The woman stood and faced the rows of patrons behind her. “My name’s Helena Koppel. Laura was my best friend.”
“And what would you like to share with us tonight?” Al sank into the chair behind the table. His face was pale, and he seemed to be having trouble breathing.
Helena turned to Bryce. “I’m sorry, Bryce, but I have to get this off my chest.” She sniffed. “Maybe if I’d told the police fifteen years ago, Laura’s killer would be in prison now.”
“What on earth are you talking about, Helena?” Bryce demanded. “Spit it out, for God’s sake.”
She drew a deep breath. Why was I getting the feeling she was enjoying this?
“The night before she died, Laura called to tell me she was very unhappy.”
“Nonsense!” Bryce said.
“It wasn’t the first time she’d cried on my shoulder. Only this time, she said she wanted a divorce.”
A braying laugh broke the stillness. It came from Ryan. “You’re so full of it, Helena. My mother never told you any such thing. Only, you can’t stop making yourself the center of attention, can you?”
Bursts of conversation broke out. The Fosters’ lawyer looked very stern as he addressed Helena in whispers, no doubt warning her that she could be sued for saying such things about his client and his dead wife.
Al slumped in his chair.
I ran to him as his head dropped to the table. “Somebody help!”
Jared rushed over and felt Al’s neck for a pulse. “I can’t feel anything.”
A man joined us, saying he was a doctor. He placed three fingers on Al’s wrist. He raised Al’s head so he could look into his eyes.
“He’s gone, I’m afraid. I’ll call the authorities.” The doctor spoke into his cell phone.
“Someone poisoned Al,” I said as tears streamed down my cheeks, “and it’s all my fault.”
Chapter Four
I stumbled to my feet to face the audience. My voice shook as I asked everyone to remain seated. “Al Buckley is dead. The police have been called. They’ll be here soon and will want to talk to you.”
Silence reigned for a moment, then the room buzzed like an angry hive of bees. People shouted, demanding more information. I was relieved to see Sally stride to the front of the room, even though her eyes bore into mine like lasers. I had the good sense to sit down.
“I’m afraid Detective Buckley has suffered a fatal heart attack,” she announced. “The police will be here momentarily, but you’re free to leave.”
She approached me, her lips tight with anger. “You’ve managed to make a terrible situation worse than it is,” she hissed into my ear. “The poor man died of natural causes. No one poisoned him.”
Patrons couldn’t exit fast enough, though they gathered in groups outside the meeting room to discuss what had just happened.
“We should stop them!” I told Sally.
“Why? I have a list of everyone here if the police want it.” She kept the few curious patrons who tried to approach the table where Al sat slumped over from getting any closer.
I remained in my seat, my face in my hands, not sure what I should be doing.
“I can’t believe this happened.”
I looked up at Jared Foster standing before me. “Me neither,” I said. “He was perfectly fine one minute, and the next . . .”
“I think you’re right. Someone wanted Al dead.”
I bit my lip. “Please believe me, it wasn’t me, though I did buy the cookies.”
A ghost of a smile hovered on Jared’s lips. “I believe you. People have been chomping them by the dozen, and no one else seems the worse for it.”
“Thank you.”
“I’d better go and call Al’s kids.”
I watched him exit the room with the last of the stragglers.
Only Sally, Trish, Susan, and I remained when, minutes later, several police officers swarmed into the meeting hall. The medical examiner and tech team arrived shortly after. The ME checked over the body and then ordered it to be removed as the technicians photographed and dusted the plate and cup Al had been using, as well as the table itself. They did the same to everything on the refreshment table.
Lieutenant Mathers appeared to be in charge of the crime scene. He was a tall man with broad shoulders and shaggy blond eyebrows that gave him a perpetually quizzical look. His blue eyes were keen but kind as I expressed how shocked I’d been to see Al collapse and die in the middle of his presentation and how I’d observed Al eat a chocolate cookie that wasn’t one that I’d bought at the bakery.
