Shelved Under Murder

by Victoria Gilbert

  “Oh, they’ll show up after lunch. That’s when they usually wander in.”

  Zelda sniffed loudly. I bit back a smile, unsure if she was reacting to the dust or expressing her opinion of the Friends. She’d been an active member of the group until a few months ago, when she’d quit in protest of Melody Riley being voted in as the new chair.

  “I’d think you’d be happy not to have some of them here. Especially Mel. I know you don’t exactly get along.”

  Zelda and Aunt Lydia both looked as if they’d smelled something unpleasant. Intrigued by their obvious but mysterious dislike of the other woman, I decided I could rely on the bell to alert me to any patrons at the desk. I walked into the workroom, puzzling over why they reacted so strongly to any mention of Mel Riley. Aunt Lydia simply refused to talk about the woman, while Zelda made no secret of her disgust over the Friends of the Library’s recent election. Perhaps she was simply pissed because, as she said, “Mel just waltzed back into town and took over.” Or maybe it was based on some history between the three women. Mel, like Zelda and Aunt Lydia, had been born and raised in Taylorsford. At sixty-eight she was a bit older than Zelda and my aunt, but it was likely that they had known each other, at least by reputation, when they were all young.

  I examined my aunt and her friend with interest. I’d known Aunt Lydia to hold a grudge—she still refused all of Kurt Kendrick’s friendly overtures—but not Zelda.

  “So what’s up with this animosity toward Mel Riley?” I asked.

  Aunt Lydia didn’t look up from the labels she was slapping on paperbacks. “Just not my kind of person.”

  “Too bossy by half. Always thinking her way is best, just because she’s lived all over the world and is so very cultured.” Zelda spoke the last few words in an exaggerated, and completely fake, British accent.

  “She does know a lot about art.”

  Zelda snorted. “I guess when you’re the wife of a high-ranking diplomat, you learn a few things. But as for her trotting back into Taylorsford after her husband died and assuming that she should be treated like she’s lived here for years…”

  “She has owned property here the entire time, though.” I hoped playing devil’s advocate might spur Zelda to spill the real reason she shunned Mel.

  “Sure, she kept the family farm. But even though she paid someone to maintain it, she and that husband of hers only lived there for six months at a time, and only between assignments. It’s not like they mingled with us lowly townspeople when they were here, either. Didn’t even let that son of theirs mix with any kids in the area.” Zelda wrinkled her nose. “They named that poor child Henry Lee Riley the Third, then called him Trey. I ask you, what kind of name is that?”

  Aunt Lydia picked up one of the paperbacks and studied its lurid cover as if a half-naked man and woman in a clinch was something that actually interested her. “I never thought I’d see two murders in Taylorsford in less than a year.”

  My aunt’s forceful tone signaled a change of subject. So much for me getting to the bottom of the Mel mystery. Foiled again. I shook my head. “Richard says people will think he’s a bad-luck charm because it all started after he moved here.”

  Zelda’s face brightened. “Nonsense. If anything, he’s brought good fortune, not to mention he’s provided the town with some much-needed eye candy.” She picked up a crocheted doily and made a great show of fanning her face. “Must admit I tend to get a bit flushed around him. I may be old, but I still have eyes.”

  I met her sly smile with a lift of my chin. “Yeah, he’s pretty hot, I guess.”

  “You guess?” Zelda chuckled. “I bet you know.”

  Aunt Lydia shot her friend a warning look. “Let’s not get into Amy and Richard’s business, Zelda. You know how she dislikes that sort of meddling.”

  Zelda flung up her hands. “Okay, okay. Just joking around.” She looked over at me. “But I don’t know what you’re trying to hide, Amy. You’re a bit guarded, but it’s pretty darn obvious how Richard feels. The way he looks at you sometimes”—she shook her head until her curls bounced—“deserves an R-rating, at the very least.”

  Fingers of heat danced up the back of my neck. “Oh? Well…”

  The bell at the desk jangled loudly. I hurried out of the room, thankful for the interruption, even though whoever was ringing the bell had slammed it hard. Which meant I might have to gird myself to deal with an irate patron. Considering this, I closed the workroom door behind me.

