Moonshadows

by Mary Ann Artrip

  “I was with her when the accident happened,” Janet insisted. “I have a right to know.”

  “The nurse’s face softened. “I really can’t tell you anything—hospital rules, you know. But it’s been very quiet tonight, and I do remember when they brought her in.” She consulted her chart again. “At six-fifty. The doctor saw her right away and they took her up to surgery. I’ve heard nothing since.”

  “Could you find out?” Chelsea asked. “Can you call somebody?”

  “Wait here,” the nurse said.

  She crossed the hall and entered the glass cubicle behind the desk. Janet and Chelsea watched as she picked up the phone and pushed in some numbers. Chelsea reached for Janet’s hand as they stood silently watching the nurse speak into the phone, getting news of life—or death. Replacing the phone, she looked at them through the heavy glass. She looked sad. Janet felt Chelsea’s hand tighten on her own. The woman in white opened the door.

  “I’m sorry. Miss Jamison expired at seven-twenty.”

  “Thank you,” Chelsea said and led Janet away.

  Back in Janet’s apartment, Chelsea prepared hot chamomile tea and carried it to the living room. Still wearing her coat, Janet sat on the sofa and tried to stop the quaking that had taken over her body. Chelsea handed her a steaming cup.

  “Drink this; you’ll feel better.”

  Janet nodded. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.

  “You don’t have to,” Chelsea said.

  “I can’t believe this. We were working together just a couple of hours ago and now she’s dead.”

  Chelsea unbuttoned Janet’s coat and slipped it from her shoulders. “Try not to think about it for awhile. Drink your tea before it gets cold.” She stood up. “I’m going to call Miss Austin. She needs to know what’s happened.”

  Janet held the cup and felt the warmth against her hands. Through strained eyes and a throbbing head, she watched Chelsea reach for the phone on the end table and listened as she spoke almost immediately.

  “Miss Austin, it’s me, Chelsea. I’m at Janet’s. There’s been a terrible accident.” She listened for a moment. “No ma’am, Janet’s fine, it’s Hilda. She was struck by a car as she and Janet left the library. Miss Austin, Hilda’s dead.”

  Janet watched as Chelsea listened to the voice on the other end of the line.

  “No ma’am, they don’t know who did it,” Chelsea said. “Janet didn’t recognize the car or see the driver. She’s already talked to the police, although there was little she could tell them. Apparently they seem to think it was somebody trying to rob one of the offices across the alley. With all the doctors over there, they were probably after drugs.” Chelsea tapped the phone and continued to listen. “I understand. Thank you.”

  She hung up.

  “She seems to be taking it rather well,” Chelsea said as she turned and sat down beside Janet. “She said the library will be closed tomorrow and for neither of us to bother coming in.”

  Janet nodded. “It’s the least we can do, I suppose. I never cared much for Hilda, but she didn’t deserve this. She didn’t deserve to die.”

  EIGHT

  For all practical purposes the investigation into Hilda’s death ceased. Inquiries had been made and leads followed up, but none yielded any positive results. While the authorities didn’t officially close the books, interest in the case dwindled until it was rarely mentioned. The car that struck Hilda was found abandoned a few blocks away. It had been reported stolen just a few moments before Janet and Hilda left the library.

  Hilda’s body, claimed by a relative, was taken away. Janet felt a twinge of guilt from the relief of not having to attend another funeral. She and Chelsea put in extra hours and the library continued to run as a matter of routine.

  Janet was enjoying a quiet evening at home after an unusually hectic day at work. She had just settled back against a cushion when the doorbell interrupted her unwinding. With a touch of irritation, she stepped to the door. Stephen stood on the porch holding a red and white striped bag from Really Cool Treats, the town’s only ice cream store.

  “If you’re busy, no sweat,” he said and held out the bag. “I just popped over to bring you this.”

  Janet unfolded the top and peered in. “Yummy,” she said. “Rocky Road.”

