Prose and Cons Read online

  He got to his feet again and marched back and forth in front of the doorway like a panther prowling in a cage.

  I sighed. There wasn’t much point in arguing with the cat. If I refused to take him, he would find his way to Anastasia’s house on his own. “Fine. You can come, but you have to be on your best behavior.”

  He stopped pacing and looked up at me endearingly, twitching his long white whiskers.

  I pointed at him. “That face is how you get away with so much.”

  He swished his tail in agreement.

  I scooped up the cat, said one final good-bye to the crow, and slipped out the door. The street was still quiet. The small cluster of festivalgoers who’d been at the corner were gone. I hurried down the porch steps and to my bike.

  Again I was thankful for the moonlight to guide my way through the woods. Emerson sat in my bicycle basket with his paws on the edge of the basket’s pink wire rim.

  The bike path through the woods came to an end on the other side of the park, leading onto a paved street. There was a stone lamppost in the middle of the woodland road, indicating the end of a driveway, the driveway I knew led to Anastasia’s house. I couldn’t see the house from the road, between the dense woods and the dark.

  Emerson looked back at me from his basket as I hesitated at the end of the driveway. His amber eyes glowed. I swallowed and put my feet back onto the pedals and started down the driveway.

  As I rolled down the paved drive, the first lines from “The Fall of the House of Usher” came to mind again.

  During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher.

  Okay, I wasn’t on horseback and this wasn’t the House of Usher, but the similarities were creepy. I stopped in front of the house. Other than some of the estates that were attached to wineries like the Mortons’, the stone house in front of me was the largest in the village. The house—mansion would have been a better word—was three stories high and had a widow’s walk on the third floor. Thick ivy snaked up the right side of the house and even in the dark, I could see the huge brass knocker on the front door that was in the shape of a lion’s head. Stone lions flanked either side of the front door, and more ivy wound around their bodies like serpents taking hold of their prey.

  I let out a deep breath. “All right,” I whispered to myself. “You’ve seen the house. Now it’s time to go home and have one of those hard-earned Rice Krispies treats that Grandma Daisy and Sadie were making.” I started to turn the bike back in the direction of the street. As I did, Emerson jumped out of my bicycle basket and dashed toward the mansion.

  “Emerson! Come back,” I yelled at the cat.

  He didn’t even glance over his shoulder as he disappeared around the side of the house.

  SIXTEEN

  As Emerson disappeared around the side of the house, I raced after him. I wouldn’t have been able to pick him out at all in the dark if it weren’t for his bright white markings on his tuxedo coat.

  When I rounded the side of the enormous house, I called the cat again, but he sprinted away. I ran after him, just in time to see him shimmy up a drainpipe and wriggle through a half-opened window on the second floor.

  My arms fell dejectedly to my sides, and I stood there for a moment digesting the enormity of what my cat had just done.

  “This is bad,” I said to myself. “This is really bad.”

  I had two options. I could call the police and tell them my cat was running loose in a murder victim’s house, or I could go in there after Emerson. I felt in my jeans pocket. The key was there. Did I have much of a choice? I couldn’t leave Emerson in Anastasia’s house, and if I told the police, it would most certainly reach Chief Rainwater that I was trespassing on a crime scene. There was a back door near the window where Emerson had disappeared. Before I could change my mind, I put the key in the lock and turned. The door swung inward.

  My heart thundered in my chest as I saw a security system’s console blinking on the wall to my right. The tiny red light blinked in tandem with an incessant beeping noise. Sadie had warned me about the security system. I should have remembered it before I stormed into the house. Eighteen sixteen. The date jumped into my head. That was the pass code that Sadie had told me. Wincing the entire time, I typed the number into the keypad and hit enter. The light turned green and the beeping stopped. I went weak with relief. My relief didn’t last long, however. I needed to find Emerson and leave Anastasia’s house as soon as possible. It was always possible the police would be back at her house later that night for another look. I didn’t want to be here when they arrived. And—although I didn’t want to even think it—there remained the fact that disarming the alarm would leave a digital footprint on the house; match that with my literal footprints, and my fingerprints on the alarm’s keypad. Things were not looking good. Rainwater was going to know I was in Anastasia’s house. There was no way around that. I decided to find Emerson first and worry about the repercussions of running headlong into Anastasia’s mansion after I collected my cat.

  Just to be safe, I called out, “Hello! Hello, is anyone home? I’m just looking for my cat who ran off.”

  The only answer was Emerson’s meow from somewhere deep in the house. I remained in the mudroom. “Emerson, come here.”

  It would be much easier if the cat came to me. I wasn’t keen on the idea of taking one more step into the house.

  “Emerson!” I hissed. “Here, kitty kitty. If you come here, I will give you a whole can of tuna for dinner, and we can go to the pet boutique on River Road and pick you up a new toy mouse. You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

  He meowed back. This time it sounded even farther away. Apparently, the can of tuna and the new toy weren’t as enticing as the opportunity to explore Anastasia’s mansion.

  I groaned. He wasn’t leaving me much choice. I had to go in, but I didn’t know how I had any hope of finding the small cat in a house of this size. He could be anywhere.

