Body in the Bookcase ff-9

by Katherine Hall Page

  “I want to check his case. He may have left something.” Faith wasn’t budging an inch. She dug into her pocket for the Penlite she’d shoved in when she left the car.

  “Okay, but quickly. We don’t have a lot of time here.”

  Faith went straight to case number four, following the tiny pinpoint of light. As they passed the other booths, objects took form, eerie outlines of bygone days. One case was filled with dolls.

  Their glass eyes glittered like demonic children.

  The rows of tools in another looked like medieval instruments of torture. Ordinary objects in the light; frightening ones in the dark.

  “Watch out for the glass and don’t, I repeat, don’t touch anything!” Scott warned.

  Faith had no desire to touch anything. There were shards under her feet, shards sticking to the soles of her shoes.

  But George Stackpole hadn’t driven away and he wasn’t making any calls, anonymous or otherwise.

  George Stackpole was dead—his throat slit from side to side. The Fairchilds’ missing carving knife was lying on the floor next to his lifeless body, the monogram completely obliterated by blood.

  Nine

  “The way I see it, we have two choices here. We can get the hell out and if the cops nail us, it will look bad. Or we can report the crime and when the cops arrive, it will look bad.” Scott was pacing up and down, running his hand through his hair, talking loudly. They had moved simultaneously to the front door as soon as Faith’s Penlite had illuminated George’s gory corpse.

  Scott made a decision. “There’s nothing to connect us to this. Let’s go. Now!” He pushed her toward the door.

  “Maybe not you, but certainly me,” Faith protested. “They’ll find out that MacIsaac had Stackpole in for questioning at my insistence. I don’t think I can tell that many lies to cover up going to his house and coming here.” She was speaking in a dull, leaden voice. Nobody deserved to die this way. She’d been having nightmares about George Stackpole when he was alive. Dead, he would become a permanent fixture of horror in her worst dreams—and for the near future, her waking moments, as well.

  “If we call,” she continued, “at least we can try to explain why we’re here. And what kind of murderer phones the police, anyway?”

  “A very clever one?” Scott was not convinced, though. Every bone in his body was telling him to get in his car and put as much distance as possible between himself and the Old Oaken Bucket.

  He’d seen death before, but never like this. And he was scared. He knew a whole lot more than Faith did about the kind of assumptions the police would make—especially about him.

  “There’s a pay phone in the parking lot. We can call, then wait for them there. There really is no other choice.”

  He knew she was right, but he wished he didn’t.

  She made the call, then said in a sudden burst of excitement, “Wait a minute. There’s no reason you have to be involved. I didn’t tell them anyone was with me. We should have thought of this right away. You’ll have to leave the car; otherwise, how would I have gotten here? Certainly not with George.” The dealer’s Mercedes was parked in front. “You start walking. Maybe somebody will give you a ride. Make up something about your car dying.” Poor choice of words, she thought instantly.

  “Slow down.” Scott put his hand on Faith’s shoulder. Now that they’d called, he wished the police would get here soon. She was obviously in shock. “I’d never leave you here alone, for starters, and when they begin investigating this thing, don’t you think a lone hitchhiker in the middle of the boonies in New Hampshire would arouse suspicion? We’re seeing this through together, Faith.”

  “I’d better call home while I can. I have the feeling this is going to be a late night,” Faith said ruefully. She was glad Scott wasn’t leaving. Under the lone lamppost, she could see his tense, serious face. “I’m sorry I got you into this.” He smiled. “Next time you need transporta-tion, call a cab.”

  “If you’ll just get in touch with Detective Lt. John Dunne of the Massachusetts State Police, he’ll vouch for us.”

  She had expected an equivalent of Chief MacIsaac in rural New Hampshire and was surprised by the age and demeanor of the cops—

  young and ultraprofessional, complete with state-of-the-art cars and equipment that arrived in a screaming tumult of flashing blue lights the moment she hung up the phone with Samantha.

  The kids were asleep and Tom wasn’t back yet.

