It was like an old sci-fi show when someone depressurized the airlock: I could almost hear the hiss of oxygen being sucked out of the room. Pippi’s face went pale, and then bright spots of color rose in her cheeks.
“I’m joking, I’m joking,” Marshall said. “It’s a real privilege to spend twelve hours traveling and end up sitting next to someone whose last book didn’t sell enough copies to pay for a cup of coffee. Have you read—” He reached for the mic, and when it touched it, feedback screeched. He fumbled with the mic for a moment, and when the feedback stopped, he said, “Have you read her stuff? It’s great. It’s really inspiring. You don’t see people like that anymore—people who don’t let zero talent and even less common sense stop them.”
Around me, the audience seemed to have gotten over their shock and was beginning to react. I remembered, when I’d first arrived in Hastings Rock, how many people had come to Pippi’s reading. People had turned out in droves, and they’d come with bags of books for her to sign—and tonight was no exception. Althea and Bliss Wilson, off to one side of the room, shifted in their seats, murmuring their disapproval. Cyd Wofford was clutching a well-read copy of Tumble Trouble, his jaw set. A little farther down our row, Mr. Cheek, in a zebra-stripe blazer and patent leather heels, bared his teeth at Marshall and hissed his displeasure. Mrs. Shufflebottom, for her part, stood at the edge of the stage, clutching her cardigan at her throat, her face so white I thought she might faint.
“He’s going to start a riot,” Indira murmured.
“Why is he being so mean?” Millie asked.
Pippi, for her part, wore a rigid, meaningless smile. I remembered, the last time I’d been at one of her readings, how quick she’d been on her feet. She certainly hadn’t been at a loss for things to say, and so it seemed strange for her to sit there, weathering Marshall’s abuse. My only guess was that she still thought—hoped—he was joking, and if she played along, a good relationship with Marshall might outweigh the humiliation. Her husband, on the other hand, looked furious—from my interactions with Stephen, I’d always thought he had as much personality as sofa stuffing, which was probably a good balance to Pippi’s more over-the-top persona. Right then, though, his face was red, his hands were curled into fists, and he seemed to be having trouble breathing.
“Have ever read one of her books?” Marshall asked again with that leaden delivery. “You know what happens when you’re a middle-aged housewife with no life experience trying to write a book? You write book after book about middle-aged housewives with no life experience. It doesn’t matter how you dress them up; they’re all the same. You know what I mean. She’s got all these twenty-year-old cupcake bakers and booksellers and teahouse owners, but they don’t talk like twenty-year-olds, they don’t act like twenty-year-olds. They say things like ‘Oh my,’ and ‘Golly.’ They don’t message each other—they don’t even text. They call. When was the last time someone under thirty voluntarily made a phone call?”
Fox made a strange sound that it took me an instant to recognize as a laugh. I mean, I was under thirty and I did still make phone calls, but I definitely preferred to text—and that’s pretty much all Keme and Millie did. Fox and Indira, on the other hand, who were both at least twenty years older than me, did seem to call more frequently, so maybe there was something to Marshall’s point.
“Mr. Crowe,” Mrs. Shufflebottom began in a quavering voice. “I’m going to have to insist—”
“And when they do call, do you know what they do?” Marshall swayed and caught the podium again to keep from going over. “They use a landline.” He stopped like he might laugh, but he only blinked owlishly out at the audience. “The one I read, it was set in 2015, and every other chapter they’re running home to check their voicemail.”
A boo erupted from the crowd. I twisted and spotted the lumberjack—I didn’t know his name, but I thought of him as Fox’s lumberjack, since they had an ongoing, and apparently messy, quasi-relationship. Then I caught a glimpse of Marshall’s assistant, Elodie. She must have realized that her boss had gone too far—she was pale, and I thought, for a moment, she looked like she might pass out. Then Mrs. Knight stood and booed as well, shaking a paperback of Death by Dryer at Marshall.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Althea called from her seat.
Mr. Cheek hissed again and held up his hands like claws.
