“Only if something broke and Mom couldn’t fix it. Like when the hose in the upstairs toilet got loose and spouted water all over the floor.”
“I found them talking at the kitchen table plenty of times.”
“Doesn’t sound very romantic to me.” Ken turned to George. “It’s getting late. I think you should start heading home.”
We took turns thanking George and wishing him a safe trip home. I was surprised to see Jared and Ryan walking side by side to the exit.
“Underneath it all, they love one another,” Gillian said.
I gave a start. I hadn’t realized she was standing next to me. “I think you’re right. It’s terrible what they went through—losing their mother that way.”
“It was one of the first things Ryan told me after we met. I suppose that’s why he watches all those real-life murder cases on TV. He doesn’t have much hope the police will ever find his mother’s murderer.”
“I wonder who Al Buckley, the detective on the case, finally decided was responsible.”
“Ryan thinks he had no idea and was using his so-called presentation to gather information.”
“I got the feeling Al was looking for proof to confirm his suspicions.”
“He found out for sure she was very unhappy,” Gillian said.
“Helena didn’t say so then, but she told Jared that his mother was having an affair.”
“I know, but with whom?”
We looked at one another—two curious women.
“Hey, why don’t the four of us go out together sometime?” she said.
I smiled. “Sounds good to me.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The drive to work took twelve minutes. I parked and entered the library through the back door. Since I had a few minutes to spare, I stopped in the staff ladies’ room.
Angela was there, beaming at me. “I got your invite. Count Steve and me in. I can’t wait to see your cottage.”
My cottage. For the first time ever, I had a home I loved and a friend where I worked. “Hey, why don’t you come over for dinner one night this week? I make a mean mac and cheese.”
“Love to. I’ll bring the wine.”
We settled on Thursday evening. I used the lavatory, poured myself a cup of coffee, and unlocked my office door just as the minute hand on the large clock moved to twelve.
I spent the next quarter of an hour going through e-mails that had arrived over the weekend. A few were from chefs asking if the library owned any of the cooking supplies they’d need for their demonstrations. They all said they’d bring their own utensils—from knives to measuring cups, graters to frying pans—but they required a hot plate with two, preferably four, burners; a cutting board; and a demo table with a mirror that tilted and allowed the audience to see what they were doing.
One chef wondered if it would be all right if he diced the ingredients at home to save time. Another asked if he could preprepare the food the audience would be eating because, though he planned to demonstrate every step of the preparation, the actual cooking time was two hours. I decided yes in both cases, since TV cooking shows allowed it.
All the chefs would receive the same remuneration. From this, they had to buy and pay for the necessary ingredients. I had to figure out how much to charge the patrons before I could put something in the newsletter.
Sally was the only person who could help me with this. I locked my office and knocked on her door.
“Come in,” she shouted and then resumed arguing with someone on the phone. “Sorry about that,” she apologized when she’d finished her conversation. “I brought my car in for repairs. They quoted me one price, then called to say it’s one hundred and fifty dollars more.”
“That’s happened to me more than once.”
She smiled suddenly. “I got your invitation. Bob and I would love to come to your party.”
Bob? Of course. Sally was married. She wore a wedding ring, though I’d never heard her mention her husband’s name before.
“I’m glad you can make it. And I’ll finally get to meet your husband.”
“He’s looking forward to meeting you too.”
“Oh.” I’d debated before adding Sally’s name to my guest list and finally decided it was a wise move, since she was my boss. Now I was glad I’d included her.
“I need your input.” I told her about my plans to have chefs come and give food demonstrations at the library.
Sally pursed her lips as she listened.
At first, I thought she was annoyed with me for not running the idea past her. “I hope you don’t think it’s too much or too complicated for us to handle,” I said.
“No, I don’t. In fact, I think it’s a wonderful idea. We have some available funds for new programs. Why don’t we drive over to the restaurant supply store in Merrivale and see what they sell along these lines.”
“I could ask the chefs who responded to tell me what pots and pans they’ll require.”
“Of course we can’t buy everything they’d like us to have on hand.”
That settled, we discussed what to pay the chefs—given that they’d be providing the ingredients—and what we should charge our patrons for the program.
“We don’t want it to be too expensive,” Sally said. “How many patrons should we allow for each demonstration?”
“Forty, I think.” I was flattered she wanted my opinion.
“I think so too. Why don’t you contact the chefs who responded, request a menu of the three or four dishes they plan to prepare, and ask how much they think the ingredients will cost for forty samples.”
I hummed as I returned to my office. I unlocked the door, and it wasn’t until I’d closed it behind me that I noticed the envelope on the floor. Puzzled, I bent to retrieve it. Inside was a note with one word—“Here!”—and a check for three hundred fifty dollars.
Thrilled, I called Uncle Bosco to tell him that I could pay him back at least some of the cost not covered by my insurance for the broken car window.
“Where did you get that windfall?” he asked.
“From the person who broke the window.”
Uncle Bosco laughed. “I suppose you won’t tell me who the culprit is.”
“Of course not.”