“Did you see anyone approach his table? Did Detective Buckley have an altercation with anyone present?” Lieutenant Mathers asked.
I described the exchange between Al and Ryan Foster and told him that Ryan had wanted us to cancel the program.
The uniformed officer who’d accompanied Lieutenant Mathers never spoke a word as he recorded my responses.
I drove home slowly, still traumatized by the evening’s tragedy. Aunt Harriet and Uncle Bosco were waiting for me at the front door. Of course someone had called them. I fell into their arms and sobbed as I hadn’t since I was thirteen and my dog had been run over.
“I’ve made you some hot chocolate with rum in it,” Aunt Harriet said.
“Then get into bed and don’t bother setting your alarm,” Uncle Bosco chimed in. “The library will be closed until tomorrow afternoon.”
The police allowed us to open the library at one on Friday, when their various teams were finished examining the meeting room. I stayed in my office and worked on the next bulletin, dreading the time I’d have to man the hospitality desk. Sure enough, during the two hours I sat there, almost every patron I assisted brought up the subject of Al’s death. Of course, I remained polite and circumspect, agreeing it was a terrible shock to everyone present. Inside, I was a quivering mess. Sally had been reluctant to have Al Buckley do his presentation. I had no business advising her to go ahead with it.
I nibbled at my thumb cuticles until I drew blood as I waited for Sally’s reprimand. Was she planning to fire me? Did she hold me responsible for Al’s death? But she didn’t show up at my office to ream me out. Angela said she was holed up in the conference room with the library board, and later in the day, Lieutenant Mathers came to speak to her.
The next few days passed slowly. I came to work on Saturday. I started the afternoon movie and then helped out at the computer station. Still no sign of Sally.
Sunday I had off from work. Lieutenant Mathers came to the house to interview me that afternoon. He asked the same questions he’d posed on Thursday evening and then questioned me closely regarding how I’d spent the short period of time when everyone was having coffee and cookies.
Did I remember which cookies I had put on his plate?
Had I noticed anyone approaching Al’s table?
Had anyone appeared furtive or unusually anxious?
Sally’s e-mail arrived that evening around seven: “See me first thing tomorrow in my office.”
I knew it! She’s going to fire me.
I went downstairs, where my aunt and uncle were watching TV in the den.
“Hear anything new about the Al Buckley case?” I asked Uncle Bosco.
“No, honey. Sorry.”
Would Uncle Bosco tell me if Sally was planning to fire me? I couldn’t bring myself to ask. Instead, I asked if either of them wanted tea. They both did, so I went into the kitchen, glad for something to do. I twisted and turned most of the night, wondering how, in such a short time, my position at the library had become so important to me. All I could think was that I was about to be fired.
* * *
Monday morning, I crept into Sally’s office and perched on the edge of the visitor’s chair.
Sally’s grim expression did nothing to dispel my anxiety. “I should have canceled the program as Ryan Foster asked me to—as my common sense told me to do—and not have listened to you, an outsider with no understanding of what L
aura’s murder did to our town.”
“I’m so sorry.” My voice cracked with emotion. “I had no idea someone would want to kill Al—Detective Buckley.”
Sally shot me a look of pure hostility. “He was poisoned. The poison was injected into a cookie.”
I gulped in air. “I told Lieutenant Mathers I noticed Detective Buckley eating a chocolate cookie before he died. I figured someone must have brought in a batch of them, since I hadn’t bought any chocolate cookies.”
“There were no chocolate cookies on the table, Carrie.”
My body quivered as if I’d touched a live socket. “You don’t think I gave him a poisoned cookie!”
“Of course I don’t! But I’m angry and upset that a presenter—someone who lived and worked in Clover Ridge—was killed in our meeting room. It’s a disgrace, and frankly, it’s bad publicity for the library.”
Bad publicity? I opened my mouth to say that was the last thing to be concerned about but shut it just in time.
