For Whom the Book Tolls

by Laura Gail Black

  Good cop, bad cop. Now I knew who played each part.

  Grunt.

  Did Sutter have a throat condition of some sort that caused him to continually grunt? The noise grated on my already frayed nerves.

  “They never solved the Charlotte crimes, Ms. Quinn. I find that interesting.” Sutter reached out and slid the mug shot back across the table to place it in his folder. “Your acquittal could simply mean you had a good lawyer and the police didn’t have enough evidence. Yet.”

  “Or it could mean I am actually innocent. What happened in Charlotte is in the past. It has no bearing on what happened today.” I straightened in my chair, refusing to be intimidated any longer. “Am I under arrest?”

  Grunt. “Not at this time.” Grunt. Sutter leaned forward, his glare menacing. “But don’t plan on leaving town.”

  I nodded and rose. No reason to blurt out that I knew the whole “don’t leave town” thing was blowing smoke. I wasn’t under arrest, and I could legally go wherever I wanted. However, I also knew leaving town would add to his reasons to think I had killed my uncle. And it wasn’t like I had anywhere to actually go.

  As I walked from the station to my car, I pulled up local hotels and motels on my phone, hunting the lowest possible price. I located Hokes Folly Budget Inn, a private inn named after the town rather than a chain. I drove to the outskirts of town and pulled into the parking lot.

  Door chimes jingled when I entered the lobby, and an elderly man popped out from the back room.

  “Welcome to Hokes Folly, miss. Would you like a room?”

  I looked around a lobby full of worn but clean furniture, windows that sparkled, and healthy plants and figured the place had to be better than the last motel I’d stayed in. We spoke briefly, and after exchanging money for a key, I had a place to sleep for the night that didn’t eat up all of my remaining funds.

  My stomach rumbled, and I realized I’d never gotten the chance to eat breakfast. The clock on the nightstand read 3:23. If I played it right, I could get by on one meal today, saving more money for later. I headed out the door in search of a McDonald’s and their famous value menu.

  Two cheeseburgers later, I was full and exhausted from the day’s emotional roller coaster, and I crumpled into an exhausted heap on the bed. Covers over my head, I fell into a restless sleep, tossing and turning for most of the night.

  Around six AM, I rose and grabbed a shower. When I was dry and dressed, I reached for my phone—my one splurge on my dwindling budget—and placed a call, pacing the floor while I talked.

  After a few rings, a low, soothing voice answered. “Quinn residence.”

  “Dad?” A lump rose in my throat as the overwhelming need to run home and hide plowed over me.

  “Jenna. It’s great to hear from you. How was your trip?”

  I could almost hear a smile in his voice. “The trip was fine. Is Mom around?” Uncle Paul had been married to Mom’s older sister until Aunt Irene lost a battle with cancer nearly a decade ago.

  “Your mom is a little … under the weather right now. She’s napping upstairs. Is everything okay?”

  I sighed deeply. There was no easy way to do this. “Dad, Uncle Paul is dead.”

  “What?” my father gasped out. “How?”

  “The police don’t know yet. He was dead when I got here, but I didn’t know it until yesterday morning. I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner, but I didn’t know how to tell you …” I let my voice trail off, at a loss for anything else to say. I refused to add that the police thought I might have killed him. That would crush them after all that had happened. I didn’t want to worry them unless it was unavoidable.

  Dad cleared his throat and sniffed loudly a few times, and it was all I could do not to bawl like a baby as I listened to him fight his own tears.

  “I’ll tell your mother when she wakes up.” His voice trembled, and he cleared his throat again. “Will you be coming home?”

  “Not yet.” What reason could I give for staying without spilling the beans about the police? “I want to stay for the funeral. Will you be coming up?”

  “I’m sure we’ll try, but your mother just isn’t feeling well right now.” Dad sniffed one last time. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Okay. Tell Mom I hope she feels better soon.”

  “Jenna?”

  I swallowed hard. “Yes?”

  “I love you. This isn’t your fault either.”

  I barely managed the “I love you too” around the ever-growing lump in my throat.

