“One more thing,” I said. “Do you think we could be accused of some kind of conspiracy to withhold evidence if we don’t tell the police what we discovered tonight?”
Harry and Nick exchanged glances. Cleo went white again.
“It isn’t evidence; it’s simply a theory that we’re under no legal obligation to share,” Nick said. “At this point, even Quinn has a right to keep it from becoming public knowledge.”
“And consider this,” Harry added. “The police investigators may have already discovered the secret access for themselves. If so, they would classify it as ‘need to know’ information and keep it quiet. I’m betting Quinn had the passageway installed as a safety precaution in the event of a hospital shooter or some other dire emergency.” He looked to Nick, who nodded in agreement.
“My turn,” I said, waving my raised hand. “Do we confront Quinn with this discovery?”
Nick replied, “There’s a chance Quinn has already told the police about the secret passage, but if he hasn’t, it won’t look good if they find out later that he withheld that information.”
“Should we ask him?” Cleo said.
“No.” Harry and Nick spoke as a chorus.
“But maybe one of—”
“Cleo, they’re right,” I said. “You believe Quinn is innocent and so do I, but until we know that’s true beyond a shadow of a doubt, we can’t go to him about this.” I waited for her reaction.
Cleo backed away from our huddle around Harry’s computer and folded her arms across her chest.
“Cleo, trust us on this,” Harry said. “If there’s a chance Quinn pulled the trigger, we can’t let him know what we’ve discovered.”
“Tell you what,” Nick added. “If you’re willing to hold off on talking to Quinn, we’ll reconsider after we know more.”
“You’re right, of course.” Cleo raised her chin. “I would bet my life on his innocence, but I can’t ask any of you to do the same.”
“Then let’s agree that for now, this secret remains among the four of us.” Harry turned from his monitor and scanned our faces. We all agreed to keep what we knew to ourselves. Harry assured us he would try to identify the contractor Quinn had used and almost certainly paid under the table. If he succeeded, he might be able to convince the contractor to reveal if anyone else was in on Quinn’s secret.
Our band of conspirators split up at three o’clock with everyone hoping to get some sleep before morning.
Lying in bed in the pre-dawn hours, I had to admit things weren’t looking good for Quinn. The idea that the police were looking at me as his possible accomplice kept me awake contemplating everyone who might have had a reason to want Lowe dead.
Natasha Korba’s stepfather was at the top of the list. I didn’t doubt that Abel Gailworth had Melissa under his thumb, but after seeing her distress in that hospital room and the way she had comforted her daughter, I had trouble imagining that she would go along with murder. If Gailworth had done it, I was almost certain he had kept Melissa in the dark. At least I hoped so. I wished I knew more about the submissive woman. How easily was she swayed? The trouble with suspecting Gailworth was that I couldn’t imagine how he would have known about the hidden access to Quinn’s office. Or why he would decide to commit the crime there. To frame Quinn? To what end?
Sybil Snyder’s husband was a possibility, but equally hard to accept as a killer. Glen Capshaw suspected that Sybil had a lover, and he might have suspected it was Lowe, but Capshaw didn’t seem like someone who would throw his life away over his wife’s infidelity. He’d be more likely to sue for divorce and punish her in court than to come up with some devious way to commit a murder in Quinn’s office. And it was highly unlikely that he knew about the secret access.
Who else? Rita Lowe’s theory about her husband’s affairs had to be considered. Maybe she was right. Had one of Lowe’s mistresses decided that if she couldn’t have him, no one could? The police might find it easier to believe that Mrs. Lowe had finally taken it upon herself to put an end to her husband’s serial cheating.
None of this speculation explained why Lowe was shot in Quinn’s office—assuming Quinn was telling the truth about being innocent. Lowe had sneaked in there for some compelling reason. Somehow, that reason got him killed.
