A Multitude of Sins
WELCOME TO MAPLEWOOD.
A smile appeared on Mariel Holman's face as she drove past the sign. It had been more than twenty years since she last set foot within the borders of her childhood hometown. She left after graduating high school to attend college in Boston and never returned.
It seems like a lifetime ago, she thought. I was only eighteen then and believed that after four years I would return to Maplewood, get a job as a teacher, marry Del Walbrook, have kids and spend the rest of my life here.
However, once she had a taste of city life, she no longer wanted to consign herself to domesticity. After her first year in college, she switched her major from early childhood education to creative writing. Her first novel, Matriarch, about a wealthy widow who grooms her only son for a career in politics, soared to the top of the bestseller list. And when Netflix aired the story as a five-part limited series, her fame spread. Since then, she had written more than a dozen novels, all of which went to number one.
Although Mariel's career was a stellar success, the same could not be said of her personal life. After two bitter divorces, she swore off matrimony and settled for a series of short-lived affairs, none of which brought her much happiness. Then came Tino Orsini. Nine years her junior, Tino was undoubtedly the love of her life—much as she hated to use that trite expression. They met at Burgess Communication's annual Christmas bash, a gathering of editors, illustrators and administrative personnel, as well as unknown and bestselling authors, who used the holiday season as an excuse to lap up vast quantities of free liquor.
Mariel had been working on her fourth cocktail when an extremely handsome young Italian man approached her.
"Is that Versace you're wearing?" he asked.
"What is this," she laughed, "the red carpet at the Oscars?"
"No. I was just curious. My name is Tino Orsini."
"I'm ...."
"No need to tell me your name. I know who you are, Miss Holman."
"To answer your question—which, by the way, is one of the most original ways of getting an introduction I've ever seen—no, I'm not wearing Versace. It's Dior."
In the conversation that followed, she learned he was a former police detective who had just sold a true-crime manuscript to Burgess.
"So, you're an author?" she asked, smitten by his dark good looks.
"I hope to be. Right now, I'm going through the rewrite process with my editor. It seems he doesn't like a lot of what I wrote. Change this. Omit that. Add more description. Take out the unnecessary dialogue. Do editors treat you the same way?"
"They did at first, but after writing so many bestsellers, I now have a lot of say in what goes in the final product. Actually," she said in a lowered voice, "Abner Crowley is so afraid I'll sign with another publisher that he'd let me get away with just about anything that doesn't result in a major defamation lawsuit."
"It must be nice to have that much clout," Tino said, taking another cocktail from a passing waiter and handing it to her.
After a long evening of drinking and shared confidences, the two continued to party in Mariel's Tribeca loft. The next day, the former policeman moved out of his apartment in Queens and into hers. He remained there for more than two years. It was not until his book sold its first million copies—thanks in no small part to his highly publicized relationship with Mariel and the advanced publicity she urged Abner Crowley to employ—that the affair began to peter out. It was dying a slow death until Mariel learned of his liaison with a waitress from Hooters and decided to rip the bandage from the wound and put an end to it once and for all.
No man managed to stake a claim on her life since.
* * *
No one in Maplewood noticed the nondescript Honda Accord that drove down Oak Street. There was nothing that said, "Look at me. I belong to a wealthy celebrity." When the car was parked near the corner of Oak and Chestnut, no one paid attention to the middle-aged woman who opened the driver's door and stepped onto the sidewalk. Nothing distinguished her from the hundreds of other middle-aged women who routinely went to the post office, the beauty parlor or the mom-and-pop shops on the town's main street.
Mariel's graying blond hair—she hadn't bothered to touch it up since her breakup with Tino Orsini—was tucked up beneath a Red Sox cap, and she was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt rather than a designer outfit. The Ray-Bans she wore were not meant to disguise her features but simply to shield her eyes from the sun. She was not looking for recognition, but neither was she trying to avoid it.
A sign in the window of Brooks' Books advertised a Mariel Holman Tour "by appointment only."
What the hell is that all about? she wondered.
Curious, she went inside. Brooks Schaffner, the shop's elderly proprietor, in spite of spending his entire adult life selling books, failed to recognize the only bestselling author Maplewood ever produced.
"Can I help you?" he asked, assuming she was just another bored housewife looking for the latest romance novel or murder mystery.
"I wanted to know about that sign in your window, the one about the Mariel Holman Tour."
"Oh, that," Brooks said in a naturally gravelly voice made worse by years of smoking unfiltered Camels. "That's my grandson's sideline. He's trying to make a little extra money by offering those tours during the summer months. If you're interested, I can give you his number."
