Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 05 - Just Ducky

by Jeanne Glidewell

  “Oh, thanks, I’m sure you’re right. I wasn’t thinking. The treadmill is probably more my speed, until I heal anyway,” I said. I had ignored it on my way to the barbells for the same reason I was donating my own treadmill to the gym. It is boring as hell to walk for thirty minutes, where the scenery never changes and you don’t move a foot from where you started.

  I absolutely loved going for long walks with Stone around the neighborhood, but treadmills took more fitness enthusiasm than I possessed. Now I had little choice but to start walking nowhere on the “recommended piece of apparatus” that I usually avoided like the plague.

  By the time the clock struck ten, which, judging by the way I felt, took a guestimated fourteen hours, every perspiring inch of my body was screaming silently in agony. I moved like a dying sloth toward a bench to sit down and wait another twenty minutes or so for Tina Traylor to show up for her morning workout. If she didn’t arrive by ten-thirty I was dragging my worn-out carcass home. I felt like a wake of buzzards had been picking my bones clean since I’d arrived at Gino’s Gym. “Wake” was the perfect name for a group of feeding buzzards, I thought, and I felt like someone should throw a wake right then, with me as the guest of honor.

  To rub salt in my wounds, Mr. Olympus walked by me as I was heading to the bench to rest my weary bones, and asked me if I was all right, or if I needed assistance in walking the remainder of the way, which was all of ten feet. I told him I was fine, just cooling down from my work out. He actually choked as he tried to hold back laughter. Cooling down from what? I’m sure he wondered. I guess he thought if I had worked out any slower on the treadmill, I’d have been walking backward. I was happy when my phone rang so I could turn my attention away from the young man who was amused by my suffering.

  “Lexie?” I recognized Colby Tucker’s voice on the other end of the line.

  “Yes, Mr. Tucker. Can I help you?”

  “I certainly hope so. I’m in kind of a pickle. Do you have time to run over to the library to accept and sign for a shipment of new books? I didn’t expect them to be delivered on a Sunday, but the driver just called and told me he’ll be there in an hour and a half, or so. I’m in Gardner, Kansas, at my nephew’s baptism, and you’re the only other person with a key to the library,” Tucker told me.

  “Would I have to unpack them? I’m in no shape to do anything strenuous right now. At present I can barely put one foot in front of the other.”

  “No, you can just have them stack the boxes in the store room and Paul Miller can deal with them tomorrow. That’s part of his duties, anyway.”

  I was a little tentative about returning to the library alone, but felt like I owed it to Colby Tucker to help him out of a jam. And, if Wyatt and Detective Travis were correct, they already had the suspect in custody, so my safety was not in jeopardy. That is, if Bo Reliford actually was the person guilty of killing Ducky, and attempting to kill me as well, which I doubted.

  So, I told Mr. Tucker I’d go take care of the book delivery, and also that a suspect had been arrested for the murder of Bertha Duckworthy. So, against my better judgment, unless things changed between then and tomorrow morning, I’d be reporting to work as scheduled in order to start my job as the interim head librarian, I assured him. Hopefully, with a few hours of rest, and a lot of soaking in a tub of hot lavender and Epsom salt scented water, I’d feel up to it by then.

  In the meantime, it was closing in on ten-thirty and I was anxious to get the heck out of this torture chamber they called a gym. Maybe Tina Traylor was late because it took her extra time in the confessional booth to ask forgiveness for all the sins she’d committed recently. I wondered what the penance was for stringing up a ninety-pound librarian.

  With over an hour to waste until the delivery truck was due to arrive at the library, I thought it might be a good time to run by Joe’s Guns and Ammo to see if I could buy a Ladysmith 3913. I’d have Stone teach me how to shoot it one day soon, so I’d have it for emergencies, after I’d qualified for my conceal and carry permit. I’d never even held a gun in my hand, much less shot one, so I was excited about learning how to handle a firearm. I decided I might even join the NRA after I became comfortable with my new “piece.”

