Late Checkout

by Carol J. Perry

  “You making progress with that?” Once again Pete used the magnifying glass, examining a photo of Laraby shaking hands with Danny Ainge. He looked at me, the glass still in front of him, making his eye enormous. “Rounded up those old-timers you were looking for?”

  “What big eyes you have, Grandmother,” I said, pressing his hand down so that his eye returned to normal size. “I’m working on it.” I turned to face my aunt. “Aunt Ibby,” I said, “want to take a ride over to Rockport tomorrow morning? I want to try to sign up Ranger Rob for the show.”

  “Yes,” she said. “We can do that.”

  “With luck, maybe by tomorrow afternoon I’ll hear from the other two.”

  “I’ll bet you will, Maralee. Don’t worry. This will all come together neatly after a while.” My aunt’s voice was soothing.

  “I sure hope it will,” Pete said. “Not just for the anniversary show, but for the little matter of somebody very quietly committing a murder in a library.”

  Aunt Ibby looked up from the album. “Oh Pete, did I mention that there was a musical event going on in the children’s media center? Whoever did it had some cover from music—including kids on percussion instruments—coming from just below the stacks.”

  “Right,” I said. “I remember there were kids leaving the musical story time from the side entrance when we got there.”

  “Noisy kids,” Aunt Ibby said. “Enthusiastic noise, but noise nevertheless.”

  “I know about the class,” Pete said. “But it would account for why nobody we’ve talked to heard any books falling on the floor.”

  “Are you—is the department any closer to finding this person, Pete? Haven’t the security videos told you anything?”

  “Well, the two teenagers—the boy in the hoodie and the girl in the short skirt—came forward right away and identified themselves. Out-of-town kids here for the Halloween festivities. Sounds like they went up to the stacks to sneak a little make-out session but they heard somebody else up there so they came right down.”

  I knew I was pushing him when I knew I should be patient. “Do you know how somebody could have disabled the alarm on the emergency door?” My voice sounded high pitched. Panicked. I tried to level it off. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just that I’m really frightened.”

  “You’re still afraid the killer might know who you are? That he might think you could identify him?” Aunt Ibby asked. “What about that, Pete? Should Maralee be afraid?”

  The albums were still open on the table but we’d all stopped looking at them. O’Ryan’s ears perked up again, and he focused narrowed eyes on Pete. Aunt Ibby and I both looked at him too. Pete sat quietly, looking down at his folded hands.

  A long moment passed. Pete leaned forward, shoulders slumped. “I don’t know for sure yet. I believe she’s perfectly safe. From the time Lee called 911 until we arrived at the library no one else left the building by either exit. There was no one on the staircase or in the old kitchen where the emergency exit stairs end. We think it’s extremely doubtful that Lee and the perp were in the stacks at the same time.” He took my hand in his. “As for the emergency door alarm, it may be faulty. Apparently it hasn’t been tested for over a month.”

  “But Wee Willie was recently dead, according to Doc Egan,” I said, still pushing. “Does that mean minutes?”

  “It can mean minutes,” Pete said, still holding my hand. “In this case though, it’s probably in the range of up to fifteen minutes before you found him. We still have no one leaving the library—who isn’t accounted for—during the time frame we’ve been able to establish.”

  His words began to sink in. He was right. I was most likely perfectly safe. The perp had killed Willie, then scooted through that emergency door with a faulty alarm on it, and somehow left the building without being detected. It’s a big building and not all of it is library space.

  Imaginary light bulb illuminated.

  “Pete, in a big old building like that, there must be more than two ways in and out, is that true?” I asked—voice restored to normal pitch and without a trace of panic. “You must have figured out by now how a person could get outside without using either the front or side door.”

  “I always said you’d make a good cop.” He squeezed my hand, winked, but didn’t elaborate.

