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“Right. I heard you say that last night, and that you and the other members of the Mystery Writers’ Murder Club never call your readers fans. I really liked that when I heard it. It seems much friendlier and like you’re inviting them into your world to solve a mystery with you.”
“But I’m happy to make time to sit down with you. I thought the piece you won the Pulitzer for was inspiring and so frightening.”
“At the time, yes. I was really happy to put that village in my rearview mirror, as they say. How about breakfast in the morning? I can bring my camera and get some pictures to add to the ones I take of you here.” He looked at the line that had formed. “You ladies don’t mind if I get a couple of pictures with you and Lori, do you?”
They didn’t and easily crowded Cobain and the book bunnies away from her. McKay took some pictures and then leaned in, pressing a business card into her hand. “Thank you. What time?”
“No, thank you. I’m sure Cobain meant to treat me to some more of his acerbic, disdainful wit. You don’t need to take me to breakfast.”
“I meant what I said. I’d love to take you to breakfast or for a drink or whatever. All I’ve heard the whole time I’ve been here from authors and readers is how nice Lori is and how she makes time for people. A lot of authors took what you said last night about deepening characters to heart, and you have a big supporter in Millie Smith.”
Lori grinned. “She saved me from Cobain earlier today. I hate to think I look like I need saving from him.”
“Oh, you think we’re saving you? Hardly,” he snorted. “Millie and I think ‘polite’ is your default setting. I’m pretty sure you’d wipe the floor with his cold, dead carcass if you had a mind to. I know you have stuff tomorrow morning. There’s a bistro next door. Is seven too early?”
She shook her head. “No. Seven would be great.”
“Terrific. I’ll look forward to seeing you. I’m going to skedaddle before Cobain tries to take another run at me.”
Lori laughed out loud. “Did you just say ‘skedaddle?’”
“I did. It’s part of my ‘adopt a small coastal village in Maine’ plan. I figure if I drop in a few colloquial phrases here and there, I may be considered a local in twenty or thirty years, despite my being born and raised here.”
“If I decide to move to Maine, I might want a copy of your plan.”
“It’s yours, and you should move here. All kidding aside, it’s a great place to live. Besides, your friends in the Mystery Writers’ Murder Club all live here.” He looked at the line of people waiting. “I’ve kept you long enough. See you in the morning.”
“Looking forward to it.”
He turned away, and she watched him move through the crowd with the kind of predatory grace one saw in panthers. The crowd swallowed him up and Lori turned back to her readers.
As she was winding up for the day, she was pretty pleased with how it had gone. Her table had been busy all day and she only had a single book left out of the more than seventy-five she’d brought with her.
Sighing happily, she broke down her banner and put her table runner and other paraphernalia she’d brought with her away. She shook her head as she realized she had one book and absolutely no swag left. Yep. It had been a good day.
Taking her things back to her room, she opened up her laptop, intending to write. The fact was she’d brought it downstairs to the signing room, thinking she might have some time to make a few notes for the rest of her work in progress. It never happened. She’d never even had a chance to open the case. Feeling a bit restless, she changed out of her professional but approachable author clothes and headed out for a walk along the seawall. She had to admit that this was another thing Maine had over Chicago—she could go for a walk in relative safety.
It was cold but bracing as opposed to freezing. She pulled her knit ski cap down, tucking her sable brown curls up under the hat.
Every teacher she knew in Chicago had begun to ask themselves if answering their calling to teach was worth risking their lives. No longer did a teacher have to just worry about a disgruntled parent or a kid with a pocketknife; now they had to worry about a student with a semiautomatic rifle and a grudge, a death wish, or a desire to be famous.
The death of her aunt and an incident at a nearby school had clarified her desire to explore another passion—writing. She and her aunt had talked extensively about the things her aunt regretted while her aunt was in hospice, waiting for the irreparable injuries to her liver and kidneys to finally claim her. The injuries had been sustained when Viola was hit by a drunk driver. What stuck with Lori as she’d stood at her aunt’s graveside was that her aunt’s deepest regret was that she had not followed her dream to become an author.
Her aunt Viola had had an offer from a major publisher in her hand when her mother had died, and Viola had been called home to care for her younger siblings. Instead of pursuing her dream of becoming an author, she’d done the “right” thing, eventually marrying a man and abandoning her dreams.
The reading of her aunt’s will had been shocking, as it left minimal bequests to her own children. Well—shocking to them, but Lori didn’t blame her Aunt Viola one bit. Lori didn’t much care for her cousins. When her aunt had required hospice care, her children stuck her in the cheapest nursing home they could find and left her there. Lori had found a beautiful facility in the country that had been created and maintained for people at the end of their lives. It was run mostly on bequests left to them. Lori had assumed Viola would do the same.
As her children had squawked and Lori had hidden her smile, the lawyer had raised his hand for silence.
“We need to finish this,” intoned the attorney, “but before I continue, all of you should know that the will is perfectly lawful, and Viola was in full command of her faculties. She left the rest, residue and remainder of her estate to her, and I quote here, ‘beloved niece, Lori Sykes, with the provision that she use it to fund a two-year sabbatical to establish a new career as a successful author.’”
It was hard to tell who was most shocked: Viola’s children, who erupted into threats and accusations, or Lori. She’d thought she was here to pick up a large check to take to the hospice. They’d talked about Lori giving birth to her dreams of becoming an author. They’d even talked about her taking a two-year sabbatical to do just that.
As her cousins stormed out of the attorney’s office, he held her back. “They have no legal grounds on which to challenge your aunt’s will. It’s the only reason they got anything at all. You know she had me liquidate her estate right after you moved her into Return to Eden Hospice in order to ensure she gave you as much money as possible and that there was nothing left for her children to squabble over. I know they’re your cousins…”
“We were never close,” Lori said quietly.
“I can understand why. Viola, who was as much a friend as a client, once referred to them as a ‘detestable lot’ and wondered how they turned out the way they did.”
