“Oh? So what is it that keeps you from reading more contemporary books?” Otto asked, his tone suggesting he didn’t believe her.

  She straightened her back. “I work at The Bookish Café. I’ve been there for years and have read almost every book on the shelves. The previous owner was a collector of old books, classics, first editions, unusual topics. It’s quite an eclectic collection. I’m working my way through it. I think I’ve got about three more shelves to go before I’ve read almost everything.”

  “Really? You don’t look like the kind of woman who would be interested in old books, classics. I saw you talking with Serafina Lawson. I would have definitely pegged you for a fan of hers.”

  “Well, I’d think an author would know the old saying ‘don’t judge a book by its cover,’” Maggie replied. She decided she’d had enough, sucked the last of her Shirley Temple until the straw gurgled at the bottom of the glass, then slid off her barstool.

  “Here. In case you get bored with the classics and want to know what your neighbors are up to,” Otto pulled a copy of his book from a small plastic shopping bag on the barstool next to him. “Or you can use it to prop up a wobbly chair, whichever comes first. I think I can guess by looking at you.”

  Maggie took the book and dropped it into her goody bag. She wondered if he’d even signed it. She smiled. “Thank you. I promise to read it.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Otto shrugged.

  At that, Maggie let the smile fall right off her face, furrowed her brow, before quickly dropping a dollar on the bar for the bartender. She couldn’t tell if he was conceited or simply even more socially inept than she was. It was an impossible call, and she didn’t want to stick around to collect any more clues.

  “Looks like I’ve offended another citizen of Fair Haven. I just can’t catch a break. I doubt anyone else will talk to me,” Otto said, looking rather pleased with himself.

  Maggie wished him a good night. Just as she turned away, the other woman who had helped scoop up Otto’s books appeared out of nowhere, hair teased even higher than before. As though Maggie weren’t there, she looked past her directly at the author. Obviously she wanted to speak to Otto desperately. Maggie was happy to pass the baton. No sooner had she walked off than the woman climbed onto the empty seat beside him.

  How could a man who was living what Maggie was sure was a dream existence—writing books for a living—be so surly? He set his own hours; he could work in pajamas if he wanted.

  Although that never really appealed to Maggie, she knew plenty of people who thought rolling out of bed and working in flannel pants and a T‑shirt was a real perk. Otto didn’t have to deal with people and could keep any schedule he liked. Working at night while the world slept, classical music playing, typing by the soft glow of a desk lamp and maybe a crackling fireplace in the background. That sounded perfect.

  Peeking over her shoulder, she saw he’d already become engrossed in conversation with the lady who had waited for an opening. Groupies are everywhere, Maggie thought. She suspected the woman had more on her mind than an autographed copy of Small-Town Secrets.

  When Maggie turned around, she was immediately flagged down by Fifi, who elbowed into the crowd surrounding the other author and pulled him away by the hand. The crowd followed like ducks in a row.

  “Have you met Mr. Thomas James?” Fifi gushed.

  Maggie shook her head, pushed up her glasses, and extended her hand. Her heart raced; being thrust at people was not her comfort zone, but Fifi wasn’t the sort who took no for an answer, though she’d given no to Trent at least three times for whatever he kept whispering in her ear.

  Maggie saw a twitch at the corner of Mr. James’s lips that she assumed was a smile. No one could orbit Fifi and stay stone-faced for long.

  “He’s written several wonderful books on Fair Haven, being born and raised here. Who would have believed there were so many interesting facts about this little town?” Fifi exclaimed, elbowing Trent’s arm away from her waist.

  “Oh, have you compared notes with Mr. Deitz?” Maggie asked innocently. Mr. James’s slight smile vanished and migrated to the corner of his left eye.

  “No,” was all Mr. James said.

  Fifi burst out laughing, as did half the crowd. Maggie felt an icy grip around her heart; her cheeks flushed.

  “You’d have no way to know, my dear. Those two don’t get along—at all,” Fifi explained.

  “Did he write about you in his book too?” Maggie hadn’t meant to blurt that, but it struck a bull’s-eye.

