Proof of Murder

by Lauren Elliott

  Jerry mumbled something Addie couldn’t make out at Marc’s directive, picked up his black lab case, and began dusting the window ledge for prints.

  Marc glanced at Simon. “And you’re saying that based on your preliminary examination, Miss McAdams’s death appears to be the result of natural causes?”

  “At this point, it appears so. There’s no evidence of any bodily wounds or a struggle, and as Jerry has determined, because the room was locked from the inside the only sign of forced entry was caused by the work of the handyman to allow Blake Edwards and Addie access to the room. I feel comfortable at this point making that assessment. However, it is preliminary pending a complete autopsy. At which time I’ll better be able to make a determination of the mechanism and manner of death.”

  “Right.” Marc rubbed his neck. “Jerry, you finish processing the house. Keep an eye open for anything that looks out of place or someplace someone could have hidden these missing antiques. If we don’t find anything, then I’ll let the auction go ahead as planned tomorrow. But make sure Mr. Edwards is aware that until we get the final autopsy report back, this room will remain off-limits.”

  “What?” Addie sputtered. She couldn’t believe Marc’s decision. In her mind, especially after she’d discovered the missing first editions and Blake’s tale of other missing pieces, the whole house and grounds should be treated as a crime scene at least until the books were found. What’s Marc thinking? Addie gripped the arms of the chair and shifted to stand, but stopped when Simon’s gaze darted toward her—his eyes clearly telegraphing a warning to stay put and keep quiet. Marc glanced over at her, adjusted his police utility belt, and headed directly for her, his arms across his chest, his silence as he stood over her a deafening roar.

  She motioned to the chair opposite her, but he didn’t move. She struggled to her feet—her frayed nerves caused by the entire events of the morning and seeing him again after so long were the only force willing her legs to cooperate. “Marc, you look well. Time off seems to have agreed with you.” She pasted a grin on her face, praying it didn’t betray her warring emotions. “I wanted . . . no, I hoped we could talk for a few minutes.”

  “Unless it’s got something to do with what happened here, we have nothing to say to each other at the moment.” His eyes narrowed, studying her face. “But I get the feeling that you thought this little reunion would give us time to play catch-up like old friends?”

  “No.” Addie’s cheeks burned as if she’d just been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “But I did think we could forgo all this formality and talk like we used to.”

  “After I walk into a room and find you with a dead body? This shouldn’t surprise me, though. As it appears, nothing with you has changed in the last few months.” His gaze flitted over to Simon by the door and then back to her.

  Addie winced at the curtness of his voice. “I have some information,” she said, trying to regroup her thoughts, “and I think it’s important.”

  “I’m well aware of the additional information you have.”

  “Oh, I was—”

  Simon’s hand on her elbow stilled her thoughts and mouth. “I’ll call you later.” He tilted his head. “You all right?”

  She wanted nothing more than to throw herself in his arms. But she had her pride, and the studied attention of Marc, and the added addition of Special Agent Brookes.

  “Just peachy.”

  “You were saying?” Marc brought his attention back to her after Simon left. “Did you have anything else to add to what you’ve already told Jerry or Agent Brookes?”

  “It’s just that I couldn’t help but overhear”—she ignored Marc’s snort—“that you don’t feel that it’s important to keep the house locked down as a crime scene, and I just wanted to point out—”

  “You wanted to point out what?”

  “Only that even though it appears Charlotte’s death might have been natural, I can’t help but think that her death coincides with the disappearance of some very valuable books . . . and I think the two are related.”

  Marc rubbed his jaw, his eyes fixed on Addie’s. “That may well be, Miss Greyborne, but you’re forgetting the number-one rule of conducting a police investigation: Follow the evidence. And all the evidence points to a poor woman who had the misfortune of having a heart attack or a stroke or something else naturally occurring and then dying.”