“A riot might have been underselling it,” I said. “He’s going to get himself killed. Keme, let’s get everybody out of here—”
But before I could finish, the guy who had arrived with Marshall—I thought Marshall had introduced him as Hayes—jogged down the center aisle. His face was fixed in what looked like polite goodwill, and he seemed to be trying not to make eye contact with any of the angry townspeople. As he approached the stage, he said in a low voice, “Hey, Marshall, why don’t we take a break? You look like you’re not feeling so hot.”
Marshall didn’t answer, but he did look worse than ever. His skin looked gray, his lips were tinged with blue, and his eyes looked bruised and sunken. His head bobbed, as though he were listening to music the rest of us couldn’t hear.
Hayes hopped up onto the stage and, as he rose, caught Marshall’s arm. “Why don’t we get some fresh air?”
Marshall twisted away, breaking Hayes’s hold, and then planted a hand on his chest and shoved. Hayes fell backward off the stage and hit the floor hard enough that the thud carried over the audience’s angry shouts.
“Come on,” I said, touching Fox’s shoulder. “This is getting out of control—”
But before I could finish, Marshall’s eyes rolled up in his head, and he collapsed.
Silence dropped over the crowd. Everyone froze.
Hayes picked himself up at the same time that I started toward Marshall.
“We need a doctor,” I called. I caught Mrs. Shufflebottom’s eye and said, “Call 911.”
I reached Marshall at the same time as Hayes. Marshall wasn’t breathing, and when I tried to find a pulse, his skin was clammy.
Dr. Xu dropped onto her knees next to me a moment later. “Move back,” she said as she leaned over Marshall.
But a part of me knew that, no matter what she tried, it wouldn’t be enough. Because even I could tell that Marshall was already dead.
Acknowledgements
My deepest thanks go out to the following people (in alphabetical order):
Jolanta Benal, for her help proofing this manuscript, in the process teaching me that “comprised of” is not actually correct (I had no idea!), and for her excellent question about the blackmail files.
Savannah Cordle, for her tremendously insightful observations about Bobby (and how Dash sees Bobby), for her thoughts about the first chapter and the info dump, and for taking the time to share her thoughts and notes about all the wackiness these people get up to.
Winston Eisiminger, for suggesting I consider whether these books could be read as standalones, for identifying points for clarity and readability (plus the great idea of a virtual assistant called Sherpa!), and for reminding me about battery vs. assault.
Austin Gwin, for helping me with continuity (about Gerry and Fox), accuracy (trifle! the inflatable tube man!), and for the incisive observation about Dash and the potential for a trans character.
Marie Lenglet, for such close attention to the text, helping me iron out continuity errors, strengthening the prose, and making everything with the mystery and relationship tighter and more powerful.
Raj Mangat, for pointing out inconsistencies in Bobby’s behavior (some of which I hope I’ve addressed, and others which have stayed), for catching typos that slipped past everyone else, and for remembering the eight-cheese pasta!
Cheryl Oakley, for her help with my repetitions (Gerry’s beard!), for asking me to explain more about how Dash solved the mystery, and for questioning how Bobby knew about the secret passage.
Meredith Otto, for pointing out that Dash can wax poetic about almost everything except Indira’s hair, for asking about the name “Deputy Bobby,” and for urging me to be more specific at key moments.
Pepe, for his excellent idea about Millie’s spider webs at the end, for his corrections to the text, and for his question about Dash and Jen and the alternator at the end—which, unfortunately, I’ve left unasked.
Alicia Ramos, for help with repetition, repetition, repetition—oops. And for help with repetition. (Okay, and with so much else!)
Nichole Reeder, for lending her editorial eye to the prose, for all her help with the continuity, and for her excellent question about Damian at the end.
Mark Wallace, for catching those missing end marks, for helping me with my Hail Marys, and for lending his reader brain—with his insight into character-driven stories vs procedural mysteries.
Tray Stephenson, for helping me with my sport coat (s optional), for spotting my weird glitch with the coffee, and for his patience with an ending that didn’t actually resolve all that much.
And special thanks to Alyssa, Brett, Crystal, Kathleen, and Raye for catching errors in the ARC (and Alyssa, in the acknowledgments!!).
About the Author
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