  Maybe she could get home without revealing any of tonight’s escapade. Maybe she’d win Mass Millions. The odds were about the same.

  “Let me see if I have this straight.” Scott was being questioned separately and Faith hoped he was having better luck making his interrogator believe him. So far, the police had a body and two people on the scene, ready-made perps. It was enough for them, but Faith was persisting. After all, the lack of blood on their clothes, when you would have had to have been laminated to avoid being splattered, was a major drawback in their case.

  The cop was going over what she’d told him again—and again. “The victim’s name was George Stackpole, an antiques dealer. You think he either broke into your house or had somebody else break in for him. So you follow him here—” Faith interrupted. “No, we arrived first. We had no idea he was coming here tonight. He came right afterward and opened the door. That’s how we got in without setting off the alarm. Either it wasn’t set to begin with or he knew the code.” The man sighed. “You followed him inside to see if he had any more of your stolen items in the case he rented. Exactly how did you think you were going to do this in the dark?”

  “I wasn’t really thinking too clearly,” Faith admitted. “I don’t know if you’ve ever had anything stolen from you, but you can do some pretty crazy things trying to recover what you lost.” He looked at her across the desk. Something as crazy as murder? Minister’s wife, suburban lady with kids, catering business, big blue eyes—plus, she’d made the call; but generally speaking, murderers fit any profile. Girl next door, boy next door, head lying on the pillow next to you at night. They weren’t drooling maniacs with eyes too close together. Yet, he knew what she meant about getting ripped off. He’d had a rowboat stolen from his parents’ place up on Winnipesau-kee and he was a raving maniac trying to track it down, checking every inlet, every dock for weeks.

  She was speaking to his thoughts. “Obsessive things, not something insane like killing someone. I never wanted to do that. I just wanted to catch him, make him pay for what he did.” She told him about Sarah Winslow.

  This was a whole lot more complicated than somebody surprising a B and E, which was how he’d pegged it in the beginning. Stackpole comes along and finds these two. They ice him. Then phone the police?

  He sighed again. “All right, I’ll call this guy Dunne. Since Stackpole is from Massachusetts, they’re going to be involved anyway.” He knew exactly who John Dunne was, yet he wasn’t about to tell Mrs. Fairchild that.

  It took John Dunne less than an hour to get there. Scott and Faith were in the waiting room, eating cardboard sandwiches and drinking weak coffee; at least Scott was.

  “I thought you were just going to check out some pawnshops!” Dunne exploded.

  Faith was tired, definitely frightened—and cranky.

  “This was not exactly the kind of thing anyone could have predicted. First our carving set is stolen and now it’s a murder weapon. Not my idea!”

  “Hi, Phelan,” the detective said. He had told the New Hampshire police on the phone that the two could be ruled out as suspects, but he’d still wanted to question them. He had no doubt that Faith had inveigled Scott into all this, whatever this was.

  “Come on, let’s find a room. You can tell me all about it; then they should let you go home.” With John Dunne’s arrival, the waiting room was suddenly packed with police. Local, state, men, women—they had all responded to the homicide and now they all wanted to see the detective lieutenant, who’d become famous in law-enforcem
ent circles over the years. He was as tall as they’d heard, and his face was as homely—

  scary until you got used to it. Whether to make up for it or just because it was his taste, he dressed impeccably and wore his curly salt-and-pepper hair a little longer than regulations might dictate. He’d grown up in the Bronx and had never lost the accent. It made Faith feel right at home. She was inordinately glad to see him.

  It took until midnight to go over everything—and it seemed longer. Earlier, Faith had reached Tom, and Scott had gotten his wife, Tricia. Both spouses were incredulous and frantic with worry all at once.

  One of the cops had driven Scott’s car to the station and Dunne ushered them out. “I know the New Hampshire state motto is Live Free or Die, but I wouldn’t take the first part seriously. Don’t plan any trips in the near future. I’ll be in touch.

  And, Faith, stay in the kitchen.”

