Death Overdue (Librarian Mysteries)

by Kirwin, Mary Lou

  SEVENTEEN

  The Final Witness

  I couldn’t believe what I had heard Brenda say. I knew she had never liked me—maybe because I was American, maybe because she was jealous of my relationship with Caldwell. I had always been so careful not to tell her what to do or to get in her way. But I had never been able to please her.

  Caldwell stood and addressed the coroner in a loud voice. “That is a ridiculous accusation. Karen had nothing to do with Sally in any way. Why, she had only just met her that afternoon.”

  “Please come to order,” the coroner demanded.

  I took Caldwell’s hand and pulled him down by my side.

  “We’ll have a fifteen-minute recess and then hear the last witness.”

  Brenda ran out of the courtroom before anyone else. No one went after her. I certainly didn’t know what to say to her. Caldwell and I walked out of the room slowly as people stared at both of us.

  Just to get away from the eyes, I slipped into the restroom. I looked at myself in the mirror. What had just happened? It felt as if I’d been accused of murdering a woman I didn’t even really know.

  I washed my face and dried my hands, then renewed my lipstick. My face was rather wan, but that dash of rosy pink helped.

  The doors of the stalls looked inviting. Just slipping behind one, closing the door, and reading while the inquest went on sounded like such a good idea.

  As I never went anywhere without one, I did have a book in my purse. But as tempting as it was to go into a stall and close the door behind me, then sit and read a few pages of Karen Armstrong’s terrific memoir The Spiral Staircase, I resisted. Caldwell had defended me, and he needed me now.

  He was waiting for me right outside the door. “I’m so sorry about that, Karen.”

  “Oh, we’re all on edge. I understand Brenda wanting to take it out on me. I know how bad she feels about Sally’s death.”

  “No excuse,” he said. We reached out for each other’s hands and walked back into the courtroom.

  After a few minutes of everyone filing back into the room, the coroner returned to the throne he sat in and called the last witness. “Would Dr. Steinbeck please take the stand?”

  The doctor came forward from where he had been sitting at the back of the room. I hadn’t noticed him before, but then he exemplified the word nondescript: a small gray man in a gray suit, with gray hair. And with him gray meant “no color at all.”

  “Dr. Steinbeck, what is your occupation?”

  “I’m a forensic examiner specializing in dactyloscopy.”

  “That is?” the coroner asked.

  “I analyze the impressions left by the friction ridges of a human finger. In other words, fingerprints. I analyze fingerprints.”

  “And in this case where did you find fingerprints that you could analyze?”

  “I was brought in to look for latent fingerprints specifically on two items of interest: the hook on the top of the bookcase and the bookcase itself.”

  “And did you find fingerprints?”

  “Yes, I did, sir. Yes, using a Kelvin probe scan, which is able to pull prints off of rounded surfaces, I found partial fingerprints on both objects.”

  “And did they match any fingerprints to your knowledge?”

  He nodded solemnly. “Yes, they matched exemplar prints that had been made at the scene of the crime.”

  I remembered us all lining up to have our fingerprints done. I had been surprised by how much of the fingers they printed, not just the tip but almost the whole finger. I wondered what name he was about to say.

  “Whose?” the coroner asked, leaning forward.

  “There was a nice slice of a print on the hook, and then I got a larger print off the back of the bookcase. In my estimation both of them came from the same person.”

  “Yes?” the coroner urged.

  “Caldwell Perkins.”

  “No.” The word popped out of my mouth.

  Next to me Caldwell put his face in his hands. An audible gasp came out of several people sitting near us. I couldn’t tell who.

  “What do you make of this?” the coroner asked.

  “I can say no more than it is probable that Mr. Perkins was the last person to have touched these two objects.”

  EIGHTEEN

  An Arresting Moment

  On the ride home from the inquest, Caldwell and I held hands. We talked of little, both of us shocked by what he had just been through. I wanted to reassure him, but I wasn’t sure I could find the words.

