Buried in the Stacks

by Allison Brook

  True to his word, John rang my doorbell just minutes later. He was stamping his feet, to free them of snow, when I opened the door to let him in. He looked haggard—bloodshot eyes and a five o’clock shadow—as if he’d been working since early that morning.

  I took his jacket. “Would you like coffee?”

  He surprised me by asking for hot chocolate, if I had any.

  “I do. Come into the kitchen.”

  I reboiled the water, then prepared John’s hot chocolate and my tea. I waited while he stirred his drink and sipped the hot liquid.

  “Who died?” I asked.

  John exhaled deeply. “Dorothy Hawkins. She was driving home, I imagine, after the library closed at nine thirty. A car rammed into her, and she crashed into a tree. She struck her head and was pronounced dead at the scene.”

  “Oh!” I covered my mouth with my hand. “That’s terrible. Was it an accident?”

  “Too early to say. Danny’s canvassing the area. We’re hoping someone caught the license plate number of the driver who hit her.”

  “You mean the person who drove into Dorothy ran off?”

  John nodded. “A lot of that’s been happening lately. People seem to take less responsibility for their actions these days.”

  “Unless …” I stared at John, who was rubbing his chin. “Unless someone ran into Dorothy on purpose.”

  “That’s what I’m wondering.” He gulped down some hot chocolate and grimaced as the hot liquid scorched his mouth.

  “Like me to cool it off a bit?”

  He nodded. I took the container of milk from the fridge and added some to his drink.

  “But why are you here?” I asked when I was seated once more. “I haven’t seen Dorothy since I left work.”

  For a minute he didn’t answer, so I said what I was thinking. “Because I helped solve other murders?”

  “No, Carrie. The police department isn’t asking for your assistance.”

  “Oh!” Blushing, I waited for him to explain.

  “Dorothy Hawkins had just dialed your number when the car struck her vehicle. Do you have any idea why she’d be calling you?”

  I swallowed as thoughts whirled around in my head. Dorothy was dead! She’d told me she’d felt threatened. I should have notified John immediately!

  “Carrie?”

  “Maybe I do.”

  He frowned. “Care to explain?”

  “I visited Dorothy in the hospital after her recent accident.”

  He downed the rest of his drink and smacked his lips. “You’re referring to her fall outside the supermarket.”

  “Uh-huh. I was there when her husband paid her a visit at the hospital. Dorothy cringed when he moved to kiss her. As soon as he left the room to get a vase for the flowers he’d brought, she told me he’d knocked her down.”

  “She told you her fall was no accident?”

  “Right. She said Fred had shoved her down. He wanted her dead, though I can’t see how a fall like that would result in someone dying. Anyway, about a week later, I visited Dorothy at home. She seemed perfectly comfortable in Fred’s presence. She showed no fear of him whatsoever. When I asked her about her reaction to him in the hospital, she made light of it. Said it must have been the pain meds they’d given her.”

  John stretched his long legs in front of him. “Interesting.”

  “But why are you asking me about Fred? Do you think someone set out to murder Dorothy?”

  John sighed. “Judging by the extent of the damage, the vehicle rammed into hers with great force. The driver had to be going much faster than anyone ought to on a residential street with patches of black ice from the latest snowfall.”

  “Any witnesses?

  John pursed his lips. I knew he was debating whether he ought to share this information with me, so I waited him out. “There were two. A driver called in having seen a car coming around the bend, then swerving into Dorothy’s car with great force. And a man walking his dog saw the car as it sped away from the scene. Neither witness caught the make of the car, much less the license number.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Nine forty, give or take a few minutes.”

  “So Dorothy stayed at the library till closing and then left for home,” I mused.

  “Which means there’s a good chance her husband knew exactly when she’d be on her way home.”

  “I know you haven’t asked for my opinion, but Fred strikes me as a nice guy who really cares about his wife. And—” I stopped abruptly.

  “And?” John encouraged.

  “And Dorothy was not well liked. She wasn’t a nice person.”

  John groaned as he got to his feet. “Thanks for your help, Carrie, and for the hot chocolate. We’ll be questioning everyone who knew Dorothy and worked with her.”

  Chapter Nine

  The following morning, Wednesday, I left for work early. I wanted to be the one to break the news to Evelyn. But when I arrived at the library at a quarter to nine, Angela and Sally had beaten me to it. They were discussing Dorothy’s death in the staff room. I didn’t see Evelyn, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t there, listening in on their conversation.

  “I wonder if one of her crutches got caught in the gas pedal,” Angela was saying. “I read about that happening. Only in the news article, it wasn’t a crutch, but a pole of some kind.”

  “She never should have come back to work so soon,” Sally said. “And there certainly was no reason for her to stay till closing last night.”

  Angela turned to me. “Did you hear, Carrie? Dorothy died in a car accident last night.”

  I nodded. “The police think her death may have been intentional,” I said.

  “Oh no!” Angela said. “Not another murder.”

  “How do you know?” Sally asked. Her eyes widened with fear.

  “John Mathers stopped by last night.”

  Sally shot me a look that bordered on hostility. “Why? Did he want to make use of your detective skills?”