  Chapter 25

  We didn’t have a lot more time to study the albums, and Pete didn’t say any more about a different route for the killer to get out of the library. He had to leave for a late hockey practice with his Police Athletic League team, but promised to come over again the next evening to go over the pictures more thoroughly. O’Ryan accompanied Pete back outside and followed him all the way to his car, while I stood in the doorway, watching until the lights of the Crown Vic disappeared down Oliver Street. The cat hurried back, passed me in the hall, and returned to my aunt’s kitchen. I hesitated before closing the back door, once again peering into the shadows, listening to the nighttime sounds. Pete’s assurance of my safety had made me feel a little better, but I still had a trace of that nagging feeling of something like fear. I closed and locked the door and followed O’Ryan’s lead.

  Aunt Ibby had cleared the table of the albums and glassware, slipping the albums onto her cookbook shelf, and I could hear the friendly sound of Mr. Coffee brewing a fresh pot. She’d put a pair of ironstone mugs on the table. “Well then, Maralee,” she said. “What do you think about the possibility that someone figured out how to leave the library without being detected?”

  “I think that’s what happened,” I said flatly. “You know the place a lot better than I do. How could it be done?”

  “There are several ways.” She spoke slowly. “None of them would be easy, and whoever it was would have had extraordinary knowledge of the layout of the building, along with keys to several interior and exterior doors. Of course, the emergency door from the stacks is always unlocked, but it has a loud alarm signal. The stairway from the stacks leads down to the old kitchen. The door there has a lock that allows a person to leave, but doesn’t open from the other side. When you leave that room, the door locks behind you.”

  “The classic ‘locked room mystery,’” I said, “à la Agatha Christie.”

  “That’s it,” she said, pouring coffee into our mugs. “Want regular creamer or pumpkin flavored?”

  “Pumpkin,” I said. “Pumpkin-flavored coffee is one of the joys of fall.”

  “Don’t care much for it myself,” she said. “I buy it just for you. I guess I’m a traditionalist.”

  “Pete is too,” I said, “but like you, he does so many things just to please me.”

  “He loves you.”

  “I know he does. But do you think he said he thinks I’m perfectly safe just to make me feel better?”

  “No. If he didn’t believe it, he wouldn’t say it. Why do you ask that? Do you have some reason to believe you are in danger? Something you haven’t shared with him?”

  Do I? Do I have a reason?

  I dumped the yummy creamer into the coffee and thought about it. “Not really,” I admitted. I told her about the smiling man and the way O’Ryan had behaved in the yard. “I guess I’m getting spooked by shadows.”

  “It’s understandable,” she said. “Finding the dead man must have been terrifying, especially since you were afraid of the stacks in the first place. And O’Ryan is a cat. He chases shadows because he’s naturally curious.”

  “You’re right. As usual. Shall we go ahead and plan to visit Ranger Rob in the morning?” I changed the subject as I do so often when I don’t want to think about something unpleasant. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been to a riding stable. I used to love being around the horses.”

  “I remember,” she said. “We’ll go early. Hopefully, Katie the Clown will get the message from your taxi driver friend tomorrow and call you. Then we can concentrate on finding Mercury.”

  “We still need to find out about Dave’s connection to Larry Laraby. There’s o
bviously something there.”

  “Do you want me to ask him about it when I see him at the library tomorrow?” she asked. “Then you can concentrate on the old actors. Save time, you know. And I’ll pull up a copy of The Boys of Summer while I’m at it. Maybe there’s a clue of some kind in the book itself.” She looked happily hopeful.

  “Does Dave have keys to everything?” I asked. “I mean to all those interior rooms?”

  “I suppose so,” she said. “Someone on the board of directors has a set I’m sure, and the fire department does too. The keys are on a big round ring. There are ten or twelve of them, all different sizes and shapes. Mostly old ones. Some are quite pretty.”

  “You’ve seen them?” I asked.

  “Just my own set but I believe they’re all alike.”

  That was a jaw-dropping statement. “You have a set?”

  “Not my personal property, of course.” She gave a modest flap of one hand. “They belong to the library. But I’ve been entrusted with them, yes.”

  “No kidding. Do you ever use them?”

