For Whom the Book Tolls

by Laura Gail Black

  Rita opened the door and smiled. “Come on in, neighbor.”

  I held my ground, my stomach churning as if I were asking someone out on a hot date. Gads, I needed to get out more. “I came to see if you wanted to join me for supper. I heated up vegetable stew, and I’d prefer not to eat alone.” There. I’d thrown out the offer. Sadly, I realized it was true. I really didn’t want to eat alone. I’d spent so many days and nights alone, hiding from reporters or worse, and I was sick and tired of always being by myself. “I’m not the best cook, but there’s plenty.”

  “Sure.” Rita smiled. “Let me grab something.”

  In a few moments she appeared, carrying a bottle of white wine, and followed me to my apartment and the waiting meal. Once inside, she pulled out two wine goblets and a corkscrew, demonstrating her familiarity with Uncle Paul’s kitchen as well as the fact that Uncle Paul never changed anything around. She poured the wine, I set the table, and we both sat.

  I ladled stew into my bowl. “So, I met Stan Jergins today.”

  Rita shook her head and reached for the ladle. “That must have been fun.” Sarcasm laced her voice.

  I needed to bounce my ideas off someone who knew the people in town. I was too new to judge any of this. Rita wiped the edge of her bowl where she’d spilled a bit of stew on it, and I thought of her compassionate acceptance of me in spite of the evidence. If I was going to trust someone, it would definitely be her.

  “I decided to do a bit of investigating of my own into Uncle Paul’s death. The news said the police have a strong reason to think it’s murder, and they implied as much when they interviewed me after I found his body.” I spooned a bit of stew into my mouth.

  “And you’re worried because they implied you’re a suspect?”

  “You bet your backside I am.” I took a deep breath. “After all I went through in Charlotte, I just can’t assume the police will get it right. They’re already determined to find a way to pin it on me.”

  Rita set her spoon down and reached for my hand, giving my fingers a gentle squeeze. “The police here tend to eventually get it right, for the most part, but I can understand where you’re coming from. I’m in. How can I help?”

  I released the tension in my shoulders, tension I hadn’t even realized was there until Rita once again jumped to my defense, this time offering to help without me having to ask.

  “To start, you can help me understand a couple of conversations I had today.”

  Over dinner, I filled her in on the argument I’d overheard at the grocery store and about my chat with Stan while he and Barbie were here. “He really seems to have hated Uncle Paul.”

  Rita inched her empty bowl away and leaned her arms on the table. “There’s more to that story than meets the eye.”

  “Such as?” I was almost afraid to ask, but I’d already come this far. I had to know.

  “There was bad blood between the two of them long before the mall deal came up. Years ago, Stan tried to woo Irene away from Paul.” Rita sipped her wine.

  “Are you serious?” No way would Aunt Irene cheat on Uncle Paul, especially with a slick jerk like Stan Jergins. From what I could remember and what I’d been told, Aunt Irene and Uncle Paul had been crazy about each other. “What happened?”

  “Irene worked for Stan at the real estate office for a while when she and Paul first moved here. She wanted to make extra money to keep the bookstore business going until it could stand on its own. Since she always looked and acted much younger than she was, Stan flirted with her outrageously. He took her out to lunch, brought her flowers from his garden for doing ‘such a good job,’ and gave her bonuses he didn’t give to other employees. He even baked her a cake for her birthday. Irene naïvely chalked it up to Stan being nice.”

  “Mom always said Irene only wanted to see the best in everyone.” I knew firsthand how badly this could turn out. My gullible days were over. I hoped.

  Rita sipped her wine again, swirling the remainder in the glass as she shared the story. “Well, one day Stan told Irene he needed her to work late at the office to help him close a big deal. After everyone else had gone, he trapped her in the copy room and tried to kiss her. He groped her a bit too. Irene managed to sock him one in the jaw. She hit him so hard, it cracked a tooth.”

