Joanne Dobson - Karen Pelletier 05 - The Maltese Manuscript

by Joanne Dobson

  She laughed. “You got it.”

  “And that’s how you came to know Elwood Munro? Through this…hobby?”

  “The guy’s a master. He’s got…he had…more balls.… One time he got into a closed tunnel in Grand Central Station by crawling down an active elevator shaft.” She shook her head. “I just can’t believe he’s gone.”

  “Hmm.” Balls. I thought about all those stolen books—and all the risks he must have taken in heisting them. Elevator shafts? Hmm.

  “That’s why I couldn’t believe he was infiltrating something as tame as a library. What for?”

  “Books.” I was starting to put two and two together: A secure library. A master infiltrator. Ventilation ducts. Elevator shafts.

  Stolen books.

  “Like I said, I left Elly in the closed stacks and came back up to the reception. He was fine, but he didn’t have any books. He said he was just going to…to poke around a little more.”

  Poke around. Trespass. Break and enter. Steal books.

  Fun and games.

  “Sunnye, how well did you know Elwood Munro?” An early skunk waddled across the road. I slowed to give him plenty of space.

  “Not what you’d call well. It’s not as if we were friends, or anything. He was simply an…associate in…extra-curricular adventure. And a damn good one, too.”

  I weighed telling the novelist about Munro’s extra-extra-curricular adventures, but was overcome by a sudden attack of discretion. Elwood Munro stole books. Sunnye Hardcastle collected books. Was it possible their association had something more to it than mere adventure?

  ***

  It was after ten when we turned into my driveway, and dark in the way it gets in the deep country, thick and plush like black velvet. I braked at the kitchen door. At the sight of my little house, warm and safe, I felt the final dregs of the day’s energy evaporate. Home at last. “God, I’m beat,” I said, extracting the keys from the ignition.

  “Me, too,” my companion replied. For a change the glamorous Sunnye Hardcastle looked every bit her fifty-some-odd years. Confrontation with Peggy’s angry stepfather. Escape from the jackal press. News of a friend’s murder. And, to top it all off, dinner with Women’s Studies faculty. Kit Danger had had a stressful day.

  “I’ll make a pot of chamomile,” I said. “You call the police. Then we’ll turn in. You can have my daughter Amanda’s room. You’ll be safe. Those reporters will never think to look for you here.” I switched off the headlights and opened the door.

  An intensely bright light flared, trained on the car. I squinted and raised my arm to shade my eyes. Sunnye blurted out, “What the hell?”

  “I thought you might bring her here,” said Lieutenant Charlie Piotrowski, frowning at me from behind an industrial-strength flashlight. Then he looked over at Sunnye. “Massachusetts State Police, Ms. Hardcastle. We need you to come into headquarters with us. We have a few questions for you.”

  Sunnye seemed shocked into silence. The only response was a low growling sound from somewhere deep inside the car. Charlie swept his light into the back seat of the Subaru just as Trouble reared his ugly head.

  ***

  The following morning Charlie and I met for breakfast at the Blue Dolphin Diner. He’d spent the night interviewing Sunnye Hardcastle. After the sharp words we’d exchanged as his officers had loaded Sunnye and her dog into a patrol car, I wasn’t at all certain he’d ever again spend the night with me.

  Charlie was on his way to some official function, wearing full-dress uniform. When I saw him waiting for me in a back booth, I was unexpectedly thrown off balance by the authority of the man: insignias, medals, gun belt, gun. All right, so I knew just exactly what lay underneath that dark blue wool; nonetheless, in uniform, at six-foot-three and close to two hundred and fifty pounds, Lieutenant Charlie Piotrowski of the Massachusetts State Police Department of Criminal Investigation, Homicide Division, was all cop. Intimidating as hell.

  I slid in across from him and attacked before I lost my nerve. “I’m really angry at you.”

  “I could tell.” He smoothed out the Globe he’d been reading and folded it. “I’m pissed at you myself. Like I said last night, you had no business aiding and abetting a homicide suspect, especially after I explicitly told you to stay away from the investigation.”

  “You think I’ve forgotten that?” I looked him straight in the eye. “What I want to know is, where the hell do you get off telling me anything?”