  “I tried to call, but my phone’s on the fritz—dead battery probably. Guess I’ll have to make a trip to Best Buy.”

  Suddenly Janet’s energy level didn’t feel so low. “That’s okay,” she said and widened the doorway. “Come on in.” She weighed the bag in her hand. “I’ll get a couple of bowls.”

  She motioned him to have a seat while she went to the kitchen and scooped the ice cream into her prettiest cereal bowls. She handed one to Stephen, then settled down beside him and they dug in.

  “So, how are you liking Middlebrook?” Janet asked.

  “Like it fine.” He smiled. “Quiet, though.”

  Janet licked her spoon. “You’re not used to quiet?”

  He twirled his bowl. “After New York, I can get used to anything,” he said. “I’m very adaptable.”

  Janet nodded. “A good thing to be—adaptable.”

  “Makes life a heck of a lot easier. I’ve rattled around enough to know if you show the world you’ve got a chip on your shoulder, somebody’s going to want to oblige you by knocking it off. So why bother?” He shrugged. “Just do your thing and let other people do theirs.”

  “And what’s that—your thing?”

  He laughed. “Ah, now, there again—adaptable.” He frowned as he scraped the side of his bowl. “Mostly, I put pen to paper and scribble, for magazines, periodicals—that sort of thing.”

  “You’re a writer?”

  “Just a columnist. Nothing to be ashamed of, I guess. It pays good and the work’s steady, but I’m looking for more.” He grinned. “Like I said at the coffee shop, we do what we can until something better comes along.”

  “And it will?”

  “Oh, sure. I’m nothing if not optimistic.” He swiped a fingertip across the back of his spoon and dropped it into the bowl. “An optimistic tumbleweed, that’s me.”

  “Tumbleweed?”

  “Pretty much.” He glanced at his watch. “Golly, look at the time. I’m expecting a call along about now, better hot-foot it across the courtyard.” He stood up. “Thanks for the ice cream.”

  Janet smiled. “You’re the one who bought it.”

  “Yeah. But you shared.”

  “So I did,” she said, walking him to the door.

  “Goodnight,” Stephen said. “See you later.”

  Janet nodded and watched as he crossed beneath the streetlights and wondered if he would miss his call. Then she remembered what he’d said about his phone not working—dead battery, he’d said. Odd. Very odd.

  Janet’s life rolled along smoothly for nearly two weeks. The tranquility was a bit unsettling, knowing there had to be another shoe that was going to drop and mess up her comfortable existence—it was only a matter of time. And she wished it would hurry up and plop. And it did. Sort of. On a Monday morning, Miss Austin called her and Chelsea into the office. The older woman crouched forward from behind her desk, her enamel eyes raking across the top of her glasses.

  “The members of the library board have directed me to convey to the two of you their deep appreciation for the admirable job you’ve done during the course of the past weeks.”

  The message was like a train clattering along at a steady clip, no pauses or inflections, just get to the end of the track as quickly as possible. But there was nothing in her recital to suggest that she concurred with that opinion. In fact, her voice was more chilled than usual, and her eyes kept shifting away from Janet’s gaze. She seemed to resent having to offer any form of appreciation.

  She steepled her fingers. “Having said that, I’m pleased to tell you that a replacement has been found to fill the vacancy left by Hilda.” A faint smile touched her lips. “I had a meeting
only last night with Ethan Chandler. He informed me that the new staff member has been hired and will arrive for work the first of the month.” She folded her arms and pursed her lips. “It will mean another few days of long hours and short breaks, but I’m sure you’ll manage beautifully.”

  Pushing the palms of her hands against the top of the desk, she started to rise.

  “Do you have any idea who the replacement is?” Chelsea asked. “Is it anyone we know?”

  Amanda Austin dropped back into her seat. “I’m sure he isn’t.” She gave a tight grin. “Sebastian Massila is from New York, where he’s just finished up his education and, if one is to believe Ethan Chandler, more than capable of handling the job. According to him, we are truly fortunate to be getting a person of such quality. And, I might add, because he’s a personal friend of Mr. Chandler, he’s entitled to our utmost support. I look forward to welcoming him and hope you two will do everything possible to make his coming onboard pleasant.”

