The Broken Spine

by Dorothy St. James

  “That’s not what I’m doing.” Not precisely. “I need to text someone about that book I had. Honest.” When he didn’t release my hand right away, I said, “What? You don’t trust me?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Fair enough.” I didn’t trust him either.

  My distrust didn’t stop my hand from feeling tingly from his touch or for time to feel as if it had stopped dead in its tracks when his gaze met mine.

  He abruptly turned away. “I’m the biggest idiot alive.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I shouldn’t have said anything about Luke. It’s just that I haven’t had any sleep and I think the police chief is wrong. And I shouldn’t have said that either.”

  “I’m not a gossip. And you already know I kind of agree with you. I don’t think Luke could have done this.” The coffee maker behind me had fallen silent.

  “Because of Anne?” he asked. “You still think she killed Duggar?”

  I shrugged.

  He tapped his fingers on the top of the humming refrigerator. “Luke had returned to Cypress with the hopes of making a fresh start.”

  “Just like you’re trying to do? My mom told me about the mistake you made in New York.”

  He spun back around. “What exactly did you hear?”

  “Oh, you know . . . this and that.” I hoped if he thought I already knew the details about the scandal he’d left behind in New York that he’d let his guard down and talk about it. My ploy didn’t work. He just frowned. “I’m not one to judge. And, please, don’t look so surprised that I know what happened. I learned my investigative skills from the best.” When he raised his brows in question, I explained, “Nancy Drew. Don’t worry, now. I’m not going around gossiping about you.”

  He grunted as if he wasn’t sure he believed me. This lack of trust between us was getting in the way of my investigation.

  “Look, I’m simply saying I understand how you might relate to what Luke is going through. He may have run from crushing debts, but that didn’t stop his past from following him here. And because of that past, he’s being accused of a new—and much worse—crime. It must be difficult to not put yourself in his place. You might even start to wonder if something like that could happen to you.”

  “We’re not talking about me or my past.” His tone convinced me that I shouldn’t push him to change his mind about sharing.

  “Fine. Let’s talk about Luke, then.”

  “I don’t see the point. The evidence—which I can’t talk about—is pretty damning against him. And getting more damning by the minute, apparently.” Although he still sounded upset, his tension had seemed to ease when I shifted the conversation off him and back to the investigation.

  “Okay, so Luke was in debt up to his eyeballs and was looking to escape to a better place where he could be in control of his life again. When those troubles followed him to Cypress, he felt trapped. He ended up doing something drastic.”

  “Maybe.” Jace curled his fingers into a fist. “Only, I can’t believe he’d kill a man he loved for money. Something about that explanation, well, it . . . it just doesn’t sit right.”

  “Over money? I don’t understand.” Duggar had money? Did Jace mean the town manager’s book collection? “Is Luke inheriting Duggar’s assets?”

  “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that either. Open investigation and all. But things will come out soon, won’t they? I guess it wouldn’t hurt to tell you that no, this isn’t about an inheritance. Duggar’s kin will split his belongings. However, there was something found at the crime scene, a document that has suggested a motive.”

  “A document?” I thought about the tiny scrap of paper Dewey had been batting around. The same one that Jace had picked up and then later dropped. I’d tucked it in my purse. I needed to look at it. I held up my hand. “I know. I know. You can’t discuss it. That’s fine.” I rushed out of the room. “Help yourself to the coffee. It’s done brewing by now.”

  After glancing over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t following, I went straight to the circulation desk and dug around in my purse until I located the scrap of paper. I put it on the desk and smoothed out the wrinkles.

  On the crinkled paper there was a name, “Keene,” and then “Est. Value $5,000.”

  Luke needed money. Loads of it. And fast.

  “Of course.” I pressed a finger to my lips.

  The police had found a document at the crime scene. Dewey had found this fragment in the same place. I would bet anything that this was a piece of that document.

  But, surely, the tiny snippet from a larger document couldn’t mean what I thought it meant. Could it?

