“Okay,” I said. “We won’t call them. Yet. But you’d better not fib to me about any of this. And don’t leave anything else out. Like Bonnie Beardsley’s stalker story. Did she say who she thought it was?”
“I just told you everything I told the police.” Harry erased Mark’s message from his answering machine. “Think about it, Aimee. I teach at the dojo every Saturday. Half the policemen in town have been in my classes. It’s perfectly reasonable that Bonnie would call me if she wanted to learn self-defense, and they all know it.”
“How did Mark Takamoto know Bonnie called you?”
“I mentioned it to him when we were sparring last Wednesday night. Now let’s drop this.”
I made one last attempt to pull rank on him. “I’ll drop it for now, but only if you promise to tell me everything that happens. If the police talk to you again, or if you think of anything else Bonnie said. Especially about her stalker. I mean it, Harry, promise me.”
“Okay, okay. You’re acting like a lunatic, but I promise.”
I drove home with Harry’s story running through my mind. Here, again, was the major difference between us: whenever something went wrong, my first reaction was to panic and expect the worst. Harry was never oblivious to the possibility of trouble—no black belt is—but he always kept his cool and was prepared for anything. Not for the first time, I wished I were more like Harry.
Jack and Amah’s house was dark when I pulled into the driveway and started down the lane to the barn. Sixty-five yards from the main house, my apartment was close enough for comfort, but far enough away for privacy. I parked in the stable yard and climbed the exterior stairs to the deck that wrapped around the north and west sides of the building. In the moonlight, the dark shapes of Jack’s half dozen llamas dotted the field. They were settled in for the night, kushed with all four legs folded under their bodies, but that would change quickly if they sensed a predator. Llamas aren’t just cute and wooly packers; they also make great watchdogs.
Inside the stuffy space, I opened all the windows to catch the meager breeze and took a cool shower, careful not to bang my elbows on the walls of the tiny cubicle. I left my hair wet and cool and crawled into my fold-out futon bed. With a legal pad and pen, I started to make a To Do list for the next day, but that proved futile. My mind kept switching to the Bonnie Beardsley mystery and Harry’s unwitting involvement. I finally dozed off, lulled by the hum of my portable fan moving fusty air around the room
The Dumpster behind the Happy Ox was back in place the next day when I pulled into the employee parking lot. Not the Dumpster, but a Dumpster. It was definitely a different container. Someone from the hospital must have contacted the restaurant owner. Had my comments to the hospital security guard been passed on? I walked near enough to take a better look. At close range there were very few flies, and the stench from the day before was gone.
I noticed a coppery glint winking in the weedy dirt at the edge of the alley and reached down with a tissue to pick it up, thinking it might be a lucky penny.
“Whatcha doin’, Missy?” The gravel-voiced question rose from the Dumpster like some kind of ventriloquist’s trick.
A skinny old man leaned against the side of the container taking a smoke break. His dirty apron displayed a graphic of a smiling blue ox kicking up its heels. The cook? One look at his dirt-lined fingernails and I promised myself I’d never eat at the Happy Ox café.
I slipped the tissue into the pocket of my skirt. “Nice Dumpster,” I said, “is it new?”
“Ain’t mine. City come by yesterday and took mine. Loaned us this one.”
“That seems like a bargain. This one smells better, too.”
“That ain’t the point. City didn’t ask, just took it away. Folks don’t have no say about nothing anymore. If government wants it, that’s the way it is.” He ground out his butt under his ratty tennis shoe.
I was saved from further dialogue when a coughing fit seized him. I mumbled, “I’d better be going,” and escaped before he could catch his breath.
When I reached the library, Dr. Beardsley was chatting with a snowy-haired little bird of a woman in the peach-colored uniform of the volunteers. She had to be my other volunteer. Less than five feet tall, her height had obviously been diminished by thoracic kyphosis, an increased curvature of the upper spine commonly called dowager’s hump. I guessed her weight at less than ninety pounds.
“Miss Machado,” Dr. Beardsley said, “this is your Tuesday and Thursday volunteer, Lola Rampley.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Ms. Rampley.”
“And I, you, dear. Please, just call me Lola.”
Dr. Beardsley asked how I had managed in his absence the day before. I assured him I’d been quite comfortable getting familiar with my surroundings.
“That’s fine, just fine. Was Maybelline helpful?”
“Yes, she was a great help.” If he only knew.
That seemed to satisfy him. I spent an awkward moment wondering if I should bring up the subject of his missing wife, but I thought of Harry and decided against it.
Beardsley asked me about my plan of action for developing the forensic component of the collection. I explained that I would start by researching the items that were recommended for a core collection of print and online journals, databases, and texts.
I’d already communicated with a forensic librarian in another state who was delighted with Beardsley’s idea. I was shocked to learn that according to my source, there were only three official forensic librarians in the entire country, and that there were areas like ours all over the map in dire need of ready access to up-to-date forensic resource materials.
Beardsley and I talked about the consortium of users he envisioned and how it might be set up. When he left, I watched him walk away with his shoulders back and a spring in his step. I was struck by how upbeat he seemed for someone whose wife’s whereabouts were unknown.
