A Conventional Murder Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Quote from Michel de Montaigne

  Map of Emerson Falls

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

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  A CONVENTIONAL MURDER

  Pam Stucky

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 Pam Stucky

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For information and permission requests, contact www.pamstucky.com.

  Published in the United States by Wishing Rock Press.

  Cover artwork by Madison Erin Mayfield

  Cover design by Pam Stucky

  ISBN (print): 978-1-940800-20-2

  ISBN (ebook): 978-1-940800-21-9

  www.wishingrockpress.com

  for Dori,

  who explained to me how coffee works

  and for Mike,

  who made us dinner

  “If I were a writer of books, I would compile a register, with a comment, of the various deaths of men: he who should teach men to die would at the same time teach them to live.”

  — Michel de Montaigne, 1533–1592

  Map of Emerson Falls

  (subject to reconstruction)

  CHAPTER ONE

  IN SOME PLACES, the drop-off at the edge of the curvy, winding highway was alarmingly steep as it traversed through the mountains of the North Cascades. A driver who looked away for just a second—to gasp at a waterfall, to fill her eyes with the splendor of the mountain peaks, to admire an eagle soaring through the valley—could easily drive off the side, careening down the jagged cliffs to certain death in the valley far below.

  Megan Montaigne was delighted, therefore, not to be driving for once. The Skagit River Tourism Office was sponsoring a tourism convention in Megan’s town of Emerald Falls, in the northern part of Washington state. As Library Director, she had the enviable perk of living on the top floor of the mansion-turned-library that sat on the edge of the river in the tiny town. Since the main events of the convention were being held in the basement of the library, she had been invited to come along on any excursions she thought sounded interesting. Keynote speakers had already arrived, and attendees were due to start straggling in on this day. In the morning while everyone else arrived, all the keynote speakers and organizers and other prime attendees had been invited to enjoy a scenic drive out Highway 20, the North Cascades highway. Megan had jumped at the opportunity. This area was billed as the American Alps, and she never lost her love for its magnificence. Her eyes could happily drink in the beauty of the Skagit River, the mountains, the forests, all of it, all day long.

  “Skagit, rhymes with gadget,” she muttered absentmindedly, half to herself, but the woman in the seat in front of her overheard.

  “What’s that?” said Ginny Mills, craning her neck backwards rather than turning fully in her seat. Ginny, a representative from the tourism office, had organized the convention and was leading this excursion.

  Megan laughed at herself. “I said ‘Skagit, rhymes with gadget.’ Sorry, I didn’t realize I’d said it out loud. I’ve always thought the tourism people—your people—should adopt that as a slogan.” She smiled.

  Ginny’s smile was bright but forced. “Catchy,” she said indulgently, and then she returned to studying her notes. While she appeared polished in her tailored, cropped pink jacket, her crisp white top, her black-and-white checkered pencil skirt, her blonde hair pulled back at the nape of her neck, nonetheless Ginny somehow seemed flustered, distracted. The way she kept flipping through her notes, maybe, or the confused look on her face, like she was trying to figure out if she’d left her oven on, and, if she had, what the odds were that her house was currently on fire.

  For a moment, Megan thought about trying to engage her in friendly conversation, but she decided against it. Megan played hostess all the time back at the library. Here, today, she could just be a tourist.

  In her mind, Megan ticked off the upcoming landmarks. Every curve in the road, every breathtaking vista revealed by a new turn, was familiar. She loved this drive. They were already past Newhalem, a tiny company town owned by Seattle City Light, with its minuscule Main Street, smaller than a postage stamp, its famous fudge at the general store, its easy trails and nearby forest edging the Skagit River. They’d passed the Gorge Powerhouse with its suspension bridge that always bounced a bit more than Megan liked, but the bouncing was worth it as it led to one of Megan’s favorite trails up to Ladder Creek Falls. Without looking, Megan knew they were out of cell phone range.

  The landscape whipped by in a tapestry of greens, browns, grays, and blues, weaving together into what Megan thought felt like peace. The travel writers and travel bloggers attending the convention had lucked out: by pure happenstance, Highway 20 was re-opening this morning after its long winter sleep. From sometime in November to sometime in May or June each year, the road was closed for about forty miles due to snow. The opening date varied every year based on snowmelt and how quickly the hardworking crews could clear the route. With the excitement of the road opening, many cars had joined their tour bus this morning, a caravan of people excited to celebrate the renewed connection of west side to east side. And in a few weeks, once school was out, the road would be buzzing with hikers, campers, vacationers, sightseers. But most of the year, this stretch of the road was often empty. Megan loved driving out this way, and feeling like the world was hers alone.

