Final Chapter: A Megan Montaigne Mystery (Megan Montaigne Mysteries) Page 4

  As she tilted the bottle of wine to her lips, Megan guessed that Emlyn would not approve. Surely only west coast cretins drank directly from the bottle. This idea made the wine taste all the better, Megan thought with a smile. She took a swig and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  A few bright stars were just starting to make their appearance in the sky. Probably planets, thought Megan, wondering idly where Venus might be at the moment. Maybe, she thought, maybe with this halcyon location and this expansive view of the sky, the library should invest in telescopes. Night sky parties. Local astronomers mingling with romantic starry-eyed stargazers. Of course the library wouldn’t have funding for it, but maybe Edison …

  Edison’s comment suddenly sprang to her mind. If the walls of the mansion could talk … what had he meant by that? It didn’t matter. It was her turn, now, to build a life here. Strange, she thought, how many lives might be built on the same space, over the course of time. And how many might be torn apart.

  FOUR

  “Good morning, bedroom,” Megan said groggily as she opened her eyes and stretched. The morning was gray and cold. Having no neighbors who could peek into her room from the other side of the river, she’d taken to what felt like an exquisite luxury: sleeping with the curtains open. The windows were enormous, and it felt a bit like sleeping outside—without the bugs. When the moon was in the right position, Megan could watch it rise up over the treetops in its bright, looming silence. Its presence was mesmerizing; gazing on it felt like having a conversation in a language she couldn’t quite understand. Like it had something to tell her, but it was expecting her to figure it out for herself.

  Leaving the curtains open also meant the daylight acted as a natural alarm clock, whether she’d wanted one or not. It was just after six. Megan would have happily slept longer, but her brain said the sun was up and it was time to be awake.

  “Fine,” she said to the room. “I’ll get up.”

  Despite the physical magnificence of the library, the county, which ran the library, did not have the funds to keep it open nine to five every day of the week. The best they could manage was weekday afternoons, extended to eight in the evening on Wednesdays. This meant Megan had her mornings free. Still, feeling indebted to the library foundation that allowed her to live rent-free in these quarters, she tried to spend some time each morning working to improve the library as she could. After a leisurely breakfast, she got dressed and headed to the public part of the building to assess where she would focus her energy for the day.

  Though many changes had been made to the building to convert it into a library, it wasn’t hard to see the original home underneath. Some people thought of Edison’s donation as an example of exemplary charity. Others were certain it was nothing more than a tax write-off. Many thought Edison had given it away purely to spite his now ex-wife, who, rumor had it, loved the place more than she had ever loved Edison. Megan was undecided, though. And, really, it didn’t matter. The building was now home.

  The great room of the main floor now housed the library. What was once a large bedroom was now the library’s back rooms and offices. The kitchen and dining room had been converted into a large staff area and lunchroom. On the opposite side of the main floor lay an extravagant four-car garage, which, at some point, given the right incentive and funding, might be converted into a small village theater.

  The lower level had no windows at the front of the house, where the walls met up with rock, but the back side of the building opened up to a grand view of the river. This level had been converted into large spaces that could be rented at modest prices for meetings, conventions, parties, receptions, lectures, and the like. A man named Owen Scott managed the rentals from an office on the lower level that had once been a downstairs kitchen.

  And the upstairs, of course, was the best part. The upstairs was now Megan's home. The master suite and sitting area, complete with fireplace, as well as the luxurious bathroom with a two-person bathtub and two-person shower, had remained as built. An extra bedroom suite and upstairs laundry area had been converted into a kitchen, living room, and dining room, and the vast walk-in closet had become a small office. The balconies that Megan treasured had also been part of the original design.

