Murder, She Edited

by Kaitlyn Dunnett

  To my surprise, a crafty look came over her face. “You said that before. That you’re her friend. Do you really know her? Would she do you a favor?”

  Oh, boy! I had a feeling I knew what was coming next, but I didn’t see any way out of asking for clarification. Maybe she just wanted an autographed copy of one of Lenora’s novels.

  “What kind of favor?”

  “I want to meet her. I’m her biggest fan!”

  Over the woman’s shoulder I caught sight of the grin on Ellen’s face. I wanted to tell her this was nothing to smile about. Hadn’t she ever read Stephen King’s Misery?

  Sometimes an outright lie is the only appropriate response: “She’s out of the country right now. Her next book is set in Europe so she’s doing research.”

  The truth of the matter is that Lenora hates to travel by air and I don’t think she’s ever applied for a passport. That said, she does do a great deal of research to make sure she gets the details of her foreign settings right. She just does all of it online and in books.

  “Will you introduce us when she comes back?”

  The eagerness in her voice was my undoing. I couldn’t bring myself to dash all her hopes.

  “I’ll think about it.” That was another lie, but when Ellen took the woman’s arm to escort her back to her car, she looked happy.

  Nope, I thought. Never going to happen.

  No way would I subject my old friend to that kind of over-the-top adoration. Lenora is excellent with children, but she’s shy and retiring in social situations involving adults. She doesn’t even go to writers’ conferences or do signings, and I’m one of only a handful of people who know her secret identity as a bestselling romance author.

  She chose to write under a pseudonym years ago for a good reason. Until her recent retirement, she was an elementary school teacher in rural Maine. The school board would have been appalled had they ever read any of the more graphic sex scenes in her novels, and very likely would have asked her to resign. It would have been easier for her to choose to keep one of her children and disinherit the other.

  When Ellen and my obsessed visitor reached the other side of Wedemeyer Terrace, they stood under the streetlamp and conversed for a few minutes longer. Ellen seemed to be lecturing Illyria’s biggest fan on the folly of showing up unannounced and attempting to beat down a stranger’s door. All she got for her trouble was a shrug.

  Ellen watched the woman get into her car and drive away before glancing in my direction again. Seeing me watching her, she mimed wiping sweat from her brow and mouthed the word “whew!” Then, with a cheery wave, she climbed back into her police cruiser and drove away.

  I waved back, went inside, and reset the alarm system, but by then my concentration was shot. There was no point in trying to get any more work done. Instead I opted to microwave a bag of popcorn and curl up in front of the television with the cat. That old Katharine Hepburn/ Spencer Tracy classic Desk Set was on TCM, followed by Rosalind Russell in His Girl Friday.

  Do I know how to have a good time or what?

  Chapter Ten

  The next morning, although I had work to do—the editing I hadn’t finished the previous evening—I still had trouble concentrating. I’d managed to banish Illyria Dubonnet’s biggest fan from my mind, but my thoughts kept drifting away from my client’s short story to dwell on Tessa’s bequest. Truthfully, it was not a very gripping tale, but that’s no excuse for shirking. I’m supposed to be a professional.

  Despite repeatedly telling myself that, I couldn’t focus. I was distracted by thoughts of the mysteries surrounding Rosanna’s murder, her stepdaughters’ reaction, and the fate of those missing diaries. I’d already left a half dozen messages at Featherstone, De Vane, Doherty, Sanchez, and Schiller. I’d called the first time as soon as I got home from my second visit to the farmhouse. Mr. Featherstone had yet to return any of my calls. It was almost as if he was trying to avoid me.

  The weather did nothing to improve my concentration or lift my sagging spirits. It was pouring rain, sheets of it obscuring everything more than a couple of feet beyond the window.

  You should be grateful you don’t have arthritis like Darlene, I told myself. Muggy weather, with or without rain, is hell on inflamed joints.

