Had the mayor lied about being with Luke to protect his son? Did he suspect his son of murder? And had he visited Mrs. Farnsworth yesterday to put pressure on her to recant whatever she’d told Fisher? Was that why he didn’t seem at all worried about his son’s arrest?
I put a star next to Luke’s name and wrote “likely killer.”
Next on the list were Anne Lowery and Mrs. Farnsworth. Neither of them had an alibi (that I knew of) and both of them had their own reasons for wanting to kill Duggar.
I put a question mark beside both their names.
Finally, at the bottom of the list were Tori and Charlie. Charlie had connections to Luke, but other than that, I couldn’t come up with a good reason why he would kill Cypress’s town manager. Sure, Charlie might have planned to sell the books Luke was going to steal, but I couldn’t imagine a middleman becoming so invested in a book sale that he’d resort to murder. And Duggar’s death certainly hadn’t helped Charlie in any way that I could find.
Only Tori, out of everyone on the list, had actually benefited from Duggar’s untimely death. Though it hurt me to do so, I had no choice but to ink a question mark next to her name. And add a star.
“This is getting me nowhere.” I pushed the notebook away.
I needed to clear the noise from my mind. Perhaps then I could look at this problem from a fresh perspective. After scratching Dewey behind the ears, I headed out to the backyard shed where I kept my mountain bike.
The humid heat already seared as it did on any given August day. To ward off the dangers of overheating, I wore a light-colored tank top. I filled an insulated water bottle with ice-cold water. The water bottle with its book-themed pattern had been a gift from Tori on my last birthday. I took it nearly everywhere with me.
I then sorted through the library books in my tote bag and tucked several into a small saddlebag attached to my bike, including both the library copy of The Maltese Falcon and the copy Charlie had given me. The plan was to hand out books, talk to my neighbors about their thoughts on Duggar’s murder, talk to my father about the two copies of The Maltese Falcon, and use my bike ride to clear my mind. Once my gear was ready, I tightened the bike helmet on my head, clicked its strap closed, and set out on my ride.
Although I lived in town, the streets in Cypress were not much different than the rural roads one would find in the middle of acres of farmland. The asphalt was pitted. The edge of the road often dropped abruptly off onto low, grassy shoulders. As long as a rider understood the situation and kept a keen eye out for cars and trucks, the ride wasn’t exactly treacherous.
Lake Street, which bisected Main Street, was the main artery that led from the center of town toward the cottages and mansions lining Lake Marion. After making several stops along the way, I turned onto Lake Street. The street ended at a public fishing pier and boat landing.
Turn right onto West Marion Drive, and the road passed by a fish camp, three shacks, and two mobile homes before coming up to the mayor’s lake house. It was a generously sized log cabin built by the mayor and his brothers nearly twenty years ago. Past that, the road continued up a steep hill and into a neighborhood of new and expensive lake houses.
Turn left from Lake Street onto East Marion Drive, and the lake spread out like a deep blue void between occasional copses of cypress. The land here was lower, swampier. The asphalt road was even more crumbly and pitted from seasonal flooding. About a quarter mile down the road was my dad’s lake house, a battered old shack built in the 1950s.
The sun was high over the lake by the time my dad’s sagging, unpainted shack came into view. I parked my bike next to his front porch, stepped over the rotted steps, and knocked loudly on his door.
“He’s not home,” a voice from next door shouted.
“Gone fishing?” I called back to Marianne Carsdale, a widowed schoolteacher who’d lived in her tidy little white house for as long as I could remember. She leaned heavily on her cane.
“He should be churching. That’s where I’m headin’.” She straightened her peach-colored flowered hat. “But he took that old boat of his out onto the water instead. Won’t see him again until tonight.”
“That lake is my dad’s church,” I said.
She scoffed at that and then quoted several lines of scripture. “Why ain’t you at that church of yours?” she demanded. “Mama Eddy won’t like sittin’ alone.”
“My mama never sits alone, even at church.” But she was right. Mama would come looking for me later today. Every Sunday she expected me to sit on her left in the third pew from the front. “After the past couple of weeks I’ve had, I needed some exercise and fresh air to clear out my head.”
“Clear out your head?” She snorted a short laugh. “With all this pollen in the air? More like fill it up with congestion.” She hobbled down her steps toward her ancient Oldsmobile, which was the size of a yacht.
“Wait, Miss Marianne. I have something you might like to borrow.” I pulled a book about growing roses out of my bag and held it up for her to see. “Dad said you’ve been complaining about mites.”
“Lovey, those spider mites are eating my plants all up.” She looked at the ragged bushes growing around her front porch and shook her head.
“Chapter five offers some remedies for that.” I jogged over and handed her the book.
She tilted her head and looked at me askance. “I’d heard you’d been acting like a one-woman human library lately.”
“Does that bother you?” I asked with a smile.
She pressed her lips together and frowned as she considered my question. “I’d be ungrateful if I complained about someone carrying out a public service without expecting anything in return. You ain’t expecting anything, are you?”
“Not a thing.” I pantomimed drawing an X over my heart. “Just give that book back to me when you’re done with it, and I’ll make sure it gets to someone else who might need it.”
