Damn, damn, damn.
We went downstairs to the history and politics sections. "Amy was learning these books," Stevie explained. "Three times a day she checked and straightened the shelves. She was at the information desk from one to three. The rest of the time she unpacked books or worked the floor or was at the front checkout desk, depending upon the customer flow."
We walked to a semicircular counter in the middle of
the store. "Today she was supposed to double-check next week's schedule for the daily workers. A lot of Patty Kay's friends work in the store one day a week. Monday through Friday. They weren't interested in weekends, of course."
Stevie pulled open a shallow drawer and lifted out a ring-binder notebook. She put it on the countertop and opened it.
I saw monthly side tabs.
She flipped to April and the second sheet in that month. It was titled Daily Schedules, April 5-9. The names of the clerks ran horizontally, the days of the week vertically The resulting grid gave a quick confirmation of who was scheduled to work when.
I checked back a few weeks. The ladies hopscotched around.
Brooke Forrest customarily worked Mondays, but the prior week she switched with Edith Hollis on Thursday.
Pamela Guthrie was down for Fridays, but she'd worked every other day in the week but Friday for the past month.
The other single-day workers were Cheryl Kraft, who'd been at the store today, and Louise Pierce, who worked Tuesdays.
There was a red X by each name for this week.
I pointed.
Stevie tapped an X. "That means Amy checked last week and had definite commitments for this week."
"So today"- I flipped to the next sheet. Daily Schedules, April 12-16.
Crimson Xs neatly marked each name. Next week Brooke would be in both Monday and Thursday. Louise and Cheryl had switched. Pamela was on schedule for Friday.
Stevie touched the Thursday column. "Next week I'd
better call Mrs. Hollis. She may not want to continue. But we have a waiting list. It's a prized job in town."
"I'm sure it is. But it still surprises me that Pamela Guthrie does it."
Stevie's eyes glinted. "That woman."
"If she doesn't enjoy it, why does she do it?"
"To keep an eye on the bookstore, I suppose. Or maybe she just doesn't want to be left out of something that the women in town do."
"Does it have such a social cachet?"
"Oh, yes. It's even harder than getting into Talking Leaves."
"Talking Leaves?"
"The book club in Fair Haven. Been in existence for more than a hundred years. You practically have to inherit an opening. Simply being rich isn't enough."
It's a small town, for chrissdkes.
Stevie's voice wasn't hostile. She was merely reporting a fact.
She fidgeted. "Is this what you wanted to see, Mrs. Collins? Are we finished?"
I didn't answer at once. I was looking toward the front door. Amy could have seen anyone who came through the front door.
And been seen.
"No. Tell me about the store today-from the time Amy arrived."
She shivered. "We didn't open until late, of course. Because of the funeral. I told everyone to come in at one. Amy came in a few minutes early. I was in the employee lunchroom. She got a cappuccino and a big oatmeal cookie from the cafe and sat with me. I teased her, said she wasn't eating enough for a growing girl. A cookie for lunch isn't enough."
Her eyes flashed. "None of us ate anything at Mrs. Guth he's."
"How did Amy act?"
Stevie closed the notebook, slid it back into a drawer There was a pause before she replied, as if she were considering her answer. "Just as usual. She never had a lot to say But she was pleasant. Nice. There was nothing different this afternoon."
"When did you last see her?"
"Right before I left, about two-forty. I walked by the information desk. She didn't see me. She was on the phone That's all I noticed."
"So Amy was alive at two-forty." I got out my notebook, flipped to a fresh page. "You didn't see her again?"
"No."
"You weren't here when we found Amy." I'd not thought about Stevie's absence until the policeman ushered her and Craig into the bookstore. Ever since, I'd thought about it quite a bit.
"No. God, I'm glad. It's so awful."
"Were you off work?"
"I wasn't feeling well. I had a headache. So I went home j for a while. Then I felt a little better and I decided to go to the park." Very glib, very quick. She'd thought about this.
