“How could any of them want to?” Emily said. “They’ve known me for two weeks.”
I laid the plastic bag on the dashboard and stared through the windshield, my thoughts fluttering around one word: library.
“We need to return to the mansion,” I said, starting the car. “And when we get there, we’re going to find out what the deal is with that library.”
CHAPTER 17
Hoping to keep a low profile, I parked next to the Fairfield Mansion’s service entrance and was relieved to find the door wasn’t locked. My plan had been to head to the third floor by way of a back staircase, but Brodie scuttled that plan when he walked by just as we were entering the building. If looks could kill, Emily and I would have been dead on the spot.
“Sorry for coming in the back,” Emily said, her voice taking on an appeasing tone.
“I don’t care about that,” he said, storming up the narrow hall that led to the door. “How could you do it?”
“Calm down,” Emily said. “What are you talking about?”
“I take it you mean the police,” I said. I carefully shut the service door behind me, resisting the temptation to slam it. What was wrong with these people?
“You’re darn right I do. They were just here, questioning all of us. Like I need the extra tension.”
“If you didn’t have anything to do with the thefts, what’s the problem?” I asked.
Exasperated, Brodie shoved both hands into his hair, his fingers disappearing into that dark, moussed forest of his. “Why didn’t you come to us first?” he snarled. “This should have been kept in house.”
It was a preposterous thing to say, and I told him so.
“Were Olivia and Charlotte arrested?” Emily asked.
“They admitted to stealing the headstones and were taken in for questioning.”
“Were the headstones recovered?” I said.
“Yes. Big whoop. Do you have any idea what you two have done to the Smithwell Historical Society?”
“Do you have any idea what Olivia and Charlotte did to Mount Hope?” I said, pushing my way past him.
Brodie sidestepped me and blocked my way. “You can’t come in here.”
Fearing for Minette’s safety, I slanted my body so I wouldn’t bump into him. “And you were so friendly last night. Informative, even.”
“I didn’t know you had such a big mouth then,” he said.
“Knock it off, Brodie,” Emily said. “Were we supposed to ignore what we saw? Stealing children’s headstones is wrong. Do I have to tell you that?”
“You should have given them a chance to return the headstones so you didn’t involve the society,” he said.
Either the man was part of the thievery—I doubted it—or he was terribly naive. “Do you think those were the first two headstones they’ve ever stolen?”
It was obvious the thought had never entered his mind. Maybe he was indeed naive, not miserly.
“Why do you think Charlotte joined the society?” I added.
“Look, Brodie,” Emily said, putting a hand on his shoulder, “we just wanted to return the headstones to their rightful place. Can you understand that? Two children’s headstones. If you could have seen the sexton—he was so upset. Olivia even made rubbings from those headstones and hung them on her walls.”
Brodie grudgingly admitted that Olivia’s actions were at best cold-hearted.
“If they return the headstones undamaged, I’m sure the sexton won’t press charges,” she added. “In a few days, it’ll blow over. Besides, the police have bigger fish to fry.”
My friend had a knack for assuaging tempers. I, on the other hand, lacked the patience for such work. “We’re going upstairs,” I said.
“You can’t just walk in here,” Brodie said.
“I can,” Emily said, “and if you’re allowed to bring a guest, which you have, then so am I. Why don’t you come up with us? Maybe you can help.”
“Help bring the police in again? Maybe you can get the rest of us arrested, eh?”
Brodie was wrong to be angry with us, and he knew it. But I decided to shift his attention and maybe placate him by asking a question. “When the society decided to include the library in its tour, you wrote an addition to the tour talk, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, why?”
Still hostile. “You must know a lot about the Fairfield murders.”
Brodie’s hands relaxed, and he stuffed them in his pockets. “A fair amount. Why? What do you want to know?”
“Did they ever discover why Fairfield went off his rocker and killed his servants?” I replied.
