by Liz Mugavero
“Holmes is a character, isn’t he?” Carla nodded, as if confirming to herself. “So lovely to see you. I’m sure we’ll see you tomorrow. Ta-ta!” And she hurried off, bracelets jingling. Stan watched her go. She didn’t know Carla well enough to know if her behavior was strange. But it certainly seemed odd that her mother-in-law’s memorial event seemed to have completely slipped her mind.
“Stan?”
She whirled to find Betty behind her. Betty’s arms were crossed over her teal blue jacket, foot tapping. “Hey, Betty. I was about to come find you. Got a minute?”
Betty’s lips thinned. “Not really. I’m putting together photos of Helga during various reenactments for our slide show tomorrow.”
“I can help.” She glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice. “I really need to talk to you.”
Betty sighed and dropped her arms. “Fine. Meet me in my office in five minutes. I need to pick something up at the front desk.” She turned and marched off.
At least she’d agreed to talk to her. Stan checked her watch. They had just about an hour until the library closed. While she waited for Betty, she figured she’d hit the ladies’ room.
Weaving her way through the fiction section back to the main room, she headed toward the back of the building where a nice sitting area overlooked the gardens. The gardens themselves had benches for reading when the weather was nice, but you could still sit inside at the large window and experience some of that Zen. When there weren’t fifty screaming children right over your head. Stan ducked into the hallway and through the bathroom door. And heard a voice from one of the stalls.
“I’ve just changed my mind, and I’d like it removed sooner than next weekend. How about today?”
It was Carla’s voice. What was she removing? Stan held her breath, letting the door quietly shut behind her so the outside noise wouldn’t filter in. She didn’t dare walk to a stall for fear of being heard. Plus, Carla might recognize her bright purple sneakers.
“Yes, Dale, I understand that it’s difficult with all the activity going on, but the museum isn’t open tomorrow anyway. You need to call Marty Thompson back and tell him he must do it.”
Dale? Hatmaker? Had to be. Stan leaned farther into the bathroom, trying to angle her head around the wall that separated the stalls from the little entranceway so she could hear better.
Carla emitted a frustrated sound. “Then by Monday. First thing. I—”
As Stan leaned even farther forward, her cell phone fell out of her pocket and hit the floor with a resounding smack. She closed her eyes for a second, then bent and scooped it up. The stall had gone silent. Carla knew someone was there now. Cursing her carelessness—Hadn’t she learned yet that she shouldn’t carry that stupid phone in her pocket? She always forgot it there and could never find it later—she slipped out the door before Carla exited the stall. Instead of heading back into the main library, she ducked around the nearest corner into the hall where some of the staff offices were located. She held her breath, hoping Carla wouldn’t come this way.
When enough time had gone by, Stan peeked out. The coast was clear. She hurried out to the main lobby, but Carla was nowhere in sight.
“Are you coming up?” Betty again, behind her. She held a small box and watched Stan curiously.
“Yes, sure, coming right now.” She followed Betty up the stairs to the second floor.
Betty let her in and closed the door behind her. She dumped the box on her desk. “I don’t know why I bother to ask other people to do things,” she said. “I asked for name badges to be made for all the volunteers and organizers tomorrow with a photo of Helga’s book cover. What do they give me? A cannon!” She snorted in disgust. “If I’d wanted a cannon, don’t you think I would’ve asked for one?”
“Of course,” Stan agreed. At least Betty was speaking to her, if not blathering on a bit nervously about nothing.
“Anyway.” Betty sat. “About the other day. I want to apologize. I was not entirely honest with you.”
“You weren’t?”
“No, I told you I had no idea why Edgar Fenwick made that comment to you. About Helga letting sleeping dogs lie. But I do.”
“Oh?” About time.
