Buried in the Stacks

by Allison Brook

  “Just sitting there, looking dazed.”

  “Unfortunately, Henry isn’t receiving the attention he needs,” I said. “Once the day center gets underway, I hope they’ll see to it that the people they’re serving are evaluated for medical and psych treatment.”

  Trish frowned. “So many of the homeless have psychiatric problems. Their problems are probably what drove them to living on the streets. Nobody cares and no one looks after them.”

  I made a mental note to stop by to chat with Doris and invite her, Henry, and the other woman to have a snack in the coffee shop with me. A small gesture, but it was all I could think of to do until Haven House was ready.

  My phone rang. Fred Hawkins was on the line.

  “Hello, Carrie. I’m sorry we got cut off yesterday.”

  “Not to worry, Fred. You were occupied with more pressing matters.”

  “By the time an officer drove me home last night, it was too late to call you.”

  “I’m so glad they didn’t keep you. Are you all right?”

  “I’m considerably shaken. I had to cancel all my appointments for today. I hope I don’t lose my job over this.”

  It occurred to me that I had no idea what kind of work Fred did. “Where do you work?” I asked.

  “I’m an in-home consultant for Watson’s Décor Designs in town. I sell window treatments to customers in their homes.”

  “Oh. Good to know if I need anything.” I returned to the subject uppermost on my mind. “I’m relieved that the police don’t consider you a suspect.”

  Fred’s laugh held no humor. “I wouldn’t say that. Lieutenant Mathers told me to expect to be called in again for further interviews. Of course they have no evidence, no proof that I harmed Dorothy. For God’s sake, Carrie, she was my wife! I wouldn’t go and ram a car into hers with the intention of killing her!”

  “When Dorothy was in the hospital, she told me that you tried to kill her the night she fell outside the supermarket.”

  Fred expelled a lungful of disappointment. “I know. She wrote that in her journal, the cops said, and I have no idea why.”

  “Were you with her the night she slipped on the ice?”

  “Yes, we went shopping together, but I wasn’t with her when she fell.”

  “Oh?”

  “We’d forgotten to buy butter, and Dorothy needed it for a cake she’d planned to bake. She was very annoyed that we’d forgotten it. I ran back into the store, and meanwhile she said she’d put the two bags of groceries in the trunk and wait for me in the car. When I came out, she was lying on the ground.”

  “Did you tell the police this?”

  “Of course I told them. Turns out the store’s security camera was out. They advised me to find the sales slip for the butter, but I threw it out since I’d paid for it with cash.”

  “So you have no way to prove that you went back for butter,” I mused.

  “I don’t, though the cashier might remember me.”

  “I still can’t understand why she’d think you pushed her down.”

  “I can’t figure that out, Carrie. It’s all I can think of since the police told me she’d written that in her journal, but I can’t come up with a reason.”

  “Do you think someone else might have knocked her down?”

  “Sure, that’s possible—but not on purpose. I mean, why would anyone want to do that to a fifty-one-year-old woman minding her own business?”

  That wasn’t Dorothy! She took pleasure in minding other people’s business. “Maybe someone ran into her accidentally,” I said, to see how he’d respond.

  “She took one hell of a tumble. The doctor in the hospital said she probably blacked out for a minute or two. When she came to, I was the first person she saw.”

  “And for some reason, she made the assumption that you were the person who had knocked her down.”

  “It’s the only scenario I can think of that makes sense,” Fred said.

  “People often can’t think straight after getting a concussion.”

  “Thanks, Carrie. I feel much better after talking to you.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t meant to reassure him. After learning what Dorothy had written in her journal, it was possible that Fred had killed Dorothy after failing to do so on his first attempt. But it was just as well he had no idea that I suspected him.

  “The viewing will be Monday, and she’ll be cremated the following day—a private affair for the family. I hope you’ll attend the memorial service on Wednesday at one at Whitesides Chapel. I know Dorothy would appreciate it if you would say a few words.”

