Chapter Twenty-Nine
Someone pounded on my door. Pounded again. I glanced at the clock as I rolled out of bed. Seven AM. This had better be good. “I’m coming!” I stumbled down the hall on my sore ankle, pulling on a robe over my pajamas, and yanked open the front door.
“Oh, good, you’re awake. I only have fifteen minutes before I need to head to work.” Rita swept past me to the kitchen and plopped down on one of the barstools.
I stared blankly at her, willing my brain to wake up without the coffee it was now demanding, even if it was way too early on a Saturday morning. I stumbled to the coffeepot and started it up. With the aroma of the heavenly brew reviving me a tad, I turned to Rita.
Her expectant look sagged, and she rolled her eyes, turning to prop her elbows on the counter. “Oh for heaven’s sake, spill it, woman. I want to know what you found out yesterday. I heard you went to Horace’s office to see Frank. I just didn’t get home early enough to come ask last night.”
I snagged the pot off the coffeemaker and poured a cup before filling her in. Trying to cram all the information in and not make her too late for work, I quickly told Rita what had happened yesterday. Rita made the appropriate noises at the pertinent parts in the story, as any good friend should do, and I wrapped it up nicely with my plans to search the apartment. “Any suggestions as to where I should look?”
She slung her purse over her shoulder and headed toward the door. “Not really. I never asked him about where he’d hide things. I’d guess somewhere in his room, though.”
I followed as far as the front door, not wanting the rest of the neighbors to see me in my bathrobe. If people kept showing up when I was still in my nightclothes, I would need to invest in something more attractive. “I haven’t even been in there yet. It just seems so intrusive.”
Rita turned at the threshold and gave me a quick hug. “I wish I could help, but I have a huge gaggle of octogenarians who have come for the week, and they’re throwing a midmorning tea on the lawn. Gotta make them look elegant, or Elliot will have my hide.”
I chuckled, knowing good and well that Elliot would do no such thing but appreciating Rita’s attempt to give me something else to focus on, even if only for a moment. “Thanks. I’ll manage.”
“Gotta run.”
“Hey, before you leave, can I ask you an odd question?” I hoped I could ask about Stan without too much of an explanation. I still needed to run things through my own head.
“Sure.” She paused by the front door. “What’s up?”
“Does Stan or Barbie bake?” I sipped my coffee, hoping the question didn’t sound as weird as I thought it did.
“Yes, Stan loves to cook, and he bakes quite a lot. He even enters the town’s annual pie contest. Wins sometimes too. Remember I told you he’d baked a cake for your aunt’s birthday?”
I nodded slowly, letting the information churn through my thoughts.
Rita wrinkled her forehead. “I’d love to stay and hear why you wanted to know, but I really do have to scoot. Just take Detective Logan’s advice. Be careful who you trust.” She rushed down the walkway toward the stairs.
“I will,” I called after her retreating back. I had no desire to be the next victim on a growing list.
The rest of my morning routine flowed smoothly, and by the time I was showered and dressed, I’d come up with a way to temporarily avoid the painful task of searching Uncle Paul’s private belongings. Stan’s involvement aside, I needed to find that diary. Who better to ask about an old book on local history than the local expert? Olivia Hokes was the foremost authority on Hokes Folly and John Hokes, at least according to herself. Maybe she could shed a bit of light on the whole diary issue and at least give me an idea of what I was looking for.
Over the past week, I’d seen the sisters come and go from the store enough that I had a pretty good idea of their schedule. The friendly Phillie worked in the mornings, with her not-always-so-friendly older sister coming in the afternoons. This meant Livie was more than likely still at home. I’d also learned the Hokes sisters lived in a grand old mansion in the historic neighborhood a couple of blocks away.
I walked to Livie’s house, and after ringing the doorbell, I was surprised to see it opened by Livie herself. I guess I’d expected a housekeeper.
“Can I help you?” Livie pursed her lips and glanced back over her shoulder.
