Ink-Slinger Murder Read online

  “The way the body’s laid out is a red herring,” said Cassy. “It’s incidental. What you need to look at is this.” She produced the book from her dress. “Just like with Caroline, the details of the murders have already been described.”

  “Someone’s taking inspiration from books?” said Noyce, always one step ahead.

  “I believe so. So far it’s all Frowd’s work.”

  Without hesitation, Noyce ordered one of the other deputies, who Cassy recognized as Wolinski to find Frowd and make sure he was safe.

  “Do you think he might be a target?” said Cassy. So far, everything had been about Cuthbert. If anyone should be put under protection, it would be her extended entourage.

  “At this stage, there’s no knowing.”

  He was right of course. That’s why he was the Sheriff and she was a witch with a spice store.

  The Sheriff then recalled the deputy and countermanded his own order.

  “Cassy, you live in the same building, don’t you?” She nodded the affirmative. “Can I trust you to talk to him? I don’t want this investigation getting out of hand more than it already is.” He looked out to the gathered crowd. “If we can keep this a low-key as possible, I’d appreciate it. People need to know that something’s happened but not this latest wrinkle.”

  That was quite a wrinkle, thought Cassy.

  “Understood. I’d be happy to,” said Cassy. Now that she had a reason, an order even from the Sheriff himself, to visit Frowd Cassy felt emboldened. She’d wanted to from the very moment Brian had revealed the truth about Caroline’s death but there was something intimidating about Frowd. He’d locked himself up in his top floor castle for a reason—he didn’t like people.

  It was at the very top of her list of priorities, except there was one thing she needed to do first. And that was go to the library.

  Even more so than the Swaile’s bookstore, the Havenholm Library was something of an anachronism, even for a place so resolutely stuck in the past as her hometown.

  Though it was still called a library by the residents of Havenholm, the part of the old building that was dedicated to the lending of books was ever diminishing as more of its space was handed over to other activities. Whole wings had been converted into groups for mothers and pre-schoolers; several clubs had taken up residency alternating the nights they used the space to either show films, learn fly-fishing techniques, knit quilts, or learn more about transcendental meditation.

  It was this last one which was in progress as Cassy entered and she couldn’t help but look at the group of—and Cassy had to be careful here—senior Havenholmers in puzzled awe as they sat crossed legged in a circle, eyes closed and quietly chanting. She had her own unconventional beliefs, so she was in no position to pass judgment, but you would never catch her doing anything so silly.

  The librarian was a young lady with a big smile, larger glasses and her hair tied up above her head. She welcomed Cassy, glad to have a visitor. Cassy remarked that the library was quiet despite the literary festival in town. Dejectedly the librarian told her that they’d had all kinds of things planned, but for whatever reason nobody had shown up. Could the young woman have been so cut off from the world outside these walls that she didn’t know what was going on? Cassy thought it was quite possible.

  “I’m looking for a book by Maximillian Frowd,” said Cassy. She gave the librarian a list of his early work, and she set about locating it. She returned shortly then focused on her computer that looked like it had been state of the art maybe fifteen years ago.

  “We should have it,” said the librarian. “We should have all of them on your list, but I can’t seem to find them.”

  “Have they not been returned?” This could be a major break-through, thought Cassy.

  “They’ve been returned; they’re just not on the shelves.”

  “Stolen?”

  “Perhaps. It’s happened before. I never understand why people do that—I mean they’re free anyway, right?”

  This was clearly a big subject for the librarian but Cassy wasn’t about to get into a discussion.

  “Can I see who checked them out. Just the last few entries?”

  She tapped a few keys then paused. “I’m not sure if I’m allowed to do that.”

  “If you’re not sure then there’s the possibility that you are allowed.”

  She pondered this logic for a bit. “I don’t want to take the risk.”

  “There are only two possible outcomes. Either you are or you aren’t, which means a fifty-fifty chance. If everything had those odds you’d have a lot more gamblers, so what do you say?”

  “I don’t know…”

  Cassy could tell that she was going to get nowhere with this. She considered using a little spell to move things on but she’d always been reticent to employ magic to sway people against their own free will. Somehow it seemed like cheating even though she would have considered just about every other solution including triggering the fire alarm. She looked around and saw the bright red box on the wall on the far side of the room. All she had to do would be to break the glass. She could even do it from where she was standing with a little magical assistance, even though this was exactly, though indirectly, the same thing she’d forbade herself from doing.

  “Okay sure,” said the librarian. She swiveled the monitor towards Cassy who could only look dumbfounded for a second. She then leaned forward and memorized the top three names on the list of people who had borrowed any of Frowd’s books. The third and oldest of the entries dated back four years. These were not popular books at all.

  “Thanks, erm…?” Cassy prompted the librarian for her name.

  “Debbie,” she said, then from below her desk produced a familiar book. “Could you sign this for me please? You are her, aren’t you?”

  “Cassandra Dean,” said Cassy just to make sure they were both on the same page, as it were.

  “I really liked your book. So inventive. Witty too. But most of all I’m just so gosh darn proud that we have a writer here in Havenholm to call our own.”

