by J. C. Kenney
I had home ownership research to do.
Since it was the second week of April, royalty payments for the first quarter of the year had arrived from publishers. My clients worked hard and deserved their money. No matter what, they came first. I spent a couple of hours processing the payments. Despite my desire to investigate Gary, that task could wait.
When that was complete, I posted a message on the private agency social media page that I’d be making author royalty payments in a few days. Doing that always made me feel like a million bucks. My authors worked hard. It was fulfilling to see them, literally, rewarded for their labor. It was one of the things that served as a reminder I had the greatest job in the world.
I wanted to keep the positive mojo going, so I gave Ursi some kitty treats, grabbed my laptop, and hopped on my bike for a ride to the library. Sure, I could have done my research from the comfort of my couch, with Ursi snuggled by my side. Instead, I thought it would be a nice gesture to visit the library. The Wi-Fi signal was more than adequate for my research purposes, and I could offer the staff some moral support.
The hugs the staff gave me when I entered the building confirmed I’d made the right choice. They were grieving, too, and deserved whatever help I could give them. Even something as small as a pat on the back and a kind word.
A group of gray-haired senior citizens was discussing their latest book club choice as I wound my way to a research spot. They were talking about Red Gale Gamble, the latest novel by my thriller-writing client Malcolm Blackstone. The train of positivity was full steam ahead today.
Once I found a spot to my liking, I got to work. The first step was to confirm the ownership status of Vicky’s house. A five-minute search of the assessor’s office records verified Gary’s claim. Both he and Vicky were still listed as owners of the property. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t been staring at an electronic version of the property card.
With that task complete, I wanted to learn about the man. The challenge I faced was the lack of online information about him. It was easy enough to confirm his current job on LinkedIn and current address with a Google search, but information that mattered to me was less easy to obtain.
I wanted to know more about the circumstances that led to the divorce and, more specifically, anything to confirm whether the deed issue really was an oversight. Luck was with me when I came across an article the Brown County Beacon had published. Evidently, since Vicky was the town’s librarian, the paper’s editor at the time thought her personal life was a matter of public interest.
The report was rife with gossip and allegations attributed to anonymous sources. Drinking, infidelity, and money problems came up at one point or another. It was so bad, by the time I finished the slimy piece, I wanted to take a shower.
I was also infuriated that such a horrible piece had made it to publication. The Beacon’s journalistic standards had certainly changed over time. For the better, thank goodness.
Neither Vicky nor Gary were portrayed in a positive light, but she came out looking a lot better than he did. While she was portrayed as a cold, distant spouse, he came across as a carousing spendthrift.
And there it was. Gary was allegedly a big spender. If it was true back then, maybe it was true today. I tapped my knuckles on the arm of my chair as I considered what to do next. I wanted to get a look at the man’s current bank records. That was going to be easier said than done, though.
I wandered through the stacks to stretch my legs while I debated the merits of going to the police with my latest concerns about Gary. Matt had already promised he’d look into the man. It wouldn’t help the situation to make a nuisance of myself. Maybe it was best to leave it to the pros.
For now, at least.
Having decided to put Gary on the back burner for the time being, I started back to my chair. In the fiction section, I stopped to chat with Ashton Bergman, one of the part-time employees. When I said hi, she looked at me with puffy, red-rimmed eyes.
“Tough day, huh?”
“Crying at work. I know, real professional.” She wiped her eyes with a tissue. “I thought I was doing better. I even thought I was done crying. Guess I was wrong.”
Ashton was a few years younger than I was. She and her husband had a son, Wyatt, who played soccer with the twins. I didn’t know the woman well, but Rachel was constantly raving about her organizational skills as the team mom.
Between her perfectly manicured nails, flawless complexion, and glamorous long, brown hair, she looked like a totally together mother of the new millennium. Breaking down at work didn’t seem to be in her nature, so her current state had me concerned.
“I understand.” I put my hand on her forearm and gave it a little squeeze. “Vicky was special to everyone. Is there anything I can do?”
“No.” She leaned against the shelves and knocked a John Grisham novel to the floor.
I grabbed it and slid it back into position. “Old habits die hard.”
She laughed, which lightened the mood. Humor was definitely good for the soul.
“You know, there is something you can do.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “It’s Vicky’s office. This morning we got word from the library board to have someone clear it out. I drew the short straw.”
It was my turn to lean against the shelves for support, as my legs had turned to rubber at the news. To have to go through Vicky’s things, separating personal from business items, wouldn’t be a pleasant task for anyone who knew the woman.
On the other hand, for the right person, it could be an opportunity for a final conversation of sorts with her. A chance to reflect on the past and relish the memories created with Rushing Creek’s beloved librarian.
I was the right person.
“Tell you what, Ashton.” I took her by the arm and led her toward the break room. “Why don’t you get yourself something to drink. I’ll take care of Vicky’s office.”
A few minutes later, I grasped the aluminum door handle. It was cold to the touch. A shiver went through me as the implication of what I was about to take on sunk in.
