“No, we’re totally going to figure out who did it. Like Detective Dragon!”

  “In the first place, you are absolutely not going to figure out who did it because you’re going to stop this immediately. In the second place, do you have any idea how dangerous it might be to investigate a murder while the murderer is still loose?”

  “You do it,” AJ said. “What makes you so special?”

  “I don’t want to do it!”

  “Dash,” Bobby said. “Volume.”

  A few heads had turned. Graeme was glaring at us.

  “Listen, Dash,” Thatcher began in the tone of someone about to explain something totally obvious.

  I fought the urge—suddenly powerful—to tell him to call me Mr. Dane.

  “This is our chance,” Thatcher continued.

  “Your chance?”

  “To have an adventure!” Charlie said.

  “To do something cool to put in a query letter,” AJ said. “Do you know how easy it would be to get an agent if I can say I solved Vivienne Carver’s murder, and that was part of my healing process from my trauma?”

  I bit back a comment about a twenty-year-old’s need to write a memoir.

  “This is a chance to break the bones of life,” Thatcher said in what he probably assumed was his world-weary voice. “And suck out their marrow.”

  I honestly didn’t have anything to say to that, so I spun back around in my seat and faced forward.

  Bobby, who was wise as well as handsome and strong, chose not to say anything.

  I, on the other hand, said in a low voice, “Do I sound like that?”

  “Not at all,” Bobby said.

  “Is this how you feel when I get dragged into these things?”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Like I want to send them to bed without supper. Slash, I want to murder them.”

  Here’s the thing about Bobby: he’s not petty at all. But right then, he had the hugest grin on his face, and he didn’t try to hide it.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  “Did you, like, have any ideas?” Charlie asked. “Of what we could do? To help, I mean.”

  “We’re not helping them,” AJ said. “We’ll figure it out on our own.”

  “Every man must live or die by himself,” Thatcher said.

  That did it. I spun around in my seat again. “You absolutely will not trample all over an ongoing investigation. Do you understand me?” And because I knew, from years of dealing with Keme, how well that command would go down, I decided to add a little manipulation into the mix. “How about this? There’s something you can do that would be a huge help.”

  “What?” Charlie asked.

  “What?” AJ asked in a different tone.

  “I think I could help the most by doing whatever you’re doing,” Thatcher told me.

  I pulled out the conference schedule I’d picked up the day before in my author packet. “What I want you to do is see if you can figure out why Vivienne was at the grotto last night. Like, was there an event, that kind of thing.”

  Charlie nodded eagerly.

  AJ folded her arms and said, “Are you serious?”

  “That’s easy,” Thatcher said. “Just look at the schedule.” Charlie reached for my schedule, but Thatcher snatched it first, scanned it, and said, “Author one-on-ones were at seven.”

  The pizza-protective nerds from the night before had told me the same thing. But I said, “Vivienne was there almost an hour before seven, though. And why would she be having her one-on-ones out at the grotto?”

  Thatcher surrendered the schedule to Charlie, who examined it more carefully.

  Fiddling with one of her ear piercings, AJ said in a tone that conveyed a conviction of my complete incompetence, “Because they can have their one-on-ones wherever they want.”

  “She probably got there early,” Thatcher told me. “Man, I can’t believe you needed us to figure that out for you.”

  “Let it go,” Bobby murmured.

  “But they—”

  “I know. You tried. Let it go.”

  “Don’t talk to anyone,” I said. “Don’t go anywhere alone. And don’t annoy, antagonize, bother, or otherwise make nuisances of yourself, because let me tell you: killers do not like that.”

  Charlie nodded agreement.

  AJ said, “Nobody likes that.”

  Thatcher tugged his beanie down again and said, “Into the abyss.”

  “Excuse me!” The voice behind me had a chirpy insistence that suggested this social interaction was going to happen whether I liked it or not. When I turned around, the florid-faced man who had been so excited about A Work in Progress the evening before was crowding me. Today, he was dressed in a pork pie hat, a pink button-up, and plaid shorts. “I’m so sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but I saw you get on the bus, and I would have killed myself if I didn’t take the chance to say hello.”