  He hesitated, gave me a sober look. Then he reached across the table and took both of my hands in his. “Let’s not do this, Karen. I don’t want to screw up what we—”

  But I was in full spate. “You explicitly told me not to have dinner with a distinguished conference guest? You explicitly told me not to help a celebrated author escape persecution by the press?” A waitress approached, coffee pot in one hand, orange-banded decaf pot in the other. Hearing the tone of my voice, she halted. I pulled my hands away, and snatched up a menu. “Cheddar omelet and sausage,” I informed her, without opening it. “Rye toast. Marmalade, if you have it.”

  She poured coffee, set the pots on the table, and wrote my order down, her expression blank. Then she turned to Charlie and granted him a slow, appreciative smile. “And for you, Captain?” There was a quarrel going on here, and she knew whose side she was on.

  “It’s Lieutenant, and I’ll have the same, only give me the ham steak instead of sausage.”

  I took advantage of the interruption to cool down. “Sorry, Charlie,” I said, when he turned back to me. “I didn’t mean to go after you like that, now, or last night either. I know you’re the cop here, but, as you said yesterday, you got me into this when you called me up to Chesterfield. Plus I have professional obligations, too. While Sunnye’s here, she’s my responsibility. I’m concerned about her.”

  “I understand that. And you’re concerned with good reason.”

  Damn! It must be worse than I thought. “You still have her in custody?”

  “Yes.”

  “But—”

  “Karen, you must be aware that we wouldn’t proceed in questioning Ms. Hardcastle without probable cause. You know what concerns me? Whether or not you trust me. Isn’t that the issue? Trust.”

  “Of course I trust you.”

  “Then why are you giving me such a hard time?”

  “I’m giving you a hard time? After the way you spoke to me last night in front of Sunnye and Felicity Schultz—telling me, and I think I’ve got it verbatim, that I should keep my nose out of police business.”

  “I regret the tone, but I worry about you. I worry.” He paused a moment, then sighed, long and deep and slow. “And when I asked you about Sunnye Hardcastle yesterday morning, why didn’t you tell me that the night of the murder she was out of your sight for over half an hour?”

  I winced. “I didn’t think it was relevant.” I’d deliberately evaded giving him that information to keep Sunnye from what I’d thought of then as an inconvenient complication.

  “Uh huh. And why did you impersonate a law-enforcement officer at Peggy Briggs’ home?”

  Oh, hell, how had he heard about that? “I didn’t impersonate anyone. That was Sunnye.”

  “You went along with it.”

  “We needed to find Peggy.”

  “So you interfered in a police investigation? That’s one of the reasons I’m concerned about you. You’re not a trained investigator. You just don’t think things through. Not only could you endanger yourself, you could also muddy the waters for us. This is official business.” He glared at me. I glared back.

  There was a momentary pause. Then he spoke in softened tones. “Besides…you’re distracting me from my work. Do you realize that? I’m charged with determining what happened in the college library that resulted in the death of Elwood Munro, and you’re running around playing cops and robbers with a primary suspect. How can I concentrate?”

  I shrugged, but didn’t trust myself to say anything.


  “And, this I really need to know,” he went on, brusque again, “whose idea was it to go searching for Peggy Briggs in the first place? Yours? Or Ms. Hardcastle’s?”

  I sat back and considered him from as far a distance as the narrow diner booth allowed. “Charlie, I think you’ve made up your mind a priori that Sunnye is guilty of homicide—”

  The waitress delivered platters heaped with the kind of breakfast delicacies unavailable in any other eatery in health-conscious Enfield. I immediately forked down a bite of omelet. I hadn’t gotten much sleep, and needed the Blue Dolphin’s cholesterol and caffeine to jump start me on what had already become a rotten day.

  Charlie ignored his meal. He leaned toward me. “Karen, you know that only a jury determines guilt or innocence. In my job I’m charged with gathering evidence, and proceeding according to the rules of evidence. And, believe me, in this case, there’s plenty.”

  “What kind?”

  “Physical evidence, evidence that places Hardcastle at the scene. And that’s more than I should be telling you.”

  “But she must have explained why she was in the library stacks.”

  “Oh, yeah. Urban Explorers. Quite a tale.” He attacked his ham steak with the dull-edged table knife.

