Deirdre says, given what she’s charged with. But surely Kenneth suspects you. He might even go to the police himself.”
“There’s where you’re dead wrong. I know Kenneth. He’s a brilliant, attractive man, but he’s far too idealistic. Too wrapped up in ‘doing the right thing’ to see that getting Brennan out of the way is the right thing. So I didn’t involve him. Oh, he had his suspicions, even started questioning me that night he followed me to your store. But I denied having anything to do with Brennan’s death, and he believed me. He knows nothing, Mrs. McClure. But even if he did have his suspicions, he would never tell anyone. Not after all I’ve done for him.”
“All you’ve done,” I said. “Oh, that’s right. You made a few phone calls. And then, of course, you tried to wreck his marriage. Can’t forget that one. And now you want to make him an unwilling beneficiary to a murdered father-in-law and a wife who’s about to become a convicted killer. A wife he clearly still loves and has chosen to stick by.”
I wasn’t very good at condescension, but I was learning.
Shelby’s face became a primitive mask of harsh lines and dark shadows. “I warn you, Mrs. McClure. In games like the one you want to play with me, I play to win. And I play rough. I noticed you have a little boy. Accidents happen to little boys all the time.”
Steady, Penelope. Steady.