  When we drove up to Caldwell’s house, he dropped my hand as we saw a police car sitting in front of it.

  “Not already,” he said with force.

  “We must help them all we can so this inquisition will be over sooner,” I said. “Don’t worry. They might have come to tell us good news, maybe officially declaring Sally’s death an accident.”

  When we walked in the door, Inspector Blunderstone clomped down the hallway toward us with heavy, authoritative steps. He nodded, and the cop standing by the door pounced on Caldwell, seizing him by both hands.

  “I’m afraid we’re taking you in, Mr. Perkins,” the inspector said, while not looking one bit afraid. I wanted to kick him in the shins. “I’m formally placing you under arrest.”

  “For what?” I asked, while wondering what an informal arrest looked like.

  The inspector turned toward me as if he couldn’t quite recall who I was. “For the murder of Ms. Burroughs . . .”

  As he was speaking, the constable was putting handcuffs on Caldwell.

  “Is this really necessary?” Caldwell asked, looking back at his hands.

  “Just a precaution, sir. Very routine.”

  “I’d hate the neighbors . . .” Before he could say anything more, a wail came from down the hallway.

  Brenda walked up behind the inspector, yowling, “He’s the best man there is. He hasn’t done nothing wrong at all.”

  Behind her came Penelope, who had her hands up near her mouth as if to stifle a similar sound.

  “But on what grounds?” I asked.

  The inspector stopped for a moment and said, “It has been determined that the bookcase could not have fallen over by itself. As Mr. Perkins’s fingerprints were on both the bookcase and the unhooked hook, I’m arresting him on suspicion of murder.”

  “Maybe Sally pulled the bookcase over on herself,” I suggested, desperate to keep them from taking Caldwell away.

  “I’m afraid not. Her fingerprints were not found anyplace on the front of the bookcase. Just yours and Caldwell’s were found. As was to be expected.”

  When it became obvious that Caldwell was going to be trundled off in this most undignified manner, he turned to me and said, “Can you manage this place on your own?”

  “I won’t be on my own,” I assured him. “I’ll have Brenda to help me and we’ll do fine. Don’t worry about that at all. And we’ll have you out in a jiffy. Should I call your lawyer?”

  “Yes. His number is written on the wall in the kitchen under emergency numbers. Mr. Clotworthy Prentiss-Hipp.”

  “I’m sure I’ll find it.” I was trying to stay calm for Caldwell’s sake, but inside an earthquake was shaking loose my innards.

  Caldwell leaned toward me as if he wanted to give me a kiss before he was taken away, but the constable pulled him back and turned him around. The inspector fell in behind him, and I stood back with Penelope and Brenda.

  The constable pushed the door open, and led Caldwell down the steps and into the street. It was everything I could do to stop myself from running after him, beating on the constable, and trying to get Caldwell away from this madness. But I restrained myself and stood silent until he was seated in the police car and it drove off.

  Then I broke down. It might not have been obvious to the two women standing with me, but Rosie would have known I was falling apart. I was having trouble breathing and my hands were clenched tight together.

  In my mind I was saying over a
nd over again, “It will be all right. It will be all right,” a mantra I always used when I knew it might not be all right. For some reason, the statement still seemed to work.

  I took a couple of deep breaths, turned, and asked my companions what had happened.

  “Well, the inspector came in and went upstairs before I could stop him, then . . .” Brenda said.

  “I had just arrived home before you,” Penelope explained.

  I held up my hand and said, “Stop. One at a time. But first let’s go into the garden room and sit down.”

  “I’ll make tea,” Brenda suggested.

  As much as I didn’t want another cup of tea, I nodded my head. She needed something to do.

  “While you’re doing that, I’ll call the lawyer. Penelope, why don’t you turn on the fire?”

  I followed Brenda into the kitchen. She hustled about heating the water and getting out the teapot. I read through many telephone numbers written on the wall until I finally found the lawyer’s name in Caldwell’s familiar scrawl. I dialed the number, hoping that the gentleman would be home.