Sally was understandably distressed. After all, she was the library’s director and responsible for what went on in the library. The board might hold her responsible for going ahead with a presentation that had resulted in a homicide, and she might lose her job.
“His iPad’s gone missing,” Sally said.
“I didn’t know. The police asked me what Detective Buckley had brought with him Thursday night. I mentioned the iPad, of course.”
“Well, it’s gone. That’s where he kept all his notes and updates regarding his book.”
“Do you think he really figured out who the murderer was? He seemed very interested in hearing what people who knew the murder victim had to say about her.”
“I can’t imagine what was running through his head,” Sally said.
“I suppose the murderer took the iPad.”
Sally shuddered. “Awful to think there’s a murderer running loose around town.” She looked at me as though she was surprised to find me still there. “At any rate, it’s time you got to work. I’m sure you have plenty to keep you occupied.”
I was glad to escape to my office. As I pored through the list of possible new events for the month of March, a part of my mind couldn’t stop returning to Al Buckley. I’d liked the man. Liked the fact that despite failing to find Laura Foster’s murderer fifteen years ago, he’d made every effort to do so now.
I couldn’t shake the image of his death—right before my eyes! Sally was right. He was dead in part because I’d insisted on holding the event. If I hadn’t urged her to go ahead with the program, Al Buckley would still be alive today. Someone in that room had killed him. It could have been a member of the library staff, one of Laura’s friends or neighbors, or a member of her family.
I bolted upright in my chair as I came to a decision: I’d find Al Buckley’s murderer. It was the least I could do. He was a dedicated detective who had made it his life’s work to find Laura Foster’s killer long after he’d retired. I choked back a sob as I remembered how warm and protected I’d felt while talking to him. Al Buckley cared about people—unlike my own father, who’d spent most of my early years away from his family.
That evening after dinner, I turned down my aunt and uncle’s kind invitation to accompany them to see a romantic comedy that I’d been meaning to catch at the nearby multiplex. Instead, I stretched out on my four-poster bed with my laptop computer. I Googled Laura Foster and came up with at least forty articles about her death.
It had happened the first week in February almost fifteen years ago. That night, Laura was alone in the house from eight until the time she was murdered. Bryce Foster had gone to a civic association meeting, Ryan had gone to a friend’s house, and Jared had basketball practice at the high school. Ryan was the first to arrive home. He parked his car in the driveway, careful to leave room for his father’s car. All the lights in the house were on. He found his mother sprawled on the living room floor. A good deal of blood was pooled around the back of her head. A ceramic Chinese vase lay on its side, two feet from his mother’s body. He called the police.
The ME report said Laura Foster’s death had been caused by a blow to the head. She had died between nine and ten that evening. The police said there was no sign someone had broken into the house, which led them to believe the murderer was someone Laura had known. If the murder had been premeditated, they thought, she’d opened the door to her killer, unaware of his or her homicidal intentions.
“So she knew her killer,” I mused aloud. Again, that could be anyone she worked with at the library, a neighbor, or a friend. Her husband and her sons all had alibis. Jared hadn’t come home until ten thirty. Bryce had left the civic association meeting early. He’d said he wanted to buy a few items at the small grocery near his home before it closed at nine thirty. And Ryan couldn’t say exactly what time he had left his friend’s house. After two interviews with the police, Ryan admitted that he and his friend had quarreled, and he had driven around for half an hour or so to cool his head before returning home.
Did Ryan kill his mother? I was allowing my dislike for Laura’s older son to color my thinking.
The police had found no clues. The killer had wiped the vase clean of fingerprints with a dishrag that had been left near the victim’s feet. No one had seen anyone enter the Foster home that night. There were no discernable tracks on the driveway to show that a visitor had parked there. The house was full of fingerprints, which was to be expected, as a couples book club meeting had been held in the Fosters’ living room the Sunday before.