“Yes, I’m sure he was talking about this disgraceful ghost hunt. Which I understand put that young man in the hospital. Not that I like to see anyone get hurt, but I hope they’ve learned their lesson. In any event, Helga was obsessed with this dead boxer. I think she felt that event was a turning point in her life, because so many things fell apart afterward. Especially her relationship with Tommy. I used to hear her and my mother talk. She never got over that.” Betty shook her head sadly. “Helga perpetuated this frenzy by speaking to these people in the first place.”
“What do you mean?” Stan asked. She didn’t want to let on that she knew Helga had been the tipster.
“When they called her, she spoke with them! She encouraged this. Edgar, once he heard, was furious. So I’m sure that’s what he meant.” Betty sat back, seemingly satisfied that she’d done her part. “Does that make sense?”
“It does,” Stan said. So maybe Betty didn’t even know that Helga had been the tipster. Unless she was pretending not to know. Betty seemed pretty anti-ghost hunters, too. And her mother did have that connection with the dead man. She wasn’t sure she could take anything she said at face value either.
“Well, good. I’m glad I got that off my chest.” Betty fanned herself. “This last week has been so stressful. My goodness. I’ll be glad when it’s all over and things can get somewhat back to normal. Now, tell me, is that boy okay who got hurt last night?”
“He is. Broke a leg pretty badly, but he’ll be fine.”
“It happened in the basement, I heard.”
“The stairs collapsed.”
“I’m so grateful we had the remainder of those pieces taken out of there,” Betty said. “They could have been badly damaged.”
“Pieces?” Stan asked slowly. “What pieces? When were they taken out?”
“The old library materials. We had our original card catalogue down there. Both sets. A through M and N through Z. I believe there were even some very old books. And a few other library-related relics that had been left. The sign for the original library, that sort of thing. We just had them moved a few weeks back.”
“Where did they go?”
“To the museum as Helga requested. I know she had an exhibit in mind. I hope someone is able to take that on. It’ll be such a wonderful tribute to Frog Ledge’s first library.”
“Interesting,” Stan said. “I’m sure it would be. Would that exhibit be at this museum? Or another one?”
Betty stared at her. “There is no other museum in Frog Ledge, Stan.” Her tone indicated Stan was quite stupid.
“Sure, I get that,” Stan said. “So I’m just wondering where Dale Hatmaker is having those pieces moved to.”
“Moved to?” Betty repeated. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”
“Dale Hatmaker has plans to move the card catalogue for one thing,” Stan said casually. “He told me so when I was in there the other day.”
“He what?!” Betty stood, eyes blazing. “Who the devil does he think he is? Who told him to do that? I’ve got a good mind to go over there and put my foot right—”
“Betty,” Stan broke in. “Listen to me. What does Sir Arthur Conan Doyle have to do with anything?”
Betty’s face went ghost white. She sat back heavily in her chair. “Where did you . . . ?”
“Arthur Pierce. And Sarah Oliver. Unless she’s a great actress who knows a lot more than people think, she might have some skills,” Stan said. “Tell me what it means.” She held out the book.
Betty looked at it, then shook her head. “I don’t know. Believe me, I wish I did.”
“Betty, this is serious. People’s lives have been lost. Cyril’s future is at stake. And a murderer is on the loose.” She leaned forward. “I know you loved
Helga. If you know something, tell me. Please.”
Betty hesitated. She glanced at her closed office door, as if fearful someone stood behind it, listening. Stan got up, opened it, and checked the hall. “Coast is clear,” she said, returning to her chair.
“I don’t know anything,” Betty said. “But . . .” She trailed off again.
“But what?”
“But they talked about Doyle all the time, my mother and Helga. It was like . . . a code word for something. I never could figure it out.”
“A code word? That doesn’t make sense. Did they talk about it in relation to Felix?”
“They never mentioned his name. But it did seem to be in reference to a past event. I heard my mother and Helga talking once. Before she died.”
Stan frowned. “So a long time ago, then.”
“Yes.” Betty narrowed her eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with my memory, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“It’s not,” Stan said. “What did they say?”