  She pushed back from the desk.

  “Of course, we will,” Janet said.

  “I appreciate that.” Miss Austin walked around her desk and toward the door. “I understand he’s a person of high moral character and above reproach, so let’s watch our manners, shall we? And remember that we’re ladies.”

  She put her hand on the doorknob, a signal that the meeting was over.

  Chelsea seemed glued to the floor. Janet grabbed her arm and dragged her from the room. They stood on the other side of the closed door and glared at each other.

  “Watch our manners!” Chelsea exploded. “Watch our manners! Since when do we have to be reminded to watch our manners? Tell me, Janet, since when?”

  Janet smiled ruefully and headed Chelsea in the direction of the staff lounge.

  “Well, she did say Mr. Chandler himself made the recommendation—and you know how she’s always kissing up to him because he’s the chairman of the library board. Maybe she just wants to make sure that this Sebastian fellow is favorably impressed.”

  “And you can bet your sweet you-know-what that she’ll bend over backward to see that he is.” Chelsea sat down at the table and accepted a consolatory cup of coffee. “But to tell us to watch our manners!”

  “I’m sure she didn’t mean it exactly the way it sounded. She probably meant for us to be kind and accepting of him—him being new and all.”

  “As if we wouldn’t—without being told, I might add.”

  “Forget it, Chels. Just consider the source and accept it as another one of her spiteful comments.”

  Chelsea sipped her coffee and gradually calmed down.

  “Feeling better?” Janet asked.

  Chelsea nodded and looked sheepish. “Sorry for getting so carried away, but when somebody has the unmitigated gall to questions my manners, I tend to get a little testy.”

  “That you do.”

  “So, tell me,” she said with a grin, “what about your new neighbor—the one with the Richard Gere hair. Does he have an acceptance problem?”

  “Stephen Prescott?” Janet shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know enough about him to say one way or the other.”

  “Appeared kind of sudden, didn’t he? Like he just dropped out of the sky—a gift from the gods.”

  Janet bunched her eyebrows. “I guess he did.”

  “Where did he drop in from?”

  “New York.”

  “Middlebrook is getting its share of New York defectors.”

  “Its share?”

  “You know. Your new friend, and now Sebastian.”

  “Oh.”

  “What does this Stephen person do?”

  “He says he’s a writer.”

  “Says?”

  Janet shrugged again.

  “You don’t like him?”

  “I could like him a lot, Chels. I guess the word is trust—do I trust him?”

  “You’re thinking of Adam?”

  “Among other things.” Janet carried their cups to the sink. She turned. “Maybe I’ll change my mind tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  Janet nodded. “He called and invited me to dinner at Victoria and Albert’s.”

  Chelsea smiled. “Well, at least he has good taste.”

  Janet laughed. “In restaurants or in dining companions?”

  “Both—but mostly dining companions,” she said as they headed back to work.”

  That night Janet dressed for her date. She checked the mirror again. The denim jumper had a smocked yoke embroidered with lilac and green ivy. She wore it over a black cotton body stocking. An amethyst and sapphire pin fastened at the fold of the turtleneck reflected a prism of color against her skin. She had just slid on taupe Birkenstocks when the phone rang.

  “Hello.”

  “Riddle me different, riddle me same. In whose work will you find my name?”

  “Don’t start with me,” Janet demanded. “I’m in no mood for your nonsense.”

  “My goodness, are we grouchy tonight—things not going well, are they?” There was a chuckle. “Listen well to what I tell: some people are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.”

  “Why do you insist on doing something so childish? Have you ever considered getting a life of your own and leave me alone?”

  “Always questions. Questions, like riddles, have right answers and wrong answers—but you have to put forth some effort on your part, you silly girl. You’re not playing the game.”

  “I don’t like this game. Get somebody else to play with you.”