“Oh, that.” He laughed a little, regaining some of his good humor. “It was garden-variety domestic ugliness, I’m afraid. Nothing mysterious or supernatural. Thomas had an affair with Letty Baldwin—some say he forced himself on her—and she got pregnant. Thomas never admitted to that, but a friend of Letty’s claimed she was going to tell Thomas’s wife about her pregnancy so she could blackmail them both and leave their employment before she and Edwin Moors married. And Letty was pregnant when she died, so that much is true. The police speculated that when she brought Thomas tea in the library that day, she gave him an ultimatum and he snapped.”
“And Edwin?” I asked.
“Before Thomas could get rid of Letty’s body, Edwin entered the library, bringing Thomas his usual evening whiskey. He saw Letty’s body, flipped, and Thomas killed him to keep him quiet. Thomas admitted to killing Edwin, but he claimed Edwin attacked Letty when he found out she was pregnant by another man. No one who knew Letty and Edwin believed that, including Flora Fairfield. If you ask me, Flora is the one who should be haunting the halls. She was granted a divorce, Thomas was sentenced to life in prison and died three years later, and Flora died alone, while her daughter was in New York and her son and his wife were vacationing in Greece.”
“How horribly sad and senseless,” I said.
“When I wrote about the murders for the tour, I made them sound more woo-woo. Know what I mean? I added statements from his wife and townspeople about Fairfield always gazing out the library windows. ‘What did he see? He never told a soul. Was he incited to murder from beyond?’ You know, that kind of thing.”
“You don’t believe there was any supernatural connection?”
“Nope. Don’t believe in the ghosts either. Only Zane does, but that makes him the perfect guide. Olivia does a little, but she controls her fears.”
“Thanks very much,” I said. “Coming with us?”
He shook his head, but as we started up the stairs, he called, “Zane and Jonathan are in the library.”
Great. I wasn’t sure what Emily and I were going to do in the library, but whatever it was, I didn’t want those two as witnesses.
We entered the library door to find Zane and Jonathan eating burgers, Zane in a chair with his feet up on the desk and Jonathan perched on a window’s wide sill. Now that Olivia the cat was temporarily out of the picture, the mice would play.
“Well, looks who’s here,” Jonathan said.
“The saviors of Mount Hope,” Zane said.
I stepped forward, folded my arms over my chest, and stared down at Zane. “So you wouldn’t have reported stolen children’s headstones?”
Zane swung his feet off the desk and sat straight. “Heck yes, I would have. Even if I’d just found one.” He spoke with wounded reproach. “I’m on your side. Not that I want to get Olivia or Charlotte in trouble, but what they did was dirty.”
“Good,” I said, “because we just got an earful from Brodie and I don’t want to hear anything about it.”
Zane made a shoo-fly motion with his hand. “Forget him. You did the only thing you could do. He’s just worried about the effect on the historical society.”
“It’ll be in the papers tomorrow,” Jonathan said, taking a bite of his burger and leaving a glob of ketchup on his pointy chin in the process. He wiped the glob with a napkin and dropped the napkin on the window sill
, heedless of the mess. Olivia’s absence seemed to be doing him a world of good.
“We’ll get phone calls from the cemetery and town manager,” Zane said. “Want me and Brodie to field them?”
“Not at all,” Jonathan replied. “It’s my job as executive director. Matter of fact, I think I’ll head them off at the pass.” He balled up his sandwich paper and napkin, stood, and shot the wad like a basketball into a trash can by the desk.
“Three points,” Zane said.
Jonathan paused by the door. “Are you going to stay up here by yourself, Zane?”
“I’m not by myself, am I?” he said, motioning toward me and Emily.
“I’ll be in the office,” Jonathan said. “Call me if any ghosts appear.”
“Ha ha,” Zane said, cracking a smile. The second Jonathan turned his back, the smile vanished. “What a jerk,” he murmured. “Lately he’s been trying to spend time in here alone. Freaky. Like he wants to turn into another Patti.”