"Thanks. I'd like that."
Mariel called the college student and made arrangements to meet him at the bookstore.
"I can be there in about ten minutes," he told her.
While she waited for the tour guide, the author examined a large display of her novels that was placed forefront in the shop. There was a framed poster-size photograph of her on display, taken from the jacket of her third novel, Power and Glory.
How old was I when that was taken? she wondered. Twenty-five? Twenty-six?
"That's Mariel Holman," Brooks announced, still not aware of the customer's identity. "She was born right here in Maplewood and used to come in the shop with her mother when she was younger. I never imagined that skinny little girl in pigtails would ever become famous. Of course, I haven't read any of her books myself. I'm more a Tom Clancy man. But people here in town seem to like her. In fact, there's been talk of renaming Maplewood High School after her."
"Really?"
"Are you from these parts?" the garrulous bookseller asked.
"I lived in Maplewood for a while, but that was some time ago," she cryptically replied.
The bell above the door jingled, and Josh Schaffner strode purposely across the room. Like his grandfather, he failed to recognize the town's allegedly favorite daughter.
"You must be the lady who wants to go on the tour," he said.
"Yes."
"Ready to go? My car is double-parked out front."
He opened the rear passenger door of the SUV, and the writer climbed inside. For the next hour and a half, Josh kept up a running commentary as he drove past the elementary and high schools the author had attended, her childhood home, the supermarket where she once worked a parttime job as a cashier, the used car dealership where she bought her first vehicle and even the offices of the doctor and dentist who treated her while she was growing up.
"See that construction site over there," the young man pointed out. "It's going to be a shopping mall, but years ago it was the Maplewood Medical Center. That's where Miss Holman was born."
"You certainly know your subject," she said, realizing that over the years she had forgotten a good deal of what he told her.
"She's my hero," the young man proudly announced. "I want to follow in her footsteps and become a writer someday. I've got all her books, read them all at least two or three times. My favorite is Courage Under Fire. I read that one four times—and counting. I've idolized her since I was in middle school. In fact, we had the same fifth grade teacher."
"Mrs. Ruskin?"
Josh's eyes widened in surprise. He pulled his vehicle to the side of the road and turned around to get a better look at his passenger.
"How did you know her name?"
Even after Mariel removed the Ray-Bans and the Red Sox cap, it was several minutes before the tour guide recognized her.
"You're ... Holy shit! You're her! What are you doing in Maplewood?"
"I decided to come home for a visit."
"Holy shit!" he repeated. "And here you are in my car, taking my tour."
He reached into his pocket for his cell phone and courteously asked for permission before snapping her photo.
"Nobody's going to believe this unless I have proof."
"Oh, I think they will. You see, my visit is going to be a long one. I'm going to stay in Maplewood for as long as it takes me to write my next book."
* * *
After Josh dropped Mariel off in front of the bookstore, she got into her Honda, which she had leased specifically for her sojourn in Maplewood, and drove to her parents' house. For several years now, the elderly couple spent the summers in Maplewood and the other three seasons in Key West. This year, however, Mariel arranged for them to spend the summer in Europe, after which they would return directly to Florida.
This is to be my home sweet home for the next twelve months or so, she thought as she put the key in the lock and opened the front door. Was it always this small? No wonder I was an only child. There's no room for any more kids.
Lorena Heisler, a single mother of two, who lived on the next block and took care of the house when her parents weren't staying in it, had been hired as a full-time housekeeper while Muriel was in residence. Thus, despite no one having lived in the 1960s raised ranch since the previous October, it had that freshly cleaned "floral" smell.
Mariel, who hadn't eaten anything in over eight hours, postponed bringing in her luggage and headed for the kitchen. Lorena had stocked the refrigerator, freezer and cabinets with items from a list her employer emailed to her. The writer took a cold bottle of Evian—the local grocery store did not carry Aqua Deco—from the refrigerator, along with a bag of spring mix and a container of grape tomatoes. After sprinkling balsamic vinegar on her salad, she sat down to the table to eat.
Memories, both good and bad, flooded her mind. Even though the house had a dining room, most of the family meals had been eaten in the kitchen. Christmas and Thanksgiving were the only two days of the year when the Holmans made use of the larger table. Her parents were what people liked to call "down to earth." In spite of having a rich and famous daughter, they did not put on airs. When Mariel wanted to buy them a new, much larger house, they insisted upon remaining in their Maplewood home, but they did agree to the vacation home she bought them in Key West and to the European vacation that was their fiftieth anniversary present.
