“Shot in the head, just like poor Doris Virts.”
“Which means it might be the same killer.” Richard glanced at me. “Can’t really see the connection.”
“Unless Mr. Fowler was on the right track. About some cover-up, I mean.”
“It’s possible.” Richard stopped and shaded his eyes with one hand. “Is that your aunt on your porch? With the front door standing wide open? Not a smart move these days.” He strode off toward the house, leaving me to follow.
“Amy!” Aunt Lydia crossed to the railing and leaned against it, waving her hand. “And Richard. Thank goodness you’re both home.”
“What’s going on?” I moved beside Richard, who had paused at the bottom of the porch steps.
“I’m not sure.” Aunt Lydia’s skin appeared as thin and fragile as the pods of the honesty plants growing in our garden. For the first time, I could see her true age on her face. “But someone broke into the house while I was out.”
Richard bounded up the steps to take Aunt Lydia by the arm. “Did you see them?”
She shook her head. “No, but the door was slightly ajar. And I know I locked it when I left for my garden club meeting.”
“Have you gone in?” I climbed the steps and crossed to the front door, peering into the front hall without touching the doorknob.
“Not yet. I was afraid someone might still be inside . . .” Aunt Lydia patted the hand Richard had laid on her arm. “I’m all right. Just didn’t want to walk in by myself.”
“Can’t blame you for that.” Richard released her arm and stepped aside. “Have you called the sheriff?”
“Yes, but they’re all tied up right now. Said it might be some time before anyone got here.” She shot me a questioning look. “Something about another murder?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Zelda hasn’t given you the scoop on that yet?”
“No, she was at garden club with me. I just gleaned a few tidbits from things the dispatcher said.”
“Clark Fowler.” Aunt Lydia swayed slightly, and I grabbed her arm. “Deputy Tucker was in the library when he got the call, and I stupidly mentioned the argument in the diner. That’s why I’m late. Had to answer questions again.”
Aunt Lydia pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “What is this world coming to?”
“Do you want me to take a look around?” Richard asked. “I won’t touch anything.”
“Yes, but I want to come with you. There’s no telling what time a deputy will get here, and I can’t sit on the porch all night.” Aunt Lydia shook free of my grip and turned to follow Richard into the house.
I trailed them, careful not to bump into the half-open door.
Everything looked fine in most of the rooms. But the library was another matter. Fortunately, the door stood wide open, so we could step inside without touching anything.
It was clear that the room had been searched, and not by anyone interested in disguising their actions. Drawers hung precariously from the desk, their contents spilled out across the floor. Numerous books had been yanked from shelves and tossed aside. Leather-bound volumes mingled indiscriminately with brightly colored paperbacks in piles on the floor, while the books left on the shelves had tipped and fallen on top of each other.
I put my arm around Aunt Lydia’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll clean it up.”
“Can’t touch anything yet.” Richard picked his way through the papers, ledgers, and office supplies littering the worn Oriental rug that covered the center of the room. He stood over the desk and stared at an object on the oak top. It was a framed picture—its glass smashed and one end of the frame ripped off, as if someone had been looking for something hidden behind the photograph.
“That’s my picture of Paul,” Aunt Lydia said. “But it was on one of the bookshelves, not the desk.”
“Whoever searched the room must’ve thought it would make a good place to hide something.” Richard pushed the frame to one side with his keys. “But what?”
“I have no idea. It’s not like I have any real valuables. And what could you hide in a framed photo?”
“Papers, maybe?” I suggested. “Letters?”
“If this were a movie, it would be a will. But”—Richard pocketed his keys and gave Aunt Lydia a sympathetic look—“this is no movie.”
“No, it’s all too real.” I shivered. Two murders in our quiet small town, and now this? I wanted to flee and huddle on the sofa in the sitting room with a bottle of wine and some mindless television.
Pull yourself together, Amy. Your aunt needs you. She’s the one who should be pampered now, not you.
