A Murder for the Books

by Victoria Gilbert

  “She has early onset Alzheimer’s,” I told Richard, then bit my lip. “Had, I mean.”

  His gaze swept over me. “Hard to process, I know. You’re going to think about it no matter what you do. You might want to talk to someone if you know a counselor.” He finished off his drink and placed the glass back on the table.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said, although I wasn’t sure that was true.

  “It really is peculiar unless Doris was just at the wrong place at the wrong time.” Aunt Lydia stood. “Think I’ll pack this stuff back up now if you’ve had enough.” I moved toward her as she hobbled to the side table. Although she was usually able to walk easily with her cane, sitting for any length of time stiffened her bad leg.

  Richard beat me to her side. “Here, let me help.” He expertly repacked the basket while my aunt looked on with admiration. “I can carry this for you. Just point me toward the kitchen.”

  “I’ll show you.” Aunt Lydia glanced over at me as I stood, useless as a flat tire, beside the table. “Come along, Amy. You can escort Richard to the front porch and then lock the door behind him, as you always insist we do.”

  I wrinkled my nose at her. I knew her game—setting up a few more moments alone between me and an eligible man.

  Aunt Lydia had only met Charles once and had instantly disliked him. Which was why she only met him once. Since our breakup, she’d been on the lookout for a replacement, which meant Richard was caught dead center in her matchmaking crosshairs.

  But I was not going to play that game. Not even if I did think Richard Muir was rather nice and quite down-to-earth for a dancer.

  Not all artistic guys are like Charles, Amy. I tossed my head, shaking errant thoughts about Richard’s broad shoulders and slim waist from my mind as I followed him and Aunt Lydia into the kitchen. No, they probably weren’t all like Charles. But I wasn’t ready to get involved with another one just to test that theory.

  After setting the basket on the large oak table that dominated the kitchen, Richard clasped Aunt Lydia’s hand to thank her for the refreshments and say good-bye.

  “You must come back very soon,” she said. “For dinner, perhaps?”

  Before he could reply, I headed for the hall, calling, “Come on, Richard, I’ll walk you out.”

  He followed me but paused halfway to the front door to examine a few of the framed canvases hanging in the hall. “So all these are your Uncle Andrew’s work? Very well done, from a technical standpoint, anyway.”

  “Yes. He was a great realistic painter. In a time when that style wasn’t particularly valued, poor man.” I moved swiftly toward the front door.

  Richard caught up with me in two strides. “No kids? Your aunt and uncle, I mean.”

  “Sadly, no. Just a nephew and a niece. But my younger brother and Aunt Lydia aren’t that close, so I guess I’m the nearest thing she has to a child.”

  “Not such a bad thing, I’d bet she’d say.”

  I was glad the light in the hall was dim so Richard couldn’t spy my blush. “We get along.”

  “I can tell.” He paused, one hand on the front door’s crystal doorknob. “I’ll just show myself out. Better follow your aunt’s suggestion and lock the door behind me. We still don’t know who shot that poor woman.”

  “Yes, you too. At your house, I mean.”

  Richard popped his hand up to his forehead in a mock salute. “I always lock my doors. City boy, remember?” He winked at me and stepped onto the porch.

  I watched him gracefully take the stone steps two at a time, then closed and locked the front door, careful to throw the dead bolt. I flicked the switch for the hall chandelier and walked back toward the kitchen, where I suspected Aunt Lydia was washing up the drink glasses before starting supper.

  I squared my shoulders and entered the kitchen. Before I could say anything, Aunt Lydia gave me a look—the appraising look she always gave when she thought I might be interested in some guy.

  “Don’t you dare start in on how perfect Richard Muir is,” I said before she could speak a word.

  Although she was elbow deep in soapsuds, the haughty look she gave me would have befitted a queen. “Now whatever gave you that idea? I know you have no interest in men right now.”

  “Right. So don’t start matchmaking. Changing the subject, did you know Paul Dassin fostered a boy for a while?”