  That thought plunged me even deeper into melancholy. Darlene had offered to do more research into the Swarthouts by visiting both the public library and the local historical society, but I doubted she’d feel up to leaving the house until this deluge let up. If the weather report I’d listened to while eating breakfast was accurate, that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. If I didn’t want to wait to learn more about the events of sixty-plus years ago, I’d have to do the legwork myself.

  “Not today,” I told myself in a firm voice. “Today you have a living to earn.” Besides, it was way too dismal outside to make spending any time at the Swarthout farm appealing.

  Since editing using track changes to make comments on the electronic document hadn’t been working well, I printed a copy of the story and took the pages downstairs with me. I’d just settled in at the dinette table with a red felt-tip pen and a fresh cup of coffee and was actually beginning to make progress when the doorbell rang.

  I said a very bad word.

  It buzzed again. A glance at the clock told me it could be the mailman. He usually rang if he was leaving a package, and even in a nice, quiet town like this one, parcels are occasionally stolen off porches. I headed for the front door.

  Calpurnia met me in the entryway.

  “The postman always rings twice,” I told her, although I was well aware that, being a cat, she couldn’t appreciate the fact that I was making a play on words with the title of a classic Lana Turner film.

  I opened the door without checking through the peephole first and let out a little squeak of surprise when I saw who was standing there. He just shook his head at me, and asked if he could come in.

  Let me pause a moment to describe Detective Jonathan Hazlett of the Lenape Hollow Police Department. He’s in his late thirties with thick, rust-colored hair, dark, piercing eyes, and craggy features that include a beak of a nose and a cleft in the chin. He stands a little over six feet tall and is in good physical shape. If I were thirty-five years younger and he wasn’t married, I’d have even more reason to be delighted to find him on my doorstep.

  We had been on moderately good terms for some time. He’d once gone so far as to admit that I’d been helpful to him in an investigation. Even so, it hadn’t occurred to me until that moment that he might have some idea how I could find out more about the murder of Tessa’s stepmother.

  “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” I asked as I led him back to the kitchen and provided him with coffee.

  He had to step around Calpurnia to take a seat. She seemed determined to make much of him, stropping the legs of his dark blue trousers and leaving behind a fair amount of much lighter color cat hair. He took her affection in the spirit with which it was offered. Once he was settled opposite me at the dinette table, he reached down to pet her.

  “I hear you had a visitor last evening.” He watched my face for a reaction.

  I grimaced. “Oh, yes. The crackpot fan. I appreciate how fast Ellen got here. That woman definitely has a few screws loose.”

  “I gather you’d met her before.”

  “Yes. The first time was when she came up to me in the parking lot at the grocery store to tell me I was to blame for the horrendous sin of overlooking two typos in a book by her favorite author.” I frowned. “Still, it’s a stretch to say we’ve met. I don’t even know her name.”

  “It’s Bella Trent. Ellen did a little checking into her background and passed on what she found to me. This isn’t the first time Ms. Trent has become obsessed with a cause.”

  “What happened the last time?”

  “She was involved in a protest that got a little out of hand. You know how people are always urging others to boycott a certain business if they fin
d out the owner backed a political candidate they don’t like or did something else they disagree with?”

  I nodded. There’s been a lot of that sort of thing going around for the last few years and most of it is just a lot of foolishness. If someone is doing something criminal, then an arrest is in order, but if he’s simply expressing an opinion, whether it be by donating to a campaign, or writing an op-ed, or exercising his freedom of speech . . . well, let’s just say I wouldn’t want anyone to dictate my thoughts or actions.

  “She got a little carried away,” Hazlett said. “Took a spray can of paint and expressed her feelings on the windows of the man’s store.”

  “In grammatically correct sentences, I’m sure,” I murmured. I shouldn’t have been amused, but my lips didn’t get the message. I felt them twitch into a tiny smile.

  Hazlett sent me a repressive look. “She was arrested for vandalism, Mikki, and as soon as she was out on bail, she went right back and did it again. After that, she spent some time behind bars and was required to get counseling.”

