By the Book (A Gracie Andersen Mystery 2)

by Laurinda Wallace

  The harsh lights in the milking barns blazed against the darkness. Gracie pulled into a vacant parking spot next to the milking parlor. Woodson Farms was a massive complex. Chuck and Irene’s house was a big pillared colonial, flanked on every side by sugar maples. Roger and Catherine had a newer version with a brick façade, upwind from the barns. Roger’s two sisters and their families lived farther down the road. Haley whined to get out, but Gracie made her stay. The milking crew was just finishing. Tubes ran above the Holsteins, taking milk directly from cow to the holding tank. The wind blew icily through the barn, distributing the smell of warm manure steaming in the gutters.

  “Gracie! What are you doing here?” Roger shouted over the noise of equipment. He walked toward her, smacking the backsides of a couple ornery cows that kicked at each other. “Is there a problem with the dogs?”

  “No. The dogs are fine. I just have a couple of burning questions about the Cornelia letters.” Her stomach lurched. What was she thinking?

  “The Cornelia Becker letters? Talk to Will or my father. They’re the experts on that.”

  “I’m sure you can give me the answers.”

  A look of annoyance washed over Roger’s face. He walked toward Gracie, his hands thrust in his coat pockets. “I said I have no idea of what you’re talking about. It’s none of your business anyway.”

  Gracie stepped back, unsure if she should cut her losses and run. Her boot heel slipped over the edge of the gutter. Before Roger could reach her, she landed hard and squishy in the gutter. She looked up to see a cow behind her, bawling in fright. Slashing hooves were inches from her face. Without hesitating, Gracie rolled out of the way. The cow lost her footing and slipped. Regaining her balance, the frightened cow pulled to get out of the stanchion. Roger grabbed Gracie’s arm and yanked her away from the flailing hooves. She stood shakily, examining the damage. Her elbow hurt like crazy. The little finger on her left hand was swelling already. It was probably broken. A young milking crew member came, wide-eyed in surprise.

  “Man, you’re covered in—”

  “Yes, I am. I’m covered pretty well.” She looked down at her jeans that were soaked with manure. She wiped filthy hands on the sodden parka. She stunk to high heaven.

  Roger was trying not laugh, without much success. “Get Mrs. Andersen some towels out of the milking parlor. On the double, Jason,” he ordered, choking back another laugh.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be right back.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Not really. I may have a broken elbow or finger or both,” she said through clenched teeth, examining her arm. She flexed it. It was working, although a little painfully. “I’ll live. Now, you have to answer my questions.”

  The farmhand returned with a roll of blue shop towels, which Gracie snatched from his hands. She peeled off the parka, letting it fall to the cement floor. Roger grabbed the coat and found a hose to wash off the manure. Gracie rinsed her hands under the frigid water, while Roger held the reeking coat.

  “Go ahead and ask, but the letters are between my father and Will Dover, pure and simple. It’s no secret they’re for sale at this point. The guy with the right amount of cash gets them. It doesn’t look like Will has it, so now they’re on the open market.”

  “But what’s the right amount if they’re fakes?”

  “What do you mean? They’ve been authenticated twice.”

  “Twice?”

  “Yeah, twice. Waste of money though. They both said the same thing.”

  “Appraisals by the same person?”

  “No. Of course not. One by a Dr. Aaron and another by Maxwell outta Buffalo. Two independent appraisals.”

  “Oh.” Gracie’s teeth were chattering, and she kept rubbing at manure stains on her clothes. That answer was unexpected. “Did you or your father pick up the appraisal from Dr. Aaron?”

  “I did. My timing was bad because it was the day he was killed. Alice was up there too. I picked up the knife, the letters, and the appraisals. Believe me, there were a lot of questions from the cops on that. It was a good thing I was at my in-laws by the time he was killed. Otherwise … we, well …” He stopped talking, looking at Gracie, who stood shivering. “Jeez, Gracie, you’re freezing. There must be a spare set of coveralls around here. Hey, Jason,” he yelled to the young hand who was moving cows from stanchions. “Get me a pair of coveralls. This lady’s freezing to death here.”