  A bridge between the master suite on Megan's side, above the library offices, and more bedrooms on the other side allowed each to be locked off as separate apartments. The bedrooms on the other side had been adapted slightly to add tiny kitchenettes, with microwaves and mini-refrigerators, but any guests would also be welcome to use the full kitchen area in the staff lounge downstairs. Megan could house her own visitors in the spare suites, or visiting authors or other library guests could be put up there, as well. This is where Romy had stayed, and Megan was hoping Romy would be the first of many exciting guests. Megan's mind was already filled with extravagant visions of famous authors coming to share intimate insights into their lives and work; to offer deep discussions of their writing processes and inspirations. Maybe J.K. Rowling would even come, she thought, and maybe J.K. Rowling would sleep in the bedroom down the hall from Megan's own apartment. And maybe, just maybe, they would become best friends, texting each other all day long with tidbits of gossip about the literary world. Not likely, but maybe. Everything was possible.

  When the home had been converted, an exterior entrance had been added around the back to get residents to their upstairs rooms without having to go through the library. However, the grand staircase that led from the main floor to the second floor was so grand that everyone had agreed it must stay. It was one of Megan's favorite features, and she now walked down these stairs to the library, her hand caressing the finely sanded yet rustic railing. The main floor had been designed with luxurious fourteen-foot ceilings, giving significant extra height to the staircase. Walking down these stairs always made Megan feel like she was descending into the middle of an exciting adventure. When she wanted to go outside and down to the river, as she did now, it was easier and quicker to use the living quarters entrance. But the allure of the staircase was too great. Megan floated down to the main floor, then headed out the back door.

  Morning dew still clung to the grass, so Megan kept to the gravel path that led from the library down to the riverside reading area. She sat at her favorite of the benches and watched the river flow by.

  “Susurration,” she whispered, remembering Romy’s description. She smiled. A new friend, maybe? Not J.K. Rowling, but perhaps just as good. Megan was hesitant to assume that an author as famous as Romy would consider her a friend. Still, they’d gotten on well. Maybe later in the week, Megan thought, she’d give Romy a call, see if she wanted to go out for drinks. With her and Lily, maybe. Who, after all, would turn down the chance of a new friend?

  The library sat on a vast expanse of a slower part of the river, but even so, due to recent rains, the water was raging. A large boulder slightly upstream of the seating area broke the surface of the water, even when the river ran as high as it was now. The water swirled and eddied around the boulder, racing around the rock to unite again downstream. Twigs floating downstream had a choice to make: left or right? Most broke around to the left, but on occasion a rogue leaf might break to the right. Megan imagined she could watch the drama of nature for hours. She’d brought a book with her, but nonetheless found herself looking up from the pages for many long minutes at a time, mesmerized as the water coursed by.

  She was still sitting there almost an hour later, absorbed in meditation on the water’s flow, when she heard someone walking down the path toward her, heels crunching on the gravel. Megan checked her watch: almost nine. Probably time to get on with the day, anyway.

  “Hello,” called out Max. Megan heard his voice and imagined his smile, but when she turned, she found his look to be quite somber.

  “Hey,” said Megan, frowning. She wasn’t used to seeing Max so serious. “What’s up?”

  Max walked over to the bench where she sat. He held out his hand toward the seat.


  “Yes, of course,” said Megan. “Please, have a seat.” This clearly was not a social call. Something was disturbing him. Her heart started beating faster as she thought of all the reasons a policeman might come visit her at nine in the morning. Were her parents okay? Lily Bell? Rae? “What’s up, Max?” she repeated.

  Max leaned forward on the seat, elbows on his knees. He watched the water rush by for a few moments, then shook his head. “I hate this part.” He paused. “It’s Romy. She’s dead.” He turned to Megan. Resolution and duty filled his eyes, but behind that, she could see sorrow.

  “What!” said Megan. This was impossible news. “Are you serious?” When Megan had left the party the previous day, Romy had been surrounded by a field of friends and well-wishers. Deciding not to break into the conversation, Megan had left without saying goodbye to her host and would-be friend. “What happened?” she asked. “I can’t … You’re … Did she …?” Famous people were not above depression, Megan knew. Had Romy’s own life haunted her to the point of despair?

  “We don’t know.” He paused, then looked at Megan, watching her carefully. “Were you here all night?”

