Martha’s cheeks flushed, and I saw a glint of anger in her steely gray eyes. “Lillian did mention that she might donate the portrait to the library, upon her demise. But apparently, she changed her mind.”
No wonder Martha was practically attacking me over some ancient fees. She probably hated me, right then. I was about to take possession of an object that might’ve been able to save the archives, if the portrait really could be sold for several hundred thousand dollars.
All at once, I jolted.
What if Martha—who obviously hated Lillian—had tried to secure her expected “donation” early, and save her precious archives? Which would also save her husband’s job?
In fact, the library would probably become Martha’s fiefdom, now that strong-willed Lillian was out of the way, no longer able to impose her ideas on the board of directors.
Martha and I were staring at each other, and I swore she understood exactly what I was thinking. Her eyes got hard and cold again, and she swung the monitor around so we could both see it.
“You have nearly forty dollars’ worth of outstanding fines, Miss Templeton,” she told me, in a low, even, almost threatening voice. “Were you aware of that?”
“No . . .” It was my turn to feel unsure and somewhat chastened.
Martha seemed to grasp that she was regaining the upper hand, and she grew more composed, turning the monitor back toward herself. “Let’s see,” she said, her eyes sweeping back and forth as she scanned the screen. “Titles you were late to return include A Pony for Tessie, Mr. BeeBop’s Circus Adventure, and Little Kitty in the Big City”—she lowered her glasses for a moment to give me a scathing glance—“which you never brought back.” Then she pushed the glasses back up on her nose and resumed reading. “And, more recently, you have accrued debts for Tennis for Dummies, The Care and Feeding of Tarantulas, and What’s Happening to My Body: A Guide to Puberty.”
I reared back, confused.
I knew why I’d borrowed the book about spiders in fifth grade, and why I’d needed help with puberty. My mother hadn’t given me much information on that second topic. But when had I ever expressed any interest in tennis?
“Would you like to pay by cash, check, or credit card?” Martha asked, holding out her hand.
I had only a few dollars in my pocket, and I started digging for them. “I’ll pay cash, but I only have—”
But before I could explain that I would need to return with a check, someone slapped a wallet down on the counter next to me and said, “Please, let me make a down payment on Ms. Templeton’s fines, as a show of good faith, until you two can work out a plan for reimbursement.”
I turned slowly to see who was coming to my aid and immediately knew that the kind offer would have strings attached.
Big, tangled strings.
Chapter 45
“How much of my conversation with Martha did you hear?” I asked Jonathan, when we were outside the library, strolling through the park toward Market Street. The sun had come out, and Sylvan Creek’s small commercial district was busy with shoppers, dog walkers, and folks in town for homecoming at Wynton University. The air was crisp, and I wrapped my jacket more tightly around myself—sort of shrinking into it, too. I was pretty embarrassed. “Did you hear the actual roster of books . . . ?”
I didn’t have to finish the question. Jonathan’s grin gave me my answer, before he informed me, “I heard enough.”
I felt my cheeks getting hot. “I needed a book! Can you imagine talking with Maeve Templeton about puberty? She told me it was something not to be discussed, then gave me some money to buy—”
Jonathan cleared his throat loudly, cutting me off. “For once, I think your mother is right. Let’s change the subject. Please.”
“Fine,” I agreed, as we turned onto Market Street. I had no idea where either one of us was headed. My van was back at the library. “But did you hear the stuff before the embarrassing revelations about my childhood reading habits—which have definitely evolved.” I had to insert that quick defense of myself. I didn’t want him to think I was still reading about Mr. BeeBop’s adventures at the circus or, heaven forbid, how to score a tennis match. “Did you hear everything Martha said about hating Miss Flynt? And how much she wanted the painting I inherited?”
“No, I missed all that,” Jonathan said. “But I already know about their feuds.”
“Well, did you know about the portrait? The Tuttweiler? And how Martha thought Miss Flynt was going to leave it to the library? Which would’ve allowed Martha to keep the archives open—and save Asa’s job?”
