A Death in Maine
As Celeste Mainwaring walked into the Puffin Suite of the Pine Tree Inn and placed her Louis Vuitton bag on the king-size canopy bed, she noticed an orchid on her pillow, a complimentary box of Godiva chocolates on the night table and a bottle of Dom Pérignon on ice atop the dresser. There was a time when these luxuries would have delighted her, but that was many years earlier.
She was no longer the girl from Flemington, New Jersey, a town most known for its courthouse, which was the site of the Trial of the Century—or at least one of them. The Flemington Courthouse, for those of you who are unfamiliar with the name, was where Bruno Richard Hauptmann was tried and convicted of kidnapping and murdering Charles Lindbergh's son back in 1935. Other than the historical significance of this event, there was little to attract visitors to modern Flemington except for its outlet stores.
After graduating high school, Celeste promptly left both Flemington and the state of New Jersey. She went to college in Pennsylvania and then got a job at an advertising firm in Manhattan. Although she gained some success in that field, she had no intention of spending her life writing ads for lipstick, diapers and bottled water.
Five years after earning her bachelor's degree in communications she authored a book that topped the bestseller list. Her debut novel was followed by eight more, six of which were made into blockbuster films. After her phenomenal success as a writer, the only time Celeste saw her home state was from the window of an airplane as she flew between her Manhattan apartment and her Los Angeles mansion.
So what, you may well wonder, was Celeste Mainwaring doing at a small country inn in rural Maine, miles from the nearest town? The answer is simple. After the acrimonious dissolution of her fifth marriage, the internationally known mystery writer wanted to get as far away from reporters and well-meaning friends as possible.
No sooner did Celeste sit on the wing chair and kick off her Jimmy Choo pumps, than a soft knock sounded on her door.
"Yes?" she answered.
"I have your luggage, Miss Mainwaring."
"You can bring it in."
Wilson Ainsley, the owner of the Pine Tree Inn, placed the suitcases beside the armoire and laid Celeste's laptop on the bed.
"What time is dinner being served?" the writer inquired.
"You can get hot meals anytime between five and nine. Before and after that period, we stock cold sandwiches, salads and fresh fruits in the fridge. Just help yourself."
"Thank you. I'll be down for something hot in a little while."
After Mr. Ainsley left, Celeste pampered herself with a long, hot bubble bath in the claw foot tub.
I could get used to this, she thought as she felt her muscles relax in the warm, scented water.
But once the temperature of the bathwater dropped, she pulled the plug and stood under a hot shower to rinse off the soapsuds and bath oils that clung to her body. She then dressed in a casual sundress, put on a pair of sandals and headed for the inn's dining room.
Cora Ainsley, the owner's wife, showed Celeste to the only vacant table.
"Busy night?" the writer asked.
"It seems as though everyone has come down to dinner at the same time. It's not usual for all the guests to eat together, but every once in a while it happens that way."
The woman handed Celeste a menu and promised she would return in a few minutes to take her order. One glance at the bill of fare was all Celeste needed. Since she was in Maine, she naturally decided on lobster.
While she waited for Cora to return, the writer looked at the other guests. At a table for two in the far corner of the room sat an attractive young couple holding hands and gazing lovingly into each other's eyes.
They must be newlyweds, she thought cynically. Either that or they're having an illicit affair.
An annoying, high-pitched female voice from behind interrupted Celeste's people-watching.
"Excuse me. Aren't you Celeste Mainwaring, the mystery writer?"
Celeste turned toward an elderly woman who was eating dinner with a man of roughly the same age, presumably her husband.
"Yes, I am."
"I knew it was you!" the other woman gushed. "I saw you on Oprah last year, and I recognized you immediately. You're alone, aren't you? Come sit with us."
"Oh, I don't want to intrude."
"Don't be silly! It's no intrusion at all. We'd love to have dinner with a famous author. Wouldn't we, dear?"
The man agreed although he appeared far less enthused than his wife.
Since she could think of no polite way to decline the offer, Celeste got up from her own table and sat with the retired couple.
