The Readaholics and the Gothic Gala (7 page)

I gave her a doubtful look, but didn't argue.

Lola stood and said in a voice that meant she was ending the discussion, “Let's wait and see who he turns out to be. Then we'll decide what to do.”

“T
he victim's name was Trent Van Allen,” Hart said Monday noonish, handing me an aromatic bag from the Munchery and a larger plastic bag that contained his Batman costume. Saturday night, before I left the Club, I'd offered to return his costume to the rental place in Grand Junction when I dropped mine off, knowing that with a murder investigation under way he wouldn't have time to do it himself. He'd been grateful for the offer and we'd arranged to have lunch together. I tucked the Batman duds under the table I use as a desk, and put the lunch bag on the blotter and opened it, burying my nose in the pastrami scent rising from it. Hart settled himself in one of the grass green velvet upholstered chairs that went so well with the pale lemon walls. “Van Allen—ring any bells?”

I shook my head. “Not even a tinkle. Who is he?”

“Hails from Idaho originally. Did a stint in the marines. Came back from the desert, got mixed up with drugs, moved on to armed robbery and grand theft auto, was recently released from the Illinois state pen.”

“So maybe it was a robbery gone bad,” I said.

“Anything's possible.” Hart's tone said he wasn't buying it. “The question is, what was he doing in Heaven?”

“Tourist?” I ventured.

Hart cocked a skeptical eyebrow. Carefully maneuvering a cardboard bowl of soup from his lunch bag, he levered the top off it and ripped the plastic covering off a spoon with his teeth.

“Teeth are jewels, not tools,” I murmured, repeating a phrase my mother had dinned into me, my three sisters, and my brother, Derek, from the moment we sprouted teeth. She had harbored a not-so-secret wish that one of us would become a dentist, but we all disappointed her. “You know,” I said, remembering my conversation with the Readaholics the day before, “I saw that guy—Van Allen—at all three of the events yesterday. He might know one of the authors.”

“Did you see him talking to any of them?” Hart asked, the plastic spoon looking small and ineffectual in his large hand as he scooped up the black bean soup. The garlicky smell fought with the scent of my pastrami.

I closed my eyes, trying to remember. “No-o. He asked a question at the panel discussion, but I don't think he directed it to a particular author. He didn't bid at the auction, as far as I know, although Cletis kept it moving so fast I might have missed it. At the costume party, he wasn't dressed up—well, you saw—and I only spotted him once, when Mary Stewart had it out with Eloise Hufnagle. He was standing near Constance and Merle Aldringham, but I don't know if they were conversing.” I shrugged. “Sorry.“

“We struck out with Hufnagle, too,” Hart said morosely. “We tracked her to the Merton Inn, but she had already checked out.”

The Merton Inn was a run-down place on the I-70 access road, a good ten miles out of town. Picturing it made me think about the Columbine for some reason. I started. “Oh, I did see him one other time. I had to run over to the Columbine, where all the authors are staying, and he was there. He came out from behind the B and B, I think, and walked west.”

“Now, that's interesting,” Hart said. He put the lid back on his empty soup bowl, stowed it in the bag, and tucked it into my trash can.

“How was he killed?”

“The ME hasn't done the autopsy yet, but I'm guessing that metal spike did the job. From the angle, and the relative lack of blood, it looks to me like it went up under his rib cage and into his heart. Either someone knew what they were doing, or they got lucky. I'd guess death was more or less instantaneous. It's possible the ME will find something else, though.”

I felt a bit queasy and put down my sandwich. The greasy pastrami sat heavy in my stomach. “TMI.”

He shrugged. “You asked. By the way, did you have a photographer at the ball? I'll need all of his or her photos from last night.”

Having anticipated this request, I had Sam Ayers's card ready and I passed it to Hart. “I already gave her a heads-up that you'd be calling.”

His expression was both amused and impressed. “Thanks. What have you got on your plate for the rest of the day?”

I gestured toward the large whiteboard behind my
desk with our upcoming events carefully lettered on it. We had some weddings booked as far out as two years from now, and a slew of events over the holidays. “This week is pretty slow,” I said, “so I'm getting a head start on our holiday parties. I'm ordering supplies, buying decorations, researching new ideas for holiday-themed parties, and interviewing a new Santa Claus.”

