I watched her face. There was a moment’s silence, then her shoulders relaxed a little and she closed her eyes in relief.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll check again later.”
I didn’t have to ask. Jed Conway was still alive, and his whispered syllables were—perhaps—no longer his last words. But they still trembled in my mind, an acoustic ghost.
Black . . . well. Blackwell. Was that what I had heard?
The conversation with Carole had been unexpectedly instructive. I was beginning to think that Margaret Anderson might know more than anybody else about the thefts at Hemlock House. What might she know about the shooting of Jed Conway?
And there was yet another question. The Hemlock House minivan had been parked only a half-block away from the Open Book when Jed was shot. Where was Dorothea?
Chapter Eight
[Born in Athens c. 470,] Socrates was one of the most respected thinkers of the age, acting as a teacher and mentor to the equally famous Plato. When he was seventy years old, Socrates was sentenced to death by a jury of five hundred. [He chose execution by] a simple drink of hemlock, which was a revolutionary new manner of delivering death for Athenians. . . .
Hemlock had been used by ancient physicians as a remedy for ailments like joint pain and arthritis. Minuscule amounts were always used, since an overdose could result in paralysis of the entire body, including the lungs and heart. Hemlock belongs to the same plant family that includes carrots and parsnips, but it derives its deadly force from the fact that it contains eight piperidine alkaloids, which are compounds that can have a strong physical effect on the body. The two main alkaloids in hemlock are coniine and g-coniceine, and they are almost singularly responsible for its fatal results. . . .
The story of Socrates’ death has long been an inspirational tale of a man who refused to abandon his principles and greeted death cheerfully.
“Hemlock, the Drug of Socrates”
http://bestdrugrehabilitation.com/articles/hemlock-the-drug-of-socrates/
I wasn’t going to talk with Margaret Anderson that afternoon.
I tried again to reach her on the phone, but with an irritating cheerfulness, the robotic voice repeated, regretfully, that Ms. Anderson was not available and advised me to leave a message.
Conceding defeat and now strongly motivated by what I had learned from Carole Humphreys, I offered a quick recap of my cover story and left my cell number. My call might put Anderson on her guard and give her time to come up with a set of alternative facts about the situation at Hemlock House. On the other hand, it might make her nervous, and nervous people sometimes say things they don’t intend to say. I would drive by her house before I left town. At least I could get a look at where she lived.
But before I started my car, I sat for a moment, thinking about Dorothea. I called her cell phone number and when she came on the line, I said brightly, “Dorothea, are you still down here in Bethany? If you are, maybe we could get together for a quick cup of coffee.”
“Sorry,” she said. “I’ve just gotten back to Hemlock House.” She paused. “Did you get to see Jed Conway?”
I hesitated. It sounded like she’d already driven off before the cops and the ambulance arrived, but I wanted to see her face when I told her the news. “I’ll fill you in when I see you this evening,” I said, and hung up.
• • •
Chief Curtis had told me to stop by the police station and make my witness statement. This was easier said than done, as it turned out.
There were two desks in the main reception area, one of them empty. I dutifully reported at the other, behind which sat a harassed young female officer, neat and trim in a crisply pressed tan uniform. She was doing her level best to field a barrage of incoming calls about the shooting at the Open Book. Jed Conway was obviously a popular member of the Bethany community. Word was getting around fast.
In a brief interval between calls, I managed to get the officer’s attention long enough to tell her that I was the one who had found Mr. Conway and that I was there, at Chief Curtis’ instruction, to leave my statement. Could somebody help me, please?
The phone rang again. “An officer will be with you in a few minutes,” she said breathlessly. “Just have a seat.”
Cops came and cops went, all of them in a hurry. After three or four had cruised into the reception area and cruised out again, I got out of my chair and accosted one.
“Excuse me. Chief Curtis told me to come here and make a statement about—”
“Sorry,” he said brusquely. “Can’t help. I’ll see if I can find somebody. Have a seat.”