“Could you go back a few steps, please?” Jonathan requested. “And go more slowly. You lost me at ‘Tuttweiler. ’”
He’d stopped walking, right in front of the Kind Cow Creamery, which had a window open to the sidewalk, like gelato shops in Italy. As I waited, he ordered two cones of Pumpkin Spice Cheesecake. But before he could pull out his wallet again, I found the ten-dollar bill in my pocket and quickly handed it over to the kid behind the counter.
“Thank you,” Jonathan said, smiling as I accepted my change. He offered me one of the cones. “I didn’t expect that.”
“I really do want to start paying you back,” I said, taking a big bite of the custard, which was swirled through with actual sweet and tangy cheesecake. As I wiped my mouth with my sleeve, I recalled two times I’d walked out of restaurants, leaving Jonathan to foot the bill. “For the meals you’ve bought me. The lock for my door—which was very kind of you. And the loan at the library. Everything.”
“Repay me for the lock by using it,” Jonathan suggested, still grinning. “And buy the library a new copy of Little Kitty in the Big City before you give me another dime.” He resumed walking. “Now, getting back to the portrait—and the library . . . ?”
“Oh, yeah.” I took one more quick lick, then told him, “I was at the library to learn more about the painting Miss Flynt left me—”
“Yes,” Jonathan interrupted me. He wrapped a napkin he’d grabbed from a dispenser at the creamery around his cone before it dripped. “That was a strange bequest. People don’t usually ask heirs to intuit their intentions.”
“I know, right?” I agreed. “Anyhow, Moxie recognized the artist’s name and style.”
“So the painting dates to the fifties or sixties?” Jonathan guessed.
“Yes,” I told him, not surprised that he recalled Moxie’s interest in that era, which had helped to solve the last murder we’d been tangled up in together. “So I went to the library, and I learned that portraits by Davis Tuttweiler—the artist—can sell for several hundred thousand dollars.”
Jonathan’s dark eyebrows shot up. “That’s quite a bit. Congratulations.”
I shook my head. “No, no. I don’t think Miss Flynt wanted me to hang the painting or sell it for personal gain. I think she had something else in mind. Maybe something charitable?”
“Wow.”
I looked up to see Jonathan watching me with something like admiration in his eyes.
“What?” I asked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’ve seen people commit murder for less money,” he said. “I’m impressed that you aren’t running over to Flynt Mansion, snatching up your inheritance, and selling it to the highest bidder.”
I shrugged. “As Democritus once wisely said, Happiness resides not in possessions. I guess money’s not my thing.”
“No, I don’t think it is.”
He was teasing me again, because I owed him so much.
“Anyhow, I’m pretty sure Martha expected the library to get the painting,” I said, overlooking his comment. “Then she could’ve sold it and used the money to save the archives, which are scheduled to be shut down. And when that happens, Asa will be out of a job.”
We were strolling past Templeton Animal Hospital. The purple and yellow mums in the window boxes were thriving under Piper’s care—and the HELP WANTED sign was still in the window.
Maybe Asa could apply there, depending on who was leaving....
“Daphne?”
I realized I’d gotten distracted, and I turned to see that Jonathan was offering me a napkin.
“What? What’s wrong?”
He pointed to my chin. “You have some ice cream . . .”
“Oh.” I accepted the napkin and wiped my face. “So, like I was saying, I think Martha might’ve been desperate enough to try to get her inheritance early.”
But Jonathan shook his head. “I don’t think so, Daphne. The library’s security cameras prove that she was in the library at the time of death.”
Stupid cameras!
They’d ratted me out to Martha and ruined my theory, too.
“Well, I’m still not convinced,” I said. “Security footage can be altered, you know.”
“That’s true,” Jonathan agreed, tossing the last few bites of his cone into a trash can. I would’ve finished the cone, if he’d offered, because I was almost done, too, and still hungry. “I learned all about security camera footage,” he added. “At the police academy.”
I also ignored his usual reminder about my lack of formal law enforcement education. I could see his truck, which was parked in front of the Philosopher’s Tome, and I had a few more questions to ask. Including a big one that might affect my mother. I looked up at him again. “Did you learn anything about the stains on the jacket?”
“No,” he told me. “The lab results aren’t in yet.”
“What about fingerprints?”