  “Yes,” she said in a tone so deliberately casual I was put on alert. “Karl Klass. He was brought to the orphanage when it opened in 1957. But he was a bit of hellion and got into hot water almost immediately.” Aunt Lydia dipped a glass into the sink. “The orphanage board planned to ship him off to reform school until Paul intervened. Wanted to give Karl another chance, he said.”

  “How long did he live with Paul?”

  “About six years.”

  “So you knew him?” I studied my aunt’s perfectly composed face with interest. She had never mentioned this to me before, and I couldn’t help but wonder why.

  “I did. Although I was only five when Karl moved in next door, so I didn’t have a lot of dealings with him.” Aunt Lydia shot me a quick smile. “I only saw him when we visited Grandma Rose, and teenage boys don’t have much use for little girls.”

  “But you must’ve been, what, about twelve when he left? Do you know what happened to him? Richard said his family tried to locate him after Paul died but had no luck.”

  “I have no idea.” Aunt Lydia rubbed at a spot on the glass with her thumb before rinsing it again. “Honestly, I didn’t much care for Karl. He was always so . . . domineering. A know-it-all who always wanted his own way. At least, that’s how I felt as a child. But I do thank him for one thing.”

  “Oh, what is that?” I took the glass from her and placed it in the drying rack.

  “He’s the reason I met Andrew.” Aunt Lydia met my astonished gaze with a smile. “They were friends from school, you see. Andrew was from Smithsburg on the other side of the county, but everyone went to the same high school back then.”

  “So you met Andrew when he was visiting Karl?”

  “Yes. Of course, he cared nothing for me back then. I was just a kid. But Andrew continued to visit Paul from time to time even after Karl left.”

  “And at some point, he realized you weren’t a child anymore.”

  A dreamy expression flitted across Aunt Lydia’s face. “He did indeed.”

  She was obviously lost in the past, in happy memories of Andrew. I thought it best not to question her further about Paul Dassin’s foster child and tapped her arm. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll head out to the garden and do a little work before dinner. It’ll help clear my head.”

  Aunt Lydia examined me, her gaze clear once again. “Okay, but don’t overdo it.”

  “I won’t. Just need some fresh air.”

  Outside, I surveyed the backyard from the porch stoop before taking the steps to the gravel path and grabbing my work gloves from the top of the workbench.

  Aunt Lydia’s garden was her pride and joy. Filling the entire backyard, the beds were laid out in a grid pattern, separated from one another by paths of white pea gravel. Vegetables filled the back beds, while those closest to the house alternated between flowers and herbs. On summer days, the mingled scents perfumed the air, and a low hum of bees emanated from the crimson monarda that overflowed one bed. A grove of trees and wild undergrowth provided a green backdrop to the garden, screening any view of the mountains. You could see the blue peaks ridging the treetops from the raised back porch but not from the ground.

  Even though it demanded constant weeding and deadheading to look presentable, I loved the garden. Somehow the simple act of working among the colorful jumble of flowers and vegetables brought a peace I couldn’t find anywhere else.

  After pulling on my gloves, I headed straight for the rose bed. One of Aunt Lydia’s antique rose bushes—which she claimed had been planted around 1926 by Great-Grandmother Rose—had died, leaving nothing but a grizzled hu
sk. It stood out like a thorny weed amid the profusion of satiny emerald leaves and velvety crimson blossoms of the adjacent roses. I’d been eyeing it for days, hating the sight of its desiccated branches, longing to yank the entire plant from the ground.

  It was old, though, and well entrenched. I had to run back to the garden bench to grab a shovel to loosen the soil around the bottom of the bush. Determined to accomplish my task, I attacked the base of the rose so viciously it broke off, leaving just a short section above the ground.

  No stupid plant was going to defeat me. I reached down and pulled on the remaining stump, finally yanking the root ball from the ground with so much force it flew from hands and landed in the middle of one of the pea-gravel paths.

  Great, now I had to clean up my mess before dinner. I sighed and scooped the exposed root ball and some of the dirt onto the shovel. I’d have to wash off the rest with the hose.

