In the Nib of Time Read online

  In the Nib of Time

  A Hand Lettering Mystery

  Jessa Archer

  Archer Mysteries

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  In the Nib of Time

  Ralph Coggins has been one of Jamie Lang's mentors and friends for years. A world-renowned master penman and calligrapher to queens and presidents, his script is perfection. So perfect that someone wants him out of the way. When Jamie stops by Ralph's house to deliver the 24K gold fountain pen nib he ordered, she finds him slumped over his drafting table, freshly dead. It takes her good friend with the bedroom eyes, Ridge Calhoun, Cedar Valley's chief of police and hottest bachelor, to determine what killed Ralph. And the cause of death is almost unbelievable. Now the question is—who killed Ralph? And how did they do it?

  Ralph was well loved and respected in the lettering community. So Jamie thought. Until she finds herself embroiled in a world full of jealousy, secrets, revenge, unrequited love, and greed. Even some of Ralph's powerful and wealthy clients have motives for wanting him dead. And it isn't because they can't pay. As Jamie sifts through the clues, consuming copious amounts of coffee, she enlists the help of her rival hand letterer, Hot Hugh. With his sexy British accent and tight black T-shirts, it's hard not to be distracted by him. Now the only question is whether Jamie can find the killer in the nib of time. Before they still her pen for good.

  Chapter One

  Cedar Valley, WA

  Jamie Lang

  My name is Jamie Lang and I have a confession—I got a green star in third-grade penmanship. Not silver. Not gold. Green. Which was basically a participation award. The only thing worse was a red star, which meant you didn't even turn in your paper. My early writing was total chicken scratch. Thank goodness they didn't give letter, or even number, grades for penmanship at my elementary school. Imagine a prominent F written in beautiful script by my teacher. Because of course it would be handwritten, not digitally printed. Not for penmanship. The absolute embarrassment.

  I hid that report card from my parents. But time, as they say, heals all wounds. And makes old embarrassments into interesting, and even inspirational, stories. Because in the here and now, that green-starred girl makes her living hand lettering. I'm an Internet social media personality. I give popular classes and teach workshops. I sell my work for a nice price. Hundreds of brides, verging on thousands, have chosen me to hand letter their invitations and wedding signs and accouterments. Businesses all over the country, and even the world, hire me to hand letter their logos and windows and special event signage. I sell thousands of subscription boxes filled with items with my lettering on them. I run my own shop, Flourish, and sell online as well. And I use myself as an example in classes I teach—you don't have to have good penmanship or handwriting to love, and be good at, hand lettering. It's an art form all to itself.

  I was, at this very minute, sitting in Flourish, sipping a morning cup of coffee from Perk Me Up, the fabulous coffee shop next door, and watching a live webinar by my fellow hand letterer, Hot Hugh. He was making my very point. Probably because he'd heard my story at a conference we both spoke at last winter. He was giving his own rather weak example. I doubted he'd ever gotten a green star in anything. Did they even have green stars in the U.K.? I was guessing that was another one of our cultural differences. He was speaking in that gorgeous, sexy accent of his, which made anything he said sound hot. And so much better than anything that came out of my mouth.

  Hugh was British, six feet four of sculpted, rock-hard muscle. He had lush, dark hair with a hint of curl and dark eyes, and he filled out the body-hugging gray and black T-shirts that were his signature style in the most delicious way. Which is why I, and every woman I knew, called him Hot Hugh behind his back, and not simply Hugh. And even though he was more into calligraphy than hand lettering, he was one of the few men in the general hand lettering realm and my main rival, friendly rival, that is, in the biz. But face it—how was I ever going to really compete with his physique and accent? Especially given our audience was mainly female. All I had was my appeal to stand together with the hand lettering sisterhood and my empathy for the effects of menstrual cycles on creativity.