"Park?"
"Cravens Park. It's a mile or so from here. I sometimes take a picnic lunch to the park."
"Did the police find you there?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"About four."
"With Craig?"
"Oh, no. I mean, we didn't go there together. We just happened to run into each other."
She didn't lie nearly as well as Craig.
"Oh." I let it hang.
Her eyes flickered away from me.
"Did you see anyone else at the park?"
"1 didn't pay any attention. We-I was walking in the rose garden, and I ended up in the little amphitheater. It's at the end of a path and rather secluded. No one else was there. Until Craig came."
"When was that?"
"I think it was around four."
So she wasn't alibiing Craig-or herself-for the time when Amy was killed.
"I was so surprised to see him," she said hastily.
And I entertain Venusians before sunrise every Tuesday.
I refrained from saying it. I needed her cooperation.
She wasn't thrilled at my plan.
But she agreed.
We each manned a telephone. That was one reason I'd wanted to come to the store. More than one phone line. We split up the list. I gave her the clerks. I took the customers. But I tried to listen to her questions and responses even as I talked.
At this point I didn't trust anybody.
It was like wearing a Walkman with a different talk show in each ear.
Stevie got more willing responses than I, of course. She was, after all, the boss. I was an unknown woman calling late in the evening to ask about a traumatic event. I had one hangup and one threat to report me to the cops. "Be my guest," I replied. "There's no law against asking questions- and I hoped you would want to find the person who strangled Amy Foss. She was nineteen." That got me cooperation.
Stevie and I each asked the same questions:
Did you talk to Amy?
When?
About what?
When did you last see Amy?
Who did you notice in the store from two-thirty to three o'clock?
We made the last call shortly before eleven.
By eleven-fifteen we worked it out:
Amy was last seen at two forty-five by Jackie. "She was wal
king toward the storeroom. I never saw her again."
At two- fifty, Paul realized the information desk wasn't manned and there were several customers waiting. "I thought maybe she'd gone to the bathroom. But she didn't come back. So I took over."
At three, Todd started hunting for Amy.
"Okay. It seems clear enough. She was killed between two-forty and three. So, let's see how many people we think were in the store then."
This was where it broke down. No one could say with any great certainty. We did get the names of three longtime customers. Stevie could call them tomorrow to see if they'd noticed anything helpful.
The rest of the list was indeterminate. An older man, a redheaded woman, a young guy in a navy hooded sweatshirt and pants, a couple of elderly women, two teenage girls. And, of course, the clerks, Todd, Jackie, Paul, Candy, and Cheryl Kraft.
On a fresh sheet, I listed these names:
Craig Matthews Stevie Costello Brigit Pierce Stuart Pierce Louise Pierce
Desmond Marino Willis Guthrie Pamela Guthrie Brooke Forrest David Forrest Gina Abbott
One fact argued against the appearance of any of these: Cheryl Kraft knew each of them.
Of course, it was possible that one of them had managed to enter the store and escape notice.
Or what if it was someone who wouldn't excite notice at all, such as Craig or Stevie?
Or what if someone called and asked Amy to be in the storeroom or the alley at, say, two forty-five? That way the murderer might not have come into Books, Books, Books.
Surely Amy hadn't been that foolish.
"Stevie, what about the door to the alley. Was it kept locked?"
"No. Not during the workday. We would be in and out, tossing cartons, receiving deliveries."
That door would have been kept locked in a larger city. But this wasn't a city, this was a small town. No one worried about thieves or street people coming in from an alley in Fair Haven.
"So anyone could have come in, waited in the shadows near the delivery dock, knowing Amy would come into the back area at some point. Is that right?"
"I suppose it is."
I felt confident everyone connected with Patty Kay knew the bookstore well enough to be aware of that alley entrance.
So the murderer didn't have to be among those in the bookstore.
All right. Go at it another way. Amy knew something. That's why she called the Matthews house. That's why she left the message for me.
What did she know?