  “Oh my God!” Laughter bubbled up. A vision of a young and cocky Stan nursing a broken tooth given by an irate older woman popped into my head. After all I’d been through with the man today, I rather liked that mental picture. Too bad I hadn’t been there to see it in person.

  “Old Stan had to get his tooth capped. Cost him a bundle. And Irene quit working for him. Paul finally got out of her what had happened, and he went to see Stan. He told Stan to stay away from his wife or he’d kill him. The two men came to actual blows over the incident.”

  “Who won?” I thought of the man who should have stood up for me against everyone in Charlotte. Seeing some butt kicking definitely held appeal, but he’d never been the physical type. Turned out he wasn’t the “stand-up” type in any fashion. I pulled myself back to the present as Rita answered my question.

  “Paul whipped him good, and Stan, who was twenty-nine at the time, couldn’t get over being beaten by a man in his late forties. And that was after he’d had a tooth cracked by a woman fourteen years older than he was. It was too much for poor Stan’s overinflated ego. He never forgave the two of them for what he considered a grave injustice, and when the mall thing came up, he couldn’t get past the idea that Paul only went against him on the issue to be spiteful.”

  “Wow. I still can’t believe it.” I shook my head. “But at least I understand the hate and bitterness now.”

  “Oh, Stan hated him all right. Probably still does, and probably always will.”

  “The question is, did Stan hate Uncle Paul enough to kill him?” I’d been chewing on that for hours.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. If he was provoked enough. Stan’s got quite a temper. If he thought Paul was in his way again, he actually might have.”

  Chapter Nine

  I took deep, slow breaths to keep the anger at bay. Sitting on my couch, I gripped my hands tightly in my lap to stop myself from jumping to my feet and waving my arms around like a maniac in frustration. Police presence in my home had disrupted the early hours of my morning. I hadn’t even had time to get dressed, so I sat in my old knit pajamas and a fuzzy robe, the only night garments I’d kept after tossing out all the sexy silk things my ex had insisted I buy. It was hard to be dignified with fuzzy Cookie Monster slippers on your feet, but I would be damned if Sutter would sit in my living room and treat me like a criminal.

  “And you’re sure you don’t know who might have broken into the store in the night.” Sarcasm dripped from the seemingly affirming statement.

  “As you already know, Detective Sutter, I’ve only been in town for four and a half days. How could I possibly know who’d want to break into a store I’d never seen before then?” Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

  Rita, who had rushed over the moment she noticed a police car outside, walked over from the kitchen area with a fresh pot of coffee and four mugs. “Do you think it’s connected with Paul’s death?”

  “We’re not at liberty to say.” Detective Frank Sutter referred to his tiny notebook, turning the pages with fleshy fingers.

  “Well, it’s a good thing Gladys Washburn comes in at six AM to clean, or the front door would have stood open for several more hours before Jenna found out.” Rita placed a steaming mug on the coffee table in front of me, giving me an odd look.

  I smiled weakly at her, shoving aside my anger at feeling railroaded again. Inhale. Exhale. I turned back to the detective. “Since you wouldn’t let me into the store, I have to ask, did anything seem damaged?”

  Detective Logan spoke, his gentle tone calming my nerves. “As you know, Mrs. Washburn walked through the store with us. Since she’s been cleaning it for so many years, she probably has a better idea than anybody what’s
in there. She didn’t see anything missing, only thrown around, as if someone was searching for something. Do you know what that might be?”

  I gratefully wrapped my fingers around the warm mug, racking my brain over every little thing I knew about Uncle Paul. “No, I honestly have no idea.”

  Detective Sutter glared at me, and I shuddered. His calculating gaze sent a chill down my spine.

  After a brief silence, he changed his line of questioning. “Had you had any recent contact with Mr. Baxter before arriving in town?”

  “I hadn’t seen him since I was a teenager.” I shifted, trying to find a more relaxed pose. “We did exchange rare emails, and he had recently emailed an invitation for me to come stay with him for a few weeks while I got my feet back under me.”

  Grunt. His eyes narrowed. “Did he send you anything in the mail lately?”

