A Murder for the Books

by Victoria Gilbert

  “And he left it in trust with Aunt Carol as the executor.” Richard grinned. “He was a canny old devil. He read the whole situation like words in a book in that one afternoon.”

  “Your parents couldn’t refuse, or they’d lose the inheritance?”

  “Right. So they allowed Aunt Carol to enroll me in a local dance school, which led to me getting a scholarship for a university dance program, and, well . . . here I am.”

  “Hunting ghosts.” I wrinkled my nose at him. “Well, researching the past, at least.”

  “With a handy librarian friend.” Richard’s merry expression sobered. “At least, I hope so.”

  “I’m quite willing to continue to help you in your investigations. It’s actually very interesting, especially now that I know my family was involved.”

  Richard’s smile made something in my chest flutter.

  No, Amy, no. You can be friends, and that’s all. I’m sure that’s all he’ll want, anyway. I twitched my lips to ease my frozen, no doubt odd-looking grin.

  “Speaking of research,” Richard said, “I want to show you something. Might add context to our investigations.” He crossed over to the bookcase and grabbed a narrow gray box.

  It was an acid-free storage box used for preserving old documents. I spied a few identical boxes lined up on the shelf. “Are those archival documents?” I asked, moving closer.

  “My great-uncle’s papers, or at least the research he did for A Fatal Falsehood. I suppose I ought to donate them to the archives, come to think of it.” Richard sat on the sofa, placing the box on the coffee table in front of him.

  I started to sink into one of the armchairs, but Richard waved me over to the sofa.

  “No, sit here. You need to see this.” He rifled through the files for a minute before pulling out a copy of a newspaper article.

  “Check it out. It’s one of the pieces Great-Uncle Paul wrote to demonstrate why he felt Eleanora was being unjustly accused.”

  I leaned in to get a closer look, ignoring that fact that my chest was pressed against Richard’s arm, and quickly scanned the article. “So your great-uncle thought people were biased against Eleanora because she practiced herbal medicine?”

  “Yeah, apparently some people called her a witch. Not to her face, of course, and not even in any trial testimony. I suppose, since it was 1925, such a claim would’ve been viewed as old-fashioned.” Richard’s head was close to mine. So close that if I turned slightly, our lips would meet.

  I sat up straighter, shifting slightly so that there was more room between us. “But I bet a lot of people still thought she was engaged in unchristian practices. Which meant they wouldn’t have had a hard time believing she could be a murderer.”

  “Right. That’s one of the things a lot of town residents held against her, if Paul is to be believed. It may even have influenced your great-grandmother’s testimony.”

  Richard slid the article back into the box and stretched his arms above his head before dropping them to his sides and leaning back against the sofa.

  “It always amazes me how people allow superstitions to direct their actions,” I said while trying not to stare at the rippling play of his arm muscles.

  Fortunately Richard didn’t seem to notice. He was gazing intently at the ceiling as if he could read runes in the uneven plaster. “It happens a lot. For years my parents had trouble renting this place because people claimed it was haunted.”

  “By what? Daniel Cooper’s ghost?”

  “I suppose.” Richard tilted his head until he was looking right at me. “The irony is that the ghost thing apparently wasn’t such a big deal at first. It only seemed to crop up when that article came out after Rose Litton passed away.”

  I fought my urge to slide closer. “The one about how my great-grandmother’s death marked the end of an era?”

  “So you’ve read it?”

  “Saw it when I was digging into the archival files on my family. But if I recall correctly, it mainly talked about how Rose was the last direct connection to the infamous Cooper trial.”

  Richard studied me for a second as if also considering the proximity of our lips. Then he lifted his head and straightened until his gaze was fixed on the dark television screen on the opposite wall. “Sure, that was supposed to be the focus, but it came out around Halloween, so the magazine writer tossed in ghost story speculation as well.”

  “I vaguely remember some folklore thrown into the mix.” I shrugged. “But I don’t believe in ghosts, so I just blew it off.”

  “Well, you may not believe, but after that, lots of people did. In fact, every other tenant complained to my parents about strange stuff happening. Just a way to score a discount on the rent, if you ask me.”