  “I’m not concerned with the drivel he’s scribbled in his ‘novel.’ I’m a historian, not a gossip columnist,” Mr. James air-quoted, staring into the distance like Christopher Lee in, well, any film he’d ever starred in. Maggie couldn’t help liking the response; she smiled, glanced at her shoes for a second, then looked up. Without moving his head, Mr. James looked down at her, arched his right eyebrow, and twitched the corner of his lip. A smile, or the closest he could manage.

  “Always so serious,” Fifi chuckled, pulling Maggie aside to give her the signed copy she’d promised.

  Though Maggie doubted she’d enjoy such a racy novel, she accepted graciously. She fetched another Shirley Temple and quietly made her way to each author. Some had brought copies of their books, and Maggie bought one from each—how rude would it have been not to? Delicious hors d’oeuvres circulated. Conversations grew louder and more animated as the evening wore on, even though Maggie, still fighting shyness, stayed on the periphery. She listened, watched with fascination, and, when addressed, managed to contribute an opinion or two.

  The hours flew by. Before Maggie realized the time, the event was ending. She wanted to say good night to Fifi and Mr. James, who had been stoic like The Thinker all evening, becoming more comical by the hour. But neither was there. With her goody bag and sack of newly signed books, Maggie was first to head toward the door.

  A scream stopped her. Not a startled squeak over a spilled drink. This was a scream unlike any other. Someone was desperate and terrified.

  Chapter 5

  Maggie dashed out of the restaurant and into the lobby of the hotel. It was eerily quiet; no employee stood at the front desk and no guest lounged in the seating area, except for Fifi, who staggered from the elevator bank with her arm draped over her eyes.

  Trent appeared out of nowhere and nearly knocked Maggie to the ground as he raced to catch Fifi in his arms. Before she could stop herself, Maggie shuffled past the distraught woman, who proceeded to gasp into Trent’s chest, much to his delight.

  Carefully she peeked around the corner. Nothing lay ahead but an elevator whose doors bounced repeatedly against a foot that blocked them from closing. That foot belonged to Otto Deitz. He was lying on the floor, his head at an awkward angle, his eyes closed. Blood seemed to seep from the back of his head, and red marks ringed his neck.

  Maggie pulled back and looked at the crowd quickly forming at the restaurant door. Fifi was crying. Trent consoled her. The professional greeter who had taken Maggie’s name earlier appeared. As Maggie backed out of the elevator bank, the man ran past her, looked inside at the still‑bouncing door, then clapped a hand over his mouth. Without a word he spoke into a walkie-talkie while hurrying back to the phone by the front desk. One call summoned the manager on duty to the elevators; the other went to 911.

  Maggie glanced at the gathering guests and wondered who could have done this. Was the guilty person still among the book‑fair attendees who, like her, had simply hoped to chat with authors and gather stories for work the next day? This was going to be one heck of a story to tell.

  Within minutes police officers, an ambulance crew, and a woman in a black suit arrived. Thankfully, Officer Gary Brookes was among the cops assigned to the scene. As soon as he saw Maggie, he hurried to her side.

  “What the heck is going on?” he asked quietly while other officers took statements and EMTs confirmed there were no signs of life from Mr. Deitz.

  “Do you want the facts, or the facts as I see them?” Maggie asked. Gary had known her since high school; they had always been friends. The only difference now was that Gary had grown taller, built more muscle, and looked very handsome in uniform.

  “How do you see them?” he asked, knowing Maggie’s eye for detail.

  “Well, I think you’re going to have a hard time whittling down the suspect list,” she said, then launched into the tale of Otto Deitz and his tell‑all book about the “seedy underbelly” of Fair Haven.

  “Did you really just say seedy underbelly?” Gary shook his head.

  “Well, that’s what it sounds like he wrote. I’ve got a copy in my goody bag that he gave me.”

  Maggie told him what she knew so far. He took out his notepad and started writing Maggie’s statement.

  “Stay here, and I’ll give you a lift when I’m done,” Gary said, expressionless.

  “My car is parked outside. I can drive myself.”