  “No, he did not.” I locked eyes with him, determined not to let him think I was intimidated. Two could play the shock game. “Does this have anything to do with Uncle Paul’s murder?”

  Sutter’s graying, bushy eyebrows went up a notch, and he shot a quick glance at his partner before answering. “So, you’re admitting it was murder now?”

  “Frank Sutter, have you always been a jackwagon, or did you study it in police school?” Rita plopped a mug of coffee down in front of him, sloshing a bit over the sides. “Jenna’s the victim here, so stop treating her like she’s the one who committed a crime.”

  I shot Rita a quick glance, catching the tiny wink she shot me. This woman who barely knew me had stood up for me. It was all I could do to stifle the smile.

  Sutter glared, this time at Rita, picked up his mug, and took a swig of coffee.

  I held back a smirk when Sutter grimaced as if he’d burned his tongue. This was my home now, and the morning’s events had nothing to do with what had happened in Charlotte. If anyone was going to be digging for information, it would be me. “I’d like to know exactly why you think it was murder.”

  Detective Logan answered. “According to the coroner, Paul died around seven PM, and we found a sleeping medication in his bloodstream—”

  “Paul would never have taken sleeping pills.” Rita handed Detective Logan a mug of coffee. “He was too much of a health nut. He hated over-the-counter drugs and felt prescriptions were overprescribed. There’s no way he willingly took sleeping medications.”

  “Yes, ma’am. We think that too. Several people have the same opinion as you do. But we need more to go on than opinion.” Detective Logan’s open honesty was refreshing after the subtle jabs his partner had thrown.

  Sutter gave him an “I’m in charge” glare over the rim of his coffee mug.

  Logan clenched his jaw and closed his eyes. The fire in them had died down when he opened them again.

  “It was what we didn’t find that made us consider he may have been given the medications without his knowledge: a pill bottle,” said Sutter.

  “See.” Rita interrupted for the second time. “I told you. Paul was a night owl. He loved staying up late. He would never have tried to go to bed that early.”

  I nodded. “His email said he was usually up until midnight and if I came in later to use the hidden key and not wake him.” The thought washed through my brain that I’d spent the night in a house with a dead body in the store below. I shuddered.

  “That strengthens our case.” Logan made a note in his own little book.

  “Against me?” I stared directly at Sutter, mentally pinning him to his seat. Might as well get it out in the open.

  A slow, menacing smile spread across Sutter’s round face. “Care to share your sleeping pill prescription number with us? It would save us a lot of time.”

  I matched his slow smile, which seemed to unnerve him, as his own slipped from his face at my answer. “I do not now have, nor have I ever had, a sleeping pill prescription. Are you basing everything on the medications in his bloodstream?” Surely they had more to go on than that. But then, what did I know? I’d seen how the police sometimes jumped to the easy solution and didn’t look further. It didn’t always happen like it did on TV.

  “Not completely.” Logan snapped his book shut. “We have other loose ends to tie up, but we aren’t at liberty to divulge that information at this time.”

  I looked over at Rita, who rolled her eyes. Were all cops taught this phrase in police training as a polite way to say “none of your business”?

  The two detectives looked at each other for a few seconds before Sutter spoke. “We’d like to discuss an argument the cleaning lady overheard on the day of Mr. Baxter’s death.”

  “Oh?” What could I add to an eyewitness account of an incident that happened before I came to town?

  “Yes. She says she heard Mr. Baxter arguing with a man who had come to see him that morning before the store opened.” Sutter again consulted his little notebook. “According to her account, Baxter let the man in and they went into the back room while she was there cleaning the store. She says she couldn’t hear what they argued about, but she could tell they were pretty fired up about something. Do you have any idea who the man your uncle argued with might be?” The detective leaned forward, his pencil poised to take notes.

  “No, sir. I don’t. The argument happened before I arrived, and since Uncle Paul was already dead by then, he couldn’t tell me either.” I looked to Rita. “Can you think of anyone?”

