“What in blue blazes happened between the two of you?” Flossie asked. “Your cheeks turn as ripe as cherries every time you see him.”
“Ancient history,” I grumbled as I sank down a bit lower in my chair.
He was nothing more than a bad memory. He wasn’t the kind of guy I’d want to actually date.
“He led Tru on,” Tori said quietly. “In high school. She thought he was interested in her romantically when all he was doing was stealing from her. He wasn’t even interested in getting tutored in English. He stole the essay Tru had written for their senior English class and turned it in as his own. He took her only copy on the day it was due.”
The entire time Tori was speaking, I was hissing for her to stop. Tori was the only person in the world who knew the full story. I’d met Jace in the hallway. We’d been spending loads of time together. He needed to pass senior English. If he failed, he would lose his football scholarship to the University of Alabama. I promised to help him with his essay and make sure he could ace the last couple of tests. But when he was with me, he didn’t seem all that interested in studying. He spent the time we had together telling jokes and flirting and even (I cringed to remember) kissing me a little too.
It had all felt like one of those after-school specials, where the nerdy girl ends up with the football hero. If it happened on TV, why couldn’t it happen in real life? That’s what I’d told myself because I was a naive idiot.
After a couple of weeks of tutoring sessions that felt more like romantic dates, I convinced myself we were actually “a couple.”
“Hey, Jace,” I had sung as he passed by in the hallway at school. I leaned nonchalantly against my locker. Being the uncoordinated teen that I was, my attempt to look cool failed miserably. My legs ended up slipping out from under me. I landed on my hands and knees.
All of the kids in the hallway had started to laugh.
“Isn’t that the girl who wrote your essay?” Sissy Philips had asked as I helped myself back to my feet. My books and notebooks were scattered all across the hallway. “Or do all the ugly girls in the school fall down and worship at your feet?”
“All girls worship at my feet, not just the ugly ones,” he’d said and had looked me up and down as if he’d never seen me before.
“Jace, what is she saying? I didn’t write an essay for you.”
“I guess it wasn’t her.” Sissy had wrapped her arms around him as if she owned him. They started down the hall. The witch made a point of stepping on my notebooks as she passed. “She doesn’t look smart enough to write much more than her name.”
Jace had glanced back at me. I had tears in my eyes and my heart felt as crumpled as my papers, but he didn’t say a word in my defense.
“He was the world’s biggest jerk when we were in high school,” I told Flossie, while remembering the cold panic I’d felt when I’d realized my essay wasn’t in my backpack. Jace had stolen it.
“The jerk not only broke my girl’s heart but almost ruined her chances of getting into college. She had to beg our teacher for an extension and worked all night, frantically researching and writing a brand-new essay. Though it was as good as the first one—because that’s how Tru worked—Mrs. Scoggins only gave her half credit for it because it was a day late. Jace had been worried about his scholarship. Tru had been worried about keeping her scholarship as well—a full ride to the University of South Carolina. Not that Jace cared,” Tori explained.
“That’s rough.” Flossie sneered in his direction. “Jeez, he’s heading this way. Do you want me to spit on him?”
“Please, no.” I wanted to crawl under the table. “He’s nothing to me. Really.”
“You poor, poor dear.” Flossie rubbed my arm. “Keep telling yourself that, kid.”
A moment later, Jace slid into a seat next to me. He had two cups of coffee. He put one on the table in front of me. “I noticed yours was empty.”
Flossie looked at me, her perfectly plucked eyebrows shooting up to her hairline.
“Um . . . thanks,” I said.
Tori kicked my leg. I wasn’t sure what she wanted me to do or say differently. But since she’d kicked me rather hard, I reached down and cried, “Ow!”
“Are you okay?” Jace asked.
“Sorry, leg cramp.” I smiled despite my discomfort. “Did Anne explain what she was talking about on the phone? Do you think she took her upset over being dismissed during the press conference out on Luke?”
“You know I can’t discuss the details of an active investigation,” he said before taking a long sip of his coffee.
“Come on. Don’t give us that,” Tori cooed. “I heard that you came back to Cypress with something to prove. Do you want to tell us about that?” Her eyes glittered with mischief. “What wicked thing did you do in the Big Apple that got you kicked out?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jace said. He finished his cup of steaming hot coffee in one gulp.
“Let’s get back to talking about Anne.” After seeing Charlie with Luke, I needed to reassure myself that Anne was indeed our lead suspect. “You’ve never suspected her of any wrongdoing, isn’t that right?”
“That’s not precisely true, but she is new to—” he started to say.
“Did you know her aunt, the aunt she was talking to on the phone just a few hours ago, is Delanie Messervey?” Had Anne tried to make me look guilty of attacking Luke in the same way she’d tried to make me look guilty of killing Duggar? If she had, the joke was on her. I had an alibi this time, and he was sitting right next to me.
Jace leaned back in his chair and eyed me. “Delanie is Anne’s aunt, is that so?” He lifted his cup to his lips to take a sip before realizing it was empty. He gave his head a rueful shake and set the cup back down. “Oh, before I forget”—he reached into his pocket—“I saw this at the pharmacy and thought about Dewey.” He pulled out a feather that had been dyed purple and had a string attached to it. A piece of paper also fell out of his pocket. It fluttered to the floor.