  Hugh operated out of London. He was a star for having an internationally renowned shop that employed four—yes, count them, four—calligraphers. Which in this business was the equivalent of being a Fortune 500 company. And he'd done work for the Crown. He wasn't the royal calligrapher. But he was close.

  Hugh moved on to talking about equipment. There was a chat box. So, of course, I couldn't resist heckling, and punning, him. Hugh was supposedly above punning. And innuendo. But I happened to know they were his Achilles heel.

  Wonderful point, Hugh! I'm very font of the blue pumpkin nib, too. It's my gilt-y pleasure. But really, as we all know, it's not the size of your nib, or your pen. It's how you wield it. Any advice about style?

  Hugh was great at reading comments as he spoke, while seeming to be fully focused on what he was saying. Better than I was, if I was being honest. The corners of his lips twitched. Yeah, he'd seen my comment. Among the hundreds of fluttery comments he was receiving, I was getting to him. No one else dared challenge him. They all fawned over him and tried to impress him. Some tried to flirt. He was definitely trying not to laugh. Hugh enjoyed our sparring. Maybe even looked forward to it. He'd been known to show up in my webinars to heckle me, too.

  Hugh was fast at typing a comeback. Well, love, style is largely a matter of pen position. The key is to get a firm grip, but not so firm you stifle creativity and get uptight. Style is also dependent on the power, or delicacy, of your strokes. I personally prefer a good downstroke with a firm grip.

  I replied, Thanks, Hugh. Many letterers do like it hard. But since we often do it on the kitchen table, I prefer finesse.

  Hugh's stoic, smoldering cool-guy persona cracked into a mischievous, sexy bad-boy grin. When he looked into the camera like that, you had to imagine his largely female audience fanning themselves. Mega points for me. Mission accomplished. Day made.

  The bell over the front door tinkled. My delivery guy, Jake, propped the door open and wheeled a hand truck stacked with boxes into the shop. It was summer, so he was wearing his uniform shorts. He had nice, powerful legs, but compared to Hot Hugh, he came up short. But then most men did. So few men were over six foot three and knew their way around a typeface.

  "Hey, Jamie," Jake said. "Big delivery this week."

  I bailed out of Hugh's webinar. "I'm expecting something special. I hope you brought it for me." I popped out of my chair and rubbed my hands together in anticipation.

  "I hope I don't disappoint," Jake said. "I deliver what they load me up with. Where do you want this? In the back like usual?"

  I nodded and went to get the door into the storeroom for him. I held the door and followed him in, watching eagerly as he unloaded the boxes. One caught my eye. My pulse raced.

  When he was finished, he held his little machine out for me to sign for the delivery. "See anything you like in that bunch of boxes?"

  "Oh, I like it all." I signed. My phone pinged. I glanced at it. "I just received a notification that you delivered exactly what I was hoping for."
r />   "Good, Jamie. I like making customers happy." He grabbed his hand truck. "See you next week."

  "Yeah. Take care. Have a good week."

  He saluted and rolled the hand truck out to his truck. I scanned the boxes until I found the one I'd been waiting for. I grabbed my box cutter, opened the box, and rifled through the layers of air pillows and bubble wrap. My heart raced as I finally pulled a box of solid gold fountain pen nibs out.

  I'd been waiting weeks for these. They were on back order from the manufacturer. All the time I'd been afraid they'd sold out and I'd be out of luck. That they'd never fill my order. My good friend Ralph would be so happy. And impressed. He'd asked me to try to get him some without much hope of success. Oh, ye of little faith!

  I texted Ralph that his order had come in and that I'd be right over. I didn't expect an immediate response. Ralph often got lost in his work. And when he worked, he worked with noise-filtering earplugs in and his phone in another room. Like many older people, he startled easily. The last thing you want when you're working with ink is to be startled and make an unintended squiggle on your masterpiece. He'd come up for air sooner or later and respond. But in this case, I'd probably already be there by the time he did.

