Buried in the Stacks

by Allison Brook

  “Will do.” He drove off, and I entered the library.

  I had difficulty concentrating on work that afternoon because Ernie Pfeiffer kept intruding on my thoughts. If he’d destroyed a car and a garden shed in retaliation, who was to say he hadn’t gone further and murdered Evelyn and Dorothy? I’d been naive to think I could go up against a lowlife like him. I appreciated Ken’s advice to keep out of it. Still, it irked me that Ernie Pfeiffer could use a worthwhile project like Haven House for his own moneymaking scheme that could very well close the day program before it even got off the ground.

  I wanted to speak to someone who might know what was actually going on before I called John to tell him what I’d heard. I couldn’t very well call Francesca, her husband, or her brother, but perhaps Fred would give me an honest answer.

  I called Trendy Elegance and asked to speak to Leila.

  “Hello, Carrie. What a pleasant surprise to hear from you.”

  “Hi, Leila. Could you please give me Fred’s cell number? I figured he’s at work, and I was hoping to reach him between customers.”

  “Of course, dear.” She rattled off the number. “Did you have a good time Saturday night? Fred and I danced until midnight, when the party ended.”

  “I would have had a better time if my boyfriend, Dylan, had been there. But I’m glad I got to dance with Fred. He’s quite a good dancer.”

  “You looked stunning in your new dress. I hope you’ll keep Trendy Elegance in mind when you want to buy another cocktail dress.”

  “Of course. As long as you promise to take care of me.”

  After hanging up with Leila, I called Fred. To my relief, he answered.

  “Hi, Fred, it’s Carrie.”

  “Hello, Carrie. Anything the matter?”

  “Well—actually, there might be.” I decided to play the innocent, concerned volunteer. “I’m kind of upset about something, and I’m hoping you can give me some information and advice.”

  “I’ll try. What’s troubling you?”

  “You know I’m a volunteer for the Haven House project. I’m sort of the liaison for the library. We’re especially interested in this going through because some of the homeless stay in the library day after day, and there are occasional incidents and disruptions.”

  “Uh-huh. So I’ve heard.”

  I cleared my throat. “There are rumors that Haven House is only a front for some people to make money on the fundraisers, and there are plans to use the place for high-stakes card games and parties at night.”

  “I’ve heard the same stories, Carrie.”

  Was it my imagination, or had his tone turned cold?

  “Are they true?”

  “I’ve no idea. Why are you asking me?”

  “Isn’t your brother-in-law one of the people who spearheaded the project?”

  “He is, and I advise you to ask Gerald your questions. I have to go now.”

  He disconnected. I stared at the phone, shocked by his reaction to my questions. I’d always found Fred to be friendly and easygoing. Was that all an act, or was he now wishing he’d never gotten involved with the likes of Ernie Pfeiffer and was now as frightened as I was beginning to be?

  One thing was certain: I never should have called him. I remembered how eager he’d been, telling Dorothy he wanted to be part of Ernie’s latest venture, which Dorothy had shot down as soon as he’d mentioned it. That venture had to be Haven House. What a fool I’d been! Of course that was why he and Leila had been at the dinner dance on Saturday night! They were part of the group that had invested in Haven House and expected to benefit from whatever Ernie was planning.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Sally asked Marion, Harvey, Gayle, and me to join her in the conference room at three o’clock to meet Norman Tobin. He was a nice-looking, slender man, about five eight, with a winning smile and a good sense of humor—both positives in my book. Sally told us about his work background, then introduced each of us with a sentence or two. I beamed when she called me spunky and enterprising. Norman shook my hand and said he looked forward to working with me. Everyone seemed to like him. I was especially glad to see him having an animated conversation with Harvey—until Harvey happened to look my way, and his pleasant demeanor changed to a glower.

  As we sipped coffee or tea and noshed on the petit fours Sally had brought in for the occasion, I mused that lately my detecting skills were failing me. Instead of learning anything helpful regarding Dorothy’s murder and Haven House from the people I’d spoken to, I’d only managed to offend each and every one of them.