  It wasn’t a patron but someone who might be even more difficult to handle. “Hello, Mel,” I said, bobbing my head to acknowledge the chair of the Friends.

  Melody Riley was a striking woman, larger than life in every way. At least five foot eleven, she had a Rubenesque figure that was enhanced by the expert tailoring of her wool suit. Its jade color also perfectly complemented her sea-green eyes. Her highlighted blonde hair was swept back into a smooth chignon, exposing an expensive pair of square-cut emerald earrings.

  A perfect Valkyrie. Yes, I could easily picture her commanding the stage in a Wagnerian opera—tall, blonde, and ready for battle.

  And, like a Wagnerian singer, loud. “Hello, Amy. Surprised to see you here after the events of yesterday, but I am glad that you didn’t desert your post.” Her gaze swept over me, a little line of disapproval creasing the area between her perfectly arched eyebrows.

  Black slacks and a simple rust-colored sweater were probably not what she considered appropriate attire for a library director. I would have betted she’d have preferred me to wear a business suit, complete with stockings and tasteful pumps. But I always chose slacks over skirts or dresses in the cooler months, mainly because there was nothing I hated more than pantyhose.

  I bit back a smile. Well, I disliked a few things more. Like a rich, domineering woman who looked down her nose at me. Besides, I had dressed to deal with the dusty donations, which she obviously had not. I narrowed my eyes and looked Mel up and down, silently calculating the cost of her elegant ensemble. She certainly knew how to make the best of her appearance. Her flawless makeup obscured many of her wrinkles, and the peacock-tail-patterned silk scarf she wore at her neck hid any hint of a sagging chin. She could easily have been mistaken for someone a decade younger.

  “I’m here to assist with pricing the donations,” Mel said. “Has anyone else shown up to help?”

  “Yes, but…”

  As Mel waved her hand in a dismissive gesture, the multicolored gems in her rings flashed. “So show me where you’ve stored everything. In the back, I suppose?”

  She strolled to the open edge of the desk as if she owned the place. Which, despite her position as chair of the volunteer group that raised money for the library, she did not.

  “No one from the Friends has shown up yet.” I placed my hands on my hips and stood in the middle of the opening to prevent her from actually stepping behind the desk. “But my aunt and Zelda Shoemaker are here.”

  Mel stopped dead. “Lydia’s here?”

  “And Zelda,” I said.

  “Ah well, you have enough help for now then.” She glanced up at the wall clock and toyed with her scarf, not meeting my gaze. “And look at the time. I had no idea it was this late. To be honest, I have a lunch appointment, and I doubt I could accomplish much before I had to leave to make that date. I’ll try to pop back in later.” Mel crossed back around to stand in front of the desk.

  “Okay, whatever works for you.” I studied Mel’s averted face, wondering what could possibly have happened to make her so reluctant to spend time with my aunt or Zelda.

  Curiouser and curiouser. Must have been something pretty significant. I tapped my fingers against the desk. I had to solve this mystery someday soon. It was just too intriguing to let go.

  Mel, lost in thought for a moment, glanced back at me. “I do wonder if perhaps you could convince Lydia to donate a painting or two. I hear she has quite a collection of her husband’s works.”

  “She does.” I stared at Mel
, whose green eyes were focused intently on my face.

  “Tragically, we won’t have anything from the LeBlancs, but a few paintings by Andrew Talbot might work as decent substitutes. Perhaps Lydia could spare one or two? Tell her”—Mel fiddled with the gold brooch pinned to her scarf—“yes, tell her I’d be more than happy to stop by the house and look over the paintings to see what might work best.”

  I couldn’t help but notice the sudden tension tightening Mel’s strong jaw. She was seriously interested in seeing Uncle Andrew’s paintings, and I had to wonder why.

  “I’ll mention it to her,” I said as Mel turned away, her attention apparently diverted by the new book rack, “but I can’t promise she’ll agree. She doesn’t like to part with Andrew’s paintings.”

