Due for Discard

by Sharon St. George

  “Did you find him?”

  “No. He’s gone. His cage is empty.”

  “Why would your intruder bother with him?”

  “Who knows?”

  Nick nodded at the turkey, still hanging in my kitchen. “The guy who did this is nuts, and he’s going to keep coming after you. He thinks you can link him to Bonnie Beardsley’s death. If he’s right, we have to find out why.”

  “That’s the problem. I don’t know why. He doesn’t know we know about Verna Beardsley. We haven’t told anyone about her fingerprint on the toenail.”

  “Someone’s threatening you and there has to be a reason,” Nick said. “This is about more than Verna Beardsley. You know something else. You have to figure out what it is. Now let’s get out of here. We can talk back at the house.”

  “What about Bosco?”

  “He’s not here. We’ll have to deal with that later.”

  We locked the apartment and walked up the lane to the house. The starry night and balmy air made a perfect backdrop for lovers, but the setting was lost on us. Nick and I were more than an arm’s length apart, each of us isolated in our own thoughts.

  We continued brainstorming at Jack and Amah’s kitchen table.

  “Tell me about this Maybelline,” Nick said. “The woman who might be Beardsley’s sister. What do you know about her?”

  “She’s the right age. She’s crazy about Vane, as she calls him, and her behavior has gone from gossipy and outspoken to erratic in the short time I’ve know her. And there’s the prescription. It was in her pocket the day she was drenched by an angry patient.”

  “When did that happen?”

  I thought back, amazed it had been just two days earlier. “Monday. She works Monday and Wednesday mornings. She didn’t work today. Beardsley came by to tell me she wouldn’t be there, but he didn’t say why.”

  “Do you have the prescription with you?”

  “I have a copy in my purse.” I ran down the hall to the guest room.

  Back in the kitchen, I handed the sheet of paper to Nick. “We have to find out if it’s the same medication prescribed for Verna Beardsley.”

  Nick studied the copy. “I can’t make anything out of this.” He folded the page and put it in his wallet. “I’ll get it to Abe first thing in the morning.”

  “Shall we call him? Give him a heads-up?”

  “Now? It’s almost midnight.”

  “So what? They might arrest Harry tomorrow.”

  “Abe can’t do anything about this in the middle of the night.” Nick stood. “Will you go to bed now and try to sleep?”

  “What about Bosco?” His disappearance seemed like the last straw, and I was suddenly overwhelmed by sadness, thinking about how much Amah and Jack cared about the silly little bird and how tickled they were by its shocking, profane outbursts. “I know it’s just a bird, but I’m supposed to be taking care of things here, and instead, it seems like the whole world is falling apart.” I bit my lip, trying to hold back tears.

  “Damn.” Nick came to me and pulled me up from where I sat. Enfolding me in his arms, he said, “You’re exhausting yourself with trying to keep it all together.”

  I couldn’t find the energy to back away from his embrace. It felt like coming home from a long, lonely journey. We stood there in silence until Nick kissed the top of my head, then gently put me at arm’s length.

  “Better?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Sorry about the meltdown. I guess I’m not as tough as I thought.”

  He laughed. “Don’t worry. You’re tough enough. But you’re also human, so try to give yourself some slack once in a while.”

  “But we still don’t know what happened to Bosco.”

  “Let it go for now. Wherever he is, he’s probably in better shape that you are.”

  I fell into an exhausted sleep, thinking about giving myself some slack and wondering if it was time to give Nick some slack as well.

  Chapter 40

  Nick came knocking on the guest room door at six o’clock Thursday morning.

  “Coffee’s ready.”

  I roused myself and opened the door just wide enough for him to hand me a steaming cup. Fanny slipped out and shot down the hall.

  “Thanks, I’ll be right out.”

  “Bacon’s in the skillet,” he said. “Toast is almost ready.”

  “I’m not very hungry.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  After a quick shower, I put my hair in a damp braid, then realized I’d have to go back to my apartment for something to wear to work. I rejected that idea and slipped into Jack and Amah’s bedroom. In Amah’s closet I found a flowered cotton dress with a flared skirt, and a pair of low-heeled sandals.

