by Joan Hess
But where, I asked myself, was anything that suggested there was a buried treasure in the backyard, so to speak? No one was holding up a prototype of an electric lightbulb or a printing press. The mule had not gone on to win the Kentucky Derby. The barbecue grills would not set any records at an antiques appraisal show on PBS. Relatives, friends, memories. Valuable to those who cared, but hardly marketable.
I let myself out the back door, conscientiously locking it behind me, and walked down the alley.
“Find your cat?” the elderly woman shouted.
“No luck,” I answered with appropriate despondency. “He must have run off with a Siamese that lives next door.”
“Foreigners. Can’t trust them.”
“No kidding,” I said. “The next thing you know, they’ll be giving out the Nobel Peace Prize in Sweden.” When I arrived in the library parking lot, I checked the time. I still had an hour before Caron and Inez would be thrust back into the complexity. Skyler was at the mall with Luanne, Adrienne was having her hair done, Peter was threatening his underlings with double shifts if they didn’t find Daphne, Arnie was spending my twenty dollars at some sleazy bar, Miss Parchester was settling her account with Howie, Sheila was staggering home from shopping, Jessica was powdering her nose in preparation for the next late-breaking story, the weatherman was eyeing the low front coming our way, and Finnigan Baybergen was annoying a large class of undergraduates who wanted nothing more than a passing grade and an opportunity to nap. Busy, busy people.
I had an hour of free time.
And, it occurred to me as I walked up the steps to the library, I might be able to use it wisely. I stopped at the reference desk and asked a young woman how I might find newspaper stories from a year ago.
She peered at me almost suspiciously. “On-line, of course. The archives go back forty-three years thus far.”
“I don’t know how to find the archives,” I whispered, as one was taught to do in such sacred institutions.
She pulled off her glasses. “Please wait while I find Marian.”
“The lady librarian?”
“She will not find that amusing. Just sit down at that desk and try not to touch anything until we return.”
I did as ordered. The computer in front of me appeared to be no more alien than the one in my office that I used infrequently, to my accountant’s chagrin. I did not doubt, however, that with an imprudent touch I could erase the entire inventory of the library, and possibly that of the Library of Congress as well. I tend to overestimate my as yet undefined supernatural powers, but one never knows.
Marian proved to be a woman of my age. She was not horrified at my ignorance, and carefully led me through a series of commands until I was looking at the archives of the local newspaper.
“Do you have a particular date, or do we need to search by subject?”
“Subject,” I said. “The Oakland Heights condominium development.”
She stopped smiling. “I suppose you’re wanting to find articles about the fire last year. A terrible thing it was. My niece’s former roommate was living there. The poor girl miscarried the day after. But let me find it for you.” She typed rapidly, then stopped as an article appeared on the screen. “Just click on that button to see related articles. When you’re done, click on this.”
I setded back to read about the fire. No one had been killed, and the damage had been limited to three units. One of them had belonged to Finnigan’s sister, Kendra Baybergen, who’d collapsed behind the building. In an adjoining unit, a retired couple had barely escaped, both snflferihg second-degree burns. The husband had also fractured his shoulder in a fall. The third unit had involved a couple in their twenties; the wife had been transported to intensive care. Marian’s niece’s roommate.
The subsequent investigation had determined the fire to be an accident. The ground had shifted, rupturing gas lines. Sparks set off fires in the utility rooms. The smoke detectors had performed according to specifications. Ultimately, Mother Nature received the blame. Anthony Armstrong had issued a statement to that effect, adding that he was saddened by the event and offering his sympathy to those who had been harmed. Alternative housing would be provided at no cost until the structural damage was repaired and the interiors cleaned and repainted.
Residents in other units had nothing to contribute except anecdotes of gathering in horrified huddles and doing what they could to provide first aid until the paramedics arrived. Randy and Jillian Scarpo had not been among those who were interviewed.