The room on the other side of the wooden door held too many memories to count. To put things in boxes for transfer to Vicky’s house, or worse, to be thrown away, seemed like desecration, like taking a sledge hammer to the sanctuary at church.
But it would provide the catharsis I needed. At some point, I had to accept that she was gone. No matter how hard I tried to reel in her killer, I couldn’t bring her back. Besides, she didn’t need my help where she was now.
I needed hers, though. I needed some way to say goodbye in my own way. Catching her killer might give me a sense of vengeance, but it wouldn’t help me say farewell. To let go, once and for all. If going through the things in her office couldn’t do it, nothing would.
Here goes. With a gentle push, the door swung open without a sound. It was dark and gloomy until I switched on the overhead lights. The room hadn’t changed much since I’d last been in it. Some papers on her desk had been rearranged and a few of the filing cabinet drawers hadn’t been fully closed.
The police had been respectful in their search the day of the murder. I made a mental note to relay my appreciation to Matt.
Somebody had left a few cardboard boxes in a corner, so I grabbed one and filled it with new books that needed to be entered into the library’s system. A tear came to my eye when I came across half a dozen novels written by my authors. Supporting my authors by purchasing their books was supporting my career. It was yet another way the woman had been looking out for me.
When I was certain there were no more books to be added to the system, I took the box to Ashton. She thanked me when I told her what to do with them. I understood. She wasn’t grateful for being given work to do. She appreciated my help in completing her assignment and letting her get the credit. It did my heart good to help her, so it was a win fo
r both of us.
Dealing with the books was a no-brainer, but I was uncertain what to do when I returned to the office. As my gaze went from one side of the cluttered room to the other, my shoulders sagged. Over thirty years of documents, mementos, and knickknacks had accumulated in here, and I’d volunteered to remove them.
Vicky’s desk was as good a starting point as any, so I eased into the desk chair and put all of the papers in a single pile. That tiny act gave me an idea. Personal items would go in one box. Office supplies would go in another for later reuse by the library. Items that could be thrown away would go in a trash bag. Everything else would be labeled with Post-It notes, their fate to be decided by the library staff.
With my plan in place, I started with the top, right-hand drawer of Vicky’s desk. It was filled with pens, paper clips, and other random office supplies, so I made quick work of it. The second drawer held two collapsible umbrellas and a dozen disposable rain ponchos.
I laughed and let a tear run down my cheek. Vicky was always prepared for the unexpected in case one of her employees or patrons wasn’t. God love her. I was going to miss her.
The bottom drawer was chock full of extension cords, all tangled together. It was an odd sight. I’d always known Vicky to treat library property with care. It was a shame I couldn’t ask her about the mess.
Once I had the cords wound up and bound with Velcro strips, I dropped them in the box with the office supplies. With the cords removed, I found a cedar curio box in the drawer with Vicky’s name engraved on the lid in gold script. A warm memory of a winter night long ago came to me. I’d given the box to her for Christmas my senior year of high school to thank her for all she’d done for me.
For years, it had sat in a place of honor, right next to her nameplate. It was shocking I hadn’t noticed she’d moved it. I couldn’t deny the pang of disappointment that ran through me as I tried to imagine what convinced her to hide it under a bunch of extension cords. Oh well, yet another mystery involving my hero that would remain unanswered.
I started to put the box among her personal items when curiosity got the best of me. She used to keep peppermints in it. Did she still do so? Like a little kid sneaking a sweet before dinner, anticipation built up inside as I lifted the lid.
Huh. Instead of candy, the only thing in the box was a wad of aluminum foil in a shape that resembled one of those energy bars Sloane ate before a run. I picked it up. Its weight confirmed this wasn’t simply a wadded-up ball of aluminum foil.
Something was inside the foil wrapping.
The hair on the back of my neck rose to attention. Was this a clue? Using a pencil and a pair of scissors so I didn’t leave more of my fingerprints, I peeled back the aluminum foil and found a layer of parchment paper. I’d seen similar paper at Rachel’s restaurant.
Whatever was wrapped within the parchment paper was soft. It wasn’t a collection of rare and valuable jewels or gold coins. The thought of Vicky as a jewel thief made me chuckle and eased the tension that had been building in my neck.
Using the same method I’d followed with the aluminum foil, I unwrapped the parchment paper.
“No way.” After all that effort at being careful, all I found was a plastic bag containing green plant material that looked like Italian spices.
I sat back and scratched a mosquito bite on my arm. Why would anyone keep a wrapped-up stash of spices in their desk drawer? If they were expensive spices, then I guess that might make sense if one wrapped them up at home. But at the office? No.
After a closer look, I had a brain blast. Taking even more care than before, I opened the bag and sniffed. Woo boy. That wasn’t the aroma of oregano, basil, or thyme. Unless I was mistaken, it was the aroma of something way illegal.
It was the aroma of marijuana.
I zipped the bag shut and looked toward the door to make sure nobody had seen me. The implications of my discovery brought on a massive headache. I’d just opened a ten-foot-high can of worms. A question came up that made me sweat.
What should I do next?