  “Sorry, but you’re “it.” Now close your eyes and count to twenty.”

  “Who are you?”

  “No fair asking. You have to solve the puzzle yourself—or until I call ollie, ollie, oxen free.”

  Janet’s trembling hand slammed down the phone to silence the mocking voice. Slipping down onto the bed, she breathed deeply to quiet her pounding heart. Someone was playing vile tricks. If they meant to frighten her, so far she had allowed them to succeed. Tracing back over the past weeks in her mind, she pondered the riddles. Could they have a connection to Hilda’s death? What if the wrong person had been killed and she herself had been the intended victim?

  Janet’s mind raced. She could still feel the violent rush of air as the car brushed against her coat and hear the thud as Hilda’s body was struck. Then she remembered the broken rung on the ladder in the upper stacks of the library. Could these events and the riddles be tied to the Lancaster money and her grandmother’s will? Janet’s life had been so uneventful and predictable, would she recognize danger if it strolled through her front door and tipped its hat?

  The doorbell rang. It would be Stephen Prescott—yet another unanswered question. Could she trust him? Right now, Janet decided, trust was a commodity too rare and precious to bestow on a stranger—even a brown-eyed, dark-haired hunk that made her heart go pitty-pat.

  Ah heck, she thought, and headed for the door.

  Victoria and Albert’s, currently in fashion was filled with well-dressed diners. Janet and Stephen were ushered promptly to their table. Eighteenth-century decor blanketed the room with a kind of puritanical innocence that induced subdued conversation. The waiter came over to take their order.

  Stephen looked around. “Great place.”

  “Expensive, too,” Janet said.

  He smiled. “I think I can manage.”

  “The writing business pretty good these days?”

  “How’s that?”

  Janet glanced up as the waiter brought their drinks.

  “Have you always been a writer?”

  “Has anyone ever ‘always’ been anything?”

  Janet nodded as if she understood the vague statement.

  “I’ve been successful at a good number of things. Writing just happens to be what I like best.”

  Janet sipped her Spumanti.

  “What kind of writing do you do?”

  He smiled. “Full of questions, aren’t you
?”

  Janet grinned and nodded. “I guess I am. But people fascinate me, especially mysterious writers who just happen to drop from nowhere right into my neighborhood.”

  He shifted in his seat and gave a slight laugh. “I’m not mysterious. I just got bored with New York and needed a change.”

  “How did you happen to pick Middlebrook?”

  “I saw it in a travel magazine; made the top twenty-five best small towns in the United States. I liked the photographs and here I am. Any more questions?”

  “I’m sorry,” Janet said. “I didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers.”

  “You didn’t,” he said. “But I will admit to you, I’m a fraud. I’m not who you think I am.”

  “Oh? And who are you?”

  He gave Janet a smile that was half apologetic and half playful.

  “I do magazine stuff all right,” he said, “and I’m very good at it. But in my heart of hearts—you know, deep down where nothing else can touch—I’m a novelist.” He gave a half-smile. “For the longest time now I’ve had this pigheaded notion of doing a story with historical value. Oh, I know it’s been done before and by far greater writers than me. But that’s no reason not to give it a go, is it?”

  “I think you can do anything you set your mind to.”

  They fell silent for a moment. Janet took a sip of wine and glanced around the room. Her curiosity was clearly on the upswing.

  “So, you just up and decided to write a sweeping epic.”

  “I didn’t ‘up and decide to’ just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “This has to be a serious work, not another dumb formula piece. I have enough imagination and street smarts that I can turn those things out without working up a good lather. But that’s not good enough—not now, not anymore.”

  “And why ‘now’ and ‘not anymore?’”

  “Because in the past I’ve settled for less than I deserve.” He wrapped his hands around his dew-drenched glass. “When I left New York I decided that I had waited long enough. That now is the time the game changes.”

  His determination was so firm that Janet felt a chill go up her spine. “And you decided to dive in an do the novel?”