Murder by Page One by Olivia Matthews (read aloud txt) 📗

my empty glass, I padded barefoot into the kitchen for a refill of water.

Although I’d only been reading the mystery for two days, I already was more than halfway through it. Fiona’s story was indeed a page turner. She’d built a world of diverse characters, each creepier than the last. The protagonist was empathetic. The villainous ex-wife was thoroughly unlikeable.

After adding fresh ice and refilling my water glass, I returned to the living room. Phoenix had taken my spot, stretching out on the sofa. He tracked my progress as I re-entered the room. This wasn’t the first time he’d displaced me. Without missing a beat, I settled onto the opposite end of the cloth sofa. I could feel him staring at me as I drank my water.

I glanced up and met his glare. “Why are you looking at me as though I’ve asked you for money?”

He didn’t bother to explain himself. Instead he continued to track my movements.

“I understand why Fiona was getting such rave reviews for her book. And she was deserving of every word. Snappy dialogue. Tight pacing. Lots of tension.”

I showed Phoenix the cover. The title was set in big, bold silver type at the top. Fiona’s name appeared below in similar but smaller type. The image was a cozy cottage home at night. “What do you think? Do the house and scenery remind you of Peach Coast? The fictional town in her book is Peachberry Corners.”

As a neighbor, I mourned Fiona’s death because of what her murder meant to the community. As a reader, I grieved the loss of all the great stories she could’ve written for the world.

“The question, Phoenix, is how close is this story to Fiona’s own experiences?”

Phoenix rose to his paws. He crossed the width of the sofa, then curled down onto my lap in the space between the book and my torso. I kissed the top of his furry head.

“In this story, the protagonist suspects her husband’s first wife of killing her husband and making it look like a heart attack.” Not wanting to unduly alarm Phoenix, I kept my voice low and soothing. “In real life, Buddy’s death was ruled to have been caused by an acute myocardial infarction. A heart attack. According to the other librarians and Spence, neither Betty nor Fiona was ever accused of killing Buddy, although Betty did her best to cast suspicion on Fiona. Spence should know. His newspaper did several articles on Buddy’s death. The deputies never suspected foul play, but Betty did.”

I stroked the bridge of Phoenix’s nose. His purr was long and low. I slipped my bookmark in between the pages of Fiona’s book to mark my place. Continuing to pet Phoenix, I rose to my feet to pace between the living and dining rooms.

“Question—does Fiona really believe Betty could’ve poisoned Buddy and made it look like a heart attack?” I meandered between the two downstairs rooms. “Or was the book simply a way for Fiona to get even with Betty for the rumors she’d spread?”

Deep in thought, I paced for a while with only Phoenix’s purrs breaking the silence. The lingering scent of my after-work lemon-orange herbal tea soothed me. My steps carried me past my two floor-to-ceiling built-in white wood bookcases. A series of framed photographs of my family and friends crowded the mantel above my black-and-white fireplace.

“Betty and Bobby claim they haven’t read Fiona’s book.” I kept walking and talking although I sensed him nodding off in my arms. He was an exceptionally good listener, even on his worst days. “But they wouldn’t have to read the whole book. The review in the Crier and the book’s description on the back cover gives readers enough information to know what the book’s about.”

I settled carefully back onto the sofa, aware of Phoenix resting drowsily in my arms. “But why did Fiona write this story? Was it payback for Betty smearing her reputation with vicious gossip? Or did she truly suspect Betty of killing Buddy?”

Anna May’s hot pink T-shirt this Thursday morning read Coffee: A Friend for Life. “Your usual, Marvey?”

“Yes, please, Anna May, with two slices of your delicious peach cobbler to go.”

The sounds of my low-heeled navy pumps against the hardwood flooring were muted beneath the laughter and chatter of friends meeting for coffees and cakes. My progress to the customer counter was slow as I stopped to return cheerful greetings from the other regulars. The air was redolent with the sweet scents of pastries and flavored coffees.

It was one of the rare mornings in which I’d driven to work. Rather than staying late at the library, tonight I planned to take files home in an effort to get caught up—perhaps even get ahead?—with my projects. Hope springs eternal.

“Marvey, why did you have to go and tell me about that crime fiction series?” The question carried across the room from Ned the bike shop owner. “Now you know I’m hooked, and I’m already busier than a moth in a mitten. I don’t have time to be readin’.”

I gave him my best librarian’s smile. “There’s always time to read a good book, Ned. And if you’re tight on time, watch less baseball.”

The café erupted into gales of laughter. Non-sports fans teased the groaning baseball fans. Anna May looked on with near-maternal pleasure.

I stopped at the counter, adjusted my American Library Association canvas tote, and offered exact change for my purchase. “How’s your week treating you, Anna May?”

“I can’t complain. Thanks, Marvey. And how’s yours?” She took my cash and turned it into a receipt.

“About the same. Pretty busy.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t be so busy if you weren’t going around town, saying Betty and her boy killed Fiona.” The voice that joined our conversation had not been invited.

The temperature in the café dropped suddenly and drastically as I turned to greet Delores. “I wish you’d stop saying that, Delores, because it’s not true.”

“What are you talking about, Dee?” Anna May sounded irritated and confused.

I surreptitiously surveyed the dining area