Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 05 - Just Ducky

by Jeanne Glidewell

  I combed through the top drawer of Ducky’s desk, and discovered she’d had a fondness for sweets. There were dozens of Tootsie Rolls in various sizes scattered about among paper clips, ballpoint pens, memo pads, and other assorted office supplies. I was often afflicted with chocolate cravings myself, so I unwrapped a small Tootsie Roll and popped it in my mouth before continuing my search. I could almost hear Ducky chastising me from beyond for messing with the stuff in her desk without her permission.

  When I didn’t find the employee contact information in the top drawer, I opened the second one, and didn’t have to look long before I found, below a layer of candy wrappers, a folder containing time sheets, copies of W-9’s, along with addresses and phone numbers of the employees. I’d forgotten about the man who performed janitorial duties on Tuesday and Friday nights. His name was Tom Melvard, and from his address, I could see he lived about two blocks down the street from the Alexandria Inn. I thought it’d be best if I called him right away from the phone in the library, since he was probably wondering if he’d be expected to report for duty later that evening.

  Mr. Melvard answered the phone on the second ring. I repeated what Colby Tucker had told me, and explained to Tom he wouldn’t be expected to return to work until Tuesday of the following week.

  “I just can’t believe she’s gone,” he said, with a catch in his voice. “I’m so sorry you had to be the one to find her that way. I don’t know what I’d have done if I’d been in your shoes at the time.”

  “Did it surprise you to hear she took her own life?” I asked. “Because it sure did me. In fact, I’m going to try to prove somebody killed her.”

  “Oh really? Well, it really didn’t surprise me at all. She’d mentioned to me a few times how unhappy she was with her life. She shouldn’t have married Quentin on a whim the way she did. But, I’d hoped she’d work things out and find happiness, despite the fact that I don’t think her and Quentin’s marriage was a match made in heaven.”

  “I didn’t see any sign of unhappiness in her,” I replied. “But I’d only had that one day to get to know her, and I’m sure she was a very complex individual.”

  “Yes, she was definitely complex, and had been all the years I’d known her. I can pretty much assure you she was not beyond committing suicide. In fact, I’d pretty much bet on it,” Tom said with a sniffle. He was distraught, and I didn’t want to upset him any further, so didn’t press Tom for any more personal observations about his old friend.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Melvard. I hope I’m still here next Tuesday evening, when you report to work, so I can meet you in person.”

  “Okay, thanks for calling,” he said. “And I’ll be sure to show up early Tuesday, because I’d like to meet you too. I’ll see you then.”

  “Wait,” I said, before he could hang up the phone.

  “Yes?”

  “Did you report to work this last Tuesday, the night Ducky died?” I asked.

  “Um, no, I didn’t. Something came up and I couldn’t get to work. I’m sorry, ma’am, I meant to call in and let someone know.”

  Tom Melvard didn’t appear anxious to expound on why he couldn’t make it to work, but I’d deal with that matter later. “I see here that you normally clean the library from about six to ten in the evenings.”

  “Yes, that’s correct,” Tom said. “I usually got there just as Ducky was leaving. You know, I really do wish I’d been able to come in Tuesday evening. I might have been able to protect her had I been there. I kind of had a crush on her, and tried to get her to go out with me for years, until she met Quentin, of course. But, even then, our close friendship never wavered. Well, thanks for calling, Ms. Starr. Like I said, I’m looking forward to meeting you.”

  I hung up, wondering what Tom Melvard had meant by “protecting” Ducky. Did he mean protect her from her own demons, as in talk her out of killing herself? Or did he mean he might have been able to protect her from an assailant? Did Tom know more about Ducky’s death than he was saying? Did he have reason to believe someone he knew about might have a motive to kill her? Or could “protect her” just have been the phrase that came out of his mouth with no ominous meaning whatsoever? Was he kidding about the “crush on Ducky” thing? He seemed sincere, but I mean, a crush on Ducky? Really? Could Ducky’s death possibly have been a crime of passion? I found this possibility very hard to fathom, but all those questions just begged for a more intense conversation with the custodian.