I knew my mother’s prints would be on the windbreaker, but maybe somebody else’s were, too.
Jonathan didn’t seem hopeful, though. “It’s difficult to lift those from any fabric,” he informed me. “Let alone from nylon that’s been wet and crumpled in a bag for days. I’m not saying it’s impossible, but it will take some work, and may not pay off.”
“Well, is there any news on Pastor Pete?” I asked quietly, because we were passing a group of people in Wynton University sweatshirts. They were probably in town for homecoming and wouldn’t know Pastor Kishbaugh from Adam, but I still thought discretion was in order. “When are you going to arrest him?”
“I’m a homicide detective,” Jonathan reminded me. “I only investigate murder. Financial crimes are handled by an entirely different unit.” He hesitated, like he was weighing whether to tell me more, then said, “I can say that he’s been advised not to use that passport any time soon.” Jonathan must’ve seen me getting excited, because he raised one finger. “That’s not information to be shared with Moxie Bloom or anyone else.”
“You can trust me,” I promised, making a motion like locking my lips. Then I threw away the imaginary key—and immediately opened my mouth again, to pop in the very last bite of my ice cream cone. And as I chewed, I gradually realized that Jonathan’s arrival at the library was a little too well timed. I eyed him suspiciously. “Why were you at the library, anyhow? Huh?”
“I read,” he said. “Quite a bit, actually. You saw my bookshelves. I could tell you wanted to snoop around them.”
I wasn’t buying it. “Yes, I did see your collection. But book borrowers don’t have huge personal libraries. You strike me as someone who would buy all the books you want to read.”
“That is an interesting observation—and accurate,” he conceded, grinning at me again. “I don’t borrow many books.”
“So why were you there?” I asked again.
We’d reached his truck, and we stopped in front of it. He ran one hand through his thick, dark hair, looking almost guilty. Then he admitted, “To be honest, I was walking past the park and saw your van at the library. Given that the head librarian was at the scene of Lillian Flynt’s murder, I immediately wondered what you were up to. I have decent instincts, too, and they—along with your history of meddling—told me it was likely no good.”
“I could’ve just been checking out some books.”
He arched his eyebrows, and I saw that he was laughing at me. “Really, Daphne? I was also fairly certain that you’d have been blacklisted from the library years ago, for unpaid fines.” He nodded, gesturing to the store right behind us. “And you haunt the Philosopher’s Tome. That’s your library.”
My shoulders slumped, to think that I was so predictable. “Yeah, I had to sneak in past Martha. And Tom rarely makes me pay for books. I guess you have me pegged.”
Jonathan moved to open the door of his truck. “Oh, I don’t think I’ll ever have you completely ‘pegged,’ Daphne Templeton. In fact, I don’t think the best FBI profilers could ever assemble a complete picture of you.”
He was the master of ambiguous compliments.
“Keep your doors locked if you take that painting home,” he added, growing more serious. “People will kill for that type of money.” A shadow of concern darkened his eyes. “Maybe someone already has. Maybe possession of the portrait is part of the motive, even if Martha Whitaker seems to be ruled out as a suspect.”
He didn’t wait for me to tell him that I did intend to take the Woman in Red Three to Plum Cottage soon, so I could take my time studying the painting. I hoped that closer inspection might yield clues to Miss Flynt’s intentions for the portrait—and help to solve her murder. Jonathan probably suspected that I wouldn’t leave the painting alone, and he didn’t want to get dragged into a debate about the soundness of my plans. He got into his clean, black Ford F-150 and turned over the engine, just as I realized, too late, that I should’ve asked for a ride back to my van. Although the library was only a few blocks away, Jonathan and I had spent quite a bit of time ambling through town, talking. The sun was sinking, and I needed to return to Winding Hill, change clothes, and grab my clown suit before meeting Dylan for an early dinner at Casita Burrito.
I’d also forgotten to tell Jonathan that Piper thought somebody might be staying at Flynt Mansion. That could be important.
Raising my hand, I tried to signal Jonathan, to get him to stop, but he was already driving away, and I ended up waving to someone who stood across the street. A person who had no doubt been observing me and Jonathan.