Sanjay? I was almost asleep when his name popped into my head and brought me awake again. No. He didn’t belong on my list of suspects. What possible reason could he have for killing Lowe? That he would frame Quinn, thus getting him out of the way so that Sanjay could step into the administrator’s position, seemed preposterous. Then why had he come to mind? I grappled for whatever thought had been in my subconscious. Then it surfaced.
Opportunity. If anyone else knew about the secret panel in Quinn’s bathroom, it would be someone who frequented the administrative suite. There were only two possibilities: Varsha Singh and Sanjay D’Costa. Varsha was a hardworking single mother of four young children—hardly the profile of a killer. In the hackneyed world of television crime shows, however, she would be a suspect. I refused to add her to my list, but I did wonder if she knew about the secret passage. She had worked with Quinn for several years. If there was a shooter on the loose or a fire broke out on the fourth floor, surely Quinn would have told Varsha how to escape. It would be criminal of him not to. Wouldn’t he have done the same for Sanjay?
Giving up on sleep, I got up at five o’clock Thursday morning and munched a bowl of granola while I made notes to remind myself of the myriad thoughts that had paraded through my restless mind. After several cups of coffee and a cool wake-up shower, I thought I could make it through the day, but I drove to work very carefully.
My first hour in the library passed while I sorted mail and took care of routine tasks. By the time Bernie Kluckert arrived at nine o’clock, the coffee carafe in my tiny break room was more than half empty. I was feeling jittery and lightheaded.
“Reporting for duty, miss,” Bernie said. His right arm twitched, but he managed to resist the impulse to salute.
“Good morning,” Bernie.
He looked at me expectantly, but my sleepy mind drew a blank. Were there any plants that needed watering or surfaces he hadn’t already dusted? If not, what would I do with him all morning? Then I remembered there was a carpet sweeper tucked away in the break room. He spoke up before I could mention it.
“Lola was complimentary about my cleaning,” he said, displaying a beaming smile. “At our auxiliary meeting this morning, she thanked me right in front of Oslo Swanson.” He winked. “I could tell Oslo was peeved, don’t you know.”
If I hadn’t been so tired, I might have come up with a response. Instead I just nodded and asked if Bernie would mind running the carpet sweeper over the floors. I explained that Housekeeping only vacuumed the library once a week. He took me up on that suggestion with enthusiasm and went about his work, whistling under his breath.
Between helping walk-in patrons, responding to email requests, and preparing an agenda for the next Continuing Education Committee meeting, I found my thoughts kept turning to Varsha Singh and whether she knew about the emergency exit in Quinn’s bathroom. I wanted to get Cleo’s opinion before I asked Varsha about it. If she didn’t know, I couldn’t give it away.
I emailed Cleo to ask if she could do lunch at Margie’s Bean Pot. She responded that she had to facilitate a luncheon meeting of the Credentials Committee. She suggested we take an afternoon break instead and meet in the hospital cafeteria at two thirty. By noon I had finished preparing the CME agenda. As I worked, Bernie had traversed the library floor a dozen times with the carpet sweeper, emptying its nose-tickling contents several times into the wastebasket next to my desk so he could show me how much dust and dirt the Housekeeping Department’s vacuum cleaner had missed. After putting the carpet sweeper away, he stopped by my desk.
“All clean now, miss,” he said. “Young people don’t know how to do a job. They musta been givin’ it a lick and a promise, don’t you see?”
He flexed his gnarled fingers and I suspected his hands were cramping from gripping the sweeper’s handle. I watched his irregular gait—he was favoring arthritic joints, no doubt—as he walked toward the exit door. Three hours of carpet sweeping had probably left him aching and tender, but he did it for Lola.
The things we do for love. For a fleeting moment Nick came to mind.
As soon as Bernie was gone, I locked up and spent my lunch hour napping on the old chaise lounge in the library restroom. Later, feeling refreshed, I managed to keep my mind on my work until it was time to meet Cleo. I caught up with her in the cafeteria, empty except for a couple of dietary staffers doing their thing in the kitchen. I bought a bag of pretzels and a bottle of water from the vending machines. Cleo sat at the opposite end of the room, out of earshot of the kitchen crew. I joined her and asked about Varsha.