I put on my friendly-neighbor smile. “Hi. I hope I’m not interrupting something. I can come back if you’re busy.”
“I’m always busy.” Livie’s clipped tone and narrowed eyes told me which version of Olivia Hokes I’d see today. “What do you want?”
I tried another route. “Since you’re the expert on local history, I wondered if I might talk to you for a moment.”
This seemed to relax her, and she opened the door wider. “I would be delighted to talk about the town’s history. Was there anything specific you wanted to know?”
“It’s about one of John Hokes’s old diaries.”
At the mention of an old book, the woman’s face lit up like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “I was about to have my morning tea. Will you join me?” She stepped back so I could enter.
“That would be wonderful.” I marveled at the mood swing. Maybe she was bipolar. Or maybe Livie was simply really into this old-book thing. I made a mental note in case I needed to butter the woman up for something else.
As we walked through the house, I looked around at the treasures the two sisters had saved over a lifetime. Every room had a lived-in feel, with what appeared to be handwoven rugs lying on the floors and countless pieces of bric-a-brac on several shelves and in every nook available. Lace doilies adorned the tabletops under family photographs that looked extremely old.
I followed Livie down a long hall and into what would have been called a family room in a more contemporary home. An unlit fireplace graced one wall, surrounded by two chairs with deep cushions, a small, flower-patterned couch, and a coffee table with dainty legs. The main feature of the room, however, was the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf that spanned one entire wall. Livie placed herself in front of the shelves and proudly pointed out various books concerning this prominent citizen or that town landmark. Her pride in her knowledge of the subject was obvious.
After twenty minutes of the woman’s interesting yet seemingly unending lecture, I finally managed to get a chance to speak. “Livie, about the diary?”
“Oh, yes.” She settled herself into one of the chairs, indicating I should take its twin. “My great-great-great-uncle John died almost twenty years or so before I was born, so I don’t really have any memories of him personally. I do remember my grandmother talking about how he always kept a diary. She peeked in one of them once while he was still living, and she said most of what he wrote was pure rubbish.”
“What happened to the diaries after he died?” They couldn’t be only gibberish if one was worth killing over. At least I hoped not.
“Most of his things were packed up and auctioned off. Although I can’t imagine what someone would want with them, since they were only his personal notes to himself. Some of the diaries probably went to auction with all the other books he had collected. Book collecting seems to run in the family.” She smiled and looked at her bookcase.
I jumped in to keep the other woman from starting off on her beloved hobby once more. “What about his personal papers? Could the diaries have been packed in with those and stored or sent off somewhere?”
Livie concentrated for a moment. “I do think I remember hearing many of his papers were sent to his solicitor to be gone through for family records. But I don’t know what would’ve happened to them after that. They probably got thrown out or burned. There would’ve been no reason to keep them. Nothing of value could’ve been in the ramblings of a senile old man.”
“Senile?” My stomach bottomed out, and my hope of increasing my chances of survival by finding the diary faded. Rita had said everyone thought he was
senile. What if it was true?
“Oh yes. It was rumored that, in the several years before his death, John was literally bonkers.”
“I heard everyone in town thought he was crazy, but did the family think so too?”
“Some did, but others simply thought he was pitiful to cling to his dreams so long when it was obvious he could never reach them. He could’ve made a good life for himself if he’d sold off part of his land and moved into town. Maybe he’d have married and had children, run a business, farmed, whatever he wanted. Instead, he hung on to his fantasy of regaining his fortune.” Livie shook her head.
“That’s a shame.” Once again I found myself pulling for the underdog, hoping beyond hope that he really hadn’t been crazy.
“Yes, it was.” Livie narrowed her eyes at me as if trying to guess my secret. “You seem very interested in the history of John Hokes. Why do you want to know so much about him?”
I wasn’t sure I wanted anyone else, especially someone with a low opinion of John Hokes’s ideas, to know what the diary might lead to. “Uncle Paul might have had one of John Hokes’s diaries. I wanted to see what the history of the thing might be.”