I logged off, nodded at the young woman at the reference desk, and left the tranquil confines of the library, where harmony and clarity came from the quintessence of the Dewey decimal system. If only I could classify individuals as neatly,
I drove up Willow Street, noting that the inconspicuous car was once more parked across the street from Sheila Armstrong’s house, indicating that she was home. She could have had a phone call from Daphne and arranged to meet her somewhere between the Absolut and the Popov, but she’d left the store alone (and not necessarily empty-handed).
When I got to the Book Depot, I unlocked the door, removed the Closed sign, and tried to think where Daphne might have taken refuge. Not at her mother’s house, and certainly not at the faux villa, where she would be greeted as warmly as a pimple on Adrienne’s nose. The skyboxes were no longer a haven. Arnie was likely to be at the Tickled Pink Club, although I doubted the cabdriver had seen more than a glimpse of my twenty-dollar bill.
When the bell above the door jangled, I looked up, hoping to see a customer but expecting to see Caron and Inez. Three strikes, and it looked as though I might be out.
“Peter,” I said with a flimsy attempt at a smile. “Luanne told me earlier that you were looking for me. As you can see, here I am.”
He stopped in front of the counter. “Where is Daphne Armstrong?”
“I have no idea. I saw on the news that she managed to escape from the courthouse this morning. I solemnly swear I had nothing whatsoever to do with it. Jorgeson can testify on my behalf. After that, I went to find out if Miss Parchester was doing well. She’s spent four nights in the tree, and at her age—”
“Don’t play games with me, Claire. I want to know where she is.”
“She’s on a platform in an oak tree. I thought you knew that, Peter.”
He failed to appreciate my wit. “Daphne Armstrong.”
I frowned. “I just told you that I have no idea. You’re welcome to search the office. Watch out for brown recluse spiders if you crawl behind the boiler. Their bites can be nasty.”
“So can mine,” he said. “The chief has been bawling me out for the last hour. I’m liable to be back in a patrol car if we don’t find her. Think how the police department looks right now. That reporter, the one with the hair and—”
“Jessica Princeton?”
“Yes, that one. She damn near tackled me on the courthouse steps, and if a camera hadn’t been in my face, I don’t know what I would have done. You may see me foaming at the mouth on the six o’clock news.” He took a deep breath. “Please tell me where Daphne is. We’re not saying publicly that she’s armed and dangerous, but we don’t know for sure because we haven’t found the weapon. Do you happen to have it in the drawer beneath the cash register?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “Did you check the wooded area between the Armstrongs’ house and Oakland Heights? She probably threw it as hard as she could, but she doesn’t look like she has an abundance of muscles.”
“A dozen men swept the area three times with metal detectors and found only a few rusty beer cans, coins, and spent shotgun shells. Daphne had the weapon in her possession when she drove away. She may have tossed it out the car window, or she may have hidden it before she was arrested. For all we know, she may be planning to commit suicide.”
“She wouldn’t do that,” I began, then stopped. She’d sounded concerned about Skyler, but also resigned to losing him after she’d been arrested, and
, at least in her mind, convicted and sent to prison. Could she have been thinking about suicide when she’d chosen to follow the directions on Arnie’s note—or even four days ago, when she’d left Skyler on my front porch?
“Why not?” demanded Peter.
I was not pleased to be back in the middle of the mine-field, where a single misstep was potential disaster. “Because she said she didn’t kill her father. I believed her.”
“Why would she confess to a stranger? You did tell me you didn’t know her, didn’t you?”
Left foot, right foot. “I didn’t know who she was until I saw her being escorted into the police station.”
“And you haven’t seen her since your little interview yesterday?”
“No, I have not.”
He looked at me for a moment. “And you don’t know anything about what happened at the courthouse?”
“I knew nothing whatsoever until I saw it on KFAR at noon,” I said virtuously. “Has her mother heard from her?”