  “Clotworthy Prentiss-Hipp speaking,” a man’s slight voice answered.

  “Yes, this is Karen Nash. You don’t know me, but I’m calling for Caldwell Perkins. He needs you. He’s in trouble.”

  There was a silence on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry,” the voice said, tentatively.

  “Yes, I am too. But that’s the way it is. It’s about his old partner in his business, Sally Burroughs. She died here in the house. Books fell on her. Then there was an inquest and now he’s gone.” I knew I wasn’t being very coherent, but the words seemed to pour out of me on their own.

  There was silence on his end of the line, then he said, “I still don’t understand why you’ve called me.”

  “Caldwell Perkins, your client, has been arrested for murder,” I said as plainly as I could.

  “Oh,” Clotworthy Prentiss-Hipp said quietly, “that’s not good.”

  NINETEEN

  The Actual Killer

  “It’s all my fault,” Brenda wailed when we all were finally seated in the garden room, the teapot and cups perched on the small coffee table.

  I took over pouring the tea since I didn’t trust her to do it without spilling, the state she was in. The sound of her voice was making all my nerves jangle. I had to calm her down or I would be forced to hit her.

  “What’s your fault?” I asked in my calmest voice. I hoped Brenda would parrot me in answering.

  “Them finding those fingerprints, it’s all my fault,” she said as if that explained something.

  “How so?” I said, handing around the cups of tea.

  “I must not have dusted that room as good as I should have.”

  “Well, no one could have expected you to take care and dust the hook or the back of the bookcase,” I said, trying to comfort her.

  “I should have done a better job. Wiped down everything in that room, then Caldwell wouldn’t be going to jail. I still think it’s all my fault.”

  “That’s bonkers,” I said, my voice rising slightly. “What can they be thinking? If Caldwell had pushed the bookcase over, he would have worn gloves. Or done something to obliterate the prints. He’s a very smart man. But the most important thing is he absolutely didn’t do it. No way.”

  Penelope spoke up. “I agree with you. But the police don’t know him like we do. So many murderers are so sloppy these days.”

  I was surprised to hear her talk like this.

  She continued. “There’s really very few clever killings anymore. Or maybe there were never many, except the ones you read about in good mystery books. Most murderers are stupid and drunk. And almost always the murderer is related to the victim in some way.”

  “How do you know all this?” I asked, suddenly very curious about Penelope’s background.

  “I worked for the police as a secretary. Husbands beating on their wives while they were drunk was the usual way it went. Stupid bugger often didn’t even know he had killed her until the police showed up. Then he was ever so sorry.” Penelope took a sip of tea and said “Ta” to Brenda for the refreshment.

  “Alfredo seems to fit that description of the typical murderer to a T,” Brenda piped in. “Drunk and not so smart and related to Sally by means of being her boyfriend. He’s probably who did it.”

  “He is too smart—in his own way, a rather Italian way, I’d say,” Penelope argued. “He just doesn’t speak English that well yet. And he doesn’t drink that much, not compared to other Italians.”

  “But he was drinking that night,” I observed. “By the way, where is he right now? Is Alfredo still here?”

  “Not at the moment. He went out to buy something to wear to the funeral,” Penelope said. “But I don’t think he had anything to do with my sister’s death. He’s too nice, and besides, he liked her. He had no reason to want her dead.”

  “What about her will? Do you know who will inherit Sally’s estate, such as it is?” I asked.

  “Last I heard, it was to be split between Mum and me. But possibly Sally had changed that. When I asked him, Alfredo didn’t seem to know anything about it, and didn’t seem to really care. He owns acres of land in Italy.”

  “Land doesn’t necessarily translate into money,” I pointed out. “Often keeping up land requires money.”

  Penelope seemed to be getting upset about the possibility that Alfredo might be responsible for her sister’s death, which intrigued me.