I started back toward my bike. Before I could take a step, Marianne grabbed hold of my arm. “Watch yourself, now,” she said. Her voice had deepened. “Not everyone around here thinks what you’re doing is right. I’ve heard whispers that someone is downright furious about your book-lending practices.”
“Really?” That surprised me. “Who?”
She shook her head. “Didn’t catch a name. But as I said to your daddy the other day, ‘That girl has got to take care if she doesn’t want to end up all battered and bruised like that Luke boy.’” She tsked. “Still can’t believe that boy would kill a man. But there’s some rotten doings going around. And it seems to be stirring up all sorts of violence.”
I thanked her and promised I’d be careful.
As I pedaled down the road, her warning troubled me. Someone in Cypress was furious? That was the word Marianne had used, and she wasn’t one to overstate a matter. Someone was furious that I’d been lending out books? That didn’t make a lick of sense. And Marianne was worried that same person might try and hurt me? That made even less sense.
I had promised her I’d watch my back, and I planned to. But that wasn’t going to stop me from keeping the secret library going.
Nothing in this world could do that.
* * *
• • •
I pedaled faster and faster. With each revolution of the bike chain, my indignation grew. How dare someone take offense at my efforts to help this town? Duggar should have never taken away the printed books. If there was anyone to be furious at, it was the dead town manager. Not me.
Speak of the devil . . .
I rounded a bend in the road and Duggar’s midcentury-modern house came into view. The town manager’s house, which sat across the street from the lake, was bathed in the shadows of the towering cypress trees surrounding it. But there was a light shining inside one of the rooms. And the front door sat open.
I pulled my bike to t
he side of the road and took a long sip from my water bottle. Duggar had lived alone, but his parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles and assortment of cousins all lived in Cypress. Any one of them could be at his house sorting through his things. There was no reason for a chill to be tiptoeing up my spine, especially when the daytime temperature was steadily rising into the mid-nineties.
The tingling at the back of my neck reminded me of Marianne’s warnings to tread with care. Perhaps I should keep my head down and continue on my ride past his house.
Oh, who was I kidding? I had no plans of leaving, spine tingling or not. If I’d learned anything from those Nancy Drew mysteries, it was that any intrepid sleuth would see an open door as an invitation to investigate.
I parked my bike and was about to march up to the house when a movement at the door caught my attention. A tall, slender man emerged from the house carrying two boxes, one stacked on the other. At first his face was in shadow.
He was probably one of Duggar’s relatives. I raised my hand in greeting. Maybe he could give me more information about Duggar’s obsession with old books.
I’d barely called a halting “Hello!” when the man turned down the driveway. He walked toward a sleek black sports sedan, providing me with a clear view of his face.
That man wasn’t a cousin. Or an uncle. Or anyone from Cypress.
The man carrying those boxes was—
“Charlie?” I called.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
What was Charlie doing carrying boxes out of Duggar’s home? I don’t think he heard me call out his name over the sputtering, coughing engine of a dusty white sedan that pulled into the driveway.
Grandle, the squat loan shark who’d destroyed library property, jumped out and jogged toward Charlie. He grabbed one of the boxes. Charlie didn’t protest.
What in the world was Charlie doing with him?
The two of them spoke in low tones as they loaded the boxes into the luxury car’s open trunk. As they headed back toward the house, Charlie glanced in my direction.
He stopped.
“What?” the other man grunted. He turned toward me as well.
They both frowned.
Had I caught them doing something they shouldn’t be doing? Were they robbing Duggar’s house? Was this the motive I’d been searching for? Did Charlie need Duggar out of the way so he could get his hands on Duggar’s expensive collection of books? Delanie had said book collectors could be ruthless.
Was Charlie furious that I’d been running an underground lending library because that meant I’d taken the books he’d wanted to sell—books that Luke was going to steal for him—and kept them in the secret bookroom? Marianne had warned me to be careful.
And here I was, blithely walking into . . . into . . . who knew what!
Grandle reached out his muscular arm and pointed at me. My heart jumped up into my throat.
“Hey!” he shouted and took a step toward me.
I ran back to my bike and jumped on it.
“Hey!” Charlie pointed and shouted too.
Great Caesar’s ghost! They were coming after me!
I pedaled as fast and as hard as possible away from the house. Too afraid to look back to see if they were following in their cars, I made turns onto unfamiliar dirt roads. A car’s engine roared behind me. Like, directly behind me. Was that the roar of that dusty sedan? My breath came in short spurts as I realized a bike couldn’t outrun a car. I made an abrupt turn down a bumpy path that wove through a thick forest of trees. The trail was too narrow for a car to follow. Even so, I didn’t stop pedaling.
What was Charlie doing at Duggar’s house? Why was Grandle there helping him? And why were they chasing me?
I needed to warn Tori. She was not going to like hearing this. Why did my BFF always pick the wrong man? Perhaps there simply weren’t any right men available in Cypress. It wasn’t as if I’d found any. Ever.
There’s Jace, my mind whispered.
“He’s the worst,” I said aloud.