“Do you think she knows about the passageway?”
Cleo peeled open the wrapper of a Snickers bar. “Good question. If she needed an emergency exit, she would have to use Quinn’s hidden passage. He must have told her. He wouldn’t let her perish to keep his secret.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’d trust him with my life, Aimee. Varsha would, too. Imagine a shooter approaching the door to her reception area. She’d be a sitting duck. There are so many shootings in the news these days; it may be only a matter of time before we have one here.”
“All the more reason to believe Quinn had that emergency passage built not just for himself, but for Varsha and the assistant administrator who held that job before Sanjay came along.”
“Yes, that was Karla Morgan. She left before you were hired. The position went vacant for a few months until Sanjay came on board.”
“So back when Quinn was hired, he had two women to protect from potential disaster. Why the secrecy?” I asked.
Cleo swallowed a bite of her Snickers. “Because the more people who knew about it, the less likely it would serve its purpose in a crisis. Besides, no one else who works on the fourth floor needed it. They all have more than one exit into the main corridor.”
“Nick said that door on the third floor—the one with the hazard sign—was locked. And Harry said it doesn’t open from either side without a key. Anyone who could exit onto the third floor from that door with a key could also enter with the same key and go up the stairs to the fourth floor and into Quinn’s office.”
“Then what?” Cleo said. She did not look convinced. “Murder someone?”
“Maybe. Harry checked the false wall when he came back up from the third floor. He said it was easy to work the latch from inside to make the wall open into Quinn’s bathroom.”
“So Quinn could have been in his office the night of the murder if he entered from the third floor.” Cleo looked sober and worried.
“Yes, but let’s focus on other people who might have known how to get into Quinn’s office. That woman you mentioned, Sanjay’s predecessor …. She had a key. Quinn must have asked her to turn it in when she left.”
“Of course,” Cleo said. “She had no further use for it, and Quinn wouldn’t want it floating around.”
“Then maybe Sanjay has that key. We need to find out.”
“I know, Aimee, but how are we going to do that without tipping off Quinn that we know his secret? Or revealing it to Sanjay?”
“How solid is your relationship with Varsha?”
“We have a good rapport as colleagues, but we aren’t close personal friends.” Cleo massaged her temples, showing signs of strain and worry. “I haven’t talked to her since Quinn was put on leave. I’m not quite sure how I’d approach her.”
“Maybe you could express concern about her vulnerability in that reception area and see if she volunteers anything.”
“Let me think about it.” Cleo glanced at her watch. “I’d better get back to work.”
“Me, too.”
She touched my hand. “Before you go, did you decide who you’re taking to the symphony?”
“I haven’t asked my grandmother about it yet. I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
I saw the disappointment on her face and knew she hoped I’d show up with Nick.
As I started walking back to the library, I noticed my right knee was giving me a more pain than the left. I made an about face and dropped by the ER to see if one of the docs might have some advice. After X-rays, I was given a diagnosis of hairline fracture of the right patella and a prescription for pain pills.
Chapter 19
Cleo called just before closing time with news. She’d checked the courthouse calendar and learned that Natasha’s next custody hearing was set for the following Wednesday. Almost a week away. It wasn’t yet clear whether the girl’s condition would keep her hospitalized until then. If Korba put enough pressure on Dr. Snyder, my guess was Natasha would remain in-house for another week. I didn’t envy Sybil Snyder, knowing she would bear the brunt of testimony at the hearing.
Knowing the date filled me with a new sense of urgency. I thought of Harry and Nick and wondered if they’d had any success with their respective inquiries. Nick was still checking up on Gailworth, and Harry was looking for Quinn’s covert stairway builder. I texted both of them, saying we needed to meet.
