Buried in the Stacks

by Allison Brook

  “He never admitted that was the case. The one time I mentioned it, he said I shouldn’t bother my pretty little head about business deals and should concentrate on setting up fun programs for the homeless.”

  “Hah! Business deals, my eye!”

  “I hope the bunch of them get caught and thrown into jail!” Gillian said.

  We both laughed.

  I made coffee and placed both cakes on the table. We both had a slice of each. As soon as she finished her dessert, Gillian stood.

  “Thanks for dinner, Carrie, and for listening to my sad story. I’ll fall asleep on my feet if I don’t leave now. I hardly slept last night, and I’m beat.”

  “I understand.” I went to get Gillian’s jacket from the hall closet and held it while she slipped it on.

  “I’ll think about your offer to go with me to talk to Lieutenant Mathers about Roger,”

  “It’s up to you,” I said.

  She gave me a sad-looking smile. “I’m considering calling a therapist and finding out why I keep on picking guys like Roger and Ryan.”

  “Not a bad idea,” I said.

  We hugged and I closed the door behind her.

  I returned to the kitchen and carried our dessert dishes to the sink. What a rat that Roger had turned out to be! Poor Gillian had fallen for his “caring” act, but she was smart enough to call it quits when she saw he was after whatever money he could worm out of her.

  I was loading the dishwasher when Smoky Joe woke up from his nap and came into the kitchen, meowing for a treat. I shook a few of his favorite brand into his dish. Then the phone rang. It was Dylan.

  “I just got home,” he said. “How did your dinner go?”

  “Fine. Gillian’s calmed down, but she’s mad at herself for being taken in by Roger Camden. He asked to borrow money and got pissed when she turned him down. She dumped him, and he started pulling annoying tricks.”

  “Sounds like a prince of a guy. I’ll talk to you later, after I grab something to eat, okay?”

  “You’re welcome to eat here. I have plenty of leftovers from tonight. And two kinds of cake.”

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll make do with a bowl of cereal.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “Uh-oh. Gillian must have forgotten something. Talk to you later.”

  I disconnected the call and ran to open the door. Big mistake. Roger stood in the doorway. I tried to close the door, but he shoved it open and stepped inside the cottage.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, doing my best to stop the quaking in my voice.

  “What do you think? I’m really angry at you, Carrie Singleton, for telling Gillian all kinds of lies about me.” He spoke slowly and distinctly, a sure sign that he was drunk.

  “I didn’t lie, Roger. I told Gillian the truth—that you’re married.”

  “Gillian knows I’m sep-ar-a-ted from my wife.” He dragged out the word and grinned at me. “And soon to be divorced. I’d have my sweet Gillian at my side, if it wasn’t for you.”

  I had no idea what Gillian might have said in the heat of an argument—probably in an attempt to get rid of him.

  “I’m sorry you think I ruined things between you and Gillian, but I hadn’t spoken to her in weeks until she called me this morning.”

  Roger shook his head, the macabre grin still frozen on his face. “I know you turned her against me.” He strode forward, forcing me to step backward into the living room. “And tonight she came running straight to her good friend, Carrie, Miss Librarian.”

  “She was upset.” My eyes darted around the room, looking for something to hit him with when I got the chance. The table lamp was too large. Too unwieldy.

  “I’m upset, but who gives a damn about me? Who treats me with respect? My brother-in-law—Mr. Big-Shot Lawyer—treats me like dirt. My own sister doesn’t support me.”

  I opened my mouth but couldn’t find any words that might help the situation. Roger was too far gone, mired in drink and the depths of self-pity.

  He jabbed his index finger at me. I ducked just in time to avoid getting stabbed in the eye. “And you were Dorothy’s friend, the worst of the lot. How could you stand her?”

  “We weren’t exactly friends. I was only there—”

  “She browbeat me every chance she got. She not only refused to lend me money the few times I asked, she took pleasure in kicking me when I was down. Some big sister!” He snickered. “Dear Dorothy got exactly what she deserved.”

