“I wouldn’t call it a slew,” Melanie Joan said.
“Right?” I said. “It was Book Babe. It washer own self. Leila Donnelly was the slew.”
“She’s since gone on to publish six more blockbuster books,” Greg said. “Leila Donnelly lived out a real-life ‘happily ever after’ that was tragically cut short yesterday when she was murdered in her own home. Leila is survived by her mother, Marianne Donnelly; her son, Tommy; and, of course, her many, many fans.”
“Marianne,” I whispered.
“What?” said Melanie Joan.
“Nothing.”
As Greg Scepter opened it up to questions, I angled my body away from hers and searched Instagram for Marianne Donnelly. I found a few accounts, but none really caught my eye. I tried “Mary Anne” and was equally unimpressed. I gave “Mary Ann” a try. Same thing.
On-screen, Scepter was telling a reporter that if he wanted details on Leila’s murder, he should ask the State Police. “I don’t want to misspeak,” he said. “I do that sometimes.”
“He does that all the time,” Melanie Joan said. “Because he never pays attention to people.” It made me think.
I tried “Marion Donnelly.” One of them stood out. The profile pic was of a thin sixtysomething woman, posing with a little boy around Tommy’s age. Her bio simply said “Mimi,” and she’d posted only a few pictures—a cat, scenery that may or may not have been the Connecticut countryside, and that same little boy as a baby. She had a total of fifty-nine followers. I took a closer look at the one picture of Marion. She wore a sleeveless blouse and had delicate features and short salt-and-pepper hair. There could have been a family resemblance (that was always hard to tell). But what made me hopeful was the tattoo on this Marion Donnelly’s left arm—a pink-and-white flower. It was identical to Leila’s.
I sent her a direct message from my account, sharing my full name and phone number and the fact that I was investigating Leila Donnelly’s murder.If this is the correct Marion Donnelly, I offer you my deepest condolences, I wrote.There is nothing in the world more difficult than losing a child, and I’m sure you share my desire to see Leila’s REAL killer brought to justice.I wondered if Marion would take me seriously. My Instagram account was called RosieRandall and featured pictures of my dog wearing various jackets and hats. But since it was my only social media, it would have to suffice.
On the screen, an overly enthusiastic podcaster type wasasking Greg Scepter ifThe Prince and the Peachwould still be released.
“Yes, right on schedule,” he said. “And fortunately, Leila has left us with three additional manuscripts, which we intend to publish over the next three years.”
Greg then asked if anyone had any more questions. I felt like I knew what was coming. I hoped I was wrong.
A reporter from CNN asked, “Any truth to the rumor that Melanie Joan Hall is suspected of Leila Donnelly’s murder?”
And there it is.
Greg nodded thoughtfully, taking his time before he spoke. “I believe in our judicial system, and I believe that the truth will come out,” he said. “But I can state now that Melanie Joan Hall is no longer with Scepter. Publication of her memoir,Stronger Alone, has been canceled indefinitely. We wish her peace. And we are hopeful she will listen to her conscience.”
I stole a glance at Melanie Joan. She looked as though someone had punched her in the gut.No wonder she hates Greg Scepter so much,I thought. It was bad enough he’d dumped her without even so much as a discussion first. Tacitly accusing her of murder in front of a roomful of reporters was a whole new low. I checked my Instagram for a reply from Marion Donnelly. Nothing.
“Canceled indefinitely,” I said. “I can’t figure out whether that’s an oxymoron or just redundant.”
“I’d say redundant,” Charles said.
“But aren’t cancellations definite? How do you cancel something indefinitely?”
“That’s true,” Charles said. “I’m going to have to think on this.”
Melanie Joan said nothing. I put a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it away.
Another reporter asked about the plot ofThe Prince and the Peach, and Greg replied with more or less the same description Melanie Joan had given. “It’ll be a real treat for her fans,” he said, segueing into more praise for Leila’s readership. “Scepter has been tagged in so many heartfelt posts about Leila, and we’ve received flowers, condolence cards, and countless phone calls,” he said. “As shy and reclusive as I knew her to be, I fully believe that Leila is somewhere out there, smiling over this tremendous outpouring of love.”
More reporters shouted questions. Greg Scepter thanked everyone and told them he needed to get back to work. The livestream ended. None of us said a word. Leila powered down her iPad and carefully returned it to her bag. I checked my DMs again. Still nothing. I turned my notifications on.
Charles moved into the front seat, put on his seatbelt, and pulled out of the parking space. As he made his way back onto the turnpike, the three of us stayed silent. Our silence continued for most of the ride. I did a lot of thinking.
Once we were entering Boston, I spoke. “When is your meeting with Rita Fiore?” I said.
“Tomorrow morning at ten,” Melanie Joan said.
“Make it sooner,” I told her. “Make it today.”
Thirty-five