  I grabbed the nibs and my purse and locked the shop up. Ralph wanted these right away. But first, a quick stop by the Cedar Valley Bakery, which was right next to Flourish on the opposite side from Perk Me Up, for two Russian pretzels—one for Ralph, one for me. Russian pretzels were heaven on earth as far as pastries were concerned—twists of regular and chocolate puff pastry shaped into a pretzel and covered with powdered sugar glaze. They were light and flaky and perfect with a cup of coffee. The bakery made them fresh daily. They sold out quickly, and once they were gone, you had to wait for the next day and hope to get lucky.

  Linda Lewis was working behind the pastry case. She waved when I walked in. It was a weekday between the breakfast rush and lunch, so I was able to walk right up to the counter.

  "Russian pastry?" She pulled one of those little wax papers they grab pastries with out of the box on the counter and flapped it between her fingers.

  "Better make it two."

  "Oh? Big date?" She raised her eyebrows.

  "One's for Ralph. His nibs finally came in. I'm delivering them to him. He loves Russian pretzels as much as I do."

  "Ralph, huh?" Linda said, clearly teasing. "You two share a lot of interests. Your face lights up when you mention his name. Have a little crush on him?"

  I laughed. "A professional crush. Ralph's old enough to be my grandpa, as you well know. If he were fifty years younger, he'd be my guy."

  "Poor Ridge. I'm sure he wouldn't be happy to hear that."

  I didn't reply. Ridge, Ridgefield Calhoun, was the Cedar Valley chief of police and my oldest, and best, friend. Best guy friend, anyway. I'd been in love with his identical twin, Rutledge, before Rut's tragic death. It's a long story. Ridge and I have been dancing around our feelings for each other forever. It's undefined territory between us.

  Linda grabbed the best two pretzels from the case and put them in a white paper bakery bag. "Coffee to go with?"

  The bakery's coffee wasn't great. In fact, it was barely tolerable. But I was in a pickle. I couldn't trust Ralph to have coffee on hand. And I didn't want to take the time to go to Perk Me Up. My friend Angel, who owns and runs it, would want to talk and talk. And I was too excited to get the nibs to Ralph to chat with her. "Two black coffees to go."

  "Tell me again what's so impressive about Ralph?" Linda pulled two to-go cups from a tall stack and grabbed the pot to pour my coffee. "I always forget. He's a master something or other?"

  "A master penman," I said. Most people didn't have a real appreciation of what that meant. It was a huge accomplishment. "There are only twelve certified penmen still living. The Master Penman Society dissolved a few years ago. They were the organization that certified masters. You have to make a real contribution to the art of lettering to make the grade. Example—

  one of the late masters—Platt Rogers Spencer—invented the Spencerian Script, the basis for American penmanship."

  I shook my head. "And now local schools, and schools across the country, are debating whether to stop teaching cursive handwriting altogether." I sighed. "There's usually a huge innovation in handwriting every hundred years of so. Ralph was instrumental in the last one. Sadly, the digital revolution is killing the art. There aren't any colleges or art schools left teaching handwriting. Unless something changes, there will be no more masters."

  Linda murmured something reassuring.

  "Ralph's a living calligraphy legend. The number of things he's contributed to calligraphy and typography is too long to list. And you should see his pen art." I pulled my wallet out and handed Linda my credit card. "In his heyday, he was brilliant. In recent years, his arthritis has slowed him down. He's not the artist he used to be, unfortunately. Oh, he can still do the easy stuff, obviously. And what's easy for him would be hard for most people. But the brilliant, innovative stuff is all behind him."

  "Old age catches up with all of us who are lucky enough to live long enough." Linda handed my credit card back to me.

  I slid it into my wallet. "Yeah. It's been especially hard on Ralph, though. He's been depressed about it. But he's still plenty busy. He has a huge wedding he's doing all the calligraphy for. For one of Seattle's newly minted billionaires, Brandon Watson, and his bride-to-be, Jennifer Allen. It's going to be the wedding of the season."

