by Krista Davis
I laughed. “It would be very easy to mistake as worthless.”
Before Eric left, I remembered the flowers. “You must think I’m horrible. With all that’s been going on I forgot to thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful!”
Eric stiffened. I’d never seen him look quite like that before.
“I didn’t send you flowers. Of course”—he looked down at his shoes before meeting my gaze—“now I wish I had.” Before my eyes, he turned into a sheepish schoolboy. “Who sent them?”
I couldn’t tell if he was serious or teasing me. I went with teasing. “Very funny.”
“I’m not joking. Maybe it was a customer? Did you go above and beyond to get someone a special book that’s hard to find?”
“Not recently.” I grinned at him. “Are you pulling my leg?”
“No. I truly wish I had thought to send you flowers. Now I’m a little worried. Sounds like you have an admirer.”
Eric left soon thereafter, still teasing me about the flowers. The sad thing was that I truly couldn’t imagine who had sent them.
Later on, when I was snuggled up in bed with Peaches it dawned on me that they might be from Norman.
* * *
In the morning, I pulled on cropped jeans and a sleeveless cotton top. Pawing through Dolly’s books would probably be a dusty undertaking.
Peaches snarfed her meal of chicken stew while I sipped my tea and ate a fried egg and avocado toast. When I was ready to leave, Peaches sat by the door, as though she wanted to go to the bookstore with me again.
I scooped her up. “Not today, sweetie. But maybe I’ll take you to work tomorrow.”
When I set her on the floor, she scampered over to the French doors and watched the birds in the garden, which made me feel better. I locked the door behind me, but before I made it down the driveway, Mr. DuBois swung open the back door of the mansion. “Florrie! Florrie!” A wisp of newspaper fluttered in his hand as he lurched toward me on crutches. He handed it to me. “I fear this has something to do with Maxwell’s mysterious hours. I found it in his dustbin.”
Search of Morrissey Site
A collection of newspaper clippings about the 1970s disappearance of two local children has turned up in a search of Ayres Morrissey’s home in Maryland, prompting the father of one of the girls to request a more thorough search of the site. The papers were discovered pursuant to a search warrant issued after Morrissey’s arrest on charges of surveillance with prurient intent.
The articles chronicle the investigation of the disappearance of Caroline Maxwell, heiress to the Maxwell fortune, and Bonnie Beaulaurier. The girls vanished from the birthday party of a friend in Washington, DC, and have never been found.
At the time of the party, Morrissey worked on a construction crew in the neighborhood. Beaulaurier’s father has requested a search of the grounds of the Morrissey home by cadaver dogs as well as ground-penetrating radar. Authorities say an excavation is likely in the event that the dogs or the radar indicate the presence of human remains.
I heard my sharp intake of breath. “They might have located his daughter! The professor must be beside himself. I wouldn’t know whether to be relieved that she may have been found or sad to know she was probably dead.”
“Not so fast. Stories like Caroline’s are perennial fodder for newspapers. I fear we are all mesmerized by unsolved mysteries. Maxwell saved the first few articles about possible leads, but there came a day when he threw them all out. I suspect he couldn’t take it anymore. Each time hope springs anew, only to be dashed again in the end. Now he tosses them, and I retrieve them from the dustbin and add them to a bundle in my closet.”
“It must be cruelest kind of misery for the professor and Jacquie. No wonder he’s acting out of sorts.”
I thanked Mr. DuBois and headed for Dolly’s house, wondering if finding Caroline’s bones would be a blessing or torment for her parents.
Tall trees provided some shade from the sun as I strolled along the sidewalks admiring the beautiful homes. It was so quiet that I could hear birds singing.
I walked up the steps to Dolly’s house and knocked on the front door while opening it. Everything looked exactly the same. I half expected Dolly to answer the door to her apartment when I rapped on it.
Maisie swung the door open. “Hi. Thanks for coming.”
I stepped inside. Dolly’s organized clutter had devolved into a wild mess. “What happened?”