  After we hung up, I pictured him letting his grief flow. At least I hoped he wasn’t bottling it up. I knew he’d stifle it at some point to be strong for Mom.

  I flopped onto the bed, tucking my bare feet under the blanket, and reached for the TV remote, hoping to find something to watch to distract my mind. When I turned the TV on, the news was just starting.

  “Thank you for joining me, Connie Dunne—”

  “And me, Jonathan Greer,” piped in her co-anchor.

  “—here on Channel Five Morning News for weather updates and the news to start your day,” the anchorwoman continued. “The top story this half hour is the death of Hokes Folly business owner Paul Baxter.”

  I grabbed the remote and turned up the volume.

  The bottle blonde droned on in that newsy tone so many anchors used. “Yesterday morning, the body of Paul Baxter was discovered lying at the bottom of a set of spiral stairs leading from his business, Baxter’s Book Emporium, to his apartment above. His niece, who allegedly arrived just before two AM, claims to have been looking for him in the apartment and found him dead.”

  An outraged gasp left me as my mug shot from Charlotte flashed on the screen.

  The camera panned to Jonathan Greer. “Ms. Quinn, recently acquitted of murder and embezzlement in Charlotte, remains a person of interest in Baxter’s death. At this time, it is not confirmed whether she is or is not a beneficiary of Baxter’s will. However, sources report the law firm involved is the long-standing firm of Grimes and Waterford. The police are still investigating, and sources state they have strong reason to believe Baxter’s death was not accidental. More on this story tonight at six.”

  A commercial for teeth whitener took over the screen, and I turned the TV off. Who were Grimes and Waterford? And what if I was in Uncle Paul’s will? If I was, it meant two things. First, I might not be destitute anymore. Second, I now really did seem to have had a motive for killing my uncle.

  I grabbed my phone, googled Grimes and Waterford in Hokes Folly, and called the phone number on their website to set an appointment. I had to get to the bottom of all of this before I ended up arrested for murder. Again.

  Chapter Four

  I’d been there two hours. The first hour of sitting in the waiting room of Grimes and Waterford hadn’t been too bad. After two? I was bored. Frustrated. A little sleepy, since it was a bit on the warm side. I looked over at the receptionist, where she sat wrapped in a sweater behind her big desk. Maybe she was one of those people who was perpetually cold. I, however, was not. At twenty-six, I was too young to have started in on hot flashes, but I preferred to be able to feel a difference between outside and inside temperatures in the late summer.

  I looked back at my lap and turned another page of Car and Driver. The article didn’t hold my interest, nor did the magazine, to be honest, but I’d read everything else in the room, including old newspaper clippings hung on the walls, which talked about the partners’ accomplishments. Anything to keep from thinking about my uncle’s death and my current predicament.

  With my eyes closed, I ran through memories of my long-ago visits with Aunt Irene and Uncle Paul. Though there had been the occasional Christmas card or brief email, it had been years since we’d seen each other. Uncle Paul’s recent emails, in which he’d invited me to stay with him a while, had taken me by surprise, but I’d been at a point where I couldn’t turn down such an offer without a darned good reason.

  It would have been
nice to see them again. Of course, it would have been impossible to see Aunt Irene. She’d passed away almost nine years ago, which was when Uncle Paul stopped visiting for several years, since Mom, Aunt Irene’s younger sister, looked so much like her, and it caused him a lot of pain. When he’d finally started to visit again, I’d already gone off to college, so I’d missed out on that time. After college, I’d been too busy when he’d invited me. I’d always thought I’d have time later. Now there would never be a later.

  When one of the inner doors of the office finally opened, I jumped, startled out of my walk down memory lane as an elderly woman swept into the waiting area, a tall, well-dressed African-American man right behind her.

  “Are you Jenna Quinn?” the man asked.

  I nodded, and he offered a well-manicured hand in greeting.

  “I’m so glad you could wait. I’m Horace Grimes, and this is one of our town’s treasures, Miss Olivia Hokes.”

  The tiny woman’s silvering head rose a fraction, as if in regal approval of the compliment.