  The oversized coveralls gave her some relief from the cold. She had no idea of how she was going to get home without seriously trashing her vehicle.

  “What about Alice? Did she leave at the same time?”

  “Couldn’t say. But she didn’t get arrested. Personally, I was a little surprised she didn’t.”

  “Why is that?”

  “She wasn’t very happy with Dr. Aaron at the time. They had some tussle about another deal they were working on. It may have been something with Wilson or maybe Robinson. I don’t know.”

  “Did you meet with Aaron together?”

  “No. Alice was up there working with the two guys who still want the knife. Robinson wants it pretty bad. It’s his great-great-great uncle’s or something like that. He wants it back in the family. It was presented to Brigadier General John Robinson during the Civil War. He ended up as the Lt. Governor of New York and a full Major General before he died. He was at Gettysburg, you know.”

  “I didn’t know. You’re a real history buff then.”

  “When it comes to weapons, I am. Provenance of the knife is crucial. Without it, you’ve got a worthless knife.”

  “And Aaron was an expert on this?”

  “That’s why we went to him. Alice recommended him, but he was the real deal. Knew everything about the Civil War and quite a bit about the Revolutionary War too. Had the connections to get it sold at a premium.”

  She’d stopped shivering and looked at the parka still dripping in Roger’s hands. “Just throw that away and thanks, Roger. Sorry to interrupt the milking.”

  Roger shrugged and shook his head. “You need to get a life, Gracie and mind your own business.”

  With an old tarp draped over the front seats of her vehicle, Gracie eased the RAV4 into gear. Haley was straining at the safety harness, whining to get close to her. She must really be a feast for the dog’s olfactory system. How did she manage to always step in it? There was a hot bath in her future for sure. If Roger was telling the truth, her theory wasn’t exactly adding up. Good old Jack had lied to her about the Woodsons and the value of the knife. He had told her it was a piece of junk and that Alice and the Woodsons had gotten into an argument. Jack’s theory about the sheath was that Roger or Chuck had it, but weren’t telling the police. Did anybody tell the truth anymore?

  She had almost scrubbed her freckles off with a nail brush to make sure she was absolutely clean. Her arms and neck were still stinging from the effects. She hadn’t bothered to dry her hair. It clung damply to her cream pullover sweater. The steaming mug of hot chocolate made her feel a little better about the situation, but not much. Haley lay by her feet, her nose touching Gracie’s slippers. She flipped on the TV to the classic movie channel, hoping for a comedy to cheer her up. No luck. It was suspense night with Cape Fear already in progress starring Robert Mitchum and Gregory Peck. That movie was way too creepy for tonight, especially when she was by herself. She found a rerun of Everybody Loves Raymond instead and grabbed her iPad.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Patti stood looking at the library stacks, wishing things had turned out differently. Her husband Sherm had a good job, and she wouldn’t need to look for work for at least a few months. He’d been livid when he’d found out she’d helped Sybil with her book business. Her resignation letter lay on the counter. At least she could honestly say that Sybil ran it, and she’d only put packages in the mail. Could she help it if her cousin was selling library books? The library could afford the loss anyway. If they’d gotten the raises they should have had over the last thre
e years, it wouldn’t have even been an issue. She’d refused to take any money from Sybil, but she hadn’t needed it like her cousin did.

  Patti ran her hand over the ornate carvings on the circulation desk. She’d miss the place. If Terry would just get back from another meeting at the Deer Creek Historical Society, she’d be able to walk away. She should’ve given what she’d found to Will when he’d been in earlier. But he’d been in a hurry to get to the same meeting Terry was attending. It was almost closing time, her last closing time. She’d call Gracie. She was the only sympathetic board member. At least she could get it all off her chest and then let Sybil explain herself.

  Gracie was in the reeking SUV driving back to Deer Creek. It was going to cost her a mint to get it deodorized. Come to think of it, she’d have to spring for a new parka too. Fortunately, a well-worn barn coat had been located in the back of the closet to make this trip. All in all, it had been a very expensive evening that she could only blame on herself.

