For Whom the Book Tolls

by Laura Gail Black

  His mouth opened and closed, and his brows knit together. At least the detective had the decency to look uncomfortable. “He’s not my boss. But yes, Sutter wants to compare them to several sets of prints found at both the murder scene at the inn and the one here in the store. He’s trying to straighten out whose prints belong where and what they mean in the timing of both murders.”

  “Explain, please.” I wiped my hands on my jeans to remove most of the dust as I walked to the front of the store, where I leaned a hip on the counter, my hands extended toward him.

  Logan took my right hand in his and began the process of inking my fingers and rolling them on the paper. “I really can’t say anything, as it’s an ongoing investigation.”

  “I see.” I cleared my throat, preparing for an argument if necessary, and withdrew my hands. “Detective Logan—”

  “Keith,” he interrupted, looking at me.

  I searched his eyes, finding only a clear, steady gaze. “Keith, my life has been threatened, whether or not Detective Sutter believes me. I think that entitles me to know what’s going on.” I wiggled my partially inked fingers at him. “And it’s tit for tat. I give you prints, you give me information.”

  Keith narrowed his eyes and shook his head, a half chuckle, half sigh pushing out of his chest. “Sutter would have my hide if he heard me say this, but for what it’s worth, I don’t think you did it.”

  “Did what exactly?”

  “Any of it.” Keith paused, his deep brown eyes warm, his gaze searching mine. “Not here, and not in Charlotte.”

  I looked away, determined to keep him from seeing the tears that sprang to my eyes. Gads, I had to get a handle on this whole weepy thing.

  “There wasn’t enough evidence. It was all so circumstantial, and it was too neat, too clean. Nothing is that clean unless it’s fake.” He reached for my hand and squeezed my fingers gently. “You do have a friend in all of this.”

  I turned back to look up into his eyes. “So why is Detective Sutter convinced I had anything to do with any of it?”

  Keith propped his bronzed forearms on the counter. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but Sutter is up for a promotion. He’s already been passed over once. He needs a big case closed to fill out his résumé, and if he can pin these two murders on you and solve the crimes in Charlotte in the mix, it’ll be a massive win for him. I think it’s interfering with his judgment.”

  I took a steadying breath, exhaling slowly. “Then tell me why you’re fingerprinting me. The real reason.” With my tears now under control, I turned to face him.

  He straightened, took my hand again, rolled the next finger in ink, and moved it toward the print card. “When Paul was killed, we found, along with his prints, a very fresh and very clear set of prints on one of his plates, which contained brownie crumbs. The plate was found on the desk in the back room. We assume these are the prints of the person who drugged the brownies we found in his stomach. We found what turned out to be Childers’s prints in a few spots in the room, but not on the brownie plate linked directly to Paul’s murder. When the store was broken into a few days ago, we found what turned out to be Childers’s prints all over the place—and they hadn’t been there when we dusted the place after Paul’s murder. Are you with me so far?”

  “I think so.” I tried to make sense of what he had said. “You mean Norman was the man who broke into the store after Uncle Paul was killed but was probably not the one who killed Uncle Paul in the first place?”

  “Exactly.” Keith smiled as he started printing my left hand. “The set of prints we found on the brownie plate at Paul’s murder scene was also found at the Childers murder scene.”

  “Was Norman poisoned too?”

  “He was, this time with blackberry cobbler.”

  “With sleeping medications again?” Good Lord, I definitely needed to stay away from baked goods for a while.

  “It’s still under investigation, and I really can’t say any more.”

  “Can’t? Or won’t?” I looked at my fingers, now sticky with ink.

  “Can’t.” He handed me a wet wipe from his kit. “I’ve already said enough to get me fired if Sutter found out.”

  “Detective Sutter implied I’m a suspect in Norman’s murder and I might still be a suspect in Uncle Paul’s murder.” I finished cleaning off the ink and tossed the wipe into the trash.