"My name is Rosemarie Snedeker," the woman introduced herself. "And this is Woody, my husband. We're up here in Maine celebrating our fiftieth wedding anniversary."
"Fifty years? Congratulations. Where are you from?"
"We live in New York State," the husband replied. "Tarrytown."
"Ah! Washington Irving country," Celeste commented.
"What brings you up to this remote corner of the planet? Are you going to write a book here?" Rosemarie asked eagerly. "Is your next bestseller going to be about a murder in Maine?"
"No, I'm between books at the moment. I'm up here to relax."
"Have you had a chance to meet any of the other guests?" Woody inquired.
"I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure. I just checked in this afternoon. There shouldn't be too many people here, though. After all, there are only six guest rooms at the inn."
"Only five are being used at the moment," Rosemarie explained. "The sixth is being renovated. So, including you, there are nine guests. See those two in the corner, the young lovebirds? They're Megan and Patrick Conner from Boston. They're here on their honeymoon—as I'm sure you guessed by their behavior. You won't see much of them around; they spend most of the day upstairs in their room. They've got the Love Nest suite on the top floor."
Celeste smiled. She remembered what it had been like to be young and in love, and how quickly the magic passed.
"And those two men," Rosemarie continued, "are Floyd Lessing and Mitch Skillman. They own an antique shop in Vermont. They're traveling throughout New England on business."
"And the last two?" Celeste asked. "That man and woman sitting near the window?"
"That's Lorraine and Pete McGarrity. He's friendly enough, but she's a bit standoffish. All I've been able to get out of her is that they're married and are up here on vacation from New Jersey."
"She doesn't seem like she's enjoying the trip," the writer concluded from the sullen look on Lorraine's face.
"I haven't seen her smile since we got here three days ago," Rosemarie confided. "If you ask me, they're prime candidates for divorce. They hardly speak to one another. And the other morning at breakfast, her husband touched her hand, and she pulled it away."
"She's the one," Celeste muttered under her breath.
"What's that you said?" Rosemarie asked.
"I said, 'She's the one.' If I were to use any of the people in this room as characters in a book, she's the one I'd choose."
"Why her?" her dinner companion asked in a high-pitched whine, her feelings slightly injured at the thought that she was not worthy to appear in someone's book.
"She seems the most likely to be a killer," Celeste replied with a laugh. "You always have to look out for the quiet ones."
Woody chuckled.
"I guess I can sleep soundly at night, without fearing my wife will do me in. Rosemarie, as I'm sure you have guessed by now, is definitely not the quiet type."
The following morning Celeste woke at six o'clock. The sun was just rearing its head over the eastern horizon when she dressed quickly and went downstairs for a cup of coffee. Given the full house in the dining room the evening before, she was surprised to see only one other guest seated at a table.
"Mind if I join you?" the writer asked.
"Not at all."
There was a flicker of recognition on Lorraine McGarrity's face.
"I know you. You're that mystery writer, the one who just got divorced."
"That's me. The five-time loser."
"Oh, I'm sorry," Lorraine quickly apologized. "I didn't mean ...."
"Don't worry; I'm not offended. I'm a firm believer that if a marriage isn't working, then the people are better off calling it quits."
Tears suddenly brimmed in Lorraine's gray-blue eyes.
"Now I'm the one who's sorry," Celeste said. "I seem to have said the wrong thing."
"It's just that I'm contemplating divorce myself," the unhappy woman reluctantly admitted. "It's funny, but I thought I had a good marriage up until a year ago."
"What happened then? If you don't mind my asking."
"I suppose the same thing that happens to a lot of happy marriages when the husband reaches middle age."
"Another woman?" Celeste asked.
Lorraine nodded her head and needlessly clarified, "A young one."
"Yet you stayed with your husband."
"He begged me to give him another chance, swore it would never happen again."
"And has it?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"But you can't trust him anymore?"
