The Chocolate Book Bandit

by JoAnna Carl

  “I never even met Abigail Montgomery,” I said. “I had no reason to kill her.”

  “I know. But this letter—disappearing and reappearing—is going to make him wonder.”

  Hogan stood up. “Of course, you might make a better impression on Larry if you came up with some other information.”

  “I’ve told you everything I know. What other information does he want?”

  “I guess you’d call it the local gossip. You know. Who got along with who. Which board members were buddy-buddy, and which ones never spoke.”

  “How would I know all that? I’m not even on the library board yet! I haven’t had any opportunity to see how they interact.”

  “Well, I hear they’re having a special meeting tomorrow.”

  “Nobody’s invited me. And, besides, the library board is a public body. You can go yourself.”

  “You’re a smart gal, Lee. It would be interesting to hear your impression of what goes on when they all get together.”

  “Hogan! Are you asking me to spy on the library board members?”

  “Not spy, Lee. Just do your duty as a citizen.” Hogan patted my shoulder. “That way I can assure Larry Underwood that you’re on our side.”

  “Of course I’m on your side!”

  “He may be a little hard to convince. I mean, he may feel that you weren’t as forthcoming as you might have been over that missing letter.” Hogan patted my shoulder. “Just don’t let any of the board members lure you down to the cellar.”

  Joe walked Hogan out to his car, and I started putting pots and pans in the dishwasher. Not the cast-iron skillet, of course. I was rubbing that out with a paper towel when Joe came back inside. He leaned casually against the kitchen door.

  “Okay,” he said. “What’s the deal on this letter Hogan was talking about?”

  Chapter 10

  This was going to be tricky.

  To be honest—so to speak—I’d pictured lying to Hogan about the letter, but I hadn’t prepared myself to lie to Joe.

  But what choice did I have? I could hardly tell him I fell in lust with a total stranger and on the spur of the moment decided that I’d help him lie to law enforcement authorities, including one I was related to.

  So I stood there silently, continuing to scrub the remnants of chicken-fried steak out of the iron skillet, and Joe spoke again. “Why didn’t you mention this, Lee? It seems sort of important.”

  I still didn’t have an answer. So Joe tried again. “You never mentioned being a witness in a murder case. Instead we bickered about Meg Corbett—who doesn’t matter a crap to us.”

  I shot a glance at him. Meg didn’t matter a crap to us? Had all my worry been for nothing? Or was Joe lying before I could?

  Joe was looking innocent. A little too innocent. Was he shading the truth?

  In any case, he was still asking questions. “Why didn’t you tell me about the changes in the investigation into Mrs. Montgomery’s death?”

  I took a deep breath and went for it. “Hogan told me not to mention it, though I suppose he didn’t mean I couldn’t tell you. But I guess I just didn’t want to talk about it. You can see why; now Hogan wants me to spy on the members of the library board.”

  “That’s not exactly what he asked you to do.”

  “It’s what it amounts to.”

  “All he asked for was background.”

  “Background, my eye! He’s trying to figure out who among the people at that meeting last night disliked Abigail Montgomery enough to kill her.”

  “That’s his job.”

  “Yes, but it’s not mine.” I turned and spoke directly to Joe. “Am I sneaky enough to do that?”

  “You say yourself that you’re nosy enough.”

  “Yes, but when I try to find things out, Joe, I just ask. I don’t finagle around.”

  “You become Mrs. Blunt? Actually, Lee, you’ll do nearly anything to find stuff out, if you want to know badly enough.” He grinned, but we both knew he wasn’t being funny. “It’s one of the things I like best about you. You’ve got a curiosity bump the size of a watermelon.”

  The argument might have grown if the phone hadn’t rung right then. Joe was closest, so he picked it up, then handed it to me. It was Rhonda Ringer-Riley. And she was inviting me to a meeting of the library board.

  “We’re calling it for four o’clock tomorrow,” she said. “That’s plenty of time to comply with the open-meeting law.”

