by J. C. Kenney
The thing was, in order to make the library’s budget go further, Vicky had chosen to work an insane number of hours, usually sixty to seventy per week. That let her rely on part-time help, which kept personnel costs down. The savings was directed to programming and book purchases. Because of her reliance on part-time staff, Vicky had welcomed Brent’s continuing involvement at the library with open arms. In time, he became an unofficial big brother to the high schoolers, and that was why his role was so important now.
The smiles among the tears coming as the young ones joined Brent in a group hug confirmed his involvement at the library had paid off in spades.
“Looks like you guys are going to be okay, huh?” I gave his hand a squeeze as the group broke up.
“Eventually.” He squeezed back. “Vicky was like a second mom for these kids. She sent them cards on their birthdays. Got them presents when they graduated from high school. She,” his voice caught, and he had to close his eyes for a moment. “She cared about them. And they’re going to miss her.”
Brent removed his round, wire-rimmed glasses and wiped his eyes with a tissue. The kids weren’t the only ones who were going to miss their leader.
I was about to head to Vicky’s office to snoop around when Freddie arrived. Dressed in a tan sweater and brown slacks, she had an air of quiet dignity as she went from employee to employee to have a private word with each of them.
It was a kind gesture from the library board president. It showed she cared. Saturdays were the busiest day at her restaurant, yet she was willing to take time out of her busy schedule to support the team here.
Since the library had been closed for a couple of days, the book return bin was overflowing, so I was helping organize the books to check them in when Freddie came alongside me.
“Thanks for being here, Allie.” She picked up a handful of books that had spilled onto the floor and handed them to me.
“Happy to help. Mrs. Napier deserves it.”
We chatted for a few minutes before Freddie had to get going. When she was gone, I left the books on a cart so they could be put back on the shelves. A gray-haired woman with a name tag that read “Phyllis” accepted the cart with a sad smile and began checking them in with a barcode reader.
Patrons, with wide eyes and tentative steps, were drifting through the doors. They were practically shoulder to shoulder. The library was always busy on Saturdays. It appeared today was going to be no different. Someone had scooped up the flowers left by the entrance and placed them with care on the checkout counter. Another person had come up with some vases and was making a floral arrangement.
A lump formed in my throat as an image of Porter bringing Vicky flowers flashed before my eyes. Sure, obsession drove people to do unspeakable things, but Porter resorting to murder? Well, if I’d learned anything since I’d returned to my hometown, it was that people were capable of anything.
With that macabre thought, it was time for me to fade into the background so I could get to work.
Since Vicky’s life was taken from her at work, intuition suggested I start my search by reviewing the library’s business records for anything fishy. I dreaded the thought of discovering she was doing something underhanded like embezzlement, but I had to maintain a sense of objectivity. If illicit or unethical behavior had led to her demise, I’d deal with it.
With Matt’s admonishment to be careful echoing in my ears, I opened Vicky’s office door. The room was still. Dust motes floating on air currents produced by the HVAC system were the only things in motion. The click of the door as I closed it startled me. Now that I was inside, alone, it was much too quiet.
Over the years, I’d spent my fair share of time in this room, talking about all things bookish with Vicky. Today was the first time I took a good, hard look at it.
Every inch of the cinderblock walls was covered with posters of books and literature-themed motivational quotes. Five black filing cabinets, each four drawers high, were lined up against the back wall.
A dozen three-ring binders were perched atop the cabinets. Each binder carried a label with the word “Financials” and a year along the spine. I grabbed the binders for the three most recent years and went to Vicky’s desk.
The desk bumped against the wall to the left when one entered the room. Two computer monitors and a keyboard were situated in a corner of the desktop by the wall. A laptop lay in a docking port between the monitors and the keyboard.
I dropped my purse in the plush visitor’s chair that had been donated by a local furniture maker and stepped around the desk. A cotton throw blanket commemorating Rushing Creek’s 150th anniversary was draped over the back of Vicky’s seat. I ran my fingers across the soft fabric. The loose weave against my fingertips conjured memories from high school. On cold winter nights, Vicky and I hung out in this room after closing, drinking hot chocolate. She was wrapped up in the blanket complaining she was overdue for a visit to her sister, who lived on Florida’s Gulf Coast.
“I’m sorry, Vicky, but I have to do this.” I sat and dropped the binders on the desktop.
As I searched for a pen and paper to take notes, I pondered why I could refer to my hero by her first name now she was gone when I couldn’t do it when she was among the breathing. When no answer came to mind, I put the question aside. Psychoanalysis could wait for another day.
A couple of mind-numbing hours later, I rubbed my eyes and moved away from the desk. A review of the library’s financials for the last five years hadn’t turned up anything odd. Two binders that contained board meeting minutes seemed in order, too. With a yawn, I headed for the door in search of caffeine.
The library was buzzing like a beehive. The computer stations were full. A fairy tale was being read to a group of toddlers sitting on neon-colored pillows. A poster memorializing Vicky had been taped to a wall. A line of patrons waiting to sign their good wishes on it snaked through the center of the checkout area. I blinked away a tear. In the worst of times, the good people of Rushing Creek, Indiana, population 3,216, had a knack for demonstrating the best in people.