"Oh, I know people make mistakes and I ought to be more forgiving, but I just don't feel the same way about him that I once did. That's what this damned trip was supposed to be about. We wanted to spend time alone together and hopefully rekindle those old flames of desire."
"It's not working, huh?"
The unhappy woman cast her eyes down.
"I've been miserable since we got here. And it didn't help seeing those honeymooners who can't take their eyes off each other and the old people from New York, still together after fifty years. Hell, even the gay couple seems happier than Pete and I are. I'm afraid the fire has gone out. There are no embers left to rekindle."
"Then why not get a divorce? It's not the end of the world. Trust me, I know. I've been divorced five times."
"But you're a woman of means, a wealthy, successful writer. I'm a secretary. Even if I were to get the house in a divorce settlement, I couldn't afford to live in it on my own. I'd have to ...."
Lorraine McGarrity fell silent when her husband walked into the dining room. Celeste remained at the table until she finished her pancakes and coffee and then made her escape, leaving the unhappy couple alone together.
* * *
Throughout the morning and afternoon, guests came and went at the Pine Tree Inn. Celeste had planned on spending a few hours beside the pool, but the sky was ominous with the threat of rain, so she decided to drive to the nearest lighthouse and do some sightseeing.
That evening at dinner, the dining room was less crowded. In fact, by the time Celeste went downstairs to eat, only Floyd Lessing and Mitch Skillman were there.
"Where is everyone?" she asked the two middle-aged men.
"The old couple was finishing their dessert when we came down. The honeymooners made a brief appearance—just long enough to eat a plate of burgers and fries before returning to their room," Floyd said with a playful wink.
"We haven't seen the two from New Jersey since this morning," Mitch added. "The husband mentioned something yesterday about going sailing today. Didn't he, Floyd?"
"If they did go out, they had better get back soon," his partner said. "There's supposed to be a bad storm tonight."
"You ought to like that," Mitch joked with Celeste.
"Why is that?"
"You're a mystery writer. Isn't the 'dark and stormy night' part of your stock-in-trade?"
"Yes, it is. Along with the car that won't start when a killer is about to close in on a defenseless victim."
"Ugh! The absolute worst!" Mitch groaned. "Do you know how many movies I've seen use that tired old cliché?"
"Too many," Floyd said.
By the time Celeste's meal was served, the two men were done with theirs. They offered to remain at the table to keep her company, but she insisted they not worry about her.
"I'll be fine. I'll read the paper and see what's going on in the world."
"Maybe that's not such a good idea," Floyd teased. "If you read the news, it might cause you to lose your appetite."
Although Celeste had enjoyed the couple's company, she was glad when they left. She had, after all, come to Maine to get away from everything, not to socialize.
* * *
By nine o'clock the first raindrops of the storm that Floyd Lessing had spoken of began to fall. Celeste, who was in bed reading, was soon lulled to sleep by the relaxing sound of the rain hitting her window. It was not a restful sleep, however, since she was woken several times during the night by the deafening crash of thunder.
Tired, she didn't get out of bed until eight the next morning. By that time, the soporific patter of raindrops she'd enjoyed the previous night had progressed to a torrential downpour, and the fierce wind was rattling the shutters of the inn and ripping small branches from the trees.
Surprisingly, the dining room was empty, so Celeste poured herself a cup of coffee and sat at a table as far away from the window as possible. If a tree branch should break through it, she did not want to be in the line of the shattered glass.
"Good morning, Miss," Cora Ainsley said cheerily as she stepped out of the kitchen. "Would you like to see the breakfast menu?"
"That's not necessary. I'll have your pancakes again. They were delicious. So good, in fact, that I'm afraid by the time I leave here, I'll be ten pounds heavier."
The portly hostess laughed.
"You needn't worry about that. You're as thin as a rail."
"That's quite a storm outside."
"Ayah, a real nor'easter. I wouldn't be too surprised if the power goes out before the day is done. You've no need to worry, though; we have a generator."
Moments after Cora retired to the kitchen to make Celeste's pancakes, Rosemarie Snedeker entered the dining room.
