A Festival of Murder Read Online Free Page B

underestimate the
man. An entire genre of media had been built on the backs of such unassuming
investigators.
    “Gird your loins,”
he murmured to Phoebe as the men headed toward them.
    “I’m going to get
myself that drink I’ve been promising myself.” She rushed away with as much
subtlety as an earthquake.
    “Nicholas,”
Officer Little greeted him as he pulled off one damp glove.
    Nicholas stood and
shook the other man’s hand. “Tom. Longtime no see, though considering the
circumstances I would have preferred not seeing you for even longer.” The last
time they’d spoken was when Nicholas had called the officer up to escort a
particularly passionate fan off his property.
    “Been a while
since we’ve had a homicide in these parts,” Tom acknowledged with a touch of
awe in his young voice.
    Nicholas’s throat
seized. The alcohol in his system evaporated, leaving him icy sober. “So you’ve
declared it a murder?”
    “Officer Little is
jumping the gun slightly,” said his companion. “Detective Erwin Canberry.”
    “Nicholas Trilby.”
He expected a spark of recognition, but Canberry was as expressive as snow. It
had to be an act. Nicholas was infamous in the valley, and for all the wrong
reasons. He had learned in the weeks after his abduction that law enforcement didn’t
look too fondly on anyone who claimed to have had contact with aliens.
Apparently one sighting opened the floodgates for hundreds more, resulting in
loads of useless, tedious paperwork for the police. He was sure his photo was
pasted on the police’s “Most Wanted” board, or else on their dartboard.
    “We’re still early
into the investigation,” Canberry went on. He removed a pair of supple-looking
leather gloves, and rather than pocketing them, held them casually in his right
hand, lightly slapping them against his left palm. “Right now we’re taking
statements. Since you’re handy would you mind answering a few standard
questions for me?”
    Nicholas wondered
if Canberry would slap him across the face with the gloves if he said no. He
decided he wasn’t adventurous enough to find out.
    “Now would be
perfect.” He remembered then the dozens of eyes on him, which compelled him to
quickly add, “Perhaps Charles’s study would be more comfortable.”
    Canberry followed
Nicholas out of the living room while Officer Little remained behind.
    After they’d
entered the room, Canberry pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook and what
appeared to be a tortoise-shell fountain pen. He fumbled with the metal clasp
on the notebook for a few seconds, muttering curses beneath his breath, before
finally opening it. His shoulders rose and fell before he raised his head and studied
Nicholas intently as if seeing him for the first time.
    “Just to get it
out of the way, could you tell me where you were for the last five hours?”
    The simple question
caused Nicholas to begin breathing heavily. It had all seemed something of a
game before, but now he was being interrogated. He hoped his growing stress
wasn’t apparent as he replied, “I was at home. Reading.”
    “What were you
reading?”
    Nicholas hesitated.
“ The Joy of Cooking . I was looking for a good soup recipe. You know, for
when it snows. Soup is nice. Warm.” He cleared his throat. “Soupy.”
    “You cook.”
Canberry said it the way other men would say, ‘You knit.’
    “I occasionally
like to eat.” Nicholas smiled, proud of his joke. Canberry didn’t return the
smile.
    “Is there anyone
who can confirm this?”
    “That I like to
eat?”
    Nicholas’s smile
withered beneath Canberry’s blank, expectant stare. “Er, no. Beyond Winchester,
I’m afraid not.”
    “Winchester?”
    “Sorry, my alpaca.”
    Canberry’s pen
stuttered, lifted off the page. Nicholas thought a bit hopelessly that he would
have been better off confessing that he’d been throwing dollar bills at a strip
club. Or perhaps, robbing a convenience store. At least those came