  She started to say, “Alfredo . . .”

  Just at that moment, he walked into the room with a suit wrapped in plastic hanging over his arm. “I do the best I can for the suit. I’m not used to buying this from the rack. Usually my tailor makes them for me.”

  Penelope looked up and smiled. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

  “Caldwell has been arrested. They suspect that he murdered Sally,” I said, wanting to see Alfredo’s reaction to this news. However, in saying these words, I found myself close to tears.

  “No, this is not possible. Sally says he is a very nice man. I think so too. This is very crazy.”

  I was glad to hear Alfredo so confident that Caldwell wouldn’t have done it; and I found myself agreeing that this country, which in the past I had always thought of as one of the sanest in the world, the absolute bastion of civility, had gone a little nuts to think for a second that Caldwell might have killed anyone. He would be capable of dumping a cup of tea in someone’s lap, possibly, but push a bookcase over he wouldn’t do, not in a million years.

  I stood up. “It simply can’t be Caldwell. He would never have risked damaging any of his books that way.”

  Brenda nodded agreement and dabbed at her eyes; Penelope said, “You’re so right”; and Alfredo shrugged his shoulders and said, “Sally says he loves those books very much always.”

  “Alfredo, I know you’ve been asked this before, but do you have any idea why Sally got up in the middle of the night and went into the library?”

  “Perhaps it is that she could not sleep. Books always make her very sleepy, especially the boring ones.”

  I wasn’t convinced, but saw no point in arguing with him. He sat down on the love seat next to Penelope, and a look passed between them that seemed somehow intimate.

  I decided then and there to find out who had done Sally in. Caldwell’s abduction was not to be tolerated. I had to get him out of jail, and it seemed like the only way to do that was to determine who did push the bookcase over.

  But I also decided not to announce my decision to these three people, as I had a distinct feeling that one of them was the actual killer.

  TWENTY

  The Teapot

  Because Caldwell was incarcerated, the next day I had to attend Sally’s funeral alone. Absolutely everything seemed wrong with this picture: I didn’t know the woman very well, I hadn’t liked her the little I had known her, and, because of her unfortunate death, my darling Caldwell was locked up in jail and
might stay there for a good long time.

  But I knew that police often go to the funerals—to gather clues, to see who shows up, to possibly show their respect—and since everyone else in the house, except Bruce, was going, I thought it best if I went too. Who knew what I might discover at this event? Plus, it would be good to do it for Caldwell’s sake—it was what he would have wanted me to do.

  I hadn’t had time to have flowers sent, so I stopped off at a florist’s early in the morning and bought a bouquet of white lilies. I knew Sally had loved lilies because there were still so many growing in the garden she had planted at the B and B. White seemed a good color; after all, in many cultures it was the color of mourning.

  Penelope had gone out early that morning, but as she was leaving she had told me the service would be at Dratt-Brinkwater and Lyme’s funeral home, and that it would be a humanist service. She also added that this was a little unusual—but it was what Sally had wanted.

  “Sally was no religion to speak of, except maybe the worship of Sally,” she said, and didn’t even crack a smile as she said it. In fact, Penelope acted rather sad that the one person who believed in that religion was now gone.

  “There will probably only be a small group of us. Mum will come in, and maybe Aunt Doris. Possibly some old friends from school days. I’m not sure.”

  Alfredo had gone with Penelope. I wasn’t sure who was supporting whom, but they seemed fine going off together.

  For this trip to London, I had packed no black clothing. Black is not one of my colors, my skin tone is a touch too sallow. I need softer, richer tones to perk up my complexion. But I did have a dark blue blouse, and I paired it with some brown slacks and was glad for the warm weather, which required no jacket.

  Just as I was getting ready to set off, I looked in Caldwell’s closet and had to sit down on the floor and cry for a few minutes. I hadn’t slept at all well the night before, and I certainly wasn’t looking forward to this funeral. I had only so many days left here, and I wanted him back with me.