  “But—”

  “So, at this time, I”—he glanced at Ryley—“we can only investigate the missing books and the other items Mr. Edwards has reported stolen from the property. There is no evidence suggesting a murder was committed, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “What if some proof turned up proving otherwise?”

  “If that happens, then I would be bound to follow that new evidence, but right now, based on preliminary findings, it was an unfortunate death and a purely coincidental event.”

  “Then don’t you think that until proved otherwise the auction should be canceled? Is it really a good idea to allow all those people to traipse through the house until you do find the evidence to prove they are connected?”

  “Are you questioning my authority in this matter, Miss Greyborne?” Addie shook her head. “Good, because I shouldn’t have to explain myself to you, should I? What I’m saying is that unless my officers find any evidence of forced entry into the house or come across the missing items in question while they’re completing their search, there is no reason the auction cannot proceed tomorrow.”

  “Does that mean you’re convinced the thief is feeling pretty smug about getting away with it for so long that he or she will return to the scene of the crime by attending the auction? Then you’ll be around to catch him or her red-handed?” Addie’s smile wilted at the expression on Marc’s and Agent Brookes’s faces.

  Brookes’s eyes narrowed in on Addie’s. “Tell us why you’re convinced that Charlotte McAdams’s death is related to a set of valuable first-edition Arthur Conan Doyle books in the first place.”

  Addie’s gaze went from pinning Brookes with a glare to an indignant wide-eyed stare at Marc. “I don’t mean to be flippant, but since she’s on leave, can she officially be asking me questions?” Marc looked away and nodded.

  Brookes didn’t flinch except for a short hitch to her breathing. “Yes, even though I am not officially investigating this incident, an FBI agent is really never considered to be off-duty. However, as I explained earlier, I am not acting in the capacity of a federal agent. I’m here as a friend who is familiar with police procedure. This is a matter for local law enforcement—unless, of course, something came to light that would make it fall under federal jurisdiction.”

  “Satisfied, Addie?” Marc fixed a steely, slightly dazed gaze on her. Addie understood. She had shocked herself, too, with her outburst. “Now answer the question. Why are you so convinced that McAdams’s death is linked to those books?”

  “Because the books left as replacements would have to have been previously purchased. They aren’t something that would be found in this collection.” She waved her hand around the library. “Whoever exchanged them planned it ahead of time, perhaps in the hope that it would take longer than the next day for the fake books to be discovered.”

  “And,” Brookes said as she studied Addie’s face, “what makes you think that this person who exchanged the books wasn’t Charlotte herself?”

  “Because I had only made her aware of the first editions’ existence yesterday. There wouldn’t have been time for her to go out and buy the replicas. The closest place where she could have found any would have been Boston.”

  “And you’re certain that the actual first editions and not these reproductions were here the last time you saw them, which, according to your words, was yesterday?”

  “Yes, I appraised them myself, and that’s where I left them when I was done with them.”

  “Is there a record of this appraisal?”

  “Of course.” Addie’s tone awarded Mar
c a dunce hat. “It’s all in Charlotte’s inventory catalogue. Plus, I left notes for her.”

  “Which are where?”

  “I assume on her laptop. She had left it for Kalea and me to enter our findings into the inventory list.”

  “Where is the laptop?”

  “Her assistant must have it if it’s not here.” Her eyes narrowed at a thought she’d filed in her memory bank.

  Addie had assumed from the two books on the floor by the desk chair that Charlotte had been double-checking the appraisals Addie completed yesterday, but, without the inventory list on the computer, that would have been impossible. The agent had asked a good question: “Where is the laptop?” The room was locked. No one could have come in and taken it—or had she given it to Robert then bolted the door? She needed to find Robert and the laptop, and if Ryley hadn’t been staring her directly in the eye, she might have shared that thought with Marc, but given the circumstances she shrugged. “I don’t know where it is.”

  Ryley’s eyes never wavered from Addie’s. “We’re to take your word that these first-edition books existed in the first place, and someone made their way into a locked library, perhaps stole the laptop containing the only actual proof that these books had been appraised, and then exchanged the books for fakes.”

