I sorted through various theories as I sorted through Mark's boxes. Fortunately, all the book boxes were stacked to the side. So, I made some coffee and went to work. It was nearly 5:00 p.m. when I found Cheryl Krane's book. A slender leather-bound volume of Edna St. Vincent Millay's poetry. The inscription inside the front cover was simple and poignant. "With all my love, Cheryl."
Closing up the boxes, I locked the garage and slipped the book into my briefcase, then stood for a long moment—considering. When I made my decision, I locked the fortress, drew up the drawbridge, and drove off. As soon as I got home, I would feed my dog, feed myself, then give Cheryl Krane a call. After I spoke with her, I'd know if I would drop the book by in person or drop it in the mail.
* * *
The sun's last rays had already disappeared behind the foothills when I finally found a chance to call Cheryl Krane. I leaned back into one of my comfortable wrought iron patio chairs and patted Sam on the head while I listened to her phone ring. After the fourth ring, she answered.
"Hello, Cheryl? This is Kate Doyle. Did I get you at a bad time?"
"No, no, not at all. What can I do for you?"
Her voice had no trace of the brash lawyer of last week's confrontation. Instead, there was an uncharacteristic nervous tremor that surprised me.
I paused, wanting to phrase my words delicately. "Cheryl, I told Stanley I'd search for your book, and I was finally able to do so. It was in one of the boxes I'd packed from the library. I didn't want to take it to your office. Do you want me to mail it to your home, or should I simply drop it by?"
I deliberately avoided using Mark's name, curious to see how she would respond.
"Oh," she said. "Oh, thank you! Thank you, Kate. I cannot thank you enough. I don't know what to say."
The sincerity of her appreciation resonated throughout her voice and all the way across the phone. I could feel it where I sat. "You're welcome, Cheryl." On a hunch I asked, "When should I drop it by? I have a few minutes now."
I heard her take in a breath, as in relief. "Oh, that would be great! I've wanted to get it back for, well, for quite a while."
"I understand. Shall I come over now, or does later work better?" I glanced at my watch. It was 7:30 p.m. It would be dark, if not for Daylight Savings Time.
"Yes, come right over. I'm at 2513 Parkington Avenue. And Kate?"
"Yes?" I hastily scribbled the address on a napkin. "Thank you again." Her phone clicked off. No problem, Cheryl, I thought, and finished my coffee.
Chapter 17
The graceful, winding streets of the Parkington neighborhood were always pleasant to drive through, even at night. Solid, established homes, most were over thirty years old. I always thought of thirty years as just getting settled in—for people as well as houses. The large trees, which added so much to the beauty during the day, obscured the homes at night. It was hard to decipher house numbers in the dark.
As I neared Cheryl's area, I noticed a porch light illuminating the fourth house down. Sure enough, it was hers. I pulled into the driveway and parked. Figuring I wouldn't be inside very long, I left my purse in the car, grabbed the book, and walked to the door. I gave the exterior a quick visual inspection as I rang the door chimes. Cheryl's home was a classic two-story—white with blue shutters and trim, graceful front porch pillars. I noticed lights were on in the lower and upper levels.
I waited. No answer to my first ring. I rang the chimes again, then knocked on the door for good measure. To my surprise, the door pushed open with my knocking. It must not have been completely closed, I thought, as I hesitated on the threshold. I pushed the door wider and stepped inside the foyer, then called out, "Cheryl? It's me, Kate Doyle." She was probably upstairs and hadn't heard my ring, I justified.
Another minute of silence passed. All I heard was the quiet tick of a gorgeous grandfather clock which stood imposingly at the edge of the living room and foyer. I saw newspapers spread out on the living room sofa beside the table lamp. The faint aroma of onions and garlic wafted through the air, remembrances of dinner no doubt.
"Cheryl!" I called louder as I walked farther into the foyer. "Cheryl, it's me, Kate Doyle. I've brought your book." I used my loudest voice, guaranteed to reel in wandering children and dogs.
But it didn't reel in Cheryl. Convinced she was in another room and just couldn't hear me, I ventured down the hallway. As I rounded the corner into the cheerful yellow kitchen, I was about to call out again, when I heard noises. The door to the garage was open, and I thought I heard the sound of someone out there. The light was on.