  * * *

  I ended up purchasing the Sig Sauer P238, a single-action .380 caliber pistol, because Joe’s didn’t have a Ladysmith in stock. The salesman told me it was light and easy to conceal, and it had an easy-to-move stainless-steel slide, minimal recoil, and a scalloped side and finger relief under the trigger guard.

  As he described all the benefits of the gun, he might as well have been talking to the cockroach I saw climbing up the wall behind him. All I cared about was the fact that it was a cool-looking weapon, with pretty pink handgrips. It was like having the car salesman telling me all the intricate details about the turbo-charged, high performance, six-cylinder motor, MacPherson struts, and rack and pinion steering features of my recently incinerated sports car. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I bought the car strictly because it was a sky blue convertible with a kick-ass stereo system. And if the car actually moved after you turned the key in the ignition, well, that was merely an added bonus.

  There was no waiting time requirement to purchase a gun in Missouri, so I bought a box of birdshot, which I carried out to my new VW Beetle in a sack, and the small pistol, which I stuffed into my fanny pack. I’d remove it when I got home, and store it in Stone’s gun safe until I had a license to carry it.

  Now that I was officially packing, I felt invincible, like an Annie Oakley, pistol-packing mama who could barely walk under her own power at the moment.

  Chapter 18

  I didn’t spend much time at the gun shop, so I stopped to pick up a large cup of french roast coffee to go, at the convenience store a block west of the library. I’d been craving a caffeine boost since I’d left Gino’s Gym.

  When I pulled the Volkswagen into the library parking lot, I felt a sense of melancholy. It should have been Ducky parking this cute little car in the lot on her way into the building she spent so much of her life in.

  I grabbed my Styrofoam coffee cup out of the cup holder, put my iPhone in the pocket of my baggy sweatpants, locked the car doors, and slowly crossed the parking lot to the library. I was having so much trouble lifting my feet off the ground I nearly stumbled twice over cracks in the concrete. And I’m pretty sure one of the cracks was just drawn on the sidewalk with chalk.

  I saw a car full of college-aged kids drive by in a passenger van. They were all staring out their windows at me, probably betting with each other on whether or not I’d make it to the library steps without doing a face-plant in the rose bushes first. They probably thought I’d wandered away from home and couldn’t find my way back.

  The way I was feeling, I would have bet ‘yes’ on the face-plant thing if I’d been watching myself from the van. But I surprised myself by making it to the top of the steps without incident. The front door was unlocked, which surprised me, but without stopping to consider the ramifications of that oddity, I walked on in and appeared to startle Paul Miller and a much smaller, older man.

  “Hello gentleman. What’s going on?” I asked, as I approached the leather couch the men were lounging on. For several awkward seconds the two men stared at me in silence.

  “You must be Lexie Starr,” said the older man finally, as he stood and walked toward me with an outstretched hand. “I’m Tom Melvard, and it’s so nice to make your acquaintance. I thought I should stop by and spend a few minutes sprucing up the place since the library will be reopening tomorrow, and it hasn’t been cleaned for almost two weeks.”

  “Good idea, Tom. It’s nice to meet you, as well, and I thank you for thinking about giving the place a quick going over. Are you here to help him, Paul?”

  “No,” he replied.

  Since Paul was a man of few words, Tom stepped in and filled in the details. “Paul and I have known each other for years. Often, when I’d be clocking in to do my c
ustodial work, Paul would just be finishing his weight training session on his Nautilus machine downstairs. He’d leave the library at the same time as Ducky and escort her to her car. So when Paul saw me walking into the library a few minutes ago, he decided to stop in and visit with me.”

  “Oh, how nice. I’m actually very glad to see you here today, Paul. I’m here to sign for a shipment of books coming in on a delivery truck. I imagine you’re accustomed to dealing with these deliveries, since Colby Tucker informed me you’d be the one taking care of sorting them out anyway.”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “I’m also glad it worked out for you to move up to a full time position here, in lieu of having to hire another part-time employee to fill Carolyn’s shoes. It will work out splendidly for both of us. You’ll get the extra hours you wanted, and I’ll have someone working by my side who knows this library inside and out. I’m quite certain I’ll be coming to you with a lot of questions concerning this facility,” I said.