Betty laced her fingers together and rested her hands on top of the pile of folders on her desk. “My mother was very sick. She was on a lot of medication. It was right before she died, and Helga came to see her. My mother asked her to promise that someday they would tell the story.”
“The story about Felix?” A rush of adrenaline coursed through her system. She’d been right.
“That’s all they said. ‘The story.’ Helga promised her they would. She said when the time was right. But I did hear her say that she would keep the drawer. Always.”
“The drawer.” Stan jumped up and paced the room. “What drawer?”
“I don’t know.”
“I doubt she was talking about a sock drawer.” Stan thought about it. “Library card catalogues have drawers.”
Betty frowned. “Yes.”
Stan could hear the implied “duh” in her tone. She ignored it. “And they’re in alphabetical order.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe that’s the answer, then.” Stan stopped in front of Betty’s desk, tapping one finger against her lips. “Maybe they’re talking about the D drawer in the old library card catalogue and not Doyle’s books. That catalogue is getting a lot of attention these days. It even rated a new space in the museum, you just told me.”
“My goodness, I never thought of that,” Betty said. “I’ve been reading Doyle’s books for years looking for clues and I don’t even like Sherlock Holmes.”
“So if Helga and her friends were there in the library basement the night Felix was killed, why would the card catalogue be important? We need to see what’s in it,” Stan said. Then her eyes widened. “Arthur. Arthur Pierce knew about Doyle.”
“They were all friends,” Betty said. “Why is that surprising?”
“Because Cyril told me he wasn’t there. That he’d just reported on it. But Arthur specifically mentioned Doyle. And, you know what else?” Stan held up a finger triumphantly. “He mentioned Felix, too. He called him ‘slick.’ It didn’t click for me when I was talking to him, but now that I’m thinking about it, how would he have known that if he’d only covered the story after Felix was dead? He was there. I wonder if Arthur and Felix had a run-in.”
But Arthur hadn’t wanted to talk about it. Which didn’t make sense, if Helga was calling ghost hunters in to uncover the story. Although, that could mean Arthur had a more sinister reason for not wanting anyone to know he was there.
Had Arthur Pierce killed Felix Constantine? Had Helga known that? Did anyone else?
“Why weren’t Maeve and Helga talking?” she asked Betty. “I heard they haven’t been as close in recent weeks.”
“I don’t know,” Betty said slowly. “But now that you mention it, I did notice that, too.”
Stan sat back, thinking. “We need to get in to see that card catalogue. And we need to stop them from removing it. Do you have a key?”
“No, but I can call—”
“No, don’t call anyone. We can’t tell anyone about this until we figure out what’s in the drawer.” Stan wound a strand of hair around her finger, let it fall, wound it again. “We have to get in there tomorrow. I have a plan. But I need help. And you can’t tell anyone,” she repeated. “Are you in?”
“Tomorrow’s the celebration,” Betty protested.
“That’s right.” Stan smiled. “Which means people will be otherwise occupied. So, are you in?”
Betty hesitated for a long moment, then nodded. “I’m in.”
“Good. Meet me at my house at eight.”
Chapter 39
Stan left the library and slid into her car, her mind still racing, and almost didn’t hear her cell phone ringing. She fished the offending object out of her bag. “Hello.”
“Stan?” It was Amara, and she sounded excited.
“Yeah?”
“Can you come over?”
“Right now?” Stan glanced at the clock on her dashboard. “What’s going on?”
“I got a reply from Carmen Feliciano.”
It took Stan a minute to place the name. A lot had happened since that conversation yesterday. “The DNA. Okay, so what happened?”
“You just need to come over.”
Now her interest was piqued. “Okay, be there in two.”
She made it in one, since it was only halfway down the street. A car she didn’t recognize was parked in Amara’s driveway—a big red Cadillac. Stan parked next to it and hurried up the front steps. Before she could ring the bell, the door flew open.
Amara looked like she was about to burst. Stan couldn’t tell if it was excitement, fear, or something else entirely. “What’s going on?”