  “No. Wait for me. Make yourself comfortable; I’ll walk you to your car,” he practically whispered, and Maggie noticed.

  “Why are we whispering?”

  “Private investigator,” Gary murmured, jerking his chin toward the woman in the suit.

  “Really? I thought P.I.s were only used for nasty divorces and workers’ compensation fraud,” Maggie said.

  “Maybe that’s what’s happening,” Gary shrugged. “All I know is she arrived this morning and has been following Otto Deitz on his signing tour. He had two stops prior to this, and there have been death threats at each one. Can you believe that—death threats for writing a book?”

  Maggie’s heart jumped. She couldn’t wait to get home and read it. Considering the chaos in the hotel lobby, she suspected it was going to be a long night.

  While Gary helped other officers take statements, cordon off the elevator bank, and usher the crime‑scene photographer in to snap away, Maggie lingered near the front desk where a wall‑mounted monitor displayed the hotel’s CCTV feeds. Most cameras showed nothing but dim corridors and closed doors—until she saw movement in one frame. Two men were trying to exit through the pool area.

  She glanced across the lobby and spotted the sign that pointed one way to the workout room and the other way to the swimming pool. With everyone’s attention fixed on the elevator, no one noticed her slip down the side hall.

  Only the floodlights glowed inside the pool enclosure, and the water lay perfectly still, catching the pale under‑lighting like a sheet of glass. The atmosphere felt uncanny, the kind of hush that makes a person whisper even when no one else is present.

  Maggie peeked in and saw the men standing beneath the red EXIT sign. The door had one of those horizontal crash bars striped yellow and red, warning that an alarm would sound if it were pushed. The pair appeared to be arguing over whether to risk it.

  Maggie hesitated. Should she fetch Gary? If she did, they might slip away, or trigger the alarm and vanish into the night. Yet confronting two possibly dangerous men alone could turn into a hostage situation. Or, she reasoned, they could be harmless guests who forgot swimsuits and wore black hoodies to the pool for some unfathomable reason.

  Her thoughts tangled until the larger man shouted, “We have to do something!” The outburst made Maggie jump and rattle the door handle. Both figures snapped their heads toward her. Their hoods cast dark shadows where eyes should have been, but she felt their stare. The bigger man took two steps in her direction. That was enough for Maggie’s fight-or-flight response to pick flight.

  In dress shoes with the slightest kitten heels, she lurched down the hall, half running, half hobbling, like someone trying to sprint across a balance beam. In her mind she might as well have been wearing stilettos on wet cement.

  Back in the lobby, nearly all the guests had dispersed. The hotel’s night shift employees were standing around, whispering and gawking while the police finished up their interviews.

  “Ahem!” Maggie cleared her throat. Gary looked up from his notes, which he was sharing with the woman in the dark suit, the private investigator.

  “You need something, darlin’?” the woman asked. Her icy‑blue eyes and unsmiling lips reminded Maggie of Thomas James’s perpetual stone face.

  “I … uh … Officer Brookes, please. There are people in the pool area, and I think they’re trying to leave unnoticed,” Maggie said, gesturing over her shoulder.

  At that moment, a siren shrieked as the pool‑door alarm activated. Apparently the men had decided to take their chance.

  Gary bolted toward the pool. The P.I. scowled at Maggie, drew a yellow stun gun from a side holster beneath her jacket, and strode out the front entrance. Some of the hotel staff, a maid and a front desk clerk, gasped at the sight of the stun-gun and huddled together.

  Maggie wanted to follow Gary, but the investigator’s frosty glare rooted her in place. After a tense few minutes, Gary returned alone. The P.I. shot him a questioning look; he shook his head. No arrests.

  “Well, would you like to tell me your name and explain why you waited to mention two suspicious characters loitering by the pool?” the P.I. snapped. Her anger was clearly aimed at Maggie.

  “Agnes Krueger, this is Maggie Bell,” Gary interjected. “We’ve known each other since high school. I’m sure she⁠—”

  “You might have cost me the apprehension of a killer, Miss Bell. What do you have to say to that?” Agnes demanded.