  It was snowing lightly when I started for home. I’d been berating myself all afternoon for having alerted Fred Hawkins regarding my concerns about Haven House. How could I have forgotten he was a suspect in Dorothy’s murder? That he’d been eager to put up money to join one of Ernie Pfeiffer’s schemes? I promised myself I’d call John that evening and tell him everything I’d been up to.

  The roads were slippery and turning icy. I drove slowly, hoping I wouldn’t slide into a skid. The weather was affecting Smoky Joe. He couldn’t settle down inside his carrier. He kept changing positions and meowing his discomfort.

  “We’ll be home soon,” I told him, “and I’ll feed you the minute we walk through the door.”

  He finally grew calm and closed his eyes.

  The cottage felt cold when I walked inside. That was odd because I knew I’d left the heat on. I switched on lights and felt a rush of air as I walked past the kitchen. I gasped. The side door was wide open. Snow was blowing into the house because the heavy glass vase I kept on the living room table had been jammed against the open door to prevent it from slamming shut.

  Someone had broken into my cottage!

  I picked up the vase, slammed the door shut and locked it. I looked around. Nothing seemed out of place.

  I have to change the locks!

  I have to call John!

  I shivered. What if whoever broke in is still in the cottage?

  I retched and rushed to the bathroom but didn’t throw up. I gulped down mouthfuls of water from the faucet. Smoky Joe came over to find out why I wasn’t feeding him his dinner. I picked him up and held him close. I must have squeezed him too tightly, because he began to struggle free.

  Who did this? Someone that knows how to open locked doors. Or someone who knows someone that knows how to open locked doors. There were too many possibilities. Fred could have done it. Or he might have told his sister, who told her husband, who told Ernie Pfeiffer. Ernie would know someone. Or was it Leila? Maybe Harvey Kirk? I remembered how he’d glared at me that afternoon.

  My hands trembled as I fed Smoky Joe. While he was chowing down, I checked out the rest of the rooms. I gasped when I entered my office. A note had been placed on my computer. I approached it slowly, dreading what I was about to read.

  “STAY AWAY OR …”

  Beneath it was a crude drawing of a cat lying on its side with a noose around its neck.

  I called John and left a message on his cell phone. He called back minutes later when I was nursing a cup of hot tea.

  “Are you all right, Carrie?”

  “Yes—I don’t know. Someone broke into my house and propped open the side door with a heavy vase. They left a note warning me to stay away or—” I began to hyperventilate. Between breaths I said, “they would kill Smoky Joe.”

  “I’m coming right over. Don’t let anyone in.”

  As if I would. Minutes later, I heard the doorbell and went to let John in.

  “Is anything missing? Damaged?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “Where’s the note?”

  “I left it on top of my computer. I didn’t touch it.”

  John followed me into my office. “Good thinking. In case the perp left fingerprints.”

  He pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and placed the note in a plastic bag. Then he walked through the cottage, examining windows, opening closets.

  “An
d you didn’t leave the side door unlocked?” he asked.

  “Of course not” I scoffed. “Why would I?”

  John opened the front door and then the side door, using his flashlight to scrutinize the locks and the hinges. “No sign of any damage, though some thieves know how to open a locked door with the simplest of tools,” he mumbled as he worked.

  “Not very reassuring,” I grumbled.

  “Still, I think you should tell Dylan to put in a security system.”

  “We’ve talked about it,” I said, remembering that the last person who had broken into the cottage had been my father.

  Finally, John sank into a kitchen chair and stretched out his long legs. “The way I see it, you’ve been given a warning. You pissed someone off. That person wants you to know he can get to you in your home anytime he likes and do away with your cat—or worse. He or she, I should say. Equal opportunity.”

  I shivered. “I will definitely have a security system installed.”

  “Good idea,” John said. “Are you all right, Carrie?”