Everyone questioned stated that Laura Foster had been a very nice person. So why would someone want to kill her? The murder weapon was a vase, part of the Foster home decor. It could be that whoever had murdered Laura hadn’t gone there intending to kill her. Perhaps he or she had wanted to talk to Laura about a pressing matter. An argument had erupted. The killer had been incensed enough to reach for an object and attack.
Or was the murderer familiar with the Foster house and knew exactly where he or she could reach for a weapon at the moment of need?
Questions about the case reeled around my brain, and I had to put them into some kind of order. I needed help with my new project and knew of two people who could be of assistance.
* * *
“You suffered a terrible shock Thursday evening. How are you feeling?” Evelyn Havers asked as I settled into my chair the following morning.
“I’m still terribly upset. It was horrible, watching Detective Buckley die as we all sat there.” I shivered. “I shouldn’t have urged Sally to go ahead with the program. She was thinking about canceling.”
Evelyn dismissed my self-recrimination with a wave of her hand. “Don’t you go thinking it’s your fault, Carrie Singleton. Sally runs this show. If she didn’t want the program to be presented, believe me, she would have told Al Buckley to stay home.”
“But he died eating a poisoned cookie! And I feel responsible.”
“A cookie you didn’t buy or put on his plate.”
I studied Evelyn, wondering how she got her information. And where did she keep her clothes? Today she wore a coral-colored cardigan over a white blouse and the same sensible gray skirt and white rubber-soled shoes that nurses wore.
“True, but I was the organizer. More than that, I liked the man. I liked what he was doing—exposing Laura Foster’s murderer after all these years.”
Evelyn pursed her lips. “He had a funny way of going about it. All those questions. Hoping for more leads and information.”
“Tell me about Laura. Everyone said she was an especially nice woman.”
Evelyn perched on the edge of my desk. “She was nice enough, and most people liked her. Though she had many sides, like everyone else.”
“What do you mean? It sounds as though she wasn’t as perfect as people claimed.”
“Who claimed? Sally? She likes to whitewash every situation, especially when it comes to the library.”
I cleared my throat. “Did
you like Laura?”
“I did, and I’m sorry someone killed her. Why all these questions?”
“I’m curious. Al Buckley came to the library saying he had discovered her murderer after fifteen years, and then he was murdered.”
“You mustn’t feel responsible.”
“But I do, in a way.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
When I said nothing, Evelyn touched my arm, sending a chill through my body. “I hope you’re not planning to find out who killed him.”
“I’d like to know more about Laura Foster, since I think her killer probably poisoned Al.”
“Leave it to the police, girl!”
Her anger startled me. “You said you felt you were meant to help me. Maybe it was to find their killer.”
She shook her head, her mouth as tight as a seam. “I don’t know about that. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about Laura.”
Strange. “Okay. What can you tell me about Al Buckley?”
Evelyn seemed to relax. “I hardly knew him. Knew his wife, though, from church. Thelma Buckley was a nice woman. Always willing to take on the tasks no one else wanted. She was proud of her husband, proud when he made detective. But after a few years, she looked worn and worried whenever I saw her. I heard he’d been drinking. And then there was some fracas when he got involved in a bar fight. He was removed from Laura’s case shortly after that. Thelma took their son and daughter and moved to North Carolina, where she was from.”
I considered all that Evelyn had told me. It wasn’t much, considering her usual forthcoming conversations about anything connected to the library. I suspected she knew more than she was willing to tell me about Laura’s “many sides.” Why not say what she knew all these years later? How could she not want Laura’s murder solved? And what had caused Al Buckley to start drinking heavily after he made detective? Trish had said that her father played cards with him. She’d probably know more about his personal life.
I checked my e-mail, delighted to finally hear back from the classical quartet that Jeannie, the head of P and E in the library one town over, had raved about. They were able to come to our library the third Sunday in May, one of the dates I’d given her. I checked my calendar and saw the day was still open, so I wrote back immediately, saying we’d be glad to host them.
Death Overdue Page 4