  “Sure,” he said with a sullen nod.

  “With your years of experience here, I’m surprised you weren’t immediately hired to take Ducky’s place as the head librarian, without the need for a temporary replacement like me.”

  “I applied, but Ducky didn’t think I had the social skills necessary for the job. I guess you have to be a blabbermouth to be considered competent enough to qualify for the librarian position. I know as much about running this library as Ducky did, even if I’m not a big yacker.”

  It was the most I’d ever heard Paul say, and the way he said it sounded bitter and resentful. I wasn’t sure how to respond, but I tried to be diplomatic. “Well, you are a very quiet and soft-spoken man, but I still would have—”

  I was interrupted by the sound of a loud honking noise in the back of the building. With more gestures than words, Paul indicated the delivery truck had pulled around behind the building to unload the boxes on the loading dock, where they’d be brought in through the back door and stacked in the storeroom. I followed Paul and Tom to the rear of the building.

  As Paul and the deliveryman unloaded the boxes, Tom and I chatted for a few minutes while I blew on my cup of coffee. I had just removed the lid and it was still too hot to take more than a sip. I remembered Ducky telling me Tom had made his living as a jockey in Kentucky. Now that I’d met the man, I could understand how his diminutive stature would have made him the ideal size for his chosen profession.

  Tom Melvard seemed like a very kind gentleman, and as we discussed Ducky’s death, I could see he had actually cared deeply for her before she’d fallen in love and married Quentin Duckworthy. When I told him Ducky’s ex-husband, Bo Reliford, had been charged with her death, Tom was visibly relieved.

  “I’m so glad that monster’s been arrested. I knew all along he was the one who killed her. He was so abusive to her throughout their marriage. I tried to talk her into leaving him way before she finally did,” Tom said. He yelled out to Paul, who was picking up the last box on the pallet. “Did you hear that, Paul? Bo Reliford has been charged with Ducky’s murder!”

  “That’s great,” Paul replied.

  “So you felt Bo was the guilty party all along, Tom? Hmm, I was under the impression you felt sure Ducky had committed suicide. I’m surprised to hear you suspected her ex-husband after you told me how unhappy Ducky seemed to you, and that you didn’t feel it was beyond her to kill herself.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess I had a change of heart about it after I gave it more thought. I started thinking about Bo’s violent nature and realized it was no small wonder he didn’t kill her long before now. The main thing is that I’m happy Bo will be held responsible for her death, and justice will be served. I’m sure it will help bring closure to her family, too,” Tom said.

  “Yes, that is so true. Having the true nature of a loved one’s death up in the air, particularly if suicide is suspected, has to be very hard to accept and deal with. I know her death has been very tough on Quentin,” I said.

  “Yeah, whatever,” Tom grimaced and said. He was obviously not at all concerned about Ducky’s current husband’s emotional status. He seemed to dislike Quentin as much as he did Bo. I was beginning to think maybe he’d had more than just a crush on the librarian.

  After I signed the manifest and we went back inside the library, Paul locked the back door, and asked, “So it’s true? Bo’s in jail?”

  “Yes, but I’m still not convinced he’s the one who killed Ducky,” I told both men. “It doesn’t seem to me as if Bo would be clever enough to carry off a well-planned execution in such a way to make everyone think her death was at her own hands. I’m not even sure he could stay sober long enough to commit the murder.”

  When neither Paul nor Tom responded, I continued, “And as you might have heard already, my husband and I were nearly asphyxiated in the basement here the other day, by who we’re convinced was the same person who hung Ducky. Another scheme I doubt Bo Reliford would have the wherewithal to pull off.”

  After a few seconds of silence, Tom asked, “What made you so sure from the start that Ducky was murdered?”

  “She told me all about the things she was looking forward to doing during her retirement. She seemed excited about a number of things she’d planned to do, and new interests she wanted to get involved in, like ballroom dancing and gardening. She was also anxious to spend more time with her grandkids.”