  “No, but I feel better now that you’re here.”

  “Are you up to staying here, or do you want to spend the night at a friend’s?”

  “I’ll be okay here.”

  “I think the person who broke in made his point. So, who did you piss off recently?”

  “I guess a few people.” I drew a deep breath and told him about my conversations with Lillian Morris, Sally, and Harvey regarding Dorothy’s murder and with Gillian, Ken, and Fred regarding Haven House. I also told him about the conversation I’d overheard between the Bennings.

  By the time I’d finished, he looked even sterner than Ken had earlier. “You’ve been a busy gal. It’s remarkable you’ve found time to squeeze in your work-related responsibilities.”

  I felt my cheeks grow warm.

  “Ken’s right. You’re in over your head regarding the homicide investigation and Pfeiffer’s alternate agenda for Haven House. I’m well aware of what he’s planning, but as Ken said, there’s not much I can do at this point.”

  “What can I do to help? I want the homeless who camp out at the library to have a sanctuary like Haven House.”

  “Continue to go to meetings for the project. Just don’t ask the type of questions you asked Fred Hawkins today. And for God’s sake, don’t interrogate your colleagues about their motives for wanting Dorothy dead. You’re too smart to put yourself in harm’s way like that.”

  “I won’t.”

  John put an arm around me. “Your Uncle Bosco would have my head if anything were to happen to you. Not to mention your boyfriend and your father.”

  I gave him a bittersweet smile. “They would know better than to blame you for anything dumb that I do.”

  John took off, leaving me considerably calmer. I heated up a can of tomato soup and ate it along with a grilled cheese sandwich. Comfort food. I called Dylan and told him about my day, all of it. I dreaded another tongue-lashing, but I needed to share every important aspect of my life with the man I loved.

  When I’d finished, he said, “Carrie, you’re important to too many people for you to be so careless with your life.”

  That got to me more than anything John and Ken had said. “I’ll be careful,” I promised.

  “Good, because I love you. I’ll call Jack tomorrow to hire someone to install a security system ASAP.”

  * * *

  Despite the break-in and the threatening note, I couldn’t stop thinking about Dorothy, Evelyn, the homeless people in town, and Haven House. They were all part of my life. They impacted my life. I felt a responsibility to do what I could to identify Dorothy and possibly Evelyn’s killer. I felt obliged to learn what I could about Haven House. Part of that was finding out who was in on Ernie Pfeiffer’s crooked plans. And I had to move cautiously and surreptitiously. John and Dylan were right. No more asking questions. Whoever had broken into my cottage had to believe I was heeding his or her warning.

  Tuesday was a late day for me. I appreciated having a schedule that gave me a few free mornings to do my food shopping and run errands instead of doing these on weekends, when the stores were crowded.

  It also gave me an opportunity to make one official check-up to satisfy my curiosity. I wanted to know who besides Gerald Benning and Ernie Pfeiffer were listed as owners or buyers of Haven House. Would I find Fred’s name on the list? Roger’s? I was almost certain that Haven House was the project Ernie had tried to get them to invest in, the project that Dorothy had so vehemently opposed.

  Could her refusal to support the project have been the reason she’d been murdered?

  Town Hall was located around the corner from the library, a block and a half past the Cozy Corner Café. I parked in the lot behind the two-story building. Though it wasn’t situated on the Green—our unofficial town center—and wasn’t centuries old like the library and other buildings surrounding it, Town Hall had been built in the same white, wooden-framed, simple New England style. I remained vigilant, making sure that no one was watching me as I exited my car and climbed the few steps to the back entrance of the building. I followed the narrow corridor to the front of Town Hall and approached the high counter. A woman sat at a desk, speaking on a phone. When she finished her conversation, she asked how she could help me.

  “I’d like to look up something in the records room—the documents regarding the sale of a house that was recently sold here in Clover Ridge. I understand sales become public record for anyone to see.”