  She was too exhausted to put up even a token protest. She planned to avoid the second part of the state motto, too. A man had been killed and his killer was on the loose.

  The cop who had driven the Mustang had adjusted the seat and mirror. Scott’s vociferous com-plaints were the last thing she heard before falling into an uneasy sleep. The next thing she knew, he was shaking her on the shoulder. “Wake up, boss. You’re home.”

  Her head was pounding and she felt hungover.

  Faith reached for the clock and jumped out of bed. It was past ten.

  “Tom!” she hurried down the hall and called again. “Tom, are you home?” Obviously, he’d let her sleep, but she couldn’t believe she hadn’t heard her spouse or her children as they got ready. She slipped on her robe and went down to the kitchen. There was a note in the middle of the table with some wilted dandelions next to it.

  “FEL BEDER LUV BEN.” Miss Lora, the nursery school teacher, had started a writing program with the older kids, using the new craze in education—invented spelling. Pix had warned Faith that cracking Axis codes during World War II had been child’s play compared to figuring out what your son or daughter would be writing for the next ten years. Faith assumed the scribbles underneath in bright red crayon were Amy’s contribution. Tom’s was brief and to the point: “Call me as soon as you’re up! I love you! T.”

  As usual, he’d been so relieved that she was all right, he hadn’t been angry. Not so far. Just very, very shaken. Arriving home late and finding his wife was in a New Hampshire police station under suspicion of murder had been unsettling, and only her entreaty that he stay put with the kids, that Dunne would straighten it all out, kept him from driving up there at once.

  She called his office and he picked the phone up himself. Either Ms. Dawson was out or he was sitting by the phone waiting. Faith suspected the latter. It was lovely to be adored, and when she thought of women whose husbands never called, never talked to them much, never cared, she felt guilty. But Tom’s Valentine card had said it all: a drawing of the earth and a female next to it on the cover; inside: “My whole world revolves around you! Happy Valentine’s Day.” It made her think of Niki’s lightbulb joke about Stephanie. It also made her think her position in this marriage was quite a job to maintain.

  “I told the kids you weren’t feeling well. That you were tired. Which was true. You were out like a light. How do you feel now?”

  “Groggy, confused, hungry.”

  “Why don’t I take you out for some breakfast?

  We’ll go down to the Minuteman Café and you can have some corned beef hash and eggs.”

  “You mean you can have some.” This was Tom’s favorite breakfast. The idea of going out and sitting in a familiar—safe—spot was appealing, though. “Give me fifteen minutes to shower and dress.”

  “Okay, see you soon.”

  Faith turned the spray on full force and stood under it, her eyes closed. When she’d gotten home, she’d noticed some spots of blood on the soles of her shoes and the toe of one. She put them in a plastic bag and started to carry them out to the trash, then reminded herself she hadn’t been definitively eliminated as a suspect and the police might regard throwing away bloody acces-sories with some suspicion. Instead, she took the package down into the basement and put it on the top shelf over the workbench. Cleaning and polishing the leather might erase the traces of the scene of the crime, but not the memory. Dunne had told her that whoever cut Stackpole’s throat had done so expertly, slicing through the trachea to the carotid artery. Tom, like most men, was ritualistic about keeping every knife in the house honed to a fare-thee-well. Arkansas stones, special oil, porcelain knife sharpeners—his cherished tools of the trade. The murderer had been lucky.

  Or—Faith opened her eyes and reached for her shampoo—knew the weapon beforehand. The Henna Gold shampoo quickly produced a thick lather. Faith rinsed and rinsed again. She turned off the water reluctantly. She often did her best thinking in the shower, and she still didn’t have an answer to the question that had plagued her since she and Scott had stumbled upon last night’s grisly sight.

  Who killed George Stackpole?

  Chief MacIsaac was having lunch and looked askance when the Fairchilds’ breakfast food arrived. They’d joined him in his booth, a permanent indentation on the side where he habitually sat. Occasionally, an out-of-towner would try to claim it during the chief’s well-known meal hours. Leo, the owner and cook, would get out a battered hand-lettered reserved sign and plunk it ceremoniously on the table.