That explained it. Cheryl was outside in the garage and couldn't hear me. I called out once more as I crossed the kitchen. "Cheryl? It's me, Kate Doyle. I brought your book."
Pushing open the door, I paused on the top step and looked around the large two-bay garage. The white Rabbit was parked along the far wall. It was a good thing Cheryl only had one car, because the other bay was filled with bookshelves, lined up like tall metal soldiers. Eight-foot bookcases crammed with books.
I stepped down into the garage. The same prickly sensation I'd felt in Mark's house that awful afternoon returned. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. Something was definitely wrong. Had Cheryl deliberately acted innocent and needy, hoping to lure me here alone? Was she going to pop out from behind a bookcase with a letter opener in her hand?
Swallowing down the fear that rose in my throat, I decided to call one more time. If Cheryl didn't answer, I was going to drop the book and get the hell out of here. "Cheryl?" Glancing over my shoulder, I ventured farther into the garage, then stopped.
There she was. Cheryl was seated in the Rabbit. I hadn't even looked in the car. After all, why would she tell me to come over, then leave?
"Cheryl, didn't you hear me calling?" Leaning over to look in the window, I froze.
Cheryl Krane was upright in the driver's seat. Bright red blood—her blood—dripped down her chalk-white face. She'd been shot. Blood and gore were splattered across the driver's window.
I stumbled backwards in horror, the book dropping to the floor. My breath caught in my throat. Had Cheryl killed herself in grief? Was that why she'd sounded so strange on the phone? Or, was she really the murderer and couldn't live with herself after killing her lover? If so, then why would she tell me to come over? Why? None of this made sense. It was madness.
Backing away from the horror, I turned to run to the kitchen. Escape. Call the police. Call Bill. Suddenly, a shadowy movement from the side caught my eye. I turned just as a heavy object crashed against the side of my head.
White lights flashed before my eyes. I felt myself collapse to the floor. Then everything went black.
* * *
Cold. Cold and hard. My cheek pressed against something cold. No, I was lying on something very cold and hard. I felt beside my cheek. Concrete. I was lying on a concrete floor. Why?
I opened my eyes and saw automobile tires close to my head. I was lying on a concrete garage floor. Not my garage. Whose garage? My mind seemed foggy. I couldn't even answer my own questions. What was the matter—
Suddenly, I remembered. I was lying on Cheryl Krane's garage floor because someone had hit me on the head. Knocked me unconscious. Because... because I saw Cheryl. I sat up with a gasp. Not a smart move. A splitting pain shot right between my temples.
I staggered to my feet and grabbed hold of the car while I fearfully surveyed the garage, afraid my assailant still lurked. I saw no one. I leaned against the car and drew several deep breaths to calm down and slow the throb in my head. Steeling myself, I leaned over the Rabbit once more and peered inside at the gruesome sight.
No, it wasn't a dream. Cheryl was still there, and still just as dead. Confirming that awful reality, I knew I had to call the police immediately. Cheryl Krane did not commit suicide as I first thought, nor did she kill Mark Schuster. She'd been murdered, and only minutes before I arrived. Who else but the killer would have hidden in the garage and knocked
me senseless?
That thought sent such a chill that I shuddered as I half-ran, half-stumbled up the stairs and into the kitchen. I had to call Bill. The police needed to get here now. Maybe the killer had left some clues this time. Mark Schuster's library had been wiped clean.
I grabbed a dishtowel beside the sink, soaked it with cold water, and held it to my head as I snatched the portable phone off its cradle. Collapsing into one of Cheryl's patterned kitchen chairs, I punched in the number I knew so well—Chief of Detectives, Bill Levitz.
* * *
The EMT aimed his bright light into my eyes once again.
He'd been checking for any overt signs of concussion for the last ten minutes. I sat docile as a lamb in Cheryl's living room, away from the intense activity that marked a crime scene investigation. A stream of policemen, investigators, and photographers kept traipsing through the foyer and into the kitchen. Outside, I saw uniformed officers stretch the Do-Not-Trespass yellow tape around Cheryl's neat and tidy front porch. I wanted to be as far away as possible. If it weren't for the earnest young EMT's exam and my scowling brother-in-law, who hovered in the foyer, I would have escaped the house hours ago.