  Nick had taken me at my word. The hot breakfast was nowhere in sight. I rummaged in the cupboards. All I found was stale All-Bran. Nick saw the box and took pity.

  “Here.” He pulled a warm plate of bacon slices and toast from the oven. While I munched, he scribbled on a notepad.

  “What are you writing?”

  “Things we need to do today.” He put the pencil down.

  “We? I have to go to work.”

  “That’s on the list.”

  “I would have remembered that,” I said. “What else is on your list?”

  “We have to get your volunteer’s prescription deciphered. What’s her name again?”

  “Maybelline Black. There are labs in Sacramento and San Mateo that do miracles with things like blurred writing.” I used my cellphone to go online for the contact information, which I wrote down for Nick. “Here. See if Abe has influence with either of them.”

  “Can they work with a copy?”

  “I hope so. It’s amazing what they can do.”

  “I’ll drop by Abe’s office first thing.” Nick took our plates to the sink. “More coffee?”

  “No, thanks. And don’t forget to email those photos of Verna Beardsley’s medical record to me right away. All of them, so I can look for notes about her prescriptions.”

  He refilled his cup and came back to the table. “If they match, you’re convinced the volunteer woman is our prime suspect?”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “Verna Beardsley and Maybelline Black might simply be taking the same medication.”

  “Right. Maybe they both have acid reflux. It’s popular.”

  “This is serious.”

  His eyes narrowed in a cunning squint. “You know, Maybelline Black’s fingerprints are bound to be all over your library.”

  “Are you suggesting we ask the police to drop by and dust the library?”

  “I see your point, but you could bag up something small. Can you think of anything she handles?”

  “There’s a cupboard full of empty vases. She washes them and stores them in there. That’s the only thing I can think of that would have her prints and no one else’s.”

  “That sounds good. Can you get me a couple of those?”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” I said.

  “Meanwhile, maybe you’ll learn something when you meet with Beardsley’s ex. She must know whether your Maybelline is his sister.”

  “Right, but we’re not sure she’ll tell me anything.”

  “Her husband dumped her for a younger woman. She’s not going to protect him if he’s involved in a murder.”

  “She’s a classy woman. I’m not sure how she’ll respond to my prying into her private life.”

  “You can bet the police have already done that.”

  “But they didn’t know about the Verna Beardsley fingerprint. I doubt the fact that Vane Beardsley has a sister even crossed their radar.”

  “Probably not,” Nick said. “We’re going to beat this thing, Aimee.” He knocked back the last of his coffee and got up to leave. “We’ll go to lunch and compare notes.” He winked at me from the open door. “By the way, I forget. Are we still engaged?”

  I flung a piece of toast at him, but he ducked and it sailed out t
he door.

  I fed the rest of my breakfast to Fanny and let her out. A few bacon scraps would barely whet her appetite for her day job as Jack’s field mouse exterminator.

  I called Harry before I left for work.

  “Hi, Sis. What’s up?”

  “Where are you?”

  “On the job, why?”

  “No reason. I miss you. I thought we might get together later. After work.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll drop by the ranch. Want me to bring food?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll pick up something for us.” My spirits lifted. “Then you’re not expecting to be arrested?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. Gotta go,” he said. “See you at six … no, better make that seven.”

  He broke the connection before I remembered the mutilated turkey carcass in my apartment. I’d have to get rid of it before Harry arrived. I called the sheriff’s office to ask permission to clean up the mess and got an okay, but I wouldn’t have time to take care of it until I got home from work.

  The library entrance was unguarded when I arrived. That cheered me further. Any workday that started without Orrie Mercer was a gift.

  Dr. Beardsley’s ex didn’t answer when I called, so I left a message saying I’d call back. I had just finished the call when Lola arrived. She wore a blue T-shirt and a tiny pair of jeans she must have purchased in JCPenney’s children’s department. Her orange volunteer’s jacket was draped across her arm.