“What’s that?” I pointed to the paper he’d dropped.
“This?” He waved the purple feather in front of my nose. I frowned at the gift, not sure I wanted it. “You hang it from a door handle. Dewey will think he’s chasing a bird and bat at it.” His smile flattened when I didn’t immediately take the feather. He placed it on the table in front of me and said softly, “It’ll make Dewey happy.”
“That is kind of you.” I shoved the feather into my purse. I didn’t like him being nice to me. It made me feel all itchy. I’d fallen for his nice act once before. Fallen far too hard. He was using me that time. Was he using me now? Was he using me to clean up his tarnished reputation?
Did he still think I killed Duggar? Was he pretending to be my friend in hopes that I’d slip up and prove my own guilt?
Well, I’d learned my lesson from him. I knew I needed to keep my guard up around men like Jace. I snorted. Handsome men. They couldn’t be trusted.
“What?” he asked. “Y’all are looking at me like I said something wrong.”
“It wasn’t anything you’ve said,” Flossie answered with a glower.
“I think it’s sweet,” Tori said, and yet she’d crossed her arms over her chest in a gesture of defense. “It’s sweet that you’re bringing our Tru kitty toys and all, but—”
“Don’t mind them,” I interrupted. “They’re worried about everything that’s been going on.”
“Well, I’m glad they’re worried. You should be too.” He pushed his chair back from the table and stood. “There is a killer on the loose.”
“Kind of hard to forget. That’s pretty much all anyone is talking about lately,” I said while Tori and Flossie both nodded in agreement.
“Still . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Anne said something about you that troubled me.”
I k
new it! It was like being in high school all over again. Girls talking behind each other’s backs. It was awful.
Unlike in high school, though, I managed to keep my cool. “Anne said something? Why am I not surprised? Oh, right. It’s because she’s been talking behind my back to the police ever since the murder.” My voice remained as cool as ice.
“She sounded concerned,” he said.
I just bet she was. I bet she was extremely concerned about keeping the police from looking too hard at her motives.
“She told me that you’ve been asking questions about Duggar’s murder. Loads of questions, Tru. She made it sound like you’re playing amateur detective. And I suspect that where one of you is playing, all three of you are.”
Flossie pursed her lips.
Tori smiled.
And I worked like the devil to keep my expression blank.
Jace snorted in frustration. He leaned toward me. “The three of you do understand that someone killed our town manager. Poking around and trying to find that person is akin to sticking your hand in a haystack in search of a rattlesnake.”
We continued our wall of silence.
“You know, rattlesnakes? Rattlesnakes are deadly,” he said.
More silence.
“Come on, Tru, just tell me you’ll stick to doing whatever it is you do at the library now.” He pointed to Flossie. “And you stick to writing your novels.” He pointed to Tori. “And you stick to brewing coffee.”
“All rightie, Detective.” Tori gave a mock salute. “We hear you loud and clear.”
“Good.” He looked back at me. His stern expression softened. “Will you be at the library tomorrow?”
“All day,” I said. “Should I have my lawyer meet me there?”
“No, just your cat.” With a nod to Flossie and Tori, he walked away, heading straight for the exit.
“He’s right, you know,” Flossie said as we watched him exit the building. “What we’re doing is dangerous.”
I scooped up the paper that had dropped out of his pocket. “Do you want to stop?”
“Of course not,” she answered quickly. “I haven’t had this much fun since my late husband Truman passed through heaven’s shining golden gates.”
I started to put the scrap of paper with the rest of the trash, but something stopped me. Likely some sort of sentimental feeling I should have been squashing. With a huff, I dropped the scrap of paper into my purse. As much as I hated to admit it, I was looking forward to seeing Jace again in the morning.
“How about you, Tori?” I asked. “Do you want to stop?”
“Are you kidding me? If there is anything I’ve learned in all my marriages, it’s that a woman should never let a man talk her out of doing anything.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The next morning, I arrived at the library to find Anne standing outside on the front steps. She looked unhappy.
“What’s going on?” I asked her.
“Mrs. Farnsworth isn’t here. She’s always here.”
That was the truth. You could set your clock by Mrs. Farnsworth’s punctuality. She arrived at the library at eight-thirty on the dot. It was nearly nine and there was no sign of her.
“I told her just a few days ago that she needed to give me a set of keys,” Anne said. “I have work to do.”
“But she’s never late,” I said with a frown.
“She is today.”
“Yeah, she is.” And that worried me. As I walked away, I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed the police department. I explained to the dispatch operator, Janie Curry (who also happened to be my next-door neighbor), that Mrs. Farnsworth wasn’t at the library.
“Honey”—Janie snapped the gum she was chewing—“that is worrying. I’ll send an officer by her house. I hope the poor dear didn’t take a tumble in the bathroom. That’s what happens to too many of our older folks. They trip over the bathroom rug or slip in the shower and that’s the end of them.” She snapped her gum again. “Oh, my lamb, I hope that’s not what happened here. Can’t imagine the town without Mrs. Farnsworth.”
