I wanted to believe this. Although the outcome would remain the same, the thought of Doris being accidentally shot by a common thief was less frightening than someone I knew being stalked by a madman.
A madman who might still be at large in Taylorsford. I clutched my arms harder.
“Could be. We’re well aware of Mrs. Virts’s medical condition, but we’ll still be investigating all possibilities.” The detective continued to examine me as his partner strolled over, trailed by Richard. “We’re done for now, I assume?”
His partner nodded. “But these two need to stay in town.” He pointed his index finger at us. “We must be able to find you.”
Richard looked as pale and drawn as I felt. “Not a problem. We live here, you know. Don’t plan to move.” As the detective seated next to me stood and offered me a hand, Richard waved him back. “Ms. Webber’s my neighbor. I can escort her home if that’s okay.”
“I don’t see why not. Your whereabouts have been confirmed for the suspected time of the attack, and we’ve recorded all your contact info.”
“Then allow us to get out of your way.” Richard held out his hand and helped me to my feet.
I pulled away to face the detectives. “My assistant, the patrons . . .”
“They’ve been questioned, and the building has been cleared and locked up. The library will have to remain closed for a few days, I’m afraid. Additional state investigators have to be called in for something like this.”
Fabulous—that’ll probably mean the end of my career here. The mayor will see to that. Library closed for days, lax security . . . I tightened my lips. What a jerk I could be sometimes. How could I think about myself when Doris had just lost her life?
Because it distracted me. Because thinking about that body lying in the archives was too painful.
Richard gently tapped my wrist. “I walked here from the house, but if you drove, we can take your car.” He glanced around the lot with a puzzled frown. It was empty except for Sunny’s canary-yellow Beetle.
I rubbed my free hand across my eyes in a futile attempt to erase the image of that still form surrounded by blood. “No, I walked too. It isn’t that far.”
Keeping my head turned to avoid glancing at the archives’ building, I followed Richard out the back exit. But I could hear Brad Tucker on his cell phone, talking about a shot to the temple at close range and a missing murder weapon, which was “likely a pistol or revolver . . .”
Once we were completely beyond the parking lot, I stumbled a few feet to the right and threw up into a forsythia bush.
* * *
Richard didn’t speak as we walked through the town, but he kept his hand hovering under my elbow.
“Sorry about that,” I said after a few blocks. “The vomiting, I mean.”
Richard patted my arm. “Don’t worry. I feel the same. If I’d had anything in my stomach, I’m sure I’d have heaved it up too.”
We lapsed into silence as we walked. Fortunately, although the Cooper place and my aunt’s house sat at the edge of town, it wasn’t a great distance. The central portion of Taylorsford was only ten blocks long.
Historic properties lined the main street. There were a few businesses housed in brick buildings that had been erected in the late 1930s or 1940s, but the town was mostly private homes, their small front yards separated from the road by a narrow sidewalk.
What there was left of a sidewalk, anyway. Taylorsford’s former mayor, Lee Blackstone, had promised for years to replace the crumbling concrete with brick pavers, but the historic trust money had never materialized. Now Robert Blackstone, his son and the current mayor, promised the same thing.
I kicked at a clump of orchard grass sprouting up through one of the cracks in the concrete. It would be more in keeping with the historic nature of the town if they could replace the sidewalks. Maybe Bob Blackstone would make it happen. He was certainly more capable than his father, at least according to Aunt Lydia.
As I looked up, I noticed Richard studying the houses. They varied in style from plain two-story wooden structures with simple black shutters and stooped porches to elegant Victorians festooned with decorative gingerbread trim. One or two of the oldest were built from the fieldstone that had once been prevalent in the area. It was the same stone used in the low walls dividing up farm fields outside of town.
“How much do you know about Taylorsford?” I asked, hoping to divert my mind from that ghastly scene in the archives.
“Not too much. My parents occasionally visited my great-uncle, but they stopped coming when he died.” Although it was a hot June day, Richard vigorously rubbed his upper arms as if he were freezing.
