Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 05 - Just Ducky

by Jeanne Glidewell

  “Feel free to cry on mine,” I offered. “I can only imagine what you’re going through with the loss of your spouse.”

  I had placed the box of stuff I’d collected from Ducky’s desk on a vacant kitchen chair. I picked up the box, handed it to him, and said, “It may be too hard to go through this box right now, but eventually you may find comfort in some of the things it contains. I’m sure a few will have sentimental value to you.”

  “Yes, I’d rather not deal with the emotions a few of the items might evoke right now. I’d rather spend the time visiting with you. You’re such a sweet and delightful woman.”

  I didn’t like the look in his eye when he made that comment, but gave it no more thought. I did however, want to draw his attention to the valuable first-edition copy of Breakfast at Tiffany’s so it didn’t get misplaced somehow. After I explained the book had been in her drawer, and was worth in the neighborhood of seventy-five hundred dollars, Quentin couldn’t dig into the contents of the box fast enough. So much for the emotions its contents might evoke. I guess greed outweighed his sorrow in this case.

  After scouring through the box, tossing the miscellaneous items on the floor like a five-year old opening up a birthday present, and haphazardly flinging the scraps of wrapping paper, he looked up at me in confusion. “I don’t see any book in here.”

  “Oh my! I guess I never thought to look for it after I picked the box up off the desk in the library.” I hadn’t wanted to mention what had happened to Stone and I the day before, not knowing who was responsible for the incident. But now, with the book missing, obviously pilfered by the intruder at the library who’d locked us in the basement, I felt obligated to tell him what I believed had to have happened to it. I would call Wyatt as soon as I left the Duckyworthy home, and pass on the discovery to him to process. It seems he may have been correct in his assumption that the incident might have been associated with the burglary spree, and not the suspicious death of Ducky.

  Having brought up the subject of Ducky’s first-edition books, I felt it might not hurt to find out what his intentions were regarding the valuable collection, so I asked him as if I had every right to know. He told me he planned to sell them, for he saw no reason to keep them, and he wanted to use the room they were stored in as a place to do his woodworking projects. He still had a number of toys he wanted to make before the holidays for the sick kids in the children’s hospital.

  “Do you realize how valuable those books are, Mr. Duckworthy?”

  “Please call me Quentin, and yes, of course I do. She’s bought a couple of them since we got married a couple years ago. I wasn’t wild about her spending so much money on them, but she assured me they’d only go up in value, and we could use the investment to finance much of our retirement. I was hoping you could help me use the computer to look up their individual worth, and then help me list them for sale on craigslist,” he said.

  “I would be happy to help you, but I don’t think craigslist is the place to sell the books. For one thing, being unfamiliar with the website, and apparently computers in general, you could easily become the victim of a scam, and lose a lot of money in the process. I think you need to find someone with knowledge in this area to broker the collection for you. You’d have to pay a fee for the service, of course, but would probably wind up more ahead of the game than if you were to try to sell them on your own,” I said. I could picture this older gentleman packing up books worth many thousands of dollars, shipping them to some postal box in Nigeria, and then waiting patiently for a check that would never arrive.

  “Yes, I’m sure you’re right, but I wouldn’t know where to start to find a broker with the knowledge of first-edition books.”

  I agreed to help him in any way I could. But I still wanted to know if he intended to keep all the proceeds for himself, or share them with Ducky’s only child. I’d almost promised her I’d look into the matter for her. So, again, I asked him point blank. “Are you going to share the proceeds with your stepdaughter? I assume you are planning to do that since she’s Ducky’s only child, and it sounds like most of the collection was acquired quite a while before you two were married.”

  “You know Barbara? Is she a friend of yours?” He asked. He had an expression of uncertainty on his face, as if suddenly wondering if I’d been sent to his home to drill him on his stepdaughter’s behalf.

  “Oh, no. We’re barely acquaintances. I just happened to meet Barbara at the post office when I bought some stamps there a couple days ago, and the subject of her mother’s death came up. I asked you because I was merely curious. It seemed to me as if that’d be the natural thing for you to do. Either hand the collection over to Ducky’s daughter, or sell them and split the proceeds with her,” I said, appealing to his sense of fairness.

