Due for Discard

by Sharon St. George

  I called Willow back with the details, and we agreed on the following evening at eight o’clock.

  “Have a nice night,” I said.

  Willow giggled, “Same to you, Princess Moonbeam.”

  Chapter 30

  I parked near the library in Lot 4 on Monday morning feeling as if I’d been gone for weeks. Orrie Mercer was back in place guarding the library entrance. I thought of mentioning that I’d seen him at the Four Corners Pizza Parlor, but he barely acknowledged me with a faint nod so I didn’t bother.

  My workplace looked considerably brighter than when I’d left on Friday. The burned-out light fixtures in the ceiling had been replaced, and the windows were clean. I took this newfound interest as a sign that someone had enough faith in the library’s future to sign a work order. Jared Quinn or Vane Beardsley?

  I tackled the flurry of Monday morning email. A message from Quinn topped the list. He wanted to meet at my convenience. I called his office. He was out, but Varsha Singh assured me he would return my call.

  Maybelline arrived at nine. I asked if she’d had a good weekend.

  “Lovely. And you? Did you do anything special with your nice man?”

  “Nice man?”

  “From the ballet, dear.” She meant Arnie Palmer, of course. Her eyes protruded more dramatically than usual. The woman was eager for details.

  “We’re not dating anymore.”

  Maybelline’s affect changed radically with that news. She fixed me with an angry scowl.

  “You’re a fool.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “That was a good man. I know one when I see one. I can read people, you know. I have a knack. Pretty women like you take advantage. You probably broke his heart.”

  “Actually, it was his decision,” I explained. “He’s in love with someone else.”

  Maybelline’s disposition underwent another lightning transformation. “Oh, you poor thing. How sad. Are you all right?”

  I would be, once I got Maybelline out of my hair.

  “I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

  Apparently satisfied, she loaded her book cart and sailed out the door. Maybelline had just disappeared when Dr. Beardsley popped in. He wore an off-white linen summer suit, tailored to whisper “expensive” rather than shout it. A red silk handkerchief decorated his breast pocket, and a matching carnation in the buttonhole of his lapel gave off a pleasant, spicy scent.

  “Miss Machado. Good morning. You’re looking lovely.”

  I had chosen a fitted white sleeveless dress with red frog fasteners and red piping trimming a mandarin collar. I’d piled my hair up high in a twist anchored with combs. Apparently Beardsley was a sucker for the exotic. I hadn’t dressed to impress him, but his reaction worked right in with my plan. Harry and Nick would be furious if they knew what I had in mind, but the moment was right, so I plunged ahead.

  “I’ve been thinking about your suggestion that we have a working dinner meeting. I’m free tomorrow night if that’s convenient for you.”

  Beardsley beamed. “Tuesday? Why, yes, I am. That’s a wonderful idea.” A furrow of concern crossed his brow. “Wasn’t there a problem about your being engaged? Will your fiancé object?”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine. I’ve already cleared it with him.”

  Beardsley looked a little uncertain. “You’re sure?”

  “Of course.” I leaned toward his carnation and took a long sniff. “Your boutonnière smells wonderful, by the way.” That did the trick.

  We arranged to meet in the lobby of the Timbergate Golf and Country Club Tuesday evening at seven. No sooner had he left than Orrie Mercer slammed out the door of the library’s private restroom and barged out the entrance door without a word. That transgression was the last straw. I was going to have to talk to Maybelline about her boyfriend.

  Quinn strolled in around eleven o’clock. His first concern was for Harry’s predicament.

  “He’s not out of the woods,” I said, “but at least he’s not in jail.”

  “That’s a good start.” Quinn picked up the framed photo on the corner of my desk. “Is this your brother in the photo?”

  Tears threatened. I nodded. Blinked.

  Quinn saw. “He’s quite a handsome guy.” He put the photo down. “Are you free for lunch?” He smiled. “Strictly business, of course. I wouldn’t want to anger your imaginary fiancé.”