Once inside the break room, I leaned against the door and massaged my neck muscles. My earlier visit to the break room had been brief. Once I’d determined there were no remnants of the crime scene, I’d made a hasty retreat.
This time, I had no choice but to linger as I brewed a pot of coffee. While the water gurgled, I wandered about the room, peeking inside cabinets and rooting through drawers. There was no method to my madness. If there had been anything important, the police would have already taken it.
My supposition was confirmed when I looked in the fridge for some creamer. There were no liquid containers to be found. No ketchup, no two-liter soda pop bottles, and no creamer. In fact, the only things left were a pizza box from Marinara’s, a sandwich in a Ziploc bag, and some fried chicken in a plastic container.
I had a soft spot in my heart, and another one in my belly, for Marinara’s. Everything on its menu smelled amazing and tasted even better. Freddie claimed her secret was a notebook of recipes passed down from her Italian grandmother. It didn’t matter to me where the recipes came from. All that mattered to me was I’d eaten at Marinara’s for twenty years. Every meal had been delicious.
My mouth was watering simply looking at the box, so, after a glance over my shoulder, I gave in to my inner college student and lifted the lid to take a whiff. Inside was a quarter of a Chicago-style deep dish pizza. Utterly mouthwatering.
I closed the fridge before weakness overcame me and I stole a piece. Whoever had bought the pizza was a lucky person. I chuckled when I concluded it was probably one of the kids working today. It would be so like a teen to order a pizza on a Friday night and eat the leftovers the next day. Ah, the simple joys of youth.
Since no creamer was to be found anywhere in the break room, I added an extra packet of sugar to my coffee, poured a cup for Brent, and got
back to work.
His eyes went wide when I handed the drink to him. “Employees aren’t supposed to have drinks out on the floor. I need to set a good example.” He pushed it back toward me.
“You’re a volunteer helping out during a tough time. I think Freddie and the rest of the board members will give you a pass.” I tossed two sugar packets on the counter in front of him and leaned close. “Speaking of pass, do you happen to know if Vicky kept any files locked down with additional password permissions?”
“No. As far as I know, the credentials I gave you should give you access to the whole system. Why?”
“I didn’t find anything helpful when I went through the financial docs, and I guess I was hoping you might know about something I don’t.”
“Sorry.” He scratched his chin. “Check her e-mails. You’ll find her log-on credentials in her top left drawer. She could never remember her passwords, so she kept them on a note card. If she was feeling threatened by Porter, maybe she reported it to someone. From what I know, she never deleted anything, so if she did complain, it’ll be there.”
I gulped. Never deleted anything. I’d been planning on tackling the filing cabinets. Brent’s suggestion made a lot of sense, though. How long would it take to find them, though?
“I better get to it. Wish me luck.” I trudged back to Vicky’s office. Sure, I had vitally important work to do, but reviewing e-mail was more soul crushing than studying financial records.
Or maybe not.
After a half hour searching in vain for something incriminating against Porter, I stepped away from the computer. I’d found a couple of threads in which Vicky expressed mild annoyance about Porter to Freddie, but nothing more serious than that. To the board president’s credit, she took Vicky’s complaints to heart and had offered a variety of suggestions to remedy a situation that had become increasingly uncomfortable.
There was no discussion of getting the authorities involved, though. Not helpful, when what I really wanted was something I could take to Matt.
When I sat back down after getting another cup of java, I came across an e-mail folder with a label that got my full attention—Ozzy Metcalf.
The owner of Ye Olde Woodworker, Ozzy was Rushing Creek’s cantankerous old coot. He tended to treat fellow locals with disdain so he could save his limited amount of charm for tourists. Sloane said he wasn’t all that bad, but she saw the best in everyone. Maybe I was too hard on the man, but he’d never made the effort to be nice to me.
On the other hand, he was dating my friend Shirley Price. Shirley owned Soaps and Scents, the shop where I got the personal care products that had helped cure me of long-term insomnia problems. Her shop was also located next door to Ozzy’s. Believe it or not, it wasn’t until a property dispute between them was resolved that their relationship took off. Love could be such a strange thing.
Ozzy didn’t have warm feelings for Vicky. Quite the contrary, apparently. Based on the e-mails, the library had hired the man to create some woodcarvings to celebrate its centennial. He completed the artworks but claimed the library paid him five thousand dollars less than the agreed-upon amount.
Vicky refused to back down, insisting the library had a valid contract with him and refused to pay the additional amount. Despite efforts by Freddie and the rest of the board members, the parties were unable to reach a settlement. Ozzy refused to deliver the pieces and even claimed in one e-mail he couldn’t sell them to anyone else because of their one-of-a-kind nature.
The e-mail exchanges ended with Vicky informing Ozzy if he didn’t stop contacting her demanding payment, she’d go to court to demand he turn over the pieces immediately. If he didn’t comply, she’d ask the court for a judgment to recover the money the library paid to him.
It was no secret among Rushing Creek residents that Ozzy was disagreeable and was prone to rash, hot-headed behavior. But was murder an appropriate solution to a five-thousand-dollar legal dispute? No amount of money was worth committing murder. But that was just my opinion.