The writer had just finished her salad when the doorbell rang.
"As I live and breathe!" the bubbly redhead at the door cried, as she threw her arms around her old friend. "If it isn't Mariel Holman! I heard you were back in town."
"April! I haven't seen you since I went off to college. Come on in and tell me what's been going on in Maplewood for the past two decades."
The former cheerleader, now married with three kids, was overjoyed at the attention the celebrated author gave her. Mariel seemed generally interested not only in April's life but in the lives of their old classmates and neighbors. In fact, she plied her guest with questions the entire afternoon. Finally, after two cups of coffee and a glass of wine, the redhead got up from the sofa to go to the Holmans' powder room.
"Come back and sit down," her hostess said when she came out of the bathroom. "And let's continue our talk. I have so much to catch up on."
"I'm afraid I can't stay any longer. The school bus will be dropping the kids off in about fifteen minutes, and I have to get home."
"Oh, too bad!" Mariel said, resorting to the pout she had often used as a young girl. "Why don't you come back tomorrow? Or, better yet, we can go out to lunch."
"That would be great!" April gushed. "I can't tell you what a wonderful time I had today. You know, when I drove over here, I half expected you to have forgotten all about me. I was worried you had turned into some snooty New Yorker who thinks she's too good for us common people. I'm so glad that you're still the same sweet girl you always were."
"Me turn into a snob?" Mariel laughed. "Never! You can take the girl out of Maplewood, but you can't take Maplewood out of the girl."
Maplewood, the writer mused, waving goodbye as her friend drove away, a sleepy little New England town. It's still a place where people leave their doors unlocked, where everyone knows their neighbors, where everyone goes to church on Sunday and touts their high moral values. Well, be prepared Maplewood. I'm going to write a book that will shatter those innocent pretensions of yours.
With a smug smile on her face, she closed the front door, booted up her laptop and went to work, filling in her rough outline with notes she mentally took while seemingly gossiping aimlessly with April.
* * *
The former cheerleader was not the only person Mariel plied with smiles and free lunches in exchange for information. All her old high school friends, former neighbors, people she once worked with at the grocery store and even Josh Schaffner, Brooks' grandson, got the same special treatment.
The people of Maplewood made her job even easier by scheduling a number of events in her honor. Mayor Wilton Embry declared June 15 "Mariel Holman Day." There was a parade on Oak Street, followed by a huge barbecue at Laurel Park. Several of the author's former teachers, including Mrs. Ruskin, spoke, all claiming they knew their former student was bound for success. Father Stanley Newstead, who had christened her when she was born, said a few words as did Del Walbrook, her high school boyfriend and prom date, who now co-owned the Subaru dealership with his father.
Despite being a few pounds heavier and his hair being a little thinner, Del was still the best-looking man in Maplewood. Like Mariel, he was divorced and currently available. Had it not been for the disastrous affair with Tino Orsini that made her swear off men, she might have been willing to fan a few embers in hopes of reigniting the old flames.
Why bother? she asked herself. He has a successful business here in Maplewood. It's not likely he would give it up to move to New York, and there's no way in hell I'd come back here to stay.
Besides, once the new book hit the shelves, she would be persona non grata in her hometown. Rather than throw her a parade, they would just as soon run her out of town on a rail—preferably tarred and feathered first.
However, until the first draft was completed and she returned to Manhattan to polish it up, she would smile and play the hometown heroine to the hilt. She would attend the Fourth of July celebration, spend a good deal of money at the church's annual craft fair, join in the karaoke contest sponsored by the owner of the corner bar and go to church services on Sundays. And all the while, she would ask questions and mine gems of knowledge. Like April, those she spoke to were flattered by her interest. An internationally known celebrity wanted to hear their problems, learn of their accomplishments and failures, meet their spouses and talk about their lives, not her own.
No one in town was aware that every evening, after garnering as much information about them as she could learn, she would sit at her laptop and fill in more details of her outline. Soon her original ten pages became fifty, then a hundred, then one-fifty. As weeks passed, she added more of the townspeople's secrets, embellishing their faults and aggrandizing their weaknesses.
It was Josh Schaffner, who had been doing a booming business with his Mariel Holman Tour since the author's homecoming, who showed the most interest in her work.
"How's the new book coming?" he asked when they met for lunch one day.
"It's coming," she replied and then changed the subject. "So, how's your Uncle Mortimer been? I heard somewhere that he had a little legal trouble about five years ago. What was that about?"