  “She probably told you I was a freeloader.”

  “No, of course not. She said nothing of the sort, Quentin.”

  I didn’t want to inform him she’d actually referred to him as a “no-good, gold-digging bastard.” I didn’t think that would help her cause any when it came to convincing her stepfather she deserved at least half of her mother’s wealth, which in my opinion was only fair, considering Ducky had amassed the bulk of that wealth before she’d even met Quentin Duckworthy.

  “Well, I can tell you think I should split the money with her, and that it’d be wrong of me not to share the proceeds.”

  “Yes, of course. Don’t you?”

  “I’m not sure. I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Did Ducky have a legal will?” I asked.

  “No, she didn’t expect to need one this soon,” he said.

  “Nobody ever does, Quentin. Nobody can predict if they’ll live to be a hundred years old with perfect health, or die unexpectedly in their teens in a tragic accident. Sadly, death is an inevitable part of life. Although, it’s probably most people’s least favorite part.”

  “Death must not have been Ducky’s least favorite part of life. Apparently, living was her least favorite part,” Quentin said, with a quivering voice and tears welling up in his eyes. “I still can’t believe she’d leave me like this.”

  “I can’t, and don’t believe it either, Quentin. I still think it was premeditated murder, and I’m determined to prove it. I don’t believe she willingly left you to suffer her loss this way. She gave me the impression she was looking forward to retiring and spending more time with you, driving across the country on your Harley, taking ballroom dance lessons, and things like that.”

  “Really?” He asked. His face brightened as an expression of hope and relief fluttered across his face. “I so much want to believe you. I don’t know what I’m going to do without her, though. I feel so lost and alone right now.”

  “I’ll help you get through it any way I can,” I said, not truly expecting he’d cash in on my offer. “But what about Barbara?”

  “What about her?”

  “Don’t you imagine she’s hurting and grieving just as much as you are? It was her mother that died, for God’s sake. You knew her for a few years, but Barbara knew her for her entire life. A mother and daughter usually have a very tight bond.”

  “Yes, I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you’re right,” he agreed. “Although I’m not sure how tight their bond really was.”

  “Regardless, Quentin, when you stop to think about it, it’s Barbara who deserves the majority of the money. However, I think she would be willing to settle for less. If you offered her half, she’d probably accept it and be done with the matter. If not, she’s apt to take the matter to probate court, in which case, your step-daughter might end up with every last cent of it.”

  My last statement stopped Quentin in his tracks even more effectively than a Ladysmith 3913 could have. He looked like a deer in the headlights for a second, before nodding and picking up his phone. While I sat there sipping on lemonade with a self-satisfied expression that probably could have only been described as looking like the cat who ate the canary, Quentin c
alled Barbara Wells and offered her half the proceeds, providing she help him find a brokerage firm who’d help both of them achieve the maximum amount of profit from the sale of the books. Before I could swallow my lemonade, and wipe the cocky smile off my face, they came to a mutually satisfying agreement. I could tell by Quentin’s side of the conversation they were mending old fences and willing to meet each other halfway in reconciliation. I was disgustingly proud of myself.

  After he’d hung up the phone, Quentin wrapped his arms around me and held me tight a little longer than I was comfortable with, so I broke the clinch as gracefully as I could. I said, “It sounds to me like you two have worked things out, or are at least in the initial stages of doing so.”

  “Yes, thanks to you! I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your advice. I actually look forward to Barbara and me spending time together, dealing with this book collection, and having each other to lean on while we try to work through our grief together.” He licked his lips and smiled a bit too dreamily.

  “Good. I’m so glad I could help. I’m sure it will work out well and you’ll be glad you came to the right decision,” I told him. I was surprised when he nodded, took two steps toward me, and put his hand on my shoulder.