  I ignored his little joke. “It depends on the time. I have to deal with a situation before my volunteer leaves at noon.”

  “Oh? Anything I should know about?”

  “Nothing I need to bother you with.”

  “Try me.”

  I relayed my frustration about Mercer. I mentioned his using the library staff’s private restroom, but it sounded so petty, I regretted bringing it up and said so.

  “Not at all. You were right. The guards are supposed to use the public facilities. It’s written in their contract. Do you want me to deal with it?”

  “I’d rather handle it myself.”

  “Then I’ll trust your judgment. I’ll swing by to pick you up for lunch at noon.”

  Maybelline returned half an hour later looking as if she’d had a melt-down somewhere along the way. Mascara ran down both cheeks. Her bright orange hair hung limp and damp, as if she’d been caught in a downpour.

  “Good heavens,” I said. “What happened to you?”

  “Not to worry, dear. Just an unhappy patron. He threw water on me. Emptied his whole pitcher.” She waved a shaky hand in the air.

  “What? That’s terrible. We should report this to Dr. Beardsley.”

  Her eyes flashed. “No. Don’t tell Vane.”

  “At least tell me why it happened.”

  “He didn’t like the books I brought him.”

  “That’s it? He threw water on you because he didn’t like the books? What’s the man’s name?”

  “I don’t know. He’s just old and senile. Not to worry.”

  “Do you remember his room number?”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  I recalled the eclectic mix of titles she had delivered to Milton Palmer. Heaven only knew what she had come up with to trigger the fury of the water thrower.

  “Maybelline, did anyone witness the patient’s outburst?”

  “No, no one. Please don’t tell. I don’t want any trouble.” I heard the hope and apprehension in her answer and wondered if there was more to the story. Had she unwittingly provoked the patient with one of her tactless remarks?

  “All right, I’ll let it go this time, but if it happens again, we’ll have to report it.”

  She brightened. “Of course,” she said. “I bear no malice toward the crazy bastard.”

  With that, I figured I’d better ask her about Verna Beardsley before she got any wackier.

  “Maybelline, I need your advice about a man.”

  She lit up at the prospect, as I’d guessed she would. “Ask away, dearie, if there’s anything I know about, it’s men.”

  “This is strictly between us girls, but Dr. Beardsley has asked me to dinner, and I wanted—”

  “No, no, no, no.”

  “Wow,” I said. “I thought you’d have an opinion, but I didn’t expect this.”

  She shook her finger in my face. “He’s too old for you. Find someone your own age.”

  “I don’t mind his age, but there’s one thing that does bother me. I don’t want to get involved with someone who’s been married several times or has grown children who might try to run his life. I hate complications like that. You understand.”

  “Of course. Very wise.”

  “So I wondered if you might know.”

  “Know what?”

  “How many times he’s been married. Or whether he has children.”

  “Only two marriages. Sweet Lorraine and the dead tramp. No children. But you still shouldn’t date him. He’s a fool for women. A bad risk.”

  “You’re probably right. I suppose there’
s nothing to the rumor, then.”

  Her eyeballs danced. “Rumor?”

  “Something about another ex-wife, a woman named Verna Beardsley.”

  “No. That’s wrong.” She gave me an appraising look. “I must say, you’re a nosy little thing, aren’t you?”

  “Curious,” I said. “It’s in my job description.”

  “Don’t get involved with Vane Beardsley,” she said. “That’s my advice.”

  “And I appreciate it. You’ve been a big help.”

  “Don’t mention it, dearie.” Maybelline pulled a comb and a small mirror from the pocket of her damp volunteer’s jacket and began wiping mascara from her face and rearranging her damp mop of persimmon-colored hair. I dreaded setting her off again, but I was running out of time, so I risked broaching the problem of Orrie Mercer and the restroom.

  “Maybelline, I wonder if I could have your advice on another little problem.”

  She slipped the comb and mirror back into her pocket. “What’s that? More man trouble?”

  “In a way. It’s about your friend Orrie Mercer.”