Ten minutes later, tired of sitting and with plenty of other things on my to-do list, I took the matter into my own hands. On the empty desk was a typewriter, an old but absolutely gorgeous blue IBM Selectric, which you hardly ever see now that the world is completely computer-driven. I went to the desk, sat down, took a clean sheet of paper out of the top desk drawer, rolled it into the machine, and began to type.
The officer at the other desk glanced over at me, did a double-take, opened her mouth, and started to say something. But her phone rang again and she closed her mouth and rolled her eyes as she reached for it. I gave her a sympathetic smile and a quick thumbs-up to show her that I was on the level and had only the best intentions and kept on typing while more cops came and more cops went, paying me no never-mind. A woman at a typewriter. In a man’s world, what’s so unusual about that?
At the end of ten minutes, I was finished with my statement. I hadn’t mentioned Conway’s whispered word when I talked to the chief and I didn’t mention it now—a lie by omission I hoped I wouldn’t regret. I had not mentioned the Hemlock House minivan parked just down the street, either.
Otherwise, I was as truthful as I knew how to be. I included everything I could remember, except Socrates.com, which would have required a much longer explanation than I was able to offer at the moment. When I finished, I was left with only questions.
Who? Who had tried to kill Jed Conway? Why?
And why “Black . . . well”?
But there was nobody here who could answer these questions, and I didn’t think Chief Curtis had a clue.
I had said all I had to say. I rolled the page out of the machine, signed and dated it, and added my cell phone number. There was a copy machine on a shelf across the room, so I made a copy for myself. I took the original to the officer at the other desk, who was once again on the phone. I peeled a yellow sticky note from the dispenser on her desk, wrote FOR CHIEF CURTIS in block capitals on it, added a smiley face, and stuck it to the page.
“Have a good day,” I said, waggled goodbye with my fingers, and left. I had two more errands in Bethany, and it was time I did them.
• • •
You can tell a lot about people by the house they live in.
The address that Jenna had given me for Margaret Anderson was on a tree-lined residential street in a well-kept and prosperous section of town, just off the ninth fairway of the local country club. The house was a substantial-looking white Southern Colonial with a trio of dormers stationed across the roof (the one in the middle was larger and positioned directly over the central entrance) and a matched pair of windows with white shutters balanced on either side of an impressive front door behind a lineup of symmetrical white columns across the front. Privet shrubs were pruned in geometric precision on either side of the walk that led out to the curb.
Through a screen of trees, I could see the country club’s tennis courts and hear the thunk thunk of balls in play. There weren’t many visible cars, but those I could see were of the Lexus, BMW, and Buick Regal varieties. The neighborhood and the Anderson house were upscale, orderly, traditional, and—obviously—politically conservative. Margaret’s career as a columnist and book blogger either paid very well (which I seriously doubted) or she was married to a local doctor, lawyer, or merch
ant chief. I could envision her greeting me at the door—in her late forties, a little overweight but not too much, with frosted hair and wearing an expensive gray skirt and a pink twinset. Oh, and pearls, of course.
I was glad I had done the drive-by. It had given me an important glimpse into the life of Margaret Anderson.
• • •
My next errand turned out to be even more productive. On the main highway into town, I had spotted the Hemlock County sheriff’s office, a red brick building next door to the larger community center. There were several sheriff’s cars in the parking lot, which gave me heart. At least they weren’t all out chasing Jed Conway’s killer. If I was lucky, I might even get to talk to Sheriff Rogers. I had prepared a little twist in my cover story for just that possibility.
I was lucky. The uniformed deputy at the front desk nodded when I asked if Sheriff Rogers was available, took my name, and picked up the phone.
A few minutes later, notebook in hand, I was introducing myself to a heavyset, square-built man with a sheriff’s badge pinned on his shirt. His gray hair was buzz cut. He had thick gray eyebrows, shrewd gray eyes in a leathery face, and a gray walrus moustache across his upper lip. He could have been Wilford Brimley’s twin brother.