  “You don’t believe in ghosts either?”

  Richard turned his head and met my gaze without blinking. “I’ve never seen any evidence to make me believe. I do like to keep an open mind, but so far”—he lifted his hands in a graceful arc—“I’ve lived in this house for over a month, off and on, and experienced no manifestations yet. What about you? Seen anything spooky at your aunt’s house? It’s even older than this one—although it wasn’t the scene of a suspicious death, so maybe it’s not really the right locale for a haunting.”

  I thought about my aversion to the front parlor. But that was ridiculous. It was just an unpleasant room. “No, not a single ghost that I’m aware of.”

  “Just a garden that spits up gold jewelry. At least into the hands of the resident sleuth.” Richard grinned and tapped the side of his nose with two fingers. As he dropped his hand, he leaned in closer.

  I scooted back against the sofa cushions. “Another mystery.”

  “And speaking of investigating curiosities, I told Kurt Kendrick we could come by for a visit next Saturday evening. Will that work for you?”

  “That should be fine. I’m working at the library, but we close at five. Maybe you could just pick me up?”

  “Always happy to do that,” Richard said, his clear eyes examining my lips with interest.

  I swiftly rose to my feet and moved to grab my hat. “Well, this is all fascinating, but I should go. I still need to finish weeding.”

  Richard stood to face me. “Okay, but feel free to drop by anytime. I have a few more files pertaining to my great-uncle’s research on A Fatal Falsehood. Might be a good compliment to your library research. Oh, wait, before you go, just wanted you to know”—he pointed toward a photograph of an older man set inside one section of the bookcase—“I placed the brooch on the shelf there, next to Great-Uncle Paul’s photo. I think he would’ve liked that.”

  “Very romantic,” I said, keeping my tone light.

  He took two steps closer to me. “I’m a romantic guy.”

  “Okay, well . . .” I spied humor sparking in Richard’s eyes as I backed away. “Think I’ll go out the front, if you don’t mind. Rather not wander back through those woods.”

  “No problem. Let me get that.” He strode past me and opened the front door.

  “Thanks again for showing me your house,” I said as I brushed past him.

  “Hey, we’re neighbors. I should actually give you and your aunt a key. In case of emergencies.” Richard followed me onto the front porch, leaving the door ajar.

  “If you want. I mean, we’d be happy to keep one for you.” I put on my hat, pulling it down so that it shadowed my face. “Good-bye, Richard.”

  So impolite, I thought as I hurried to the stairs that led down to the front yard. I paused on the middle step and turned back to him. “I’ll check with Aunt Lydia about that promised dinner and give you a call.”

  Richard’s smile broadened. “Sounds great.”

  I, who never ran, practically jogged as I fled his yard and headed for my own.

  I really did like him. Which was good since he was our neighbor.

  And bad for many other reasons.

  Chapter Eight

  As I made my way back home, I noticed Aunt
Lydia’s car was parked in the detached garage that flanked the right side of the house. There was another car pulled up behind hers—a luxury-brand silver sedan.

  I didn’t recognize the car and couldn’t imagine who we knew with the money to purchase such a vehicle. Taking the gravel path that skirted the garage, I heard voices and quickened my pace. Aunt Lydia was in the garden, talking to someone whose voice I didn’t recognize.

  “Amy, there you are! I was worried.” Aunt Lydia was still dressed in her church clothes—a simple navy linen dress with a white bolero jacket and pearls. “I saw your clippers lying on the ground, and the back door was unlocked. I was about to call Brad Tucker.”

  “Oh, sorry.” I hurried to her, bobbing my head at the other woman who stood nearby. Sylvia Taylor Baker, my aunt’s second cousin.

  What the hell was she doing here? She and my aunt were family but not friends.

  “I was just next door. Richard Muir wanted to show me the work he’d had done on the Cooper place.”

  A bright smile replaced Aunt Lydia’s concerned expression. I groaned internally. She probably thought her matchmaking efforts were paying off.

