"Sayers," I told him. "Max Sayers. I was at the bookstore until Ted called."
"Was anyone with you?"
"My dog," I said.
"I won't ask him to give you an alibi," he said, his mouth twitching into a slight grin. "Can anyone else confirm your whereabouts?"
"Not after I went up to my place, above the shop. We closed at six; I think the last customer was at 5:30."
"Who was that?"
"It was a tourist; I'm sure I can look up the credit card information when we get back."
"Please do that," he said. He glanced over at the rock in the corner. "Recognize that?"
"It's a chunk of granite," I said. "Those things are kind of everywhere, aren't they?"
"They are," he admitted. "Going to be hard to trace that. Although maybe there will be fingerprints."
"Maybe," I said, not sure of how well rocks took fingerprints. "I just hope she's okay."
23
It felt like weeks had passed by the time I left the Ivy Gate Inn, still thinking on what had happened as I closed the front gate behind me and looked back up at the imposing building. Although Ted and Kirsten had gone to the hospital, the lights in their corner room were still lit, and I wondered what had happened in Room 232. Had Kirsten sent Ted to pick up dinner so she could meet someone in the inn, and had it gone wrong? I couldn't imagine meeting a lover for a ten minute rendezvous while your boyfriend went out to pick up Chinese, though; nor could I imagine greeting anyone I wasn't interested in romantically wearing a silk teddy. It didn't make sense. I got in the car and drove down the darkened street away from the inn, passing Scooter Dempsey's office as I turned the corner. The office windows were darkened, but the dim streetlight faintly illuminated the horse in the painting over the reception chairs. Scooter and Cal had been business partners of sorts; would he have any inside information on the connection between the attacks on Cal and Kirsten?
My nerves were on edge the whole way back to the shop; even though it was only a few blocks, it seemed like miles. I locked the door behind me and double checked the rest of them, grateful that there was no sign of broken glass or forced entry.
I headed upstairs and got ready for bed, brewing myself a cup of chamomile tea and snuggling into bed with Winston, but even the latest Tonya Kappes camper mystery couldn't calm my racing mind. The little Bichon was unperturbed, and curled up calmly beside me, but I found myself anxious, half-listening for the sound of breaking glass downstairs. I'd had a second lock installed on the door to the apartment from the shop, and I planned to get a security system soon, but the budget only went so far, and after what had happened tonight, I was more than a bit on edge.
I put Tonya's book aside a few chapters in, then tossed and turned for an hour, the image of Kirsten's blood-matted hair appearing every time I closed my eyes. Sleep wasn't coming; I needed something to take my mind off things. And one of the benefits of living right above a bookstore is that you have 24-hour access to a smorgasbord of literary distractions.
Winston half-opened one eye as I wrapped myself in a bathrobe and unlocked the door to the stairs, hitting the light switch as I made my way down to the shop below.
My eyes darted to the glamorous head shot of K. T. Anderson standing on the table of her signed books. Was she doing okay? I'd texted Ted, but hadn't heard back. I considered the stack of Fast Money books on the table. I hadn't read Kirsten's latest, and wasn't sure I wanted to. I debated it for a moment, then morbid curiosity won out. As I reached for one of the signed hardbacks on the stack, I realized I still hadn't done anything with the copy behind the counter from the signing; the one Scooter had asked Kirsten to sign, then abandoned at the cash register.
Sure enough, the copy of Fast Money was still there, tucked in with the Dick Francis book Scooter had brought to the register. I reshelved the Francis book in the signed books/first editions section, then headed back upstairs with KT Anderson's latest in my hand.
I grabbed a cookie and took it to bed with me, trying not to get crumbs on the percale sheets as I took a bite and cracked open the thick book.
I turned first to the title page, on which Kirsten had written a dedication in a controlled, neat hand.
To Scooter, she'd written. Without you, this story never would have been written. Thanks for inspiring me. — KT
Inspiring her? I didn't know Kirsten and Scooter had ever met, much less that he had been a muse for one of her bestselling books. I turned the page and started Chapter One. Kirsten's protagonist was a scrappy young investigator named Megan Garcia, and the case in question involved some untimely deaths at a horse-racing track in New Hampshire. No wonder Scooter had picked up the book, I thought to myself; the topic certainly was up his alley. Had he told her about the world of horse racing? Had that been what inspired Kirsten's story?
I spent the next few hours devouring the book; Kirsten was a fluid stylist, and the pace was relentless. The story focused on a horse-racing scandal in a small town in upstate New York. Someone was hiding something... and
