A Conventional Murder Read online

  “You’re dying to say, ‘Get it? Sidekick? Get a kick out of that?’ aren’t you?” Max said, shaking his head.

  “You know me so well. That’s why we should be partners. We finish each other’s—” Megan paused.

  Max stared at her.

  “Anyway,” said Megan. “We can work on that part. But what do you say, pal? Team? Team Max and Megan? Team M&M? Team Coleman and Montaigne? Team Colmontaigne?”

  Max continued to stare at her.

  “We will think on that, too,” said Megan. “It’s a work in progress.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Max, leaning against his car and crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I have a secret that no one knows. Never told a soul. If you can figure out what it is, you can be on my team.”

  Megan’s jaw dropped with astonished joy. “Really? You’re serious?”

  “Serious,” said Max. “Figure it out, and let me know, and you’re in.”

  “Chief, I am on it,” said Megan.

  “Deputy,” said Max.

  “Chief to me,” said Megan. “I can see the future. I’m that good. You’ll see! I’m on it! Starting tonight at the opening reception. I am going to get these canaries to sing.”

  “Reception tonight?” Max said, uncrossing his arms.

  “Yeah,” said Megan. “Opening reception for the conference. Starts at six. You should come. We can create a secret sign language code so we can communicate across the room.” Megan waggled her eyebrows again.

  “Or,” said Max, “we can just talk to each other in private.”

  “I guess that’s why people need a sidekick,” Megan said. “Sidekicks are always the fun ones to liven up the fuddy-duddies.”

  Max let out a guffaw and opened the car door. “I will see you at six,” he said, and he drove away.

  “I will take that as a yes,” Megan said to herself, smiling.

  “Megan! Megan!” a woman’s voice called out.

  Megan turned to see the woman approaching her with an unsteady grin. “Kendall!” Megan returned. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to forget you.”

  “No problem,” said Kendall, without really trying to mask the fact that it had, in fact, been a problem. Her earlier friendliness was gone. “I know it’s been a crazy day. I do need to get settled though, so I can get ready for tonight.” Her smile lacked enthusiasm.

  “Of course,” said Megan. “Where are you parked?”

  Kendall pointed to a sporty red car near the front of the building.

  “Okay. Drive around back,” Megan pointed to the road that led to the other side of the building, “Just on the other side you’ll see a small lot for residents, and an entrance. Park there, and I’ll meet you at the entrance to show you upstairs.”

  As the travel writer walked away, Megan wondered if she wore heels when she was traveling, too. Maybe? It seemed so impractical. Had she been trying to impress someone, and if so, who?

  Megan trotted into the building and headed to the back entrance. The grand staircase that led up to the apartments upstairs was much more interesting, but sending Kendall to the back entrance was more practical. By the time Megan reached the back door, Kendall was just pulling up in her car. Megan held the door and wondered whether she should offer to help Kendall with her multiple pink suitcases. Again she was surprised. Did Kendall pack this much when she went to New Zealand, or Europe, or anywhere? Then again, sometimes packing for a short trip with multiple events took more luggage space than a long trip where you didn’t have to attend receptions, give speeches, and look your best while introducing your new book.

  “I guess I’ll come back and get the rest,” Kendall said with a glance at Megan.

  Megan’s tired, thoughtless, fed-up side almost won out, but the words slipped out of her mouth: “Oh, no, don’t worry. I can help.” She sighed internally and went to get the remaining bags.

  After showing Kendall the key codes, Megan took her up in the small elevator that emptied out directly by the apartments. “This way,” Megan said, leading Kendall down the hall to one of the rooms. “Oh, wait, I don’t have the key.” She raced to her own apartment, rummaged through a drawer to find the key, and came back. “Okay, here you go. All yours,” she said, unlocking the door to Kendall’s suite and holding the door for her.

  “Oh, it’s so nice,” Kendall said, taking in the spacious room. She paused a moment. “Is it okay if I bring guests up?”