“You sound like the police. They were here late last night.” She wiped her eyes. “Apparently Mom was murdered. I don’t know why that should come as a surprise to me. Mom was obnoxiously pushy. There’s no telling who she aggravated.”
“I’m so sorry, Maisie.”
“The police were pretty miffed when they saw what I had done here. What did they expect? That I would sit around doing nothing? If they were on the ball, they would have known sooner that she had been murdered. They asked me a million questions, like they think I killed her! I have an alibi, though. I was way down in South Carolina at the time. I’ll admit, there were times when she did things that, well, that ruined my life.”
Maisie shuddered. “I can still hear her saying, ‘Honey, this is for your own good.’ But it never was. At this point, all I want is to get rid of her junk, get out of here, and never come back. But first, I have to go through everything. You knew my mom. She was likely to hide something of value. I have a limited amount of time off from work, so I have get it done.”
“What do you do?” I asked.
“I’m a buyer for an upscale women’s clothing chain based in Charleston, South Carolina. You’d think they would give you weeks to take care of everything when a parent passes away. Instead, they call me every five minutes with questions. Anyway, I thought I’d better have a look around before I turn everything over to a stranger to sell.”
Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean you, of course!”
I believed her. The books hadn’t been touched. “Have you found The Florist yet?”
“Olivia and Priss were telling me more about it last night. I’m sick that I don’t know what Mom did with it.” She glanced around. “That’s part of the reason I’m tearing her house apart. It has to be here somewhere, doesn’t it?”
I wondered how much she had been told about her mother’s death. Should I mention that it might have been stolen?
A knock on the door cut my thoughts short.
When she opened the door, a woman’s voice sang, “Maisie!”
As far as I could tell, she was a childhood friend who had learned of Dolly’s demise. Leaving them to catch up, I set to work, neatly separating contemporary books from those that might have greater value.
It wasn’t as though I was eavesdropping. After all, I happened to be in the room where they were speaking.
“Mother was always such a pack rat,” said Maisie. “I never gave any thought to the fact that getting rid of all her junk would fall to me. You can’t even imagine what a pain this is. I don’t want anything of hers.”
“I know how you feel,” said her friend. “I’m not into clutter. But my sister collects Hummel figurines. Looks like your mom had quite a few.”
“Help yourself!”
“I wouldn’t be so quick to give them away, Maisie,” said the friend. “They’re very collectible. Have you hired someone to clean out the house?”
“Not yet.”
“I’ll send Percy McAllister by.”
I turned to look at them, wondering if I should say something. Dolly would come back to haunt the house if she knew that Percy was selling her things.
“You remember him, don’t you?” asked the friend. “Percy went to high school with us.”
When Maisie didn’t respond, the friend said, “How could you forget him? Percy is the one who set off firecrackers in the school library.”
I shuddered at the thought. That probably resulted in a terrible fire.
Nevertheless, the two of them laughed at the memory.
“I do remember him. I had no idea that Percy still lived around here,” said Maisie. “I haven’t had any breakfast. How about we grab a bite and catch up?”
“Absolutely!” In a low tone that I could hear perfectly well, her friend asked, “Can you trust her here alone?”
My back was to them, and I was kneeling on the floor. I smiled.
“Oh sure. There’s nothing here of any real value anyway.”
Nothing but The Florist, I thought.
Maisie walked over to me. “I picked up some boxes yesterday. Maybe you could put the books in them so they can be removed? There are more books in the studio on the third floor.” She handed me a key. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
The two of them gabbed nonstop as they walked out the door. I was glad that Maisie had made contact with an old friend, but I felt worse than ever for Dolly.
The second the door closed, I got to my feet and examined the rug where Dolly had lain. I sighed. In my mind’s eye, I could see her there. The rug bore a faint buff color where it should have been white, but the stain could have been there for years. I touched it. It wasn’t damp. That was probably just as well for Maisie. Would she have felt differently if she had seen her mom outstretched on the rug? Would she have been more sentimental about her mother’s passing?