  “Thank you for offering to do anything you could to help me through this rough patch, and offering to be there for me.” Before I could wrench myself away, he grabbed my other shoulder, leaned toward me and planted a big, wet, sloppy kiss on my lips, while lowering his right hand to cup my left cheek and squeeze it roughly. I pulled myself away so violently I tripped and fell flat on the butt Quentin had just been groping. I stood back up, sputtering, as I ignored his outstretched hand, which he had extended to help me up.

  “Quentin, stop that right now!” I put my arm out to block him from coming any closer. I didn’t remember actually saying I’d be there for him. And I really hadn’t thought my offer to help him any way I could sounded all that sincere. It was the kind of thing people you knew said to you when a loved one of yours died, even in a case such as Quentin, a man I barely knew, and had only just met.

  “You must have misunderstood my offer, Mr. Duckworthy. When I said ‘anything,’ I meant ‘anything up to a point.’ A point that stops well short of any physical contact or affection of any kind. I’m happily and newly married, and you for crying out loud, have barely been widowed a week. You can’t seriously be interested in getting involved in anything more than a friendship with another woman already.”

  “I’m sorry, Lexie. I don’t know what I was thinking,” he said. He did have the decency to look ashamed of his actions. “I’m just so lonely and out of sorts right now.”

  “That’s all right, this time. Just don’t ever let it happen again, to me or any other woman, or you might just get sued for sexual harassment, or even assault. You need to be completely and utterly certain the feeling is mutual before trying a stunt like that again!” I hoped I hadn’t just set Barbara up to be groped on by her stepfather when she offered to help him sell the books. She was an incredibly fine looking woman, who had no blood ties to her stepfather, and nothing prevented him from thinking of her as fair game. I needed to set this old man straight, for Barbara’s sake more than anything.

  “I’ll be sure the feeling’s mutual in the future, and, again, I’m really sorry. I must have misread the signals you were sending.”

  “Signals I was sending? Really? I was no more sending you signals that I wanted to be intimately involved with you than I was asking you if you wanted me to poke your eyes out with a stick. And, in case you read that statement wrong too, I truly will poke your eyes out with a stick if you ever make a move like that toward me again!”

  “I won’t ever do something like that again, I promise. I’m so grateful for your help regarding Barbara, and the old books, of course. I also appreciate you taking the time to gather up Ducky’s personal items and bringing them to me,” Quentin said.

  “Okay, fine. You’re welcome, but I’m leaving now,” I said. I was willing to let it go this one time, but I wasn’t sticking around to subject myself to another unprovoked and unwanted lip assault. My mouth felt swollen, and my butt was surely bruised from the hard fall I’d taken on the ceramic-tiled floor. “If I hear of a broker who deals in old books, I’ll let you know.”

  I was glad I could help reunite Quentin with his stepdaughter, but I was still a bit shook by the unexpected lip lock, and praying he didn’t try a move like that on Barbara, who he’d seemed almost too anxious to get closer to. What happened to Quentin not knowing what he was going to do without Ducky? Had he decided on a course of action, like maybe a plan to attack every woman who walked in his door and hope one of them was open to his advances? Good luck with that was all I could say.

  * * *

  I hobbled out the door and on to the front lawn with my rear end and back aching. As was a habit on cool or cold days, I pulled my key fob out to hit the remote start button on it. When I pressed down on the button, I froze in pure shock as I watched my pretty little blue convertible explode into a zillion pieces. The reverberation of the explosion threw me to the ground, and I landed hard on my already sore ass for the second time in ten minutes.

  The concussion of the mighty blast jarred me so badly it took me awhile to realize I had a piece of metal from the car protruding from my thigh, just below the panty line. I had tiny shards of glass in both arms and felt blood running down my face, as well. I knew a head wound could bleed like a stuck hog, so I was more concerned with how deeply the shrapnel from the car bomb was embedded in my leg.

  Quentin Duckworthy was kneeling beside me within seconds, having witnessed the explosion while watching me through the front room window. He was instantly on his cell phone speaking to a 9-1-1 operator. After giving them a brief explanation of the emergency, and his address, he pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket and applied it to the cut on my forehead. Even in severe pain, I couldn’t help but wonder how many times he’d blown his nose on the hanky that day.