  “Was this here in Lenape Hollow?”

  He shook his head. “Grahamsville, and it was a few years ago, so she wasn’t on our radar until you had your run-in with her last night.”

  “Has she been in any trouble with the law since the spray-paint incident?”

  “No, but I thought you ought to be warned that she might come back. She appears to be fixated on your connection to this author, and not in a healthy way. If she shows up again, don’t hesitate to call us. And whatever you do, don’t go feeling sorry for her or try to befriend her!”

  “I think you’re safe on that score.” I took a sip of my coffee. “Does she live in Grahamsville?”

  “No. Fallsburgh.”

  That wasn’t reassuring. Fallsburgh isn’t much farther away from Lenape Hollow than Monticello is, and it’s considerably closer than Grahamsville. That probably explained how Bella Trent had found me. Since moving back to Sullivan County, I’ve been mentioned several times in the local papers. She must have put two and two together when she saw my name on Lenora’s acknowledgments page.

  “She may not become a problem, but you might want to make sure your security system is active at all times.”

  I made the cross-my-heart gesture. “I promise to be careful.”

  He rolled his eyes and started to get up.

  “Since you’re here, I have a question.”

  He sat back down, a wary look in his eyes.

  “It’s about a cold case.”

  At that, his eyebrows shot up.

  Fine-looking as Hazlett is, his brain is even more impressive. He has a degree in criminal justice and years of experience with the Lenape Hollow PD. Even better, he doesn’t discount the fact that civilians can contribute to solving crimes. He once compared me to Dorothy Gilman’s fictional character, Mrs. Pollifax. I think he intended it as a compliment.

  “How cold?” he asked.

  I rattled off the date.

  “Nineteen fif—? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I wish I were.” I gave him the capsule version of Tessa’s bequest, the condition she put on it, and Darlene’s discovery of the reason Tessa and Estelle abandoned their home. “As far as we can tell, Rosanna Swarthout’s killer was never caught. Is it true that unsolved homicide cases are never closed? I was hoping there might be records somewhere that contain more details about the crime.”

  “That long ago, police procedures weren’t as stringent as they are today. I have no idea what, if anything, still exists, and I’d be surprised if anyone involved in the original investigation is still alive.”

  “You never know. Tessa was a hundred and two when she died. Darlene is looking into that end of things, but she can’t access police archives.”

  “You’ll have to pursue that angle with the sheriff’s department. Perhaps Detective Brightwell will help.”

  He grinned when I made a face. The good detective and I had not exactly seen eye to eye during our encounters the previous summer.

  “I don’t suppose old files have been digitized.”

  “I doubt it. What there is, if there’s anything at all, is more likely to exist only in paper format. Brightwell might let you browse, since it’s a cold case, but I wouldn’t count on it. That’s not the kind of material that’s usually made available to the general public.”

  “But it is possible records of the original investigation are still around?”

  He sent me a considering look. “Seems to me you’d do better to focus on finding those diaries you’re supposed to edit. Since they date from before the homicide, it’s unlikely there’s any connection.”

  “You’re right,” I admitted. “My only obligation is to locate and publish the diaries, but finding where Tessa hid them isn’t the only mystery surrounding my inheritance, and I’ve never liked unanswered questions. If only to satisfy my own curiosity, I’d like to know more about what happened at the Swarthout farm that night.”

  “I take comfort,” Hazlett said as he once again stood to leave, “in the belief, possibly misguided, that you can’t get into too much trouble trying to solve a crime that took place well over half a century ago.”

  Chapter Eleven

  It was still raining an hour and a half later when I finally finished editing that short story. I’d been interrupted only once more, by a phone call from Darlene. She’d confirmed my guess that her arthritis was acting up due to the dampness, but that hadn’t stopped her from contacting the library and making arrangements to borrow some materials she hoped would prove relevant. I readily agreed to pick them up and take them to her at home.