Maisie seemed to swing back and forth. I had seen her tears, but she had tried to sound nonchalant in front of her friend. Maybe her mother’s death was harder on her than she had expected.
I walked over to the door and snapped the deadbolt so no one would walk in and surprise me. I returned to the spot where Dolly had fallen, dropped to my knees, and peered under the sofa and chairs.
My hopes shattered. There was nothing under the furniture. Not even dust. I crawled around the room anyway, checking under everything. No luck. If the police had found The Florist, surely they would have mentioned it to Maisie.
A movement in the corner of my eye caught my attention. I turned to find a little gray mouse staring at me, as appalled to see me as I was to see him. We watched each other warily for a few seconds, neither of us moving. The mouse gave in first and scurried off into another room.
Dusting off my jeans, I stood up and gazed around. Where would I have hidden a priceless book?
Unfortunately, sometimes the best hiding place was right out in the open among other similar objects. No one would have noticed the plain leather which surrounded the pages if it stood between other books. I returned to work.
An hour later, I had found a very early copy of Winnie-the-Pooh but didn’t know the original copyright date off the top of my head. I set it aside with a few other older books. The boxes were filling rapidly with mysteries, romances, and popular fiction. Dolly had loved to read.
After two hours, I paused and stepped out in the backyard for some fresh air. It had turned into a hot, humid summer day. The champagne glasses still stood next to the lantern where they had been the night Dolly died. The bottle of champagne had disappeared, though.
Dolly had collected cute yard art that was no doubt an embarrassment to Maisie, but the gnomes, goat, dachshund, and mule made of wire and tin made me laugh and reminded me of Dolly and her sense of humor.
I returned to the house, took the key Maisie had handed me, and left Dolly’s apartment. I climbed one flight of stairs. Olivia and Priss had decorated their front door with a wreath covered with artificial flowers that were azure as the summer sky and the rich yellow of butter. A little bench next to their door sported a needlepointed pillow in matching colors.
I continued up the stairs to the top floor. It wasn’t spooky, but lacked the warmth of Olivia and Priss’s door. I slid the key into the lock. When I turned it, a bolt groaned as though it didn’t get much use.
The hinges squealed when I swung the door open. The attic was dark as an underground basement.
Chapter 12
I felt the wall for a light switch before entering. Hadn’t I seen a window from the outside?
I touched a wall switch and flicked it. An overhead light flickered as if the bulb might burn out soon. It was a Tiffany-style fixture that didn’t offer much light. I wondered if Dolly had scored it at a yard sale.
The ceiling had a steep pitch, which I had suspected from the roofline. The wall in the rear of the room was brick. To the front, the walls cut into the ceiling as though they led to a dormer window. But black plastic had been taped over the spot where a window should be. A corner was coming loose. I probably should have left it alone, but I pulled on it gently. The plastic gave way, and I could see a lacy curtain that had probably been white once. It was now buff, almost the color of parchment. It felt stiff in my hands. I suspected it had been there for a long time, and had been discolored by the sun. I stuck the tape back up as well as I could. Dolly had probably wanted to keep the cold out in the winter.
I turned around. The unit had clearly been a studio apartment at one time. A refrigerator, tiny stove, and cabinets lined one wall. A leather sofa in a warm ombre cognac thick with dust stood in the middle of the room. At the rear, the aged brick wall gave it a bohemian feel. An old library ladder was attached to a rod on bookshelves that ran across part of the brick wall.
It was actually a very cool studio apartment. I wondered why it wasn’t rented. Maybe it was too cold in the winter? I glanced around for radiators and spied an ancient one.
I ventured toward the ladder and tested it to be sure it would hold my weight. If the dust was any indication, no one had been up here in quite a while.
I climbed the ladder and began at the top. Dust filled the air when I blew at it. One thing was for sure, I wouldn’t find The Florist up here. Dolly would have disturbed the dust had she hidden it in this room.