“Let me check the rest of the house,” Richard said. “First, the back porch. If nothing’s been disturbed, you two can wait there.”
I shook my head. “Not sure you should wander around on your own. What if the intruder is still here? Shouldn’t we wait for the deputies?”
Richard pushed past us and strode down the hall. “Pretty sure whoever it is has fled by now. If not before your aunt got home. Anyway,” he called over his shoulder, “I think your aunt could do with a stiff drink, so let me at least check the kitchen.”
Aunt Lydia made protesting noises, but I just tightened my hold on her and led her down the hall. Richard poked his head out of the kitchen and pronounced it all clear, then led the way onto the back porch.
“Here, catch your breath for a moment,” he told Aunt Lydia as he helped her into the cushioned wicker chair. He looked up at me. “Maybe Amy can get you some water or something?”
“Sherry.” My aunt sat up, her back not touching the chair. “A very large glass, please.”
* * *
Richard checked over the rest of the house and pronounced it clear of any “vandals or Visigoths” before two deputies—part-time officers, judging from their lack of full uniforms—showed up.
We were questioned by the younger of the deputies, who’d said his name was Jeff and kept fiddling with his badge as if he couldn’t quite believe he was authorized to do anything. The older deputy introduced himself as Martin before heading for the library to collect evidence.
“It wasn’t a break-in, though, was it, ma’am?” Jeff asked. “No broken windows or forced doors. Front door left open, but no sign of the lock being tampered with or anything. Seems like someone just walked in.”
My aunt rubbed at her temples with her fingers. “I thought I locked up—I really did. But maybe I forgot.”
“But wouldn’t someone have noticed? I mean, it’s the front door. Anyone on the street could’ve seen the person coming and going.” I paced one end of porch, walking in circles around Uncle Andrew’s old easel.
Jeff scratched at the light stubble on his chin. “I suspect no one was on the street at the time. Or leastwise, there hasn’t been anyone who’s come forward to say anything yet, and with us driving up with the sirens and all, you’d think they would have. Of course, we’ll knock on doors to double-check that with your neighbors later, but so far, no one’s volunteered information.”
“And you don’t have security cameras.” Richard, who was seated on the glider, looked over at me and shrugged. “Don’t take that as a slam. I don’t either.”
“No, I never thought we’d need such a thing.” I stopped in front of the easel and crossed my arms over my chest as Richard continued to stare at me.
“I never used to lock my doors, you see.” Aunt Lydia sighed. “I only started recently, after Amy kept pestering about it. Perhaps I did forget.”
“Looks like it, ma’am. Unless someone other than you or your niece has a key.”
Aunt Lydia shook her head. “No, I’ve never given a key to anyone except Amy.”
Richard stood. “You know, while you’re here, I think I’ll go check my home. It’s just next door, and if someone was hitting houses in the neighborhood . . .”
“Good idea,” Jeff said. “But don’t enter if you see any signs of forced entry, like any doors or windows open. Come get one o
f us first.”
Richard called out, “Back in a minute,” as he left the room and strode toward the front door.
“This has been the strangest day,” Aunt Lydia said. “First a murder, then this. I guess your department is really stretched.”
“We are, ma’am. Truth is, I only get called in when there’s a lot going on. I mean, this isn’t my full-time job. I work over in Bellville at the feed plant. But I do live in Taylorsford. Wife grew up here.”
“Oh, and who is she?”
“Angela Frye, before she married me.”
“Ah, one of Roger Frye’s grandchildren, I bet. The farmer who worked the old Trask place?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Jeff looked up from his small tablet as Martin entered the room. “Find anything?” he asked, pocketing his stylus.
“Can’t tell yet. Gathered up some stuff.” Martin held up an evidence bag. “But couldn’t get any prints off that picture or the desk. Nothing recent, anyway. Looks like our thief used gloves.”
“If you find something specific missing, you’ll have to let us know,” Jeff told my aunt.