  Noting that it was just shy of noon, I considered fixing myself a sandwich, but I wasn’t really hungry. What I needed more than food was to get out of the house for a bit, rain or no rain. After I checked to make sure Calpurnia had kibble and water, changed the battery in one of my hearing aids, and cleaned my glasses, I traded the lightweight sweatpants and somewhat ratty T-shirt I’d been wearing for a slightly more respectable outfit.

  I’m long past the age when I feel any need to impress people with my sense of style or the cost of my wardrobe. I consider jeans and a clean T-shirt with no holes in it, this one emblazoned with the motto “Books and Cats/Life is Good,” to be perfectly appropriate attire for running casual errands around town.

  Given the weather, I added a windbreaker and a floppy hat. Then I drove the short distance to the library.

  As soon as Pam Ingram caught sight of me, she sent me a sunny smile from behind the circulation desk. “I thought you might show up. I have those files Darlene wanted right here.” She indicated a stack of manila folders crammed with what appeared to be items clipped from newspapers and magazines.

  “Good grief!” I hadn’t expected there would be quite so much material. “Have you got a plastic bag to put those in? I don’t want them to get wet.”

  She produced one decorated with the logo of a local variety store and began to fill it. “I’m not too worried about what happens to them. To tell you the truth, I’ve been considering tossing all these old files. Now that we’ve finished scanning our newspaper collection, they’re pretty much redundant.”

  “There are more than newspaper clippings in here.” I could see the corner of a page from a glossy magazine sticking out of one of the folders.

  Pam chuckled. “At the least, they need to be weeded. Maybe you can do that for me as you go through them. Back in the day, the library bought two copies of each newspaper. The librarian put one out for patrons to read and cut anything of local interest out of the other. What category to file the clippings under was optional, so they’re a bear to search. Some files are labeled with the surnames of prominent Lenape Hollow families. Others are even more general—‘Murder,’ for instance. We have one of those for each town in the county.”

  “Is that the folder Darlene asked you to pull? For Swan’s Crossing?”

  “One of them. What are you two up to now?
”

  “Just a little research.” I tried to look innocent but I suspect I failed miserably. This seemed a good time to change the subject. “You know, if you don’t want to keep all this stuff, you could donate to the historical society.”

  “I’m sure they have their own copies.”

  “Individual librarians, individual choices. If they decide the donation isn’t worth keeping, then they can toss it.”

  “That’s not a bad idea.” Pam pushed the bag of file folders in my direction but didn’t let go when I tried to pick it up. “How is the library newsletter coming along?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Don’t forget to save space for pictures of the summer reading program’s field trip.”

  “I’ve set aside an entire page for that, but someone will have to be sure to send me the files as soon as the kids get back from their outing.” The field trip to a nearby living history center would take place near the end of the month, way too close to my deadline for peace of mind.

  “That won’t be a problem. Darlene has promised to take care of it.”

  I tugged the parcel free and clutched it to my chest, but it would have been impolite to cut and run. I resigned myself to lingering a bit longer to reassure Pam that the newsletter was in good hands and would be ready on time.

  “Have you received any announcements from outside groups?” she asked.

  To increase interest in the newsletter and therefore, hopefully, encourage more patrons to use the library’s services, the Friends of the Library had voted to solicit information on events sponsored by other community organizations. The offer of free publicity had been sent to the Rotary Club, the Elks, assorted churches, and a sprinkling of local nonprofits.

  “I’ve received copies of several notices via e-mail,” I said.

  Apparently hearing the lack of enthusiasm in my voice, Pam cocked her head. “That’s good, isn’t it? I mean, we told them that was the method of communication we preferred.”

  “Oh, the method is fine.” All I had to do was use “select all,” “cut,” and “paste” to transfer the information to a file in my word processing program. “It’s just that no one seems to proofread what they send. Every time I make a correction, I have to get approval for the change.”