  “Ah, yes,” Sylvia said. “The great-nephew. Strange that he wants to live here after all these years.”

  Sylvia was tall and slender like my aunt, but her blue eyes were as steely as her expertly coiffed gray hair. She wore carefully applied makeup that made her look younger than her fifty-nine years. Her clothes exuded sophistication and wealth—a light-gray silk suit obviously tailored to fit her figure.

  Sylvia’s smile was cool. “Hello, Amy. How you’ve grown. But it’s been years since I’ve seen you, hasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Amy is living with me now, you know,” Aunt Lydia said. “Such a help with the house and gardens. And she’s the director of the town library too.”

  Sylvia looked me over. “So I heard. Left a position at Clarion, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” I muttered, bending down to pick up my clippers. When I straightened, I noticed Sylvia staring at me. “Needed a change.”

  “Yes, I heard that too.”

  I rubbed at the side of my nose as heat rose in my face. So Sylvia had somehow found out about my disgraceful exit. Of course she had. She was one of the university’s biggest donors.

  Sylvia Taylor Baker was the only child of Rose Baker’s nephew, William Baker Jr. She’d inherited most of the Baker fortune—everything except the family home and a small legacy that had been bequeathed to Rose and her husband, Fairfax Litton.

  Unlike my direct relations, Sylvia’s father had turned his inheritance into a larger fortune, buying up real estate before the commuter rail took off and the area became a popular bedroom community for people working in Washington, DC. Sylvia, who’d never married, had built an elegant estate outside of town but rarely lived there. She spent most of her time traveling and managing her investment properties.

  According to Aunt Lydia, Sylvia was not satisfied with her wealth, elegant estate, and various vacation properties. She’d always coveted the family home and had made numerous attempts to buy it.

  Numerous unsuccessful attempts. I wondered if that was why she was here today. One more try.

  “Sylvia was at church today . . .” Aunt Lydia shot me a conspiratorial glance. My aunt had often mentioned that Sylvia Baker only attended church services at Easter and Christmas. “. . . and asked if she could stop by to see the garden. So I invited her over.”

  “I see.” I yanked off my straw hat and wiped my forehead with the back of my hand. “Sorry it isn’t in perfect shape. Still need to finish the weeding.”

  “I suppose that is a never-ending chore.” Sylvia’s gaze swept over the expanse of flowers and vegetable plants.

  I rolled the edge of my hat between my fingers. “Pretty much.”

  “Couldn’t manage it without Amy,” Aunt Lydia said. “Of course, it will all be hers someday, so she does have a vested interest.”

  “Yes, I suppose,” said her cousin.

  Aunt Lydia’s smile shone in direct contrast to Sylvia’s sour grimace. “And we’re thrilled that Richard Muir has moved in next door. The Cooper place sat empty too long. I was afraid it would eventually fall to pieces and have to be torn down. Now with all the work Richard has put in, I’m sure the house will endure for many more years.”

  “Very nice,” Sylvia said, although her expression did not match this pronouncement.

  “Of course, we are concerned about the plans for the development Bob Blackstone is pushing. Have you heard anything about that?” Aunt Lydia said this in a perfectly innocent tone, but I knew she was fishing for confirmation that Sylvia was involved.

  Sylvia thinned her lips and did not respond.

  I cast her a broad, if insincere, smile. “Yes, it seems that Don Virts has invested some money in the deal. Guess Mayor Blackstone needed an infusion of extra cash to get the property into shape to sell. Heard he might have to put in a few wells and septic tanks if the town system can’t be expanded soon enough.”

  “I really had no idea,” Sylvia said shortly.

  “No? I thought you knew everything that went on in town, especially where development was concerned. Aren’t you on the zoning board?” I caught Aunt Lydia’s warning frown out of the corner of my eye.

  But if Sylvia Baker was involved in Bob Blackstone’s land deal, along with Don Virts, she might know something useful about Don’s finances. Not that she would be likely to tell me anything directly, but just knowing of her involvement could provide me with another avenue for research.

  “I am, but I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to share the information from our meetings with outsiders.” As Sylvia waved her hand in a dismissive gesture, a scent of flowery perfume wafted through the air.