  “What about him?”

  “I’m afraid he’s going to get in trouble unless we help him out.”

  Maybelline’s head whipped around. “Lower your voice,” she said.

  “It’s all right. There’s no one in here.” But I did drop my voice.

  “What is it?” Maybelline whispered. “Is he blaming me for something?”

  “Not at all, but you might have accidentally contributed to the problem. I was wondering if you might have given him permission to use the library staff’s private restroom.”

  Maybelline looked confounded. “Why would I tell him something like that? I don’t talk to him about bathrooms.”

  “I see. What with him being your boyfriend, I thought you might have—”

  “He’s a lying dirt bag. And he’s not my boyfriend.”

  That was more information than I’d bargained for. Intrigued, I continued. “Then you won’t be upset if I tell him to use the public restrooms?”

  “That’s the problem? Telling Orrie where to go potty?” She looked at me as if I were demented.

  “Well, yes.” I felt my face flush. “I thought you might want to tell him, but—”

  “Tell him what you want. My shift is over. I have to go.”

  I helped Maybelline out of her soaked volunteer’s jacket. She hung it on a coat tree near the entrance on her way out. I made a mental note to drop it off for laundering and to pick up a fresh one for her to wear on Wednesday.

  I was still puzzling over Maybelline’s scathing remarks about Orrie Mercer when Quinn walked in wearing his Cheshire cat smile.

  Chapter 31

  Quinn drove the two blocks to Casa Loco, saying he had to be back at one thirty for a meeting with the Timbergate police chief. What little appetite I had vanished.

  Quinn asked for a booth in the back. We were seated in a corner, private enough to talk without being overheard. He waved away the menus and asked for two of the day’s specials.

  “Why are you meeting with the police chief?” I asked.

  “The corporate office wants an update on the Beardsley case. I thought I’d ask if he has any leads on new suspects.”

  “Good. It’s about time they stopped railroading Harry and looked for someone who might actually be guilty.”

  We went quiet while our waiter delivered two orders of crab enchiladas.

  “Aimee, you can’t accuse the police department of targeting Harry. A lot of people have been questioned. Even me.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course. I told you I dated Bonnie. I told the investigators every detail I could remember. Bonnie Beardsley was a self-centered, unscrupulous woman with a long list of reasons to get herself bumped off. I provided proof that I was out of town when she went missing. They were so thorough, I began to wonder if I was going to be charged with murder for hire.”

  “Are you still being considered?”

  “I don’t think so, but I’ll be relieved when this thing is over. Not just for myself, but for the bad press it’s brought to the hospital.”

  I was reminded that his first loyalty was to Timbergate Medical Center. For Jared Quinn, protecting Vane Beardsley’s reputation—and the hospital’s—trumped keeping my brother out of jail.

  I cut into my enchilada. “Are you saying you don’t believe Dr. Beardsley is involved? If they eliminate him, that leaves only Harry.”

  “I understand, but I can’t implicate Vane Beardsley just to protect your brother.”

  I felt heat rush to my face. “Well, understand this. My brother is innocent. He isn’t going to jail to keep Timbergate Medical Center out of the headlines.”

  “Aimee, don’t make me your enemy. It doesn’t have to be Beardsley or Harry. There’s still a long list.”

  “Then tell that to DA Keefer and her lover.”

  “I intend to, if it comes to that.” Quinn reached across the table and touched my hand. “Aimee, if you know anything—if you have any ideas, this is the time to tell me.”

  I wasn’t ready to tell him what Nick and I had discovered about Verna Beardsley. “My ideas are skewed toward protecting Harry. They’d be invalid on that basis alone.”

  “What is it you’re not telling me? Has Beardsley said something? Done something?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m having dinner with him tomorrow night.”

  “What?” Quinn shook his head. “Are you crazy?”

  “It’s not a date. I thought you wanted me to spy for you.”

  “I wanted you to report anything suspicious.” His lips compressed to a thin line and he shook his head. “This is a bad idea.”