  Duggar had argued that the books going to the landfill were old and moldy and not worth anything. How could he—a book collector—not have realized that some of the books could be worth five thousand dollars?

  He must have known! Was this part of a document he had in his possession when he was killed? Or was this from documents the killer—Luke?—had dropped at the time of the murder?

  If Luke was planning to sell the library books, I supposed he would have had to wait until they were carted off to the landfill before he could take them. That way, he wouldn’t be stealing (or selling) library property.

  Did Duggar find out his plans to sell the books and decide he wanted the money to go to the town or into his own pockets instead? Did Luke, out of desperation, kill Duggar to stop the town manager from interfering? Luke needed to repay his debts. That brutal beating proved how dangerous the moneylender was. If Charlie was right about Grandle being Luke’s attacker, that would be proof.

  Luke killed Duggar. I repeated the thought in my mind several times, letting the idea settle there. With the murder investigation closed, I wouldn’t have to worry about the police discovering my secret bookroom. I might even finally be able to get a full night’s sleep. That would be a blessing.

  I should be heaving sighs of relief like a romantic heroine who’d survived a narrow escape from the villain just about now.

  So why didn’t I feel happy? Why wasn’t my chest heaving—not even once—with relief? Why did one unwelcome thought keep forcing its way into my mind? I needed to talk to someone.

  Jace emerged from the cramped employee lounge holding a mug of coffee. (No, not him. I needed to talk with someone else. Someone I trusted.) He took a sip before sending me a quizzical look. I slid the scrap of evidence off the desk and crammed it into my pocket. It wasn’t something Jace needed, since the police already had the rest of the document.

  I needed to talk to my friends. I texted Tori: Can you come to the library ASAP?

  She texted back almost immediately: B there in 10.

  “Have you heard the news?” Betty Crawley practically sang as she swept into the library, her large camera hanging around her neck.

  “What news?” I asked.

  She glanced over at the employees’ closet and spotted Jace coming toward us.

  “Didn’t your detective friend tell you? Or isn’t he in the loop?” She stepped closer to me and whispered, her words coming at a rush. “I heard he messed up big time in New York. He got romantically involved with a criminal. His daddy pulled a bunch of strings to convince Fisher to hire him after he was forced to leave New York.”

  Jace came to stand next to the desk.

  “Stop with the games and just say what you’ve come here to say,” I said to Betty.

  “Fisher made an arrest just now. Luke Goodvale killed Duggar. We’re all trying to figure out why.”

  Jace scowled.

  Thanks to those darn nagging doubts that wouldn’t leave me alone, I reacted to the news with a scowl too. Betty lifted her camera and clicked several shots.

  “That look on your face is perfect,” she crowed.

  “I didn’t—” I started to protest.
<
br />   But she talked over me. “A mixture of shock and relief. Couldn’t have staged it better myself. I bet the article I’m going to write will be picked up by the AP wire. Could go national. Perhaps I’ll even get a job offer from a major newspaper out of it. This could be my ticket out of this nowhere town and out of covering ladies’ lunches all the time.”

  “I don’t want my picture in the—” I started to protest again.

  “Toodles!” she sang over her shoulder as she scurried out the door.

  “I hope she does get a job offer from another newspaper, one far, far away from here,” I muttered.

  “That would suit everyone all around,” Jace agreed. “So . . .” He took another sip of his coffee. “Is the library open to Mrs. Farnsworth’s exacting standards?”

  With all the changes to the library, I honestly wasn’t sure what those new standards would be. Did we test all the computers each morning? Did we test the 3D printers? I glanced around. “Sure,” I said with a shrug.

  “Then I probably should go.” He didn’t leave.

  “Dewey is fine. I’ll run by the house and feed him during my lunch break.”

  He nodded. And he still didn’t leave.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” I asked.

  His gaze searched mine for a while before saying, “Fisher is making a mistake.”