Shelf by shelf, I unloaded books and set them in piles on the floor, differentiating between those of possible interest and plain old paperbacks that had been issued en masse.
As I emptied the third shelf, which was about three feet off the ground, I accidentally hit the back panel with my hand. It wobbled as though it wasn’t very strong. I made a mental note to be careful. I certainly didn’t want to damage anything.
I worked my way down the wall, clinging to the ladder and bringing down armfuls of books. Maybe Maisie could pay some neighborhood kid to pack them into boxes. The floor looked a mess with my finely curated stacks. While many of the books were old, few appeared to be of value.
I was getting tired and thinking about continuing after work the next day, but I climbed the ladder one more time and loaded my arms with books. As I leaned back a bit to make my way down the ladder, I swayed and in a desperate attempt to avoid falling, I rocked forward. Heavy books spilled out of my arms and crashed through the thin wall of wood backing the bookcase.
I grabbed the ladder with both hands to stabilize myself. What had I done? In horror, I peered at the damage. I would have to pay to have it repaired. Who would put such a flimsy backing on a bookcase in the first place?
There was a space between the brick wall and the back panel of the bookcases. I had read about secret hiding places along those lines. To the uninitiated, the bookcase appeared to be flush but there was usually a panel that slid open for access to a secret compartment.
I carefully dismounted the ladder, stood back, and examined the wall. Could Dolly have hidden The Florist up here without disturbing the dust? She surely hadn’t anticipated her sudden death, but might have thought it would be safe from anyone who would want to steal it.
I examined the floor. It didn’t show the same kind of dust that was on the shelves so there weren’t any tracks of shoeprints.
I studied the wall again. I hadn’t emptied all the shelves yet, but if there was a special door or moving panel, it should be accessible with most of the shelves loaded. Otherwise it would be a huge hassle to open it.
Stepping closer, I pressed the panel where I had emptied the shelves. The key to opening a secret compartment could be hidden by books on one of the oth
er shelves. If a person knew which one, it would be a small task to move them.
For the next hour, I continued taking down books. When the entire shelving system was empty, I didn’t see anything that looked like a latch. For that matter, there wasn’t anything at all on the back panel.
I tried pushing against it in the hope that something might slide. It did. The panel I had damaged moved, and I was able to slide it across behind the other panel and see all the way to the brick wall where a skeleton looked at me, not six inches from my face.
Chapter 13
I screamed and fell backward onto the floor. Shudders rippled through me, and I screamed again.
I scrambled to my feet, ran out of the room, and slammed the door behind me. My breath came heavy and hard. My heart pounded. I wasn’t usually such a sissy, but this time my knees gave. I sat on the top step, trying to pull myself together.
I glanced back at the door. I knew perfectly well that it couldn’t open by itself, but I still kept a wary eye on it.
Maybe the skeleton was a fake. Maybe the person who built the bookcase thought it would be a funny gag? Or a deserved shock to someone who snooped and managed to open the panel? I had read about people hiding things when they built houses. But they usually hid letters or photographs, not skeletons.
I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. I needed reinforcements. Eric would be the perfect choice. Or Veronica.
But they would make fun of me for being afraid of the skeleton. And what if it was a stupid Halloween gag that someone hid there as a joke? I would never hear the end of it.
There was only one thing to do. Go back inside and look at the thing. After all, even if it had been a person once, it couldn’t hurt anyone now.
I sucked up all the courage I had and opened the door again. I propped it open with a couple of heavy books, which I knew was silly, but it gave me some degree of comfort that I could leave in haste.
Walking slowly, I approached the skeleton. The skull leaned to the left where it was propped against a brick column. Bits of old yarn clung to the ribs. A moldy, greenish-colored fabric was fastened at the waist. The bones in its feet bore the ancient plastic of decayed sneakers. I was no expert, but I didn’t think the skeleton was a fake.
