I leaned against one of the bedposts. “No shortage of that in this house. Although I’m afraid this room is all children’s books.”
“No problem. I see a lot of classics I wouldn’t mind reading again.” Scott ran his fingers over a section of the old books, stopping at a volume bound in sage-green leather embossed with gold accents. “Treasure Island. Just the thing.”
“That’s right—you’re writing about pirates, aren’t you?”
Scott cast me an amused glance. “The historical ones, of course. Not the fanciful type. Although the real ones were as colorful in their own way as old Long John Silver.”
“I suppose you’ve already investigated the famous cemetery in town.”
“The Old Burying Ground? Yes, I did that early on. Fascinating how much history is captured in those gravestones.”
“But sad too. That poor little girl buried in the rum cask …” As exhaustion swept over me like an ocean wave, I tightened my grip on the bedpost. “It’s sweet how people still keep decorating her grave, though.”
“If only she’d made it back here alive, think who her descendants could’ve been.” Scott’s smile turned bittersweet. “It’s funny how things turn out sometimes. I guess no one really knows how long they have on this earth.”
“You’re thinking of Lincoln Delamont.” I shook my head. “I’m sure he didn’t see his death coming.”
“Probably not, but”—Scott rubbed his forehead with one hand—“maybe it wasn’t as much of a shock as you think.”
Releasing my hold on the bedpost, I crossed to a nearby wooden rocking chair. “What do you mean?” I asked as I sank down onto the hard seat.
“Just that Delamont may have had any number of enemies, judging by his business practices.” Scott strode across the room,grabbing a bright-blue-painted chair and setting it down so he could face me. “He was a bit of a crook, if you ask me.”
“Oh? I didn’t know you were acquainted with him before this weekend.”
“I wasn’t. But my father had some dealings with him. Unfortunately, as it turned out.” Scott rapped his knuckles against the wooden armrest on his chair before adding, “You wouldn’t have connected the dots, because my dad wrote under a pseudonym. You may have heard of him—Nathan Caine?”
I studied Scott’s face, which had lost its usual cheeriness. “The novelist?”
“Yes, the famous Nathan Caine.” Scott’s smile was wide but his lips had thinned, giving his expression a pained look. “Best-selling thriller writer, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“Nathan Caine was your dad? Really?” I tried, and failed, to keep the awe out of my tone. Of course I’d heard of Nathan Caine. Everyone had. He was one of the handful of authors known by everyone, even people who’d never picked up a book. His thrillers had been adapted into numerous films and television shows.
“Really and truly. Which is one of the reasons I chose to write nonfiction. Even though he used a pen name, his real name was common knowledge among editors and publishers.” Scott offered me a lopsided smile. “I didn’t want to compete, you see.”
“I understand. But what did your father have to do with Lincoln Delamont?”
“Dad liked to collect rare books now and then. He had the money, so why not?” Scott shrugged. “Anyway, he had some items he wanted to sell a few years back. Pretty rare stuff, so hethought he could get a good price for them. Unfortunately, based on some bad advice he got from a friend, he used Delamont as a broker. The books were sold, all right, but Dad soon found out he’d received far too little for them. Much less than they were worth.”
“And you think Lincoln Delamont cheated him.” Influenced by Scott’s expression, I didn’t frame this as a question.
“Yes, and so did Dad, once he talked to other people who were knowledgeable about rare books.” Scott slumped in his chair, lowering his head so that I couldn’t see his eyes. “Dad didn’t take it well. He was very proud of his savvy and intelligence and never wanted to appear the fool. When Lincoln Delamont was able to dupe him, it hit him hard. I think it may have even contributed to his death.” Scott sat up with a jerk of his shoulders, as if shaking off a chill. “Dad died of a heart attack, which was probably due to decades of smoking, even though he’d quit a few years before his death. I don’t suppose I should attribute that to Lincoln Delamont’s shady behavior, but I still think Dad’s anger over Delamont’s graft didn’t help matters.”
I slid my fingers along the smooth surface of my chair arm. “It does shine a light on Lincoln’s personality. From everything I’ve heard, it seems like he wasn’t the most honest individual.”
“No, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t.” Scott stood up. “But this has been a terrible day for you, and here I am, bending your ear with my own problems. Sorry about that.”
I rose to face him. “Don’t worry about it. I know you must be exhausted as well. Being the one to find the body and all.”
As I turned to go, I couldn’t help but ponder Scott’s words. If he truly thought Lincoln’s actions had contributed to his dad’sdeath, that was more than just proof of the bookdealer’s thievery.
It also gave Scott a motive.
As much of a motive as Alicia, or Julie, or Jennifer.I tossed off a swift “Good night” and fled the room.
Halting my headlong flight halfway down the stairs, I gripped the handrail and considered my situation with a clearer head. Yes, several possible killers could be sleeping beneath my roof, but if anyone now staying at Chapters had murdered Lincoln, their motives had nothing to do with me. As long as I didn’t pose a threat by voicing my suspicions, I should remain safe.
I descended the remaining stairs and locked up the house.It’s strange, I thought, as I headed into my private suite.Before today, I would never have imagined staying so close to anyone I suspected of murder. But now look at me—acting like everything is normal; not concerned that I could be sleeping in the same house as a killer.