  “Actually, I’ve never had occasion to use any of the old ones. I keep the one to the side door with my own keys in case the key pad malfunctions for some reason. Never has, though.” She gave a little shrug. “I’m glad I don’t have to carry the rest of them around. They weigh a ton.”

  “I can imagine,” I said. “Where are they?”

  “In my bottom desk drawer at the library,” she said. “Where they belong.”

  That didn’t sound right. “Is the drawer locked?”

  “Of course. I carry the key to that with me too.” She picked up our coffee mugs and carried them to the sink while I put the pumpkin creamer into the refrigerator. “I’m sure the board members must have given the police a full set of the keys.”

  “I’m sure they did,” I agreed. “That must be why Pete hinted that the killer had found a different way out of the library after using the emergency door. I guess I’ll go along upstairs now and try to catch a bit of River’s show. One more thing I’m going to try to fit into tomorrow’s schedule—I need to make an appointment with River about the tarot.”

  “Really? Are you going to ask her to read the cards for you?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “I need her professional interpretation of my reading of one particular card. The Wheel of Fortune.”

  She spread her hands apart. “Doesn’t mean a thing to me. I’m afraid all I know about the tarot is that the cards are sometimes uncommonly beautiful, and that sometimes River is able to learn remarkable things just from looking at them.”

  “That’s true. She does. It’s a mystery to me too, but I’ve come to rely on her advice more often than I ever dreamed I would.”

  “You’d better go along then. You surely have a full plate for tomorrow.”

  O’Ryan looked up expectantly at the words “full plate.”

  “We’re not talking about food, big boy,” I told him. “Come on upstairs with me. We’re going to watch River.” That produced one of those deep, throaty purrs he does so well. He loves River. He trotted happily to and through the living room to the front hall. I followed.

  By the time I’d climbed up the two flights, O’Ryan was already sprawled out along the kitchen windowsill, eyes fixed on the dark TV screen. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll turn it on for you while I change into my pj’s. You can catch the end of Buck Covington’s late news. I’ll be right back.” I turned on the television, already tuned to WICH-TV, and headed down the short hall to the bathroom.

  I returned to the kitchen, showered, shampooed, and towel dried, face moisturized, wearing almost-new tailored navy blue satin pajamas, which I love because the top has pockets where they belong, one on each side instead of the usual one stitched awkwardly over the left breast. Covington was just winding up his show with a shortened clip of Howard Templeton’s coverage of Chief Whaley’s press conference.

  O’Ryan saw me coming and raced for the bedroom. He likes to be first. I straightened up the kitchen, wiped down the counter, made sure the kitchen door was locked. I turned off the overhead light, turned off the TV, and checked the lock on the window. It opens onto a fire escape and although I sometimes leave it open during the day when the weather is fine, I almost always lock it at night. I paused there, looking down into the yard where all was quiet—just as it should be.

  O’Ryan was already lying at the foot of the bed, front paws curled inward, eyes wide open, clearly waiting for me to turn on the bedroom TV. I obliged. River’s theme music played while I plumped up my pillows and slipped under the covers. There was a mouthwatering commercial for a special Halloween chocolate assortment from Stowaway Sweets, Marblehead’s premier candy shop, followed by a short trailer promoting the night’s feature movie. It was I Married a Witch, the 1942 black-and-white classic starring Veronica Lake and Frederic March, one of my all-time favorite witch movies. I remembered showing it on Nightshades at about this same time in October a few years back.

  I snuggled contentedly into the covers and patted the spot beside me, inviting O’Ryan to join me at the head of the bed, thinking that if I only had a box of those chocolates, this would be a perfect TV experience—my favorite pajamas, my best friend’s show, a great old movie, and a fine cat companion.

  I wondered if River would do one of her one-card explanations—and if she did, whether I’d feel as though I could do my own interpretation. I had oddly mixed feelings about that. If she didn’t do it I’d feel a kind of relief. If she did though, I’d feel excitement—the kind of anticipatory flutter I always get on a roller coaster just before the big downward plunge, the thrill of knowing I’m going to be safely scared.