  “Hello, dear,” she said. “Do you like my new shirt?” She twirled like a model on a runway. “I ordered the three-shirt combo from Marty Stockwell’s website. Only fifty dollars. A real bargain, don’t you think?”

  “Ahh ….” Words failed me.

  “The picture of Marty is supposed to be in front.” Lola peered at her reflection in the glass covering a print of Van Gogh’s Portrait of Dr. Gachet. “I think he shows up better if I wear the shirt backwards, don’t you?”

  Her beaming face demanded a response. “Marty has never looked better, Lola. He’d be proud to know a fan as devoted as you.”

  “Really? I hope so.” She put on her jacket with obvious reluctance. “I’d like so much to meet him someday. Perhaps you could help.”

  “Me? How?”

  “Is it true Mr. Stockwell lives right here in Sawyer County? In Coyote Creek?”

  Oh, oh. “Now that you mention it, I might have heard that.”

  Lola beamed. “I understand you also live in Coyote Creek.”

  It kept getting worse. “I do, but I don’t know Mr. Stockwell personally. I’m sorry.”

  A wistful look replaced her smile. “I have all his CDs. My late husband Joseph was such a fan. We played Marty’s songs at our wedding. We married late, you know, but we had twenty wonderful years before he passed.” Lola stared out into the stacks.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.

  “Thank you. It was a great loss, but I found a way to cope. I played Marty’s music at Joseph’s funeral, and it brought me such comfort that I’ve gone on listening to Mr. Stockwell. He has kept my Joseph close to me these past five years.”

  At that point, tears threatened. Mine, not hers. I wanted to help, but there was nothing I could do.

  “Maybe if you called his people and explained what you just told me, they’d invite you to meet him.”

  “Oh, I doubt that would work,” Lola said. “I’m nobody special, and famous people have to be careful of their privacy these days. Stalkers and all that. I thought it would be lovely to bump into him at the grocery store. Just to shake his hand and thank him, you know. For Joseph and me, and for all the wonderful memories.”

  “At the grocery store? You mean in Coyote Creek?”

  “Yes, at the Four Corners. I’ve heard he shops there. Is that true?”

  “I suppose it is.” I didn’t elaborate. If she knew that Jack and Marty were acquainted, who knew what she’d ask me to do? Lola wasn’t a stalker—she was merely a harmless fan—but I wasn’t about to get involved. “Have you thought of writing a nice letter instead of trying to meet him?”

  “I thought of that, but it wouldn’t be the same. He must get lots of mail. I’d never know if he read it.”

  “Tell you what, Lola. I’ll think about this. If there’s anything I can do, I’ll let you know.”

  Her lips pursed in a wry smile. “You’re humoring me, I know, but I don’t mind. I shouldn’t have tried to impose on you.”

  My cheeks flamed in embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I wish I could do more.”

  Lola went to work putting protective plastic covers on a newly arrived batch of medical journals. I shook off my guilt for not telling her all I knew about Marty Stockwell and focused on my own problems.

  I opened the cupboard where Maybelline had stored the vases. It was empty. I opened all of the cupboards. The vases weren’t there. Lola noticed and walked over.

  “Is something amiss?”

  “No. I was looking for a vase. They were here a couple days ago and now they’re gone.”

  “Oh. I can explain that. The volunteer from the gift shop came to collect them so they could be used again.”

  “All of them?”

  “I suppose so.” Lola smiled. “The gift shop people know about Maybelline and her flowers.”

  After I left a message for Nick about the vases, I put in a call to Hannah asking if she knew anything more about why the DA would go in front of a judge again. Did she have something concrete? A witness? Forensic evidence?

  “There’s a witness,” Hannah said, “but they’re not sure she’s reliable.”

  “Do you know who it is? What is she saying about Harry? If she says she saw him hurt Bonnie, she’s lying.”

  “No. Not an eyewitness to the murder. The witness claims she saw Harry and Bonnie arguing around the time Bonnie disappeared.”