Chapter Sixteen
The closest I’d ever been to marijuana in my life was smelling it and seeing people smoke it while I lived in New York. While weed was becoming legal in more states every year it seemed, in Indiana it was still illegal. On account of that, since moving to Rushing Creek, I hadn’t come across it other than noticing a whiff or two emanating from tourists during the summer. So, I wasn’t convinced my suspicion was right.
I knew someone who could tell me, though.
A half hour later, I was in Mom’s office.
“It’s definitely marijuana. No doubt about it.” She pushed the bag across her desk toward me. “And stop shaking. I’ll file this under doctor-patient confidentiality.”
I sat on my hands to stop the trembling. It worked. Sort of.
“But why would she have it, Mom?” I bit the inside of my cheek by accident and let out a howl. The pain radiating from my mouth didn’t help my agitated state. “Vicky was as straight as an arrow. The craziest I ever saw her get was when she had a second glass of champagne at my apartment open house.”
“I don’t know. Maybe—”
“Could she have gotten a prescription for it? From, I don’t know,” I waved my hands around in circles as I tried to come up with something, “an osteopath or someone like that?”
Mom rolled her eyes as she tried, and failed, to suppress a chuckle. As my cheeks got hot, her smile turned into a frown.
“Nobody can prescribe it legally here. There is a pill that contains THC, the active ingredient, for lack of a better term, in marijuana. I’ve never written a script for it, but I know a couple of colleagues who have.”
I tapped the bag. “That obviously doesn’t apply here. Is there anything else you can think of?”
“It’s not out of the realm of possibility she went out of state to get it. Some states where it’s legal are within easy driving distance.” She frowned. “I know she took something nonprescription for a touch of arthritis in her knees, but she never complained about anything worse than that. Overall, she was in fine health.”
“So, what are you saying?” I forced myself to keep my voice level. “You think she was a closet dope smoker?”
Mom put up her hands. “Not at all. What I am saying is we shouldn’t jump to any conclusions.”
I massaged my neck muscles. The tension was killing me. The circumstances surrounding Vicky’s death were crazy enough. Now, this discovery made it darn near impossible not to conjure up wild scenarios.
“You don’t think this has anything to do with her murder?”
“I don’t know, Allie.” Mom took a drink from a bottle of sparkling water. “I’ve got an appointment in a few minutes, so I need to go. I think you should see the police about this. Right now.”
Mom had always been the clearheaded one in the family. When she gave advice, it was unwise to ignore it. I’d made enough unwise decisions in the past few days.
“I will. Promise me one thing?” I remained silent until she nodded. “Keep this between the two of us? I don’t want Vicky’s reputation tarnished when she can’t defend herself.”
“Like I said, I’ll consider this a matter of doctor-patient confidentiality.”
I gave Mom a hug while I thanked for her help and understanding. Once I was back outside, I took a moment to collect my thoughts.
My hero, Vicky Napier, a dope smoker? It didn’t make sense. Of course it didn’t, because I didn’t know the whole story. There could have been a perfectly reasonable explanation, in Vicky’s mind at least, for her to have the pot.
Maybe she used it to help with pain or some other medical issue I didn’t know about. Or maybe she had gotten it for a friend who used it for pain management. My not knowing the reason for her possession of it was of vital importance here. After all, why risk tarnishing a wonderf
ul woman’s reputation when I didn’t have all the facts?
My internal debate came to an abrupt halt when my phone buzzed. It was an appointment reminder. I had another intern interview in thirty minutes.
“Seriously?” I shook my fist at the clear, blue sky. It wasn’t falling, but at times it seemed like it.
There was no way I was going to turn in the marijuana without being able to explain in detail how it came into my possession. That meant giving it to Matt or Jeanette and nobody else. My visit to the police station would have to wait.
Since I was getting around on two wheels instead of two feet, I made it home in plenty of time to hide my discovery, change into a nicer outfit, and get downstairs to Renee’s for some coffee before the interview started.
A handful of customers browsed the aisles while Renee, in a black peasant dress with red and silver accents, added books to the fiction shelves. Syncopated, piano-heavy jazz flowed from the speakers. I helped myself to a cup.
“Look at you. Quite the no-nonsense ensemble. Planning on taking over the world?” Renee offered me a packet of sweetener.
“Just the publishing world. You can have the rest.” In a lime green oxford shirt, gray slacks, and black flats, I wanted to convey a professional message during the interview. Based on my friend’s comment, it was mission accomplished.
We chatted while I waited for my interviewee to arrive. Business had been brisk all day, which made Renee happy.
“Which reminds me, I signed a contract to replace the roof. They should start work next month. I’ll let you know when I have a firm start date.” Renee flicked a piece of black fuzz from her sleeve. “It’ll be a relief to finally have that taken care of.”
A new roof had been at the top of my landlord’s wish list since before I moved in. The current one wasn’t leaking, but it was over twenty years old. We’d often talked about the replacement fund she’d been building ever since she bought the building ten years ago.
Chatting about the roof made me think of the third floor. And the mysterious light that had been on. Should I ask about? If I did, would Renee want to know details? That could put me on the spot as to what I was doing when I saw it.