  I quelled my instinct to respond in kind because I knew she was worried that I’d told John about her quarrel with Dorothy.

  “He came to talk to me because Dorothy was apparently dialing my number when the car crashed into hers and drove it into a tree.”

  “I didn’t know you two were suddenly bosom buddies,” Sally said.

  “We weren’t.” I told them about Dorothy’s reaction to Fred when he’d come to visit her in the hospital and her response a few days later.

  Sally scoffed. “Fred Hawkins wouldn’t hurt a fly. How he put up with Dorothy all these years is something I’ll never understand.”

  “John knows that Dorothy wasn’t very popular,” I said.

  “That’s putting it mildly,” Angela said.

  “He called me at home to say he’ll be stopping at the library to talk to everyone who worked with Dorothy,” Sally said.

  I suddenly realized something. “Whoever ran into Sally will have a good deal of damage to his or her car.”

  “Unless he or she used an old heap that’s not registered,” Angela said.

  I left them discussing where and how such an old heap might be acquired.

  Evelyn was waiting for me in my office. She’d been weeping. Though I’d known her for months and had witnessed her many moods, this was the first time I’d seen her cry.

  “So it’s true,” she said, when she managed to get out her words. “Poor Dorothy is dead. Killed in a car wreck.”

  “I’m afraid so. John thinks it might have been deliberate, judging by the force of the collision. I’ll let you know more when I find out. John will be questioning everyone here.”

  “And I’ll be sure to listen in on those interviews,” she said bitterly. “I know Dorothy could be infuriating, but I can’t imagine someone wanting to kill her.”

  I thought of how upset and angry Sally had been after her argument with Dorothy, but decided to keep mum. “Dorothy was calling me when the car smashed into hers. I
told Lieutenant Mathers that when I’d visited Dorothy in the hospital, she’d confided that Fred had pushed her. A week later she denied that ever happened.”

  Evelyn scowled. “Who knows? Maybe Fred finally reached his breaking point.”

  “Evelyn! You told me he adored her.”

  “Even a whipped dog may finally turn on his tormentor.”

  “I’m sure the police will do everything they can to find out who rammed into Dorothy.”

  “That’s not good enough!” An icy chill ran along my arm as Evelyn gripped my wrist and then immediately released it. “You have to find Dorothy’s murderer! Please, Carrie. For my sake. I want her killer punished to the full extent of the law.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said, meeting her gaze, “and you have to do yours. I expect you to share with me whatever you find out when you listen in on conversations.”

  She nodded.

  “That includes unflattering comments, Evelyn. You never know when a snippet of gossip will include an important clue. Dorothy liked secrets. We have to unravel them one by one.”

  “Okay.”

  “Between the two of us, we’ll get to the bottom of this and find out the truth.”

  * * *

  John and Danny arrived at the library in the early afternoon and questioned every member of the staff. The interviews were brief: wanting to know where we all were the previous night, asking to see our car registrations, then going outside to the parking lot to view the condition of each car. Not one vehicle had been damaged.

  I breathed a sigh of relief to learn that none of my colleagues was under suspicion, at least for now. Of course the investigation would delve much deeper over the next few days to include a visit to all auto body shops and junk yards within a fifty-mile radius to examine every damaged car that had been brought in since the night Dorothy was murdered. I wasn’t sure why I was holding off telling John about Sally’s argument with Dorothy. Perhaps it was because I liked Sally or I was hoping Sally would tell him herself.

  Trish left for the day, and I forced myself to settle down and start working on my questionnaire to be sent to every home in the district. Sally had finally agreed to let me draw one up that would ask patrons which programs and events at the library they attended, which they liked and didn’t like, and what new programs and events they would like to see offered. I created a new document and typed in fifteen questions; then I stopped to call Dylan to bring him up to date after our chat late last night. Of course I left out the part about Evelyn’s offer to help by listening in on conversations. One day soon I’d tell him about Evelyn and could only hope he wouldn’t think I was losing my mind.

  “I don’t envy them their job,” Dylan said. “They have to interview everyone who Dorothy spoke to in the past few weeks. And as we know, she managed to rile up everyone who knew her.”

  Sally stopped by my office to tell me that Fred had called, asking her to inform Dorothy’s colleagues that the viewing would be held on Monday; the cremation on Tuesday morning, with only the immediate family attending; and there would be a memorial service Wednesday afternoon.

  Dorothy’s being cremated? “How did Fred sound?” I asked.

  “Sad. Subdued. They’d been married almost thirty years,” Sally said.

  I decided to call Fred myself and offer my condolences.

  “Fred, this is Carrie Singleton. I want to tell you how sorry I am that you’ve lost Dorothy.” The sound of loud male voices came over the line. “I’m sorry if I caught you at a bad time.”

  “Hello, Carrie. The police are here and—” He stopped talking, and I thought we’d been disconnected. I heard muffled conversation, then Fred was back, sounding agitated.

  “Sorry. They say they found something incriminating. It’s ridiculous! I have to go down to the station and answer more questions. I have to go and sort all of this out.”