"He was accused of assaulting someone in a bar fight. What's the book about?"
The author pointedly avoided his questions and continued asking her own.
"Who did he fight with? Was the person seriously hurt? Was your uncle convicted? What sentence did he receive?"
After going into some detail about Uncle Mortimer's legal problems, Josh went back to the subject of her book.
"Is it going to be another novel about political power and corruption like your others?"
"I really can't talk about the plot," she lied. "My contract with Burgess forbids me from revealing any details before publication."
"I don't want to see you get sued or anything, but can't you at least tell me something about it?"
"The title. It's going to be called A Multitude of Sins, and if you want to know anything else about it, you'll have to wait until its published."
The enterprising college student was, if nothing else, persistent. When he wasn't conducting a tour, he followed Mariel around like a lost puppy looking for a home. Surprisingly, the author did nothing to discourage him. On the contrary, one evening she invited him into her home for dinner.
"It's only Chinese takeout," she apologized, putting disposable containers of food on the dining room table. "I don't cook."
"That's fine. During the school year, I usually live on Hot Pockets, Chef Boyardee, ramen noodles and Kraft mac and cheese. So takeout is a treat for me."
After they sat down to eat, Mariel continued to hammer her guest with questions.
"Why are you so interested in what goes on in Maplewood?" he asked after she grilled him on the subject of Mrs. Landy's divorce.
"I've been away for so long. I want to catch up on what's happened here."
"But surely your work and your life in New York is much more exciting."
"Sometimes it is, but that doesn't mean I lost interest in my hometown and the people who live here. Mrs. Landy used to babysit me when I was a kid, and Mr. Landy used to work with my father. I can't believe they got divorced. They seemed like such a happy couple."
Her explanation having seemed to satisfy him, she began asking questions about the town's one-time sports hero who signed with the New York Yankees and made it all the way through the farm system to the Triple-A level before being released. The failed Columbus Clipper returned to Maplewood and went to work at the hardware store.
"He manages a Little League team in his spare time," Josh said, finishing the last boiled dumpling on his plate.
"I've got to go to the powder room," his hostess announced. "Then I'll make us some coffee, and we can have dessert in the living room."
"I'll clean up the kitchen for you," he offered.
"Don't worry about it. Lorena with take care of it in the morning."
With Mariel out of the room, Josh idly examined her laptop which was left open on the coffee table. He touched the mouse, and it came to life. On the desktop was a Word file entitled OUTLINE. He double-clicked on the icon and opened the file. He was stunned when he scanned the first few pages. The student was so absorbed in what he was reading that he failed to hear his hostess enter the room.
"What are you doing?" she demanded to know.
When he turned and faced her, he felt neither shame nor contrition at having been caught snooping. Instead, he was excited.
"Your book is going to be about Maplewood or, rather, the people who live here. From what I see here, it's going to be another Peyton Place."
"I think you had better leave," Mariel announced angrily.
"I can help."
Josh saw the hesitation in her eyes, and knew she had taken the bait.
"How?" she asked.
"I'll bet most people you talk to are not entirely honest. They want to impress you because of your fame, but I'm just a nobody. I can ask questions and get more truthful answers . I've also got lots of young friends who love to point out their parents' faults."
After brief consideration, the author smiled.
"I'll go get the cake and coffee from the kitchen," she said, "while you email yourself a copy of that file. We'll discuss the details of our collaboration over dessert."
* * *
By Thanksgiving, Mariel hit the five-hundred-page milestone in her manuscript. During the long winter months that followed, she turned the unorganized draft into a novel, incorporating the myriad details Josh provided.
On the last day of May, she walked into Brooks' Books, having agreed to Mr. Schaffner's request for a book signing. She arrived just before the shop opened, entering through the back door to avoid the queue of people out front. As Brooks had hoped, readers from in and around Maplewood were lined up for an autograph. Equipped with a new pack of Pilot gel pens, she took her seat. Moments later, the front door was opened. One by one, people approached the table where she sat, some had brought their own copies of her books while most picked one up as they waited in line.
As she smiled and signed her name, speaking briefly with each person, and sometimes adding a short, personalized dedication, Mariel tried not to pass judgment on the town.
Maplewood is not unique. Sure, most people here have something to hide, but that's probably true of most small towns.