“Oh,” gasped Livie, as a hand fluttered to her chest. “I would love to get a chance to buy that book from you. If you have it, may I have first chance at it? It would mean so much to me, since my sister and I are the last of the Hokes family.”
“Of course.” I smiled in response to her unbridled enthusiasm. “He may not have had it, but if he did, I’ll let you know. I thought you said his diaries were nothing but rubbish, though. Why would you want it?”
“They were, mostly, but consider what they could mean, simply from a historical standpoint. I’d have the only known volume from his diaries, making me the envy of every book collector in North Carolina.” Livie’s eyes sparkled with excitement.
“As I said, I’ll let you know if I find it, and we’ll try to put a price on history.” Right after I have a good look to see if there’s any truth to this hidden-treasure thing.
Chapter Thirty
I stood in the center of the apartment, my mind running in circles thinking about hiding places and old diaries. Logically, I should look in Uncle Paul’s room first. However, knowing didn’t equate to doing. I chose instead to go through the main living area first. Avoidance was bliss.
Even though whoever had broken into my apartment had probably searched this area, I repeated the process, just in case he or she had missed something. I started in the living room, lifting couch cushions and running my hands down into the cracks in the couch base, looking under the couch with the light on my phone, and running my hands over the underside of the coffee table in search of a tucked-away book.
Next I moved to the dining table, again checking to see if a book had been attached to the underside of the table or chairs and finishing with knocking across its surface, seeking a hidden compartment. Nothing.
Kitchen cabinets were next, followed by drawers, knocking around to look for hidden compartments. Appliances were overturned or peeked into, and stools were checked. The pantry held no secrets either, other than a few outdated items, which went into the trash. I even pulled bags out of cereal boxes to see if the book had been hidden underneath.
The laundry room and guest bath held equally few secrets, and although I’d already checked my room for storage space, I spent forty-five minutes scouring every drawer, looking under the bed, even lifting up the mattress to check between it and the box spring beneath. Short of cutting into the mattress or the couch cushions in the living room, I had exhausted every possibility.
Resignedly, I moved to Uncle Paul’s door and stood. I knew I was being ridiculous, but it still seemed like it was his room. Whispering an apology to him for invading his private space, I stepped across the threshold.
The room embodied the uncle—and the aunt—I remembered. Though not overtly feminine, I could see Aunt Irene’s little touches here and there—a dainty crocheted doily on the dresser, delicate yellow curtains hung over the window facing the cobbled street below, and a cross-stitch of lavender roses with the initials IEB for Irene Elaine Baxter stitched in the lower corner. Uncle Paul had never stopped loving her or missing her.
Deciding I didn’t want to have to do this again, I retrieved a Hefty bag from the pantry—if I went to get a box from the store, I’d find an excuse to put it all off again—and began to sort their clothes into it, destined for donation. Along with the contents of Uncle Paul’s sock and underwear drawers, I also emptied lacy underthings I assumed had been Aunt Irene’s. I folded each item carefully and packed it into the rapidly filling black bag. I moved all of their non-clothing items into two drawers to go through later.
Having exhausted the dresser, I moved to the nightstands, again treating each item with respect but taking time to double-check for hidden compartments. Nothing. The closet was next, and another Hefty bag was retrieved. When I had nothing left but a line of hangers, I dragged the bags out beside the front door and returned to the closet. Here I tapped on walls, tugged at carpet for loose segments, and shoved on ceiling tiles to see if there was a loose one. Nothing again.
Realizing it was already afternoon, I headed downstairs to check in on Mason’s progress and to see if he wanted to grab a quick lunch with me. However, the store sat empty, and on the door hung an Out to Lunch sign, which Mason must have found tucked under the counter. I stepped outside, contemplating where to go eat.
As I stood there, I noticed Phillie in the window of the antique clothing store and waved a friendly hand in greeting. Phillie waved back, signaling for me to come inside.