Was it connected with the phone call asking Craig to pick up the fruit basket?
Or was it simply that she knew-and would swear-that Craig left the bookstore at a quarter to four on Saturday?
Stevie leaned back in her chair and sighed.
I looked at her. The sweatshirt she'd pulled on when we left her apartment was oversize. Not the kind of thing she'd wear to work. No, she wore cotton cardigans to work. She claimed someone had taken hers from the bookstore on Friday.
What if- somehow-Amy knew better?
What if Amy saw Stevie with that cardigan Friday night or Saturday morning?
"Is Amy's apartment near yours?"
Stevie gave me a guarded, cautious look. "Nothing's far from anything in Fair Haven."
"Did you and Amy shop at the same grocery?"
"What are you getting at? Why are you asking me that kind of question? I didn't have any reason to-"
A brisk knock sounded at the front door.
We both turned to look.
I moved first. "Good. It's Desmond."
Stevie unlocked the door.
"Henrie O, I got your message. I talked to Susan Nichols."
We stood near the front checkout counter in a yellow pool of light. The lawyer looked desperately tired. His face was haggard. Dark circles shadowed eyes numb with misery.
"Good. WeVe narrowed things down at this end. Amy was killed sometime between two-forty and three. What did you find out?"
"Susan said Amy was hit on the head, probably stunned, then strangled. The police found a tire iron in the bottom of the dumpster. No prints on it, but traces of Amy's blood and hair."
The attack was taking shape in my mind. I could see a figure in those dark shadows by the closed delivery door, Amy walking by, the brutal blow that struck with no warning.
"Why hit her, then strangle her?" Stevie asked.
1 knew. "Strangling is quieter. The initial blow would make noise. Repeated blows would make more noise."
Stevie turned away.
A tire iron. It could possibly be traced to a particular make and model of car. But it could be linked to a particular car only if fibers clung to it. Surely this crafty and careful killer cleaned the murder weapon thoroughly before bringing it to the bookstore. "What was used to strangle her?"
"A navy scarf with a red diamond pattern."
"Oh, my God." Stevie's hands clutched at her throat. "Someone took my scarf. Someone took it!"
The MG headlights swept over the blue Lexus and green Porsche. I parked beside the Porsche, turned off my lights.
It was dark indeed, midnight-dark.
Craig hadn't left on any outside lights to welcome me home. When I stepped inside, I saw that even the torchere down the hall was off. I used my small purse flashlight to illuminate my way to the stairs.
In the upstairs hallway I hesitated. I wanted to bang on his door, demand to know where he'd been when Amy was murdered.
But why would Craig strangle Amy with the scarf belonging to the woman he loved?
A double bluff? But he didn't have that kind of gambling instinct. I would have sworn to that.
God, how it went round and round in my mind.
Yes, it's Craig.
No, it can't be.
I turned away.
In my room I slipped into my T-shirt and shorts, raised the window wide, and turned off the light. I was exhausted. 1 fell almost immediately into a restless, uneasy sleep. A mind on overload doesn't make for sweet slumber.
Images tangled: grayish ankles, Patty Kay atop an elephant, the bruised shadows beneath anguished aquamarine eyes, a single-engine plane twisting and turning against a stormy sky, a monstrous ginger mustache, the glisten oi earth at a gravesite, the sonorous piety of an evangelist's radio spiel, the dizzying smell from a gas pump…
Gasoline.
My eyes snapped open.
1 breathed the harsh, unmistakable stench of gasoline.
I rolled out of bed, hurried to the window.
No moon. No light.
And wafting through the window on the silky night breeze, the acrid scent of gasoline.
Below, I heard the scuff of hurrying footsteps-and the sound of liquid sloshing, splashing.
Whirling, I grabbed up the flashlight from the night-stand. I ran out of the room and down the hallway.
I flung open Craig's door.
"Craig, Craig!"
My flashlight danced across the empty bed. The silken spread was thrown back, a pillow bunched against the headboard.
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