  “Maybe you should have been investigating instead of interviewing like a police officer,” Maggie blurted, blinking innocently. Gary rolled his eyes so far back that Maggie feared he saw his own brain. She hadn’t meant to be rude; blunt honesty was her default, or so she told herself. Agnes Krueger did not look convinced.

  “Are you trying to tell me how to do my job?” Agnes asked, staring her down. She was a traditionally pretty woman with curves in all the right places, but the fine lines around her eyes suggested a past that allowed no nonsense now.

  “No ma’am,” Maggie said, swallowing.

  “Then get her out of here.”

  “I’m going,” Maggie huffed. Gary guided her toward the exit.

  “Don’t skip town,” he murmured, ushering her into the revolving door. “I’ll call you later. Hey, Dutch, walk Maggie to her car, would you?”

  Dutch was one of the uniformed officers on the scene. He nodded, but Maggie put up her hand and shook her head. “I’ll be fine. Talk to you later.”

  She clutched her goody bag and purse tight to her chest. She didn’t dare say anything else while Agnes Krueger glared. Did that woman really think Maggie had something to do with Otto Deitz’s death? He was at least six inches taller and outweighed her by fifty pounds; there was no way she could have inflicted that kind of damage.

  It was after ten o’clock, and most of Fair Haven had turned in for the night. All the businesses were closed, and the main drag was devoid of cars. Maggie quietly made her way to her special parking spot and smiled at the sight of her old jalopy patiently waiting. She unlocked the driver’s door, slid inside, pulled the door shut, and locked it. For a moment she sat in the darkness, taking slow breaths. If Otto’s book was as juicy as he’d hinted, half the town could be suspects. Yet why would he receive death threats on a regional book tour? Who in a big city would care about local gossip from Fair Haven?

  “I guess it depends on what he wrote,” Maggie muttered, rolling down her window. Her Dodge Neon must be one of the last cars with manual locks and cranks; the cool night air helped clear her head.

  She began rummaging through her goody bag for Small Town Secrets but froze before rolling the window up. A metallic bang—someone had toppled a trash can—and shuffling footsteps. Maggie ducked low in her seat.

  “We didn’t do anything, okay? You need to calm down,” a hushed voice said.

  Peeking over the dash, Maggie saw two people whose builds matched the pair from the pool, though they now wore different clothes. She held her breath.

  “But we didn’t say anything either. What if someone saw us? Maybe we should have stayed to help. My mom will⁠—”

  Mom? Maggie thought. Hard to see in the darkness, but the voices sounded late‑teen, early‑twenties. The taller one bounced nervously from right foot to left.

  “Your mom will be thankful you didn’t get caught and thrown in jail. Look, we didn’t do anything. As far as we know, it was like that when we got there, and we just left. Simple,” the smaller one said. They exhaled together, then turned toward Maggie’s car. She kept still.

  “Why is there a car there?” the big one asked.

  “Because it’s a parking spot. I don’t know,” the smaller replied.

  “Let’s check it out.”

  “It’s a beater. Nothing worth money in there.”

  “How do you know?”

  Maggie’s mind raced. Even locked in, they’d spot her through the open window. Desperate, she sat upright, twisted the key, and flicked on her high beams. Blinding light flooded the alley. The two figures flung arms over their faces, cursed, and bolted the way they’d come.

  Heart hammering, Maggie started the engine, pulled away, and headed home. She’d tell Gary everything in the morning; tonight had delivered more than enough excitement.

  All the way home she rehearsed a description of the two men. Reaching her block, she remembered to park on Mrs. Peacock’s circle drive, out of neighbors’ view. She cut the engine and listened: no voices, no strange headlights, just the porch glow and solar path lights. With her house key ready, she grabbed her haul, trotted along the path, unlocked her door, slipped inside, and snapped the deadbolt.

  Within minutes she was in pajamas, sipping hot tea, butter cookies on a plate, and Small Town Secrets open before her. Otto had signed it, an illegible scrawl. She read deep into the night until a knock at six a.m. jolted her.

  It was Gary.