Elyse Hunter-Black, who stood next to her sleek, silver BMW, shopping bags dangling from her arms and an unhappy expression on her pretty face.
Chapter 46
Casita Burrito was a little hole in the wall, tucked away in a narrow building and marked with only a small, wooden sign, but it was one of my favorite restaurants in Sylvan Creek. The food, which was conjured up from chef and owner Sofia Medina’s grandmother’s recipe book, was practically magical. And the atmosphere was enchanting, too. The thick plaster walls, the color of desert sandstone at sunset, were lined with hand-forged, wrought-iron sconces Sofia had brought from her native Mexico, and the rustic, terra-cotta floor tiles were authentic to that nation, too. In honor of the upcoming Day of the Dead, Sofia had strung skeleton-shaped lights all around the tiny room, and each table was decorated with a candle flickering in an elaborately painted ceramic skull.
Sofia was also celebrating the holiday with special menu items, including the Ghost Pepper Salsa that Dylan and I were enjoying with freshly baked, blue-corn tortilla chips—all vegan, for Dylan. As she’d set the salsa on our table, the gray-haired, spunky chef had promised us, with a wink, that we’d feel the lingering spirit of the fiery blend of tomatoes and peppers long into the night.
“Wow, that is really good,” Dylan gasped, waving one hand in front of his mouth and reaching for a tall glass of ice water. His blue eyes were watering. “I think that could bring the dead back to life!”
I dunked a tortilla into the small, glazed cauldron that held the salsa and swirled the chip around. “Yeah, I wish.”
“Something wrong?” Dylan asked. His cheeks had a faint flush under his tan. My face was probably beet red. “Because I was just joking, Daph. Although, I do find the idea of reincarnation really cool. I’ve been reading about it in the Bhagavad Gita.” He shook his head. “Heavy stuff.”
I admired
Dylan’s spiritual curiosity and his willingness to tackle a pretty weighty sacred text of India. We definitely shared an interest in exploring life’s mysteries and the secrets of the universe.
“So, what’s up?” he asked again. “You’re awfully quiet tonight.”
Part of me was worried about whatever topic Dylan wanted to discuss that evening. But I had other things weighing on my mind, too. Namely, Lillian Flynt’s murder, and the jacket that was keeping its own secrets.
“I keep thinking about Miss Flynt, and who might’ve killed her,” I told him. “It’s bugging me.”
“You don’t have to solve another murder, Daph,” he reminded me. “Like I told you when Steve Beamus got killed, trust karma to do its job and mete out justice.”
I’d eaten more of the Ghost Pepper Salsa, and I quickly dunked a second chip into some creamy, cool, house-made guacamole, in a vain effort to soothe my tongue. Then I abruptly started coughing and slammed my hand against my chest.
I wasn’t choking on a tortilla chip or overcome by the intense heat in my mouth, although the chunky blend of tomatoes, onions, and Scoville-scale-busting peppers was still making my eyes water, too.
No, I’d suddenly remembered where I’d seen the strange symbol with the bird, the flames, the pen, and the book.
I turned to Sofia, who was at that moment approaching our table, carrying a tray laden with vegan-friendly butternut-squash-chipotle chili for Dylan and her special cheese enchiladas for me.
“Thofia!” I said, too loudly. I also lisped, because I couldn’t feel my tongue. I raised one finger, asking her to wait a moment while I took a sip of water. Then I asked, more calmly and clearly, “What charity did you sponsor, with your hot chocolate cart, the night of the Howl-o-Ween Parade?”
Chapter 47
“I’m sorry, Daphne, but I don’t really know which organization we sponsored this year,” Sofia said, setting Dylan’s bowl and my plate on the table. My mouth started to water at the sight of melted cheese, bubbling up from under deep red enchilada sauce. “Lillian Flynt—God rest her soul—always assigned each participating business a charity,” Sofia continued. “You could object, if you didn’t like the cause, but I think most of us always trust that the groups are legitimate and worthy of support.” Wiping her hands on her white apron, she gestured around her restaurant, which only had about seven tables. But all of them were occupied, and there was no waitstaff. “As you can see, I am very busy this time of year. I didn’t even think to ask questions.”
Dial Meow for Murder Page 18
