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“I would ask that you not leave town, Ms. Fowler,” said Rafferty.
“Are you serious?” asked Fiona, incredulously.
“As a heart attack,” Rafferty assured her.
Fiona left with Christie, wondering exactly what the hell she was going to do. Obviously, Rafferty wasn’t satisfied with her explanation of her whereabouts. Perhaps it was time the Mystery Writers’ Murder Club turned its hand to solving an open case as opposed to a cold one.
CHAPTER7
FIONA
Christie and Fiona walked back to her loft. Fiona noticed that instead of people waving to her as they normally did, they ducked their heads the other way and brushed past her as quickly as possible or crossed the street. The third time it happened, Fiona felt herself clench.
News sure spread quickly.
“It’ll be okay, Fi. People don’t mean anything by it, and it’s really more about them than it is about you. They don’t know what to say, and they’re afraid that they’ll say the wrong thing, so they avoid saying anything at all.”
Christie always seemed to know what to say, as did Jessica and Lori. Fiona wished it was a trait she shared with them.
“I understand, and who knows? If the situation were reversed, I might well do the same thing.”
“Never happen,” said Christie. “You are one of the kindest people I know. You’d be more inclined to bake them brownies.”
Christie wasn’t wrong. They headed up to Fiona’s loft. Lori had declared it her ‘artist’s loft,’ as opposed to her apartment over her bookstore because she was too broke to have a second place, which was far more accurate. Although she did have to admit reframing how she thought of it was more inspirational.
They made dinner, drank way too much wine, and completely avoided any and all mention of what had happened earlier in the day until they were leaving. Fiona didn’t bring up the idea that perhaps they should try and solve the murder. It probably wasn’t a good idea for them to meddle in an ongoing investigation.
At the door, Jessica stopped and said, “I’ll talk to Thorn and see if he can find out anything. I don’t know that he can.”
“I don’t want him placed in a compromising position,” said Fiona.
“Why not? I love it when I get him in one,” Jessica laughed.
Fiona had grinned and sent her friends on their merry way. Knowing she was too keyed up to go to sleep, Fiona sat down at her laptop and started to type. Poor John Bartleby needed to die so that Freya could once again solve the case. Where was Freya when she really needed her?
The following morning, Fiona decided after only a few hours of sleep that she would treat herself to breakfast at a local diner, The Clam Shell. All of the food was served on dishes made to resemble the interior of a clam shell. It was kind of kitschy, but the food was good. As she opened the door, people looked up and then quickly looked away. There were no available tables and instead of inviting her to join their smaller groups, as they might have done the day before, people looked away.
Taking a deep breath, Fiona reminded herself of Christie’s wise words the day before and tried to brush off the hurt she felt. These people knew her, for god’s sake; did they really believe she could have done that to someone? When the waitress behind the counter had trouble looking her in the eye, Fiona decided maybe she’d take her food and go back to the bookstore. She had some inventory that needed seeing to.
“Hey, Jenny,” she called to the waitress, “how about you package that up, and I’ll take it with me. I have some stuff to do in the store and a looming deadline.”
Jenny nodded instead of speaking, which was ridiculous—Jenny loved to talk. In fact, she’d talk your ear off if you weren’t careful. Once the food was ready, Fiona paid her bill and headed back to the bookstore, trying hard to keep the tears from streaming down her face. Once inside, she locked the door behind her and took her breakfast into the small office nook behind the counter. She allowed herself one good burst of tears, and then wiped away the traces, ate her breakfast, fixed her makeup, outlined her next chapter, and got the store ready to open.
She opened the store on time and then went back to her nook to write. Normally the mornings of the weekdays were somewhat slower than the rest of the day, and she could get some writing done. But this morning seemed to creep by and passed uncharacteristically quietly. No one came to window shop or even bum a free cup of coffee and a homemade muffin. The charming, antique bell over the door didn’t ring once. No one stopped by to shop or to have a cup of coffee. Even the postman avoided her door.
It would seem everyone had heard about her arrest the day before and that this knowledge was having serious consequences for her business and her life here in Angel’s Rise. Her pseudo-arrest was apparently far more important in people’s minds than her release without charge. There were no two ways about it, she was going to need to clear her name, and she wasn’t inclined to wait until Detective Rafferty did the deed.
Her reputation already having taken a severe hit, she called Christie, not just to vent but to sound her out about how to proceed. After all, Christie had been a homicide detective for many years.
“Christie? It’s Fiona.”
“Things not going well?”
Leave it to Christie to get right to the heart of the matter.
“They’re even less subtle today than they were yesterday. I’m afraid if I don’t do something they’ll be looking to burn me at the stake.”
“No way,” said Christie, “that was for witches and heretics. They’ll be coming for you either with tar and feathers or a rope.”