“I want you to keep the money, Carrie, and buy something nice for yourself.”
I tried to argue that he and Aunt Harriet were doing too much for me, but he stopped me before I got very far.
“Honey, having you here in Clover Ridge is a blessing to us. We’re happy to do what we can to make your life easier.”
“But you’re paying for my birthday party and always treating me to dinner.”
“Did you ever consider that it gives us pleasure, and we do it for the sheer fun of it?”
“I guess not.”
“Your aunt and I are enjoying ourselves more than we have in years. So please, let us go on doing things with you and for you as long as we can.”
Tears sprang to my eyes. “Thank you, Uncle Bosco. No one’s ever done this much for me. Ever.”
“Don’t I know it, honey. Talk to you later.”
It was hard settling down to work after that. All the good things happening in my life kept churning around in my mind. I had loving relatives, a home, and a friend. My boss liked my plans for my department. And I’d convinced Dorothy, the library’s Cruella de Vil, to pay for the window she’d broken. Jared and I were no further along in our investigation, but maybe that was about to change.
I called Jocko Wright, the first chef who’d agreed to come to the library. Jocko was the sous chef at Spotters, the wonderful restaurant Uncle Bosco had taken me to the week before. No one picked up when I called, so I left a message asking him to call when he got to work.
I felt Evelyn’s presence as she reached for the check I’d left on my desk. “I see Dorothy’s paid you for the window she smashed.”
“She did it for your sake, Evelyn.”
“I’m glad she owned up
to her misdeed. I wish I could give her a good talking-to. Tell her to stop being such a destructive sourpuss.”
I laughed. “I think everyone in the library would love to see her lighten up and let go of her grudges.”
“How do you like living in the Avery cottage?”
I filled Evelyn in on the move, my aunt and uncle’s visit, and their offer to host my birthday party. Then I told her about the previous night’s dinner and how Ryan thought Laura might have been having an affair with their neighbor Lou Devon.
Evelyn giggled. “I doubt that very much. Lou Devon’s completely devoted to his wife and his computer.”
“Jared didn’t think much of that idea either. Laura was having an affair, but no one knows who the mystery man might be.”
“Helena Koppel was her best friend. If Laura confided in anyone, it would have been her.”
“That’s what Jared thought. But when he asked Helena if she knew who the man was, she told him his mother never revealed his name.”
“He was probably married,” Evelyn said. “Why else would she be so secretive?”
We were making progress by examining what we knew and didn’t know and following the leads to their logical conclusions.
“I bet you’re right. Laura told Helena about her own part in the affair but not her lover’s name. She felt obliged to keep that a secret.”
Evelyn nodded. “It might be someone with standing in the community. Like the mayor. Or president of the town council at the time.”
“Do you remember who they were fifteen years ago?”
“No, but you can always look them up.”
“I’ll do that tonight.” Another idea occurred to me. “If Laura was afraid to tell anyone the name of her lover, maybe she wrote about it.”
“You mean like in a diary?” Evelyn laughed. “In my day, girls wrote in their diaries about the boys they had crushes on and wished would ask them out. I don’t think grown women keep diaries these days.”
“Nowadays, people of all ages keep journals where they write about their day’s events, their feelings, their thoughts. Did you ever notice Laura writing while she was here in the library?”
Evelyn pursed her lips as she thought. “Funny you should ask. A few times, I noticed her writing at the reference desk when no patrons needed her assistance. Once I passed close by and was surprised to see her give a start and cover the page she was writing. I remembered thinking it odd, because I’d assumed whatever she was writing was related to work.”
I tingled with excitement. “Laura could very well have been writing about her love affair. Why else would she care if you saw what she was doing?”
“Possibly,” Evelyn said. “But even if you’re right, we have no idea if she was writing on sheets of paper, in a notebook, or what-have-you.”
“We know it wasn’t an iPad. I don’t think they were around then.”
“Still, we’re talking about fifteen years ago. If Laura was obsessed with keeping her affair a secret, she probably ripped up the pages as soon she wrote them. She probably wanted to vent her feelings and then destroy the evidence.”
I sighed. “You’re probably right. We’ll never find out who this mystery man was.”
“Or who killed Laura or Al Buckley.” Evelyn shook her head. “Some mysteries remain unsolved, no matter how hard we try to solve them.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
I left work a few minutes past five, eager to arrive home and start dinner. I’d marinated a chicken the night before and had plenty of veggies and salad in the fridge to choose from. I hadn’t expected the heavy traffic en route to the cottage. Why was I surprised? It was rush hour all over the country. I’d been spoiled living with Aunt Harriet and Uncle Bosco, their house a short walk across the Green to the library.
Several people had texted me during the day to say they’d be coming to my birthday-housewarming party. Trish told me that Barbara would be in town that weekend, so I sent her an e-mail invitation too.
I thought about my conversation with Evelyn. We’d both agreed that Laura’s secret lover might very well have killed her. Who could he be? Certainly not her next-door neighbor. As for the other men in her life—Jared, Ryan, their father, her brother, and Ken Talbot—my gut feeling was that none of them had killed Laura.