“Of course,” she replied.
Martin shifted the evidence bag from one hand to the other. “The weird thing is that the thief left some items that seem valuable to me. I mean, if someone was looking to pawn stuff for drugs or something, you’d think they’d have made off with some of those silver frames and candlesticks or that laptop sitting on a side table.”
“Appears they were looking for something in particular.” I crossed to stand behind Aunt Lydia and gripped the top edge of her chair. “Not stealing whatever they could put their hands on.”
I considered this information in light of my recent research. It did match the theory of someone killing people to keep some damning information secret. But why would they search for anything in my aunt’s house? As far as I knew, there was no connection between Aunt Lydia and Bob Blackstone or Don Virts. I couldn’t think of anything that would link them, unless someone thought Doris had blabbed information about the land deal to Aunt Lydia. But even so, that wouldn’t be information that would be written down, and my aunt surely had no other secrets that would elicit this type of break-in.
As far as you know, Amy. I stared down at my aunt’s narrow shoulders, which did not touch the back of her chair. But it seems she hasn’t always told you everything . . .
There was still Kurt Kendrick, a.k.a. Karl Klass—a wealthy man who might have connections to people willing to break into a house just to send a message. Someone who might have the money and connections to hire a professional thief to make a burglary look like an amateur break-in.
I gnawed at my lower lip. It often seemed to come back to Kendrick—a man linked to Aunt Lydia through his friendship with her late husband. A secretive millionaire who’d hinted that he’d been in contact with my uncle without Lydia’s knowledge. It was not out of the realm of possibility that he’d asked Andrew to stash incriminating documents or other contraband for him. Maybe, with the sheriff’s office snooping around and questioning why his car was at the scene of a crime, he’d sent in a mercenary to retrieve any such evidence. Even if his criminal actions were in his past, exposure of Kendrick’s secrets could shine an unwelcome light on his current business activities.
I rolled my shoulders to shake off the shiver that this thought produced. Of course, I was probably being fanciful. But there was something about Kurt Kendrick that lent itself to such imaginings.
“Yeah, appears someone was looking for something specific,” Martin said, pulling at his tight shirt collar. He was wearing a wrinkled uniform shirt with jeans and a tie, which I suspected was not something he wore often from the lopsided way it was knotted. “Think we’ll head out now if that’s all right. Got plenty of photos and other evidence, so you can go ahead and clean up if you want.”
“Maybe tomorrow,” Aunt Lydia said. “I think for now I want to grab something to eat and just relax in front of the television. But”—she offered the deputies a gracious smile—“thank you so much for your assistance.”
“Of course.” Jeff bobbed his head. “Happy to help.”
“We’ll pass all this along to the sheriff and Chief Deputy Tucker,” Martin said. “One of them will get back to you as soon as they can.”
“No problem.” Aunt Lydia rose to her feet, gripping her cane with both hands. “I’ll let my niece show you out.”
“Just keep a lookout. And lock your doors,” Martin said before heading down the hall, his partner on his heels.
I thanked them again, opening the front door. As they stepped onto the porch, I noticed Richard on the steps, waving his keys.
“My house is fine. Still locked tight when I got there, and nothing moved or messed with inside. Looks like the thief wasn’t canvassing the neighborhood.”
“Good.” Jeff tapped his badge. “Just give a call if you notice anything else in the area.” He nodded at Richard and me, then headed toward the street.
Martin fished in his shirt pocket and pulled out a business card. “Contact info’s on there if you need it, miss. Take good care of your aunt now,” he added, pressing the card into my palm before following his partner onto the sidewalk. They headed across the street, obviously following their plan to check in with the neighbors.
“I will, and thanks again,” I called after them.
Richard was still standing on the steps. “What a day. I think I need some reinforcement.” He looked me over. “Seems you could too. Care for a drink? I have plenty of wine over at the house.”
I shook my head. “I should stay here. Can’t leave Aunt Lydia alone.”