"Where's your husband this morning?" the writer asked.
"Still in bed. Neither one of us got much sleep with all that racket going on."
"Yeah, the thunder was a little loud."
"So was that Pete McGarrity in the room next to ours. I can't wait until he checks out."
"Why? Does he snore?"
"No. He came in late, about three in the morning, making a racket. The night before that he kept us up arguing with his wife."
"That must be why she was so unhappy at breakfast yesterday."
Floyd Lessing and Mitch Skillman soon joined the two women, and the four of them talked about the storm that was raging outside. Cora Ainsley had just walked into the dining room with four plates of pancakes when Pete McGarrity burst through the Pine Tree Inn's front door. Five heads turned in his direction.
"Have any of you seen her?" he cried.
"Who? Your wife?" Mrs. Ainsley asked.
"Yes, my wife."
No one in the dining room knew where Lorraine McGarrity was.
"She's missing," Pete explained anxiously. "I've searched the grounds, but there's no sign of Lorraine anywhere."
"Have you been looking for her all night?" Floyd asked.
"No. I went out last evening, and she didn't want to come with me. Because of the storm, I didn't get back until around five this morning."
Celeste glanced in Rosemarie Snedeker's direction. The older woman claimed that he had returned at three, not five.
"I discovered our room was empty," the distressed husband continued. "I waited until it was somewhat light outside, and then I went to look for her. I don't know where she could have gone."
"Did you phone the police?" Mitch asked.
"No, not yet. I was just about to. That's why I came inside."
"There's not much they can do," Celeste said. "You have to wait forty-eight hours before filing a missing persons report."
"Well, I know the chief," Cora Ainsley said. "He and I went to high school together. I'll go give him a call and ask him to have his men be on the lookout for your wife."
"Thank you."
"Meanwhile, you best get out of those wet clothes and have a cup of hot coffee."
After Pete McGarrity went upstairs to change and Cora returned to the kitchen to use the telephone, Rosemarie Snedeker turned to Celeste and declared, "I'm not sure I buy his story. What do you think became of her?"
"I don't know. Who would go out in this storm, and for what reason?"
No one in the inn's dining room had an answer to her question.
* * *
By mid-afternoon, the storm had shown no indication of abating. With the exception of the couple from New Jersey, all of the guests were relaxing in the inn's cozy sitting room—even the honeymooning couple. Cora Ainsley had informed the guests that the single-lane bridge leading to the Pine Tree Inn was flooded and there was no alternate route available to get to town. Also, the telephone and electric lines were down, and the lights, water heater and kitchen appliances were being powered by the emergency generator.
"We'll just have to wait out the storm," Woody Snedeker said.
"Shouldn't someone go upstairs and tell Mr. McGarrity?" his wife asked. "He ought to know the situation."
"Why don't you let the poor man get some rest? He must be beside himself with ...."
Woody fell silent at the sound of the piercing shriek that emanated from one of the upstairs bedrooms. Patrick Conner, the youngest of the men, was the first one out of his chair and across the room. He nearly collided with Cora, who was running down the stairs.
"What's wrong?" he asked. "Have you hurt yourself?"
"I-It's ... h-her," the innkeeper's wife stammered. "S-she's ... in the ... unused r-room."
"Who? Mrs. McGarrity?"
Cora nodded her head frantically.
"S-she's ... d-dead!"
The guests looked up to see the ashen face of Pete McGarrity on the landing above them.
"No! Not Lorraine. She can't be ... she ...."
He suddenly turned and headed toward the vacant bedroom. The door had been left ajar when Cora ran out. A moment later, his screams echoed through the inn.
"I'd better go see to our guest," Wilson Ainsley said and reluctantly headed upstairs in Pete McGarrity's direction.
"Mrs. Ainsley, you said the poor woman is dead," Floyd spoke. "Is there any indication of the cause of death?"
Cora closed her eyes and put her work-worn hands to her face.
"I'm afraid she's been ... murdered."