  Since nothing, or no one had slithered out of the cracks and crevices of the library and attempted to drag me up the ladder, which was still conveniently propped against the wall adjacent to the log beam Ducky’s body had hung from, I decided to call Paul and Carolyn before I left the building, so I could mentally cross it off my to-do list.

  Carolyn’s mother answered the phone and informed me her daughter was at the community college enrolling in some business classes. Carolyn had decided the recent events at her workplace were a sign for her to move on, her mother told me. Her only child had always dreamed of owning her own beauty salon, and Mrs. Aldrich and her husband had promised to put her through cosmetology school, as long as she continued to live at home and enrolled in some business classes that would surely benefit Carolyn in accomplishing her goal. In short, her daughter would not be returning to work at the library, and it would probably be my responsibility to find someone to replace her.

  After Mrs. Aldrich and I had discussed the tragic death of the head librarian, I hung up and immediately dialed Paul’s number. His girlfriend answered the phone and handed the phone over to Paul when I requested to speak to him. I told him when the library would reopen, and asked him how he was handling the loss of a co-worker he’d spent a great deal of time with over the last fifteen years. I was prepared to console him and comfort him as best I could.

  “I’m fine,” he simply said. Then with an astonishing small amount of words, Paul managed to tell me he would be looking for a second job, and hoped we could re-arrange his hours working at the library to incorporate those of his future second job. The pay he was earning as a part-time employee was not sufficient enough for him to make ends meet, he told me. He wanted to propose to his girlfriend, but was unable to support them with his current income.

  “Wow, this could turn out to be a case of perfect timing, Paul. I might have just the solution to your problem, and you might also be the solution to one of mine.” I went on to tell him about Carolyn’s decision to change course in her career path, and my dilemma of finding someone to replace her.

  When the only response I got from Paul was a low-pitched guttural sound, that didn’t sound like any word in the English language that I was familiar with, I continued. “If it would work out all right for you, I will check with the powers that be, and see if I can offer you a full time job, instead of hiring another part-timer to take Carolyn’s hours.”

  “Okay,” Paul replied. I took it he was agreeable with my suggestion, but I’d expected a bit more enthusiasm and gratitude in his response. However, being a man who was extremely stingy with his words, as if he was preserving his vocal chords for a debut on Broadway, I had to be content with the belief it might turn out to be a beneficial situation for both of us.

  When I exited the library, the transit was still located in the corner of the lot. Elroy Traylor, and the other younger man, who looked enough like Traylor to be his son, were pouring over a set of blueprints, laid out on the hood of a Cadillac Escalade at the far end of the parking lot. I refused to acknowledge his presence, and got in my car to drive back to the inn. I had a list of things I planned to do that day that didn’t include pummeling the city manager because he’d made the grave mistake of pissing me off.

  * * *

  An hour later, after stopping by the inn, and consuming enough coffee to keep a dozen people awake for a week, I pulled up in front of a two-story, old, but well-kept brick home, located at the end of a dead end road. I’d found the address in the phone book
under “Q. Duckworthy.” I knew the chances of there being another Q. Duckworthy in the small town of Rockdale were slim to none. In fact, another Q. Duckworthy in the entire state of Missouri was highly unlikely.

  When no one answered the door, I walked around to the rear of the home where an odd whirring sound seemed to be coming from. I found the source of the odd noise when I rounded the corner. Standing over a wooden picnic table, operating a hand-held belt sander, was a bald, average-sized man, in a pair of old coveralls. He was so engrossed with smoothing the edge of an elaborate birdhouse that he didn’t notice me approach him. I didn’t want to startle the man, so I waited for him to turn off the sander and set it on the table.