  “No, don’t say that.” But Jace was right. This was all wrong. Luke had an alibi. He had been with his father. But what if the mayor had lied? What if Mrs. Farnsworth had known he was lying? No, I didn’t want to think about those things. “I want life in Cypress to go back to normal. I want to put this entire ugly business of murder at the library behind us.” I spoke emphatically, hoping my words would help quiet my own naysaying thoughts.

  “We all want life in Cypress to go back to normal, but it won’t. Not if there still is a killer roaming around.” He drew a slow breath. “Be careful, Tru.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  If not Luke, then who killed Duggar?

  As soon as I had a moment alone, I picked up the copy of The Maltese Falcon Charlie had given me. This was supposed to be a clue?

  It’d been years since I’d read the mystery novel. It wasn’t one of my favorites. It didn’t bring me the same joy of discovery as my Nancy Drew books. But I still remembered many of the book’s details. The Maltese falcon was a jewel-encrusted golden statue. It had been made as a gift to the king of Spain but was stolen by pirates and passed from owner to owner until the start of the novel.

  Was that why Charlie had given me this book? Did he want me to guess that printed books were the treasure? Was Luke planning to take old books from the library to give to Charlie to sell? Was that the clue Charlie wanted me to tease from the plot? Or was he hinting at something else?

  I sat there puzzling over the book for a few minutes before asking Anne to cover the circulation desk for me.

  In the café area, Flossie was tapping away on her computer. Her bright green tie-dyed silk tunic flowed like trees waving in a breeze as she typed. Her fingers kept flying over the keyboard even after I sat down next to her. She didn’t look up until I cleared my throat.

  She yelped. “Honey, don’t sneak up on a body like that!” She slammed her purple laptop closed.

  “There’s been a development,” I said. “Tori is on her way.” I told her about Luke’s arrest and then retrieved the paper Dewey had found in the media room from my purse.

  By that time Tori had arrived, and I had to start the explanation all over again.

  Both Tori and Flossie frowned over the crinkled paper I’d placed in front of them.

  “You think this is from a formal estimate worked up by an antique bookstore?” Flossie asked. “A store like Charlie’s?”

  “It could be his shop or another one. There are plenty of them in Charleston, and look at this. It says ‘Keene.’ As in Carolyn Keene. As in one of the Nancy Drew books I’d thought I was saving from the landfill,” I said.

  Flossie studied the tiny piece of paper some more. “Those books you put into the secret bookroom, they’re first editions?”

  “Some of them. That’s one of the many things that makes the Nancy Drew books so special. Those early editions are different from the later ones that have been rewritten and reworked over the years.” The copies the Cypress library had in its collection contained the words originally written by Mildred Wirt Benson. They are the actual books that launched a series that inspired scores of successful women.

  “This valuation doesn’t seem too far out of line for a popular first edition book,” Flossie said.

  “Not at all,” Tori agreed. She showed us her phone’s screen with the results of an Internet search she’d completed on the value of first editions of The Secret of the Old Clock, the very first Nancy Drew book. Her search results matched the price given on the paper Dewey had found.

  “I wonder . . . have we found the plot of our mystery?” Flossie asked. “You think Duggar discovered Luke’s plans to sell the library’s books and confronted him? Is that why Luke killed him?”

  “It does wrap things up nicely, I suppose,” I said slowly.

  “Not really.” Flossie tapped her chin. “Oh my, I need to pluck. Now, what was I going to say? Don’t tell me. Oh, right. It was this: Why wait for the books to be carried off to the landfill? They might get damaged during transport. Wouldn’t it be easier if Luke simply checked out the books, sold them, and then claimed to have lost them?”

  “No, that wouldn’t work. If he stole the books and then sold them on the open market with his name as the owner, we’d know he’d taken them. The Town of Cypress, by right, would be entitled to any money made from the sale of stolen books.”

  “But if he took them from the dump, he’d own them,” Tori finished.