  All I could think of was Hogan’s request. Find out who likes whom, who dislikes whom, who always disagrees with whom.

  My impulse was to tell Rhonda I couldn’t come. Then she went on. “I hope you can make it, Lee. We need an outside view.”

  “Why?”

  “We’ve become a rather ingrown group. Abigail was the only person who hadn’t been on the board for at least five years.” She laughed. “We’ve been through two pregnancies with Gwen!”

  I took a deep breath and decided to be blunt. “Hogan wants me to go. He wants an outsider to look at the relationships among the board members.”

  “In relation to Abigail’s death?”

  “I guess so. I’d feel like a spy.”

  “Spy away, Lee. I don’t think anybody on the board has anything to worry about. None of us know anything about Abby’s accident.”

  I hung up without committing myself, but I kept thinking about her last comment. She didn’t think anybody on the library board knew anything about what had happened to Mrs. Montgomery.

  This in turn reminded me of one of Hogan’s tenets: Anybody will kill if they’re pushed too far.

  And it also reminded me of his more recent advice: “Don’t let anybody lure you to the basement.”

  That had been Abigail Montgomery’s mistake.

  I shuddered. And as I did I realized that Joe was still standing there, waiting to continue the argument about why I hadn’t told him Hogan thought Abigail Montgomery’s death had been a homicide, and that I was among the suspects.

  And I still didn’t want to tell him I didn’t bring it up because I was more upset about seeing him with Meg than I was about poor Abigail being killed.

  I had to fight the temptation to stamp my foot and yell, but I finally spoke fairly calmly. “I just don’t want to talk about this. Okay?”

  Joe seemed to awaken to the fact that I was truly upset. He took three steps toward me and put his arms around me. “It’s okay, Lee. I should have understood. You took it all so calmly last night that I hadn’t realized how upset you really are.”

  I guess the heroine of a romantic novel would have burst into tears. But all I did was hug him back. In fact, I nearly broke one of his ribs. That’s because I was picturing that rib as being Meg Corbett’s neck. If she got hold of Joe . . . Well, in that case I could tell Hogan exactly what event pushed me hard enough to commit murder.

  Anyway, the rest of the evening and most of the next day passed—with Joe and me not talking about the things that were really on our minds. And at four o’clock on Wednesday I trailed into the Warner Pier Public Library, waved at Mrs. Blake—once again checking out books—and went back to the meeting room. And once again the only person already there was Dr. Cornwall. But this time he was awake.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Woodyard,” he said. “May I call you Lee?”

  “Please do.”

  “It’s a name I find interesting. During my scholarly career, I made a lengthy study of the famous general. Since you were born in a state that seceded during the Civil War, I wondered if you were named for General Robert E.”

  “Not directly. Lee is a common middle name for both girls and boys in Texas, and I imagine originally it may have been popular because of the general. But I was the first Lee in my family. I think my parents just liked the name.”

  “Then Lee is your middle name?”
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  “Yes. My first name is Susanna. After a pioneer great-great-great-somebody who came to Texas while it still belonged to Mexico.” I smiled. “I think my mother was on some sort of Texas kick when I was born. I’m lucky I wasn’t called Dallas, Austin, or Waxahachie. So I wasn’t named after General Lee, but my dad did have a great-great-grandfather who served in the Texas cavalry during the Civil War. Of course, my mom had a great-grandfather who served in the Third Michigan.”

  “That unit campaigned in Texas. Did your ancestor get as far as San Antonio?”

  “No, he was wounded at Sharpsville and went home for the rest of the war. So I’m not haunted by the specter of my great-great-great-grandfathers shooting at each other.”

  “Lots of Americans should be. More than most people realize.”

  I was quite surprised at Dr. Cornwall’s friendliness. He had previously seemed quite grumpy. The opportunity to pump him seemed too good to miss, though I didn’t have the nerve to start with questions about Abigail Montgomery.

  I began with something innocuous. “Are you a native of Michigan?”