  Straightening my shoulders and giving myself a pep talk, I crept into the kitchen with tentative steps. I don’t know what I expected. For someone to jump out and cry boo? It wasn’t lost on me that this wasn’t the first time I was trying to find Emerson in a murder victim’s house. The last time, Chief Rainwater caught me in the act of trying to find the cat. I didn’t want that to happen again.

  Emerson’s meow came again. It was more haunting and drawn out this time, closer to a yowl than a conversational chirp. I stopped worrying about making noise and hurried through the large kitchen into a narrow hallway. The hallway opened into an extensive great room. At the end of the great room, I saw an archway that must have led to the formal foyer. To my left there was a curved staircase with a polished wooden railing. At the top of the stairs there was a huge Palladian window that cast enough moonlight onto the staircase and foyer to see by.

  Again, I wondered how Anastasia could afford such a grand home. True, in the village a home this stately would cost much less than it would in other parts of the country, but I was willing to bet that—between the house, the amount of land, and the location close to the park and springs—the property was worth well over a million dollars.

  What exactly did she do? I supposed that it wasn’t out of the question she had inherited the money or the home or made a savvy investment with the money she did have.

  But this wasn’t the time to mull over Anastasia’s financial situation. I had plenty of time to do that when I was safely back at my grandmother’s house enjoying a cup of tea and those promised Rice Krispies treats.

  “Emerson!” I called the cat for the umpteenth time.

  Nothing.

  I shivered. As spoo
ky as his meows sounded in the empty house, I was more creeped out by the silence. “Emerson?”

  Much to my relief, a meow answered me. It seemed to be coming from the second floor. Great. Emerson was determined to have me tramp all over the house. Had I known that I would be breaking and entering this evening, I would have worn gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints behind.

  I walked to the bottom of the stairs. “Emerson, you can’t just go running off by yourself all the time. This is not working for me. If you keep it up, I might start walking you on a leash.”

  A terrible yowl answered me from the second floor. It was an ungodly sound that forced my heart into my throat. Without another thought, I ran up the stairs two at a time. “Emerson! Emerson!”

  I tripped at the top of the steps and landed on my knees with a thud. There would be bruises later. Emerson gave that terrible yowl again, and I jumped to my feet as if I were hit with a bolt of electricity. The sound came from my right. I moved into yet another hallway. At the end of it was a sitting room. The furnishings were clean and modern. Dark leather couches dominated the room, and a glass and chrome coffee table sat in between them. The ebony shelves were lined with books, many of them classics.

  A yowling came from the other side of the wall behind the shelving and I placed my hand on my chest. It came again. I stepped over to the bookcase that seemed to be at the heart of the cry. Poe’s story “The Black Cat” came to mind as I stood in front of the bookcase. If some feline ghost came floating through the shelves, I was out of there.

  Emerson meowed softly now and my pulse dropped closer to normal. “Emerson, are you behind the bookcase?”

  The tip of his small white paw with claws extended curled around the side of the case about two feet from the floor. There was just enough room for his toes to poke out. I had no idea how he’d gotten back there in the first place when it was clear he couldn’t even fit his full paw through the opening.

  Did the bookcase move?

  “How did you get back there?” I asked the white paw.

  He wiggled his toes in reply. This would’ve been a great time for him to have learned how to speak English. The bookcase had to have moved. It was the only way I could see he might have gotten behind it. I ran my hand down the side of the case and couldn’t see any way to open it. I tried to pull the large bookcase toward me, conscious of the dozens of heavy books on the shelves. It didn’t budge. I was about to try again with a little more force when I saw it. There was a small groove in the back of the bookcase near where Emerson’s paw appeared. I never would have seen it without him. It was impossibly small. I couldn’t get more than two fingertips behind it.

  Using my two fingers, I pulled forward and felt a latch. The latch clicked and the bookshelf moved. I stumbled backward as the moving bookcase revealed another room. Emerson sat on the other side in the middle of the floor. His black tail swished back and forth across the geometric rug.

  “What is this place?” There were no windows, and I could see only a few feet inside. I ran my hand along the wall, searching for a light switch. I found one and switched on the overhead light. I blinked against the sudden glare. As I looked around, my jaw hit the floor.

  I had stepped into an office, a writing office. I had expected such a room in Anastasia’s house. That wasn’t the surprise; the surprise was what else I found there. The bookcases were full to bursting with romance novels. Many of the novels were multiple copies by the same author.

  There were framed romance covers on the wall. The covers had attractive male models with smoldering eyes. Some wore shirts; others did not. Each cover was for a book, like the majority of the volumes on the shelves, written by Evanna Blue. Being a bookseller, I immediately recognized the author’s name. Even if I weren’t a bookseller, I would be hard-pressed not to have at least heard of her. Evanna Blue was one of the top romance writers in the country at that moment. Her books regularly debuted in the number one slot on the New York Times best seller list, and at least three of her novels had been turned into major motion pictures. Despite her popularity, she was also a reclusive author. There were no pictures of her on the dust jackets of her books or in the press. Ever. In the publishing industry, the identity of Evanna Blue was one of the best-kept secrets. Over the years, rumors as to her identity had run rampant. Some said she was a man, which was why her identity was hidden. Others said she was a made-up figure like Carolyn Keene, the author of Nancy Drew, who was in fact a fictional author, and a number of ghostwriters had written those books. Believe me when I say that I was crushed when I was a teenager and discovered the truth about Carolyn Keene.