“I’m writing an article about Miss Carswell’s library up at Hemlock House,” I said, seating myself on the other side of his paper-littered desk and handing him one of my unrevealing business cards. “I intended to include some photos and several paragraphs about the Blackwell Herbal, but Dr. Harper told me that it was stolen several weeks ago. She says you’re looking into the matter. I’m wondering if you could bring me up to date on the investigation. Off the record, of course, and just for background. I understand that the board still doesn’t want any announcement of the theft.”
Without looking at my card, the sheriff tossed it onto the general litter on his desk. “Oh, yeah—that rare book thing.” He leaned back in his chair and gave me an appraising look. “Well, now, I’m just gonna level with you, Ms. Boils.”
“Bayles,” I said politely, not wanting us to get off on the wrong foot.
He picked up my card, peered at it, and tossed it down again. “Bayles. Old books is a little out of my line, you see, and there was nothin’ up there at the scene that could give us much of a lead. But I’ll tell you what we did, for what it’s worth. We lifted some prints, which didn’t do us much good. We did a search of the place and came up with zero, although that old hulk is so big, you could stable an elephant in there and nobody’d be any the wiser. Since the ladies on the foundation board nixed any announcement of the theft, we couldn’t work on it from the fence end, way we’d do with a jewelry heist, say.” He looked at me to see if I understood and added, “By which I mean the places where the thief might’ve tried to sell the book. As a consequence, we haven’t done much of anything except wait for a lead. Sorry to say that nobody’s come up with one. Or if they have, they haven’t bothered to tell me.”
I felt seriously lucky. This was a man who liked to talk, and I was hearing more detail about his investigation than I expected. Nothing new yet, but we were just getting started.
“I suppose you checked out all the people at Hemlock House,” I said helpfully.
He blew out his breath, riffling his moustache. “Yes, especially since Miz Carswell was shot and killed up there not so long before.”
Was shot? Wasn’t she the shooter? I ventured, “That was officially ruled a suicide, I understand.”
“Yep. Coroner kinda waffled about it for a while, but that was how he finally came down.” He picked up a pencil and spun it around his thumb. His fingers were gnarly but surprisingly dexterous. “About the book, I had it figgered for an inside job from the get-go, which pretty much narrowed it down to Dr. Harper and her helper plus the hired help. So that’s who I interviewed, which didn’t turn up anything much, except to make Dr. Harper think I was gonna haul her off to jail.”
“Did you come to any conclusion about her?”
“Nope.” He eyed me. “Case is open, so she’s still a possibility, same as that girl—Jenna, her name is. I also talked to some folks here in town who’ve been connected with that place up there. Humphreys, Anderson, Scott, Conway.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Even talked to that crazy parrot lady up the road from Hemlock House. Claudia Roth. Didn’t get much out of her, but those parrots of hers, they’re a sight to see. Real smart birds. Gotta watch ’em, though. They’ll poop on your head.”
Crazy parrot lady. The woman I was planning to see later this afternoon. I tilted my head. “Did you consider any of those people as possible suspects?” It was a nosy question, but since he was in a mood to talk . . .
“In my business, ever’body’s a suspect ’til they ain’t. Seemed to me that any of that bunch could’ve done it and got away with it, no problemo. Dang thing is worth a hunk of money, too.” He pulled a cigar out of a breast pocket. “And that’s where I am on this. You write what you feel like, Miz Biles, or whatever that board will let you. And if you got any bright ideas, I’ll be glad to take ’em into consideration.”
“I don’t, actually,” I said. The sheriff seemed to have covered all the bases. “The fingerprints—did you find anything useful?”
He grunted. “Come up with some matches, if that’s what you mean by useful. Dr. Harper’s, the girl’s, Miz Anderson’s—”
“The girl’s. Jenna’s?”
He nodded. “And a couple more we couldn’t identify.”
“Miss Carswell’s?” I hazarded.