  He moved closer. I fell back into a chair. “Someone did the world a favor and got rid of her. Someone very clever—don’t you think? The police never caught him and never will.”

  I stared at Roger as I stumbled to my feet. He’d all but confessed to killing Dorothy. Roger—so devoid of ambition. The person I’d least suspected.

  “You murdered your own sister.”

  “Surprised you, didn’t I?” The grin was back. “I see it in your face. You didn’t think I was capable of putting an end to her malice.”

  “What about your Aunt Evelyn?” I said, not knowing where I’d gotten the nerve to ask the question.

  “Auntie Ev? She was another skinflint. And planning to leave all her money to Dorothy. It wasn’t fair! I went to talk to her one night as she was about to drive home from work. She wouldn’t listen. I barely touched her to get her attention, and she fell down.” He shrugged. “So I took off.”

  “How could you?” Unbidden, the question shot out of my mouth. “They found her dead the next morning.”

  Roger’s eyes were those of a madman. “You’re all in a plot to keep me down!”

  He lunged toward me, his hands outstretched. Terrified, I looked left and right. No place to dodge. The hands came closer. Going for my throat.

  A hiss sounded as a flash of gray flew at Roger. He faltered backward as Smoky Joe landed on his shoulder.

  “Get this devil cat away!”

  Are you kidding? I raced to the guest bathroom, the closest room with a lock, and pressed the button in the knob, knowing it wouldn’t hold the madman for long. What to do? What can I do?

  “Open that damn door! I’m not finished with you!”

  I reached inside my pocket for my phone. Dylan was home. He’d come. Only there was no phone. I let out a sound of frustration. I’d left it on the kitchen table.

  Roger pounded on the door. I heard him trying to twist open the doorknob. It was only a matter of seconds before it gave way. I looked around for something. Anything! I yanked open the cabinet door beneath the sink and grabbed the can of Lysol. I had my finger on the nozzle and waited for the door to swing open.

  I aimed for his eyes. He roared curses as he rubbed them and only managed to worsen the effect of the spray. I ran for the front door, not knowing what I’d do if he followed me. I was counting on his drunken state and hoped he’d slow down until I reached the manor house and Dylan.

  Dylan stood outside the cottage, startled by my sudden appearance. I threw myself into his arms.

  “Roger Camden’s inside! I don’t know if he’s armed. He killed Dorothy. How did you know …?”

  “I decided to take you up on your offer.”

  The front door flew open. “You won’t get away—” Roger began, then let out an oof as Dylan grabbed him. He put up a brief struggle until Dylan caught him in a headlock.

  “Go inside and call John,” Dylan said.

  I didn’t need to be told twice.

  * * *

  Minutes later I heard the welcome sound of a police siren. I opened the front door as John Mathers and Danny Brower were exiting a police car. Blue and red lights spun round and round, casting grotesque shadows on bushes and trees.

  “Here we go again.” Danny grinned as he walked past me.

  “Yeah. She can’t stay out of our investigations,” John said. He wasn’t grinning.

  “I certainly didn’t invite him over,” I said to John.

  “Save it,” he said as he strode into the kitchen, where D
ylan was guarding a dejected-looking Roger Camden.

  John spoke to Dylan for a few minutes, asking him if Roger was armed and other questions that I thought he should have asked me. He read Roger his rights and told Danny to escort him to the precinct. Then he turned to me.

  “Carrie, do you want to tell me what took place tonight?”

  “Okay.” I led him into the living room and sank onto the sofa. Dylan joined us a minute later with a glass of wine in his hand. He gave it to me.

  “You’re out of all the stronger stuff, so drink this.”

  “I will,” I said, but I set the glass down on the table. For now, it was enough that he and John were with me in the room where Roger had terrorized me just minutes earlier.

  “Did he have a weapon on him?” I asked.

  “No,” Dylan said.

  As if he knew what I was thinking, John added, “That doesn’t mean he wasn’t a danger to you. And from what Dylan just told me, he entered the premises against your wishes.”

  “He certainly did.” I gulped down a healthy amount of wine and welcomed the warmth that circulated through my body. “And he meant to kill me.”