Lola Rampley proudly told me that she was eighty-one years old. She mentioned that she had been a public librarian back in the days of card catalogs and hand-stamped due dates. After we discussed her duties, she went to work on the boxes of books and journals marked for discard, removing them from our online catalog.
I heard her humming country tunes to herself while she worked, and eventually I realized that her repertoire consisted entirely of Marty Stockwell tunes. I had a good ear for Marty’s songs because he made his home in Coyote Creek. For more than twenty years, all of Sawyer County had claimed the country music icon as its resident celebrity, but Coyote Creek locals had the privilege of shooting the breeze with Marty in the produce section of the Four Corners grocery market.
Thanks to his friendship with Jack, I’d heard Marty’s music all my life. The Stockwell property was a few miles from Amah and Jack’s ranch, and Marty and Jack went bass fishing together when their schedules allowed. Of course, Jack bought everything Marty recorded.
While Lola worked on the discards, I tackled the stack of binders and manuals that all new employees are required to read.
Jared Quinn, the hospital administrator, called me at eleven. He had been out of town on business when I was interviewed, and the two of us had never met. His voice was strong and clear, and he sounded amused. I had the feeling he was smiling as he spoke. He asked if I had been told I was required to facilitate the monthly meetings of the medical staff’s Continuing Medical Education Committee, where all actions related to the library were addressed. In addition to supervising the library and establishing the forensic collection, I was to take charge of TMCs continuing medical education programs. Quinn said I should contact Dr. Beardsley whenever I wanted to add an item to the agenda.
After he hung up, I decided to make a good first impression by suggesting at least one agenda item. The meeting date was more than a week away, so I would have time to submit a preliminary list of forensic materials for the core collection, along with a cost estimate. I called Dr. Beardsley’s office to tell him about my plan. A wo
man with the voice of a twelve-year-old answered, saying that Dr. Beardsley was out and that she didn’t know when he would be back. With misgivings, I told her I was calling to discuss the CME Committee agenda and to please ask Dr. Beardsley to return my call.
“Okay, what’s your name again?” she said.
I pronounced it for her again, and even spelled it. “It’s Aimee Ma-SHAW-do. A-I-M-E-E M-A-C-H-A-D-O.”
“Okay, just a minute.” I listened while she mouthed the letters, presumably as she wrote each one down. “Okay, got it. Now what did you want me to tell him again?”
“It’s about next week’s CME Committee meeting. Please ask him to return my call.” I gave her my extension number and hung up. So Beardsley’s secretary sounded like Betty Boop on helium. Was he having a fling of his own? Did I file that under motive? Why not? Maybe he wanted Bonnie out of the way. Or maybe Bonnie had gotten jealous and split to teach him a lesson.
As it turned out, Dr. Beardsley would not return my call that day. I found out why when Lola and I went to the cafeteria for lunch.
The place was buzzing, and the lines were long. When we finally got served, we went to a table where two volunteers were waving us over to join them.
“What’s all the hubbub about?” Lola asked.
An elderly gentleman wearing the male version of the volunteer’s orange blazer leaned across the table in a stage whisper. “The police found the doctor’s wife.”
“Where?” I blurted. “Is she alive?”
“Nope. Not hardly. Dead. In a Dumpster just down the alley from here.” He sat back, obviously satisfied that he had been the one to deliver the gruesome news.
My ears rang and my eyes blurred. So much for Harry’s theory that Bonnie would turn up in a day or two. Bonnie wasn’t coming home.
“How did they find her?” Lola asked.
He touched the side of his nose. “The smell. That’s what I heard.”
“Oh, my.” The other woman glanced down and shook her head.
So Bonnie Beardsley’s remains had been the source of the foul smell in the Dumpster behind the Happy Ox. Dead in a Dumpster. What a dreadful cliché.
I excused myself, threw my lunch away and headed back to the library where I spent the rest of the day working on autopilot and worrying about Harry. Near quitting time, I debated whether I should call him or just show up at his place after work. If he’d heard from the police again, I wanted to know every detail.
My stomach had been roiling for an hour, so I popped a piece of peppermint candy into my mouth. Before it had a chance to melt, TMC Administrator Jared Quinn came striding toward my desk from the library entrance. The photos I’d seen in the employee newsletter didn’t do justice to the live version. I watched him walk toward me with powerful grace. His wavy black hair and dark blue eyes would have made him too pretty, but he was saved from that by a rugged jaw and a scar running horizontally through his left eyebrow. His lips had a sculpted, sensuous curve and his smile was engaging.
Earlier in the day, Lola had mentioned that Quinn was single, comparing him to old-time movie stars like Clark Gable and Tyrone Power, but I had only a vague idea who they were. She said it was high time the dreamboat found himself a wife. Then without skipping a beat, she wanted to know if I had a steady beau. When I said no, she beamed. I knew a matchmaker when I saw one. She had walked off humming “You’re Nobody ’Til Somebody Loves You,” which Marty Stockwell had recorded, of course, on his CD of old standards.
Lola had no way of knowing I was recovering from a break-up. Romance was the last thing on my mind. In any case, I would never allow myself to get a crush on the man who signed my checks. Amah had warned me about that years ago, the day I got my first job as a student aide in our local college library.