  “Um, of course,” said Megan. Her mind raced to the motley crew she’d seen that day. Most of them looked responsible enough, she thought. Surely there wouldn’t be any drunken parties. If there were, she decided, she’d foot Ginny with the bill. “My apartment is just down there if you need anything.” She pointed back in the direction they’d come from.

  “Great, thanks!” Kendall said. She shut the door behind her and Megan returned to her apartment.

  Megan checked her phone for the time. The party wouldn’t be for several hours yet. Max’s challenge to her, to find out his secret, surfaced in her mind.

  Picking up a notebook and pen, she turned on her computer. “Time to get out my detective kit,” Megan said to herself.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MEGAN POKED AROUND on the internet for a while, trying to chase down something wanton or at the very least indecorous in Max’s history. Nothing. Nothing at first glance, anyway. She decided to take a break before getting ready for the evening’s event, and headed to the kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee.

  “Never too late for a hit of caffeine,” she said, looking at her watch. Megan had a habit of speaking to herself when she was alone, and often she didn’t even realize she’d spoken out loud. Her eyes scanned past the bottle of red wine on the counter, opened only a couple of days ago. “Later,” she whispered to the bottle, lovingly. “Later we will be together again.” She pulled out her AeroPress and sent up a prayer of thanks to the coffee gods for the blessing of brewed beans.

  With the coffee warming her hands in her favorite buttercup yellow cup, Megan stepped out onto one of her balconies that looked out over the river. She took a moment to savor the view, then snuggled into her chair and pulled a blanket over her, even though she wasn’t cold. The river rushed by, billions of tiny droplets teaming together to make a tumult of sound. Megan had been trying to meditate more often lately, to focus her mind. As she meditated, she would think of this river that passed below her home, think of it catching each unbidden thought like a leaf or a twig, carrying it away …

  “Or like a body,” she said out loud. She shuddered. What if the body had floated down the river? What if the river had brought the body of Patrick Bates this far? What if she’d looked out one morning with her cup of coffee and her serenity and her mindfulness, and had seen a bloated carcass floating by, battering itself against rocks, bits of the body ripping off as it raced downstream …

  She stopped that image in its tracks. “Let the river carry those thoughts away, too, please,” she said.

  With a deep breath, she turned her mind back to Max.

  “Maybe it’s not lurid. Maybe it’s just something embarrassing,” she said to the river. “An unsightly mole.” Her thoughts drifted to where on his body the fit and athletic police officer might have a mole. She shook her head to clear her mind.

  “Hmmm,” she said. “Probably not a mole.”

  As she sipped the cup of bliss, Megan let herself relax into the afternoon. She breathed deeply, watching the clouds form and dissipate in the bright sky. The forecast for the weekend called for wet weather, but wet weather in these parts could mean any of many things. Living in the Pacific Northwest, a person had to be attuned to the subtle difference between “rain” and “showers,” for example. “Rain” would mean something more widespread—most areas would get hit—and was usually a prolonged, steady event. “Showers” would be more localized, scattered throughout the region, and would likely come and go in bursts. And then there was drizzle, or perhaps there could be mist, or a region could have a just generally overcast gray day. And, of course, the whole forecast could be turned upside down and the blue sky could come out, gloriously, unexpectedly, bringing locals out in droves to soak up the sunshine, defiantly wearing shorts in sixty-degree weather because if the sun was out, so must the shorts be.

  The thought of shorts made Megan realize it was time to get dressed for the evening. She put her empty mug in the dishwasher and headed to her bedroom.

  “Maybe it’s tuba-related,” she mused, as she flipped through outfits in her closet trying to find the right thing to wear to the opening reception. Surely if Max had tuba-related history he would keep it secret. “Maybe he has a child!” she gasped, as she pulled out a soft pink cowl-necked sweater and a pleated white skirt. Standing at her full-length mirror, she held the outfit in front of her. “That’ll do,” she said, and she got dressed with visions of Max’s secrets still swirling in her head.

