Ink-Slinger Murder Read online

  Copyright © 2017 by Wendy Meadows

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Thanks for reading

  Be the First to Know

  About the Author

  Also by Wendy Meadows

  Chapter One

  “There’s a spelling mistake,” said Dot as she perused the tome, her finger diligently tracing the words as she read them. She pushed her glasses up her nose, only so that she could then tilt her head down to look over them at Cassy.

  “There is not,” she exclaimed wrestling the book from Dot’s grip. Cassy scanned the page furiously, trying to hunt down the offending word. “I don’t see it. Tell me where.”

  Helpfully, triumphantly, Dot pointed to the third line down. Cassy read the sentence, then again and finally stopped on the third time.

  “Don’t do that to me, Dot,” Cassy said, patting her chest, “I swear you nearly gave me a heart attack.”

  A deep, tired but relieved breath flowed from Cassy’s lips. The book she now held in her hands was the culmination of over a year’s work. The idea to get something in print had been with her for years, but it had been her young part-time assistant, Patty, who pushed Cassy to put pen to paper.

  Herzog, the old beast bounced up onto the counter of the Spicery, Cassy’s herbal and (on occasion) spell store. He purred, a strong low rumble that was felt more than heard, and rubbed himself against the hardback.

  “Do you think he knows you put him on the cover?” asked Patty. A local artist had been commissioned to make the cover and had produced an amusing little caricature of Herzog. The picture sat in the corner of the cover keeping a suspicious eye on the title which read: Spicery! The History and Future of Modern Magic.

  Cassy wasn’t sure about the title; it had been her publisher’s idea. To her, it sounded a little stuffy, despite the exclamation point. All things considered, however, she couldn’t have been prouder. She lifted it up, clasped firmly between her hands, to admire it as she’d been doing all morning since the four large boxes had arrived carrying several dozen copies.

  Herzog took a break from his excessive cleaning to look at the book. He let out a little snort then continued washing.

  “Well, all you have to do now is sell the things,” said Dot looking over the stack of boxes. They did have a small area in the store for books, which was otherwise taken up with racks of every possible ingredient from herbs, minerals, spices and a few more things that defied description. At the center of the small space were several large plastic-lined wicker baskets with scoops in each one to measure out whatever you needed, whether it be dried chilies, pink salt, cloves, thyme or any of the hundreds of other curious things that lent their aroma to the intoxicating atmosphere.

  Cassy looked a little dejected. In contrast with what had to happen now, writing the book had been easy. Now she had to convince people that they should buy the book. She was confident of its quality and usefulness, but letting others know that was going to be tricky. She just wasn’t a self-publicist. That kind of attention-seeking wasn’t part of who she was. It was partly why she’d been so attracted to being a witch, something she didn’t advertise that much either, not that the reaction to such a thing is ever good. Mostly, she kept to herself, content to keep the Spicery going. Why she had written a book was beyond her. And now she agreed to join a panel of authors at Havenholm’s very own literary festival.

  “We could always give them away free,” offered Dot sincerely. “You know, ‘spend fifty dollars and get Cassy’s book.’ It would drive sales.” Dot crossed her arms contentedly as if she’d conclusively solved a problem.

  “You know what, Dot, I think I might try and sell a few first.” Cassy took a stack to the bookcase on the far wall and made some space. She stepped back and admired her handiwork.

  “I think it’ll fly off the shelves,” said Patty. She’d jumped onto the counter next to the cash register. Her legs swung lazily, her feet hitting against the wood surface. She was leafing through Cassy’s book (Cassy still couldn’t get over calling it that). “Believe me, after Saturday, we’ll have to ration it to one per customer.”

  “Why? What happens on Saturday?” said Dot, more interested in the book cover than an answer. She held her spindly glasses halfway between her face and the book, moving them in and out to get better focus.

  “The Havenholm Weekend of Words,” said Patty, “featuring local author Cassandra Dean.” Patty was the most excited of the three of them. All Cassy could feel was anxiousness. There would be real authors at the festival. Real writers. Ones who had written more than a single recipe book (with history, humor and a picture of a cat).

  “It does have a nice ring to it though, doesn’t it, hon?” said Dot. “Cassandra Dean: author.” She put the copy of Spicery! she’d been inspecting strategically by the register and pottered off to attend to a customer who’d been mulling over some dried fruits.

  “Caroline Cuthbert’s going to be there, Cass,” said Patty excitedly. “The Caroline Cuthbert.”

  “All those wizards and things, right?” Cassy was only half paying attention. She was more worried about someone else who would be attending. It wasn’t someone like Chet Ealing, though he did have a bit of a reputation; nor was it Jenny Thatcher, whom Cassy knew Dorothy liked to read. Instead, it was Havenholm’s very own reclusive author, Max Frowd, who had her concerned.

  “Not wizards,” said Patty. “Faeries. That’s F-A-E, faeries. Tales of SummerBank? The Wilderhunt Chronicles? Daphne Gold and the Faeries of Shimala? None of this means anything to you?”