  “Mr. Duckworthy?” I asked softly. When he didn’t respond, I repeated myself, louder this time. He spun around quickly, with his arm cocked back as if he were going to deck me. I stepped back in alarm. He was in his early seventies, I was sure, but as buffed up as a man half his age. I knew he could easily knock me into next week. I held both hands up as if to signal I had come onto his reservation in peace. “I’m so sorry I startled you. I certainly didn’t mean to.”

  “That’s okay; it’s not your fault. I served with the Special Forces in Vietnam, and although my PTSD has improved with time, I still have a tendency to react defensively when surprised. Can I help you?”

  “First of all, I’d like to extend my condolences on the loss of your wife. You are Quentin, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, thank you. And you are?”

  “I’m Lexie Starr, and I was hired to take over at the library until a permanent replacement is hired.”

  “Oh sure, Ducky told me about you,” Quentin said, without elaborating on his statement. I was afraid to ask him what she’d told him about me, not too certain it was something I’d want to hear. ‘Chatterbox’ and ‘not the sharpest knife in the drawer’ were personal descriptions that came to mind.

  “You must be devastated, and totally in disbelief, at what happened,” I said, hoping for an insight into Ducky’s frame of mind about her retirement, which had been scheduled to take place that very day.

  “Well, yes and no. Of course I’m absolutely devastated, but as I told the police, I’m not altogether surprised by her decision to take her own life,” he said. “Deeply saddened, naturally, but not completely taken off guard.”

  “I don’t mean to be nosy, but what do you mean by that? It seemed to me like she was greatly anticipating her retirement, spending time with her grandchildren, gardening, ballroom dancing lessons, and all that.” I was a little hesitant to mention the skydiving and Harley Davidson tattoo, for some reason.

  “Ballroom dancing? I don’t know about that, but she did mention she didn’t get to spend enough time with Melissa and Barney. I’m sure she was putting on a brave face. She was very unhappy about being forced to retire before she was ready,” he said.

  “Forced to retire? By whom? She never told me it wasn’t her own decision, just that her boss was part of the reason she was retiring.”

  “Pride, no doubt. She was nearly inconsolable for a week after Tucker told her to take early retirement, or be fired. She wouldn’t give that blowhard the satisfaction of firing her, but putting in for retirement was very difficult for her to do. She was the type who had to keep busy or go completely insane,” Quentin explained. Keeping busy or going insane, was something I could easily relate to, as I suffered from the same condition.

  “Wow, how awful to hear Tucker gave her an ultimatum like that.” Colby Tucker had just graduated from “jerk” to “royal asshole” in my totally biased opinion.

  “Say, Mr. Duckworthy, were you familiar with the custodian at the library, Tom Melvard?”

  “Oh, I heard Ducky mention him a time or two, but can’t say I ever met the man. Why?”

  “Just curious. He indicated to me on the phone he’d been interested in pursuing a relationship with her before she met you, but I’m sure he soon realized you were the best man for Ducky. She, of course, showed no interest in Tom, and nothing resulted from Tom’s attraction to her.” I had to be careful I didn’t get Tom Melvard threatened, harmed, or worse, by implying the wrong thing to a potential killer, who might be enraged by the idea another man was lusting after his late wife.

  I was surprised when Quentin showed no anger whatsoever, but merely laughed, and scoffed at the very notion of Ducky being involved in any way with another man. He said, “Melvard was sniffing up the wrong tree, I’m afraid. Lucky for him, Ducky had all the man she could handle at home.”

  “Yes,” I said, chuckling softly to echo Quentin’s demeanor. “I’ve no doubt she was very satisfied with her marriage.”

  “As was I,” he replied. I was touched by the sight of his eyes welling up, and patted his arm as he wiped a tear off his cheek. I wondered if the tears were genuine, or just a show put on for my benefit.

  “I am so sorry for your loss, Quentin. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”

  “Thank you. I feel so guilty for not picking up on any signs she was suicidal. If I had, I could have gotten her some help and treatment for her mental and emotional well-being.”

  “I’m really curious about why you didn’t report your wife missing when she didn’t come home from work on Tuesday night,” I said, hoping to look more curious than accusatory, even if the latter term was more accurate.