  “No, I’m originally from Indiana. I vacationed here for years and finally became a permanent resident ten years ago.”

  “And where did you spend your academic career, Dr. Cornwall?”

  This was meant to be an innocuous question, but his response was not innocuous. It was almost as if I’d thrown a bomb. He glared angrily and snapped out an answer.

  “I’m not Doctor Cornwall!”

  My response was to gape like an idiot.

  He went on, and he continued to be snappy. “I prefer to be Mr. Cornwall. Or just Corny.”

  “Certificate! I mean, certainly.” Darn, I’d twisted my tongue into a real knot. “Mr. Cornwall it is.”

  Cornwall seemed to realize he’d been rude. He spoke in a more moderate tone. “I lectured on the Civil War at a small college in Indiana for thirty-five years.”

  Then he sat back, folded his arms, and gave a loud snort.

  Naturally, we were interrupted before I could decide what to say next. Gwen Swain came bustling in, still swathed in a giant sheet of fabric that held her baby. The baby itself—I couldn’t identify sex or age because of the enormous covering—peeked around to see whom Mommy was greeting.

  I seized the opportunity to ask Gwen questions. Anything seemed better than continuing to try to converse with Corny Cornwall.

  I started with, “What is your baby’s name?” That ought to give me a hint as to sex.

  “Bailey.” That was no help. Luckily Gwen went on. “She’s eight months old. My husband got home early today, so I didn’t have to bring the other two. They’re curious enough after being here last night when all the excitement started.”

  “But Hogan did let you go home as soon as possible last night?”

  “Yes, the police were very nice. But there was a lot of excitement when Abigail was found. People were running around and saying . . . things I didn’t want the kids to hear. Geraldine has been full of questions all day, and Hal’s drinking it all in.”

  “I guess Hogan had a lot of questions for you, too.”

  “That Lieutenant Underwood came out to the house. He was there for half an hour. I didn’t have much to tell him. I barely saw Abigail last night. We said hi as we came in.”

  “I didn’t see her at all. In fact, I don’t think I ever met her. Did you know her well?”

  “Fairly well. She came to the Lakeshore Preservation meetings. In fact, she was chair of the research committee.”

  Mr. Cornwall’s voice rumbled. “People forgot that Abigail came from a political family. And she was an expert researcher.”

  “Oh yes,” Gwen said. “Abigail was the one who discovered that one little paragraph in the Kimbel trust, and that’s what is keeping that stretch of beach undeveloped.”

  Mr. Cornwall’s voice was gruff. “So far.”

  “True,” Gwen said. “That battle isn’t over yet. Abigail also worked hard on the library construction. She was the one who balked at approval of early payment to the contractor.”

  “Which,” Mr. Cornwall said, “turned out to be a good thing.”

  This was a surprise to me. “You had trouble with the contractor for the new library?”

  “No.” Cornwall’s tone was satisfied. “Since we declined to approve the final payment, the city had a weapon to hold over his head. So there was no problem. If Abigail hadn’t been adamant that the board not approve that final payment, the city might have handed the money over. Following the contract’s requirements to the letter meant there was no problem.”

  Gwen laughed. “This infuriated the city treasurer—until he saw what might have happened.”

  “Hmmm,” I said. “I thought the city was in charge of the library funds.”

  “It is,” Cornwall said. “But when a volunteer body is strongly urging a particular course of action, the city treasurer tends to pay attention. However, you’re quite correct. The board’s influence is unofficial.”

  “Except on the Vanderklomp trust,” Gwen said. “We actually have a minor say on that.”

  “Are there other trusts benefiting the library?”

  Both Gwen and Cornwall shook their heads. Then Gwen looked behind me and smiled. “And here’s the expert on our finances. Hi, Carol.”

  Carol Turley came in, and just as she had at the previous meeting, she slammed her red leather folder down. Her hair was just as dull and lifeless as it had been earlier. Then she looked up, and her big brown eyes flashed around the room.