  The blood rushed from Megan's face and she broke out into an instant sweat. “You think someone killed her?” Megan said in horror. “You’re kidding. I’m a suspect? Max? No!” Her mind raced as she tried to think who could bear witness to her actions last night, but she’d been here at the river, or inside upstairs, alone, the whole night. She hadn’t talked to Lily, because Lily had been working. She hadn’t gone to Rae’s. She hadn’t gone anywhere. Why hadn’t she gone somewhere? If only—

  “Not really, no,” said Max. “But it would be remiss of me not to ask. You were at the party, right?”

  Megan nodded, willing her heartbeat to return to normal.

  “Aside from your own …” he paused. “Including your own alibi, I’m wondering if you might have seen anyone, or heard anything, that might be helpful. You don’t have to tell me now. Think about whether anything seemed off, or if anyone was acting strange. Anything at all.”

  “I hardly knew anyone at the party,” Megan said. “But I’ll try. Max, I wasn’t … I didn’t go there planning an alibi. I don’t have an alibi. And … she couldn’t have …” She shook her head. The party had been filled with strangers; filled with people with unknown motives and desires and demons. She doubted anything she could remember would help, but she would try. Her mind was porridge. Suddenly nothing made sense. “Max,” she said, as the officer stood to leave. “How did she die?”

  Max glanced at the river as it raced by on its way toward Puget Sound. “She drowned. Or was drowned. In her pool.” He seemed on the verge of saying more, but he held his tongue. He nodded his thanks, and left.

  The world spun. Everything seemed off. Megan felt she couldn’t believe Max; that suddenly she couldn’t believe anything. Romy, dead? She couldn’t be. She’d been alive just twelve hours before. How could she be dead now? She’d been, what, fifty? Certainly not more than fifty-five. Vibrant, alive, the world her oyster. Everything ahead of her. She’d faced her demons and come out fighting. She’d made her difficult choices. She’d let go of the past. She was on top of the world. Max must be wrong. Romy was not dead.

  Somehow, the landscape around Megan hadn’t changed at all, as if it was completely indifferent to the drama of humanity. She looked up at the treetops but this time her gaze was inward. “Gus,” Megan said out loud, before even thinking the name. “She put that pool in for Gus.” But where was Gus? Surely the ex-husband was always Suspect Number One? Megan paused again, then looked at the river. “Lily,” she said, pulling her phone from her pocket. As she started texting, a text from Lily came in.

  “Did you hear?” Lily’s text read.

  “Max just left!” Megan texted back.

  “I’m swamped,” Lily wrote. “B&B is chaos. Romy’s agent. Fans calling. They’re on their way.”

  “Fans?” wrote Megan. “On their way?”

  “Word spread fast. Coming to mourn and hold a vigil. Needing a place to stay. Will call you later. Meet tonight?” Lily texted.

  “Yes,” wrote Megan. “Talk soon.” She tucked her phone back into her pocket. Who had told the fans already? Must have been someone on Twitter, she decided. News seemed always to break first on Twitter these days.

  * * *

  When the library opened at noon, news of Romy’s death was on everyone’s lips. Megan muddled through her usual work but her mind was back at Romy’s party. The pool. Megan couldn’t stop thinking about the pool. Her brain kept creating a mental image of Romy in the pool, lifeless, face down, her dusty rose skirt floating around her. Patrons who knew that Romy had stayed with Megan a few days asked if she’d heard anything. Megan told them no. It seemed strange that somehow she was expected to have information on this person she barely knew. Stranger still that her emotions were so strong. “It might have been murder,” Megan said to herself. “And even if it wasn’t, that’s still bad. Of course you’re upset.” She shook her head. The day was feeling surreal. It was wrong, Megan thought, to hope that the murder was personal, but the idea of a random killer on the loose in town was too frightening to bear. “We have to figure this out,” Megan said out loud, just as a patron approached her desk.

  “What?” said the man. He was short, maybe mid-forties, balding, with an unusually dramatic mustache. He wore a white t-shirt, charcoal jacket without lapels, a long, thin plaid scarf, and faded jeans. He stared at Megan as though her talking had been a rude interruption. “Is there a problem?” he said.