“I can’t either,” I admitted. “Janie, could you please do me a favor and call my cell phone as soon as you hear something? We’re locked out of the library until she arrives.”
“Can do, sweetie,” she drawled. “Hanging up now.”
While Anne paced the library’s grand front steps, I headed across the street to the Sunshine Diner for a morning snack and coffee. The mayor spent several hours every morning there, “getting face time with his constituents.” I could use this opportunity to question him about whether he remembered anything new that he’d seen or heard on the day Duggar was killed. I also wanted to ask him about Luke’s relationship with Charlie.
The diner was packed with residents, but oddly the mayor wasn’t there. “Haven’t seen him,” an overworked server reported as she rushed by to deliver a plate of eggs and bacon to one of the tables.
“I heard he’s dealing with some kind of crisis at town hall,” Gwynne Hansy added. She was sitting at a nearby table. I knew the older woman—a shameless gossip—loved gardening and I just happened to have a gardening encyclopedia written by English gardener Monty Don in my tote bag.
I thanked her for the information by handing her the book and telling her to get it back to me in a couple of weeks.
She was thrilled. So thrilled, in fact, that she leaned toward me and whispered, “Heard there’s going to be an arrest for Duggar’s murder today.”
“Really?” I whispered back. “Do you know who?”
“Honey, if I knew that, I’d be telling everyone,” she said and then thanked me again for the book, which she was now hugging to her chest. She told me how much she missed the old library. I was tempted to tell her about the secret bookroom, but if that information ever fell into the hands of a gossip like Gwynne, the entire town would know about it before the day’s end.
I declined her offer to join her at the table. While talking to the mayor had seemed like a good idea, there was another source nearby who could tell me what was going on between Luke and Charlie and why they were acting so oddly last night.
A better source than the mayor, since I doubted he would want to talk to me (or anyone) about his son’s troubles. He didn’t even want the public to know that Luke was the one who had been beaten up at the library. I could only imagine how much it’d upset Mayor Goodvale when he learned how Luke had showed up at Perks last night looking as if he’d lost a fistfight.
I stepped outside and glanced down the street toward Tori’s coffee shop. A new shingle was hanging from the wooden canopy on a building near the library. “The Deckle Edge” had been painted on the sign in fancy looping white letters. The term “deckle edge” refers to a rough-cut edge of paper in a book, which leaves the edges of the pages of the bound book uneven. It was a popular process used in book production during the late nineteenth century. Some of the books in the secret bookroom—and even a few of the newer books—have that rough-cut deckle-edge look. What a perfect name for an antiquarian bookstore.
Naturally, Charlie would know all about deckle edges. He was, apparently, an expert on old books. So was Duggar.
Worry twisted in the pit of my stomach. We never should have left Charlie out of our investigation. Don’t get me wrong. I loved and trusted Tori. Generally, she could read people better than I read books. But when it came to the men in her life, it was as if all her instincts shut down. We should have never taken her word that he was a good guy (even if he seemed like one).
The bookshop’s large display window—the one the thief had smashed—had been replaced with a double-paned window that looked thick enough to repel any future break-in attempts. Several old books were displayed quite artistically in the window.
A “Closed” sign hung on the shop’s front door, but the lights were on.
I knocked.
For a few minutes nothing happened. I was about to give up and head down the street to Perks when I heard Charlie call out, “We’re closed.”
“It’s Tru,” I called back.
“Just a minute.” It took a full minute for him to get to the door and for the old brass lock to click.
The door swung open. Charlie glared at me, making him look more dangerous than ever. Immediately regretting my impulsive decision to talk with him alone, I took a step backward. “This doesn’t look like a good time,” I said.
He growled, actually growled. He sounded like a wild animal. “When is it ever a good time in this money pit?”
That’s when I noticed his dark blue button-up shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and his forearms were dripping wet.
“Plumbing trouble?” I asked.
“The worst. When I came down this morning, there was water all over the floor. Thank goodness I have all the boxes of books set up on tables. Could have lost tens of thousands of dollars in inventory.” He started to run his fingers through his hair but stopped himself at the last moment. He glared at his wet hand in disgust. “And the only plumber I managed to reach on the phone can’t get here until tonight to just look at it, so I’m trying to fix it”—he sucked in a sharp breath—“myself.”
“Have you turned off the water to the building?” I asked. That was pretty much the extent of my plumbing knowledge. There were, however, several books in the secret bookroom on the topic. Not that I could get to them with Mrs. Farnsworth missing and the library locked up. Well, I could pick the back door lock again, but I didn’t think that would be wise to do in broad daylight.
“Yeah, the water’s turned off. If I hadn’t done that right away, there’d be a flood gushing out this door and rushing down the street by now.” Before I could make my apologies for bothering him and leave, he opened the door wider and stepped aside. “Despite the mess this morning, I’m glad to see you. There’s something I think we need to talk about.” When I hesitated, he added, “It’s about the murder.”
The Broken Spine Page 16