  “Why don’t you start from the beginning?” John said. “You could do this down at the precinct when you’re calmer, though I’d rather hear it now while it’s still fresh in your mind.”

  I told them about Gillian’s phone call that morning and why I’d invited her for dinner.

  “So she broke up with Camden because he turned out to be a deadbeat, and then he started his scare tactics?” John asked.

  “Yes. She was terrified, but she didn’t want to call the police—you. She didn’t think there was much you could do to make him stop.”

  “Humph,” was all John said.

  “When the doorbell rang a few minutes after she left, I thought it was Gillian. Only it was Roger. He forced his way in here and rambled on about no one caring about him or giving him credit for anything.”

  I drew a deep breath. “He confessed to killing Dorothy and knocking down his Aunt Evelyn and leaving her to die.”

  Dylan’s eyes widened. “He used the words, ‘I killed Dorothy Hawkins?’”

  “Not in those words, but he admitted he murdered his sister.”

  “And why did you bring up his aunt?” John asked. “As I recall, she slipped on ice outside the library six or seven years ago on a cold February night and remained there through the night. We ruled it an accident.”

  “Because at one point Dorothy thought that her husband had killed Evelyn and was about to kill her. A crazy thought—probably a result of her trauma—and an irrational connection that proved to be half-right.” I clenched my hands into fists. “Roger said, and I quote, ‘I barely touched her to get her attention, and she fell down.’ Then he left, leaving her lying on the ground. He killed Evelyn as surely as if he’d put a bullet in her head.”

  John smacked his thigh. “This helps but unless he confesses to me, we’ll need a hell of a lot more evidence if we’re going to bring him to trial for two homicides.”

  I thought a moment. “Do you think Roger would be more cooperative if he believed he’d get a better deal by turning on Ernie Pfeiffer and the others? He must have plenty of insider’s knowledge of how they plan to use Haven House to make money.”

  John grinned. “I can encourage him to do so, though it won’t cut him any sentencing time he’ll get for murdering two people.”

  “Still, it might help your case against Ernie Pfeiffer and his gang when you have enough evidence to charge them.”

  Dylan hugged me. “Sounds like you’re learning the ways of the law.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “Carrie, dear, I’m afraid I ate too much of your delicious dinner.” Uncle Bosco muffled a burp as he pushed back his dining room chair.

  “Glad you liked it. It’s Aunt Harriet’s meatloaf recipe.” I dropped a kiss on his bald spot as I collected dishes and carried them into the kitchen.

  “With a few additions,” Aunt Harriet said. “I must include basil and mushrooms the next time I make it. They add great flavor and texture to the meatloaf.”

  When she started to rise, I put my hand on her shoulder. “No need to help. You must be exhausted after your flight.”

  “Let’s not forget the three-hour delay,” Uncle Bosco groused. “If we’d known there was a delay, we could have eaten on the way to the airport instead of at one of their fast-food kiosks.”

  “Please, Bosco,” Aunt Harriet chided. “That’s the third time you’ve brought up the delay. It’s over and done with.”

  Dylan and I exchanged glances. I bit my lip so I wouldn’t burst out laughing.

  “Did you enjoy your stay in Florida?” he asked to change the subject.

  ‘It was lovely,” Aunt Harriet said. “The condo was roomy and well appointed. We’re thinking of staying there longer next year.”

  Dylan helped me clear the table. I put on a pot of decaf coffee and brought a small pitcher of milk to the table.

  “I’m glad all that bad business has been resolved.” Uncle Bosco frowned at me. “Though I wish you hadn’t gotten into the middle of things as usual.”

  “Smoky Joe saved me,” I said.

  “Exactly!” my uncle thundered. “I hate to think that your life rested in the hands of a cat!”

  “Paws,” I corrected.

  “Humph!”

  “Sorry, Uncle Bosco. I’m only making light of it because I was terribly frightened. The only reason Roger Camden came here was because I’d invited Gillian to dinner.”

  “I think I can speak for us all,” Dylan said, “when I say how glad I am that Smoky Joe attacked Camden.”