“If she has, she won’t admit it. The only thing she will admit is that she’s been channeling Nostradamus and he warned her that the revamped Volkswagen Beetle will lead to global destruction. Jorgeson is nervous, since that’s what his wife drives.”
I was casting about for a retort when Caron skidded into the store, almost colliding with the rack of cookbooks.
“Mother! Did you hear about—” she started, then gurgled to a halt as she saw Peter.
“Is something wrong at the high school?” he asked.
Inez popped up from behind the yellow study guides. “No, Lieutenant Rosen. Well, a toilet in the girls’ restroom on the second floor got stopped up and made a horrible stench. The vice principal says that—”
Peter held up his hand to avoid hearing the details. “That hardly seems a crisis, Inez. Caron must be thinking of something else.”
Caron’s eyes grew so round that I could easily imagine her pleading her innocence in a court of law. “What happened was that somebody took a gallon container of that slimy processed cheese sauce from the cafeteria and rigged it in Rhonda Maguire’s locker so that when she opened it, it spilled all over her. She started screeching so loudly that Mrs. McLair told her class to evacuate. The cheese sauce was all over the floor and as slippery as ice. A dozen kids, including Rhonda, had to be hosed down.” She paused for maximum effect. “It was just awful, Mother.”
“Oh, dear,” I murmured. “Has the culprit been identified?”
“Not yet. Maybe Peter should go take fingerprints. Rhonda’s locker is just outside the library.”
“And you can take fingerprints in the restroom, too,” added Inez.
Peter muttered something under his breath, then said, “Claire, you have to promise to notify me if the person we were discussing attempts to contact you. Can I trust you?”
“Have I ever lied to you?” I replied sweetly.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Peter gave me a skeptical look, then left. As soon as the door closed, Caron and Inez advanced on me like salivating wolves, or at least drooling puppies.
“Did you hear about Daphne Armstrong?” said Caron. She vanished behind the fiction rack, then reemerged with the stage presence of a diva prepared to sing a heart-wrenching aria, clutch her throat, and crumple to the floor for a piteous and lengthy demise. “She staged a getaway this morning in the courthouse. Two guards were shot, and one’s in critical condition. She started a fire, then set off the alarm and came racing out—”
“No, she didn’t,” I said flatly.
“But that’s what Kerry told us,” Inez said. “And Aly heard that three clerks from the tax collector’s office were taken hostage, and nobody’s seen them since eleven o’clock. They could be dead by now, their bodies in the woods somewhere.”
I reminded myself that only a few hours earlier I’d been begging to hear gossip at the fitness center. I told them the gospel according to Saint Jessica, then added, “No shots were fired and no one was hurt. The three clerks are likely to be in the restaurant up the street from the courthouse, drinking tequila shots. Any trace of smoke probably came from custodians too lazy to go outside for a mid-morning cigarette break. Daphne did leave the courthouse, but there’s no suggestion she was armed.”
Caron stared at me in much the same way Peter had minutes earlier. “So where is she?”
I should have been flattered that everyone seemed to believe I was masterminding the melodrama, but I was neither. “I don’t know. If I did, I’d track her down and persuade her to turn herself in. She’s making the situation worse.”
Inez’s lips began to tremble. “Where’s Skyler? She didn’t—”
“No, she didn’t. Luanne took him to the mall to window-shop for summer booties. She’ll call me when they get back.”
“What if Daphne comes here, or to the apartment later?” asked Caron. “I won’t let you hand him over. He’s not a library book, for pity’s sake! She can’t just check him in and out when it suits her.”
I caught her hand. “I agree, dear. Luanne won’t object to keeping him until we know what’s going to happen to Daphne.”
“What will happen to her, Ms. Malloy?” Inez said solemnly.
“It’s hard to say. There are some inconsistencies in her story, but I’m not sure what to make of them. Other potential witnesses are less than candid. One would think the long arm of the law could get to the truth.”
