“Well, thanks for coming by to say all that. Good luck on the case,” she rattled off quickly, opening the door intending to end the conversation by going inside, an act that annoyed Mannor.
“But don’t think I’m going soft. I don’t want you getting any funny ideas, you hear me?” He waved a commanding finger, the normal rude attitude she remembered from the day before resurfacing.
“What, like skipping out of town?” she replied with a little hint of fire in her voice.
“You know exactly what I mean. No need to get fresh,” he snapped.
“Have a good day, Detective,” she offered, stepping inside and preparing to shut the door.
With a flip of his hand, he held out a card. “This has my work and personal numbers on it. Give me a call if you think of any new information concerning the murder. Anything at all.”
She paused, taking the card and glancing at it. The personal phone number was scribbled in pen under the printed work information.
“Good day,” he grunted, finally taking off.
Bert closed the door and let out a low chuckle. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say Detective Mannor was beginning to tolerate her.
Chapter 12
* * *
Heading toward the back of the shop, Bert kept her eyes trained on the office door. She was slightly hesitant about going into the same room where a murder had occurred. The image of Brinkley’s body flashed in her memory, the small spot of blood soaking his shirt.
She stood reluctantly outside the doorway, yesterday morning’s events waiting just beyond the threshold.
Shivering at the thought, she tried to summon up her courage again. After all, there wasn’t a dead body in that room anymore and any evidence of such had been removed.
Stepping into the office, she let out a whoosh of relief to find everything quite ordinary. Of course, the desk had been completely cleared of any items—all most likely taken in for evidence—and the desk chair was missing.
Bert wondered if it had bloodstains on it.
Walking around the desk, she set her purse down and began opening drawers. They, too, were all empty. Shrugging, she stored her items in one of the larger bottom drawers and closed it tight.
Standing upright, she shivered slightly, feeling a draft. She rubbed her arms through her jacket, attempting to warm herself.
The gentle brush of air on her face caused her to look about the room inquisitively.
Where was it coming from?
Feeling the draft again, she noticed it coming from above her. Glancing up toward the ceiling, she spotted the vent situated just above the desk.
It was wide open and the air was coming through.
Running out of the room, Bert grabbed a ladder and brought it in, setting it just beside the desk and climbing up until she could reach the high ceiling. Through the slats she could just make out hints of daylight peeking through.
This gave Bert pause.
Hadn’t the vent been closed the night Brinkley died?
She was nearly positive it was.
Did that mean the police officers had opened it to air out the room? Or had it been opened by the killer the same night of the murder?
Pulling on the tab, the grate shut closed, echoing loudly.
She was having the strangest idea, a theory that seemed farfetched but could possibly work to help show she and Kyle weren’t the only suspects.
Climbing back down, she grabbed her keys and headed back into the main shop. Behind the checkout counter, she climbed the stairs to the second floor. Locating the door into the empty apartment, which was being used as storage, she unlocked it and stepped inside.
The room was filled with old worn out shelves, some boxes of tattered books, old chairs, and other items. Despite all the clutter, it seemed like it could be made into a nice living space with a little work.
Scoping out living spaces, however, wasn’t Bert’s goal in coming upstairs.
Navigating between all the boxes and furniture, she came to the window, flipped the latch, and threw it open. Just as Kyle had described, there was a fire escape on the back of the building. The black iron structure stood rigid and sturdy against the building.
The window was large enough and low enough to allow Bert to easily step through and out onto the walkway.
There was one flight of metal steps going down to a square opening and another going up to the roof.
Looking down, she realized that the ladder through the opening had been released from its locked position and was extended all the way down into the back alley.
That meant that Kyle had been wrong, and someone could have easily climbed up. But who?
Bert headed down the steps and attempted to raise the ladder back up. It wouldn’t budge. The lock was stuck in place, broken, leading her to believe that it had been in that same position for some time.
Peering back up, she wondered how the person had gotten in through the latched windows. The detective had said that the entire building was locked up, doors and windows both.
That led Bert back to her original theory, and she proceeded to climb up to the roof. Climbing over the edge of the short brick barrier, she stood up in the brisk wind. The feeling of a late summer rain was in the air.
Glancing around, she didn’t see any easily apparent entrances into the building, but did spot a small metal tower with a vent grate on the top.
That was exactly what she’d been looking for.
Walking over to it, she found a pull tab that was identical to the vent in the office below. She pulled on it and heard a loud clunk as it opened. If she was right in her assumption, that meant both vents could be opened and closed from the roof as well as inside.
Her theory was becoming more and more plausible.
Removing an old key from her keyring—which belonged to a bike lock she’d lost some years earlier—she easily slipped it through the vent slats. Listening as it clunked back and forth, it finally came to a stop.