  I stared at my disconnected phone, wondering what on earth John and Danny could have discovered that had upset Fred. I wanted to add a closing paragraph to my questionnaire, but gave up when I realized I was too distraught to concentrate.

  Susan arrived for her late afternoon–evening shift. We talked about Dorothy, and I mentioned that she, like the rest of us, would be questioned by the police.

  “I left the same time she did last night. I even held the door for her when we left the building. Not that she bothered to thank me.”

  “When I called Fred to give him my condolences, he said the police were there, searching the house from top to bottom. It sounded as if they’d found something. Fred said they were taking him down to the station. I wish I could find out what happened after that.”

  “Why don’t you call the precinct?” Susan asked. “Aren’t you and Lieutenant Mathers great friends?”

  “We are, but he’ll probably tell me not to get involved in police business—even though Dorothy was calling me when that car rammed into her.”

  Susan’s eyes lit up. “There’s your entry. At least it’s worth a try.”

  I stared at this girl, whom only months ago I had thought was the dullest knife in the drawer. “You’re right! I’ll call right now.”

  I dialed the police station and breathed a sigh of relief when the dispatcher, Gracie Venditto, answered the phone.

  “Hi, Gracie, it’s Carrie from the library.”

  “Hello there, Carrie. Sorry about what happened to poor Dorothy Hawkins. She wasn’t the friendliest person, but she didn’t deserve to die that way.”

  I exhaled slowly. “So they’ve decided it was definitely a homicide.”

  “Sure looks that way.”

  Susan was watching me. I grinned at her as I changed my plan of attack. “You know, Gracie, Dorothy was calling me when it happened.”

  “So I heard.” Was that suspicion I heard creep into her voice? She must have covered the receiver because there was the muffled sound of people speaking though I couldn’t make out any words.

  “I have to go, Carrie,” Gracie said.

  “All right.”

  I was about to end the call, when Gracie told me that John wanted to talk to me from his office. I waited, a bit nervous, for what probably would be a reprimand. When his strong bass came on, he didn’t sound happy.

  “Carrie, I’ll thank you not to question my officers about ongoing investigations.”

  “Sorry, John. I didn’t mean to be devious, but I was on the phone with Fred Hawkins when you were searching his home. He became very upset to learn that you’d discovered something. I’m worried about him.”

  “And you want to know what we found.”

  I cleared my throat. “Yes. That too.”

  “You could have asked me instead of trying to worm it out of Gracie.”

  “I apologize. But frankly, I figured you’d tell me it was police business and clam up.”

  Silence. I bit my lip and forced myself to wait.

  “It is police business and I shouldn’t be sharing this information with you, but once again you’ve managed to involve yourself in another homicide. I know your curiosity and concern won’t let you rest until you find out what happened at the Hawkins’s house today.”

  “I guess that’s true,” I admitted.

  “We found something that supports what Dorothy told you in the hospital.”

  “So Dorothy really was afraid of her husband.”

  “Yes.”

  I began to hyperventilate. “You found evidence that proves Fred killed Dorothy? What is it? Why would he kill her?”

  “Not evidence exactly, but we found her journal. In it Mrs. Hawkins had written that she was afraid that Fred had tried to murder her outside the supermarket as he’d murdered her Aunt Evelyn seven years ago.”

  Chapter Ten

  John hung up, leaving me staring at the phone with my mouth agape. How could I, who had been involved in two murder investigations, have been so wrong about everything? True, when Dorothy had returned home from the hospital she’d insisted that she wasn’t
afraid of Fred. Nor had she acted as though she feared him. But maybe she’d managed to delude herself that once she was back in her own house, she could control the situation. Control Fred as I suspected she’d been doing all these years.

  And Fred? I couldn’t believe my instincts had betrayed me, because he’d appeared so friendly and benevolent. Perhaps he’d reached the end of his patience and simply couldn’t stand to live with someone like Dorothy any longer.

  My thoughts returned to Dorothy. If I’d been more proactive maybe I could have prevented her murder. I should have insisted that she tell me …

  Tell me what? That she really was afraid of Fred?

  Tell me the specific reason why he wanted her gone? And if I couldn’t convince her to tell me the truth, I should have told John what she’d said in the hospital.

  Then it would have been John’s fault that she was killed and not mine.

  I sighed. As much as I had disliked Dorothy, I knew I’d do my utmost to find out who had killed her.

  * * *

  Thursday was my late day. I arrived at the library at one o’clock. Smoky Joe scampered off, and Trish filled me in on an incident that had taken place that morning. Doris and Henry Maris and two older women from the homeless shelter had ensconced themselves in the reading room. One of the women was obviously disturbed. She rocked back and forth, an arm across her chest, mumbling nonstop. A few patrons complained to Sally, who spoke gently to the woman and asked her to sit quietly or she would have to leave. The woman became agitated and lashed out, hitting Sally in the face. Angela called the police. Danny came and escorted the woman out of the library.

  “Sally called and learned that the woman had been brought to the psych hospital in the next town,” Trish said. “Meanwhile, Doris Maris and the other woman berated Sally for sending her to ‘that hellhole,’ as they called it.”

  I shook my head. “Poor Doris. Poor Sally. And what was Henry doing while this was going on?”