  While waiting for the ambulance, fire truck, and every police department vehicle in town, to arrive, I watched my precious car burn to a crisp. The tires, lined up next to the edge of the ditch, began to burn and melt, and emit black, pungent smoke. I felt a great deal of sadness. It was like watching a good friend suffering a terrible fate. Quentin had drug me off the concrete sidewalk, across the grass, and back toward his house, in case the gas tank had not already exploded in conjunction with the bomb blast. While he was pulling me away from the street, I could feel a painful twitch in my left ankle, as if I’d sprained it when I fell to the ground.

  Later, while being attended to by an EMT, I saw Stone pull up in his pickup. He jumped out quickly, not bothering to close the driver’s door, and rushed to my side. While Detective Clint Travis was getting a statement from Quentin, Stone cradled my head, holding the handkerchief Quentin had handed him tightly to my head wound. I was so sore and rattled by then, it didn’t even bother me that I might have remnants of Quentin’s boogers being spread all over my forehead.

  Wyatt walked up with deep concern etched on his face, and asked Stone how I was doing. He’d contacted his friend when the call came into the station, and Quentin had mentioned me by name. Stone told him I was faring all right and what little he knew about the situation. I hoped bringing a box of personal items to deliver to the deceased librarian’s husband did not implicate me in any way as far as investigating Ducky’s death without the official consent of the police department.

  As I listened to Stone and all the emergency responders talking around me, I felt confident my involvement in the case was not an issue. But how could I make the detectives see the significance of the car bomb without implicating myself?

  “You are one lucky lady,” Wyatt said to me.

  “Lucky?” I asked. “Why don’t I feel lucky, sitting here with blood pouring out of me in numerous places, and a car I dearly loved having just been reduced to ashes? Lucky is hitting three seven�
��s on a slot machine and winning a big jackpot!”

  Stone and Wyatt exchanged a look that clearly showed they thought my brain might have been adversely affected by the explosion.

  “No,” Stone said. “Winning a jackpot is a nice surprise. Lucky is when you have, and use, your car’s remote start feature, and aren’t sitting in the driver’s seat being blown to bits when you turn your key in the ignition. That’s what lucky is, Lexie!”

  “Oh my God! You’re right! I was almost killed—again!” I said, in horror. Why had that thought never crossed my mind? Somebody wasn’t trying to kill my sports car; they were trying to kill me! Narrowly escaping death was getting to be a habit I needed to break. Not the narrowly escaping part, but the part about being put in that position in the first place.

  Now the detectives just had to reopen the case regarding Ducky’s death, if we could explain what had occurred without pissing them off. Wyatt had told us to stay out of it, and do no investigating on our own. They might not take kindly to knowing I was questioning a list of suspects I’d created. Especially after I’d crossed paths with the Chief of Police on a couple of occasions in the past. He hadn’t been happy about my overstepping my bounds then, and he’d be even less happy about my intrusion now.

  But, despite how the truth affected me, I’d have to come clean and let the chips fall where they may. They would most likely fall right in my lap, but I couldn’t help Ducky get justice by keeping quiet. I would try not to include Stone in my explanation. I had dragged him into this situation, and I wasn’t going to have Wyatt, and the other detectives, think badly of him because of me. My dear husband had only agreed to help to try to keep something bad from happening to me. Something bad like me nearly being blown up with my car.

  I wanted the detectives to see that the car bomb, and even our being locked in the library’s basement, were not coincidences. Someone who knew I was probing into Ducky’s death had most likely perpetrated it, and they also knew I was damned and determined to prove it wasn’t a suicide. That someone was obviously afraid I was closing in on the truth, and was trying to stop that from happening. At this point, they had nothing to lose by killing me. They were already looking at a pre-meditated murder charge, along with attempted murder charges on their failed mission to asphyxiate Stone and me. If caught, they’d get life in prison, if not the death penalty, which was legal in Missouri.