  Cassy felt the copy of Beneath a Steel Sky weighing her down as if in protest. She pulled it out to show Debbie. Of all the authors in Havenholm, there was one that ranked above her surely.

  “Hey that’s the one,” said Debbie. “That’s ours. I can tell by the little blue sticker on the spine.”

  There it was, a little pale blue circle at the base of the spine. Cassy pondered it. What was a library book doing in the bookstore? She’d have to check the others, but she was sure that they too would have belonged to the library.

  “I guess you’d better have this back then.” Cassy handed the book to Debbie who really didn’t seem that bothered. She was inexplicably still looking at their newly signed copy of Spicery! Cassy still had the two other books but didn’t let the librarian know. For now, they were evidence.

  She thanked Debbie and left. Her goal now was to go back to the bookstore and question its diminutive proprietor as to why he was handling stolen books. But she’d promised to pay Frowd a visit and she couldn’t put it off any longer. This particular line of inquiry would have to wait for the moment.

  Chapter 15

  By the time she got back to Nether Edge where her apartment was, and indeed Frowd’s also, the sun was beginning to set. It still had a long lingering journey until it had sunk completely below the tree-covered horizon. Summer days were never in a rush, but the fading light gave Cassy a sense of urgency. It was as if there was a countdown and the night signaled the deadline. She realized that it was because the first day of the festival would be over and many of the people attending would be on their way back home. Sure some would stay for the full weekend, but only the very dedicated few.

  Just as she got in sight of the old imposing building, at the base of which was her humble little Spicery, Cassy spotted a slow shuffling figure, but it was only as she got closer that she recognized the very man she’d been sent to talk to.

  “
Max!” she called, though Mr. Frowd might have been more appropriate.

  He stopped at the archway that led to the inner courtyard of their shared address. On seeing her he seemed to brighten.

  “Ah, the sorceress,” he intoned, mockingly. “If you’ve come to wallow, I’m not the sounding board you need.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can offer you no answers or consolation or comfort, my dear. I presume you’ve come to me because of the death of Reacher’s pet author, to see if I could make sense of it all. Well you’re mistaken.” He continued his walk through the brick arch, waved to Mrs. Mayweather at reached the double doors that led to the stairwell. One of the reasons he never came out of his hideout, of this Cassy was sure, was because there were just so many stairs to climb. Jogging lightly Cassy caught up with the old man.

  “I am here about Cuthbert’s death, but not for the reason’s you think. I’m not here for council if that’s what you meant. I can handle people dying,” she said. Briefly, the image of her mother entered her mind but was quickly shooed away. “I think you should be aware of the exact circumstances of her death.”

  “They’d have to be pretty interesting for me give a damn enchantress. I’m old and the only death that preoccupies me these days is my own. I’d much rather head back up and listen to some music. Mahler’s Fifth perhaps?”

  Cassy let him walk away knowing that what she was about to say would stop him in his tracks.

  “She died the way he had wanted her to die. Pinned through the chest like one of her insects whose wings she had pored over—fascinated, rapt, beguiled--through the glass of the cabinet for countless hours every day. Now she too would be observed and scrutinized and… I forget the rest, Max. But you have to admit it’s a coincidence.”

  He did pause. He did turn. But the expression on his face wasn’t what she’d been expecting. Maximilian Frowd was laughing.

  “Cuthbert was pinned to a fridge like a museum butterfly? A fridge. That’s the pertinent detail. Anyone can have things put through them. That takes no special skill. Was she sat on the floor too? All these things matter, Cassy. You can’t equate what happened in my book to an actual killing without the specifics.”

  “I was there, Max. It was deliberate. At first, I didn’t realize, but it was Brian Vidor who pointed it out to me. I’ve been looking through those old books of yours and it’s uncanny. Then of course now there’s Caroline’s security guy.”

  “Let me guess? Burned in a barrel? Cyanide in Amaretto?—a perfect place to hide the poison as the two smells are so alike.”

  Cassy shook her head solemnly. “You called it the Nazi cruciform in one of your more confrontational works.”

  There was a breathless pause as if the air had been sucked from the world. Frowd appeared to crumple, to shrink even as the horror of what had happened hit him. He ruminated on the news for a long while before speaking again.

  “You must forgive my flippancy, Cassandra,” he said, then, “Do the police have a lead?”

  “Not until they get forensics back. Aside from that only what could be inferred from the nature of the deaths. A strong male… and that’s about it.”

  “Ahh.”

  Cassie tilted her head. “That’s not to say that I don’t have a lead.”

  “Is being a witch not enough for you that you have to indulge a little amateur detection too?”

  The color had returned to Frowd’s cheeks. For a moment there, Cassy had been worried for the old man.

  “Well as an amateur, as you put it, I need as much help as I can get.”

  “So you came to me.”

  “I came to you, yes. You might be able to give some insight. So come with me, let me pick your brain.”

  “Come with you?” Frowd looked longingly upwards to his top-floor hideaway. “Where are you going?”

  Cassy hadn’t realized how tense she’d been, but now that Frowd was warming to her, she let her shoulder’s drop and rolled her head back and forth. “There’s a bookstore in town that I suspect has been selling a book it shouldn’t have been.”