Now, all that was left was to check her theory.
Quickly shuffling back down the fire escape and into the window, she hurried down the stairs.
Stepping into the office, she gasped. Just as she had suspected, the old bike key lay there in the center of the desk, just as Brinkley’s shop key had been the morning before.
Chapter 13
* * *
“I came as soon as I got your message,” Detective Mannor declared, stepping through the front door of the shop without knocking.
Bert was bent over a box of books, organizing them. This whole task of doing a complete inventory was going to take some time. She’d need to clear out a lot of merchandise before she could organize things in the fashion she desired.
“Detective? I wasn’t expecting you,” she admitted, standing up from her work to greet him with a polite handshake. When she’d called informing him she had some big developments in the murder case, she had expected little more than a phone call back.
Instead, here he stood in the entrance to her shop.
“You did say you had figured out some new information about the murder of Brinkley Pennyworth, correct? I am not mistaken in that fact?”
She raised both hands. “No, no. It’s true. I was just surprised that you came all the way back over here.”
“You are aware, Mrs. Hannah, that the police headquarters is only a few blocks away from here?”
She offered a timid smile.
He folded his arms. “Now, are you going to tell me what it is you think you’ve learned, or did I waste my time coming over here?”
“Of course,” she answered excitedly. She waved a finger for him to follow.
“This better be good, Mrs. Hannah,” he said, putting some of his hardened detective attitude to work.
“Trust me. It is.” Stepping into the office, she motioned toward the desk where the bike key sat.
The detective looked at it with a stone expression. “It’s a key,” he pointed out irritably, n
ot seeing the connection.
“Yes, of course, it’s my old bike lock key.”
Furrowing his brow, he looked at her with a not too pleased scowl. “You called me down here to show me your bike key.”
“Not the bike key, how the bike key got there.” She pointed up at the vent.
The detective followed her finger and glanced toward the ceiling, noticing the cool breeze on his face for the first time since entering the office. “The vent is open, I see.”
“Exactly.”
“Mrs. Hannah, what does any of this have to do with the homicide case?” he demanded, his patience growing thin.
Bert had hoped he could put two-and-two together on his own. She knew that many detectives and officers felt more accomplished when they assumed any given solution was their own idea—especially with men like Detective Mannor.
However, it seemed she would have to spell things out.
“The killer murdered Brinkley and then locked up as they left.”
“We’ve already established this.”
“But they used his key.”
“How is that possible?”
“They used the fire escape in the alley to climb onto the roof and drop the key through the vent. It fell all the way down onto the center of the desk where you see my bike key now.”
The detective’s eyes widened as he realized the implications. “You’re positive of this?”
“I tested it on my own by dropping this key through. It explains how the killer was able to lock up, but make it look like it could only be committed by someone with a key to the building.”
“You wouldn’t mind performing your experiment again, would you?”
She snatched up the bike key. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
She dashed up to the roof as quickly as she could manage, dropped the key through the slot, and walked back down again to the office.
The detective held the key in his hand, tossing it up and down. “You were absolutely right,” he commended her.
“See, it shows that the murderer could have been anyone,” she proclaimed in an exasperated tone, still a little winded from her run.
“This is significant, Mrs. Hannah.”
“I know.”
“This helps me to pin down a more accurate vision of our murderer,” he informed her, the smallest hint of a smile touching the corner of his mouth.
“You think you know who it is?”
“I have my hunches, but it all comes down to motive.” He placed the key back on the desk. “I need to get back to the station. I have some important calls to make.”
Before he could reach the front door, however, a quiet ring of the bell announced someone’s entrance. Bert stepped out to see who it was who had come in, realizing she’d forgotten to lock the door after the detective had arrived.
“Where is he?” demanded the blonde-haired, bearded man.
Bert instantly recognized him as Marc Bailey, the investor.
“Excuse me, but we’re closed Mr. Bailey.”
“I need to talk to Brinkley Pennyworth,” he insisted.
“And who are you?” demanded the detective.
“My name is Marc Bailey, and I need to speak with Mr. Pennyworth.”
“Is this about a small matter of money?” Mannor asserted himself.
Marc paused, surprised that this complete stranger seemed to know his business. “As a matter-of-fact, it is. Why?”
“Do you care to share with me your whereabouts between the hours of nine-thirty pm and midnight on the night of August the sixth?”
Marc looked indignantly from the detective to the woman. “What is this?”
Detective Mannor lifted his jacket’s lapel and flashed his badge. “Is it true that you wrote Brinkley Pennyworth a threatening letter?”
“What do you mean? Tell me what the heck this is all about?”
“Did you or did you not write a letter demanding money from the previous owner of this shop?”
Seeing he wasn’t going to get any answers, he grunted and gave a shrug. “So, what if I did? Am I in trouble or something?”