  “It’ll be fine. I’m meeting him in the Timbergate Country Club dining room. We’ll be surrounded by people the entire time.”

  “Including me. What time are you meeting him?”

  “Seven. But he’ll be suspicious if you’re there.”

  “I’ll be discreet.”

  Great. Another babysitter.

  We returned to TMC, and Quinn pulled into Lot 4 near the library entrance. When he spotted Mercer standing guard, he asked if I had resolved the restroom problem.

  “Not yet.”

  “Then let me take care of it.”

  “No need. It’s my problem.”

  “Not anymore,” Quinn said. “You stick to running the library. I’ll take care of Mercer.”

  “Then he’s all yours.” I didn’t want to waste any more energy arguing. I still had to psych myself up for my date with Nick and the swinging Underhills. I exited the cool interior of Quinn’s Navigator without another word. The midday heat sucked the breath out of me as soon as my feet hit the pavement. As I passed Mercer, he dipped his head in an unexpected attempt at cordiality. I wondered why, then realized he’d probably noticed Quinn watching him.

  Nick called just before quitting time to confirm our plans for dinner with the Underhills. I took a shot at convincing him to meet me at the restaurant, but he insisted on driving out to Coyote Creek to pick me up. He pointed out that the Underhills might think it was odd if we arrived on a date in separate cars.

  Orrie Mercer was not at his guard post when I left the library. I was surprised to see Shelly Hardesty, my black belt friend from the dojo, standing in his place.

  “Are you working nights now?” I asked.

  “No. I got called in a couple hours ago. I’m just subbing for the rest of Orrie Mercer’s shift.”

  “Any idea what happened to him?”

  “They didn’t say.”

  Quinn must have worked fast if Mercer wasn’t allowed to finish his shift.

  I stopped at the market in Coyote Creek for milk and eggs and some of the other staples I’d forgotten to pick up in my haste the day before. I wouldn’t put it past Nick to examine my fridge and pantry. He believed in keeping a well-stocked larder.

  I
gathered Jack and Amah’s mail and checked things in the main house. It looked a little dusty and forlorn after the more than two weeks they’d been away. I made a mental note to do some cleaning later in the week.

  I parked at the barn, girding myself for the weird evening ahead. The llamas seemed a little uneasy, pacing with heads up, ears forward and nostrils pulsing. I tossed out hay and most of them came running, but Princess and little Moonbeam hung back in a shaded corner of the pasture.

  I walked toward them, and little Moonbeam scampered in my direction, but Princess hung back, calling to her cria with an urgent moaning sound. Moonbeam stopped, and when she turned back to look at her mother, I saw a ragged red bull’s eye spray-painted on her pure white wool. It covered most of the left side of her small body.

  In a fit of fury, I ran to the barn for a halter and lead rope. Angry tears blurred my vision. My heart thudded in my chest. What was wrong with people? Who would vandalize a helpless little cria? I tied Princess first, then secured Moonbeam close to her. The distraught mother moaned and hummed to her baby while I used a pair of shears to clip off the stained wool. When I’d removed the worst of the paint, I untied both llamas and they trotted off to join the herd.

  By then I had calmed down enough to wonder how anyone had gotten close enough to spray paint on the cria. I walked the pasture until I spotted a patch of ground scattered with cob. Llama candy. So hard for them to resist. The sound of grain shaking in a can is as irresistible to llamas as a siren’s call to a lonely sailor.

  That’s how the vandal had coaxed the cria to come close. I ran back to the barn and checked the cob bin. The lid was off. That confirmed it. The bin was made of varmint-proof metal and we always secured the lid to keep mice and ground squirrels out.

  I replaced the lid and secured the door to the feed storage closet with the combination padlock we rarely bothered to use. Only then did I remember the groceries I’d left in the car. They were still in pretty good shape, so I hoisted a bag in each arm and trudged up the steps. When I saw the message scrawled in crooked red lettering on my door, the grocery bags hit the deck.