Hart quirked an eyebrow, and I elaborated. “Our last Santa decided to move to Tallahassee to be closer to his grandkids. It's a shame, because his beard was real and no one ever complained about his breath. You laugh,” I said, mock-severely, “but Santa's breath is a big deal. When you're sitting on his lap, begging for a skateboard or a puppy, you don't need a blast of halitosis.”

“Is that part of your interview—sitting on the candidate's lap to assess breath quality? If so, I might be tempted to apply.” He patted his lap.

I pretended to consider, and then shook my head. “No, I'm afraid you're not a good candidate. Not fat enough, not old enough, not hairy enough.”

He rubbed his smooth-shaven jaw. “Wow. I'm pretty sure I've just been the victim of sizeism, ageism, and hairyism, all in one blast.”

I laughed and got up. “And now you're going to be the victim of go-away-ism so I can get over to Grand Junction to return these costumes, and look for bargains at my favorite holiday-decor supplier.”

“Yeah, I need to get back to the office. I've got a murderer to catch.”

“That makes my to-do list sound awfully shallow,” I said, walking him out of my office to the reception area, made up of a love seat, a solitary wing chair, and a coffee table. Al's desk (currently empty, since he was at lunch) and an overgrown ficus took up the rest of the small room. Framed photographs of events we'd organized hung on one wall above the love seat, and French doors opened to the garden and walkway.

“Hey.” Hart raised my chin with his index finger, hearing the undertone beneath my joking words. His brown gaze held mine. “Helping people have fun is important. You help commemorate the significant moments in people's lives. You distract them from the ugliness, put it in perspective. That's important stuff.”

Grateful, I stood on tiptoe and planted a kiss beside his mouth. “Thank you.”

With a smile, he left, and I returned to my office to collect the costumes, my shopping list, and my purse. Leaving a note for Al to remind him where I'd gone, I locked up and headed to the van. There was a nip in the air today, but it was clear, and once I got close to Grand Junction, I felt like I could see halfway across Utah. Grand Junction was only a hop, skip, and a jump away from the Utah border. There is no blue as clear or intense as a Colorado sky. Looking at it was like falling up into an endless swimming pool. The costume shop was two blocks away from Colorado Mesa University, where Al went to school, and students clad in shorts despite the chilly temps slouched to classes. One of them worked behind the counter at the costume rental
place and accepted my returns with an efficiency that surprised me a little. Maybe I was a bit ageist, I thought. The clerk brushed aside my apology for any fake-blood stains that might be on the costume.

“We gotta get 'em all dry-cleaned anyway,” he said. “Musta been quite a party. Yours isn't the first one turned in today with that stuff on it. People are nuts,” he stated in the voice of one explaining that the earth is round. “And something about putting on a costume increases their nuttiness, like an electron multiplier. Physics major,” he said in response to my look.

I thanked him, and exited to the parking lot. Before I could get into my van, a voice hailed me.

“Amy-Faye! I guess you're here for the same reason I am.” Gemma Frant stood beside her aging Honda Civic and hefted a bag from the rental place. She was pale without makeup, and her frizzy hair was escaping from its loose bun. I hadn't seen her to talk to since before the body was discovered.

“Gemma, I'm so sorry about the—” I stopped, unsure how to phrase the rest of my apology.
I'm sorry about the murdered guy discovered in the middle of your party? I'm sorry I had to call the police to investigate a homicide during your gala? I'm sorry someone was inconsiderate enough to get himself killed in the middle of a party I organized?
None of it struck quite the right note. “I'm sorry,” I said simply.

She waved away my apology by fluttering both hands, no mean trick since she clutched the bag in one of them. “Don't worry about it, Amy-Faye. It wasn't your fault. I wish—well, of course I wish it hadn't happened, and
I feel sorry for that poor, poor man, but . . .” She twitched her brows together. “Do the police have a suspect?”

“No, but they know who he was. Trent Van Allen.”