  “Mine?”

  She nodded. Frowd shook his head.

  “Why does it have to be those books? I’ve written great works, many critics will tell you this, and yet people obsess over some old penny paperbacks I wrote by candlelight when I was a student. I would sooner see them used as fuel for fires.”

  “So you’ll come with me?”

  Thankfully for Frowd, Archibald Swalile’s literary emporium was a long trek away. Even so, it took the couple the best part of an hour. Along the way Frowd opened up in a way that made Cassy think that the lonely man had been dying for company for so long. He regaled her with stories from his youth, the highs and lows of his career. When he’d first started out he’d split his time between teaching, studying and writing every other available hour sometimes not stopping to either eat, drink or sleep. Later, when he’d had his first big success, his life had changed completely.

  “There was money, and women and people who wanted to talk to me. You know, other than to say ‘Get out of my way, you bum.’ Money and women come and go,” he said almost forlornly, “But, I must admit that for a while I got a bit too big for my britches, as they say.”

  “I really don’t think anyone actually says that.”

  Frowd chuckled. “No, I guess they don’t. Not anymore.”

  “Why did you walk away from it?”

  “The money, the women, the adulation?”

  “Pick one.”

  He sighed and looked straight ahead. “I saw through it. The money wasn’t enough—it never is. The woman are always too much, but aren’t they always? And as for the other… Well once you’ve had fame, it corrupts more than any kind of power. It’s because it’s all so meaningless. People love you without knowing you. You can’t trust anyone and yet you believe their every little sweet whispered word. It happened to Joe. It got to him.”

  “Joesph F. Farmer,” said Cassy almost as if she was correcting him.

  “They called him counterculture, but that wasn’t so. All he did was pervert popular culture to his own twisted ways and in so doing became part of the establishment. The thing is he knows all this, this is not news to him, and he hates himself for it. He’s a sellout. But that fame bug got to him and he hasn’t shaken the fever since.”

  “You used to be friends I take it?”

  “Long time ago, perhaps. We needed each other back then, just to have a fellow traveler in the strange world of literary popularity. You have to remember that this was when having a best seller meant something. Millions of books. No TV shows, or DVDs or video games. What you did was you read.”

  “Do you still write?” This was the question she’d been burning to ask him even since before she’d met him. It was difficult to believe that a man of such prodigious talent would let his pen become idle.

  “I have a stack of suicide notes, if that counts.”

  She had no idea if he was joking or not and decided to ignore the comment, just when he’d started to sound so energized too.

  “Well, here we are,” said Cassy indicating the tiny store squeezed between two larger glass-fronted buildings.

  “Archie, you old lush,” Frowd called out to the man leaning on the stoop, cigarette in hand, ash threatening to tumble onto his shirt. “Lost your life savings on the horses yet?”

  “Not yet, you old hack,” replied Archibald Swaile. “Written anything decent in the last twenty years? And I’m not talking about suicide notes.”

  Cassy looked between the two men. It was clearly part of a larger and more obscure personal joke with a history she wouldn’t possibly grasp. Their sense of humor was a little dark for her taste.

  “I wrote the Mayor Brustwick petitioning him to get this place shut down but no luck.”

  “It would take more than a little luck to get rid of me.” Swaile went to lift the cigarette to his lips but didn’t quite make it.

  “I hear you
’ve been selling illicit goods, Archie.”

  “Archie” looked Cassy up and down then nodded in recognition. “Do you seriously think I actually sell anything? This is a bookstore, remember?”

  He was right, of course. He hadn’t actually sold the book to Cassy who’d been hoping to use their sale as a kind of leverage.

  “Do you realize that those books you gave me earlier were from the library?” she said, keen to maintain the upper hand.

  By now she and Frowd had reached the bookstore and occupied the same space as Swaile, who still let his cigarette burn down, untouched.

  “I bought them bulk with a bunch of other books,” he replied. “Kid said he was having a clear-out of his house and it all had to go. I would have told him to go take a long jump off a short pier until I saw they were this fella’s best work.”

  A quick look to Frowd confirmed that the old man was slightly disgusted by this statement, but he held his tongue.

  “Who’s this kid?” said Cassy keen to keep things on the subject.

  “I don’t know, some kid. What do I care?”

  Cassy thought back to Debbie, the librarian who had brought up the lending history of the books on her computer. One of the techniques Cassy had developed was to recreate the event in her mind if she wanted to remember all the details. She played out the small scenario and once more she saw the screen and every part of the information on it. The very last person to check them out was a Mrs. Bridget Bradley. Not some kid, as Swaile had put it.

  This was a dead end, Cassy could sense it already.

  “I’m sorry, Max,” she said tugging on the author’s sleeve. “I’m sorry I got you out all this way for nothing.”

  “Not at all, Cassandra. What old man would turn down the opportunity to take a walk with an attractive young woman, and if that walk culminates with a little verbal sparring with an old friend, then all the better.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder to Swaile to whom he had turned his back, all part of an elaborate game of one-up-manship she didn’t quite understand the rules to.