What had the police discovered at the crime scene? Had the murderer left any clues? His intention wasn’t to kill Laura, or he would have brought a murder weapon. A gun or a knife. Something that showed premeditation. Instead, he (or she) had picked up a vase and bashed Laura over the head.
Or had the killer been more calculating than I first thought? What if he or she knew exactly where the vase was and had planned to use it? The vase had been wiped of all fingerprints, which showed a sense of self-preservation. My mind raced with possibilities as I exited the road as soon as I could and drove back to the village. I wanted to talk to Lieutenant Mathers and get some background information on the case. Of course, he might not be in his office or willing to talk to me about Laura’s murder, but it was worth a try.
A few minutes later, I parked in the lot behind the police station and entered the small brick building. I told the female officer at the front desk that I wanted to speak to Lieutenant Mathers.
“And you are?” she asked.
“Carrie Singleton.” I decided to use my most potent influence. “Bosco Singleton’s my uncle.”
“That’s nice.” She stood, rising a head taller than me, and pursed her lips. “I’ll see if the lieutenant’s free to speak to you.”
She returned a few minutes later. “He’ll see you. Follow me.”
“Thank you.”
She flashed a smile, which changed her face completely. “You’re the new head of programs at the library.”
“I am.”
“Your Halloween party was awesome. Can’t remember the last time my hubby and I had so much fun. I’m Gracie, by the way.”
We shook hands. “Hi, Gracie. Nice to meet you.” So much for using Uncle Bosco to wield some clout.
Lieutenant Mathers was working at his computer when Gracie showed me in.
“Have a seat. Be finished with this in two minutes,” he said.
I sat in one of the two metal chairs facing his desk. Was coming here a good idea? The police didn’t like having civilians question them about ongoing cases, which was why I’d asked Uncle Bosco to find out what he could. I needed to learn everything that had been discovered about Laura’s murderer.
“Hello, Miss Singleton. What can I do for you?”
“Please, call me Carrie.”
He nodded but didn’t ask me to call him John. Not that I expected him to. I cleared my throat, wishing I’d planned my opening. To my surprise, the words spilled out, sounding natural and logical.
“Lieutenant Mathers, I was in charge of the library event where Al Buckley was poisoned. The next day, you interviewed me at my uncle’s home.”
His blue eyes bore into mine. “I remember.”
“It was the first time I’d met Detective Buckley, but I liked him immediately. I felt terrible that someone poisoned him.” Tears sprang to my eyes. I blinked them back furiously. “I was wondering if you—the police—have made any progress in the case.”
Lieutenant Mathers leaned back and steepled his fingers. “It’s an ongoing investigation, Miss Singleton. Which means there’s nothing I can share with you at this point.”
I’d expected that. Still . . . “What about Laura Foster’s murder? I know it was never solved. Are the records of that case available to the public?”
The lieutenant studied me for a minute and then let out a deep belly laugh. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to solve two homicides on your own, Miss Singleton.”
“Of course not! I’ve gotten to know Jared Foster and can’t help wondering who would want to kill his mother.”
“She was a lovely lady.”
“Have you any idea why the killer would take her gold bracelet and antique p
in and nothing else?”
“Haven’t a clue.”
I let out a huff of frustration. “Can you at least tell me if the two murders are connected?”
He stood. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that either. However, there are plenty of newspaper articles about Laura Foster’s murder online. You can read them in the library.”
“I know.” I got to my feet. “Thanks for your time.”
Lieutenant Mathers tapped my shoulder. “I sincerely hope you’re not out to solve these murders. There’s a real killer in our midst. If he thinks you’re snooping around, he might go after you. Take my advice and leave the investigating to the police.”
“Of course.” Because you’re doing such a great job.
I headed for my car. What did I expect? I started out for the cottage once again. Not only had the lieutenant been less than helpful; he’d warned me not to do any investigating. Well, he couldn’t stop me from talking to Jared and his family. I grinned as an idea occurred to me. Trish’s dad, Roy, had been Al Brinkley’s good friend. He’d been eager to talk to me about Al. It was possible that Al had spoken to Roy about Laura’s case and named the person he believed had murdered her.
For some inexplicable reason, the traffic was lighter now. Eight minutes later, I turned onto the Avery property. I stopped at Dylan’s house to collect his mail. I unlocked the front door, noting the small pile of business-sized envelopes and advertisements the mail carrier had slid through the mail slot. The house felt chilly; Dylan must have turned the heat way down in his absence.
I gathered up the mail, intending to read off the return addresses to Dylan when I called him later that night. The phone rang as I was leaving. What to do? I started for the kitchen and then stopped in my tracks. Dylan hadn’t asked me to answer his phone. But then, he probably never expected it to ring during the few minutes I was at his house collecting his mail. What could be the harm?
“Avery residence.”
“Where’s Dylan?” a gruff male voice asked.
“Not here.”
“Tell him he’d better . . . Forget it.” He disconnected.
Shaken by the caller’s manner, I hurried through the hall and locked the door behind me on my way out.
Death Overdue Page 17