  Deer Creek’s Main Street was filling in with yet more snow. The flurries masked the streetlights, making strange shadows on the banks of dirty snow. She slowed the vehicle as she approached the bridge over Deer Creek. The bridge surface was famous for black ice. There were few vehicles out and when Gracie swung into the library’s parking lot, only Patti’s car was still there. That was good. No library patrons to overhear her conversation with Patti. Taking the steps two at a time, risking a fall, she entered the library a little out of breath.

  “Thank you for coming,” Patti started. “I just didn’t know what to do. Probably I should’ve called the police right away, but Sybil’s my cousin. I don’t want to believe that …” Her face crumpled. The tearful woman pointed to the small table behind the counter.

  Gracie exhaled slowly, her stomach flip flopping as she walked to the table. She gingerly examined the ornate silver sheath. It was lying on a remnant of white flannel. The rich engraving covered the length, which had to be 18 inches. An eagle and American flag were the largest images, but a grapevine design covered most of the sheath.

  “Really beautiful work,” Gracie finally breathed. “You found this in the janitor’s closet?”

  “Yes. Sybil and I have been doing the cleaning since Jack … well, hasn’t been able.”

  “And you’re sure it wasn’t there before?”

  “I don’t know. The sheath was behind a big box of garbage bags on the shelf. I can barely reach up there. The only reason I found it was because I accidently knocked that box down getting a bag out. It was wrapped up in that cloth.”

  “Could Jack have put it there?”

  “I guess it’s possible, but the police searched everywhere in the library right after the murder. They would have found something this size for sure—wouldn’t they?”

  “I was here for part of that search, and you’re right. They were very thorough. Where’s Sybil now?” Gracie asked, chewing the inside of her cheek.

  “I don’t know. Home is my guess. It’s not a very good night to be on the roads. I hate that I found it. Now I’ll have to tell the police about the fight Alice and Sybil had the day of the murder.” Patti winced and shook her head.

  “Fight? What kind of fight?”

  “Well, a pretty ugly argument about the book selling thing. I didn’t tell them about it before. Alice had told her to shut it down before she went to the board. She’d caught Sybil taking some books out to her car that day. I’d been telling her that she needed to stop, but she’d made her book business some sort of revenge on the board for hiring Terry. But Sybil really lit into her about the money she owed Jack. It wasn’t pretty.” Patti sighed, rubbing her forehead. She looked a little green, like she’d eaten a bad clam.

  “Holy cow! You’re gonna need to tell Investigator Hotchkiss about that. I’ll call her and have her come and get the sheath. Then you can talk to her.”

  “Can’t I go home? My resignation is on the counter. I really just want to leave,” Patti pleaded. Her eyes were still damp and a little puffy from crying. “She can come to the house. I’ll tell her the whole story, I promise.”

  The woman looked so pitiful; Gracie had no heart to make her stay. “Sure. I understand. Do you have the keys to lock up?”

  “They’re on the counter too.” Patti hurried to the coatrack by a battered gray file cabinet and grabbed her coat. “The back entrance is already locked. Thanks, Gracie.”

  The front door clicked shut, and Gracie stood staring at the sheath, thinking about the knife and Sybil confronting Alice. Shaking off the thought, she snatched her cell phone from her bag and scrolled through the contacts list until she found the investigator’s number. As she expected, the investigator was ecstatic to take the sheath into custody. Gracie sat down behind the counter to wait and then decided to shut down the main lights. She definitely didn’t want a stray library patron showing up now. She shivered and checked the thermostat. It was already turned down to 65 degrees. No wonder she was freezing. Grabbing the keys, she locked the front door. The wind had picked up, and the windows rattled in protest. She pushed her hands into the deep pockets of the coat, suddenly wishing she wasn’t alone. The grandfather clock’s steady beat made her think of “The Tell-Tale Heart.”

