As I flipped through her check register, I felt as though I was invading her privacy—not that she’d ever know. “Looks like she paid her bills on time. And balanced her checkbook regularly. There are deposits from Social Security and what must be her husband’s pension, and payments for taxes and utilities. No mortgage—she must own the house outright by now. The current balance is only a few thousand, though, so if she had savings, they must be somewhere else.” I flipped the pages of the address book. “She’s had this for a while. Most of the names are crossed out, probably people who have died.”
“You see a lawyer in there?”
“Uh . . . yes, here’s one in Philadelphia. At least he’s not crossed out. He’s the only one I see.”
Vanessa held out her hand. “I’ll get in touch with him. Nothing handy in the drawer, like a note that says ‘in case of emergency notify So-and-So’?”
“Sorry, no. Maybe she’s got another desk somewhere. Anything unusual in the fridge?”
“A couple of soft drinks that seem kind of out of place, but maybe that was a guilty pleasure. Kinda late to worry about rotting your teeth at eighty-four.”
“What next?” I asked.
“Bathroom. Check the meds.”
“There are some right there.” I pointed to a row of orange pharmacy bottles neatly lined up on the windowsill over the kitchen sink.
Vanessa picked them up one at a time and read them out loud. “Prescription analgesic, for arthritis. Coumadin—that must be because of her hip replacement. Allergy pills. Nothing for blood pressure or diabetes. Pretty ordinary, if you ask me.” Vanessa pulled a plastic Ziploc bag out of a pocket and put the pill bottles into it. A search of adjoining cupboards didn’t yield any more bottles. “Bathroom next.”
I dutifully trailed behind her down the short hall. There was a powder room on the left, and a room on the right that Edith had used as a study.
“I’ll take the bath,” Van said. “You check out the study.”
There was an old-fashioned sofa bed along one wall, and two other walls were lined with built-in shelves filled with books, mostly older hardcovers, though a couple of shelves were loaded with more recent paperbacks. In the corner there was a comfortably worn chair with an ottoman in front of it, and an old standing lamp behind it. I had a flash of an image of Edith settling into her cozy nook with a favorite book. I scanned the shelves; the books were arranged by genre, and spanned fiction and non-fiction, with an emphasis on mysteries. A short row of military histories had probably been her husband’s. I looked for the library book and didn’t see it. Next to the bed, perhaps?
When I left the room I met Vanessa emerging from the powder room. “Anything?” I asked.
“Nope. She liked fancy soaps, if that means anything. Upstairs now.”
We trudged up the short staircase. Upstairs there were two bedrooms, one on each side, and a bathroom in between. One room looked like a guest room, with a pretty embroidered coverlet, but it also looked like it hadn’t been used for a while. I peered into the closet: summer clothes, neatly hung in plastic bags. The room at the opposite end was clearly Edith’s bedroom, and again I had to squash the feeling that I was intruding.
Winter clothes hung in the closet, shoes neatly arrayed on the floor. There was a well-used comb and brush set on the dresser. No lights on anywhere in the house. The library book was nowhere in evidence. No discarded clothes marred the neatly made bed. It all looked so normal, as if the house were waiting for its mistress to return, not knowing that she never would. There was nothing to suggest that she had left in a hurry, or under duress.
Once again I encountered Vanessa emerging from the bathroom, looking frustrated. “Not a damn thing out of place,” she said. “Everything hung up and put away. Edith Hathaway was a serious neat freak!”
“I’m not surprised. She was a former teacher, after all, and she believed in rules and order. But I didn’t find the library book anywhere.”
“Will you stop whining about that? This is a possible murder investigation.”
I tried to contain my irritation. After all, Vanessa didn’t have many investigations like this come her way, and she had a right to be nervous about it. “Vanessa, it matters. Edith took out the book the day before yesterday. I know she was looking forward to reading it. It’s not here—not downstairs where apparently she did a lot of reading, and not next to her bed. So where is it? Did she drop it somewhere in the three blocks between here and the library? Did someone snatch it from her on the street? Did she lend it to someone?”