  “Yes.” Addie met Ryley’s fixed gaze with her own.

  Marc tapped his finger on his chin. “Agent Brookes here has an interesting theory that she shared with me earlier. Right now, you are the only person who can verify the books’ value, and the only one who had the means or motivation to exchange the books.”

  “What!” Addie’s mouth dropped. “You think I had something to do with Charlotte’s death?”

  “Murder is something yet to be determined by the autopsy results, but”—Marc pursed his lips—“grand larceny is definitely a possibility.”

  “And”—Addie fingers curled in her palms—“what are you basing that on?”

  “Something you yourself once told me: that everyone is capable of committing a crime, even murder, given the right circumstances. ” His eyes held steadfast on Addie’s.

  “I can’t believe what I’m hearing.” Her nails bit into the tender flesh of her hands. “Okay, say you’re right. What would be my motive?”

  “If the books are as valuable as you say they are,” Ryley said, turning her unfeeling, detached eyes on Addie’s, “then my guess is money.”

  “I don’t need money, thank you very much,” Addie snapped at her. “And exactly how do you think I got into a room that was sealed from the inside?”

  Ryley slowly scanned the room and then rested her gaze back on Addie. “You did admit, and it has been confirmed, you spent the entire day working in this room yesterday. And given the fact that you were in here alone—”

  “Correction: I wasn’t alone. My cousin, Kalea, was with me. A little fact that can also be confirmed.”

  “Yes, this mysterious cousin who seems to have disappeared. Tell me, Addie”—Agent Brookes squared her shoulders—“is she your accomplice?”

  “What? You think one or both of us smuggled the books out of the room when we left here? No, I left them on the table; Charlotte’s assistant, Robert, was looking at them. You can ask him. They were there when I was finished and left for the day.”

  “Then there’s the possibility that you unlocked one of the windows and returned later last night to collect the books and the laptop.”

  “Why would I remove the only evidence that proves what I’m saying is true, that the books did exist and now there’s only fakes in their place? Think about that one, Agent Brookes.” Addie forced herself to breathe. If she didn’t breathe, she couldn’t think.

  “What happened? Was Charlotte still in here working, and the shock of seeing you come in through a window scared her into having a heart attack? Or were you aware she was going to be working so you left some doctored tea on the desk for her just in case she was here when you came back to make the exchange? Is that what happened? You drugged her, and then slipped in through the window you left unlatched yesterday.”

  “Marc,” Addie gasped, sputtering out her words, “tell your friend I would never do anything like that. You know me.” Her wild-eyed gaze held steadfast on his—her eyes pleading with him to stop this insanity. “Marc, say something. You can’t really believe that I had anything to do with any of this.”

  Her question was met by his stone-faced silence.

  “Marc, please! Tell her.”

  “I believe,” Ryley said, her tone as cold and distant as the emptiness in her eyes, “that the cup we took in for evidence will test positive for sleeping drugs or . . . maybe even poison?” Her brow rose with a questioning tic.

  Addie sagged back into the chair. None of what she was hearing could possibly be real. She leaned forward, her hands between her knees. This couldn’t really be happening. It was all so surreal. The ache in her chest landed in the pit of her stomach like a rock.

  “Do you have an alibi for last night, Addie?” Marc’s voice rumbled in her ears.

  She locked eyes with him. “Are you actually charging me?”

  “Not at this time, Miss Greyborne.” Ryley’s smug face swam before Addie. “However, I am fairly certain that after Dr. Emerson completes an autopsy, we’ll find the victim was indeed murdered, and the analysis of the contents of the teacup will prove it. You are the person who had the means and motive to pull off such a feat.”