  Say a few words! “I—sure, that is—I’ll certainly do my best to be there.”

  “Thanks again, Carrie, for caring.”

  Fred hung up before I could ask him why Dorothy had thought he’d killed her Aunt Evelyn.

  * * *

  As soon as Susan left the office at five o’clock to take over the hospitality desk, Evelyn made an appearance.

  “Wow! The afternoons sure are difficult to get your attention,” she groused.

  “I do apologize,” I said, rolling my eyes, “but you understand I can’t go around having patrons think I’m talking to myself when I’m actually speaking to you.”

  “I don’t know why not. Lots of people keep those gadgets in their ears so they can communicate with people electronically. They look like they’re talking to themselves.”

  “True,” I agreed, “but I have no intention of giving the impression that I’m talking to myself.”

  Evelyn calmed down and perched on the edge of Trish and Susan’s desk. “What’s happening with the investigation? Have the police found the person who killed my poor niece?”

  “Not conclusively.”

  Evelyn stared at me. “What exactly does that mean?”

  “They questioned Fred down at the station and managed to rattle him.”

  “Fred?” Evelyn cocked her head at me. “I told you he wouldn’t hurt Dorothy. They’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  I drew a breath, reluctant to bring up my ghostly friend’s own demise. “When the police came to search the house, they found Dorothy’s journal. In it she says she’s afraid that Fred shoved her to the ground that evening at the supermarket.”

  “Why would he do something like that?”

  “Fred and I talked about it. He’d gone back into the store for butter when someone might very well have knocked Dorothy to the ground. She must have blacked out for a moment. And Fred was the first person she saw when she opened her eyes.”

  “Still,” Evelyn insisted, “that’s no reason to think her husband would do a thing like that.”

  “I suppose it got her thinking.” I paused.

  Evelyn grew impatient. “Well. Go on.”

  “I suppose it reminded her of the night you—er—died. In her journal she wrote that she was afraid Fred had tried to kill her the same way he’d murdered you.”

  Evelyn put her hands to her head and circled my small office. Finally, she settled back against the desk. “But why would Fred want to murder me?”

  “Money? Did Dorothy inherit money when you died?”

  “Well, yes, but Fred is the last person on this earth to kill someone for a very mediocre inheritance.”

  I didn’t know what a “mediocre” inheritance involved and was reluctant to ask her to spell it out for me. Instead, I said, “People have murdered for the smallest amount of money, which is neither here nor there. The question is, why did Dorothy think her husband killed you?”

  Evelyn stared at me. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “Do you remember slipping on the ice outside in the library parking lot the night you … died?”

  When she hesitated, I said, “Evelyn, please! You promised to be forthright and not withhold information, no matter how unflattering it might be. We need to unearth every possible clue if we hope to find out who murdered Dorothy—and perhaps you as well.”

  “Okay. You’re right.
It is embarrassing not to know for sure if you slipped on the ice or someone knocked you down.”

  “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Evelyn. You hit your head, and as I told Fred, that affects a person’s mind and memory.”

  “I hardly remember the day it happened. I know it was in February, a bitterly cold month that year. Robert was gone and suddenly my life held no joy. One day ran into the next. I was glad I had my job at the library. It gave me a reason to get out of bed every morning.

  “The house was becoming a burden. I was thinking of selling it and renting an apartment instead. I had conversations—can’t remember now with whom—about my finances. The only detail I remember is that I decided to redo my will and leave everything to Dorothy.”

  My pulse raced. So, money might have been a factor in her death! “Were you originally planning to leave a third to each of your nieces and nephew?”

  “I suppose so. I had no reason to cut any of them out of my will—that I can remember. Although …”

  I waited. After a minute, Evelyn shook her head in frustration. “It’s not clear, but I do remember having words with one of the children.” She grimaced. “Something about a loan. Or did one of the children want me to sell them the house for a ridiculously low price? Whatever it was, I decided to simplify things for myself and leave it all to Dorothy.”