“What was I thinking? Of course you need to stay with her tonight. Rain check, then?”
I examined his face—handsome even in the garish glow of the porch light. I knew I should say no. I didn’t need this complication in my life, especially not with everything else that had happened recently. But he had been so helpful and kind to Aunt Lydia . . .
“Okay.”
Richard smiled. “Thursday night at eight?”
I took a deep breath. “Okay.”
He turned and took the steps two at a time, calling back, “It’s a date!”
Oh, God, it was. I walked back into the house, closing the door and throwing the dead bolt with so much force that it rang like a bell.
Chapter Fourteen
The following day, the library was filled with people asking questions—but not about books or research. They were more interested in news about Clark Fowler’s murder and details on the incident at my aunt’s house.
“I just want to hide in the workroom,” I told Sunny after the twentieth time describing the break-in to an inquisitive patron. I sighed, already tired from cleaning up my aunt’s library early that morning.
Sunny patted my hand, which was pressed so hard against the top of the circulation desk that my knuckles were blanched. “So do it. I can cover for you.”
“I don’t know. Feels like throwing you to the wolves.”
“Hyenas are more like it. Wolves are actually pretty nice.” Sunny grinned.
Trust my nature-loving friend to know that. I returned her smile and straightened. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Anyway, that’s how it is in towns like this. You haven’t lived here that long, but you must’ve seen how everyone gets into everyone else’s business. Speaking of which, I’m glad to hear nothing was taken from your house. Don’t think I said that before the deluge of questions this morning.”
“Thanks. Yeah, seems like the thief was looking for something but didn’t find it. Or, if they did, it was something neither Aunt Lydia nor I knew existed.” I frowned. I certainly hoped my aunt was as innocent as she appeared. It seemed so, since I’d asked some questions as we cleaned and she hadn’t said anything that led me to think otherwise.
“Weird. Well, I’m just glad you were both out at the time.” Sunny twirled a strand of golden hair around one finger. “I’ve been tryin
g to convince the grands that they need to lock their doors, but they keep resisting. Maybe this will do it.”
“Hopefully.”
“Speaking of older relatives—one of yours was in the library yesterday while you were at lunch. With all the other stuff going on, I forget to mention it.” Sunny’s bright eyes were shadowed under her lowered lashes.
“Oh, who was that?”
“Sylvia Baker.”
“Really? Never seen her darken our doors before.”
“Me either, but she showed up breathing fire.”
I frowned. “Over what?”
“Something to do with the archives. She wanted to be let in to look for some papers or something and was really pissed when I said no.” Sunny made a face. “I mean, the sheriff’s office hasn’t cleared us to allow anyone in yet. Not like I could disobey their order, even for her. But man, was she ever mad.”
“You could’ve pulled stuff.”
“Offered, but that wasn’t good enough. She just snapped at me and stormed out, saying something about funding.” Sunny shrugged. “Which isn’t totally her call, whatever she thinks.”
“Sadly, that’s how Sylvia is—convinced she can run the town just because she owns a lot of property. Anyway, don’t worry about saying anything bad about her to me. I’ve only seen her a few times in recent years. We aren’t close, even if we are family.”
“I know. I just don’t like to be rude. But if anyone deserves it, that woman does.”
“For sure.”
“And the archive . . . where’s my mind?” Sunny pulled an overstuffed manila folder from a nearby shelf and laid it on the desk in front of me. “I forgot to mention that Brad returned this file earlier. Said there wasn’t anything of use in it. Not even as much on the orphanage tragedy as he expected.”
“Oh?” I opened the folder and gently lifted the brittle newspaper article and set it aside, revealing a short stack of typed town council minutes. I scanned a few pages, noting nothing of interest until the name Douglas Beckert caught my eye. A possible connection, since he was Doris Virts’s father and had served on the town council in the late 1950s. I picked up that portion of the minutes and read through the section containing his name.
A Murder for the Books Page 14