"Well, Ms. Doyle, you sure were lucky," the earnest EMT declared, his young face registering concern. "When someone's sustained a blow to the head that knocks them out, we usually see signs of concussion." He snapped his light off and shoved it in the shirt pocket of his dark blue uniform. "But just to be safe, we should take you to the hospital. Have the docs check you out in the ER."
"Is that really necessary?" I said. "The headache has died down a little and—"
"She all right, Joe?" Bill called from across the room.
"She appears to be, Detective Levitz, but she'd better go in and have a scan done. Just to be sure."
At the word "scan," I started calculating expense. "Really, all I'm left with is a headache. I can take—"
"She arguing with you, Joe?" Bill said in a loud voice.
Joe grinned boyishly. "Yes, sir. She's trying to."
"Tell her it's a direct order from me. She can either go with one of my officers or arrive by ambulance, running hot, sirens and all. Her choice."
I grimaced. "Okay, okay. I'll take the officer."
While Joe packed up his medical case, Bill approached. He looked more disheveled than usual, and I knew why. He'd probably been at home, lying comfortably on the sofa in his pajamas and watching baseball on television, when he'd been called. Bill wasn't much of a fashion plate in the best of times. Hurried and worried about a family member as he must have been, I was surprised he still wasn't wearing his pajamas.
"Okay, Kate. Now that Joe has finished, you and I are gonna have a little talk." He planted both feet in front of me, crossed his arms, and scowled down. I braced myself for the severe scolding he was bound to deliver.
"Kate," he said, "I oughta arrest your ass."
"Me? I was the one assaulted. Since when do you arrest victims?"
"When they disobey direct orders to stop poking their noses into police business, that's when."
"Hey, Cheryl invited me here. I didn't just drop by for tea."
"And the reason she invited you was because you were returning a book that belonged to her. A book from Mark Schuster's library, I might add." His scowl darkened as his gray eyebrows started warring with each other.
I decided to play dumb. I had that look down pat. Plus, it usually worked. "You guys had already finished with Mark's library. I figured you'd taken everything you wanted."
"Admit it, Kate. You were poking around again, trying to find something to help Amanda, weren't you?"
"No, I wasn't. Cheryl asked me to find a book she'd given. Mark. I was only helping her out, Bill. I certainly didn't plan to walk in while the murderer was still here, for Pete's sake."
"It doesn't matter, Kate. I told you to stay out of this investigation, and you deliberately disobeyed my direct order. And look what happened because of it. You could have gotten killed tonight!"
He didn't need to remind me. But, disobedient wench that I was, I wasn't about to take this reprimand without a fight. "Bill, the truth is you ought to thank me. If I hadn't come over here, everyone would think Cheryl Krane was the murderer. It would have looked like she committed suicide after killing Mark. So, I actually helped your investigation, didn't I? Admit it."
Bill's scowl turned as black as storm clouds over the Rockies. "Kate, you'd better get your butt over to the ER right now, before I make good on my threat and throw you in jail. See how helpful you feel after sitting in a cell for twenty-four hours."
I kept my mouth shut. I didn't know if he'd actually do it, but I knew enough not to push him.
"Go on, get out of here. I mean it." Glancing at the young officer who had appeared out of nowhere, Bill said, "Gonzalez, take this troublemaker to the ER and make sure the docs check her over good. And don't leave her for a moment or she'll give you the slip. Got that?"
"Yessir, Detective Chief!" The young man snapped to.
I decided he must be recently from the military. Clean-cut and ramrod-straight, his whole bearing was a salute. All thoughts of rebellion and/or escape evaporated. Officer Gonzalez led the way and I obediently followed. He did, however, allow me to drive my own car to the hospital, while he rode behind.
* * *
"Well, Ms. Doyle, it looks okay. No sign of blood clots or concussion." The young man dressed in green scrubs and sneakers snapped my X rays onto a flat plastic wall light.