  Keith turned to pack his fingerprinting supplies. “He wanted to see how much you knew about either death. Don’t worry, you passed with flying colors. You’re still a suspect in his eyes, but I think these babies should clear it right up.” He patted his fingerprint kit.

  “How?” When he hesitated, I added, “You’ve already told me a lot about the prints, so you might as well tell me the rest.”

  “We picked up five distinct sets of prints at your house last night. We’ve already printed Ms. Wallace, who has been a recent guest in your home; Ms. Washburn, who cleans up the store and your apartment; and Mr. Grimes, who showed you around the property when you came to town, and have eliminated their three sets of prints. That leaves two to go.”

  “What does that have to do with the prints at the two murder scenes?”

  “Are you sure you want to know?” Keith gently asked.

  “Of course I’m sure. After all, my uncle was the first victim, and I’m suspected of having something to do with both his and Norman’s murders. If we can believe the note left on my pillow, someone may want to make me the third victim. Who else could have more of a right to know?” My hands gripped the edge of the counter as I steeled myself for the answer I suspected was coming. It was the only logical thing he could say.

  The detective nodded his head. “If you insist. Of the two sets of unidentified prints upstairs, one of them exactly matches the set found on Mr. Baxter’s brownie plate and Mr. Childers’s cobbler plate. So, if it wasn’t you who killed the two men, then the real killer left you that note last night.” His quick reflexes allowed him to catch me as my knees wobbled, and he gently helped me to the chair at the end of the counter and knelt in front of me.

  “I knew that was probably true, but it’s unnerving to have it confirmed.” I sucked in a long, shaky breath. “What about Mason Craig’s fingerprints? Do they match either set?” My heart squeezed, and my stomach rolled. I couldn’t have been wrong about him. I just couldn’t.

  “No. And they don’t match any prints found at either crime scene. I think we’re about to drop the charges against him. It was an awfully weak case to begin with, but Sutter was determined to get that win.”

  Relief poured through me, and I would have sagged to the floor if I hadn’t already been sitting in a chair, practically held in place by Keith, who still knelt in front of me. “Finally, some good news out of all of this.”

  Keith stood. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “I think so.” I took another steadying breath and also stood, determined not to let my shaky knees take me back down.

  “Please be careful.” Keith picked up his fingerprint case. “Whoever did this has already killed twice. Don’t let yourself think they won’t try it a third time if they feel you’re a threat. Whatever you do, be careful who you trust.”

  “I promise.”

  He walked out of my store. The bells tinkled over the doorway, but this time they didn’t sound happy. Instead they sounded sinister, reminding me I was alone with a murderer lurking nearby.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Still thinking about my conversation with Keith, I looked up when Mason arrived. He whistled a happy tune and seemed more relaxed than I’d seen him since we first met.

  “What’s got you in such a fine mood this afternoon?” I already knew but wanted to give him a chance to tell his good news.

  “I’ve been officially let off the hook about Paul’s murder. They found evidence that couldn’t possibly have anything to do with me, so they let me go. No trial, I get my bail money back, and I’m free as a bird.” To illustrate his
point, he jumped into the air and flapped his arms.

  I laughed at his antics. “I heard about the fingerprints.”

  “Who told you?” He stopped midflap.

  “Let’s say it was a different little birdie than you.” The memory of Keith’s gentleness sparked a warmth in my chest. I had to keep his confidence. I couldn’t get him into trouble for his honesty.

  “Well, they almost kept me,” he said. “That stupid Detective Sutter was determined to pin it on me because of the sleeping medication connection. I’m just glad the second murder was different. He tried to connect me to the hydrangea too, saying I could buy them. But so could anyone, so he let me go.”

  “Hydrangea?” I poured a fortifying cup of coffee and sat on a stool behind the counter.

  “Yeah, it seems old Norman was poisoned with hydrangea flower petals baked up in blackberry cobbler. Apparently they’re deadly.” Mason walked to the coffee table and picked up a Styrofoam cup.