  “Just do your best,” Mel called over her shoulder before glancing at her watch and moving toward the front doors.

  As Mel exited the library, a tall blond of a very different variety entered and approached the desk.

  “Have a chance to check out those pictures?” Brad Tucker asked.

  I slid over to the circulation desk computer. “I only just glanced at them, to be honest. Anyway, I need your help with something before I can really conduct a thorough search.”

  “Oh, what’s that?” Brad laid his hat on the counter and ran his hand through his short hair. “By the way, we still need you and Richard to come in today. Can you get away?”

  “Not until five. Will the office be open?” I clicked on the file Brad had sent to my email and peered at the computer screen.

  “I’ll make sure we have the proper personnel on hand to check over your statements. What do you think? Five thirty to six?”

  “Probably. Richard’s going to pick me up and we can drive right over.” I looked up from the screen. “But before that, could you authorize me as an official sheriff’s department consultant or something?”

  “What for?”

  “I need proper credentials to get into the Art Loss Register.”

  Brad picked up his hat and rubbed the brim between his thumb and forefinger. “Some sort of database?”

  “Yeah, for art that’s been lost or stolen. It’s a great resource, but private individuals can’t really search it independently. The organization will do moderated searches, but only if you’re the owner of a piece or looking to buy something. So I can’t just pop on and search for information on the paintings your deputy photographed. But law enforcement agencies can get permission to search the database without all the restrictions. So I thought…”

  “Sure. In fact, we’ll just deputize you. The sheriff can authorize it, and then we can take care of the paperwork when you come in this evening. Will that work?”

  “Perfectly.” I stared at him, surprised at this offer. “I didn’t know you could do that. I thought that sort of thing only happened in the Old West.”

  “No, we can still deputize people. We don’t do it often, and it’s only good for a designated period of time, but when we need specialized skills on a case it comes in handy.” Brad smiled wryly. “Not like we have an overabundance of staff.”

  “I know.” I closed the file and moved away from the computer. Once I could access the Art Loss Register, I felt confident I’d be able to actually help the sheriff’s office. No use messing with any research before I gleaned the essential information from that source. “How’s Sunny, by the way? I called her last night, but she didn’t answer her phone.”

  “She’s hanging in there.” Brad frowned. “I’m not sure why it hit her so hard. She went through all that stuff with your cousin last summer without cracking, but now she’s struggling.”

  “Maybe that’s why. She stayed so tough through all that—being kidnapped and threatened with death and all—she could’ve just reached her limit. It was probably one shock too many.”

  Brad’s thoughtful expression told me he was carefully considering this idea. That’s one thing I’d recently learned about the chief deputy—he might resemble the high school football star he’d once been, but he was a much deeper thinker than many of his fellow jocks. “Could be. I’m sure she’d be glad to see you, if you want to stop by after coming into the office.”

  “I’ll try. I’m sure Richard won’t mind, as long as he doesn’t have some other commitment. He has to do a lot of videoconferences and phone calls at weird hours for his choreography work.”

  “He keeps busy with that, it seems. Must be a challenge on top of teaching full-time.”

  “Not as hard as your job, I’m sure, but yeah.” I gave Brad a smile. “Thanks for being there for Sunny, by the way. Last night, I mean. You must’ve been exhausted.”

  A faint tinge of color rose in Brad’s face. “Aw, that’s just … Well, you know I’ll always be there for Sunny.”

  “I know,” I said. “And so does she.”

  Which earned me a warm smile in return.

  The door to the workroom opened and Aunt Lydia poked out her head. “Is she gone?”

  She meant Mel, of course. I wondered how she knew whom I’d been talking to earlier, then realized that she and Zelda must’ve heard at least part of our conversation. Mel’s voice was more than loud enough to carry through a closed door.

  “Yeah, she headed out a few minutes ago,” I said.

  “Oh hi, Brad.” Aunt Lydia stepped up behind the desk, followed by Zelda. “How are you?”

  “Fine, Mrs. Talbot. Good to see you.” Brad bobbed his head. “Mrs. Shoemaker, nice to see you as well.”