  In the seat in front of Megan, Ginny rustled in her seat and craned her head to see out the front window of the bus, then checked her watch. She stood and turned to address the passengers, holding the seat back to keep herself steady, waiting only a moment for everyone to turn their attention to her before speaking. “We’re just coming up on our stop,” she said. “We’ll get out and celebrate the opening, which happens at ten. It’s just after nine forty-five now so we’ll be cutting it close, but the ceremony won’t start until ten,” she repeated. “A little background for you, the North Cascades National Park, which we’re driving through now, was actually created due to efforts from environmentalists in response to the construction of the highway. The highway itself was opened on September 2, 1972. A strange bit of trivia is that the infamous serial killer Ted Bundy actually drove the governor’s car across the pass that opening day, making him the first person to cross the North Cascades Highway!” She paused to let her audience gasp and murmur, and seemed pleased with their response. “We’ll stick around until about ten-thirty, so please be back in the bus promptly.” She sat down again and returned to her notes.

  Megan rolled her eyes. She reached for a box in the seat next to her that she’d been guarding carefully. For forty years, a local woman had brought cinn
amon rolls to the opening of the highway, but she had recently died and the community felt the loss. Rae Norris, the owner and master chef at Rae’s Pub in Emerson Falls, had given Megan a batch of sticky buns to take along for the workers. “I don’t want to compete with those cinnamon rolls,” she’d said, “but I want them to have something.” Megan carefully lifted the box of precious sugary cargo as the bus rolled to a stop and parked. She’d have to get them to the crews quickly before anyone else tried to abscond with them. Rae had been very adamant that the buns should first fill the bellies of the hardworking crews who had been clearing snow off the road for weeks, and who dealt all year long with snow slides and rock slides all along the highway. Ever the entrepreneur, Rae had been sure to put the buns in a box with the Pub’s logo on it. She needn’t have. The crews would know where they came from. Rae herself was a local treasure, and likely this afternoon half the crews would make their way to her establishment.

  Megan let the convention attendees get off the bus before standing. She carefully juggled the box of buns, trying to find the best way to carry the unwieldy package while descending the steps.

  “Need a hand with that?” said a smiling young man, reaching up for the box from the bottom of the stairs before Megan could answer. He waited for her to step to solid ground before handing the box back. “I’m Devin, Devin Graves,” he said, awkwardly holding out his hand before realizing Megan couldn’t shake it.

  She nodded and smiled in response. “Nice to meet you,” she said. “Megan.”

  “You’re a travel writer?” said Devin, walking alongside her as she headed to a table the crews had set up for refreshments. “Can I carry that for you? It looks a bit unbalanced.”

  “Sure, thank you,” said Megan, handing the box back to the young man. “Just for the table over there.” She pointed. “No, I’m the Library Director back at Emerson Falls,” she continued. “Most of the convention will be held in our basement, so they invited me along.”

  “Ah, that explains it,” said Devin. “You already know your way around.”

  “Explains what?” said Megan, curious what her persona had somehow revealed.

  “When Ginny was talking about the opening. You rolled your eyes something fierce,” he said, his tone of voice leaving a question mark.

  Megan grinned. “Yeah, that. The whole Ted Bundy thing. Totally not true. Just a salacious bit of trivia, probably created by Bundy himself. According to Dan Evans, the governor whose car Bundy was supposedly driving, it never happened. But people love a good serial killer story.”

  “Ah, dang,” said Devin. “I was already writing that into my story.”

  “That’s why it gets repeated, probably,” Megan said. “People want to believe. Anyway, no, I’m not a travel writer. But you are?”

  “Yup,” he said. “United States. Lots of these people like to specialize in Europe or Australia or Iceland or anywhere they think is exotic, but they don’t know what they’re missing. I’m telling you, the best stuff is here at home. Here in the American Alps,” he said, spreading his arms wide to embrace the landscape, glistening in the sun. “How much of America doesn’t know this is here because they think Alps means Switzerland or Italy or the Sound of Music? But our country, I’m telling you, there’s a treasure around every turn. This place here, for example, is amazing. I could spend every day of my life discovering something new about the United States. Meeting new people, seeing new places, it’s incredible. Click those ruby heels together, Dorothy, because there is no place like home.”

  Megan thought about this. She’d been on trips across the country, but she had to admit it was usually with a destination in mind rather than the journey. “I like that,” she said. “I haven’t done enough traveling through the States. I’ll have to check out your books.”

  “Do you have to check them out?” said Devin. “I mean, as Library Director. You can’t just take them home and bring them back when you’re done?”

  Megan laughed. “Got me. Well, technically, I suppose I could. Especially since the apartment I live in is right over the library. But just for the sake of the system, I do actually check the books out.”

  A rustle of activity alerted them that something was about to happen, and they turned to watch as a speech was made and a ribbon was cut and the road was declared open for the summer. Everyone cheered, and some cars continued on down the road toward the town of Winthrop on the other side.

  “I’m going to look around,” said Devin to Megan, excusing himself. “I will see you back on the bus.” He held her eyes for a moment with his own: this was a promise.