“Did anyone tell you you’re obsessive?” When I looked ready to argue, Vanessa held up both hands. “All right, I get it. It should be here, it’s not here. Maybe it’s connected to her death, maybe not. How big a bag did she carry? Would a hardcover fit in it?”
I thought for a moment. “Yes, it would. I’ve seen her slip books in her bag, but not more than a couple at a time because that would throw off her balance. You’re thinking that if we find the purse we may find the book?”
“I hope so, if just to stop you from complaining. Did you see anything else out of the ordinary in this house?”
“No, I did not. Is it worth calling in the pros to check the place out?”
“I don’t think so. Do you really think they could find anything that you and I can’t? I’ll ask at the pharmacy if these are all her medications. She had all her prescriptions filled at the pharmacy in town. Maybe there was a whole shelfful that somebody made off with. Not that it looks like anybody broke in, however—the doors were both locked, front and back. I’ll check with the bank to see if she had a safety-deposit box, and I’ll call that lawyer, although he probably isn’t in his office today. And, so help me, that’s the best I’ve got.”
“And none of it explains why she put on her coat, put her keys in her pocket, and walked out the door to end up dead a few miles away.”
“Exactly.”
I checked my watch. “If you don’t need me anymore, I’d better get to the library.”
Vanessa waved me away. “Go. I’m going to take one more look around, and I’ll probably be at town hall shortly. Oh, keep your ears open—you know how people talk in this town. Maybe someone saw Edith talking with a mysterious stranger, or getting into a car.”
“One can but hope. See you later.”
I walked to the library, following the path that must have been very familiar to Edith. The town was ideal for walking. In fact, it was ideal for our many senior citizens in general, since it combined everything they might need: grocery, pharmacy, banks, and a few interesting stores, including a used bookstore, as well as our excellent small library. I often wondered which had come first—had older people stayed on here because of those qualities, or because we had so many older people, had the town’s leaders made sure they had access to what they needed?
I opened up the library, turning on lights and computer terminals, and straightening up the front desk. On a normal winter Saturday I could expect a couple of high school kids working on some sort of research project (or just looking for an excuse to get out of the house and hang with a few friends) and a children’s story group, plus a smattering of regulars, mostly people who worked full-time and didn’t have time to stop in to swap books during the week. Today began like any other, but after an hour or two I noticed a few more people than usual, stopping to talk to each other in hushed tones in the stacks, or standing in the vestibule just outside. I could easily guess what they were talking about: Edith’s death. Clearly the news was out. Of course anyone who had lived in this town for over fifty years, and who had taught school here, and who had prided herself on being a “character,” would be known to everyone. Better, she had been well-liked. While she had had a no-nonsense attitude toward life, she had always been kind to everyone. We should all do so well in our later years.
When no one came over to prod me for insider information, I realized that the word hadn’t gone out that I had been the one to find her, for whi
ch I was grateful—Vanessa must be keeping it quiet, and the place where I’d found Edith was so isolated that no one would have seen the flurry of criminal investigation activity out there except the Johnsons, who appeared to have been away at the time. I didn’t want to rehash my discovery, and I was doing my best to stifle any emotional memories, at least for the moment. I could mourn later, and mourn I would. For all of that, I heard many repetitions of comments along the lines of, “Terrible thing about Edith, isn’t it?” and I could only agree. I wondered if she would be buried in Strathmere; if she was, the funeral would be well-attended.
The pace picked up toward noon, and there were a few people standing in line in front of the checkout desk, chatting with each other, when I noticed out of the corner of my eye someone place a hardcover book on the desk and leave. I looked up in time to see his retreating back. I could tell he was young, maybe high-school age. I glanced at the book, then looked harder. Yes, it was the book Edith had taken out the day before she died.