I understood. He was probably as traumatized by the sight of a brutal murder as I was. Most people would be unless they were psychopaths. I studied his face as we walked side by side. Handsome but not haughty. An unusual combination in my experience.
“He lived to be eighty-eight, you know. Died in 1985.” Richard shot me a quick glance. “My parents brought me along on their visit the summer before he died, but I was only four and don’t really remember anything. So I don’t know that much.”
“Well, Taylorsford is pretty old. For an American town, I mean. It was founded by English settlers in the early eighteenth century. The Germans showed up soon after.” Yes, the bland conversation helped. I took a deep breath and uncurled my clenched fingers. “The name comes from a ferry that once crossed the nearby river. Operated by the Taylor family.”
“Oh, I get it. Ford. Like fording a stream. Guess that’s what made it an attractive location for a town too.” Richard glanced across the street. “But most of these buildings aren’t that old.”
“No. Fire gutted the majority of the wooden buildings during the Civil War, and the blizzard of 1888 collapsed most of the remaining stone structures.”
Richard looked over my head at one of the houses. “Not too many side streets, are there? But the valley is pretty narrow, so I guess that made it hard to expand. At least in the historic part of town.”
I nodded. The houses had larger yards in the back. Beyond these lawns and gardens, groves of trees climbed the hills that rose to meet the Blue Ridge Mountains. Due to the steep rise, there’d never been much construction beyond the main road. “Not such a bad thing. You mentioned that mess on the eastern edge where the road crosses the foothills and spills into the wider valley. All that cheesy development. Discount stores and such.”
Richard shrugged. “I know. I sort of hate it. But I really can’t complain too much. I guarantee I’ll still shop there. Got to get groceries and gas somewhere.”
“True.” I shot him a quick glance. Studying his rugged profile, I had to admit a grudging admiration. He’d neatly punctured my hypocrisy without a mean word. Despite my disdain for the unfettered development on that side of town, I also shopped in those stores.
We reached Aunt Lydia’s house, which was separated from Richard’s smaller farmhouse by a stretch of lawn and a picket fence bent under the weight of climbing roses. As I flipped up the latch on the front gate, Richard tilted his head back and gazed admiringly at the home’s elegant lines. It was a stone structure like the original Taylorsford buildings, a vanity that had cost my ancestor, Albert Baker, dearly. By the time it had been built in 1900, fieldstone had no longer been readily available in the area and had to be imported from farther west.
A short flight of stone steps led to a wood-framed porch that stretched across the front and wrapped the left side of the house. The dark wood front door, with its heavy bronze knocker and stained-glass sidelights, was set off to the right side. Just off that edge of the porch, at the corner, the house bowed out in an attached tower—three-quarters of a circle where it rose with the house, then turning into a circular turret above the second-story roofline. The turret’s wizard-hat roof was topped with a weathervane decorated with a blooming rose, its copper petals now colored with a green patina.
“It’s stunning,” Richard said.
“I can see why your aunt wants to hang onto it.”
It was the loveliest home in Taylorsford, according to most observers. But I noted paint flaking from the carved woodwork that decorated the edge of the porch roof. All the wood trim needed to be scraped and repainted, but that was an expense my aunt couldn’t afford at the moment, and my meager salary certainly wasn’t much help.
“Is it turn of the century? I know it’s a bit older than my house.”
“Yes,” I replied automatically while I dug into my purse for my keys. I’d finally convinced Aunt Lydia to lock her doors during the day, but only after some recent break-ins had occurred down the street. “My great-great-grandfather, who had quite a fortune at the time, had it built.”
As I gripped the wooden railing that flanked the front steps, a few white flakes fluttered to the ground. We couldn’t postpone that paint job forever, but money was so tight . . . I could only afford the library job because I lived with my aunt. The salary certainly wouldn’t allow me to live anywhere decent on my own.
If only I could’ve kept the university position, things would be so much easier. But no, I had to stop thinking like that. At least I had a job in my field and could still watch over Aunt Lydia.