“It’s a no-win situation,” Amah had said. “Women who date the boss always lose when the break-up comes. They lose the man and they lose the job.” It made sense, and I had followed her advice. Of course I was still single, but at least I had never lost a job. This was my brand new dream job, and I wasn’t going to risk it for any man.
I ducked down, pretending to search for something in a drawer so I could spit out the candy. It landed in my lap and stuck there. Quinn reached my desk just in time to watch me pick it off my skirt and drop it in the wastebasket. He seemed not to notice.
With my cheeks ablaze, I said, “Hello, Mr. Quinn. What can I do for you?”
He wore chinos and a pale blue shirt open at the collar. I tried to ignore the faint but tantalizing scent of carnations and spice that made me long to breathe deeply. The room suddenly seemed smaller and felt very warm.
“I thought it was time we met,” Quinn said. “I dropped by to tell you Dr. Beardsley is going to need some time off.”
“Of course. I heard about his wife. He must be devastated.”
“We’re all concerned for him, but I’m also wondering how you’re doing. Losing your supervisor on the second day of your job is a tough break.”
“I’m sure I can manage. Is there someone I should report to while he’s gone?”
“Me, I suppose. Will that work for you?” He flashed his captivating smile, and for an instant I forgot about Bonnie Beardsley and Harry and the whole mess.
“That’s … certainly, that’s fine, Mr. Quinn.”
His eyes sparkled with humor. “Why don’t you call me Jared? I prefer first names if you don’t mind.”
“No, of course not.” Yikes, Amah definitely would not approve.
“Good.” He reached out his hand. His grasp felt strong and sensual. “Welcome aboard. I’m sure we’ll get by while Dr. Beardsley is away.”
“I’m sure we will. If you have any priorities for the library, please let me know.”
“Just get the forensic stuff up and running. Law enforcement folks in the rural counties up north are begging for a resource closer than Sacramento. I’m not a librarian, and neither is Dr. Beardsley, so we’re counting on you to make this work.”
“I’m already compiling a list and a budget for the forensic collection. I’ll send you a draft.”
“Perfect. Other than that, I’d say just go with your gut and give me a shout if you need anything.”
By the time he left, it was close enough to five o’clock for me to make my getaway. I called Harry’s cell and left a message.
“We need to talk.”
Chapter 4
I made two resolutions on the drive from work to Harry’s condo. First, I would find a way to keep Harry out of trouble even if I had to find Bonnie Beardsley’s killer myself. Second, I would keep my new job with or without Dr. Beardsley’s support. Somehow, I would prove to Jared Quinn and Timbergate Medical Center that Dr. Beardsley’s vision for the library was worth pursuing and that I was the person best qualified to bring it to life.
When Harry drove up, he didn’t look pleased to see me sitting on the steps outside his condo fanning myself with a Country Pizza take-out menu I’d found on the floor of my car.
“I should have known,” he said.
“Have you heard about Bonnie Beardsley?”
“I’ve heard.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
I followed him up the stairs and into his condo. As soon as we were inside, I gave him an ultimatum. “We are going to talk about Bonnie Beardsley, so don’t try to stonewall me.”
“Fine. Can we eat first?”
“Fine.”
I made veggie omelets while he opened a bottle of Cabernet. He wolfed down his dinner and took his wine glass with him to his home office to check his email. I loaded his dishwasher, then turned on the TV for a second airing of local news. Harry came into the room just as the broadcast began. Milton Palmer did not report the news. His co-anchor announced that Palmer was off on assignment. Sure he was.
The somber junior anchor reported that Bonnie’s body had been found. Next came a recap of her disappearance, followed by clips of her less-than-stellar career at the TV s
tation. Finally, a video showed a persistent reporter interviewing the police officer in charge of the case.
“Is it true the victim’s death was due to strangulation?”
The officer’s terse reply was noncommittal. “Cause of death is being withheld pending further investigation.”
Again, I felt a twinge of pity for the much-reviled victim. Strangulation sounded like a gruesome way to go. I observed Harry while he watched the report and saw his face turn to stone. His ink-dark eyes, usually so alive with mirth, seemed to shut out the world. That was his poker face, and it set my alarm bells clanging. He was holding out on me.
“Harry, is there something you haven’t told me?”
He headed for the kitchen. “Want some more wine?”
“No. Get back in here and answer me. I know when you lie. You know I know.”
“I hate it when you do that.” He realized he was busted.
“Tell me, or I’m calling Mom and Dad.”
“You’d really do that?”
I took out my phone. “Damned right.”
He dropped into an overstuffed chair and placed his wine glass gently on the coffee table.
“Put down your phone.”
I put it down. “Now talk.”
“She came over here last Friday night.”
“What? The dead woman was here? In your home? And you don’t think you’re a suspect?” I heard my voice rising with each word. I wasn’t usually a screecher, but this was a level of anxiety I rarely experienced. The victim’s DNA would be all over the place. I envisioned crime scene investigators dusting and probing—and Harry in handcuffs.
Due for Discard Page 3