Was a four-figure dispute worth killing to Ozzy? He was gruff and mean, but a murderer? At this point, I needed to keep an open mind to all possibilities. That meant Ozzy needed to join Porter on my suspect list.
Since Ozzy barely tolerated me in the best of times, approaching with my suspicions would be about as successful as the Titanic’s maiden voyage. I could approach Shirley, though. It would take delicacy since they were an item, but it was something that had to be done.
Lucky me.
Chapter Seven
One of the hands-down, best things about my life was my role as Aunt Allie to Theresa and Tristan, Rachel’s twins. Having just turned seven, they were brown-haired, blue-eyed balls of kinetic energy who kept their mother on her toes twenty-four hours a day.
Their nonstop motors had led Matt to suggest signing them up for the youth soccer league. Matt knew nothing about soccer, but as a father, and a policeman, he knew all too well how much trouble kids with energy to burn could get in. He didn’t want his and Rachel’s offspring to end up on the wrong end of the law, so having Theresa and Tristan run up and down a massive grass field while under adult supervision was as appealing as an ice-cold lemonade on a hot summer day.
And now here I was, on the sidelines of the soccer pitch to cheer on T and T as they played their first game of the season. After spending so much of the day holed up in Vicky’s office, I was more than ready to enjoy an hour in the blessed late afternoon sunshine, shouting encouragement to a bunch of seven- and eight-year-olds as they hustled after a red-and-white soccer ball.
Rachel and I were chatting about the kids’ team name, the Aces, and their adorable powder blue uniform shirts when my mom, Luke, and Sloane joined us.
“Good to see the Cobbs out in force on this fine Saturday afternoon.” Luke gave Rachel and me hugs. “Where’s Matt?”
My sister rolled her eyes. “At the station. He’ll be working nonstop until they get this murder case solved.”
Mom put an arm around Rachel. “I’m sure he’d be here if he could. You can’t deny how far he’s come as a father in the last year.”
“I know.” Rachel kicked at a clump of grass. “It’s just hard on the kids when he doesn’t show like this. And it’s hard on me when I have to tell them work got in their father’s way again.”
A young man in a black T-shirt and matching shorts blew a whistle and waved both teams to the center of the pitch. The wind was blowing away from us, so I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but it seemed popular as the players all cheered when he was finished. A few minutes later, when the starting lineups had taken their positions, he blew his whistle and the action began.
We focused on the game, cheering whenever one of the players, regardless of the team, made solid contact with the ball, until Sloane nudged me. “I heard Porter did it and it’s only a matter of time until they make an arrest. Is that true?”
“I don’t want to speculate.”
Theresa broke away from the pack and kicked the ball at the goal. We held our collective breaths until the ball rolled out of bounds, wide of the mark. I hollered encouraging words to my niece, promising her she’d score next time.
“Come on, girlfriend. You’re the Kickboxing Crusader. Where evil lurks, you’re there. Right, Luke?” Sloane elbowed her husband in the ribs.
“Uh, yeah, I mean what Sloanie said. You’re investigating, right? And swapping intel with Matt?” He rubbed his ribcage.
Sloane’s elbows belonged on an FBI list of lethal weapons.
“No, she’s not.” Mom was watching the game, but we clearly had her attention, too. “In case you’ve all forgotten, she made a promise last fall to leave that kind of work to the police.”
A player on the other team broke from the pack with the ball. He was a small boy, but way faster than anyone on the twins’ team. In his yellow jersey, he was like a mi
ni lightning bolt. His ball-handling skills proved he was the best player on the pitch, too. After three more kicks to keep the ball in front of him, he popped the ball past the Aces’ goalkeeper with an effortless display of grace and skill.
“No problem, guys. You’ll get it back.” I clapped so hard my palms stung. The encouragement was important, but it also was a way to steer the conversation away from Mom’s comment. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. She’d find out what I was up to soon enough.
At halftime, Luke and Mom went to the concession stand to get us popcorn and drinks. When they returned, my dear mother, whom I loved with all my heart, frowned when she handed me a drink.
“I just heard you spent most of the day at the library. In Vicky’s office. Tell me you weren’t lying to me earlier.”
The can of Diet Coke hovered between us, the water droplets running down the can’s exterior reflective of Mom’s icy feelings toward me.
“Who told you this? I don’t see Maybelle around anywhere.”
“Don’t get smart with me. Not about this.” She gave the can a small shake. “I don’t want to have to spray this all over you.”
That broke the tension. Growing up, I was my father’s daughter, thanks to the endless number of our common bookish interests. Because of that, my relationship with my mother had been more on the serious side. Since Dad had passed away, the relationship had morphed, in a good way, with more joking and affection shared between us.
“You got me, Sheriff.” I put up my hands in surrender.
After sharing a laugh, I guided her to an area where we could talk without being heard. Once we were alone, I took a deep breath and spilled the beans.
When I was finished, she closed her eyes and shook her head. “Allie, Allie—”
“I know, Mom. It’s not that I don’t trust Matt. I do. This is something I have to do, though. For her.”