At home, I stopped off at the main house to ask Amah about the symphony. When she opened the front door, the aroma that greeted me made saliva pool under my tongue. Their dinner was almost ready and my nose told me it was Jack’s turkey enchiladas. She invited me to join them, saying Jack had already done the evening chores. I accepted and helped her set the table and chop veggies for a green salad. My stomach stopped growling after the first few bites of cheesy enchilada.
“Weather’s supposed to be clear on Saturday,” Jack said. “We’re taking two of our newest llamas to the foothills for training. We could take three if you want to come along.”
I wanted to help them out. I considered my knees and figured I could load up on pain pills.
“I’d like to,” I said, “if we can be home in time. I have tickets for the symphony.” That reminded me to ask Amah about the tickets. I’d been sidetracked by her dinner invitation.
“I would have loved to, sweetie, but since we’re hiking that morning, I’d better take a rain check.”
Amah wouldn’t admit it, but a day hiking in the foothills with inexperienced llamas took a lot of energy. She would want to come home and relax instead of gearing up to go out to a concert. I told her I’d invite Nick.
She and Jack traded conspiratorial glances. “We’ll make sure you’re home in plenty of time,” Jack said. I knew where they stood on the subject of my getting back together with Nick. Firmly on the plus side, and the sooner the better.
While we were doing dishes, I decided to get Amah’s perspective on Harry and Rella. I reminded her that she had asked me if Harry was getting serious about a woman.
“Has he said something? Was I right?” Her excitement made me feel a little guilty.
“You were right, but it’s kind of complicated.”
“Oh.” She dried her hands on a kitchen towel. “Shall we talk about it?”
“Maybe.” I thought of Amah and Grandpa Machado’s second wife, Tanya, and how well they got along. How had they managed that tricky situation?
Amah poured two glasses of white wine, and we settled on the couch in the family room. I filled her in on my talk with Harry. How long he’d been dating Rella, and why they hadn’t come out in the open.
“No one seems to have a problem with it except me,” I said.
The twist of Amah’s lips told me she understood. “So you’re uncomfortable with Rella’s past relationship with Nick?”
“It just seems awkward—Harry dating Nick’s ex-girlfriend. How did you and Tanya get to be so comfortable with each other?”
“We talked it out.” She set her wine glass on the coffee table and took my hand. “I’m afraid you’re speaking to the wrong person, sweetheart.”
“You’re suggestin
g I talk to Rella? How? I barely know her.” That prospect was daunting. Rella seemed friendly enough toward me, but she had never encouraged chat or girl talk.
“You’re a smart girl.” Amah gave me a hug. “You’ll figure it out.”
Later in my apartment I shed work clothes for sweats and checked my phone. Harry and Nick had both sent texts. Harry’s said, Still working on it. Nick’s said, Call me. Good. I was going to do that anyway.
“Symphony?” he said. “Don’t you usually go to those concerts with your grandmother?”
I told him she’d declined, and added that Hector Korba played bass clarinet with the orchestra. I told him about Natasha’s new custody hearing date and Korba’s insistence that Natasha stay in the hospital until then. I mentioned my suspicion that Snyder would recommend he have custody.
“What’s that got to do with going to the symphony?”
“Nothing, really. It’s just that I’ve had to say no to Korba twice and he wasn’t happy either time. I understand why he’s so concerned about his granddaughter, and I feel bad about not being able to help him. I thought it might help to see him outside the hospital in a different setting.”
“You have doubts about him parenting a ten-year-old girl?”
“He seems gruff, but I’ve never seen how he is with Natasha. He may be a big teddy bear. I’m sure he’s hoping to guide her career, but I don’t see him exploiting her in the self-serving way Abel Gailworth would.”
“Speaking of Gailworth, let me give you the latest intel.”
“The geeks found something?”
“They did. Remember our speculation about his income?”
“Sure. We know he isn’t living entirely off the collection plate from his miniscule congregation.”
“No way. He’s been living off funds he managed to scam from several wealthy and gullible women.”
“What kind of scam?”
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