  Linda perked up. "Here? At Lighthouse Gardens?" She put the coffee in a four-cup carrier and set the pastry bag in next to it in the two empty slots.

  "No. At some private mansion, I think," I said. "He's been vague about the location. But I've seen some of the work that he's been doing for it—gorgeous, as always."

  "I still don't really understand your friendship," Linda said. "Aren't you two in competition?"

  "No," I said. "Not at all. We're both under the typography umbrella. But hand lettering is drawing letters more than writing them. It's usually much more casual. Each piece more art and less penmanship. Hand lettering is suited to a casual wedding.

  "Calligraphy, on the other hand, is more formal and goes with a formal, traditional wedding. It's suited for longer pieces of writing. Our clientele is really very different and distinct. And Ralph has been so generous with me, teaching me things only an expert can. He has a Ph.D. in ancient and medieval handwriting. He's worked with all the masters. Even though I don't really do calligraphy, knowing the basics of fonts and typefaces has helped me become a better hand letterer. I owe him a tremendous amount."

  "How long is he here for this year?" Linda asked.

  Ralph was a snowbird. He wintered in the Sun Belt and came up to his cabin in Cedar Valley for the summer wedding season. We have a popular wedding venue here—Lighthouse Gardens. He does some work for brides there, but he has clients all around the sound.

  "Oh, the usual, I think," I said. "He'll stay through the September wedding season, at least. Maybe into mid-October." I picked up my coffee carrier. "Thanks."

  Linda nodded. "Say hi to Ralph for me. And tell him to get his ancient butt into the bakery. We'd like to see him, too."

  "Will do."

  No place in Cedar Valley was a very long walk from any other place, but Ralph's cabin was about as far away as anything from Flourish. Because I didn't feel like carrying coffee across town, I decided to drive. It took me longer to get in and out of the car than to make the actual drive.

  Ralph was as immaculate about maintaining his cabin and yard as he was about his calligraphy. The small lawn was freshly mowed. Hummingbird feeders hung on the front porch, freshly filled and buzzing with hummingbirds fighting for supremacy. A row of fuchsia and hanging petunia baskets was freshly watered and dripping. I stepped around the drips and knocked on the front door.

  There was no answer. If he was working, he'd have his earplugs in. If he wasn't, Ralph had become a little hard of hea
ring lately. It was doubtful he'd hear me, especially if he was at the back of the house. I knocked again.

  When he didn't answer, I let myself in. He never kept his door locked during the day. Few people did around here. This wasn't Seattle, after all. And I had a standing invitation from Ralph to come in if he didn't respond to my knock.

  "Ralph," I yelled. "Good news. Your nibs came in. And you thought I couldn't get them! Showed you. And I come bearing coffee and Russian pretzels, too." I slipped my shoes off and headed to his studio.

  The door to his studio was cracked open. Which was unusual. He kept the door closed. Again, so noises wouldn't startle him. Even though it was bright and sunny outside and plenty of light streamed in, he had a light on. His old eyes needed as much light as they could get. A shaft of light came out of the door.

  I pushed the door open with my elbow and slid in. I waved and called his name in a calm tone so I didn't scare him and ruin the piece he was working on. I smiled, expecting his engaging, surprised smile to answer mine as he looked up from his work. Expecting him to see the coffee and the pretzel bag and be delighted.

  Ralph was behind his drafting table, slumped over, his head resting on his arms, facedown. Poor old dear must have been so exhausted that he'd fallen asleep on the job. He'd complained to me many times that he didn't have the energy he used to.

  I set the coffee carrier down on the nearest flat surface and talked softly to gently wake Ralph. "Ralph."

  I gently shook his shoulder. "Ralph, you old scoundrel, did you work through the night again? Wake up. I brought your nibs, just in the nib of time for your big project. And coffee to get the sludge out of your veins."