  He leaned over me, hands braced on the seats, smiling with one-hundred-percent focus. It sent my social anxiety meter into the red.

  “Uh, hi,” I said.

  Bobby, ever the good boyfriend, stretched past me to hold out his hand. “Bobby Mai.”

  “Spenser. Like the poet.” He shook Bobby’s hand, and for a moment, the smile bent in Bobby’s direction. An instant later, though, it was focused on me again. “This is my lucky day. You don’t know how nervous I was to meet you in person. Thank goodness you’re so easy to talk to.”

  I made a noise in my throat and tried to nod.

  “How do you know each other?” Bobby asked.

  “Spenser—” I began.

  “I’m obsessed with A Work in Progress,” Spenser said. “I’m literally one of those crazy fans.” He laughed, and it had that same forced chirpiness. “God, I wish I could—” He mimed squeezing something between his hands. “—get in that head of yours and see all the amazing ideas you have.”

  Because I was turned toward Spenser, I couldn’t see Bobby, but I felt the change: a stillness that hadn’t been there before.

  “Do you mind?” Spenser asked, and without waiting for a reply, he dropped into the seat across the aisle. “I have so many questions. Will Gower is such an amazing character. How did you come up with him? Who is he based on? He’s so dynamic. God, I love him so much. And the mystery! How did you come up with—” He hesitated, clearly not sure if he was about to spoil the book, and said, “The twist. At the end.”

  “I choked on a piece of Laffy Taffy,” I said.

  Spenser stared at me. And then he let out a manic laugh—threw his head back, kicked his legs out, the whole deal.

  I reached behind me and grabbed Bobby’s knee.

  Fortunately, at that moment, the bus jolted to a stop, and we all swayed in our seats. (Mrs. Nelson wasn’t taking it easy on the brakes, either.)

  “Here we are,” Bobby said. “I’m sorry I’m going to have to steal Dash from you now.”

  “No fair,” Spenser said. “You get him all the time!” He flashed that too-intent grin. “I tried to sign up for a one-on-one with him, but Mr. Author here wasn’t offering any.”

  “I didn’t expect—” I mumbled.

  “And I kept waiting and waiting in case he changed his mind, but he never did.” Spenser’s tone suggested this had been a real failing on my part. “And then they had to give me a one-on-one because I’d paid for it, hadn’t I, and do you know who they stuck me with? Vivienne Carver. God, I almost died. When I think about what she put you through, I want to—” He made that squeezing gesture with his hands again. “And I tried to introduce myself to her, to tell her I was looking forward to seeing her later, and she was so rude. Not like you at all.”

  “I’m sorry that didn’t work out,” I said—which yes, I know, was perhaps the stupidest thing anyone has ever said in their entire life. But by that point, I was having a hard time getting a deep breath, and the bus was closing in around me, and my brain was doing a high-wire act.

  “Go ahead,” Bobby said to Spenser. “You first.”

  Cutting his eyes in a way that was strangely conspiratorial—like we were both annoyed with Bobby for meddling—Spenser heaved himself to his feet, said, “See you soon! I can’t wait to talk about book two,” and made his way off the bus.

  Charlie immediately poked their head into the aisle. “Did you hear him?”

  “He totally killed Vivienne,” AJ said. She was making notes on her phone.

  “That bit about the one-on-one,” Thatcher said. “That’s where he gave himself away.”

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I pressed one hand against the nubby upholstery. My other hand was still latched onto Bobby’s knee. He rubbed my back slowly.

  “Come on,” Charlie said. “Before he gets away!”

  The three ducklings hurried past us on their way off the bus.

  My eyes shot open, and I called after them, “He can’t get away! We’re at the same conference!”

  But they pretended not to hear me.

  And then it was Bobby and me.

  “You okay?” Bobby asked.

  I nodded.

  “That was a lot,” he said, still rubbing my back.

  I shook my head. The worst of the anxiety had eased; I was breathing more or less normally now, and that claustrophobic tightness was gone. My brain even seemed to be coming back online.