  Rita’s brow wrinkled, and she shook her head. “I can’t think of anyone off the top of my head … unless … well … Stan Jergins has had a long-term beef with Paul.”

  “Stan Jergins?” Logan flipped to a new page in his book and made a note.

  “Yes,” Rita explained. “Stan’s a real estate agent who constantly battled with Paul over the possible building of a large shopping mall. Stan wanted to set up the deal, and Paul kept organizing the townsfolk to squash it. Stan was getting ready to rev up his building proposals again, and it seems mighty handy that Paul is conveniently out of the way now.”

  “Thank you, Miss Wallace. We appreciate the information.” Sutter glanced at his notebook once more. “If there’s nothing further either of you might add …”

  I tried to think of anything else I could pry out of them and came up empty. Ready to have the conversation over, I stated, “No, not anything we can think of.” I looked at Rita, who shook her head.

  Sutter continued to regard his notebook. “Interesting.” He leaned back, reached into his inside jacket pocket, and withdrew a folded paper. Slowly he unfolded it. A small green square was stapled to the upper corner. “We found this letter in Baxter’s email.”

  I reached for it, but Sutter moved it to his other hand and began to read.

  “‘Jenna, I know we haven’t been in contact much over the last few years, but I’ve heard you might need a place to land for a while until you get your feet under you again. I would love to have you stay with me. You would be welcome here for as long as you needed. I have plenty of room, so you would have your privacy. While you’re here, you can help me with a little mystery I’ve run across. It’s quite exciting and will be major news if it turns out the way I think it will. I could use your help to work through it all. I hope to hear from you soon. Love, Uncle Paul.’” Sutter extended the page toward me. “Care to explain what little mystery he was talking about?”

  As I accepted the page, tears threatened to overwhelm me. I sucked in a breath, determined to retain at least some semblance of composure. “Detective, this is the email he sent, offering me a place to stay. However, we never had the opportunity to discuss what mystery he meant.”

  “Oh?” Sutter grunted and crossed his arms. “I think you might have come, found out what the big mystery was, and decided your uncle was in the way.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, Frank. Enough.” Rita slapped her hand down on the arm of the couch and stood. “She’s told you she doesn’t know. You have nothing to prove she ever had a conversation with Paul about his mystery, whatever it w
as, and you have nothing showing she came earlier that evening and killed him, or you’d have arrested her by now. You’re not going to sit here and browbeat her about the whole mess.”

  Detective Logan rose, gesturing to his partner, who hefted himself to his feet. “You’re absolutely correct, Ms. Wallace.” He turned and nodded at me.

  I rose, anger and sadness still warring in my heart. “I’m more than happy to help in any way I can. I’d like to see justice for my uncle.”

  “If you think of anything else, please call me at this number, day or night.” Detective Logan handed Rita and me each a business card with his contact information. “And thanks to both of you for all your help.”

  I took a step forward, wrapping my robe more snugly closed and tightening its belt, since I didn’t even have a bra on yet and wasn’t exactly under-blessed. “Detective Logan.” What was I doing? They were leaving. Don’t call them back.

  “Yes?” He turned and looked at me.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” At his questioning look, I continued. “My store? The one that was broken into?”

  “Oh yes.” He cleared his throat. “We’ll keep you informed of our progress to apprehend the perpetrator or perpetrators of this crime. In the meantime, we’ve taken down all we need to downstairs, and you’re free to enter the premises. And once again, thank you for your help on this matter.”

  After the men left, Rita wrapped an arm around my shoulders and gave me a quick squeeze. “Don’t let Frank get to you. He treats everyone that way. I think his motto is ‘Guilty until proven innocent,’ even when he has no idea what someone might be guilty of. In his book, everyone is guilty of something.”

  A shudder washed over me, and my knees threatened to buckle as fear replaced the angry bravado. “I think a lot of cops have that attitude.” I opened my eyes and caught Rita’s questioning look. “If we don’t figure out what really happened to Uncle Paul, history could repeat itself, and I could end up in jail again.”