  Megan nodded and watched him go. Most of the writers here seemed to be young, in their mid-twenties maybe, but his age was hard to guess. Late twenties, maybe? His tight curly hair was cut short and his body was long and lean; his clothes were fashionable in a manly way. He wore a black denim jacket over a white t-shirt and black jeans, with rugged dark brown leather boots that made him look ready for a hike. “Devin Graves,” she repeated to herself. She hadn’t asked whether he wrote books, blogs, articles, or something else. She tapped a note into her phone so she would remember to look him up.

  “Hi!” A cheery voice greeted Megan just as she was saving the note.

  Megan looked up to see a woman before her. Young again, mid-twenties. Curly red hair and the associated pale skin. In her red figure-hugging dress and high-heeled boots, this woman was less dressed for the occasion than Devin had been.

  “Hi,” said Megan, trying not to look like she was judging. But the woman beat her to it.

  “I don’t know what I was thinking,” the woman said. “Should have known to dress for the outdoors. I guess I was distracted. I’m Kendall,” she said, holding out her hand. “Kendall Perkins. Travel writer. You’re Megan Montaigne, the Library Director.”

  Megan blinked. “Oh! Kendall Perkins! I’m so sorry. You caught me off guard. I assumed I’d meet you back at the library. You’re my guest, right? You’re staying with me upstairs at the library in the apartments?”

  Kendall smiled, thrilled to be recognized. “Yes! I’m one of the keynote speakers. I’m so sorry, I got into Seattle late last night and stayed at the airport hotel. I got to Emerson Falls just this morning and hopped straight onto the bus without checking in with you. My fault. I was running soooo late. Everything gets crazy, right?” She ran her fingers through her curls absentmindedly.

  Kendall paused long enough that Megan realized it was not a rhetorical question. “It absolutely does get crazy. No worries at all.” She wracked her brain quickly to remember details of this woman’s life. “You have a new book coming out, right?”

  “Yes! My book on New Zealand. I’m soooo excited. It’s my first big book. I’ve just been doing my blog up until now but finally I got a Big Break.” Her emphasis on Big Break capitalized the words, and she wiggled her eyebrows at the idea.

  “Congratulations,” said Megan. “That must be so exciting. Be sure to let me know when it’s out and I’ll get it for the library.”

  Kendall giggled with delight and clapped her hands. “Amazing. I have copies with me for the book signing! I’ll give you as many as you need. People from small towns always like to read about exotic foreign places.”

  A weak whistle, more air than noise, tried to cut through the noise of the crowd. Megan followed the sound and saw Ginny, lips pursed, attempting to draw attention with the windy sound. Megan checked the time on her phone: 10:25.

  “Looks like we need to be getting back on the bus,” Megan said.

  “Yeah,” said Kendall. “She doesn’t seem to be the kind who messes around.”

  “Go on over. I’ll be right there,” said Megan. “Nice to meet you. When we get off the bus back at Emerson Falls come find me and I’ll get you all set up. I need to say goodbye to the WSDOT peeps first.” She nodded and headed back to where the crew was quickly devouring Rae’s sticky buns.

  “Megan!” said one of the crew workers. He tipped his constructi
on hat. “Tell Rae thank you!”

  “Come by and tell her yourself, Gary!” Megan said, smiling. “Shall I take the empty box away?”

  “Nah, don’t worry,” said Gary. “We gotta clean up everything anyway. See you soon.”

  Megan waved at the others on the crew. “Thanks, everyone!” she said. She turned and saw Ginny, getting red in the face from trying to whistle. “I’d better go before she hyperventilates!” She ran back to the bus and climbed aboard.

  Very soon after, they were headed back along the highway, this time going west. Once they were in spitting distance again of the little town of Newhalem, Megan felt her phone in her pocket buzz and heard the muted ding of incoming messages that had backed up while they’d been out of service. A flurry of movement fanned out through the bus as others’ service returned and their own neglected messages reached their intended recipients, and everyone started reaching for their phones.

  Megan knew she should practice mindfulness, wait until she was home before checking, but the siren call of the red notification dot was irresistible. Who had missed her while she was gone? What had gone on in her absence? There were seven messages from Lily Bell, her best friend and proprietor of a Bed & Breakfast in Emerson Falls, and one from Deputy Max Coleman, the cute police officer whose smile glistened so bright Megan thought it could light a person’s way through a moonless night.

  With a mental wink and apology to Lily, Megan opened Max’s message first.

  Please keep everyone at the library when you get back, the text read. I will come by when I can and set up there.

  “That’s enigmatic, Mr. Deputy Coleman,” Megan muttered, frowning. She heard another passenger gasp sharply and looked up to see a bus full of people reading their phones with looks of horror on their faces. Another person cried out “Oh my gosh!” and the noise level of the bus ratcheted up as passengers turned to each other in shock. “Did you hear?” “It can’t be!”