  “Sweetheart?” Bobby asked.

  I cleared my throat. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  Several seconds passed before Bobby said, “I know he likes your book, Dash, but—”

  “He’s a nutjob, and don’t let him get too close, and definitely don’t go with him to a second location?”

  Bobby tilted a look at me that suggested I wasn’t as funny as I thought I was. But all he said was “Be careful.”

  That was all I needed—I wrote one book, and heck, I self-published it, and somehow I’d gotten myself into a Misery-style situation. What would happen when Spenser found out that I was completely stalled on book two, and that I had no ideas for a sequel (let alone a series), and for all intents and purposes, Will Gower had lived his one, brief fictional life, and my writing career was over?

  (Also, is it weird that I remember the lady from Misery making good ice cream sundaes? That’s the kind of detail I fixate on, apparently.)

  Since that didn’t seem like a helpful line of thought, I grabbed the headrest in front of me and got to my feet. “Let’s see if we can catch Graeme.”

  The day was still bright and clear, the sky a pale blue, fluffy clouds patterned along the horizon. A stiff breeze made me shiver inside my jacket; it snapped the windsocks that lined the sidewalk, and it carried the smell of good coffee and warm, delicious carbs.

  The writers from the bus had already spread out and were slowly making their way through the market—one of them stopping to talk to Mr. Irving about his huckleberries, another stopping to browse the McGimpsey twins’ soaps and candles. Bliss and Althea Wilson, who owned Ancient Mariner Antiques, had even brought out some of their easier-to-move items—a couple of bentwood chairs, music boxes, a large black velvet Elvis (in this one, he was holding what appeared to be an astronaut cat). The coffee smell was coming from a stand with a sign that said CHIPPER. Our local coffeeshop didn’t have a stall at the farmers market year-round, but on chilly days, they made a killing. Tessa was currently working on the chalkboard menu. (Apple crumble latte was one of the options, and yes, I was determined to make Bobby buy me one.)

  And, of course, Fox and Indira were there—Indira’s baked goods were one of the highlights of the farmers market. Fox was lounging in a folding chair, dressed in a coat made entirely of feathers, a fluttering silk scarf, and an extremely—prejudicially—ruffled shirt. They were gesticulating wildly with a bubble pipe while Indira checked something on her phone. When Indira finished whatever she was doing, she said something and pointed, and Fox stood and began rearranging the individually packaged cookies.

  To put it politely: I goggled.

  Listen, there aren’t a lot of times that anybody tells Fox what to do—much less that Fox actually does it.

  “Did you see that?” I asked Bobby.

  “Head in the game,” he said and squeezed the back of my neck. And let me tell you: if we’d been at home, that casual sports lingo and physical contact would have ended in Bobby getting himself dragged upstairs and seriously taken advantage of.

  Graeme hadn’t made it far; he stood near the entrance to the market, examining his clipboard.

  “Hey, Graeme,” I said as I approached. “Great idea with the outing.”

  “We try to do this wherever we go,” he said. “We choose destinations. People want a chance to see more than the conference center. I need to mention that there is a twenty-dollar fee. For the bus, you understand.”

  “Right, sure.”

  As I got out my wallet, Graeme said, “Did you need help finding something?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You were looking at your conference schedule.”

  “No, thanks.” I took out a pair of twenties and handed them over. “I haven’t had a chance to say this yet, but I’m so sorry about Vivienne.”

  Graeme bared his teeth in that weird not-smile. “We weren’t close.”

  “Oh. Okay. Yeah, I meant more the conference—”

  “Did someone say something?” he asked. “Is there a problem? What happened?”

  “Uh, no problem, no.” But Bobby and I shared a look that said: No problem besides the murder.

  “It’s so strange that she was here,” I said. “How did that even happen?”

  “Vivienne always comes to Northern Noir,” Graeme said. “It was one of her favorites. And since we’re in her hometown this year, it only makes sense that she’d be here.”

  “But she was in the state penitentiary,” Bobby said.