Not even a second later, my bike’s front wheel hit a tree root. The bike flipped back end over front. And I went flying.
I hit the ground headfirst. Thank goodness I was wearing my helmet.
I stayed where I’d landed, facedown on the hard-packed trail, breathing carefully. Testing this arm and that leg, making sure I hadn’t broken anything important. I felt a twinge of pain in my left wrist. But it was no more than a twinge. Good.
Still, I didn’t dare move. A leaf tickled my nose. Something scampered in the trees above my head. An osprey cried in the distance. My ears felt slightly stretched as I continued to listen.
Grandle could be lumbering down the narrow trail right now, searching for me.
I listened a moment longer. Hearing nothing but nature, I pushed up onto my knees. I listened a bit more. Still nothing.
My lungs finally started working again. I drew in a deep breath and then another. Feeling stronger, I pushed up to my feet. My legs felt strong. After brushing off my skinned knees, I picked up my bike. The front wheel wobbled and then fell off.
“That’s not good.” I took my cell phone from my pocket. After saying a quick prayer of forgiveness for cursing technology these past several weeks, I started to call the first person who came to mind—Tori. Not only did she need to know about Charlie, but she had always been the go-to friend I called whenever I needed, well, anything.
The phone rang once. I quickly canceled the call.
No, I couldn’t call her. I couldn’t drag her into this. I didn’t even understand what this was. All I knew was that I thought a dangerous man had followed me. He could still be out there on the road, waiting for me to ride back out. I couldn’t ask Tori—or any of my friends—to come pick me up. Not when doing so might be leading them directly into the arms of a—
Was Grandle a killer?
Had he somehow slipped into the library and killed Duggar? No. Not slipped in. Had Charlie invited a killer into the library? It would have been easy enough for him to let Grandle through the back door when we were all packing up the books and carrying them to the basement.
So no, I couldn’t call Tori. Not yet. Doing so might get her killed.
I needed to call someone skilled in handling a potentially deadly situation.
My fingers stumbled over the numbers on the screen as I dialed the number he’d given me. The same number I’d glanced at before tossing his card into the bottom of my purse. Somehow, those digits had imprinted themselves on my brain. I’d worry about the reason my mind had held on to those numbers later. Right now, I was grateful to know them.
“Detective Bailey,” he answered practically after the first ring.
“Jace,” I whispered.
“Tru, hey, what’s going on?” He chuckled lightly. Did he think my whispery voice sounded sexy? “Is Dewey enjoying lazing around with you on this hot Sunday?”
“What?” His question shouldn’t have surprised me. He’d had a soft spot for my cat from the first moment he met him. “No, I’m not home. You were right. I’m in danger.” I hoped that didn’t sound like a come-on. I didn’t want to give him the wrong impression. I was still upset with him for what he’d done in high school, wasn’t I? “Grandle, the loan shark, is chasing me. I think. I escaped into the woods but crashed my bike. And . . . and I’m afraid to go back to the road, because he might be waiting there.”
“Wait. You crashed? Motorbike or bicycle?” His tone immediately changed. He sounded all business. “Are you injured? Do you need EMS? Where are you?”
“I’m okay. Just bruised. My bicycle will need work.” I told him about my winding escape down several dirt roads. “To be honest, I don’t know where I am.”
“That’s okay. I can get a lock on your location through your cell phone. Are you in a safe location? I mean, are you away from the trail?
”
“Um . . .” As I moved off the trail, through a thick clump of bushes, and down a hill, I asked, “You can trace my location through my cell phone? That seems awfully . . . stalkerish.”
“Not me personally. The police department.”
“Oh. That makes sense.”
“Keep your phone turned on.” After a pause he said, “You didn’t answer my first question. Are you in a safe place?”
“I’m working on it. But—ouch!—I just stepped into a blackberry bush.” The thorns dug into my bare legs. “Oh, that smarts.”
“Try to find a less prickly hiding place. Stay on the line. I’m going to put you on hold and call the station.”
I backed out of the bush and landed in a tall (and thankfully soft) clump of grass. This was much better.
“Tru? Are you still there?”
“I’m here.”
“Good. You had me worried for a moment when you didn’t answer me. I’m putting you on hold now.”
“Okay,” I whispered.
It felt as if I were squatting forever in that grass. Mosquitoes buzzed around my head and gnats nipped at my ankles.
“Tru? Are you still there?” he asked a hundred years later. Or maybe it was simply a hundred mosquito bites later.
“Haven’t moved,” I said.
“Good. Hold tight. I’m on my way. I’m going to hang up now. Put your phone on silent. I don’t want your phone ringing or beeping. It might give away your hiding place if someone is out there looking for you.” I hadn’t thought of that.
“Will do.” I disconnected the call and then turned off the sound on my phone.
After a while most of the mosquitoes and gnats flew away in search of fresh prey. White fluffy clouds floated in a brilliant blue sky overhead. Two playful fox squirrels chased each other up and down a nearby tree. A soft wind tried its best to cool the humid August air. It was really a lovely Sunday, a perfect day to be out in nature. Too bad I couldn’t enjoy it.
The Broken Spine Page 20