  “For Pete’s sake, why am I scaring myself?” she asked the tall shelves. “I should’ve brought Haley.”

  Headlights shone on the front windows.

  “That was fast,” she said, fumbling for the keys she’d dropped in her coat pocket. Turning back the latch, she opened the door and found herself face to face with Terry.

  “Gracie! What are you doing here?” Terry pushed back the hood of her corduroy coat and stomped the snow off her boots. “I thought that was your vehicle out there.”

  “Waiting for the police,” she answered. “I thought you were Investigator Hotchkiss.”

  Terry’s eyes widened. “Police? Why are they coming here?”

  “Patti called me tonight, and—”

  “I had a voicemail from her while I was at the Historical Society meeting. She quit. I don’t think that warrants a visit from the police unless she’s been stealing from the library too.”

  Terry’s voice was irritated.

  “No. It’s nothing like that. She found the missing sheath tonight.”

  “What? The sheath to the knife …” She coughed harshly, covering her mouth with a coat sleeve. Apparently she hadn’t quite kicked the flu.

  “It was in the janitor’s closet.” Gracie moved behind the counter. “Look over here,” she finished, pointing to the table where the sheath gleamed under the light of the small desk lamp.

  Terry walked slowly toward the table. “It was here the whole time? Jack must have stashed it in there for some reason.”

  “Not from what Patti says,” Gracie said grimly.

  “Really? What did she say?” Terry asked, walking around the table, eyeing the sheath from every angle.

  Gracie hesitated. “Uh … I think she’d better talk to the investigator before I say anything. Were you coming back to work?”

  “I was just picking up a couple of things. The dogs are by themselves at the house, so I’d better get moving. The police aren’t going to need me, are they?” Terry turned for the stairway.

  “I don’t think so. I called it in and planned on waiting for them.” She watched the librarian flip the light switch on the wall near the stairs. “You’ve really been involved with the Historical Society lately.”

  “Will invited me to join them as an advisor. They’re working on some interesting projects right now.”

  “Really? I always thought it was a pretty stuffy organization.”

  Terry laughed. “Depends on where your interests lie.” She dashed up the winding stairs, and Gracie heard a desk drawer opening. Gracie leaned against the counter, drumming her fingers on the smooth surface. Terry’s boots announced her return with dull tunks on the metal treads. She carried a long, gray cardboard box under her arm. The corners of the box were re
inforced with metal braces.

  “Well, Gracie. Thanks for taking care of this with the police. I hope the investigation is finally wrapped up. I never trusted Sybil or Jack. It wouldn’t surprise me if both of them were involved.”

  “It’s pretty sad. I’ve known the Greenes a long time. I find it hard to believe either one would actually stick a knife into someone. I still think … well,” she stopped. There was something about the box under Terry’s arm that was familiar.

  “People aren’t always what they seem. I’ve really got to run,” Terry glanced at the clock by the fireplace, stepping toward the front door.

  “Like you and Alice?” Gracie blurted out. It all made sense now. The article she’d found online earlier about a Seneca University history department gathering and the box that Terry clutched dropped the last piece of the puzzle in place. The librarian froze; her eyes took on an animal-like quality, filled with fear and anger. Gracie grabbed for Terry’s arm, missing by inches. The librarian twisted away and plunged through the front door.

  “Hey!” Gracie shouted, following the woman down the steps.

  Terry fled across the snowy sidewalk to the parking lot. Gracie could see that she’d pulled the car keys from her pocket. Terry held them high and hit the switch to unlock it. She was almost to her car. Where was Investigator Hotchkiss? Gracie’s boots slid on an icy patch. Waving her arms to regain her balance failed, and she landed in the ice-crusted snow, smacking her head against the “Library Parking Only” signpost.

  “Oww! Stop!” she shouted, scrambling to her feet, probing the bruise on the back of her head with cold fingers. It was smarting like fire, and a lump was already making an appearance. Terry was spinning the Honda around, and it fishtailed out of the parking lot. Retrieving her cell phone from her coat pocket, Gracie dialed 9-1-1.