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He can’t be dead.
That’s impossible.
Christina’s keening wail pierced my ears.
“Huuuuuuugh, noooooooo!”
Okay, I guess he’s dead.
I moved in front of Hugh’s body. I couldn’t see any more than his outline with the bright fire all around, but the fact that he wasn’t moving or sneering at me made it pretty clear that he’d expired. There was a stillness to the scene that was profoundly eerie and all too familiar.
I had encountered enough dead bodies that I could taste the presence of death in the air.
I swallowed.This can’t be happening.
This was supposed to be my holiday from Nevermore Bookshop and Argleton and all the strange and kooky goings-on there. I wasn’t supposed to encounter a dead body. Especially not of the publisher who I’d wanted to impress.
“He’s dead, he’s dead!” Christina wailed, running around like a chicken without its head.
“There’s no reason for us to panic,” I said, reaching out a hand to her. “It’s very sad, but Hugh must’ve had a heart attack or another medical emergency. We might not have heard him cry out over the storm—”
“This is no heart attack,” Charlie Doyle’s voice wavered as he bent to inspect the body. “And that’s why you need a copper with years of experience to write good crime fiction. I could tell from just a glimpse that we’re looking at a murder.”
“We canalltell that, Charlie,” Killian huffed. “Hugh’s been stabbed in the throat with his own fountain pen.”
CHAPTERSIXTEEN
“He’s been murdered,” I whispered, half to Jonathan, half to myself.
Another murder.
“Noooooooo!” Christina cried. “Huuuuugh, why must someone so talented be taken from us so soon?”
“Come off it,” Killian snapped. “No one’s buying your fake empathy.”
I bent down to stare across Hugh’s throat into the fire. I hadn’t noticed it before, but from this position, the silhouette of the long pen was visible. I was thankful that I didn’t have to look closely at the blood. I wished my friend Jo was here. She’d immediately see all kinds of clues that I couldn’t understand.
“Murdered?” Jonathan’s voice turned incredulous. “This is no time for stories. I’ve got my work cut out for me getting the generators working and checking on all the guests. I don’t have time for no jokes—”
“It’s no story, Jonathan.” I took his arm and turned him in the direction of the fireplace. “That pen didn’t get there by accident.”
Jonathan lifted his flashlight. His breath came out in a low wheeze. “You’re right, lassie. No one could have done that accidentally.”
“We have to call the police.” My mind whirred through the events of the evening. “We need to get out of here and secure the scene. We have to tell them that someone in this room is a murderer.”
“But that’s absurd!” Vivianne gasped.
“Well, he didn’t stab herself in the throat,” Charlie said, grabbing the flashlight from Jonathan. I watched his silhouette bend over Hugh again, inspecting the body before moving outward to the rest of the scene. “Even if he’d wanted to do something so stupid, the angle is all wrong. And this blood splatter here—”
“Blood splatter analysis is notoriously unreliable.” I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t like Charlie taking over from me. He wasn’t a detective anymore, and he had a business relationship with Hugh, which meant that he wasn’t exactly impartial. “You need to step back. We can’t risk contaminating the evidence, especially given the circumstances. We all need to exit this room and wait for the police to get here.”
“I just tried them,” Donna said. The light from her phone screen danced in the gloom. “But I can’t get a call to connect. My phone has no reception.”
I heard a beeping noise behind me. Killian said in a strangled voice, “Mine’s out, too.”
“I’ll try the house landline—”
“No good, Donna, I’m afraid. It’s down, too. Ain’t no one’s getting through in this weather,” Jonathan said. “In fact, no one’s going anywhere, either. We’re completely cut off. The coppers will have to wait until the rains recede.”