  “Wait. I thought the fingerprints were the same on the plates at both murders. Are they now thinking it wasn’t the same person after all?” Should I be worried about two killers coming after me instead of only one?

  Mason grinned. “Confusing, I know. They think it was the same person who poisoned both of them, but with different things. I guess the killer ran out of sleeping pills.”

  “Hmm. Could be. But how would he know about hydrangea? That’s not exactly common knowledge.” I sipped my coffee, letting the hot liquid burn down my throat. I grimaced at the flat taste. The coffee hadn’t been too bad at first, but the longer the old can of Folgers was open, the more stale it tasted in the pot. I made a mental note to add fresh coffee to the grocery list. No telling how long that old can had been hiding in the back room before we found it.

  “You can research anything on the internet if you know how and where to look.” Mason turned and leaned his elbows on the counter. “It’s the only thing that really makes any sense. Maybe he didn’t have a whole lot of money to waste on medications, so he wanted to use something else the second time.” Mason was silent for a second. “Or maybe he didn’t want anyone noticing he’d refilled his prescription too soon.”

  “I hope the police figure it out.” Pouring coffee into my Styrofoam cup, I added real mugs to my list so we could have more than a few sips at a time.

  “Me too,” agreed Mason. “But either way, I’m glad it lets me off the hook.”

  “Will you go back home now?” I turned and leaned on the counter.

  Mason’s head ducked and his shoulders slumped. He had apparently been going over and over the same things in his own mind, because the words gushed out. “I guess I should. I mean, I’ve got a job there, an apartment, a few new friends. Granted, the job’s nothing great. Oh, sure, I bragged about it to everyone here, but that was when I felt I had to impress everyone with how well I was doing without any help. But if you want to know the truth, I’m a janitor for an office complex. I’m barely making minimum wage cleaning up other people’s messes. But here, I guess nobody would ever hire me. There will always be someone who thinks I might steal again. You know how it would go. Mr. Owner drops a twenty without realizing it and kicks it under the counter, and the next thing I know I’m out on my ear, or worse, arrested for stealing. Who would believe I didn’t do it? I can’t say I’d blame them, but still, it’s not very fair.” Mason flopped down in the chair by the counter and raked his hands through his hair.

  “You’d really like to come back to Hokes Folly, wouldn’t you?” I knew the answer, but Mason needed to finish this argument he’d begun with himself, and I let him do so.

  Although he hesitated, it was easy to see he was talking more to himself than to anyone else. “I’d like to come back, but I don’t know if people would accept me. And where would I stay? I can’t keep mooching off of folks indefinitely. I’d have to get a place of my own. But with what money? Everything I’ve made has gone toward a car payment on the junker I drive, rent for a dumpy apartment, cheap food, and gas money to get back and forth to work. I have no savings of any kind. I looked around here and found a cheap studio apartment close by, but how would I pay first and last month’s rent or utility deposits?

  “If I lived close enough, I guess I could sell the car, but who would buy it? I only bought it because it was the cheapest thing I could find that was still drivable. Maybe someone else would be as desperate for wheels as I was when I bought that lemon, but what if they weren’t? Then what? I’ll tell you what. I’d be stuck with a car I couldn’t afford to put gas in. I’d have no job, no place to stay, and would end up living in some cardboard box or at the mission downtown. Maybe I could sleep in the car. At least then it would be good for something.” He crossed his arms on the counter and rested his forehead on them, sighing deeply.

  My motherly instincts, such as they were, shoved their way to the forefront. I’d been where this kid was not too long ago. Knowing how frightening it was to realize you had nothing, I reached out a hand and squeezed his shoulder to get his attention. “Might I suggest a viable option before you start looking at your future real estate out back by the cardboard recycling bin?”

  Mason raised his head. His sad eyes and solemn face reminded me of a lost puppy, and I resisted the impulse to pat him on the head or scratch him behind the ears.

  I did a bit of quick mental math. “I’ve been thinking I could use some help around here on a more permanent basis.”