“Wait!” I called out to the departing boy. He didn’t appear to hear me, but nonetheless moved quickly out the door. “Excuse me,” I said to the startled people in line and dashed toward the door, trying to intercept him. Outside the building he hurried to a parked car, jumped into the driver’s seat, and pulled out quickly. Stunned, I belatedly reminded myself to try to read the license number, and succeeded only in determining it was not a Pennsylvania plate, and the first three digits were ABG. Not a big help, but maybe better than nothing.
I went back into the building, but instead of returning to the library, where the line had grown and everyone in it was staring at me through the double doors that led to the hall, I turned left and went into the police department, heading straight for Vanessa’s office. She looked up when I rushed in.
“What?” she demanded.
“Somebody just returned Edith’s library book.”
Vanessa’s expression sharpened. “Who?”
“I don’t know. It’s busy today, and this kid just dumped the book on the desk and left, fast. I tried to follow, but he got into a car and drove off.”
“Description?” she demanded.
“Youngish—I’d say late teens. White. Neatly dressed, looked like any kid his age, nothing stood out. He got into a car with out-of-state plates.”
“What state?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Not New Jersey, New York or Delaware, because I see plenty of those and I recognize them.”
“What color?”
I shut my eyes and thought. “The car? Grayish, maybe.”
“No, I mean the license plate.”
“Uh, white, with blue letters.”
“How many digits?”
“Seven, I think. I got the first three, but he was too far away for me to get the rest.”
“What are they?”
“ABG. Is this enough to tell you anything?”
“Closest white and blue would be Ohio. It’s worth a try. What’d the car look like?”
I’m clueless about cars. “Two-door, I think. Not too old—maybe a couple of years? I don’t keep up on that kind of stuff. No obvious dents, at least in the back end, which is all I saw.”
“Anything else you remember? Stickers on the car? Slogan on his jacket?”
“Nope, plain quilted jacket. No limp or obvious scars, but I only saw him out of the corner of my eye for half a second. His hair wasn’t too long. But my impression was that he was clean and polite—he didn’t shove into line, just kind of sneaked around it to lay the book on the desk, like he didn’t want to bother anybody. Look, at least he returned the book, which should tell us something. He could have dumped it somewhere or taken it with him. I mean, it’s new—only came out last week.”
Vanessa flashed me a brief smile. “Yeah, I’ll put out an APB for a clean, polite and considerate young man. Should be easy to find him.”
“Hey, it’s the best I can do. You want me to give you the book to see if there are fingerprints?”
Vanessa sighed. “I guess. Might as well go through the motions.”
I crossed the hall again to retrieve the book, but I hadn’t taken into account the fact that it was the most recent book from a very popular author, and as I approached the desk I could see people handing it back and forth and skimming the pages. So much for fingerprint evidence—although I wasn’t sure who could do that for us.
“Sorry about that, folks. Look, I need to check that book in before I can sign it out again, and I’m pretty sure there’s a waiting list. If you don’t mind?” I held out a hand, and someone gave it to me, rather reluctantly. I stashed it under the counter and went back to processing the stacks of books and DVDs that people were waiting in line to check out.
It was after one when the crowd thinned, and I finally had a chance to look at Edith’s book. First I checked the library sticker code—yes, this was the right book. Maybe if she had left a bookmark in it, I could estimate how much time she had had to read it, before she was . . . diverted by her death. I flipped through the pages: no bookmark, but a slip of paper fell out from the middle, and I recognized Edith’s spiky handwriting. It said only, “Edward, 3.” No last name, no convenient phone number. Not much to go on, but it was all we had. Since there was a lull in the library, I took the book across to Vanessa.
When I handed it to her I said, “Sorry—by the time I got back to the desk, half the town had handled it. Everybody wants to read it. But there was a slip of paper in it, and I touched that as little as possible. Page one hundred thirty-seven. It’s clearly Edith’s handwriting—I’ve seen it before, on envelopes and such.”
Van used a letter opener to turn to that page. “Interesting. I’ve got good news about the car, by the way—looks like it’s a rental, rented by one Edward Fairfield, age eighty-eight.”