  “I wish I’d been here to know she didn’t come home, but I wasn’t. I was elk hunting in Wyoming with my brother. In Wyoming, they have a drawing every year for elk tags, and we were both lucky enough to get bull tags for the first time in six years. Clyde got his bull on Monday, and I had a chance at a six-by-six on Tuesday, but missed my target. We headed home late Tuesday night, arriving home Wednesday morning. I got the message about Ducky being found dead in the library, just as we crossed over the Missouri border. I feel so guilty about not being here, but I guess it wouldn’t have changed the outcome any.”

  “That’s true, and you couldn’t be expected to know what would happen while you were away. I sure hope you can prove your whereabouts, just in the slim chance the detectives ask you for an alibi in the course of their investigation,” I said, hoping to draw a reaction out of him.

  “Why in the world would I need an alibi because my wife committed suicide?” He asked, with an expression of pure dismay on his face.

  “Oh, I’m sure the chances of that happening are slim. But, Quentin, I have to tell you, I’m not convinced she took her own life, and I am searching for evidence to prove otherwise. I feel your wife deserves a full investigation into the circumstances surrounding her untimely death.”

  “I don’t expect to have to prove my whereabouts to the police, but I’m sure my brother can substantiate my alibi if it were to come to that,” he said. I was not surprised to hear him say his brother would vouch for Quentin’s whereabouts. Who’s to say his brother wasn’t in on Ducky’s murder? For that matter, if someone I dearly loved, such as my only sister, told the homicide detectives she was having lunch with Elvis Presley at the time of a murder, I might be tempted to vouch for her too.

  “Yes, I’m sure it won’t be an issue for you. Are there any other reasons you’d think your wife could have actually hung herself?” I asked.

  “Ms. Starr, are you sure you should get involved in this matter? It could put your own well-being in danger, you know,” Quentin asked, with what appeared to be genuine concern.

  “I’m aware of the risks. I’ll tread lightly and use common sense. And, of course, I’ll take the utmost precautions to guard against putting myself in harm’s way. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine,” I assured him. If Quentin knew anything about me, at all, he’d be laughing hysterically, knowing that when I was in the middle of a murder case such as this, all common sense flew out the window. And as far as treading lightly, I was more apt to approach the situation like a herd of Thomson’s gazelles fleeing from a pride of hungry lions. But for now, that was my story and I was sticking to it.r />
  Quentin seemed to weigh my words for a few moments before speaking. “You know, Ducky had been suffering from depression recently, even before she was forced to retire, and unfortunately, one of the side effects of the medication she was on is suicidal thoughts.”

  It sounded like an oxymoron to me to take a medicine to help improve your mood that could also cause you to go hang yourself from the rafters at the library. It would make a handy excuse for Ducky’s death, but I didn’t believe for a second that’s what caused her death.

  “Also,” Quentin continued, “Ducky had been very rattled and upset the last few weeks since her ex, Bo Reliford, moved back to this area from Lee’s Summit. We heard he’s living in a rental just outside town. Because their relationship was so rocky, and Bo was often abusive, Ducky was terrified of him. She told me a couple of times she thought she’d recognized him in an older-model Jeep, custom painted in a desert camouflage design, following her as she drove home from work. Most likely, it was just her mind playing tricks on her because of her fear of him, but it still had a deeply disturbing affect on her. She had me driving her to work for over a week after she convinced herself he was stalking her. Perhaps you should speak to Bo, if you get the chance.”

  Had Ducky been right about Bo stalking her? Did he think Ducky wouldn’t see him following her if his vehicle was camouflaged? Stupid man, Rockdale was not located in the desert. I think I’d be more apt to notice a camouflaged Jeep driving behind me than a white or black one, or even a bright orange one. Quentin was probably right that it was just stress causing her to imagine Bo might be stalking her. But what if it wasn’t? I didn’t want to just disregard the possibility as a figment of her imagination.