  “Exactly,” I said. Talking it through actually made me feel better. Yes, this did sound right. Luke was planning to steal the books. He got caught and, in a fit of panic, killed Duggar.

  “But . . .” Flossie frowned.

  “What’s the problem?” Tori asked. “Why the hesitation? The police have their man. They must have evidence against him. They wouldn’t have pressed charges otherwise.”

  “But . . .” Flossie said again.

  “Jace doesn’t believe they’ve arrested the right man,” I said.

  “Maybe Jace doesn’t know everything,” Tori was quick to say. “It sounds like Mrs. Farnsworth provided a piece of evidence that might be the key to making sense of everything else the police have collected.”

  “Maybe . . .” I shook my head. I wanted the case to be solved, didn’t I? Even if I wasn’t the one to solve it, I was ready for all of this to be over. Wasn’t I?

  “You’re still stuck on the idea that Anne is guilty.” Tori poked me in the arm.

  “Maybe I am.” Anne’s ambitions did give her a powerful motive. Plus, she did have the opportunity.

  And then there was Tori. Was that relief I saw on her face? Was she relieved the police had arrested someone that wasn’t her? Or perhaps she was simply glad to know the killer had been caught.

  Oh, this entire thing was giving me a headache.

  “What do you think we should do?” I asked my friends.

  “Celebrate,” Tori said with a cheer. “It’s over.”

  Flossie didn’t look nearly as convinced. “But Duggar was the book collector.”

  “So?” Tori said. “If Luke and Duggar were as close as everyone is saying, Luke would have learned about the value of books from Duggar.”

  Duggar knew the value of old books. He knew.

  Flossie leaned across the table to put her hand on mine. “Take some time. Think about what’s bothering you. Once you’ve done that, we can figure out what, if anything, we need to do.”

  “There is something else,” I said, thinking of t
he book Charlie had given me. The most obvious clue in the book was the Maltese falcon itself. Was there a hidden treasure in the library right under our noses? Were the books the treasure Charlie was trying to alert us to, or was it something else?

  Or perhaps—and this was the thought that suddenly stilled my tongue in my mouth—perhaps Charlie had given me the book for another reason. The femme fatale—the deadly woman. Brigid O’Shaughnessy, beautiful and an accomplished liar, played the role of the femme fatale in The Maltese Falcon. It was the role that made the book’s plot famous.

  Charlie had emphasized how he’d made a promise to keep a secret, a secret he was worried could prove to be a motive in Duggar’s murder. I’d assumed the secret involved Luke, because we were all thinking about Luke and how he’d been attacked in the library. But Charlie had never mentioned Luke in connection with this grand secret of his. All he’d said was that he hoped his secret wasn’t connected to Duggar’s murder.

  If Luke and Charlie weren’t friends—as Charlie had claimed—why would Charlie care if Luke was involved in killing Duggar or not? This secret felt personal for Charlie.

  Too personal, perhaps.

  Tori and Charlie’s relationship had become quite personal over the last week.

  “What is it? Stop with the suspense, and spit it out already,” Tori complained in her usual brash manner, a part of her personality I’d always loved. That was my Tori—never holding back what was on her mind.

  Except lately.

  Over the years we’d shared everything. Our troubles and our triumphs. But recently, she’d shut me out. Was it because she had done something truly awful? Was she the femme fatale Charlie was warning me about?

  If I confronted Tori with this wild hunch and I was wrong, I could damage our friendship. Tori meant too much to me to risk that.

  “Um . . . it’s Charlie,” I stammered while scrambling for something to tell them. “Tori, he’s having trouble getting a plumber to come to his shop, and a pipe broke last night. The place flooded. Maybe you can give him a few names?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this right away?” She jumped up. “I’ve given Taylor Plumbing enough business with Perks over the years to put his son through college. He’ll do anything for me. If we’re done here, I’d better go. I’ll tell Charlie that you sent me.” She then muttered to herself as she hurried away, “Men and their egos. Can’t imagine why he didn’t call me in the first place.”