I took Jonathan’s spot on the window sill and immediately launched into questions I’d been meaning to ask Zane. His fear of being alone in the library worked in my favor. If he wanted us to stay, he’d blather away.
“Brodie was telling us about the Fairfield murders,” I began, “and he has a more mundane take on them.”
“He hasn’t spent the time in here I have or read all the witness reports I have,” Zane said. “People have been mesmerized by something in this library—or something outside the library windows. There are too many reports to dismiss the idea that something supernatural is going on.”
“There were two murders in this room,” I said. “And people being people, when they looked back on what they’d observed, like Fairfield staring out the windows, they might have exaggerated or misinterpreted something very natural.”
Emily moved to the front side of the desk and sat on the edge. “I stare out my windows. I sit with a cup of coffee and stare blankly at the front yard or my street. Goodness knows what people think when they see me.”
“But Thomas Fairfield wasn’t the only one,” Zane argued. “His son sat up here, staring. And remember, I saw Patti doing the same thing. She wasn’t reading the book in her hands, she was staring—her eyes were glazed. I won’t lie—she scared me.”
I rose and went to the walnut bookcases, aside from the ceiling the only surfaces in the room that didn’t bear traces of red paint. “What book was she holding?” I asked. “I guess you couldn’t tell since you couldn’t see the spine.”
“I saw the spine,” he said. “She wasn’t holding it open, she was doing—like this.” He stepped to the bookcase, took down a book, and placed his palms beneath it, much like someone would cradle a Bible being used to give an oath. “She treated all these books as if they were precious relics.”
“So what book was it?” Emily said.
“Volume 1 of a rare history of Smithwell. The spine is elaborately gilded and easy to identify, and I know it was volume 1 because she left it jutting out when she put it back.” He reached for a book on a middle shelf. “Right here.” Sliding it out, he handed it to me. “It would bore me to death, but she was a history and genealogy freak, and so far as we know, there are only three copies of this book in all of New England.”
“Can I borrow this?” I asked.
“I don’t mind, but don’t let Jonathan or Brodie see you, and bring it back when you’re done.”
“Absolutely.” It was a gorgeous volume, bound in the late nineteenth or early twentieth century, I guessed, with stunning gold-leaf ornamentation on the front cover. “Zane, knowing everything you now know, who do you think killed Patti?”
My question took him by surprise, possibly because by asking it, I’d clearly discounted him as the killer. He considered, then said, “The only one I don’t suspect is Charlotte. I didn’t think she was a thief, either, so I’m not a great judge of people, but she couldn’t kill anyone. You know what she does when she finds a spider in the house? She carries it outside and lets it go.”
I thanked him, but when I started for the door, he said, “Are you two leaving already?”
Poor Zane. His fear of the mansion wasn’t an act.
“Zane, someone once told me that ghosts aren’t what we think they are,” I said. “They’re like dreams.”
“What does that mean?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet, but I think it means they’re not roaming old mansions and can’t hurt you.”
Zane’s blue eyes clouded. “You have to understand something, Kate. It sounds crazy, but I’m beginning to think this library is evil.”
“Libraries aren’t evil, Zane. People are, but not libraries and not houses. That much I have figured out.”
CHAPTER 18
“Do you think this can tell us anything?” Emily asked, flipping through the mansion’s book. “It looks breathtakingly boring.”
“Patti was holding it when she was staring out the window, so it’s worth a look. I don’t think it was the view that had her mesmerized, and it sure wasn’t the curse of the Fairfield library, no matter what Zane says. Maybe there’s something in that book we should know.”
I swung onto Route 2, heading for home. The afternoon light was already fading, and Emily and I had decided we weren’t going to search for Rancourt. Mostly because we had no idea where he was. Minette was sitting in the back at the base of the console again, an ill-considered position, in my opinion, what with loose gloves, newspapers, or hot coffee liable to get tossed about the car, just to name a few of the Jeep’s perils. But no one could see her there, she could freely move her wings, and she wasn’t half suffocating under an umbrella or jacket, so I let her be.