  “Was Dorothy the one who needed the money?”

  “I—I don’t know! I can’t remember.”

  “Did you tell anyone that you changed your will?”

  “Maybe. I think so, but I don’t know who I told.” Evelyn’s chest began to heave with anxiety. I wished I could put my arms around her.

  “Evelyn, please don’t excite yourself.”

  “But it matters! Dorothy was murdered. The same person might have killed us both!”

  “Maybe not,” I said as calmly as I could. “Dorothy wrote this in her journal after her fall outside the supermarket. Rightly or wrongly, she linked it to your fall. She offered no proof that either of your accidents was deliberate.”

  “Carrie, I find it hard to believe that anyone would murder me for my estate. It was pathetically small after our investment debacle with Ernie Pfeiffer.”

  Ernie Pfeiffer. When I’d visited Dorothy at home, her brother and Fred had wanted her to invest in another one of his schemes, but now wasn’t the time to mention it to Evelyn.

  “Evelyn, I intend to find out who murdered Dorothy.”

  “Bless you, my dear,” she said as she faded from my office.

  Chapter Eleven

  I gazed around the auditorium at the large crowd of people that had shown up at Dorothy’s memorial service despite her sour disposition and occasional acts of malice that had won her many enemies. Other than Sally, Evelyn, and Fred, I didn’t know a soul who had genuinely cared for her. Though I had been the victim of Dorothy’s dirty tricks, I had felt a degree of sympathy for her these past few weeks. And now someone had murdered her, which she certainly didn’t deserve.

  Of course the fact that she’d been murdered was the reason for the mob today. Curiosity and all that. I’m sure many were thrilled to be there, figuring that the murderer was in the room with us. And John Mathers’s presence at the back of the auditorium only added to the sense of excitement.

  Sally, two library board members, and I had come to represent the Clover Ridge Library where Dorothy had worked for eighteen years. When I called Fred to tell him that I planned to say a few words, he sounded very appreciative.

  “Thanks so much, Carrie. My wife had a cutting tongue, and I know you suffered from it, but she also had a good heart.”

  Good heart? Instead of being a hypocrite and agreeing, I asked Fred if there was anything I could do for him.

  “Nothing, thank you. Your presence and kind words on Wednesday are more than enough.”

  I stared at the large urn resting on a pedestal beside the lectern where people would be speaking. Inside it were the remains of Dorothy Hawkins, placed there, it seemed to me, so she could hear what everyone had come to say about her. The minister from her church came forward to say a few words. Dorothy had been an active member of the women’s auxiliary until her work had demanded her full attention. He led us in a short prayer, and then the speakers began.

  First up was Fred, looking shaken. He was short, with an unassuming stature, and wore a navy suit that could have used a good pressing. He seemed lost at first, but his confidence grew as he gave a heartfelt speech mourning his dead wife and lifelong partner. I was swayed once again into believing him incapable of having killed the woman for whom he was grieving. Unless Fred Hawkins was a star-quality actor, his words rang true in my ears.

  Next, Frances walked up hand in hand with a handsome man who I assumed was her husband. Sally must have noticed me studying him because she edged closer to whisper, “That’s Dorothy’s sister, Francesca Benning, and her husband, Gerald. Successful lawyer.”

  I nodded, curious to hear Francesca talk, in between sobs, about the childhood she’d shared with Dorothy and what a loving big sister Dorothy had been. Certainly not the way Evelyn had described her niece to me. Even as a child, Dorothy had been selfish and mean, throwing her sister’s new doll in the brook behind their house. Maybe Francesca had a bad memory, was overly emotional, or simply loved Dorothy despite everything she’d done.

  Or Francesca was putting on an act so no one could possibly imagine that she’d killed her own sister.