  Something glinted against the white gravel. I bent down and stared at the object, which was tangled in a cluster of root tendrils.

  It was a piece of jewelry. I freed it and stood with the object clutched in my palm. Uncurling my fingers, I swept grime from the still-gleaming surface. It looked like gold. Real gold, not just plated stuff. Something that could withstand the ravages of time and earth.

  The fastening pin of the brooch was bent but still intact. I held it up to the fading sunlight. It was a simple oval with braided trim enclosing a flat surface engraved with florid initials. I squinted but couldn’t make out the letters.

  Now here was a puzzle that could distract me from thoughts of murder and imminent unemployment. I couldn’t help but wonder who had owned the brooch and how it had been lost. Surely no one would have worn such a thing to work in the garden even in the good old days. And it had to be old since it had been buried under a rose bush planted over ninety years ago.

  I should ask Aunt Lydia if she recognized it. But no . . . perhaps I’d do a bit of sleuthing first.

  A sweep of wind rustled the leaves in the woods behind the garden. Mystery, mystery, they seemed to whisper.

  Yes, Amy, something for you to research. See if you can tie this to one of your ancestors, and then present it along with that information to Aunt Lydia. Make good use of those library skills.

  The thought filled me with excitement. I needed a distraction, and this could prove an interesting one.

  I pocketed the brooch and washed off the path and my shovel with the garden hose before heading back into the house for dinner.

  Chapter Five

  With the library closed, I planned to spend most of Friday working in the garden. But as I threw on some shorts, a T-shirt, and a pair of battered sneakers, sunlight glinted off the gold brooch. I’d placed it on the top of my dresser the night before after soaking it in jewelry cleaner and rubbing it dry with a soft cloth. It was polished to a gleaming finish, but I still couldn’t make out the faded inscription.

  The brooch lay next to my work key ring. I studied both objects for a moment.

  I’d become a librarian primarily due to my love of books but also because of my lifelong compulsion to find answers to questions or mysteries. Even as a child, whenever I’d heard or seen something I hadn’t understood, I’d run to my books to research an answer or at least gather information. So of course, discovering who had once owned the brooch was haunting my mind.

  You might be able to figure it out if you could use the resources at the library.

  I picked up the brooch and balanced it in my open palm. There was never any certainty in such research, but I’d had success on similar hunts by sleuthing through old records and photographs. Although the building was still locked tight by order of the sheriff’s department . . .

  But I had keys.

  I tossed my cell phone and key ring into my faded “I Heart Libraries” tote bag before tucking the brooch into one of its zippered side pockets. Hoisting the strap over my shoulder, I headed down the stairs, the bag banging against my hip.

  In the kitchen, I discovered a note tacked to the refrigerator with a round magnet advertising Taylorsford’s only pizza shop. “Gone to get groceries, see you later,” the memo said.

  So I didn’t have a car and wouldn’t for some time.

  When I’d moved in with Aunt Lydia, I’d decided my old car was an unnecessary expense and sold it. I could walk to work, and on bad weather days, Aunt Lydia was happy to play chauffeur. Since she didn’t use it much, I could also borrow her car whenever I needed it. I helped pay for gas, insurance, and repairs, which benefitted her financially.

  But there were a few times when it was inconvenient to share a car, and this was one of them. Aunt Lydia’s preferred grocery store was a thirty-minute drive from Taylorsford, and she liked to take her time, often stopping at a farmer’s market for fresh produce before even reaching the store. So I knew she wouldn’t return for some time.

  Wait, this could actually play into your plans, Amy. Take a walk and end up at the library. If you happen to use your keys to enter through the staff door—well, if anyone discovers you, just claim you needed a restroom, and this was the closest one available.

  My burning desire to learn more about the brooch convinced me this was a good plan. I didn’t even bother with breakfast, just grabbed my house key from the ceramic bowl on the hall side table and headed for the front door.