  River wore an electric-blue halter-top gown, the gauzy fabric shot with bright silver threads. Once again she wore silver stars and moons woven into her dark hair, which tonight flowed loose over her shoulders. An absolute vision. If Buck was in the studio, he’d probably drop the whole deck of cards if he tried that fancy shuffle just then. “Welcome, friends of the night,” she said as soon as the strains of Danse Macabre had faded away. “We’re going directly to phone calls.” She frowned slightly and turned her head toward the far corner where the control booth is. She touched her left ear, where I knew a tiny device kept her connected to the producer. “My staff tells me there’s a call waiting that seems to be urgent,” she said. “Hello caller, your first name and birthdate please?”

  The answering voice was hesitant, faint, and certainly youthful. “I’m—uh—my name is Pamela. My birthday is April first and I’m eleven and a half.”

  “You’re up very late, Pamela,” River said. “Do your parents know you’re calling me?”

  Uh-oh. Doan has a policy about taking calls from kids after ten p.m. on weekdays unless there’s a major sports event going on.

  The child sniffled and the voice broke. “No. But I sneak and watch you sometimes and I’m supposed to tell an adult if I see something, say something, and I can’t tell my mom or she’ll kill me and”—more sniffling—“and besides you know Mr. Buck Covington and if you tell him what I saw he’ll put it on the news or something and the library lady won’t know I skipped and my mom won’t kill me.” Pause. More sniffling. “Okay?”

  I’d been smiling at River’s dilemma right up until young Pamela uttered the word “library.” I sat bolt upright, displacing the cat, grabbed my phone from the nightstand, and texted Pete. “River’s show NOW.”

  “Buck is right here in the studio, honey,” River said. “I’m going to let you talk to him while I take the next caller. You hold on.” She made a motioning signal stage right.

  Good job, girl. Cover your own butt with Doan and make sure the kid’s message gets through. River faced the camera, smiling brightly, and welcomed the next caller. “Hello, caller. Your first name and birthdate please?”

  My phone rang. It was Pete. “What’s going on? Why am I supposed to watch River?”

  “There was a child caller who says she saw
something in the library, Pete. River just handed the call off to Buck. He’s in the studio. Sounds to me as if the little girl skipped the library musical class somehow and saw something that frightened her. She wanted to tell an adult so she called River.”

  “Thanks, babe. I hope Covington can keep her on the line. I’m on my way to the station. Talk to you later.”

  Chapter 26

  After I’d talked to Pete I tried to stay focused on River’s show, watching her carefully to see if she showed any sign that anything was wrong. Buck Covington appeared after the second commercial, anchorman-handsome and as composed as possible considering his proximity to the ravishing River. He shuffled the tarot deck flawlessly and showed no sign of anxiety resulting from his conversation with Pamela.

  O’Ryan had returned to his position beside me, watching River as carefully as I did. She did a reading for a woman who confided that she was anticipating moving to another state and needed to know if that was a good idea. She read for another who had met a new man and needed some guidance in that direction. She introduced the movie and I began to relax a little as lightning struck the tree where the spirits had been imprisoned and lovely Veronica Lake assumed human form once again.

  Come on, Pete. Call me. I’m worried about the child. Did she see the killer? More importantly, did the killer see her?

  I jumped, startled, when the phone rang. I muted the TV control and answered the phone.

  “Pete? Did you talk to Buck? Did you find out what Pamela saw?”

  “Yes. To all of it. Fortunately Buck recorded the conversation with Pamela, so we’ve got a good idea of what she saw. The producer has Pamela’s cell number and location of course.”

  “Can you tell me what she said?”

  “I’ll give you a fast rundown of it. Can’t release the recording.” He sounded apologetic, as though he truly wanted to share it.

  “That’s okay. I understand.”

  “Here’s the gist of it then. The kid, Pamela, went to the library with a bunch of other kids from her school. Seems she’s tall for her age and some of the boys were teasing her. Made her cry.” He paused. “Kids can be so damned mean. Anyway, she was at the rear of the group when they went in the side door. She saw a door that was partly open and ducked through it, planning to dry her eyes and join the group when she felt better.”