For the first time, she wondered how the townspeople would react when the book was published. Would they recognize the real people who inspired the fictional characters? Would women still go to Maybelline's Beauty Shop to have their hair done when they learned that Maybelline slept with many of their husbands? Would they buy their meats from the local butcher who had a fondness for taking candid photos of young children at play? Would the high school English teacher who was having an affair with a senior student lose her job? What about the emergency room nurse with an addiction to painkillers? Would Mrs. Tufts recognize the character who represented Mr. Tufts or would she not believe her husband was going to gay bars in the city on those nights when he claimed he was working late? With the veneer off, will people still greet their fellow citizens when they pass them on the street or will they avoid each other and look away with distrust and disgust?
Once the can of worms is opened, there'll be no closing it again.
Of course, these questions did not mean Mariel was reconsidering sending the manuscript to her publisher after it was completed. Although curious about the aftermath, she would not let possible repercussions stop her. Nor did the certainty that people would despise her once they read the book deter her.
Who cares if I'll never be able to come home again? I much prefer the excitement of the city to boring smalltime life anyway. I don't need to know who my neighbors are. I don't particularly care about the people I pass in the street or sit near in a restaurant or theater.
After three hours of signing books, Mariel decided to call it a day.
"I'll finish up with this bunch, and then I'm going home," she told Brooks, who reluctantly agreed.
The shop owner had put the few unsold books back on the shelf and was folding up the table when his grandson entered the bookstore.
"If you've come for the signing, I'm afraid you're too late," the old man said.
"How did it go?" Josh inquired.
"Great! I sold more books this morning than I did during the past two months. That Mariel Holman! God bless her."
Although none of the Schaffner family had done anything to warrant being a character in Mariel's book, the young man still did not like seeing his beloved grandfather being duped by the writer.
"She's not doing it out of the kindness of her heart, Grandpa. She's a businesswoman, and it's all just PR to her."
Brooks looked at his grandson with surprise.
"I thought you liked her."
"I do, but she's no saint."
"I never said she was. None of us is, my boy. We're all sinners down deep."
How right you are, Grandpa. But some of us are worse than others.
* * *
Despite having resumed his studies in September, Josh continued to send Mariel emails filled with salacious gossip. For more than a year, he acquired so much dirt on his fellow Maplewoodians—or was it Maplewooders? Maplewoodites?—that the writer found it difficult to keep up with him. She frequently had to go back and rewrite completed chapters in order to include the new information. In mid-October, she finally instructed him to stop.
"I've got more than enough material now," she told him.
"When will you have the first draft done?"
"Next month probably, definitely by Christmas."
"I thought you were only going to be here a year. It's been—what?—fifteen months now."
"My original intention was to write a book of about four hundred pages, but—thanks to you—it'll be closer to seven hundred. Anyway, I'll stay in Maplewood until the middle of November. If the first draft isn't done by that time, I'll finish it in New York."
The following day Josh received a check in the mail, along with a brief note, thanking him for his help. Although it was a large sum of money for a college student, he could not shake the anticlimactic disappointment he felt. He had considered himself an integral part of the project for months, but now he was being pushed away just as it neared completion.
"It's not fair," he said to himself.
After depositing the check in his bank account, he paid a visit to Mayor Wilton Embry, who inspired one of the main characters in Mariel's novel.
"You're Brooks Schaffner's grandson, aren't you?" the small-town politician asked. "You went to high school with my youngest daughter."
"Yes."
"What did you want to see me about, son?" asked the man who was guilty of at least three of the seven deadly sins.
"It's a personal matter."
A warning bell went off in Wilton's head.
What's this all about? he wondered nervously.
When he heard what Josh came to say, the bell in Wilton's head grew to an ear-splitting siren.
"How did you come across this information?" he demanded to know.
"Miss Holman asked me to hook up her new printer for her," the young man lied. "While I was installing the software, I found a copy of the manuscript on her desktop. I couldn't resist opening it up and having a peek."
"And what do you intend to do? Blackmail me?"
"Certainly not. I only wanted to warn you—and the others."
"How many of us are there?"
"Well, I didn't get to read the entire book, but I'd say more than three dozen of our leading citizens are important characters in the book, and close to a hundred others are briefly mentioned."
"I'll contact my lawyer. There must be some way he can get an injunction against publication of that manuscript."
"I doubt it," Josh said. "She doesn't use people's real names."
"There has to be some way we can stop her. If this information gets out, people's lives will be ruined."
"What do you suggest?"
Wilton had been mayor for the past twenty-three years. He had not lasted that long without learning how to sidestep potential landmines.
A special meeting of the town council was called for the following evening. Many of Maplewood's leading citizens were in attendance. Josh was also there to present a redacted copy of Mariel's early outline.