  I strode toward the library, confident I could conduct some research without getting caught by anyone from the sheriff’s office. Knowing how short-staffed they were, I suspected the deputies wouldn’t bother guarding the library itself. Someone was probably posted at the archives’ building, but their view of the side entrance would be obscured by a thick wall of forsythia bushes.

  Besides, I rationalized as I reached the library, you’re the director. Surely that gives you the right to enter the building even if it must remain closed to the public. Anyway, that was a good excuse to offer if an officer challenged me.

  Yeah, just play the confused professor type. It’s what Brad Tucker will expect. I lowered my head and smiled as I realized the truth in that.

  Preoccupied with my thoughts, I almost barged into someone running down the sidewalk.

  “Amy!” the man called out.

  Richard Muir. Of course I would stumble into him. I stopped short and took a couple of steps back.

  “Out for a run?” I mentally kicked myself. It was a foolish remark, since sweat molded the thin fabric of his gray T-shirt to his chest.

  “Yeah, trying to change up the exercise routine.” Richard grabbed the hand towel tucked into the waistband of his gym shorts and wiped his brow. “Seems we had the same idea this morning.”

  I tried not to stare as he leaned forward and stretched out one well-muscled leg and then the other. Damn, the man was built. Yet he seemed as unconscious of the beauty of his body as a cat. I shook my head. “I’m just walking, not really exercising.”

  “Walking is movement, and all movement is good. That’s what I tell my students, anyway.” Richard tucked the towel back into his waistband. “So you’re off today? Oh, wait, the library is locked down, I guess.”

  “Yeah, although I thought I might slip in and do a little investigating . . .” I snapped my mouth shut. Why was I telling him this? It was those friendly gray eyes, examining me with interest tinged with what looked strangely like admiration.

  “Really? What’s so pressing you have to dig into it today?”

  Now you’ve done it, Amy. No way to lie your way out of this. No way that Richard Muir will believe, anyhow.

  Because as pleasant as his gaze was, it was also obviously backed by a keen intelligence and, I suspected, a well-developed bullshit detector.

  “Oh, I found something in the garden last night, and it’s got me champing at the bit to do some research.” I unzipped the side pocket on my bag and pulled out the gold brooch. “A piece of jewelry.” I placed the pin in my palm and held out my hand.

  Richard cradled my hand in his and lifted
both closer to his eyes. “Looks old.”

  “It must be,” I replied, curling my fingers around the brooch before sliding my hand away. “Found it tangled in the roots of a rose bush that was planted about ninety years ago. Figured it must’ve belonged to one of my ancestors.”

  “Rose?”

  “Maybe, but I’m not sure. And for some reason, not knowing is driving me nuts.” I slipped the brooch back into the bag.

  “That’s because you’re a librarian.”

  “Could be. Now I should let you get on with your run.”

  “Oh, I’m done. So if you need some help with that research . . .”

  I examined his expression, which displayed an eagerness matching my own. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt. Maybe we’ll find something that will aid your investigation into the Cooper trial. And it’s nice to work in the library when it’s quiet.” I lifted my chin and met his intent gaze. “But we’ll have to sneak in the staff door, and I suppose that isn’t exactly legal.”

  Richard grinned. “An adventure? Sounds like fun.” He peeled his damp shirt away from his torso and flapped the material with one hand. “But I might be in no condition to stand close to anyone.”

  I waved this off with one hand. “It’s a big enough building. I think we can work together without getting too close.”

  “Damn, there goes my original plan,” Richard said with a smile that reassured me he was only teasing.

  “Well, research, unlike dancing, doesn’t usually require physical contact.” I slid past him, heading for the other side of the library building.

  Richard jogged up beside me. “Depends on the research, doesn’t it?”

  I rolled my eyes before pressing my finger to my lips. “Hush. The law could be lurking.”

  “Ah,” he whispered, following me around the side of the building, “so now we’re Spy vs. Spy?”

  I couldn’t suppress a smile. “Something like that.” I pulled my key ring from the tote bag and opened the staff door, which led directly into the workroom.