“So, she got under your skin, huh?”
Faulkner grimaced. “Grace was hardly a favorite of mine, but I knew she wouldn’t let me down.”
“Until last night,” Biddle said and ceased taking notes. “So you never got the manuscript?”
“No.” Faulkner scooted forward in the chair, peering anxiously at the sheriff. “Would you happen to know where it is? If you wouldn’t mind, Sheriff, I’d like to get a hold of it as soon as possible. There’s such a hot market for nonfiction right now that the prime window for publication is sooner rather than later.”
Not to mention the press that publishing a book by a murdered author might get, Biddle thought but kept to himself.
“No, I don’t have the manuscript in my possession,” the sheriff admitted. “But I imagine it’ll turn up shortly.”
“If the physical copy is missing, could you let me know if you uncover an electronic file?” Faulkner said. “Grace was afraid of being hacked, so it probably isn’t on a hard drive. If it’s been saved to a portable drive, I’ll be happy to take that off your hands. With digital publishing, we could get the thing out next month if we worked fast.”
“And I’ll bet it’ll go a lot faster without Grace around to get in your hair, won’t it?” Biddle asked.
Faulkner flashed an anxious smile. “Harold, please.”
“Won’t it, Harold?”
Faulkner wiped his palms on his trousers. “Well, I don’t think I’d put it as crudely as that, Sheriff, no.” He glanced at his clunky wristwatch and grimaced. “Are you done with me, then? I need to get moving.”
Frank set down his pencil. “You can go, Mr. Faulk—Harold,” he said. “But I may need to get in touch with you again.”
“No problem.” Faulkner reached inside his jacket and withdrew a business card. “I’d like to help in any way I can. What a shock this all is. Grace being killed on the cusp of her big break.” He sighed and pressed his fingers to his brow. “No doubt I’ll have to issue some kind of press release about the matter.”
“No doubt,” Frank said, not hiding his sarcasm.
“Good-bye, Sheriff.” Faulkner rose and extended a hand. Biddle rolled to his feet and reached across the desk. The man’s palm was damp, the handshake blissfully brief.
Frank nodded. “Drive safe.”
When Faulkner was gone, the sheriff leaned back in his old leather chair, wondering just how much publicity the little known Faulkner Press would gain by using Grace’s murder to promote her forthcoming book.
Chapter 11
H ELEN TIPTOED UP the stairs, wincing as each step released a protesting creak. She paused at the top of the banister and let her eyes adjust to the dim. She’d given Nancy a cup of Sleepytime tea and had tucked her into the double bed set under the eaves in the converted attic. When Joe had retired, he’d done most of the work up there himself, while Helen had polished the old wood floors, sewn curtains for the windows, and made the patchwork quilt for the bed.
When Joe had passed three years before, she’d been grateful for the extra room. In the weeks that had followed, Helen had found it helpful having others in the house. She’d been so used to hearing another voice, a pair of footsteps besides her own, or water running. But she’d gradually grown accustomed to being on her own, and she enjoyed the time to herself. She could do whatever she wanted to do, watch the TV shows she wanted to watch, eat whatever she wanted to eat. There was something to be said for not having to run on someone else’s itinerary.
And she wasn’t actually ever alone, not with Amber in the house. Though he might have four furry feet instead of two human ones, he held up his end of a conversation better than some townsfolk.
Helen heard a gentle moan come from the bed.
“Nancy?” she whispered.
But the lump beneath the bedclothes didn’t stir.
It was nearly noon. Nancy had been asleep for hours already.
How exhausted she must be,
Faulkner grimaced. “Grace was hardly a favorite of mine, but I knew she wouldn’t let me down.”
“Until last night,” Biddle said and ceased taking notes. “So you never got the manuscript?”
“No.” Faulkner scooted forward in the chair, peering anxiously at the sheriff. “Would you happen to know where it is? If you wouldn’t mind, Sheriff, I’d like to get a hold of it as soon as possible. There’s such a hot market for nonfiction right now that the prime window for publication is sooner rather than later.”
Not to mention the press that publishing a book by a murdered author might get, Biddle thought but kept to himself.
“No, I don’t have the manuscript in my possession,” the sheriff admitted. “But I imagine it’ll turn up shortly.”
“If the physical copy is missing, could you let me know if you uncover an electronic file?” Faulkner said. “Grace was afraid of being hacked, so it probably isn’t on a hard drive. If it’s been saved to a portable drive, I’ll be happy to take that off your hands. With digital publishing, we could get the thing out next month if we worked fast.”
“And I’ll bet it’ll go a lot faster without Grace around to get in your hair, won’t it?” Biddle asked.
Faulkner flashed an anxious smile. “Harold, please.”
“Won’t it, Harold?”
Faulkner wiped his palms on his trousers. “Well, I don’t think I’d put it as crudely as that, Sheriff, no.” He glanced at his clunky wristwatch and grimaced. “Are you done with me, then? I need to get moving.”
Frank set down his pencil. “You can go, Mr. Faulk—Harold,” he said. “But I may need to get in touch with you again.”
“No problem.” Faulkner reached inside his jacket and withdrew a business card. “I’d like to help in any way I can. What a shock this all is. Grace being killed on the cusp of her big break.” He sighed and pressed his fingers to his brow. “No doubt I’ll have to issue some kind of press release about the matter.”
“No doubt,” Frank said, not hiding his sarcasm.
“Good-bye, Sheriff.” Faulkner rose and extended a hand. Biddle rolled to his feet and reached across the desk. The man’s palm was damp, the handshake blissfully brief.
Frank nodded. “Drive safe.”
When Faulkner was gone, the sheriff leaned back in his old leather chair, wondering just how much publicity the little known Faulkner Press would gain by using Grace’s murder to promote her forthcoming book.
Chapter 11
H ELEN TIPTOED UP the stairs, wincing as each step released a protesting creak. She paused at the top of the banister and let her eyes adjust to the dim. She’d given Nancy a cup of Sleepytime tea and had tucked her into the double bed set under the eaves in the converted attic. When Joe had retired, he’d done most of the work up there himself, while Helen had polished the old wood floors, sewn curtains for the windows, and made the patchwork quilt for the bed.
When Joe had passed three years before, she’d been grateful for the extra room. In the weeks that had followed, Helen had found it helpful having others in the house. She’d been so used to hearing another voice, a pair of footsteps besides her own, or water running. But she’d gradually grown accustomed to being on her own, and she enjoyed the time to herself. She could do whatever she wanted to do, watch the TV shows she wanted to watch, eat whatever she wanted to eat. There was something to be said for not having to run on someone else’s itinerary.
And she wasn’t actually ever alone, not with Amber in the house. Though he might have four furry feet instead of two human ones, he held up his end of a conversation better than some townsfolk.
Helen heard a gentle moan come from the bed.
“Nancy?” she whispered.
But the lump beneath the bedclothes didn’t stir.
It was nearly noon. Nancy had been asleep for hours already.
How exhausted she must be,
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