Caron smirked. “Is that why Peter was huffing at you? He knows that you know stuff you’re not telling him?”
“You have cheese sauce in your hair.” “Eew!” she howled as she darted toward the bathroom in the office.
Inez began to snicker, but prudently. “My grandmother had all these ducks and geese on her farm. When the pond froze, they’d go blithely marching onto the ice, then start flipping on their”—she glanced at me—”tail feathers. It was funny, but not as funny as today. I don’t think Rhonda’s going to be ordering nachos at Taco Bell anytime soon.”
“Should I expect a call from the vice principal?”
“Well, Rhonda’s pretty sure, but no one saw Caron messing around near her locker. Waylan made some wisecracks later, acting like he was responsible. He wasn’t any happier than Caron about the rumors, since he has a girlfriend who looks like Xena. Luckily, we’ve got the weekend before Rhonda can launch her next ambush.”
Caron came out of the office. “Why don’t you tell us what you’re not telling Peter? We could help, you know. I’m kind of starting to like having Skyler around, even if it’s not for long. He’s, like, the only baby brother I’ll ever have.”
“Me, too,” said Inez, her lenses fogging up. “When I was born, my father calculated the cost of college tuition and had a vasectomy.”
I looked at them, wishing I could see them as children, or even the egomaniacal postpubescents they’d been only two years ago. “Let me lock the store, then we’ll go home, make a pot of tea, and I will tell you everything I know. You may be able to make more sense of it than Luanne and I have thus far.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard,” Caron said.
Miss Marple had never been burdened with sixteen-yearold girls, unless they’d been adenoidal maids who brought in tea trays, but only after straightening their aprons and caps. Caron and Inez poured themselves sodas, then flopped down on the sofa and eyed me like raptors, one more disconcerting than the other. The One Who Spoke In Capital Letters, naturally.
During the next hour, hushing them when they tried to interrupt every third sentence, I related it all—from my previous and inevitably exasperating encounters with Arnie; the specifics of Skyler’s birth; and my conversations with Daphne, Sheila, Adrienne, Chantilly, Joey, and Finnigan Baybergen. I told them about Randy and Jill Scarpo. I even went so far as to repeat the exchange with Arnie only a short while earlier. Both of them moved from the sofa to chairs on the far side of the room.
“You delivered a baby?” said Caron. “Weren’t you grossed out?”
&n
bsp; “I didn’t have time to think about it. Even the most ordinary people, like the three of us, can and will rise to the occasion when the situation demands it. Afterwards, if it’s all gone wrong, we may lie awake at night, wondering if we should have done something differently. In this case, I had no regrets.”
Inez stared, either appalled or awed; in that she often tended to look like one or the other, it was hard to know. “And you didn’t tell anybody?”
“I wasn’t ready to share it. I told Luanne a couple of days ago, and now I’ve told the two of you. I was waiting for the right time.”
Caron went into the kitchen, slammed a few cabinet doors, then came back into the living room. “So the stork didn’t deliver Skyler, but now we’ve got him—so it must be the right time, Mother. This whole thing is such a mess. It’s like one of those comedies by Shakespeare where half the cast are twins, the girls pretend to be boys, and everyone is infatuated. They’re impossible to make sense of without a study guide.”
Inez shook her head. “It’s more like one of the tragedies where everybody goes blind or dies in the end.”
“We haven’t quite come to that,” I said. “It’s possible that Daphne did shoot her father. She couldn’t have felt much love for him after he kicked her out of the house.”
“She wouldn’t have given up hope, even with Adrienne muddying things up. Maybe she just went back to talk to him when she thought he was alone,” Caron said, sipping pensively on her soda.
“She said she didn’t think anyone was home,” Inez corrected her, and at her own peril, added, “She went there to get something.”
“Like a suitcase of counterfeit money? Did her mother just happen to remember the printing press in the basement? Are there clotheslines bedecked with damp hundred-dollar bills?”