  “As long as the sale has been completed, you’re free to check it out.”

  “It has been.”

  She spun around in her chair to face the inner offices. “Bridey, would you please come out here?” she called. “There’s a visitor who needs your assistance.”

  A petite, hunched-over woman who looked to be well in her eighties appeared.

  “She’d like to view documents for the recent sale of a house here in Clover Ridge.”

  “Certainly. Follow me. After you sign the book, I’ll direct you to the documents you want to see.”

  Sign the book! I hadn’t thought of that. I considered leaving, then decided to use a fake name. After the cottage break-in, I couldn’t risk the chance that someone involved in Haven House might see I’d been checking out home sales in Town Hall.

  I scribbled a made-up name and address as quickly as I could, glad that there was only space for one other name beneath mine before the page would be turned.

  “Thank you!” Bridey said, lifting the large ledger and putting it away. “And sign this too, saying you won’t take any papers with you when you leave this room.”

  “Of course.”

  I took the form she handed me and signed it.

  “Come with me. Do you know the address of the residence? The date the sale went through?”

  “I’m not sure of the date—some time in the past month, I believe—but I have the address: 27 Garrett Street.”

  “That should be enough.”

  I followed Bridey into the adjoining room. Tall filing cabinets that almost skimmed the ceiling lined all four walls. There was a table and chair in the center of the room. Bridey stood before one of the cabinets and pulled open a drawer. “Garrett Street. Garrett Street,” she mumbled. “Here it is.”

  She lifted out a folder and glanced through it. “I don’t know what you’re after, but there’s not much here.” She set it on the table and left.

  I opened the folder. There was the contract for the purchase of the single-family dwelling at 27 Garrett Street for the sum of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Not a lot of money for a house only blocks from the Green. But I’d driven by and had seen the terrible run-down condition it was in. I didn’t recognize the seller’s name. And the buyer’s name—oh no! All it said was Lennox Incorporated. I almost tore the document in my eagerness to check out the signatures on the last page.

  The name scrawled beside Lennox Incorporated was indecipherable, and there was no
printed name beneath it.

  “That proves it!” I said, slamming down the contract. A bogus corporation. An indecipherable signature. Whoever bought Haven House had chosen to remain anonymous. The intent was clear from the get-go. Haven House was no more than a front. Its purpose: to make money for a few people.

  But was any of this proof of wrongdoing? And how to ID Lennox Incorporated remained the problem.

  The subject never left my mind as I shopped and ran errands, then headed back to my cottage. I was stymied and getting nowhere. Now that questioning the people involved was verboten, I couldn’t think of a way to find out more about Haven House. I had no choice but to follow John’s advice and stop investigating. At least for now.

  My cell phone jingled. It was Gillian. I frowned as I answered. I wasn’t in the mood to hear about her love life. But she’d stayed at the dinner dance longer than I had. Maybe she had fresh info about the Haven House group.

  “Hi, Carrie. How are you?” If a voice could glow, hers was on fire.

  “I’m fine. And you?”

  “Couldn’t be happier.”

  Uh-oh! “Does your good mood have anything to do with the dinner dance and Roger Camden?”

  “Absolutely!”

  Silence fell as I struggled to think of something to say. I’d already told Gillian that Roger was recently separated from his wife. Repeating it would make me sound like her mother.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said, “and ordinarily I’d agree with you, but Roger is a sweet and caring man. He happens to be in a sticky situation right now—he’s between jobs and about to divorce his wife.”

  “What kind of work does he do?”

  She laughed, pleased by my question. “Roger’s something of a math whiz. He’s held various math-related positions as a college professor, and he’s written software programs. Now he’s looking to try something completely different. Maybe robotics or becoming a financial planner.”

  “Interesting. Those two fields are about as far apart from each other as we are from Jupiter.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” she said coldly. “Once Rog decides which he intends to pursue, he’ll go back to school. The trouble is, money’s tight, especially now that he’s moved out of his house.”