  When Megan walked into the lobby area of the main conference room, Owen was there setting up an easel next to a small table. Megan smiled at his hair, which always made her think of the Heat Miser from her favorite Christmas show. Thick, wild, untamable no matter how hard Owen tried. How could she not love someone with Heat Miser hair?

  “What’s that for?” Megan asked, her eyes moving from the easel to the large and very conspicuous WELCOME sign the tourism office had already set up.

  Owen was about to answer when a woman walked in carrying in one arm a giant photo, mounted on foam core, of a smiling young man, and in the other arm a wreath of rather cheap-looking flowers. Beneath razor-sharp bangs of chestnut red hair, her eyes were red, her skin splotchy, her face puffy. Owen nodded his head ever so slightly in the woman’s direction.

  Megan thought she had seen the woman t
hat morning on the bus, but she wasn’t sure. If she’d been on the tour, she’d changed clothes. Megan was sure she would have remembered a dress that short. “Can I help?” she said, moving to rescue the poster from the woman’s hands.

  “Thank you,” said the woman. “I’m just a mess. I had to do something. Patrick was—” she clamped her mouth shut to suppress a sob.

  “This is Patrick Bates?” Megan said softly, propping the poster up onto the easel. “You knew him?”

  The woman nodded. “He was the next Rick Steves, you know. Everyone said so. I just saw him last night, and …” she shook her head and clamped her mouth shut again.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m Megan Montaigne. Library Director.” She held out her hand.

  The woman hooked the flower wreath around the corner of the poster, then, realizing the poster might not hold the weight, put the wreath on the floor at the foot of the easel instead. “Isabelle,” said the woman, shaking Megan’s hand. She then pulled Megan in for an uninvited hug. Over Isabelle’s shoulder, Megan looked at Owen with wide eyes of disbelief. Nonetheless, she put her arms around the woman and offered comfort as best she could.

  Isabelle heaved dramatic sobs for a while, and then finally took in big gulps of air and stepped back. “I’m so sorry. We really clicked last night. I thought … I know it’s silly. I thought I’d finally met The One. You know. They say when you meet him you know. Right? Honestly, I knew before I even met him. I’d met him before last night, but never, you know, never spent so much time with him. But I knew. The way he wrote, it was like he was writing to me. Like he already knew me and loved me, too. And then last night, I don’t want to be indiscreet, but it was passionate. I knew it was forever. But now …” Isabelle sobbed again, and raced off toward the ladies’ room.

  Owen nodded. “So, that’s what the easel is for.”

  Checking first that no one could see her, Megan let her jaw drop open. “Holy cow,” she said. “That is … one passionate woman.” She looked through the open door at the small crowd that was sure to grow quickly. “Are they all like that?”

  “Not so far,” Owen winked, “but the night is still young.” With a nod to the easel and a nod to Megan, Owen headed off to organize what needed organizing next. He was a good employee, Megan thought. Reliable, dependable, organized, unflappable. This tourism conference was his first big event. So far, so good.

  “Heyyyy!” A woman’s voice called out.

  Megan turned, smiling. “Lily Bell!” she said. She loved saying Lily’s full name. It made her happy, almost as happy as spending time with her best friend did.

  “Megan Montaigne!” Lily said, arms wide for a quick hug. “I’m so excited for this!” She rearranged her face into a more serious expression. “I mean, aside from the death, obviously. But I’m excited to talk to people about writing. I want to write that book, you know, about the history of Emerson Falls.”

  “I know!” said Megan. “I can’t wait to read it! Have you started?”

  “I’ve started outlining. And researching. You’ll be seeing a lot more of me in the library as I dig in!”

  “That,” said Megan, “is always welcome.”

  “So who all is here?” Lily said. “To be honest I’d been looking forward to meeting Patrick Bates. I’m sad I won’t have a chance to. I’m sad he’s dead, obviously. But also sad I won’t have a chance to meet him.” As she spoke they walked to the main conference room, which was quickly filling with travel writers and bloggers, local representatives, people from the tourism office, and an assortment of interested bystanders. Not sure how many people to expect, they’d decided to leave the reception open to all.

