A Justified Murder (Medlar Mystery #2)(35)

“What?” the stranger’s voice said. “It’s not like you ever have a houseful of company. You didn’t—?”

Arthur must have done something because the voice abruptly halted and they heard whispering. The only clear thing they heard was the man say, “I am dead.”

Jack looked at the women. Whoever the visitor was, they wanted nothing to do with him. He stood up and looked toward the back door.

The women silently agreed. Leave before whoever it was entered the room.

They moved quickly and were at the back door when the man rushed into the dining room. He was round and pink-faced, his skin so pale and soft he looked like a reincarnated mole. Had he ever been outside in the sunshine?

“Please don’t leave.” His eyes were begging. “I’m really, really sorry. My life is falling apart and I can’t think correctly.”

“Get in line.” Jack was referring to Tayla having said the same words.

“He’s a writer.” Sara’s tone was the same a person would use to say someone had a highly contagious, deadly disease.

“An investigative journalist,” he corrected. His tone said he was above a romance writer. He was carrying a thick envelope, which he tossed onto the dining table, then plopped down in the chair where Jack had been sitting. “I have been afflicted with a need to know all my life. I ask, I find out, I write it down. I can’t stop.” He had tears rolling down his cheeks while he began eating the food that was left on the serving platters.

Arthur was behind him, his wheeled chair half in, half out of the room. It was as though he hadn’t yet decided whether to flee or take part.

“I really am sorry,” the man said, his mouth full. He was devouring everything, cleaning plates with the gusto of a cartoon character. “I’m usually a very nice person but the internet has ruined my life.” He looked at Sara, his eyes asking her to understand.

She was by the door, flanked by Kate and Jack as though they were her bodyguards.

“You can relate to that, can’t you? Remember those divine women with their grocery carts? They’d throw books and magazines in with the chips and the chops. Bestsellers were created over bags of pork rinds. Oh! It was a glorious time. But now what? Somebody shoots people and within hours everything is on the internet. For free. By the time a real writer gets an in-depth story out there it’s old news. Who wants to read about it?”

“Retire.” There was no sympathy in Sara’s voice as she put her hand on the doorknob.

The man acted like he hadn’t heard her. “I had an idea to dredge up some old cases and solve them, then maybe someone would listen to me. I got some good publicity but it was all on tiny local shows. GMA is too busy touting the latest shoe sales to talk to writers.” He was eating so much so fast that it was falling down his chin.

Sara gave Kate and Jack a look of I’ve had enough and turned the knob.

“If Janet Beeson hadn’t given me hope, I would have taken that job my ex-father-in-law offered me. Writing sales catalogs for his three furniture stores. Just because I know it’s from its doesn’t mean I—” He stopped at the looks on their faces.

Jack, Sara and Kate had frozen in place, their eyes wide.

“Oh, I see. You didn’t know that I knew about her, did you?” He pushed the last empty plate away. “I think I better go to Sheriff Flynn and tell him what I know. I’m sure the authorities will be able to handle it.” The man got up and turned toward the front door.

The three were blinking at him, unable to move.

Arthur deftly wheeled his chair so the doorway was blocked. “Cut out the dramatics or I’ll call Soggy Drawers Flynn and tell him you know all about the murder of Janet Beeson. Wanna pay a lawyer to defend you? Three hundred bucks an hour?”

“Murder?” he whispered and the pink color drained from his face. He turned to the trio by the back door. “I apologize deeply for the crack I made about romance writers. But my future success rested on Janet Beeson and when...when I heard that she’d killed herself, I lost it. And now murder?” He looked at Arthur. “Do you have any water? Everything is sticking in my throat.”

“Throat of a pelican,” Arthur muttered as he went to the kitchen. “Eats everything. Hope my plates are intact.”

The four of them were staring at one another. To the left was Arthur’s living room, the furniture set wide apart to make room for his chair. No one wanted to make the first move.

Arthur came back, shoved a glass of water at the man, then went into the living room. He positioned his chair into a place made for it, across from a couch, a big chair to his side.

Everyone seemed to know where to sit. The three were close together on the sofa, the man alone in the chair. “I’m Everett Gage,” he said with pride, then waited for some recognition, but they didn’t react. “I wrote about D.B. Cooper and the Unabomber.”

“So did everyone else.” Sara’s look was not friendly. “Even some romance writers.”

“I deserved that,” Everett said. “Okay, so I didn’t do anything unique or even different, but back then...” He looked sad.

Sara relented. “I know. They bought whatever you wrote. Oh, those beautiful women spending hours in one of the many bookstores.”

“And the airports! They used to read on the flights. Now even the cheap seats show movies.”