CHAPTER 3
LORI
Back at the small, boutique hotel she was staying at, Lori was freaking out just a little. Once she was in her room, she stripped out of her ‘serious author’ clothes and slipped into leggings and a sweater. While she was sad the signing had been effectively canceled, and even sadder that someone had lost her life, it was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her.
Teaching middle school biology and chemistry wasn’t exactly the stuff dreams had been made of, but she’d been happy enough, hadn’t she? Everyone in her hometown had thought her greatest aspiration might be to become a principal, but administration had never interested her. Watching too many of her older colleagues either leaving the profession or burning out had made her question what it was she wanted to do with her life.
When the aunt who had raised her was killed by a drunken driver, everything had changed. She was left with a modest inheritance with the proviso that Lori use it to follow her dream of becoming a novelist. With careful planning and a conservative budget, Lori had asked for a two-year sabbatical. The schooldistrict had been reluctant to grant it, but in the end realized they had little choice.
Lori curled up in the window seat of her room, grabbing her notebook and favorite pen and began to make notes—what she’d seen, what she’d heard—all the little details surrounding Sandy Parkinson’s murder. From the way Christie carried herself, Lori was fairly certain she thought it was murder—and after years as a homicide detective, Christie’s instincts weren’t easy to dismiss.
Unless she was reading things wrong, Sandy’s murder had all the earmarks of a great story. While she could jot down her impressions of the scene and what might have happened, Lori realized she needed to get back to the venue to get a clearer picture of the scene. Grabbing her raincoat and big waterproof drover’s hat, she headed back to the event site. Even though it was raining, Lori pulled on a big set of sunglasses to further shroud her identity.
She’d run a number of scenarios and tall tales she could tell to get back into the reception hall and was surprised to find the parking lot all but empty. There was no evidence of any police or forensic unit’s presence. She parked at the back of the building by the service entrance, taken aback when she tried the employee entrance door and it opened. As the door closed behind her, she had a moment of second-guessing herself. Was it really the brightest thing to do to be wandering around a murder scene not long after it happened, especially without anyone else with her? Probably not. She glanced down at the group Jessica had created on each of their phones that would allow them to send a single text that would reach the other three. Lori grinned, the ID read ‘Mystery Writers’ Murder Club.’ She sent them a quick text telling them she’d wanted to take a little look around the scene but would meet them for dinner.
The text messaging notification alarm went off almost instantaneously, but she put her phone away without looking atit. Lori didn’t want to be rude, but she didn’t want them telling her what she already knew. This was most likely a bad idea, but some of the best adventures she’d had in her life were those that came from really bad ideas.
Walking down the shadowy halls was a bit spookier than she’d thought it might be. She was glad she’d switched to high-top sneakers with their soft and quiet soles. No click-clacking of stiletto heels on the glossy tile floor. She found herself alone in the dark reception area. No sign of anyone else here. With no windows to allow even meager light in, Lori removed her phone from her pocket and turned on the flashlight app to its lowest setting.
She made her way to the far corner of the reception hall where the door to the stairwell was located. She grabbed one of the table maps that she found sitting on the table of one of the other authors. Had the cops moved it there? The tables were still set up as if the event would start in a matter of hours. It was kind of eerie.
Lori reached the stairwell door, which had been propped open, cordoned off with crime scene tape and stepped inside, looking down at the foot of the stairs. Just like in all the police procedurals, someone had used some kind of red dye or chalk to outline the position of the body. It gave Lori goosebumps to see it there and realize that it represented Sandy’s last moment on Earth.
But why had Sandy entered the stairwell in the first place? It was an employee entrance and Sandy Parkinson only came through the front door and only when she could make a flashy entrance. Skulking around an employee entrance was definitely not her style.
Besides there was no way Sandy could have navigated those cold, hard, cement steps in her Louboutin heels. Lori had seen them earlier that morning and had a brief moment of envy—sheknew what she was wearing. There were windows on the outside wall of the stairwell. Maybe she’d stepped inside for a photo op of some kind.
She needed to talk to people who’d been closer when Sandy had tumbled down the stairs. Had anyone seen someone step out of the stairwell? She wondered if the cop in charge of the investigation might talk to her. She snorted. That was stupid. Why would he talk to her? She was just a writer, and a fiction writer at that. Maybe if she wrote true crime, but she didn’t… she wrote cozy mysteries—kind of like Agatha Christie meets Hallmark—no sex, no blood, just well-written whodunits.
Besides, hadn't Christie said that the cops would not want to discuss an ongoing investigation with anyone, least of all someone who’d been there? She really didn’t think she or her new friends were actual suspects and the cops had seemed a bit deferential to Christie, but they had pretty much ignored any of the authors who weren’t in the proximity of the stairwell at the time of Sandy’s death. Lori wrote a note to herself:what was Sandy’s TOD? Did the other authors in the proximity actually see it happen, or did they just see her body?
Standing at the top of the stairs, she felt a shiver run through her body staring at the red outline and knowing a woman had died there not too long ago. She peered over the railing looking, but at what she hadn’t a clue. Did she really think there’d be some hint of what had happened? Something the cops had missed? Maybe a big sign that said “The Assistant Did It?”
If there had been anything, the cops or Christie would have seen it, and it would have been removed. She reminded herself she wasn’t here to solve the crime; she just wanted to get a feel for the scene so she could use it in a book someday. Isn’t that what people said about writers? Everything was grist for the mill.
The empathic part of her demanded that she try to envision the scene as it might have played out. Closing her eyes, she let the scene envelop her. It was as if she could feel the violent emotions swirling all around her—the killer’s anger, Sandy’s terror. How Sandy had felt as she’d taken that fatal step over the top stair, feeling the malevolence of the person who pushed her and knowing she was about to die. The overriding terror of that moment…
“Excuse me, miss. You want to tell me what the hell you’re doing here?”
Lori yelped and felt her ankle give way as she whirled to face her attacker, her arms windmilling around her as she tried to regain her balance. Is this what had happened to Sandy? Had her killer returned to the scene? Was she about to die?
All of this flashed through her mind before the man’s hand grasped her wrist, catching her and preventing her from tumbling to her death. Well, if not her death, then at least a nasty injury.
With his other hand, the man flashed a badge and identified himself. “I’m Detective Wilder. I’m going to ask you again, what the hell do you think you’re doing here?”
“Um. I’m Lori Sykes. I’m one of the attending authors at the signing.”
“And what? You thought you’d come back to get something from your table, or maybe you thought you’d find something we missed.”
Lori fished out her notebook and pen. “So, you think a crime was committed? Murder?”
“I’m not at liberty to say anything about an ongoing investigation. Why are you snooping around?”
“I wasn’t snooping,” she said, drawing herself up. “And I’m afraid I can’t comment on my writing process, especially when I am developing a story.”
That sounded good, not great, but plausible and it beat the hell out of telling him she was here to satisfy her own morbid curiosity.
He nodded. “How about if I put you in cuffs, read you your rights, and you answer my questions downtown in our newly painted interrogation room?”