"As you can see," the young man announced after the first several pages were projected onto the overhead screen so that everyone in the auditorium could read them, "all of you present tonight are to be included in this book. I've used a heavy black marker to cover over the worst of her accusations to save you from embarrassment."
The details he left visible were enough to enflame the attendees' anger.
"We've got to do something!" the high school principal declared. "This book will ruin us!"
"Can't we sue her or something?" the postmaster asked.
"If we take her to court to try to stop the book's publication, we'll have to submit a copy of the manuscript as evidence," the town's attorney explained.
"Which would only result in airing our dirty laundry for everyone to see," Dr. Beckman concluded.
"And that's exactly what we're trying to avoid," Mayor Embry added.
"Then what are we to do?" cried Mr. Tufts, who did not want his wife or anyone else to learn his secrets.
It was Father Stanley Newstead, the man who preached against sin from the pulpit every Sunday (and who had one or two sins of his own he wanted to keep hidden) who rallied them.
"In the past, in times of crisis, we've always come together as a community. We've been there for each other in times of war, natural disaster, sickness, death and ...."
"Oh, come on, Father!" exclaimed the short-tempered postmaster, a heavy drinker who often beat his wife when he had one too many. "This is hardly the occasion to hold a prayer meeting!"
"I'm not suggesting anything like that," the minister argued. "I'm saying we need to stick together, form a plan and act as one."
"And what is the plan?" the mayor asked.
"Maybe we can find something on her," the town librarian answered, "and blackmail her to keep quiet."
"Why don't we just kill her instead?" the police chief joked.
After several minutes of uncomfortable silence, Father Newstead spoke.
"It would be the one sure way to keep this book from being published."
"I was only kidding," the police chief said.
"The father's right," Mayor Embry declared. "If Miss Holman is dead, our problem goes away."
"You can't be serious!" the librarian exclaimed.
"Do you want that young man's parents to know what goes on between the two of you in the reading room of the library?" the mayor asked.
"How dare you!"
"Calm down. We've all got our dirty little secrets here. Yours is no worse than mine."
"Why did that damned woman have to come back to town?" Dr. Beckman swore. "Why couldn't she have stayed in New York and left us alone?"
The physician, who had been cheating Medicare for more than two decades—that was one of his lesser sins—would most likely lose his license if the medical board found out. He might even spend time in jail for fraud.
"You're a doctor," the mayor said. "You could sign the death certificate."
"And I could have her remains cremated before her death becomes fodder for the tabloids," Merle Oakley, the mortician, said. "That way even if someone should question her death, there could be no autopsy."
"I can't believe we're really discussing this," Principal McCarver said.
"We all have to be in agreement," Father Newstead announced. "And that includes you."
"I just ... I never ...."
"It's the only way," the librarian said, knowing the scandal her affair with a thirteen-year-old would cause.
McCarver looked at the faces of the people in the room, all watching him expectantly.
"I feel like the only member of a jury who wants to vote not guilty," he laughed uneasily.
"Think of the entire town as a jury of your peers," the lawyer said. "That includes your wife, your mother, your kids, the board of education. They will sit in judgement of you when this book comes out."
"How are we going to do it?" the police chief asked.
"Don't worry about that," Dr. Beckman said. "I'll take care of it. I brought that bitch into the world. I'll see that she's removed from it."
* * *
Five months later, the last of the winter snow melted, and the early spring flowers began to bloom. Josh had only five weeks of classes left until graduation, and then he would be free to move to New York and pursue his chosen career. As he waited in line at the post office to mail a package to Abner Crowley at Burgess Communications, he watched Mayor Wilton Embry and Father Stanley Newstead walk together down Oak Street and meet up with Dr. Beckman. The three men then stopped at the luncheonette for coffee.
Just look at them, the college senior thought. They think now that Mariel Holman is dead and her ashes are scattered at sea their secrets are safe. Guess again!
Little did the residents of Maplewood know that a serpent lurked in their carefully constructed Garden of Eden, that in a little over eighteen months Brooks' Books would proudly display what would become a national bestseller: A Multitude of Sins written by the bookseller's own grandson.
Josh Schaffner would thus achieve his boyhood dream of following in Mariel Holman's footsteps by first arranging her murder and then stealing her final book and passing it off as his own. In a town that was guilty of a multitude of sins, surely his ranked among the worst.
Salem would fit right in with the townspeople of Maplewood. He's guilty of two of the seven deadly sins: sloth and gluttony.
