“Where are you off to next?”
“Roger Collins, assistant director of the Flavel House Museum. I’d like to hear what he has to say about The Louse.”
“Good luck. I’m off to hunt down a serial killer.”
I grinned. “I think you’re the one that needs the luck.”
“No kidding,” she sighed. “You have no idea how hard it is to leave a trail of bodies interspersed with red herrings.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. I was getting far too familiar with both of those things.
AS SOON AS I LEFT THE bakery, I dialed the number Annabelle had given me for Roger Collins. According to her, he’d called in sick to work that morning, leaving her to run the place alone. Not exactly a glowing character recommendation in my book. Still, it would hopefully make it easier to question him, since he would be relaxed on his own turf and not distracted by work.
The phone rang several times before an automated voice instructed me to leave a message. I didn’t bother. This was something better done face to face anyway.
Collins lived mere blocks from the bakery in a Craftsman cottage halfway up the hill. It was painted an unfortunate shade of peach which clashed with the red brick of the chimney. A porch swing swayed slightly in the light spring breeze, and a few daffodils and crocuses bravely lifted their heads toward the early afternoon sun. Or what was left of it. Clouds had begun to scuttle in from the north, and the air had taken on a slight chill.
I rapped on the front door. Not so much as a whisper from inside. Maybe he hadn’t heard. I rang the bell. Still nothing.
There was a garage to the side of the house, so I made my way down the porch steps and walked around the house. Standing on tiptoes, I peered into the garage. Dim shapes huddled under bright-blue tarps. I couldn’t tell if it was furniture or what, but it definitely wasn’t a car. Apparently the terribly sick Mr. Collins was off running around somewhere.
I’d have to catch him later. Preferably when he least expected it.
I returned to my car, frustrated but determined. Something white fluttering on the windshield caught my eye. With a frown, I plucked the piece of paper from under the wiper blade. Surely it wasn’t a parking ticket. There wasn’t a sign anywhere on the street.
As I read the note, my eyes widened. It wasn’t a ticket. It was a message. Block letters spelled out:
BE CAREFUL. CURIOSITY KILLED THE CAT.
Chapter 6The Prohibition
THE PROHIBITION WAS an ironic name for a bar and restaurant known for its pre-Prohibition cocktails. It thoroughly embraced the aesthetics of the era in every aspect. From the fire glowing in the hearth to the twang of the old-timey music, the Edison light bulbs, and the American flag draped off the corner of one of the shelves behind the bar. Shelves crammed with liquors I’d never even heard of like Boodles British Gin. There was even an absinthe dispenser, which I found interesting, but I never touched the stuff. Black licorice is one of the most disgusting flavors on Earth, as far as I’m concerned.
Lucas and I perched ourselves at the bar, so we could get the scoop from the cheerful bartender. She greeted us with a smile and answered our questions about the drinks. I chose Rival #7. Mostly because it involved maraschino cherries, which are delicious, and rye whiskey, which is almost as good as blackberry bourbon. Lucas chose a Lightship #50, which sounded good because of the apple brandy, until the bartender informed us there was a “splash of absinthe.” Thanks, but no thanks.
I grinned happily to myself, enjoying the chill atmosphere and the fact that Lucas was back in town. I didn’t want to admit to myself that I’d missed him. Just a little. Friday evening hadn’t come fast enough.
I hadn’t told Lucas or anyone else about the note on my car. It wasn’t a threat—not exactly. Okay, so it was a threat, but not a specific one. Probably some nosey neighbor or something. Sure. And I’ve got a bridge in Arizona for sale. I didn’t want anyone freaking out. I could handle this myself. Until I knew who left the note, there was no point getting everyone riled up.
“So, catch me up on what’s been going on?” Lucas asked, sipping his Lightship.
I sighed. “Well, I’ve been struggling with this scene in my book. Scarlet lied to Rolf and he found out. Was totally pissed, of course, but I’ve no idea what the lie was. Ridiculous really. It’s what I get for not plotting everything out ahead of time.” Some authors were “plotters.” They planned out the whole book before they even started writing. Some were “pantsers.” They wrote randomly whatever spewed out of their brains on a given day and worried about tying it all up later. Me, I was somewhere in the middle. I’d have a plot, more or less, but would wing a lot of it. Which potentially led to a conundrum now and then. Like the one with Scarlet and Rolf. “I actually switched books and started working on something else, hoping it would jar the old creative juices. No such luck. Got stuck on that one, too.”
“I’m sorry you’re stuck, but you know that isn’t what I meant,” he said, giving me a look.
I heaved a sigh. Of course I did. I took a fortifying sip of whiskey-flavored goodness and dove in. I told him about my search for the lipstick, my visit with Annabelle, and the fact that I hadn’t been able to find Roger Collins.
“Maybe he’ll be at the memorial service tomorrow. I can question him then.”
Lucas shook his head. “I don’t know why you think the police can’t handle this.”
“Because it’s pretty obvious they can’t. Portia did not kill anyone. She’s just not the type.”
He eyed me carefully. “Everyone’s the type, Viola. You know that. Given the