Edward? That fit with the note. “Well, I’m sure the person I saw wasn’t eighty-eight. Maybe someone rented the car for the younger guy, because he was too young to do it? Or didn’t have a credit card? Anyway, the name Edward matches the name on that piece of paper. Do you think she was expecting to meet him at three?”
“Could be,” Vanessa said.
I shook my head. “Not much to work with. But at least we know there are other people involved—the boy who brought the book back, and this Edward who rented the car. Somebody has to know something about how she died.”
Vanessa sat back in her swivel chair and gave me a stare. “You do remember this is a tiny police department? We’re not exactly set up to conduct murder investigations. I’ve given what we’ve got to the detective who’s handling the investigation, and I’ll pass this new stuff on to him, but don’t expect much. What more are we supposed to do?”
It wasn’t like Vanessa to just give up, but maybe she was out of her depth with this. “Aren’t you curious?”
“Of course I am. I liked Edith, and I’m sure there’s a reason why she was out there on the hill. But I don’t know how to find out what that is, and nobody except the two of us is likely to care, unless something weird turns up at the autopsy.”
“That’s not right.” I thought for a moment. “Did you talk to anyone at the Johnson place, to see if they saw anything?”
“Nobody was home yesterday, or at least, nobody answered the door. No cars in the driveway. You know where I’ve been this morning.”
“Are you going to talk to the Johnsons, if they’re home now?”
“Yes, Sarabeth, I was planning to do that. You still want to play deputy?”
“I do. I want to know what happened. Is that so wrong?”
“No, I don’t think so. You working in the library all afternoon?”
“Nope, I’m off in half an hour.”
Vanessa sighed yet again. “I guess it won’t hurt if you come along.”
When my library shift ended I presented myself back at Vanessa’s door. She looked resigned, and I followed her out to the police cruiser. Once on the road, she asked, “Any comments
from the people who came to the library?”
“No. Just variations on ‘how sad’ and ‘what a shame.’ Nobody asked any questions, and I didn’t volunteer any information either. Although they probably thought I was crazy when I took off after that boy, but they were too polite to ask why.”
Yesterday’s brief snow had already melted, except in shady places. The landscape was almost monochrome: brown fields, brown trees, brown stone houses. The occasional patch of evergreens was a welcome relief. The sky was milky and overcast—more snow on the way? I’d forgotten to check the weather report.
It took no more than ten minutes to reach the Johnson house. I tried to recall if I’d ever been inside. I knew that I had seen the family now and then, a nice couple in their late thirties, with a pair of well-behaved kids. The mother borrowed a lot of romances from the library, and usually returned them on time. Today there were two cars in the driveway, and I felt a shiver of recognition: one of them was a silver sedan with Ohio plates.
Vanessa pulled the cruiser in behind the other two cars. To prevent anyone from escaping? I wondered. She clambered out, and turned to look at me. “You coming?”
“Right behind you.” I got out of the passenger seat quickly and followed her to the front door, decorated with a large but simple wreath and embellished with an opulent red ribbon that fluttered in the slight breeze. There were sounds of young voices, plus a barking dog, coming from inside. Vanessa rang the doorbell, and we waited as the melee inside subsided and footsteps approached the door. It swung open to reveal a middle-youngish woman I recognized as Mrs. Johnson. “Can I help you?”
“May we come in?” Vanessa asked politely, flashing her badge.
“Of course, please. What’s this about?” Mrs. Johnson stood back from the door to let us pass, and closed it quickly behind her. Inside the air was rich with the scents of pine and cinnamon, and I remembered I hadn’t eaten lunch.
We stood awkwardly clumped in the hallway. “Were you at home yesterday, Mrs. Johnson?” Vanessa began.
“Laura, please.” She shook her head. “No, we were out all day, or at least all afternoon. We took the kids shopping, mostly to return stuff, and then we had a quick supper at the mall before we came back. So, no, we were gone from about ten in the morning until after the mall closed down. Why?”
An Open Book Page 3