  However, that discovery was nothing compared with the one I had just made. There was a printed manuscript sitting next to a computer on the long, narrow desk across from me, and I inched toward it. Small corrections had been made in red ink and Post-it notes marked pages where more changes should be made.

  There was a printed e-mail next to the stack: “Anastasia, we need to talk about the situation. I think it’s very unwise to stop writing as Evanna. You’re doing very well. Why change what is working? I understand you’re disappointed the books you care most about aren’t receiving the attention we both want from publishers. But you know as well as I do that literary fiction is a hard sell in today’s market. I’m not telling you to give up on your passion project, but don’t cast aside everything that you’ve accomplished as Evanna. Thousands of authors would kill for the success you’ve had.”

  Thousands of authors would kill for the success you’ve had. That line played again in my mind. Could it be that was what happened? One of Evanna’s—I mean Anastasia’s—rivals killed her out of jealousy?

  The e-mail was simply signed “Edmund.” The sender’s e-mail address included the name of a top literary agency in New York and the name Edmund Eaton. Another startling discovery—Anastasia had a literary agent, a successful one too, but she would have had to have one if she was Evanna Blue. Finding a literary agent was always a popular topic of conversation with the Red Inkers. Never once had Anastasia let on that she had one. She wouldn’t, would she? If she could keep it a secret she was Evanna Blue, international best-selling author, I supposed the secret of having a literary agent would have been a cakewalk.

  I reread the e-mail. Anastasia Faber was Evanna Blue. It didn’t compute. How was that possible? I removed my phone from the back pocket of my jeans and snapped a photo of the letter. It was proof of the unbelievable and it gave me Edmund’s e-mail address.

  I was about to leave when I remembered Sadie saying that Anastasia was gathering information on all the Red Inkers, including Grandma Daisy and me. If she had that type of information, it would be in this office. If Anastasia had somehow learned Charming Books’ secret, I couldn’t leave it there for the police to find. Before I could talk myself out of it, I began to search her office for any mention of the Red Inkers, taking care not to move anything out of place. I started on the top of the desk, which was clean except for the computer and papers I’d found when I first stepped inside of the room.

  The desk drawers were full of office supplies and little else. I moved on to the four-drawer black filing cabinet tucked in a corner of the room. I opened the first drawer and found a file labeled “Royalties.” I pulled out her statement and whistled at the earnings Anastasia had made as Evanna in just a six-month period. I hadn’t seen that many zeros, well, ever. Anastasia could definitely afford her home. She could also afford a yacht and her own Caribbean island. Briefly, I wondered why she’d remained in Cascade Springs, where she’d grown up, when she could have lived just about anywhere on the planet.

  I put the statement back and moved on. I found what I was looking for in the back of the bottom drawer. The file was labeled simply “Evidence.” Evidence for what? I sat back on my heels and set the file on my lap.

  Inside there was a handwritten page that contained the names of all the Red Inkers. By e
ach name there was a single word. Sadie’s said “plagiarism,” as expected. Beside Richard’s name was the word “divorce.” Richard was divorced? I didn’t know that, but I didn’t know why it mattered either. What about his divorce was blackmail-worthy, assuming that was Anastasia’s plan with all this information? The spots beside Rainwater’s and Trudy’s names were blank. They didn’t have any secrets? Or Anastasia wasn’t able to discover them before she died? There was no way to know the answer.

  I flipped the paper over and found Grandma Daisy’s and my names. The word beside our names was simply “tree.” The paper in my hands shook. Emerson placed a comforting paw on my knee.

  SEVENTEEN

  There was nothing else in the folder. I searched the rest of the office for any other mention of the Red Inkers and found nothing. “I can’t leave this paper here,” I told Emerson.

  He meowed as if in agreement.

  I folded the piece of paper and slipped it into the back pocket of my jeans. Guilt pricked the back of my mind. It might contain evidence for the murder, but I couldn’t allow the police or anyone to find any mention of the tree—I just couldn’t.

  I picked up Emerson and backed out of the secret office. Now my question was, what should I do with this newfound information? Did Rainwater know Anastasia was Evanna? This changed everything. It had to be related to her murder. It just had to be. It could be the motive for the crime itself. I shivered as I remembered the last line of Edmund’s e-mail.

  I needed to go to my grandmother’s house, where I had time to think this over. I turned out the light in the hidden office, still holding Emerson tightly to my chest with my other arm. He didn’t squirm in an effort to get away from me again.

  A loud crash came from the first floor. It sounded like someone knocked over a lamp and it shattered. My heart flew into my throat for a second time that night when I heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. I closed the bookcase door, making sure it was secure, and looked for someplace to hide.