  “Daphne Gold?” Cassy was still preoccupied and only hearing bits and pieces. Suddenly, she was overcome by the feeling of guilt. Perhaps that was too harsh, but she did nonetheless worry that she’d been neglecting her duties as a neighbor. Frowd occupied the entire top floor of the building opposite, one of four that made their little quarter of town called Nether Edge. He’d lived there, all by himself for as long as Cassy could remember. In all that time, she’d only ever seen him once or twice, and her only significant interaction with him had been at the start of summer when the police had interviewed everyone following the sad demise of Mrs. Donnington two doors down.

  As much as she wanted to, Cassy felt it would be a little out of place, not to say imposing of her, to hike her way up to the top floor and introduce herself. Even though she did have the best reason ever to see him: being part of the same discussion panel. The man had abandoned the literary life in New York and moved all the way down here to Havenholm so he wouldn’t be bothered. She’d let him have his privacy for now and leave him to listen to his classical music, which could sometimes be heard wafting from an open window.

  “Are you even listening?” said Patty. She was leaning in front of Cassy’s face to get her attention. “I’m helping out at the
festival. It’ll look good on my CV, but even so, I don’t want to be too pushy. So, do you think you could do it? You’ll be talking to her backstage, so…”

  “Do what?” Cassy looked at Patty utterly confused.

  “You really were a million miles away, weren’t you? I’m talking about getting Caroline Cuthbert to sign my 5th edition of Bogsnatchers—Wilderhunt Chronicles Volume Five.”

  “Fifth?” said Cassy. “You know that’s not particularly rare. Or desirable.”

  “There are literally hundreds of editions, so five’s quite small, right?” said Patty expectantly.

  Patty had the book in question on her and handed it to Cassy, practically forcing it into her hands. “Hopefully she’ll announce her new book too. I can’t wait. It’s been years since the last one. Maybe you could get an early proof. You could be friends, right?”

  The look in her eyes was inordinately excited.

  “Okay, okay I’ll do it. I’ll get her to sign it.”

  “Thanks. Love you,” said Patty before skipping off to take charge of the cash register.

  Cassy looked down at the book that had been foisted upon her. The cover was all rich purples and warm orange and featured the face of an actor she vaguely recognized. Above the title were the emblazoned words ‘Now a Major Motion Picture.’ She looked from Bogsnatchers to her own, somewhat humbler book.

  “If only, hey Herzog?”

  Herzog tilted his head to one side, shrugged, then jumped down to the ground and padded away silently.

  Chapter Two

  The weekend came a lot sooner than Cassy had anticipated. The Havenholm Weekend of Words was upon them and there was no escaping it now.

  Judging by the sales of her book thus far (which could be counted on the digits of a single finger), it didn’t seem like Cassy was going to be on an equal footing as the rest of the authors present. Though, she did have home turf advantage, something that she kept telling herself as if it meant anything. It wasn’t all just famous writers though. There were other Havenholm residents performing readings and setting up stalls, people seeking publishing contracts, poets, amateurs and would-be pros. Perhaps even some who just liked to write and didn’t worry about recognition but relished the opportunity to get their work out there. There would be tents set up in the park, a book sale as well as writing workshops and a variety of different events. Patty had been over everything with her several times, but very little of it had stuck with her.

  The panel wasn’t until late Sunday. Max Frowd was being billed as the main attraction, the big finale for the weekend. Cassy had nearly two whole days to fret and stew in her own anxiety before she’d have to sit down in front of a large crowd. She had to keep reminding herself that it was an honor to have this chance, not to mention it would be good for sales too.

  Even so, she’d finally convinced herself that it was okay to approach Frowd before the panel to get some advice. He was a neighbor, after all.

  It was possible to get to the higher floors of Nether Edge from her building; there was a connecting hallway that ran all the way round three of the two buildings, essentially making them part of the same larger complex.

  The penthouse was accessed by a further small flight of stairs. Judging by how creaky and old they were, they constituted part of the original two-hundred-year or more structure. At the top, Cassy found a small unassuming door. It seemed odd that just beyond it there was a globally famous man, albeit one who had shunned the limelight for over forty years.

  The swell of Elgar’s “Nimrod” could be heard from the other side. Cassy let the crescendo build then dissipate before knocking three times. There was a record scratch——an actual ziiiip——as a needle skittered over vinyl. This, Cassy thought, was a bad omen.

  Slow, heavy footsteps came closer to where she was and by the time they had stopped, just on the other side of the small unassuming door, Cassy was having second thoughts. It was too late now though. To run, just as she wanted to desperately do, would mean that she was no better than a kid playing dong-dong-ditch. She braced herself.

  “Who is it?” came a gruff but somehow mellifluous voice.

  Cassy stuttered. “It’s Cassandra Dean. From downstairs. The Spicery. I’m an author.” Just why she had to add that last little detail Cassy had no idea. Now she felt like a complete imbecile. An author? Who was she kidding.