“Now”—Richard turned to me with a serious expression—“how do you think your aunt is going to react to this? Did she know the woman?”
“Aunt Lydia knows everyone in town. I don’t think she and Doris Virts were close friends, but they are around the same age, so they went to school together and all that.”
“It’s bound to be a shock. Perhaps you should break it to her gently?”
“Oh, Aunt Lydia will be okay. She’s made of pretty stern stuff.”
“Still, we’d better be prepared for her reaction.”
“I am. Not quite sure you will be.”
The front door swung open, and a tall, slender figure greeted us. My sixty-four-year-old aunt looked every inch the fine lady she was. She gazed down her slightly hooked, very English nose at us.
“Back so soon? I thought perhaps they might keep you at the sheriff’s office longer.”
“We didn’t have to go there. They just questioned us at the library. And—you know everything already?”
“Yes, except who did it, of course. Assuming it wasn’t either one of you.” Her blue eyes sparkled with excitement. “It wasn’t, was it? Although”—her gaze swept over the two of us—“I’ve never met a murderer that I know of. Could be rather interesting.”
Chapter Three
Richard stared at Aunt Lydia, his gaze sliding from her perfectly coiffed cap of white hair to her elegant low-heeled pumps and back up to her fine-boned face. “Sorry, not a murderer, but still very happy to meet you.”
I bit my lower lip to fight a smile. Richard had probably expected some frail old woman, overwhelmed by the news of a murder in her town. He was not expecting Aunt Lydia. No one ever did.
“You must be Richard Muir, our new neighbor.” Aunt Lydia examined him for a second before offering a warm smile. “Yes, you look very much like your great-uncle. The spitting image, at least from early photos. I only knew him when he was quite a bit older, of course, but I can see the resemblance.” She turned her sharp gaze on me and frowned. “Amy, I’m so sorry you had to be the one to discover the body. At least you aren’t covered in blood. But what is going on with your blouse?”
I instinctively cupped my hand around the tattered hem of my top. “It’s nothing. And how do you already know what happened?”
“Oh, Zelda called me, of course. Nothing gets by Zelda.”
That was true. Zelda Shoemaker, who had recently retired from her job as town postmaster, was my aunt’s best friend. She always seemed to know everything that went on in Taylorsford. Sometimes, it seemed, before it even happened. “Aunt Lydia, Richard just moved in . . .”
“Yes, I know.” Aunt Lydia’s eyes narrowed as she looked Richard up and down. “Last month, wasn’t it? But you’ve been traveling since, it seems. Anyway, did you bring that pretty fiancée of yours with you? I heard rumors there was one.”
“Um, no.” Richard sketched a circle against the porch floor with one foot. “Afraid you’re misinformed. I am quite single at this point.”
As Aunt Lydia clapped her hands together, her metal cane clanged against the heavy rings on her left hand. “How delightful! Taylorsford needs more single men, doesn’t it, Amy?” She peered into Richard’s face. “Unless, of course, you’ve decided you’re gay?”
“Not the last time I checked,” Richard said with a smile.
Aunt Lydia waved her hand. “Not that I care about that, but it would be a shame for the single ladies in town. I only asked because you are a dancer, right? I know the lifestyle’s not unusual for people in that field.”
“Aunt Lydia!” I fanned my heated face with my hand.
Richard shot me a look that said help me louder than any words could.
“Can we come in and, you know, sit down?” I tapped my aunt’s shoulder. “I think Richard might appreciate something to drink, and I know I would.”
“Of course. Come in, come in.” Aunt Lydia ushered us into the entry hall, which ran the length of the house. The rarely used front parlor opened off from the turret side of the hall, its door standing ajar to allow a glimpse of velvet-cushioned settees and brocade-covered armchairs.
I looked away, focusing on the mahogany staircase that dominated the side of the hall beyond the parlor.