  “I’m—sorry, I was just talking to myself.” Megan kicked herself internally. Why did women always apologize to strange men? Why did she feel the need to explain and to appease? But she knew the answer: women appeased strange men, because strange men were the kind who would hurt the women who they felt did them wrong. “Can I help you?” It occurred to her that having a way to buzz downstairs to Owen, an alert of some sort, might not be a bad idea. This guy was just a strange man, probably. But with a murderer on the loose …

  “Rosemary Grace Garrison,” said the man.

  Megan blinked. How had he known what she’d been thinking about? No, she thought, of course. Everyone was thinking the same thing. That alone was no cause for alarm. But whatever conversation this man wanted to have, she wasn’t sure she wanted to have it. “Yes?” she said patiently.

  “Is it true?” he asked.

  Internally, Megan sighed heavily. She sometimes hated that part of the job included being polite. What she wanted to say to this man was, “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but a woman has died and it’s none of your business.” Instead, she swallowed her annoyance and smiled. “Is what true, sir?” she asked, knowing full well that this man had an agenda, and men with agendas rarely moved on easily.

  “Is she dead?”

  The harshness of the man’s words hit Megan in the gut, and she found her composure slipping. “I’m sorry, sir. You’ll have to ask the police if you have concerns about Ms. Garrison. I can’t help you.” She turned to her computer and tried to look busy, hoping the man would go away. He did not. She felt the heat rising under her hair at the back of her neck, but she tried to look unruffled.

  “She stole my idea,” the man said angrily. “She deserved whatever she got.” Megan was shocked, but stayed calm. Library work wasn’t what it used to be. In many ways, library work had become social work. People came to the library for help of all kinds. A couple of years before, a nearby library system had held a workshop on how to deal with upset patrons, and Megan had jumped at the chance to attend. Now, she was glad. She dug back in her mind to remember what she’d learned. But the only thing she could remember was: stay calm. “I’m a writer,” the man continued, unprompted. “I met her once and told her I’m a writer, and I told her about the book I was writing. Next thing I knew, her book came out and the plot was exactly the same as what I’d told her. It was my idea.” His voice got
louder with every sentence he spoke.

  Megan's mind raced. Did she know this man? She couldn’t place him, but even in a small town she didn’t know everyone. Plus, there were small towns all around the area. He could be from any one of them. How could he have met Romy? Maybe in Seattle? Had he been at the party? She tried to remember but couldn’t. “That sounds very frustrating. I’m sorry, sir, what’s your name again?” she asked, keeping her voice steady.

  The corner of his lip turned up, but the smile went no further than that. “I didn’t say, Megan,” he said, pointedly reading her nametag. Megan felt at a disadvantage and cringed. “Kirk,” he said finally. “Kirk Foster. It should be my book on these shelves, not hers.” He stared at Megan as though he expected her to have a solution. “She stole my idea,” he said again.

  Without even looking, Megan could feel the eyes of other patrons watching them. There was a subdued quiet to the room, more than usual in the library. People were listening. “I can hear that you’re upset, Mr. Foster. Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do.” She turned to her computer again, thinking right now would be a good time for a refresher course on handling upset patrons. “I can’t help” was undoubtedly the wrong thing to say. Should she recommend a psychiatrist to him? Or would that just make it worse? Probably the latter, she thought.

  “You women,” he said. “Worthless.”

  Worthless? Something in Megan snapped. Romy’s been murdered. Who is this man? What right does he have to come charging here and … She’d only known Romy briefly, but she’d felt connected to her. Sure, maybe that sounded corny, she thought, but who was this man to be so cavalier about everything right after Romy had died? Or, she suddenly thought, did he know something? Did he know more than he was letting on? Didn’t murderers often return to the scene of the crime, eager to see the reaction they’d caused? “Sir,” she said, “I’m so sorry to hear you had a bad experience.” Get as much out of him as you can, she thought. This is the kind of guy who will talk. “When did you meet her? How did she happen to hear about your idea?”