  Roger spoke eloquently about his memories of their childhood. Then one of the library board members got up. Leanne Walters was a large woman in her fifties, known for speaking her mind.

  “Dorothy was a hard worker. She was an excellent reference librarian who knew her stuff. She helped many students find the information they needed for a report, which helped them achieve good grades. We shall sorely miss her. She will be very hard to replace.”

  Sally got up and talked of their friendship as if it hadn’t been broken when Dorothy had tried to blackmail Sally into giving her the job I now held. She spoke haltingly, and I suspected it had something to do with the argument she and Dorothy had had the day before Dorothy died. More nice words about a person disliked by almost everyone present.

  Now it was my turn. As I walked toward the front of the auditorium, a bout of public-speaking nervousness overtook me, the likes of which I hadn’t experienced in months. Why now? I wondered as I faced a sea of faces, many of them belonging to neighbors and library patrons.

  I cleared my throat, discarding the polite speech I’d prepared, and began.

  “Dorothy and I started out as adversaries. That is, she was my adversary because she felt she should have been given what became my position in the library.”

  I acknowledged the expressions of shock and amazement before me and went on, feeling more comfortable as I treaded deeper waters. “Things settled down between us, and I believe we learned to respect each other.”

  I paused, realizing that what I’d just said was true. “She was an excellent reference librarian, and I am glad I got to visit her a few times while she was recovering from her fall outside the supermarket.”

  I swallowed. “Dorothy’s death was no accident. When I saw her in the hospital, she told me she feared for her life. What’s more, I was told she was in the process of calling me when a vehicle crashed into her car.”

  I moved my head slowly from left to right, meeting as many glances as possible. “I regret not having done more to safeguard Dorothy’s life. I intend to do everything I can to help the police find her murderer.”

  I ignored the murmurs that chased after me as I strode up the aisle to wait for Sally in the hallway. A moment later, John burst through the doors, his face red with fury.

  “What the hell did you just do up there?” he thundered.

  “I only said what most everyone knows.”

  “I don’t want you involved in this case! Dorothy’s death was a homicide. The investigation is a police matter.”
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br />   I let out a deep sigh. “I should have told you what she’d told me when I visited her in the hospital, even though she made light of it later on.”

  John’s voice softened. “You’re not to blame. The killer is. Even if you’d told me, there wouldn’t have been much I could have done.”

  “Maybe we could have stopped him.”

  “I doubt it. The murderer was determined to kill her.”

  “So you think her being knocked down was no accident.”

  “It could have been a warning,” John said. “To stop her from whatever she was doing or planned to do.”

  “Dorothy and Sally had a fierce argument the day before Dorothy was killed. I have no idea what it was about.”

  He nodded. “I’ll check it out and leave out any mention of your name. I don’t want to cause friction between you and Sally.”

  “Thank you.”

  John grimaced. “And let’s hope you haven’t pissed off the killer with your declaration just now.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “I wish John hadn’t gotten so angry. I appreciate his concern for my welfare, but I have no intention of stopping my investigation into Dorothy’s death,” I told Evelyn when I was back at work. Ironically, I was manning the reference desk. Sally had set up a schedule for us to take turns helping patrons with their research until she hired a new reference librarian.

  “John is very fond on you,” Evelyn said. “Besides, he knows your Uncle Bosco will hold him responsible if anything happens to you.”

  “That is ridiculous! Uncle Bosco should know by now that John can’t control me. As for John, he ought to remember how helpful I’ve been in solving the last few murder cases in town.”

  Evelyn chuckled. “I suspect he remembers it all too well and wants to handle this case himself.”

  “Oh. The fragile male ego,” I said. Something occurred to me. “Evelyn, now that Dorothy’s dead, can’t you communicate with her? Find out who rammed into her car?”

  “Alas, it doesn’t work that way.” She waved her hand. “So many of us have shed our earthly bonds. We exist on different planes … much too complicated to explain.”