  I recalled Harry telling me Bonnie had come on to him outside his condo that Friday night. What had he said? Something about telling Bonnie to call the police. She acted pissed, said she didn’t need me giving her orders. Then she went coy and apologetic, tried to get me in a lip lock. I disentangled her and practically shoved her into her car. Had one of Harry’s condo neighbors witnessed that scene and read it wrong?

  “Who is she, this witness?”

  “No one knows,” Hannah said. “The police and the DA are making darn sure no one finds out.”

  “Can they do that?”

  “Not indefinitely. If she’s a witness, the defense has to know.”

  “Why hasn’t DA Keefer already gone back to the judge?”

  “Apparently they’re still checking the woman’s credibility.”

  A woman. I thought back to the night Harry had so casually broken a date. How many other women had he disappointed that way? He was a catch, and some of the women fishing for husbands in Timbergate didn’t take rejection gracefully. Still, testifying against Harry in a murder case seemed like extreme revenge for a broken date. Why else would a witness implicate Harry? I could think of only one reason: to divert suspicion from the real killer.

  Chapter 41

  I called Lorraine Beardsley at eleven o’clock Thursday morning.

  “Troy tells me you’d like to meet with me,” she said. “Why is that?”

  “I think you can help me save my brother.”

  “That’s extraordinary. What’s wrong with your brother?”

  “He’s a suspect in the murder of Bonnie Beardsley.”

  An eternity of silence followed before she finally spoke. “I see.”

  “Please meet with me,” I said.

  “You work with Vane? At Timbergate Medical Center?”

  “Yes. In the library. I began two weeks ago.”

  “He’s a suspect, too, of course.”

  I had no idea how that would influence her decision. How did she feel toward her ex? Charitable, vengeful, or simply indifferent?

  “Please, my brother is innocent, but the DA is trying to pin this crime on him.” />
  “I won’t promise I can help, but I’ll hear you out. As a favor to Netta Palmer.”

  “Thank you. That’s all I ask.”

  We arranged to meet at twelve thirty, and she gave me her address. I called Nick and canceled our lunch date. He told me Abe had managed to have the prescription from Maybelline’s jacket examined. I reminded him again to email all the photos from Verna Beardsley’s Green Pastures medical record, then told him what Hannah had said about a potential witness. We agreed to get back in touch if we had anything new to report.

  I tried to concentrate on library business. I was afraid my dream job was slipping through my fingers while I fought for my brother’s life.

  Jared Quinn hadn’t called or stopped by the library since he dropped me off at work on Wednesday morning. Although little more than twenty-four hours had passed since then, it seemed much longer. He had made it clear on Tuesday night that he wasn’t going to jeopardize his career to keep Harry out of jail; his loyalty was tied to Timbergate Medical Center. In spite of asking me to keep an eye on Beardsley, he had to be hoping someone else looked good for the crime.

  If Quinn wouldn’t help Harry, he had at least tackled the problem of Orrie Mercer. Shelly Hardesty stopped by the library just before noon to tell me she was filling in for Mercer again. She had been called late in the morning when someone finally noticed Mercer hadn’t shown up for work.

  Maybelline was off, too. Now that I suspected her of being accomplice to a murder, I preferred knowing where she was and what she was doing. I reminded myself that she might simply be a lonely oddball. Maybe she and Orrie took the day to patch things up. The two of them having make-up sex wasn’t a pretty picture, so I put that out of my mind and concentrated on Lorraine Beardsley.

  If she could answer the Verna Beardsley question, we might win by a toenail. If Maybelline was Verna, odds were good that she and Vane Beardsley killed Bonnie. With that argument, Abe Edelman could counter DA Keefer’s evidence against Harry and argue that Dr. Beardsley should be the prime suspect in his wife’s murder.

  I found Lorraine’s home five miles west of town in the posh Silver Hills community where Timbergate’s real estate prices reached their zenith. The house was brick, trimmed in gleaming white. The front yard was manicured to perfection. Two BMWs parked in the driveway—one white, one silver—completed the picture of unapologetic affluence.