She shivered, even though it wasn't that cold. “The police asked me and asked me about him—they said he was in the store during the panel discussion—but I didn't recognize him, not even when they showed me a photo. I don't know that name at all. Van Allen? I don't know any family from around here with that name. He must have been a tourist, just passing through town, although why he was at the ball . . .” She licked her thin lips nervously. “Surely it was a mugging, a random thing, and the poor man was just in the wrong place at the wrong time?” Her anxious gaze pleaded with me to agree. “I mean, it couldn't have anything to do with my Celebration of Gothic Novels. That would be too horrible.”

“Of course not,” I reassured her, seeing that she was close to tears. I didn't point out that people rarely got mugged in the manager's office at the most exclusive country club in the western half of the state.

It wasn't until I was at the party supply wholesaler, waist-deep in napkins, tablecloths, and centerpieces featuring hollies, reindeer, menorahs, polar bears, angels, and other holiday figures, that I took in what the clerk had said: Mine wasn't the first costume he'd seen today with red stains. Leaving the startled saleswoman behind, I dashed into the parking lot to call Hart. I got his voice mail and left a long message about how he needed to confiscate all the costumes and test them for real blood. “You probably already thought of that,” I
wound up, “but when the costume shop guy said he'd seen other costumes with red stains, well, I thought I should let you know. Call me.” I hung up, returned to the shop, and placed an order that made the saleswoman's day.

On the way back to Heaven, I pulled into the long driveway that led to Bloomin' Wonderful, knowing Lola would want to know the murder victim's identity. Even though her nursery was only five minutes outside Heaven, it felt like I'd traveled back in time, to a more peaceful era, when I trundled down the gravel road leading to her farmhouse. On one side, a field of daylilies, mostly browning foliage at this time of year, but with some apricot and yellow blooms, stretched out in neat rows. Greenhouses lined the other side of the road, their panes steamed. I knew they held all sorts of flowering shrubs and potted trees, as well as other perennials. The farmhouse was small and painted lavender with white trim. A hound bayed when I parked the van, but no one came onto the porch. Misty, the long-haired gray kitten I'd rescued in May and given to Lola, came running to meet me. She was much leggier now, and carried her tail like a gray plume.

“Mer-eow,” she said, rubbing against my shins.

I stooped to stroke her silky back and she butted against my hand. “Where's Lola?” I asked her.

As if in answer, or maybe because I stopped patting her, she took off at a slow trot, rounding the corner of the largest greenhouse. I followed her and found a dusty Lola pitchforking what looked like old mulch materials into the open hatch of a commercial-sized composter.
Spotting me, she swiped her wrist across her forehead, leaving a clear path in the dust. Misty took advantage of the opportunity to leap into the wheelbarrow and tackle a waving length of twine.

“Watching you do that makes me grateful that I get to argue with brides about whether the table linens are salmon-colored or coral for a living,” I said.

Lola smiled. “I know it's hard work, and it's for darn sure messy, but it's very satisfying. I like the idea that everything gets recycled and turned into a fertilizer that will help everything grow again, without having to use chemicals.” She thumped the side of the composter. “It's important to me to be organic. What brings you out here—a wedding order?”

I persuade a lot of my brides to get their flowers from Bloomin' Wonderful. “Not today. The police ID'd the guy from the costume party. His name was Trent Van Allen.”

Shaking her head slowly from side to side, Lola said, “I don't know the name. He's not local, is he?”

“From Idaho originally, Hart said. He was an ex-con.”

Lola frowned. “None of it makes sense. What was an ex-con doing at a book festival? Unless—did he steal collectible books or something like that? He could have been after the first-edition books at the auction.”

“Not as far as I know. Hart mentioned armed robbery and auto theft—doesn't sound like a guy who would be dealing in first-edition Twains or Thackerays on the side.”

“No, it sure doesn't. Shoo, you.”

As the last words were apparently addressed to Misty, I didn't take offense. Misty, holding the twine between her teeth, jumped out of the wheelbarrow and Lola went back to shoveling its contents into the composter. The pitchfork tinged against the wheelbarrow with each scoop. She worked in silence for a long minute, and then said, “Someone here in Heaven knew him, knew Van Allen. His death wasn't random.”

“I agree.” I waited to see where Lola's scientific mind would take her.