  “She and her sister, Ophelia, are the only living members of the Hokes clan still left in Hokes Folly today.” Mr. Grimes smiled at his diminutive client.

  “Left living at all,” corrected the woman, her chin lifting another fraction.

  “Yes, of course.” He bowed his head in agreement.

  Dear God, I’d come to Mayberry. Although Mayberry might not be so bad after … I took a deep breath to clear my head. “It’s nice to meet you.” I smiled as sweetly as I could.

  Sharp, blue eyes stared at me, full of shrewdness and a bit of bitterness, which clashed with the woman’s frail and dainty outward appearance. “Of course it is.”

  Wow. Okay. Not knowing how to respond to the rude retort, I simply kept the sweet smile plastered to my face and hoped it looked believable.

  Abruptly, Miss Hokes turned to the attorney, thumping the cane of her parasol—its lace exactly matched to her antique dress—on the hardwood floor. “Is this her?”

  Olivia Hokes apparently didn’t watch the morning news, or she’d have known exactly who I was. I’d spent the last two hours trying to ignore the receptionist’s odd glances, as if she thought I might brandish a weapon at any moment.

  “Yes. Yes, it is.” Mr. Grimes’s head nodded again, and I had to stifle a giggle when my exhausted and overloaded brain conjured up an image of a bobblehead dashboard doll with his face on it.

  Miss Hokes looked me up and down. “She’s tall.” She sniffed in disapproval.

  At a healthy five foot ten, I towered over the tiny woman, and I fought the urge to hunch my shoulders. Her gaze locked with mine, as if she were trying to burrow into my brain, and just as quickly, she shifted her gaze to my blonde hair and frowned. When I realized I had subconsciously put a hand up to check that my shoulder-length tresses weren’t sticking out in some odd fashion, I snatched it back down, refusing to let this woman get to me.

  Next, the woman placed a pair of antique spectacles on her nose and reached out to rub the material of my dress between her fingers. “Good workmanship, if a bit dowdy.”

  Excuse me? My eyebrows shot up. To be honest, I’d brought it with me to Uncle Paul’s because it was comfortable, not because it would ever grace the cover of a fashion magazine. No, it didn’t highlight my slim figure but hung loosely to my calves. Yet with its cap sleeves, scooped neckline, and soft, butter-yellow material with the hint of an intricate lacelike pattern in the right light, I’d hardly have considered it dowdy. However, it had been the dressiest thing I’d had in my suitcase and therefore won the “what shall I wear to the lawyer’s office” contest.

  Before I could speak, Mr. Grimes rescued me from further inspection, gently ushering the tiny woman toward the outer door, opening it, and nudging her through. “You have a nice day, Livie. And give Phillie my best.”

  With a final, arrogantly dismissive bow of her head, Olivia Hokes turned on her heel and marched away.

  The lawyer heaved a deep sigh and leaned on the now-closed door. After a brief moment, he straightened and extended a welcoming hand. His open and friendly voice soothed some of my irritation. “I’m terribly sorry about the delay. Miss Hokes had a few matters that needed immediate attention, and her appointment ran longer than I anticipated. I hope you weren’t too badly inconvenienced.”

  My southern upbringing took charge, and I smiled and again shook his hand, wondering if he even remembered offering it previously. “No, it’s fine.” Instinctively, I liked him. Maybe there was a “trust me” vibe lawyers were trained to give off, but somehow I didn’t think he was faking it.

  His earnest expression melted into a warm smile as he held open his office door so I could enter first. Masculine furniture, heavy and dark, dominated the large room. Floor-to-ceiling windows graced one wall, and a cool breeze wafted in through an open section, causing the filmy, burgundy drapery to billow inward. An adjoining wall surrounded a large fireplace, which I assumed was more than decoration but would be well used in the coming chilly autumn evenings in the mountains.

  I took a seat in one of the large wingback chairs opposite the mahogany desk, opened my purse, and extracted my driver’s license, handing it across the imposing desk. “You asked to see this to verify my identity, although I’m not really sure why.”

  “Thank you.” He took the license and ran his gaze across it, glancing up to see that the picture matched the woman in his office. “Please get me a copy of your birth certificate as soon as you can so I can include it in the records.”