  “Some woman was telling me he was going to be the next Rick Steves,” Megan offered.

  Lily nodded. “For sure he could have been. Have you watched his videos? They’re all online. You should check them out.”

  “I will,” Megan said. “As part of my investigation.” She waggled her eyebrows.

  “Megan!” said Lily. “Are you going to Nancy Drew this one too?” She laughed. “You be careful, whatever you do!”

  “I am indeed going to Nancy Drew this one. Or Miss Marple it. I need to come up with a plan of action. Finding out more about who Patrick Bates was is definitely a part of that.”

  “Figure out who amongst this group knew him, and what they were doing at the time of death. Speaking of which, do we know time of death yet?” Lily asked.

  Megan looked toward the door and saw Max standing there in his crisp brown Deputy uniform and yet looking like a fairy tale prince, assessing the scene. “I don’t know,” Megan said, “but I am going to find out.”

  Lily followed Megan’s line of sight and saw the police officer standing near the entrance to the lobby. She put a hand on Megan’s shoulder. “Go do your thing,” she said. “I’m going to mingle. I’ll check back with you later.”

  Megan moseyed casually over to Max. “Hey, Chief,” she said.

  “Deputy,” he laughed.

  “Yup. Whatever. So what have we learned?” she asked. “What time do they think Patrick was killed?”

  Max raised an eyebrow.

  “You can tell me that, surely,” Megan said. “Or, let’s say I’m a suspect. What time frame do you want my alibi for?”

  Max laughed. “You are incorrigible,” he said.

  “I persist,” Megan said. “The difference between not getting what you want, and getting what you want, is perseverance.” She tilted her head to let him know she was still waiting on an answer to her original question.

  “Well,” said Max. “Let me ask you this. Where were you between five and eight this morning?”

  “Hmmm,” said Megan. “At home. Sleeping until six-thirty. Got up, had coffee on the balcony. Showered, got ready to head out to the highway opening. Checked the library and called Owen to make sure he had everything he needed for tonight. Went back upstairs. Read a bit on the balcony. That takes me to nine-thirty, when I headed out to meet the bus.”

  “Can anyone confirm any of that?” Max asked.

  Megan knew she wasn’t an actual suspect—of course Max had to consider everyone but she knew he had no reason to think she could be guilty. But she was interested in the process and she played her part. “Well, Owen could confirm that I called him. That’s about it. Other than that, I’m alibi-free. Do I need to go in for questioning?”

  Max shook his head. “Not quite yet, miss.”

  “So sometime between five and eight, then?” Megan said. “Sunrise was, what, a little after five? So the sun was probably up. What would he have been doing out at Addie’s park? Maybe out for a run? Checking out the local flavor?”

  This time, Max took her efforts seriously. “We’re working on that. He was staying at the hotel down the road. Stayed there last night. A few other guests had arrived already, but it could have been someone who arrived this morning, too,” he said.

  “That woman I just met,” Megan said, suddenly remembering the very distraught woman who had been carrying the foam core poster and wreath. “She said she was with him last night.” Megan scanned the crowd. “There she is,” Megan said, trying to point discreetly. “Reddish brown hair, straight bangs, ridiculously short white dress.”

  “Is that a dress or a shirt?” Max said, his eyebrows raised. “Kids today. What’s her name?”

  “Isabelle,” Megan said. “I don’t know a last name.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “I’d say more like groupie. My guess is they hooked up last night.” She sighed. “I really need to figure out more about what kind of person Patrick was. Were there any drugs in his system? Maybe she drugged him in order to, you know, get some nookie on. And then he went on a run this morning and he still had the drugs in him and … uh …”

  “Get some nookie on?” Max guffawed.

  “I’m just trying to be delicate,” Megan said. “Don’t want to embarrass you by using technical terms.”

  “I think maybe your theory needs further development,” Max said. “But, of course you’re right, spurned lovers are always a good place to start. I’ll go talk to her.”

  “Be careful,” Megan said.