go.
A pale, frowning Dana Wu was still clutching the microphone stand, legs braced as the eyes returned to the stage. The publicist seemed determined to protect her client until the rabid young woman was out of the building.
Then I peered over Dana’s shoulder, into the bright brown eyes of Angel Stark. She didn’t seem disturbed in the least by the ugly scene—even though some of the heckler’s angry words bordered on criminal threats. She seemed almost pleased. Obviously, this was an author who loved to shock her fans. And she’d wowed them again. But I couldn’t share her enthusiasm.
As members of the crowd took their seats and waited for the Q & A to resume, I hurried toward the exit, intent on tracking the troublemaking trio. But before I passed through the archway that led from the large Community Events space to the main bookstore, I noticed that one woman, near the side of the room, had not reclaimed her seat.
The tall, thin woman with light blue eyes, long, straight blonde hair, sunken cheeks, and a small, pointy chin had remained on her feet to fire poisonous eye daggers directly at me. Our gazes locked—as if she expected me to recognize her. Or was she challenging me to approach her?
I was concerned enough to comply, but was interrupted by the amplified screech of our public address system. Angel Stark was trying to speak, but her words were lost in electronic distortion. I turned from the dagger- staring blonde and rushed toward the microphone box to fix the problem.
Bud Napp’s nephew, Johnny, who’d just joined a local band and understood the vagaries of feedback, moved to my side after a few seconds of my own inept adjustments and helped me fix the mike to eliminate the screech. When the sound was stabilized, Angel smiled at Johnny’s big brown eyes and dimpled chin, then nodded. Finally, she faced the crowd.
“Well, the critics have spoken, and I can only say that a certain inscrutable reviewer at the
There was a burst of laughter, and a ripple of applause. Still, an undertone of nervous tension remained in the room. Angel simply tossed her long copper hair.
“Any more questions?” she asked breezily.
A dozen hands shot into the air. Angel pointed to someone who proceeded to compare Angel’s previous book to the work of the number-one purveyor of gonzo journalism, the late Mr. Hunter S. Thompson himself.
“Well, unlike Mr. Thompson, I don’t travel armed.”
More laughter followed, and as the debate continued, Angel seemed to enjoy the comparison.
Satisfied that order had been restored, I moved toward the exit again. On the way, I searched for the statuesque young blonde with the pointy chin and ice chip eyes who’d glared at me from the side of the room. But like the mysterious heckler and her companions, the stranger was gone.
In the main store, I could sense the “emotional fallout” from the coed’s outburst had reached the checkout area. Aunt Sadie had witnessed the trio’s exit, but she didn’t appear bothered. She smiled and chatted up the customers as if nothing were amiss. By her side, however, Mina seemed tense as she rang up purchases and bagged them.
Outside, the streets were dark, but the summer heat had not dissipated. Seymour came through the front door and approached me.
“They’re gone,” he said quietly. “All three of them piled into a black sedan and drove away. That girl seemed pretty upset with your author.”
“Did you speak with her? Find out who she was? Why she was here?”
Seymour threw up his hands. “Hey, you’re talking to a confirmed bachelor. I wasn’t going near her. Women’s tears scare the heck out of me.” A sudden burst of applause from the events room interrupted him. When the cheers died away, Seymour shrugged and added. “Anyway, I’ve got to admit, this was the most exciting author appearance since Timothy Brennan croaked at your podium last year.”
CHAPTER 4
I’m a lousy writer; a helluva lot of people have got lousy taste.
AFTER ANOTHER HALF-HOUR of questions and answers, Dana led Angel Stark to a chair and a table stacked with copies of
“I thought you weren’t impressed,” I said.
Brainert looked up from thumbing through the book’s pages. “Fiona had to get back to the Inn. Apparently your guest is lodging there. Anyway, she asked me to get her copy autographed.”
“That explains one copy. Who’s the other copy for?” Brainert raised his eyebrow. “Guilty,” he replied. “Actually I thought tonight’s intermission was more exciting than the main event. Exciting enough to get me curious, so I started breezing through it.”
“Speaking of curious, did you notice a tall, blonde Paris Hilton clone standing along the side of the room. I think she’s gone now, but—”
Brainert nodded and began flipping pages. “Right here,” he said, holding the book open. My eyes skimmed down the page, past two small before-and-after photos of Bethany Banks—in one, she was smiling and alive at the New Year’s Ball, waving her gloved hand. In the other, she was lying on a dingy floor, a belt around her neck, her arms at her sides, fingers bent in rigor mortis. I shuddered and my eyes continued down the page. The photo at the bottom depicted the woman in the audience.
“Katherine Langdon,” said Brainert. “Kiki to her friends . . . One of the principals involved in the Bethany Banks murder.”
“I wonder what she was doing here?”
I also wondered why she was staring at me, though I didn’t mention that to Brainert.
“That got me wondering, too,” Brainert replied. “From some of the passages I’ve read, I doubt that Kiki Langdon and Angel Stark are on speaking terms, let alone friends.”
“Maybe she came here to confront Angel also, and that other girl beat her to it. Any clue as to the distraught coed’s identity?”
Brainert shook his head and snapped the volume closed. “Not yet. But I haven’t really read the book, just began to skim it.”
I noticed that Sadie was alone at the counter and I excused myself to help her check people out.
“Where’s Mina?” I asked.
Sadie peered over her glasses at me, then jerked her head toward the couches and stuffed chairs I’d placed at the other end of the store. Mina was there, next to Johnny Napp. They were holding hands and speaking in whispers, their heads nearly touching.
“Ahhh, that’s sweet.” Aunt Sadie sighed as she slipped a copy of Angel’s book into a plastic Buy the Book sack and passed it to the customer. “You remember what it was like to be young and in love, don’t you, Pen?”
“No,” I replied, ringing up the next purchase.
ANGEL HAD FINISHED signing books and was chatting with a few holdovers—specifically a pair of enthusiastic female fans who couldn’t tear themselves away from their favorite author. It was nine—our usual