  “Have you heard anything from the New Hampshire police or John Dunne this morning?” Faith asked.

  “Shouldn’t I be asking the questions?” Charley said, spooning up a last mouthful of cream of tomato soup and turning to a heaping plate of macaroni and cheese. “For starters, what were you and Phelan doing up there?”

  Faith felt weariness descend like an old piece of clothing you don’t want to wear anymore but is still good and cost too much to give away.

  “Never mind. Enjoy your meal,” he said. “I know the answer. As soon as you heard Stackpole had a list of your missing things, you hotfooted it up there to try to get some back. You took Phelan because he’d know how to get in if it was closed.”

  “We didn’t break in—and besides, he

  wouldn’t,” Faith protested. Tom looked startled and put his loaded fork back down on his plate.

  Before he could say anything, though, Charley continued.

  “Good for him—but Stackpole had left the door open anyway.”

  Obviously, Charley had read the full report.

  Tom quickly cleaned his plate and signaled for more coffee. “We know who didn’t kill the man, so who do you think did?” he asked, happy to have his wife out of the running for one crime at least.

  Bless you, Faith thought. Charley tended to readily share information with Tom that she would have had to spend hours coaxing out of him.

  “The woman Stackpole lives with is missing.

  Cleaned out their joint account at an ATM late last night, and the safe in the basement of his house in Framingham was wide open. Bought a one-way ticket to Montreal earlier in the week—turns out she’s Canadian. Late flight, last night, and it was used. The travel information was in the house, but obviously not the lady. We’ve alerted the RCMP and are looking for her as a prime suspect, to start with.”

  “Gloria?” This didn’t make any sense at all to Faith. She’d just seen the couple working together, apparently companionable. Sure, he’d spoken rudely to her at the show at the Copley, but Gloria took it in stride. “George’s bark is worse than his bite”—that’s what she had said.

  Why would Gloria kill George and why now?

  And why at the Old Oaken Bucket?

  Charley’s mug had also been refilled. “The owners of the Old Oaken Bucket, Jack and Sharon Fielding, have had various skirmishes with the law, mostly tax evasion. Jack even did some time.

  They were at home watching TV. Not the best alibi, which is in their favor. An airtight one often means you need it. There’s not a whole lot to
do in that part of New Hampshire, especially on a week night and especially this time of year—mud and blackflies—so if they weren’t watching the tube, I’d wonder.”

  Faith got a question in. “Did Stackpole have the code or wasn’t the alarm set?”

  “The alarm was set, the Fieldings claim. They also claim he didn’t have the code, but that I don’t believe. Several of the dealers there have had

  ‘robberies,’ and I’ll bet a lot of them have the code.”

  “What about James Green? Have you found him?” Tom again.

  “Not yet.” Charley sounded discouraged.

  “I told the New Hampshire police about him and what happened at the auction,” Faith said.

  “Maybe he killed George, because he didn’t want George to finger him for all these break-ins, especially Sarah Winslow’s. Except”—Faith was thinking out loud—“if I’m right, George was as involved as Green. Now if it had been Green who was murdered, then George would be the obvious suspect. He’d want to shut him up before the police found him.”

  “I’ve got to get back to work, honey.” Tom had had enough and his wife’s speculations—a sign that she was back to normal—were starting to make him nervous. It was much easier to grapple with the Almighty—and even the vestry.

  “I’ve got to get going, too.” Charley stood up.

  Faith looked at her watch. The kids would have to be picked up soon. She might as well stay where she was and think things through a bit more.

  “Abandon me, go ahead. See you later.” She waved good-bye and asked the waitress for a glass of orange juice. The café squeezed their own, and Faith couldn’t drink another cup of coffee, especially the Minuteman’s.

  The Fieldings had no reason to kill George, nor did James Green. Gloria might have, and it was suspicious that she’d withdrawn all that money and made travel plans. Faith took out a pad and pen, making a note: “How much money in the account? Who is Gloria?”