  Mason jumped up and whooped with delight. “You mean you would let me keep working here? Really? You’d trust me that much?” He grabbed me in a big hug and nearly squeezed my breath away.

  I managed to disengage myself from his exuberant embrace, rubbing my sides and chuckling. Guess I wasn’t the only one prone to random hugging. “You shouldn’t agree until you’ve heard the entire offer. You might not want to stay after you’ve listened to the whole thing.”

  “I don’t think anything you could suggest would make me say no.” Mason looked like he was about to hug me again.

  I stepped around the counter to protect my ribs. “As a part of your job description, you’ll work full-time on an ongoing basis, but you’ll need to be here extra hours until we can get a handle on not only this front room, but also the inventory in the back. You’ll need to assist with pricing decisions, so you’ll need to start educating yourself on antique books.”

  Mason’s jaw dropped, and out of his open mouth came another whoop of delight. Suddenly sobering, he said, “I guess I can talk my friends into a couple more months on couches until I can save enough for deposits and all.”

  “Oh, did I forget to mention the relocation bonus?”

  A crease crossed his brow. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll manage.”

  I nudged him on the shoulder. “Stop it. Uncle Paul would have wanted me to take care of this for you.” After all, I had a nice nest egg now, and I knew Uncle Paul would have agreed this was a worthy cause.

  Mason blinked a few times and cleared his throat before standing and straightening his shoulders. “I’ll do a good job for you, Jenna, I swear. After the next few weeks, you’ll realize you can’t do without me. I’ll be the best employee you could ever wish for. You’ll never have to hire anyone else again as long as you live. You’ll see.” And with that pronouncement, Mason went back to whistling the happy tune he’d been whistling when he came through the front door. Marching up the aisle, he tackled the book stacks with renewed enthusiasm.

  I watched him for a few minutes, amazed and somewhat envious that he could change his outlook so drastically in such a short time. I pitched in, and we worked efficiently for a while before the phone rang.

  “Baxter’s Book Emporium.” I really needed to come up with a better name. Maybe I could hold a contest. Ten free books to the winner.

  “Hello, Jenna,” came Horace Grimes’s mellow voice. “I received a call from a Detective Sutter. Is there something I should know?”

  “Oh no!” I cringed. “I am so sorr
y. I forgot to call and ask if you take on criminal cases. It’s been a rough twenty-four hours.”

  “It’s all right. I don’t normally practice criminal law, but I think I can help you temporarily until you find an attorney who does.”

  “Thank you so much.” Mental list item number … however many: add Horace Grimes to my Christmas list. “What did Sutter want?”

  “He wanted us to meet him downtown. He said he had some questions for you. However, I don’t have time for a downtown junket right now. I told him if he would like to speak to my client, he could meet us both here at three thirty.”

  I looked at my watch, and my stomach sank. “That’s in ten minutes!”

  “Yes, it is. Can you make it?” he asked.

  “I’ll be there.” I hung up, snatched my purse, and rushed out the door, calling out to Mason as I left, “I’ve got to go for a while. I should be back before closing.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The receptionist ushered me into Horace’s office immediately upon arrival, and I barely had time to sit before Detective Sutter was announced.

  “Frank.” Horace held out his hand.

  “Horace.” The detective shook it and sat in the chair next to mine.

  They were on a first-name basis. For some reason, this startled me. I covered my surprise and turned toward the detective. “Why did you ask to see me?”

  Sutter laid a folder on the attorney’s desk then asked me, “Did your uncle keep a diary?”

  I blinked. “What? Why would I know that?”

  Sutter stared at me as if trying to mesmerize me into giving him the information he wanted.

  “Frank, if you have a legitimate question, ask it. Otherwise, I have pressing appointments.” Mr. Grimes rose.

  “Sit down, Horace.” Sutter gestured with his hand then turned to me again. “We found a diary among the papers in the safe in Childers’s hotel room. We believe it belonged to Paul Baxter. Do you know anything about that?”