  The old pageant contestant in me wanted to shake my head in disbelief. If Carol would just stand up straight, wear a little makeup, and do something with her hair . . .

  Carol nodded to everyone, but I was the only person she spoke to by name. “Hi, Lee. I see you haven’t given up on us.”

  “Rhonda particularly asked me to come. I guess she wants to go over exactly what happened the other night.”

  Carol looked around defiantly and plunked herself into a folding chair so hard, I thought it was going to fold up. “I’m tired of talking about poor Abigail. The whole thing makes me sick!”

  I was smart enough to keep quiet, but Gwen walked right into the buzz saw.

  “But, Carol,” she said, “the situation isn’t going to go away until the law officers are convinced that Abigail . . .”

  Carol slammed her fist on the table. “Abigail! Abigail! Saint Abigail! I’m sick of it. Abigail was a hard worker, but she was just a person! She was a nitpicker to end all nitpickers! I used to get so tired of her that I could barely hold my tongue. And now she’s dead, and she’s still causing trouble!”

  With that Carol got up and walked out of the room, leaving Gwen, Mr. Cornwall, and me sitting there blankly.

  “Wow!” I said. “A little pent-up resentment there, I guess.”

  “Not pent-up anymore,” Mr. Cornwall said.

  Gwen shook her head sadly, and Bailey gave a sudden cry from her sling.

  “It’s okay, sweetie,” Gwen said soothingly. “She’s just upset. People get upset. But they get over it.”

  Would she? Carol’s reaction to Abigail’s death and the investigation into it seemed extreme. Would I have to report it to Hogan?

  This wasn’t shaping up as a very polite meeting.

  That thought had barely crossed my mind when I heard another loud voice coming from outside the meeting room. This time it was a man’s voice.

  “No! No, I can’t allow it.”

  “Mr. Cassidy! I must look for some personal property!”

  That voice I recognized. It was Miss Ann Vanderklomp.

  “No!” And the male voice was Butch Cassidy. “I’m responsible, Miss Vanderklomp. And you may not break the crime-scene tape and go into the basement.”

  Chapter 11

  Gwe
n, Corny Cornwall, and I all jumped up and rushed out of the meeting room. Butch Cassidy sounded as if he needed all the help he could get.

  The door to the back hall and basement was only a few steps away, and he and Miss Vanderklomp were nose to nose outside it. They ignored us newcomers completely.

  “Mr. Cassidy,” Miss Vanderklomp said. “I wish to remind you that this is the Vanderklomp Memorial Library. My family donated this building to Warner Pier, and I am accustomed to having a small say in how the institution is run.”

  “And I’m accustomed to staying out of jail,” Butch said.

  “Jail? I beg your pardon! Why would you be threatened with jail?”

  “Because the authorities sealed that door, and they want it left that way. I am in charge of the library operations, so it’s my responsibility to see that the door remains sealed.”

  “But some of my personal belongings are stored there. I must access the area.”

  Butch frowned. “You are a private individual. You can’t use library space for personal uses.”

  Miss Vanderklomp took a deep breath. She seemed to fill up like a parade balloon. With her gray bob, tall stature, and blocky build, all she needed was a pair of wooden shoes to look like a giant representation of the proverbial boy who stuck his finger in the dike. I almost looked for her mooring ropes, hoping we could keep her from floating away. Or maybe cut them and let her go.

  But as she expanded, she turned slightly. And she saw her audience. Apparently she hadn’t noticed we were there earlier. And we deflated her.

  She stepped back and seemed to become smaller. She smiled her most gracious smile and adjusted her bra straps.

  “Mr. Cassidy,” she said, “I do apologize. I’ve been making a scene about nothing. Please forgive me.”

  She nodded regally to Butch, then to the rest of us. And she walked into the meeting room, her head held high, clutching her water bottle.

  We all followed. Mr. Cornwall raised his eyebrows, but he came along, just the same way I did. None of us asked a question or made a comment. We just went back to the meeting room.