“I’m awfully dusty,” I said as I entered the store, brushing off a spider web I’d apparently picked up from under a piece of furniture. “Are you sure you want me to come in?”
“Yes,” replied the sweet voice. “I wanted to thank you for making peace so nicely with Livie. She was very happy to have her new book.”
“She really gets into her subject, doesn’t she?” I remembered the lengthy tour and the animated lecture with the older Hokes sister that morning.
“Yes, she does. She’s considered somewhat of an expert on the subject. Hers is the most extensive collection of its kind outside a library.” Phillie’s pride in her older sister’s accomplishments shone from her eyes.
“Do you have any hobbies?” I remembered the bric-a-brac and decorative touches in the big house Phillie shared with her sister, and I wondered if that was all the younger sister had to occupy her time when not at their clothing store.
“No, not really. I crochet a bit and have quilted a few times, but I guess the closest thing you could say I have to a hobby would be gardening. I especially love to grow roses and flowering bulbs.” The woman’s face took on a dreamy quality. “I have a few very rare species of lilies and irises, some varieties with extremely large flowers, and I have quite a few miniature rosebushes. They’re all out back behind the house. I’d love to show them to you sometime when you’re out our way.”
“I’d like that too.” I honestly wished I’d been able to see them that morning on my visit to the Hokes house. It simply proved the older sister didn’t take as much pride in her younger sibling’s accomplishments as Phillie took in hers. “I’ve never been able to grow much of anything. Everything seems to die on me. I either overwater or underwater. I overfeed or underfeed. I get the soil too rich or too poor. I can’t seem to get it right. And now I’ve got a lovely front window where I could have plants inside but no idea which ones to buy or how to keep them alive.”
The tiny woman was truly animated for the first time since I’d met her. “I remember those amazingly sunny windows. Mostly morning sun, very little hot afternoon sun. If you really want to grow plants …” Phillie launched herself into a fifteen-minute dissertation on how to grow plants and how to tell which ones needed which kind of soil and which kind of food. Grabbing a dainty pad of paper with flowers printed around its border, Phillie listed
several gardening books for me to read and told me which nurseries sold the best plants, bulbs, seeds, and gardening supplies.
Finally, I managed to get a word in. “Have you ever thought about teaching a gardening class? You’d be a natural.” I grinned, thrilled to have found another side to Ophelia Hokes.
Phillie blushed and waved the suggestion away with a dismissive hand. “I’m no teacher. Livie would laugh her backside off if she heard you.”
“I’m serious. You should talk to some of the greenhouses you like and see what they say. I’ll bet at least one of them would love to have someone come in and give classes to their customers once a week or so on how to grow plants and which tools are the best to use for each purpose. It would save them some time explaining so much to customers, and it would probably draw more customers into their store. What do you have to lose?”
The woman genuinely had a knack for imparting gardening knowledge. After only fifteen minutes with her, I was almost tempted to try my hand at keeping plants of some sort again. Almost.
Phillie snorted under her breath, but her eyes held a speculative gleam, and I fist pumped inwardly.
“Well, I’d better get back to it.” I stepped toward the door to leave. “We’ve managed to put most of the store back in order, and I’d better grab some lunch so I can help Mason this afternoon. At least we can make it through the next couple of months without buying any more books, thanks to the surplus in the back room.”
Phillie chuckled. “With all he had in the warehouse, I’m sure you’ll be up to your ears in plenty of books for a while to come.”
I froze halfway out the door and turned. “Warehouse?”
“Yes.” A crease deepened in her forehead as she drew her brows together. “Paul had been to a couple of rather large estate sales lately. I’m assuming the surplus is in one of the storage slots he kept out at Hokes Folly Mini Storage. I doubt he’d had time to catalog all of it and bring it to the store. He didn’t make a big deal about having those spaces, but didn’t you know?”
For Whom the Book Tolls Page 19