"Are you absolutely certain?" Mitch pressed. "The woman was despondent. Might she have committed suicide?"
"No, it's not possible. From what I saw, she was stabbed repeatedly. The knife is still in her back. She couldn't possibly have ...."
The distraught woman broke down sobbing, unable to continue.
Rosemarie Snedeker came to her aid.
"There, there, my dear. Why don't you come downstairs to the kitchen, and I'll make you a nice hot cup of tea."
"We have to call the police," Floyd said, reaching into his pocket for his iPhone.
Unfortunately, the inn was too far from a cell tower to get service.
Wilson Ainsley came downstairs alone and joined his guests.
"The police won't want anyone disturbing the crime scene, so I locked the door to that bedroom," he informed them.
"What about Pete McGarrity? Where is he?" Megan Conner asked.
"In his room. He wants to be alone."
An uncomfortable silence followed, one eventually broken by Floyd Lessing.
"What are we to do now?"
Heads turned in Celeste Mainwaring's direction.
"Why are you looking at me?" she asked.
"Well, you're the expert on murder," Mitch Skillman replied.
"I'm a writer, not a detective."
"Jessica Fletcher was a writer, yet she solved murders that the police couldn't," Rosemarie Snedeker pointed out.
"That was television. This is a real-life killing, not an episode of Murder, She Wrote."
"Still, you know more about this sort of thing than the rest of us," Floyd argued. "Can't you give us some advice on what we should do?"
Celeste ran her hand through her hair and sighed with exasperation.
"I don't think there's anything we need to do. The door is locked, so no one can get into the room and disturb the crime scene."
"But there's a murderer on the loose," Rosemarie cried. "He or she might still be in the vicinity-—might be in this very room, as a matter of fact. What should we do for our own protection?"
"I hardly think Mr. McGarrity is going to murder us, too," Celeste declared.
"Aren't you jumping to conclusions?" Rosemarie asked. "You can't automatically assume Pete killed his wife."
"He's the only one with a motive," the writer pointed out. "She was a stranger to the rest of us."
"How do you know?" Floyd asked. "Granted, the husband is the most likely suspect, but we can't rule anyone out just yet."
Celeste laughed at the absurdity of the other guests' naivety. They were behaving like children playing detective.
"It's not our place to examine evidence, search for suspects or try to determine motive. Look, you asked for my advice. I'll give it to you. When the police eventually get here, cooperate with them fully. Answer all their questions truthfully and to the best of your knowledge. Then let them do their jobs."
"And what if the answer isn't as simple as you seem to think?" Woody asked. "What if Pete McGarrity didn't kill his wife? The murderer may come after one of us next."
"And even if he is the culprit, that doesn't mean the rest of us are safe," Floyd said. "What if someone saw something or overheard something?"
"This is ridiculous!" Celeste exclaimed. "None of us is in any danger."
"How do you know?" Mitch asked. "You said yourself that you're a writer, not a detective."
"That is a bit odd," Rosemarie said in a soft voice as though she were speaking to herself.
"What's odd?" her husband asked.
"Celeste's being a mystery writer, I would think she'd be the one asking questions and wanting to find out what happened. Who knows? She might want to write about the murder in one of her future books. Even if she didn't, it would be good publicity for her."
"Not that it's anyone's business but I'm here to rest," the author retorted. "I want to forget all about writing and murder. Why don't we all just go up to our rooms, lock ourselves in and try to get some sleep? Hopefully, by morning we'll be able to contact the police."
"And what if McGarrity is the killer?" Woody asked. "Shouldn't one of us keep an eye on him so that he doesn't escape?"
"Do whatever you want to," Celeste replied with weary resignation. "I'm going to bed."
"You don't have to worry about Mr. McGarrity," said Megan Conner, one of the honeymooners. "He's not the killer."
All eyes, including Celeste's, turned in the young woman's direction.
"How do you know?" Rosemarie asked.
"I'm a psychic. I know he didn't do it."
The bride's remark was met with a mixture of skepticism and surprise.