  Graeme studied Bobby as though Bobby were some kind of idiot. “Yes, obviously. I meant since she was released.”

  “I guess that’s what I’m curious about,” I said. “When did Vivienne contact you about attending the conference? Registration closed months ago.”

  Even as I asked the question, though, I realized that it might not mean anything—I had no idea how long Vivienne had been out of prison, or how long she’d known the pardon was coming, or any of the details about her release.

  But Graeme tilted his head at me as though he hadn’t thought about it before. He said slowly, “She emailed me the day before the conference started.”

  “And you told her she could come?” Bobby asked.

  “She’s Vivienne Carver.” When neither Bobby nor I responded to that, Graeme continued, “Of course I wanted her to come. Not only because of her books and her career, but because—well, everything else.”

  “And it didn’t concern you that the person who exposed her and helped get a conviction was also going to be at the conference?”

  Blotches of red rose in Graeme’s face. “That’s ridiculous. There was never any danger.”

  “Meaning, you did consider it,” Bobby said, “but you chose not to tell Dash. Or the sheriff’s office. Or anyone.”

  “But he’s fine,” Graeme said. And then he turned to me. “You’re fine. Vivienne assured me—”

  “She assured you?” Bobby asked, his volume going from casual conversation with law enforcement to cease and desist.

  “Bobby,” I said, “do you mind getting us some coffee?”

  Bobby’s gaze swung toward me, and for a moment, the flat-eyed cop look there stopped me. But then he gave me a tight nod, directed another hard stare at Graeme, and made his way toward the Chipper stall, where Tessa was talking to Dr. Xu (also petting Cotton, Dr. Xu’s adorable yellow Lab pup).

  “If you’re thinking of some sort of lawsuit—” Graeme said.

  “No, nothing like that. I’m trying to figure out why Vivienne was here. And who else knew she’d be here. That kind of thing.”

  Graeme adjusted his pen and clipboard. With what sounded like reluctant interest, he said, “You’re trying to solve her murder.”

  “I’m curious.”

  “Because you’re the chief suspect.”

  “Okay, why does everyone think I’m the chief suspect?”

  “Because I edited and published mystery novels for eleven years,” Graeme said, and for the first time, a hint of humor filtered into the words. “And because of your history with her. And because you found her. And—”

  “Yes, got it, thank you.” I took a breath. “Is there anyone here who might have wanted Vivienne dead?” Before he could point out the obvious, I said, “Anyone else, I mean?”

  “Well.” He tapped the pen against the clipboard. “A lot of people didn’t like Vivienne. Jealousy. And then, when the truth came out, everyone took it as retroactive proof—they’d all secretly hated her, and now they had a way to justify it. But that’s not what you meant.” The pen stilled against the clipboard. “Her agent is here. Her former agent, I mean.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Margaux Mendez.” Graeme hesitated. “I don’t want to betray any confidences, but Margaux has been public about how she feels about Vivienne. She blames her for, well, everything that has gone wrong.”

  “What? Like, losing contracts on Vivienne’s books, that kind of thing?”

  “A lot more than that. If anyone hated Vivienne enough to kill her…” But Graeme shook his head. “I don’t know. Margaux hates her. But I can’t see her doing that kind of thing.”

  I nodded, but I didn’t say what I was thinking: people killed each other all the time, for all sorts of reasons.

  “What did Vivienne want to talk to you about yesterday?” I asked. “She stopped you in the hall, and she didn’t look happy.”

  “Ah,” Graeme said. “That was a misunderstanding.”

  “A misunderstanding about what?”

  Those red blotches swarmed his face again. “Really, it’s not related—”

  “Graeme, I’m sure you’re trying to be discreet or conscientious or something, but Vivienne is dead, and someone killed her. Whatever she was upset about, it might have had something to do with it.”

  “It didn’t,” Graeme said. “I promise.”

  “I don’t think the sheriff will see it that way.”

  Graeme gave a strange laugh. He turned toward the windsocks, which were still fluttering and popping in the breeze, but he continued watching me out of the corner of his eye. The signal seemed to mean: this conversation is over.

 

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