In less than an hour it would be dark, no more than a hint of moonlight in the sky, and my nerves were raw. I couldn’t escape the feeling that Emily and I, because we had fully and vigorously stuck our noses into the murder case and headstone thefts, were in danger. The killer had targeted Emily. Why had I ever thought otherwise?
“Lasagna at my house in a couple hours?” I said, turning onto Birch Street. “All I have to do is take it out of the freezer, and I have that garlic bread you like.”
“Yeah,” Emily replied, her attention still on the book. “We can talk about the case.”
“Look who’s in my driveway.”
I parked my Jeep in the turnaround so I wouldn’t block the black Smithwell Police SUV parked at my house and told Minette to get in my pocket and stay there. As I got out, so did Detective Rancourt, and we met halfway between our cars. He told me he’d been to Emily’s house first, but not finding her, he stopped at mine. I invited him inside, an invitation he eagerly accepted since it was starting to rain again.
Rancourt and Emily sat down at my kitchen table, and under the guise of putting away my coat, I shooed Minette into the living room, where she could hear us but not be seen.
Back in the kitchen, getting the kettle going, I said, “I was at the station today, Detective. Did Officer Bouchard tell you?”
“He did. Thank you for letting us know about the headstones you found at the Fairfield. I wanted to let you both know that the hammer we found in your yard, Mrs. MacKenzie, was in fact the murder weapon.”
“What?” I twisted back from the stove.
“We think it was cleaned—badly—after it was used, then bloodied again to make it look like the murder weapon.”
Now utterly confused, I said, “Which it was, right?”
Rancourt dragged a sluggish hand along his jaw. “We found blood and a hair at the top of the rubber grip, not readily visible if you’re doing a quick and dirty cleanup. The killer cleaned the hammer, thought better of it, and reintroduced the victim’s blood to the head. So on first look, the hammer was phonied up, but on second look, it was the murder weapon.”
“Why on earth would someone do that?” Emily said.
“I think we have an indecisive murderer and an unplanned murder,” Rancourt said. “Everything about this cas
e points to impromptu and changing decision making.”
“Including having to stop on Elm Street because of the DUI checkpoint?” I asked, taking the chair next to Emily’s. “Or did that have nothing to do with it?”
Rancourt arched his back, stretching sore muscles. “I’m curious. What do you think, Mrs. Brewer?”
I threw my hands in the air. “I keep going back and forth. The murderer was taking the body somewhere—where, I haven’t got a clue—but yes, he had to stop because of the checkpoint. But then why choose Emily’s house out of several houses he might have chosen? And why not leave the body in the woods where it wouldn’t be found so easily?”
“My opinion based on two decades of detective work?” Rancourt said. “Guilt and remorse. Those woods are dense, and the leaves are thick this time of year. There’s scavenging wildlife back there too. Foxes, raccoons. Do you go back there in November, Mrs. MacKenzie?”
“Not really,” Emily said. “In the spring and summer, but not this time of year. If Laurence and I are in the back yard at all, we’re around the house.”
“And no one walks or hikes there,” Rancourt said. “It’s hard to believe someone could murder another human being and then care what happens to the body,” Rancourt said, “but I’ve seen it before, especially when the murderer knows the victim well. If Patti Albert’s body had been left in the woods, it might have gone undiscovered for months. There wouldn’t have been much left of it.”
“A compassionate killer?” Emily said ruefully.
“More like a muddled first-time killer,” Rancourt answered.
“How did this killer transport the body?” I asked. “Surely someone in the historical society has cemetery soil in the trunk of their car or truck?”
“They all do,” Rancourt said. “And therein lies one of our problems. There’s soil from headstones, from shovels and boots, from garden tools, from debris hauled to the recycling center for composting. They’ve all claimed one or the other as explanations for the dirt in their cars. We’re trying to isolate the cemetery soil, if we can, and examine it and the trunks for fibers, but that takes time.” He pressed his palms to the table, grunted, and stood.
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