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

more question, though. Do you know who Fiona’s lawyer was?”

Nolan shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t. Lisa May might have that information. I think Fiona met with her lawyer recently. Perhaps she set up the appointment for her.”

Intrigued, I paused. “Why had Fiona met with her lawyer?”

Nolan chuckled. “Are you sure you’re a librarian and not a reporter?”

Undaunted, I grinned. “Librarians are naturally curious as well.”

“I’m not sure, but I think she wanted to discuss the property her uncle had left her.” He frowned. “Now that I think about it, she’d said Willy Pelt had wanted to buy the property from her. In fact, he’d made a bid, but he was lowballing her, so she refused to sell.”

I froze. Willy had told me Fiona had willed the property to him. I made an effort to appear nonchalant. “This conversation, was it recent?”

“I think so.” Nolan circled his desk. “Within a couple of weeks or so.”

Spence stepped aside from his chair, clearing a path for me to the door. “How did Willy react to Fiona not selling her property to him?”

Nolan arched an eyebrow. “Fiona implied he was not happy. I had the impression they’d exchanged some rather heated words.”

I doubted that after those heated words, Fiona had willed her property to him. Willy had lied to me. Why?

Chapter 22

“Aren’t those women members of Fiona’s writers group?” I pointed through the windshield of Spence’s hatchback toward the two middle-aged women walking across the library parking lot Thursday afternoon.

“Yes, they are.” Spence had driven me back to the library after our very informative meeting with Nolan.

I’d declined his invitation to lunch, requesting a rain check instead. I needed to work through lunch if I had a prayer of getting caught up on my projects. With myriad distractions from this investigation, I hadn’t gotten as much work done as I’d planned.

“I need to talk with them.” I searched my memory for their names. “I’ve been meaning to ask them about Fiona’s writing style.”

“Her writing style?” Spence pulled up at the curb a few yards away from the library’s entrance. “I thought you’d finished her book.”

“Yes, and that was helpful.” I tracked the women’s progress across the parking lot toward the library. “But it’s just one story. I’m hoping they can tell me about some of her unpublished work. I can’t remember their names, though.” I’d been so focused on trying to recall the writers’ names that I hadn’t noticed Spence getting out of the car. When he pulled open the passenger door, I jumped. “Smooth move, Mr. Holt.” I laughed as he handed me out of the car.

“You’re welcome, Ms. Harris.” Spence closed the passenger side door. “Dolly Byrd is the blonde. Tammy Hawkins is the brunette.”

“You’re the best. Thank you.” I drew my hand from his.

He shoved his hands into his pants’ front pockets. “Do you want me to talk with Ms. Dolly and Ms. Tammy with you?”

“No, thank you. I want this to be an informal chat. If you’re there, they might curtsy.” I gave him a teasing grin.

“Very funny.” His tone was dry, but I detected a blush stealing up his neck.

“Thanks again for coming with me to speak with Nolan. You were a great help.”

“We’re partners in this investigation. Remember?” He glanced at his wristwatch. “I’d better get back to the paper. Let me know if you get any good information from Ms. Dolly and Ms. Tammy.”

“I will. Drive safely.” I watched him climb back into his car and pull away from the curb before I entered the library.

It didn’t take long to find Dolly and Tammy. The building wasn’t that big. The two women were in the romance section. That’s what Zelda had told me they wrote.

“Dolly. Tammy. It’s good to see you again.” I strode up to them as casually as I could manage. “I don’t know if you remember meeting me Saturday. I’m Marvey Harris, the library’s new director of community engagement.”

Dolly turned to me with huge blue eyes that dominated her round, porcelain face. “I remember meeting you, Ms. Marvey. And it’s so good to see you again too.”

Tammy adjusted her black-rimmed glasses. “Yes, how are you, Ms. Marvey?”

“Please, call me Marvey.” I folded my hands in front of my hips. “A better question is how are you ladies holding up? I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” Dolly had a habit of ending her sentences as though she was asking a question. I had to resist the urge to answer.

Tammy clutched her library books to her chest with both arms. “We weren’t especially close to Fiona. Still, it’s a shock that something like this can happen to someone you know, especially in a town as quiet as Peach Coast.”

“I agree. It’s just a shock.” Dolly’s head bob sent her pale blond hair swinging above her slim shoulders. “We were her critique partners but, like Tammy said, we didn’t spend much time with her. We just got together to discuss our writing.”

I glanced at the shelves of romance novels surrounding us. “You both critiqued manuscripts with Fiona? But Fiona wrote mysteries. I thought you wrote romance.”

“Well, at first Fiona wrote romances too. Contemporary romance.” Dolly sounded like she was asking me rather than telling me. I was tempted to respond, I don’t know.

Tammy released her books long enough to tuck her hair behind her right ear. “They were really good. Fiona was a big believer in writing what you know, and you could tell by the stories she wrote.”

“That’s right.” Dolly waved her hands. Her sparkly pale pink nail polish caught my attention. “All her stories were set in small towns. And she wrote a couple of stories about women who’d moved to a new town and fallen in love with one of its wealthy residents.”

Tammy tightened her hold on her books. “Well, you can see how that’s like her and Buddy Hayes.”

“Yes, I see the similarity.” And it made sense. Successful novelists often advised aspiring authors to write stories about what