  “Birth certificate?”

  “Yes, just as a legal requirement to prove you’re the correct heir.” He laid the license aside and shuffled through a stack of papers on his desk, seeming to compare the two before turning to a small printer-copier on the shelf behind him to make a copy. “Now.” He handed me my license and pushed a new stack of papers across the desk to me. “I need your signature on each of these documents. This will allow me to change the names on the deeds to reflect new ownership.”

  “Deeds?” I hated to sit there probably looking like an idiot, but my mind drew a complete blank.

  “Yes, the deeds to the apartment and the business.” He must have caught my confused look, because he put the papers down, rested his arms on the desk, and leaned forward. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

  I shook my head. My stomach tightened. I wasn’t overly fond of being blindsided by things anymore. “Did Uncle Paul leave me something in his will?”

  Another warm smile spread across his face. “Jenna, you were the primary beneficiary.”

  My mind searched for the downside to what he was saying. Oh, wait, the fact that inheriting anything of value gave me a really great motive for murder. I could see Sutter’s delighted look already.

  “I’m surprised he never mentioned these things to you. But then again, Paul was a private man when it came to finances, so you likely wouldn’t have been aware of his assets.” Mr. Grimes leaned back and smiled. “Paul moved into the historic district before it was a town hot spot. He purchased his store location and his apartment for a song. These are now yours, along with the apartment’s furniture and the bookstore’s assets.”

  My breath left in a gasp, my chest squeezing tightly, and I could barely draw another. He’d left me everything. I’d figured on a few pieces of furniture or some sentimental items. But all of it? When I’d made the appointment, I hadn’t really considered all the implications. I’d simply been grateful to have any wisp of hope, even if it only bought me a few weeks or months before I was once again completely broke. At least that would have given me time to look for some sort of job and life.

  I shuddered, inwardly cringing at how greedy and money grabbing I seemed, even to myself, as if hoping somehow to gain from the death of my uncle. But even Uncle Paul had understood the situation I was in when he offered to have me come stay.

  Mr. Grimes referred to a paper on his desk. “That’s on top of six hundred fo
rty-six thousand two hundred eighty-three dollars and twenty-nine cents in a savings account for his retirement and three thousand nine hundred forty-two dollars and thirty-five cents in the checking account, from which my fee has already been removed. Finally, there is the three hundred fifty thousand in life insurance policies, although this might take a few days to settle. Insurance companies don’t generally pay out too quickly.” He leaned over and touched my hand, looking me in the eyes as he smiled softly. “You, dear lady, are now a millionaire.”

  I swallowed hard. “Are you sure?” My mind spun. Things weren’t as desperate as they’d been only this morning, but at what cost? “I mean, are you sure someone else wasn’t supposed to inherit? I hadn’t seen Uncle Paul since I was a teenager, and he was only my uncle by marriage. We’d only kept in touch through infrequent emails and a few Christmas cards.”

  “Jenna.” His mellow voice soothed my jangled nerves once more. “As he was an only child himself, Paul had no siblings to whom to leave his estate. And in the event he had no children, either through birth or through adoption, everything not specified for someone else was to be divided evenly between any living children of Rose Quinn, Irene’s younger sister. I’ve already made arrangements to disburse a couple of smaller bequests, but as Rose Quinn’s only child, he definitely intended for you to inherit the bulk of his estate.”

  My head still couldn’t, wouldn’t, wrap around the fact that Uncle Paul had tried to help me out, even in death. Tears stung the backs of my eyes, and I blinked rapidly to wipe them away. “What about probate? I remember when my grandmother passed away a few years ago, it took months for everything to get settled.”

  Horace dipped his silvered head. “A good question. Paul set everything up in what’s called a revocable living trust. This means all of his possessions were in a trust. He could use these things during his lifetime, but upon his death, the trust is disbursed to the beneficiaries. That would be any possible children, of which there were none, and you. It’s immediate, no probate necessary.” He tapped the papers lying in front of me. “If you’ll sign here, here, and here”—he indicated the appropriate spaces—“I can complete the deed transfers from the trust to you.”