  “Are you going to charge her?”

  He evaded a direct response. “Trust me,” and the words were freighted, “given that Hardcastle’s involvement turns this into a high-profile case, you can damn well believe we’ll have secured good, solid, incontrovertible physical evidence before we proceed with any charges. But, if the evidence we’ve gathered pans out, we may well have to charge her. And I’m not saying another word about it, Karen.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but he went on, “And, besides, how can you assume her innocence—a priori, to quote you—given that she freely admitted to you her involvement with the victim in systematic, planned illicit activities?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied, pushing my plate away after half a dozen bites. “She may be a bit of a renegade when it comes to some things, but I’m damn sure Sunnye Hardcastle had nothing to do with Elwood Munro’s death. It just doesn’t make sense.”

  We were seated at a rear booth, as usual, with Charlie’s back against the wall, again as usual. I could take comfort in the fact that if anyone should ever attempt to assault me at the Blue Dolphin, say with an overcooked ham steak, I’d be well-and-truly protected.

  There was a long period of silence, which he finally broke. “Maybe we shouldn’t see each other until this is over,” he said. “I need to concentrate on the investigation without having to worry about you.”

  He was probably right, but his words felt like a knife in my heart. They hurt so much, I retaliated like a spoiled adolescent. “Maybe we shouldn’t see each other—period.”

  “Karen, no…” When I raised my eyes from my coffee, Charlie was as white as the sugar in the bowl in front of him. He grabbed my arm to keep me from leaving. “Don’t go, Karen. Listen, I care about you so much. This is really hard for me. I know I got you into this. I called you up to Chesterfield the other night because you’re smart, you know about books, and I knew you could help us.” He had my hands again. “And, I gotta admit, it was such a weird scene, I just wanted to share it with you. I knew you’d love it. But, this job of mine can be so damn shitty, there’s just no leeway. Look what I’ve done, I’ve dropped you right smack in the middle of a stinking mess.” His tone shifted from apologetic to worried. “And you just won’t keep out of it.”

  I sighed. “Don’t beat up on yourself.” I freed my hands. “I would have been smack in the middle of the mess anyhow. I’m Sunnye’s assigned liaison with the college.” Tentatively I reached out to stroke his cheek. Before I could make contact, his eyes widened and he jumped up from his seat. At first I thought he was recoiling from my caress, then I realized he must have noticed the time on the round diner clock: 9:32.

  “Damn, I gotta go. Now, listen, Karen…I’ve got Trouble.” He paused for a last slurp of coffee.

  “You’ve got trouble?” It sounded so dire my breath tightened.

  “Yeah. He’s out in the car. Ms. Hardcastle didn’t want us to put him in the kennel. She requested that I ask you to take him.”

  “Oh, God, no,” I moaned. “Not Trouble. Not that dog. Not now.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I drove to campus for the final conference session. Trouble rode shotgun. The big dog balked as I led him into my office. His upper lip began a slow, sinuous ripple. Fangs appeared. I shivered, then breathed in deeply. Survival instinct took over. I visualized myself in a classroom: Never let them smell fear. I assumed the scowl and bark of a hardened teacher. “Trouble. Come! Sit! Stay!” He came, sat, and stayed. I breathed again. I closed Trouble in behind the door.

  ***

  As I passed the president’s office on my way to the session in Emerson Hall, Avery Mitchell called me in. He wore grey wool pants and a starched blue broadcloth shirt open at the collar. He must have dressed in a hurry; his belt had missed one of the belt loops. “Aiiee, Karen,” he groaned theatrically, closing the door behind him and leaning against it. “Who would have thought it? Another murder on this peaceful little campus.”

  “There’s been another murder? When? Who?” I stared around, as if he might have a corpse concealed behind the maroon leather furniture.

  “I mean that guy in the library. Elwood Munro, the police say his name was.”

  “Oh.” Two days ago. Old news now. “Yes, of course.”

  “The book thief. I’m glad I ran into you—for a couple of reasons. Listen, we’re going to be taking some heat here for not having promptly reported the book and manuscript thefts.” He raised an elegant eyebrow.