  “Cassy, huh? The witch.” Bolts slid back and chains were uncoupled, then fractionally, the door opened to reveal a sliver of a tall and timeworn man. “You alone?”

  Well, Dot keeps trying to hook me up with what she’d call “suitors,” and I’ve had my fair share of false starts over the years but nothing serious, and presently, yes, I am single but open to suggestions, but that’s not what you meant, was it?

  “I am,” said Cassy.

  “Good. Come in then.” Frowd stepped back from the door but did not open it any further. Tentatively, Cassy pushed forward and saw that Frowd was already almost back to his high-backed armchair, which sat lonely at the far end of the vast space beyond. Despite it being summer, and a warm one at that, coals smoldered in the grate of a large fireplace above that jutted a robust looking brick chimney. The chimney itself was decorated with two crossed swords. Shelves lined the room, each burdened with hundreds of books. The spines created a mosaic of faded and cracked colors. The exposed floorboards did not creak when Cassy walked over them, past the kitchenette on the left and a row of cupboards on the right. There were no internal walls. It was a studio of sorts, though like none that Cassy had seen before, furnished more like a cottage than something you might find in the town center.

  A great big beast of a machine sat opposite the single armchair. Its wood panels were a dark maroon oak and the turntable cradled as its heart spun to a stop.

  “I apologize for interrupting you,” said Cassy.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes.” Cassy squirmed. “I was just wondering about the panel on Sunday.”

  “Need some help, do you?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Have you written a book?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, there you go then. You officially know more than most of the people in this town. And if it’s advice about being part of a panel, with questions and answers, and more questions than answers, then you’ve made a mistake by coming to a well-known hermit, haven’t you?”

  He turned finally to Cassy and looked her up and down as if noticing her for the first time. Then he smiled.

  “You’re a good person, Cassandra. Mrs. Mayweather’s told me all about you. She’s quite enamored, I’d say.”

  “You speak to Mrs. Mayweather?” Not only did Frowd not strike her as the talkative type, but old Mrs. Mayweather did have a one-track mind, and if you didn’t want to know how well the flowers in the courtyard were growing, then it was wise to avoid her.

  “She’s the only person my age in all of Nether Edge,” said Frowd. He went to a wooden cabinet and poured himself a drink. Cass noted that it was in fact a re-fill, the dregs of the previous measure still lining the base of the large glass. He didn’t offer Cassy one, not that she would have accepted.

  “I tend to drink whenever I want,” said Frowd. “The time of day doesn’t concern me much anymore.”

  “Don’t get out much?” That was an understatement. He must get out to the shops on occasion. If even just to buy cleaning products. Although there was a well lived in vibe to the studio, with tattered old books and vinyl, antiques and the accumulated ephemera of a long life, the space was perfectly clean.

  “Not much.” Frowd laughed at her obvious jab at him. He was warming to her. “So what’s your book about, Cassandra Dean? Love? War? Betrayal? All that juicy stuff?”

  “Magic. Mostly. A few recipes for my favorite blends of tea and a few words from my cat.”

  This last part got a reaction. The glass paused on its way to Frowd’s lips.

  “Magic. Tea. And the Wisdom of cats.” He seemed to ponder
the notion for a moment then apparently decided it was good enough. “I can’t say it’s something that I would write myself, or even read, but I have to admit that it tickles my fancy. Not that there’s much of it left to tickle.” He downed the glass in one gulp.

  “I thought, seeing as we’re neighbors, and we’ll be working together, in a fashion…”

  “I hope you get to the point sooner in your writing than you do in conversations, Cassandra Dean.”

  She swallowed hard. A drink was starting to sound good. It suddenly hit her, who this was, sat on the high-backed chair scrutinizing her. This was the Maximilian Frowd. A name you always saw on the lists of greatest living authors, a name that jumped out at you when perusing a bookstore or library. A name that you knew, and knew that you should have read, but probably hadn’t.

  “Miss Dean?”

  “I’m sorry. A little overwhelming—meeting you, that is.”

  “I should imagine. I find myself hard to take in sometimes.”

  “Well. I didn’t want to bother you for too long. I know you don’t like to be bothered.” She was on the cusp of babbling and reined herself back in.

  “That’s true.”

  “I just thought that I should get in touch before the panel.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be perfect. Now if you would leave an old man to his Elgar and his Scotch…” He raised his empty glass in salute. His brow furrowed on noticing that it was empty.

  “I’ll be going then,” she said even though he had already turned his attention to getting another drink and had quite forgotten all about his guest.

  As she turned to leave, Cass noticed the other wall where the entrance was. It was adorned with large posters of several old book covers, all Frowd’s. But it was a somewhat smaller black and white photograph that caught her eye. It depicted a young couple smiling for the camera. The man was definitely Frowd and the woman could only be part of a life he’d long moved on from.