  “I doubt that would have happened,” Tom said.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Quentin had a contentious relationship with her daughter, Barbara, so Ducky didn’t get to see Barbara and the grandkids very often,” Tom replied.

  “Where Barbara didn’t go, neither did Marissa and Bernie,” added Paul.

  “Paul’s right. Not spending time with her grandkids had nothing to do with her work taking up all her spare time,” Tom said. “But Ducky did tell me she wanted to buy a farm and put in a horse arena for Barbara and her kids to practice their equestrian events. Barbara was a champion barrel racer when she was younger. I think Ducky hoped it would help entice her daughter and grandkids to visit more often. I offered to sell her a couple of my finest horses for her grandkids to ride and practice their riding skills.”

  “So you still own horses?”

  “Yeah, a whole stable of them.”

  “Did Ducky agree to purchase some horses?” I asked.

  “No, she scoffed at the offer, saying my best stallions were not nearly good enough for her grandkids,” Tom replied. Tom was getting so wrapped up in his story, he was beginning to get antsy. His voice was getting louder, and beads of sweat were forming across his forehead. I glanced at Paul, who looked nervous and was staring at his friend with his eyebrows raised.

  I wasn’t sure where the conversation was headed, but I was beginning to smell a skunk in the woodpile.

  “Wow, that’s kind of harsh of her to say. As a successful jockey, and someone with a vast knowledge about horses, that had to be difficult to accept.” I was going out of my way to needle him, trying to jam a burr under this jockey’s saddle. I recalled Wendy telling me there had been a hair off a horse discovered on the noose. Tom probably spent a great deal of time with his horses. Could there be a connection there?

  “You’re damn right it was difficult to accept!” Now Tom was getting agitated. I casually took a small sip of coffee, which was just beginning to cool down enough to drink. I had a hunch Tom might say something I’d want to have Wyatt listen to later, so I acted like I’d felt my phone vibrate. I fiddled with it, pretending I wasn’t sure what I was doing. While I was fiddling with it, I opened the voice recorder app I had downloaded on the device and turned it on.

  “Oh, well, I’ll just turn the silly thing off, and whoever was calling can call me back later. I just got this phone a couple days ago, and I’d have better luck sending and receiving smoke signals than I’m having sending and receiving texts and phone calls,” I said, as I placed the phone in the pouch of my sweatshirt,
and looked up at Tom.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Melvard, now what were you saying?” I asked the tiny man, who was still obviously fuming.

  Before Tom could respond, Paul spoke up, “We need to get going, Tom, and let Ms. Starr get back to what she was doing so she doesn’t get stuck here all day. I’ve got to meet my girlfriend for lunch, and you probably need to go too, before you talk Ms. Starr’s ear off.”

  Tom nodded, his face flushing at Paul’s last comment. Paul had suddenly turned in to Chatty Cathy in his haste to get Tom to shut up and get both of them out of the library as quickly as possible. Thinking about Paul’s sudden ability to form full sentences, out loud even, made me think about something he’d said earlier in the conversation.

  “Tom, I thought you were here to clean?” I asked. Tom just looked down at the floor. “And, say, Paul, did you happen to get a chance to read the suicide note Ducky supposedly wrote?”

  “No, of course not. How could I have read it? I’m sure the detectives took it with them when they left the scene,” Paul said.

  “Yeah, that’s what I assumed too. But, it’s odd how you just got Ducky’s grandkids names wrong, and, even more curiously, wrong in exactly the same way the person that really wrote the suicide note did, because we all know Ducky didn’t write it.” I had both men’s full attention now. Paul looked like he’d been beaned with a fastball thrown by Nolan Ryan.

  “Huh?” He said, with a baffled expression on his face.

  “Her grandkids are named Melissa and Barney. You just called them Marissa and Bernie, as they were mistakenly referred to in the suicide note. Which, incidentally, was one of the primary reasons I was convinced Ducky didn’t write the note. She would know her grandchildren’s names, even if she only saw them on rare occasions. And I’m relatively sure that Ducky did not have Alzheimer’s.”

  “Well, I, I, I, um—” Paul managed to say, stuttering as he tried to come up with a response.