"She's not some crackpot," her husband said, coming to her defense. "She really has the gift. If she says Pete McGarrity didn't kill his wife, then you can take it as a fact."
"If you're so sure it wasn't the husband, then you must know who the killer is," Floyd said.
Megan hesitated before responding.
"Yes, I do."
"Who is it, then?" Wilson Ainsley demanded to know.
"I won't say yet, not until I've had the opportunity to speak with the police."
There was a general murmur of disappointment in the room, and several of the guests shook their heads in disbelief.
"Just for the sake of argument," Mitch asked, "if you know who the killer is, doesn't that put your safety in jeopardy?"
The young woman beamed up at her new husband and replied, "I'm not afraid. Patrick will see that nothing happens to me."
"Do you think the police will believe you?" Rosemarie asked. "I thought cops scoffed at that sort of thing."
Floyd laughed.
"It does sound a bit like the spectral evidence presented at the Salem witchcraft trials: 'I saw Goody Good with the devil.'"
Megan Conner was not in the least bit offended by the humorous remark or by the apparent lack of belief in her gift.
"I have excellent credentials," she calmly defended herself. "I've helped the Boston Police Department successfully solve more than a dozen murders. I'm sure the local police, after checking with Boston's police commissioner, will take me seriously."
* * *
Later that night, after most of the guests had turned in, Megan Conner rose from her bed and put on her robe and slippers.
"Where are you going?" her husband asked sleepily.
"Downstairs to the dining room. I'm hungry. Want me to bring you back something?"
"No, I can wait until breakfast. Do you want me to go with you to keep an eye out for the killer?"
"I don't think that's necessary, but do keep an ear open."
"You be careful."
"Aren't I always?"
As Megan headed downstairs, she made no effort to keep quiet. Between the raging nor'easter and the recent murder, she doubted her fellow guests were sleeping.
A dim lamp burned in the dining room, making it unnecessary to turn on the harsh overhead lights.
"Good, there are still a few brownies left," she said, taking one out of the glass case and putting it on a napkin.
As she opened the refrigerator door to get a bottle of milk out, she heard footsteps on the staircase. Holding her breath, she waited for a face to appear in the doorway. None did.
"I know you're out there," Megan said.
There was no reply.
"You think that if you kill me, you'll be safe, but how do you know I haven't told someone what I know? Do you intend to kill everyone here?"
A muffled voice came from the darkness of the hallway.
"The only one you could have told was your husband, and I intend to silence him as well."
"You might possibly get away with one murder, but three? You're not that clever."
The killer waited a few moments for the crack of lightning, then took careful aim and fired. The young woman fell, and the murderer smiled.
Now for the husband.
A strong pair of arms suddenly grabbed the killer from behind.
The guests at the Pine Tree Inn ran out of their rooms, fearful that another murder had occurred.
"What's going on down her?" Wilson Ainsley asked.
The chandelier in the foyer was turned on, illuminating the two people on the stairs: Patrick Conner and Celeste Mainwaring.
"I had a feeling it was you," Megan remarked from the dining room doorway.
Rosemarie Snedeker gasped when she saw the bullet hole in the bodice of the newlywed bride's bathrobe.
"No need to worry," the young woman said. "I'm fine. I've got a bulletproof vest underneath this. Kevlar's not normally part of a bride's trousseau, but it certainly came in handy."
"Will somebody please tell me what's going on?" Wilson Ainsley repeated.
"My brilliant wife has just unmasked Lorraine McGarrity's killer," Patrick proudly replied as he snapped a pair of handcuffs on Celeste Mainwaring's wrists.
The innkeeper and the remaining guests looked at each other, dumbfounded.
"Now, wait just a minute," Ainsley objected. "I'm sure the Boston police have a high regard for your psychic powers, but I'm not about to allow a guest of mine to be bound without some solid proof of her guilt."
"I'm not a psychic," Megan confessed. "I'm a cop, and until a few minutes ago, I wasn't sure of the identity of the murderer."