“You’ll never believe this.” Amara yanked her inside, then slammed the door and locked it.
“Wow. This is all very stealth.” Stan let her friend drag her into the living room.
A very tall, regal-looking elderly woman rose from the sofa. Amara dropped Stan’s arm and took a deep breath. “Stan Connor, meet Carmen Feliciano.”
“Wow. That was more than just a fast e-mail reply.” Stan shook her hand. “Good to meet you.”
“And you as well,” Carmen said in a steady, clear voice.
Stan couldn’t quite peg her age. Maybe seventies? She looked great, at any rate.
Amara was still staring at her like she was starstruck. “Carmen, can you please tell Stan your maiden name?”
“Certainly, dear.” Carmen smiled. “I am part of the Constantine family.”
It took Stan a second; then her mouth dropped open. “The . . . no way. Not the Felix Constantine family?”
“I should say so.” Carmen clasped her hands in front of her. “Felix was my big brother.”
“I might have to sit down,” Stan muttered. “You knew Helga Oliver?”
“I did. We became acquainted some years ago. She found me. Helga has been a lovely champion of my brother’s memory. She remembered my name from way back then, when he died. It apparently took her some time to find me with my married name and all, but she did it. And then to discover that we potentially had family ties here, well . . .” Carmen rubbed her arms. “It gives me chills. I’m so grateful she contacted me about doing a DNA test. I knew she was quite involved in genealogy, so when she said she had a potential lead on a relative here, of all places, well, I jumped at the opportunity. I’m so sad to hear of her passing.”
Stan looked at Amara, sending her questions via mental telepathy. What did this mean? Could Carmen know something about her brother’s death that could help this all make sense? She had to ask.
“Carmen. I apologize for asking this question, but did Helga ever insinuate that she might know anything about your brother’s murder?”
Carmen frowned. “No, we didn’t talk much about that. Just at the beginning because, you know, it connected us. But as a rule, we tried to stay with happier topics.”
That was disappointing.
“Were you and Helga close?” Amara chimed in.
“We tried to get together at least once a month,” Carmen said. “We’d alternate the driving. We both recognized we were getting old.” She chuckled. “Twenty minutes down the road isn’t as simple as it used to seem. But we hadn’t seen each other much recently. Although she did ask me to come to her house, quite impromptu, just a couple of weeks ago.”
“Really? Did she say why?” Stan asked.
“She said she wanted to talk. It sounded serious, which wasn’t like Helga. She was always quite upbeat. But I couldn’t make it. I had a trip scheduled, and told her I’d call her when I returned. But I didn’t return until Tuesday.” She looked sad.
“So you don’t know what she wanted to talk about,” Stan said.
“No, I know it wasn’t to tell me about the DNA test, because I didn’t send the kit in until the day I left. I can’t imagine what she wanted, but I’m sorry that I’ll never get to hear her tell me. I’m so grateful she connected me with Amara. Her last act of kindness.” She grabbed Amara’s hands and squeezed. “It means so much to me to know that Helga and Frog Ledge never forgot my brother. Now Amara and I get to figure out just how we’re related. It’s such fun. I’m planning to sign up for one of these genealogy accounts so we can do this properly. But the visit . . . I suppose it could’ve been something about my brother. She did mention she wanted me to meet a friend of hers.”
“A friend?” Stan asked. “What was her friend’s name?”
Carmen thought for a moment. “Hmm. Aaron, Arnold—no, Arthur. It was Arthur, because that was my great uncle’s name.”
Chapter 40
Sunday dawned gray, dreary, and cold looking outside Stan’s window. Five-thirty on “celebration” day. Today, a week to the day after Helga died, her life would be celebrated. The entire town would probably attend—whether out of respect for her or curiosity about the murder investigation. Stan was certain there would be an equal number in both camps. As expected for February in New England, the weather was not going to fully cooperate. Snow still covered the green, enough of it that most of the activities would have to take place in the library parking lot. It even looked like it might snow again. It was certainly cold enough.