  It was enough to entice an inquisitive honeybee. The bee flew a circle about Sylvia’s head.

  “Get that thing away from me!” she shrieked.

  “It won’t hurt you if you just stand still,” Aunt Lydia said after Sylvia batted at the bee furiously and jumped backward.

  I covered my smile with one hand. The oh-so-elegant Sylvia was hopping on one foot like an angry crane. “Wait, let me shoo it away.” I crossed to her and flapped my hand, and the bee took off, heading for the monarda bed.

  Sylvia tugged down her jacket. “I hate those things.”

  “They’re essential for the environment,” I said. “We actually plant flowers to attract them.”

  Sylvia’s lips twitched. “I never would. All that environmental stuff is mostly nonsense anyway.”

  “Oh, I can’t agree with that,” Aunt Lydia said. “We have to take care of the Earth. It would be a shame to leave a trashed planet to the next generation. Which is why”—she straightened and stopped smiling—“I don’t agree with the plans for this development.”

  “Me either,” I said.

  Sylvia gazed at both of us, her expression once again haughty. “Progress is equally valuable. This town will die without an infusion of new blood. Just think of the businesses all those new households could support.”

  Aunt Lydia’s slender fingers curled around her strand of pearls. “Yes, but where are those businesses going to be built? And when? You know how strict the zoning laws are here. Well, you should, since you had a hand in creating them.”

  “We will bring in the proper things at the proper time.” Sylvia gave a little sniff. “Not that riffraff that’s sprung up like mushrooms outside of town, either.”

  Some in buildings you own, I thought, fixing Sylvia with a fierce stare.

  But . . . mushrooms. I looked from my aunt to her cousin and back again. “Funny thing, you mentioning mushrooms. Just uncovered an old article about that in the archives yesterday. It said something about an orphanage that used to be on the old Cooper land and people dying from eating bad mushrooms. Weird, because no one has ever mentioned that to me before.”

  Sylvia’s face paled to match the white
roses in the bed behind her.

  “Oh, that was so long ago.” Aunt Lydia, who had leaned over to deadhead a dried-up daylily, apparently did not notice Sylvia’s reaction. Or, if she did, thought nothing of it.

  But I did. I stared at my second cousin once removed with interest. Something about that old tragedy had touched a nerve.

  I shoved my hat back on my head. “I just think it’s strange that no one talks about it.”

  “It was rather a blot on the town’s reputation,” Aunt Lydia said. “Although it was no one’s fault, really. Even poor Eloise Fowler wasn’t truly to blame. I suspect she was distracted, dealing with feeding so many children, and just picked the wrong mushrooms accidentally. Or maybe one of the children did—they used to help her with the foraging, from what people said. Of course, I was only six at the time, so I wasn’t told much directly. Just overheard stuff.” She glanced at Sylvia, who had regained her composure. “And you were barely one, weren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Sylvia replied tersely.

  “Anyway, it broke Paul Dassin’s heart. That’s what he told me later. He’d so wanted to honor the Coopers with something positive, and then another tragedy occurs on the same land.”

  “It’s just history now. No bearing on the present.” Sylvia brushed an imaginary wrinkle from her slim skirt. “Which is why I support the development. Taylorsford has to move forward, not stay mired in the past.”

  That was rich, coming from a woman who practically worshiped at the altar of family history.

  Aunt Lydia twirled the daylily blossom between her fingers as she studied her cousin. “But why not turn the land into a town park instead? That’s what Amy’s friend, Sunny, and her environmental group want to do. Which really makes sense to me. Let the development happen on the edge of town, where there’s already a lot of modern construction. Preserve the historical nature of the town proper.”

  Sylvia lifted her sharp chin. “That environmental group, as you call it, primarily consists of young people from the city. Not true Taylorsford residents, except for Sunshine Fields. So why should they have any say in our town? And anyway, the type of people we want to move in have no desire to build where they’ll be staring at car dealerships and grocery stores. They want the beautiful lots and views the old Cooper farm can provide.”