  “Another murder,” Zelda said. “It hardly seems possible.”

  “Yes, it is unusual.” Brad fiddled with the brim of his hat. “We’ve had to call in extra help from the state again, which is especially tough because of the upcoming festival. All the hotel rooms in the area are booked up, even the bed-and-breakfast places. That makes it hard to house anyone coming into town to help with the investigation.” Brad stared down at his hat and sighed. “That’s my unhappy task right now—trying to find housing for all the extra people. Especially the art expert, who needs to stick around for a while.”

  “You need a room or two?” Zelda asked. “I could probably put a couple of people up at my house. Call it my contribution to the effort.”

  Brad looked up, his eyes brightening. “Seriously? That would be great. They wouldn’t have to stay long. Well, except for the art expert. He might need lodging for a few weeks.”

  “If Zelda can help out with some of the others, the art expert could stay with us,” Aunt Lydia said.

  I shot her a surprised glance. Unlike Zelda, my aunt’s aristocratic profile betrayed no excitement over this prospect, but I noted her hands clasped tightly at her breast.

  She wants someone to stay at our house? But she rarely entertains and never invites complete strangers into her home. What gives?

  “Is that all right with you, Amy?” Aunt Lydia turned to me, her blue eyes shrouded beneath her golden lashes. “I would like to assist the sheriff’s office, and I think an art expert might be an interesting guest.”

  There it was—the real reason for her offer. She’d fought for years to promote my late uncle’s work. Perhaps she thought if she could interest the expert in Andrew’s paintings, she could revive his legacy.

  “Sure, fine by me,” I said. “As long as he doesn’t expect room service.”

  Brad’s smile broadened. “Great. I wish I could solve all my problems so easily. Thanks, ladies.” He raised his hand to his forehead in a little salute. “I’ll be in touch with the details.”

  As he turned to go, Zelda called after him, “Please give Sunny our regards and let her know we’re thinking of her.”

  Brad waved his hand in acknowledgment but left the building without saying anything else.

  “Now that’s one problem that will never be easy to solve,” Zelda observed.

  “What’s that?” Aunt Lydia asked.

  Zelda flicked a speck of dust from the shoulder of her blouse. “Sunny. The poor boy loves her d
early, but she’s such a free spirit I don’t know if she’ll ever agree to be tied down.”

  “Maybe she won’t have to be, even if they are together long-term,” I said, causing both women to eye me skeptically. “I mean, marriage doesn’t always mean being tied down, does it?”

  “Of course not,” Aunt Lydia said. “Andrew never tied me down. Well”—she flashed a wicked grin at Zelda—“not without my consent, anyway.”

  “Aunt Lydia!” My hands flew up to my open mouth.

  But Zelda and my aunt just fell into each other’s arms and dissolved into peals of laughter. Despite my efforts to quiet them by repeatedly pressing my finger to my lips, they fell silent only when one of our regular patrons marched up to the desk and shushed them.

  Chapter Six

  Brad had called ahead to talk to someone at the Art Loss Register, so when Richard and I showed up at the sheriff’s office, he was able to give me preapproved access to the website.

  “So, do I refer to you as Deputy Webber now?” Aunt Lydia asked the next day. She’d returned from church to find me huddled on the sofa in our sitting room, perusing the Register website.

  I glanced up from the laptop with a smile. “No, you can still call me Amy. Now, I might ask Mel Riley to call me Deputy…”

  “You do that.” Aunt Lydia sat in the overstuffed chair that faced the sofa and kicked off her chestnut-brown leather pumps.

  “You really don’t like her, do you?”

  My aunt wiggled her toes inside her stockings. “No, I’m afraid not.”

  I minimized the website and placed the laptop next to me. “Can I ask why?”

  “You can ask.” Aunt Lydia sank back into the suede cushions of the chair.

  “Sorry if I’m being nosy, but I’ve noticed the animosity both you and Zelda feel toward her, and”—I slid forward until I was perched at the edge of the sofa cushion—“I must confess I’m curious. Also, since she’s the new chair of the Friends, I have to work with her. If there’s something I should be aware of…”