  “He’d never attacked anyone before,” I called from the kitchen, where I was placing slices of cake on a platter. “My little protector.”

  “And that was quick thinking—spraying Camden with Lysol as soon as he broke open the door,” Dylan said.

  “Dylan, thank God you arrived in time to make sure that man didn’t harm Carrie.” Aunt Harriet tsk-tsked. “To think he killed members of his own family.”

  “John said Roger confessed to murdering Dorothy Hawkins but insists his aunt’s death isn’t on him,” I said. “He figured she might have hurt her head when she fell, got a little dazed, and would get up when she was good and ready.”

  “And for what!” Uncle Bosco demanded. “Money? Out of spite? Maybe there wouldn’t have been any murders if the man held down a job like the rest of us.”

  “Once news of his confession became public, Fred Hawkins filed a complaint against Ernie Pfeiffer for assaulting him,” Dylan said. “He’s been telling the authorities everything Pfeiffer, Gerald Benning, and the rest of their crew had planned to make money off of Haven House.”

  “Which stops them in their tracks,” Uncle Bosco said, “but provides little reason to put them behind bars.” He pursed his lips. “The original plan to let them continue until they did something illegal would have brought prison sentences.”

  I set the cake platter and dessert dishes on the table and sat down. “So I suppose that’s the end of Haven House before it even got started.” I sighed. “It was a great idea.”

  “It’s still a great idea.” Uncle Bosco ignored Aunt Harriet’s frown as he reached for the largest slice of cake and slid it onto his plate. “I’ve been talking to our mayor about Haven House.”

  “You have?” I stared at Uncle Bosco. “But you’ve been in Florida. You just got home.”

  “Carrie dear, haven’t you heard of the telephone? Email? Texting?”

  “Really?” I stared at my great-uncle. “Now you text?”

  “Your uncle spent the past week holed up in our bedroom, which he’d turned into his office,” Aunt Harriet said. “Our Florida friends asked me if he’d taken ill because they never saw him from one day to the next.”

  “I had more important things to do than play cards at the pool every afternoon.” Uncle Bosco turned back to me. “Anyw
ay, I thought it was a good project and offered to put my money where my mouth was. I even offered to take charge of the project.”

  I wrapped my arms around his neck. “Uncle Bosco, what wonderful news!”

  I brought the carafe of coffee in from the kitchen, then sat down and ate a forkful of cake. I was happy to have my aunt and uncle back home with me, and delighted that Haven House was finally in honest, responsible hands. How sad that Dorothy’s killer had turned out to be her own brother; even sadder that he was also responsible for Evelyn’s death.

  Poor Evelyn. I’d seen little of her this past week, ever since I’d told her how she died. It seemed that even a ghost needed time to recover after receiving bad news.

  I watched Dylan chatting comfortably with my aunt and uncle. I was so very lucky to have him in my life. Fifteen minutes later, he was ushering them outside to drive them to their lovely home on the Green.

  I was putting the last of the dishes in the dishwasher when the cottage phone rang. I wondered who it could be since the people I spoke to most often—Dylan, my aunt and uncle, Angela, and Sally—usually called me on my cell.

  “Hello?” I said, glancing down at the long distance number I didn’t recognize. Of course it could be someone trying to sell me something or wanting a donation.

  “Carrie, dear, it’s Brianna! I’m so glad I reached you.”

  “Hello, Mom.”

  She laughed. A fake laugh. “I think you’re old enough to call me Brianna.”

  “But you’re my mother. And Brianna isn’t your real name.”

  “It is now, formally and legally.” She sounded testy. “Carrie, I didn’t expect the first words you’ve spoken to me in months to be an argument.”

  I waited, having learned not to rise to the bait. Sure enough she caved and let out her trademark trill of a laugh.

  “Anyway, I called to tell you that Tom and I are coming to Clover Ridge.”

  “You’re coming for a visit? The cottage isn’t very large—”

  “We wouldn’t dream of staying with you and upsetting your little routine.”

  Little routine? My stomach started to churn as it usually did when my mother called and shot off one of her barbs.