Ever since I’d started visiting Aunt Lydia when I was a teen, I’d shunned the parlor. It smelled like mothballs and dust and was stuffed full of uncomfortable furniture. Scarcely used, even by Aunt Lydia, something about it made me anxious even though I knew it was just an unused room, made uglier by the shadows cast by its heavy furniture. A room I disliked because it smelled odd.
But that isn’t all, is it, Amy? It’s also because it’s the one space that’s a perfect time capsule. The room that looks just like it did when the house was new. Back when Rose Baker Litton was alive.
My mother had shared too many unpleasant stories about her grandmother to make any room associated with Rose Litton feel inviting. So despite the allure of the curved window seat that filled the bowed-out turret section, I’d made a habit of avoiding that room.
On the other side of the hall, two more doors opened on the sitting room that we used as a living room and the library that Aunt Lydia used as an office. The sitting room, with its comfortable sofa, soft chairs, and large-screen television, shone in bright contrast to the rest of the house since Aunt Lydia had painted the dark wood trim a gleaming white.
Aunt Lydia led the way past the kitchen and dining room to the back of the house, her cane rhythmically tapping the hardwood floor. She moved quickly, not allowing for any examination of the myriad paintings covering the wall above an elaborately carved chair rail.
“You can check those out later,” I whispered to Richard, noticing his interest.
“The paintings—are they all by the same artist?” Richard kept his voice low.
“Yes, my uncle. Her husband, Andrew Talbot.”
“Who is, sadly, long dead.” Of course Aunt Lydia had heard us. There was nothing wrong with her hearing. “Come, let’s sit in the sun-room. Plenty of light to banish the dark deeds of this day.” Aunt Lydia waved us toward a room at the end of the hall.
“Was this once a porch?” Richard glanced around as he entered the room, which spanned the entire back of the house. Tall windows lined three sides of the space, and the fourth wall was the same stone as the exterior of the house.
“Yes, Andrew had it enclosed to use as his studio.” Aunt Lydia motioned toward a metal glider, its cushions covered in a paisley slipcover. “Have a seat.”
As Richard sat on the glider, it swung back and clanged against the stone wall behind it. “Nice house,” he said, stretching out his long legs to still the glider’s motion.
“Thank you, although I can’t claim credit. Haven’t chang
ed much since it was built except for adding the air conditioning and painting a few rooms.”
“Your great-grandfather built it?”
“Yes. He left it to my grandmother, Rose Baker. Well, Rose Baker Litton as most folks around here would call her since she married Fairfax Litton, who ran the lumber mill for her father.” Aunt Lydia leaned against one of the windowsills and ran a finger down the adjacent window frame. A fine white powder created by the flaking paint filled the air near her hand. “Unfortunately, Grandma Rose inherited the house but not the business. That went to her brother, William Baker, along with most of the money. She had enough to live well, but it dwindled over the years. Hard to live on that and still keep up the place these days.”
“I imagine.” Richard looked around the enclosed porch before his gaze settled on my face.
“But Amy helps tremendously.” Aunt Lydia beamed at me. “Keeps my gardens in tip-top shape and cleans the house and paints and what not. She’s a very hard worker, you know.”
“I bet.” Richard smiled at me.
I shot Aunt Lydia a sharp look.
“Now I’m sure you both are tired of talking about poor Doris, so I won’t press you for any details.”
“Which you probably already know.” I sat in a high-backed wicker chair with cushions covered in rose-patterned chintz. “With Zelda as your source, you probably know more than we do.”
Aunt Lydia fluttered her hands in a dismissive gesture. “Oh, I doubt that. Now where are my manners? I’m sure you’re parched. Let me find something to drink. What would you like?”
“Water is fine. It’s what I usually drink, anyway,” Richard said.
Of course he did. You didn’t maintain that physical tone slurping down wine like I was inclined to do after a hard day.
“Nonsense. Events like this require something stronger. And it’s past five o’clock.” Aunt Lydia headed back into the hallway, calling over her shoulder before she disappeared. “I’ll bring a selection.”
A Murder for the Books Page 3