I leaned forward, fascinated by the shadowy images. That was my brain, such as it was. "So, I'm clear. I mean, I'm free to go?"
He shoved the X rays back into a large manila folder. "Yes. Let me get you something for your headache, in case you need it."
I was too tired to feel elated. The sharp pain in my head had gradually lessened to a dull, intermittent throb. "Okay, Doc, but nothing with codeine or I'll be sicker with the medicine than the headache," I said as I followed him out of the exam room.
At 2:30 a.m., the ER was busier than I'd thought it would be. I had no idea so much was going on in the middle of the night. Car accidents, bar fights, domestic disturbances turned violent. If blood was involved, they all wound up here. Watching the various dramas parade in front of me had helped keep my mind off the uncomfortable plastic chair in the waiting room and my aching head.
"Will do," the young intern agreed as he leaned against the wall and filled in his chart.
Tall and thin, with a runner's build if ever I saw one, he looked almost as tired as I felt. I wondered how long he'd been on duty, then decided I didn't really want to know the answer to that.
"Doc, could you also tell the nice, young police officer who's chaperoning me that I'm cleared to go, please? Otherwise, he'll be standing outside my house all night." I pointed to Officer Gonzalez across the corridor and waved.
The intern glanced up and smiled. First smile I'd spied that night. "What did you do, ma'am? Back into his cruiser?"
"Nope. I just have an overly protective brother-in-law in a position of authority. He wanted to make sure I got here safely." I flashed a big grin myself. The lies were getting easier. Not a good thing.
"I'll drop your prescription at the pharmacy here, ma'am. As soon as it's ready, you can be on your way," he said, scrawling on the pad. "And, I'll tell your guard. You take it easy for the next couple of days, okay?"
"Absolutely, Doc," I said and watched him walk away. Sure enough, he spoke with Gonzalez.
Gonzalez responded with several vigorous nods. "You take care, Ms. Doyle. I'll tell the Chief you're okay," he called, before he opened the glass door and scooted outside.
Gonzalez had looked happy to be released from the boring ER nursemaid duty. There was no action here for him. It had all taken place somewhere else. That's why all these injured folks were here now. And somewhere else is where Gonzalez yearned to be, I could sense it.
Collapsing into another torturous plastic chair, I whipped out m
y cell phone and punched in Amanda's number. Gonzalez's close watch had kept me from checking earlier. Something had been pushing me to call her.
After five rings, her sleepy voice answered. "Hello? Who is calling at this ungodly hour?"
Good. She was waking up. "Amanda, it's me, Kate."
"Kate? What's wrong? Are you all right?"
"I'm okay." Instinct told me not to mention my injury. "I just wanted to call you before you read the morning paper. Cheryl Krane is dead."
Silence. I waited. Nothing.
"Amanda? Did you hear me?"
"I heard you, Kate, but I don't know what to say. Did she commit suicide over Mark?"
"No, Amanda. No, she didn't. She was killed. Shot in her home tonight."
A sharp intake of breath, then a tiny whisper. "Oh, no. No, Kate. That can't be."
"I'm afraid it is."
"How do you know?"
I took a deep breath and chose my words carefully. Something told me not to disclose everything this time, as I had in every other phone conversation with Amanda. I wasn't sure why. Just a feeling. Had Bill's suspicions rubbed off on me? "Because I found her. I was returning a book of hers she'd given Mark, and when I arrived at her home, she was already dead."
"My God, who could have done this?"
"I don't know, Amanda, and I'm fairly certain the police don't either. But just in case they want to ask more questions, you'd better be prepared." I hesitated, then had to ask. "Were you home tonight or out with friends?"
She paused. "I was home all night. Alone." Her voice trailed off.
Great. Once again, Amanda had no alibi and no one to verify her whereabouts. That disturbing thought about Amanda's innocence niggled again, but I shoved it to the back of my mind.
"Listen, Amanda, promise me you won't mention to anyone that I found Cheryl. Please! Bill is going to try to keep me out of the papers this time. If the police call, act shocked. And whatever you do, don't tell them I called you. Bill will arrest me for meddling." Suddenly Bill's concern about my involvement took on new meaning. Had I really helped my friend by telling her beforehand?
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