“Prob’ly not. She’s been dead for a good while now, and that book has been in and out of the display case pretty often since then. Not Conway’s, neither. He said he hadn’t been up there since before Miz Carswell died.” He regarded his cigar hopefully, shot a glance at me, and thought better of it. He put it back in his pocket. “Best chance for recov’ry is to put the word out to book dealers down in Asheville and over in Raleigh, same as we’d do to pawnshops and known fences when we’re dealing with stolen property. Prob’ly not much chance of it now, so long after the fact, but if you got any sway with the ladies on that board, you might tell ’em what I just told you.”
There was a moment’s silence. He was regarding me. “Speakin’ of book dealers . . .”
“Yes,” I said quietly.
“Yeah. Heard you was in the shop when it happened. And your man’s retired from Houston PD.”
News travels fast in a small town. But if I had wondered why the sheriff was so unusually informative, his remark about McQuaid gave me the answer. Sheriff Rogers, Chief Curtis, and I. We were all on the same team.
“I just came from the police station,” I said, to encourage this perception. “I left a statement.”
He grinned, showing one gold-capped tooth. “Typed it yerself, I heard. Even made a copy.”
“Everybody was pretty busy. I didn’t want to be a nuisance.”
“Bad day at Black Rock. My deputies are all over at the bookstore, helping Curtis’ boys. Ever’body’s on the job. Nobody’s got time to sit at a typewriter. You done good.”
“Thank you,” I said modestly. “Any word from the hospital on Mr. Conway’s condition?”
“Critical is all they’ll say.” He pulled down his mouth. “Life-threatening.”
I paused, wondering if I should, thinking I shouldn’t, deciding to ask it anyway. “Any reason to think the shooting might be connected to the theft at Hemlock House?”
There was a long silence. He regarded me narrowly. His voice was sharper when he said, “I don’t have a reason to, not right now, no.” He paused. “You?”
I shook my head. “Except for the fact that it was a book that was stolen, and Mr. Conway is a book dealer.” I couldn’t very well tell him what I hadn’t told the sheriff: about a critically wounded man’s whispered word and a website called Socrates.com that displayed what lo
oked like prints stolen from Hemlock House.
“Well, there’s a coinkidink for you,” the sheriff agreed, and I smothered a smile. Cops don’t believe in coincidences any more than lawyers do. Both are capable of building elaborate connect-the-dot theories to explain almost any imaginable connection.
He pushed his chair back, ready to stand up. We might be on the same team, but he had given me enough time. “I understand that you’re from Texas, so maybe you don’t pay attention. But if you’re gonna be around the next couple of days, I’d advise you to keep an eye on the weather.”
“The weather?” I was surprised.
“Yeah. You ain’t heard about Virgil?”
I shook my head. “Who’s Virgil?”
“That’s the name the folks at the Weather Channel are giving to the big storm that’s moving in. A humdinger, they’re saying. Polar jet pushing down from the north, Pacific jet shoving in from the west, Gulf air riding up from the south on the rump of a big old low-pressure area.” He used his hands to illustrate this complicated meteorological choreography. “Last time we had a setup similar to this was the blizzard of ’93—storm of the century. Middle of March. You heard of it?”
I shook my head again.
“Yeah. Well,` that time, we got three-plus feet of snow dumped on us. Fourteen-foot drifts. We was better’n a week diggin’ out. Where you’re staying up there on the mountain, Miz Carswell lost her barn roof. Caved in from the weight of all that snow.”
“Actually, I wouldn’t mind seeing some snow,” I said. “We don’t get much of it where I’m from.”
“You don’t say.” The sheriff eyed me ironically. “Now, ain’t you got something better to do than stand around and talk to an old man?”
I was dismissed.
But I wasn’t quite done here. On my way to the car, I paused in front of a community bulletin board plastered with flyers, notices, and advertisements. Belle’s Quilting Bee Quilt Shop was opening its spring classes. The Thursday night First Baptist choir welcomed all voices but was particularly looking for tenors, regardless of religious affiliation. Meals on Wheels needed volunteers with their own cars. The Hemlock Guild was holding a get-acquainted meetup tomorrow at the community center.
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