  “Hmm,” I said. “Did you get your donor?” I hoped it didn’t sound snide.

  “Oh, yeah,” he replied. “A substantial addition to our collections.” He leaned toward me. “All the more reason to keep mum about any conversation we might have had.” He sat back and grinned disarmingly.

  “Hmm,” I repeated. I seemed to recall having talked to Charlie about all this.

  “And, also…now this is awkward…O’Hanlon, the investigator we hired to look into the…er…library situation…the book thefts, I mean, not the murder. He says he knows you.”

  “Yeah. High school.”

  “After Munro was found dead, he, O’Hanlon, that is, seemed to lose his enthusiasm for the job. Thought he should back out until the homicide investigation was completed.”

  In the outer office a phone rang. Lonnie pushed open Avery’s door. “Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve got his secretary on the line.”

  “I’ll be right there.” He headed to the phone on his desk.

  “But he said, you—”

  “Told me he didn’t want to mess around in anything that involved murder. Can’t say as I blame him.” He sat at his desk and pulled the phone toward him.

  “I thought you were the one who—”

  His hand was on the receiver, but he wanted to finish his thought. “And now that the police have discovered all those books at Munro’s place, it’s pretty clear he was the thief. So, we probably won’t need O’Hanlon again. Nonetheless, Karen, I’d also like to ask you to keep quiet about the college having hired an investigator. Still the same PR reasons.”

  “Of course, if you want me to, but—”

  “Okay, Lonnie, I’m on.” Hand covering the mouthpiece. “Bye, Karen. And thanks.” Turning from me. “Hey, George, good buddy, how’s the golf game?” His eyes were still on me as I went out the door.

  ***

  Claudia gave the closing speech in the main auditorium, Emerson 101. “Historically,” she began, “American crime fiction testifies to a fatally compromised position on female agency….”

  I tried to listen. Truly I did. But I had Trouble on my mind. How did Sunnye expect me to take care of a big, potentially vicious dog like that? Would he continue to obey me? Or would he tear
my throat out?

  Then there was Sunnye to worry about: What evidence did investigators have on the novelist that they would take the risk of detaining such a high-profile celebrity overnight? It must be something damning. She could really set my teeth on edge, but despite her abrasiveness, I’d come to like the novelist. So she was rich and arrogant—and a criminal trespasser, to boot—but the creator of Kit Danger was no killer. Kit Danger was an icon of humane values, of honor. For Hardcastle’s errant sleuth, it didn’t always come down to obeying the law, but it did always come down to justice and morality.

  Sunnye was a book collector, and Elwood Munro’s murder had to do with the theft of rare books. But the novelist was no thief. She could well afford to buy anything she wanted, and not from some larcenous bibliomaniac. As to killing him, the thought was absurd. I’d promised Charlie that I’d keep quiet about Munro’s cache of stolen books, and so far I had. But, Goddamnit, I intended to do whatever I could in order to prove Sunnye Hardcastle innocent of murder.

  I hoped I could manage to do that without pissing the hell out of Lieutenant Charlie Piotrowski.

  The scene with Avery was troubling, too. I thought Dennis had told me that Avery himself sidelined the library investigation, but maybe I was wrong. Avery had definitely said it was Dennis’s idea.

  And where, oh, where was Peggy Briggs?

  I slipped a yellow pad out of my bag and printed Elwood Munro’s name in the center of the page. Then I circled it. Claudia’s microphone squealed: “ideological assaults on the female subject position.” I shook my head to clear my ears, then wrote Sunnye’s name in the upper left hand corner. I circled it and connected it to Munro’s with a line labeled Urban Explorers. I chewed on the top of the pen for a moment, then added another line, this one labeled Collectible Books. Then I wrote on the bottom of the page: To Do: 1.) Find Urban Explorers. 2.) Talk to Book Dealer.

  I tuned into the conference briefly: Claudia was blathering on about the essential instability of evidence in postmodern epistemology. I tuned out. I wrote Peggy’s name in the upper right-hand corner of the page, circled it, and connected it to Munro’s with a line on which I wrote Backpack. Now I really had to locate Peggy, so I could find out how her backpack had gotten into Elwood Munro’s kitchen. On my To Do list I scribbled: 3.) Find Peggy.