“I have said letter in my possession at the police station, and if the new information that Mrs. Hannah has provided for me is true, that gives you quite the opportunity and motive.”
“For what?” he demanded, his face turning red with a mixture of anger and fear.
“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like you to accompany me down to the station to discuss the recent murder of Brinkley Pennyworth.”
In the next moment, Marc went ghostly pale.
Chapter 14
* * *
The rest of the day went by in a breeze of work. Thanks to the fact that Marc was the most likely suspect now, Bert felt comfortable to let her worries about being targeted as the murderer go. It made all the hard labor of moving books about more enjoyable.
When she began growing tired in the afternoon, she started making all sorts of notes about the space available and what she hoped to do with it. Using the miracle of internet via her phone, she did some research and made some phone calls to contractors about the best method for remodeling the shop.
She informed multiple companies about her desired vision and got a few different off-the-cuff estimates for the work necessary to bring the dream to life.
She additionally made phone calls to members of her church’s congregation, asking if there were any young men or women looking to make a few extra dollars after school each day. Having the helping hands of some vibrant and strong people would make moving all the boxes and creating a proper inventory more accessible.
She also started creating plans of how to thin out the overly stuffed amount of merchandise in the office, storage room, and upstairs apartment. While construction was going on, she knew she could easily hold a street sale to unload much of it for cheap.
She imagined bins of penny style romance and mystery novels, classics, and other books. Selling them for a dollar or less each would be sure to clear out a lot of the unnecessary clutter.
As the sun finally began to set, she realized she hadn’t had much of anything to eat since breakfast. Despite having just ordered out the previous day, she called up a local brick oven style pizza shop in the market and ordered some dinner. She gave them instructions to come around to the back door near the office. She would be starting the lengthy process of inventory.
After hanging up, she decided to do a quick walk-through of the right side of the shop and do a preliminary scan of the genres they had in stock. She walked up and down the aisles, making notes of the shelf labels. Approaching the section of Regency and Victorian era fiction, she scanned the titles. Her eyes rested on one that was out of place. “You don’t go here,” she complained, pulling the large tome from the shelf.
Much to her surprise, the book felt light—too light.
Turning the volume over in her hand, there was an odd clunking sound as if the inside was hollow and something was moving about inside.
“What is this?” she wondered out loud, opening the book.
The pages in the center of the book had been cut out, leaving a square indentation—much like a box—inside. She’d heard of these. They were called hide-away books.
Sitting within the pages was the blood-stained letter opener.
Chapter 15
* * *
Eagerly digging her phone out of her pocket, Bert dialed Detective Mannor’s number again. It went straight to voicemail. “I found the murder weapon hidden in one of the books at the shop, and I think I know who the murderer is. Get down here as soon as you get this,” she insisted, hoping she wasn’t being too bossy or forward. This was a homicide they were talking about, not some petty theft.
Heading back into the office, she closed the volume and set it on the desk for the detective to take into evidence whenever he arrived. She hoped, by accidentally handling the book, she hadn’t somehow incriminated herself or destroyed evidence.
She hadn’t touch
ed the letter opener, of course, and that would be the true judge for convicting the murder.
She just hoped the detective would arrive soon.
A heavy-handed knock came from the back door, causing Bert to jump. Her heart pumped at an increased speed for a few seconds before calming down again. “Sheesh,” she groaned. She’d been so flabbergasted by finding the weapon, she’d nearly forgotten that the pizza delivery man was on his way.
Grabbing her wallet from her purse, she walked over and opened the door.
Instantly, she felt her blood run cold upon the sight of the person standing outside. It wasn’t the pizza guy at all.
“P-Pearl. What are you doing here?”
“I saw the light was on and decided to see if you were in,” she admitted.
“What for?”
“We were interrupted during our negotiations,” she said, stepping past the threshold without being invited.
“Negotiations?” she asked, trying to keep her voice as calm as possible. Her eyes fell on the book on the desk, praying that Pearl didn’t notice it as the same book she’d brought in and hid on the shelf the day before.
“About the book, of course,” she demanded.
Bert never knew she could feel as nervous or afraid as she did at that very moment. “The book?” she asked, trying to play dumb and draw out the conversation as long as possible. She hoped that Detective Mannor had gotten her message and would arrive soon.
“The copy of Macbeth. I told you I was willing to pay one hundred dollars for it.”
“Now, which copy of Macbeth was that?” she asked stupidly.
“The copy. You know what I’m talking about. The one published in eighteen-ninety-eight.”
“It’s that old, is it?”
The old woman shook a finger. “As a bookshop owner, you should know these things. Mr. Pennyworth never did, either.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m still a little new at all of this.”
Killer Apple Pie Page 6