  “Marc, this is me.” Addie jumped to her feet. “You know me. I couldn’t have—no, wouldn’t have killed Charlotte for some books. No matter what she says.” She pinned him with a glare. “Now, if you’ll excuse me as my head explodes with your sudden U-turn. Because it’s getting hard to keep up. First, you said there was no evidence of a murder, and the two weren’t connected, and now you’re accusing me of poisoning Charlotte?” she snapped, folding her arms across her chest. Her gaze shooting from Ryley’s to Marc’s. “Explain that sudden turnaround, Officers.”

  “We’re not saying you did at this point. Only that I have to follow the evidence, and right now, as Detective Brookes has made apparent to me in her investigation so far, all the evidence about this particular set of missing books points directly to you. The final determination of the cause of death will decide if other charges might be pending.”

  Addie’s cheeks burned as if Marc’s words had slapped her. “I see. Well then, Officers, if I’m not being charged right now, I assume I’m free to leave.”

  At Marc’s head nod, Addie bolted past them and ducked under the crime-scene tape. Serena’s words of warning, “Don’t go to Hill Road House,” rang clearly through her mind as she made a dash for the front door. This house had become Addie’s own personal horror story, and it was smothering her right now. She needed air. When she passed the study on her way to the front door, she heard men’s voices. Jerry’s and Garrett’s.

  She skidded to a stop. “Garrett, have you seen Kalea today?”

  “No, I thought she was meeting you this morning.”

  “She was supposed to. Do you know if she’s still at the Grey Gull?”

  Garrett shook his head. “We had dinner last night, but then she got a call and said she had to take care of something. That was the last time I saw her.”

  “Is everything okay?” Jerry closed his notepad.

  “Yeah, I just have to find my cousin. Knowing her, she’s still sleeping, though. Thanks, Garrett.”

  It was past noon the last time Addie had checked. Surely she still wouldn’t be sleeping, would she? Addie gave herself a mental shake. None of what just happened made sense. Fresh air. She needed fresh air. She flung the door open to Blake announcing the cancellation of today’s auction to a large gathering of brokers on the lawn below him. His words were met with whispers and jeers. Even his explanation that, by all indications, the public auction would proceed tomorrow as scheduled didn’t appear to silence their annoyance. Addie slipped past him and sidestepped her way past the bidder
s, searching faces for Kalea. When Addie made her way through the group with no sign of her cousin, panic snaked up her spine. Something had to be wrong. Even the flake she knew ten years ago wouldn’t have disappeared like this. A cold hand clasped her forearm.

  “Leaving so soon, Miss Greyborne?”

  Addie spun at the Irish lilt behind her. “Philip Atkinson.”

  “Is everything okay?” An amused gleam twinkled in his eyes.

  She yanked her arm free and darted past him. Simon. She needed Simon. He was always there to pick her up when she fell, and right now she was spiraling down a rabbit hole.

  Chapter 9

  Addie parked in the loading zone in front of the hospital and raced inside the revolving door.

  “Whoa, what’s the rush?” Catherine Lewis—Addie’s father’s old friend and now hers, too—cried out, her usual light-peach complexion spiking to fifty shades of cherry red on the color palette chart. Her brunette, shoulder-bobbed hair swung across her face as she darted out of Addie’s path.

  “Oops, sorry.” Addie steadied the tottering woman. “I have to find Simon.”

  “An emergency just came in.”

  Addie stopped in her tracks. “I guess he’ll be busy then.”

  “You look upset. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  As much as Addie adored her friend, somehow telling her that she was the prime suspect in a grand larceny and possible murder investigation wasn’t something she wanted to share at this moment. The stab wounds of Marc’s words were still too fresh. “No, it’s nothing. I only wanted to ask him something, but it can wait.”

  “I’m finished up in the volunteer office for the day and was just heading out to do a bit of shopping before I go home. But a coffee right now would certainly hit the spot.” Catherine rested her hand on Addie’s shoulder. “Care to join me?”

  “No, I should really get back to my shop. Another time, though, soon,” Addie said and dashed back out the door, leaving her friend of two years slack-jawed. Addie would deal with the guilt and fallout later. Her heart couldn’t take another beating right now.