"You lied!" Celeste exclaimed.
"And you killed an innocent woman," Megan countered.
"Do you have any authority to arrest someone in this state?" Rosemarie asked.
"Don't worry. We're not putting her under arrest," Patrick, also a police officer, explained. "We'll leave that up to our associates here in Maine. We're just going to make sure she doesn't kill anyone else until they get here."
"It's just like in one of her books," Rosemarie said. "The killer's the one you least suspect."
"Oh, shut up, you old fool. I didn't kill anyone," Celeste insisted. "I shot at this cop because she was down here in the dark. When she moved, I thought she was the murderer."
"You can tell your story to the police," Megan said. "I doubt they'll believe you. But even if you hadn't tried to kill me, I'd still suspect you were the culprit."
"Why is that?" Mitch Skillman asked.
"When we learned that Mrs. McGarrity had been murdered, we were all curious," Megan answered. "We all wanted answers—all of us but her."
"That's right," Cora Ainsley agreed. "She said she'd had enough of murder, that she had come here to get away from it all."
"Mystery writers are like cops; they never lose interest in murder. Just look at me and my husband; we're on our honeymoon, and we still want to solve a case that's not even in our jurisdiction. No, I just couldn't see her not wanting to get involved. I believe that, like many mystery writers, she always wondered if she could commit the perfect crime. Obviously, she couldn't."
Celeste smiled, but there was no hint of mirth in her eyes, which stared coldly at the young police detective. Megan, not one to be intimidated, returned the writer's stare. It was Celeste who finally looked away.
* * *
Nearly two years later, a jury in Maine acquitted Celeste Mainwaring of all charges in connection with the murder of Lorraine McGarrity, and she walked out of the courtroom a free woman.
"So, you got away with it."
Celeste turned to see Megan Conner, who had testified against her during the trial.
"No thanks to you, Detective Conner."
"Tell me—just to satisfy my curiosity—do you ever regret what you did?"
"Honestly? No. The woman was terribly unhappy. I did her a favor by putting her out of her misery."
"Textbook sociopath—no compassion, no conscience."
"Funny you should say that," Celeste said with a smug smirk. "Lorraine McGarrity wasn't my first choice of victim; you were."
"Why me?" Megan asked, not at all surprised at the statement.
"You seemed so happy. I wanted to spare you the pain and disillusionment that was sure to come. But then I had a talk with that annoying old woman, Mrs. Snedeker, and I changed my mind. I decided the poor, pathetic Lorraine McGarrity was much more deserving of death."
Celeste looked down at her watch.
"Now, if you've no more questions, I'm going to meet some friends and celebrate my court victory."
"No, that will be all," Megan said, grinning like the Cheshire Cat as she took a microcassette recorder out of her pocket. "I have what I wanted."
"And what do you think you're going to do with that?" Celeste asked with an arrogant laugh. "You can't use my words against me. I've already been acquitted."
"Oh, I know all about double jeopardy. No, I'm not going to use this against you in a court of law."
"Then what are you going to do with it?"
"Remember I said that cops and mystery writers were alike and that mystery writers often had a secret desire to commit an actual murder?"
"Yes, what of it?"
"Well, most cops have a secret desire to become true crime authors. I intend to write a book—about you. I'm going to expose every detail about your crime, including the ones your lawyer had shrewdly excluded from evidence."
"You can't write about me. I'll sue you for every penny you have!"
"I won't be found guilty of libel if I can prove my accusations, and thanks to this"—she triumphantly waved the tape recorder in front of Celeste's face—"I have all the proof I need. Now, you go out to dinner. Have fun. I'm going to go home and begin writing."
Without a word of farewell, Megan walked toward the car where her husband, Patrick, was waiting, and the two drove away.
Celeste Mainwaring, crushed at the thought of her true nature being exposed to the world, did not go to the restaurant to meet her friends after all since she no longer felt like celebrating.
Salem was once an innkeeper. He grew tired of tending the establishment once he finished off its supply of lobsters.
