A Deadly Edition

by Victoria Gilbert

  Unless, of course, everything he’d told me had been a lie. Which also isn’t, I thought, an impossibility.

  Chapter Eighteen

  By Monday, Aunt Lydia was ready to report Scott as a missing person, but when she called my parents, they advised her against this action.

  “They said it’s happened before,” she told me as I prepared my lunch before walking to work. “Debbie says Scott has always cautioned them not to get the authorities involved, as it might jeopardize a covert mission. So I suppose we should just sit tight.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” I said, although I was also concerned. But knowing it was possible that our interference might actually place my brother in more danger, I agreed to wait before taking any action. “Besides,” I said, dropping my plastic lunch bag into my briefcase and slinging the satchel’s strap over my shoulder, “Brad and his team are already looking for Scott, although that’s because they want to question him. But still—if he’s in any real danger, the authorities are more likely to find him than not. They’re already on his trail.”

  “True.” Aunt Lydia drew in a deep breath before following me into the hall. “By the way, the caterers called. They need a final decision on the hors d’oeuvres options. Do you think you could stop by today? Hani said she’d hang out at the shop until six if you thought you could pop in after work.”

  “Sure, I can do that.”

  “You can take the car today, if that makes things easier.”

  I slipped out the front door, pausing on the porch to look back at her. “No, I can walk to Hani’s place from the library easily enough. And the weather looks like it will cooperate.” I flashed my aunt a smile. “I need the exercise anyway. I want to look good in that gown.”

  “You’ll look lovely regardless,” Aunt Lydia said, holding the door ajar. “But maybe that will work better. You can call Richard and ask him to meet you there. That way he can give you a ride home.”

  I made a face. “Richard won’t be able to join me. He probably won’t get home until ten or later. Another rehearsal.”

  Aunt Lydia frowned. “I thought the semester was winding down.”

  “This is for his studio’s final production. And since he was gone for several days on that choreography gig, he feels compelled to work with them every night this week. So once again, I won’t see much of him.” I shrugged. “But the last performance is this Friday, and graduation is Saturday. After that, he’ll be free.”

  “Good,” Aunt Lydia said. “Because we’re going to need his help with all the last-minute wedding preparations.”

  “Yeah. Especially since Scott bailed on us.” I waved good-bye, waiting until Aunt Lydia closed the door before dashing down the porch steps and talking off at a brisk walk.

  But despite my efforts, I was still running late. When I reached the library, I had little time to get everything set up for opening. Fortunately, Samantha had arrived a few minutes ahead of me and had already done a sweep of the public spaces.

  “No visible problems,” she told me as we met up behind the circulation desk.

  “Good. I could do with a quiet day,” I said, knowing that this was not likely to be the case. It was a Monday, after all.

  Fortunately, things ran smoothly until after lunch, when the Nightingale arrived. After informing me that she’d seen a UFO hovering over the mountains the night before, she disappeared into the stacks.

  “My turn to follow,” I told Samantha, who offered me a sympathetic smile before turning away to help a patron check out some books.

  I trailed the Nightingale for half an hour, marking the locations of the items she shoved into various sections with sticky notes tacked to the shelves. When she completed her rounds and exited the library, I returned to the marked sections and pulled the books, placing them on a rolling book cart. We’d need to double-check their status at the desk before they were returned to their proper locations.

  As I pushed the cart toward the circulation desk, a voice halted my progress.

  “Hello, Ms. Webber. So nice to see you again.” Cynthia Rogers stepped in front of my cart, waving a rectangular piece of paper. “I stopped by today, hoping to speak with you. Your assistant said you were in the stacks, so I thought I’d track you down. Hope you don’t mind.”

  I surveyed the short figure in front of me, noticing that she was wearing more formal clothes today—a navy blazer over a white blouse and a pearl-gray pencil skirt.

  “Hello, Ms. Rogers—sorry, Cynthia. I’m surprised to see you’re still in Taylorsford.”

  “Oh, I’ve quite fallen in love with the place.” Cynthia Rogers tapped the piece of paper, which I realized was a legal-sized white envelope, against her chin. “I’ve decided to spend the entire month here, to be honest. One of the benefits of being older,” she added with a bright smile.

  “I guess it is.” I wheeled the book cart closer. “Was there something you wanted? More information on the history of the town, or …?” I allowed my question to hang in the air.

  “Not this time. Actually, I’m here to give you something.” Cynthia slid past the book cart to stand in front of me. “A little gift for the library,” she said, holding out the envelope.

  I took it from her with a puzzled expression, which changed to astonishment when I opened the envelope and pulled out the check that had been placed inside. “My goodness, is this a donation? It’s quite”—several words tumbled through my mind before I landed on the right one—“generous.”

  Cynthia Rogers waved her hands as if shooing away a cloud of gnats. “It’s really not that much. I have been blessed in my life, and I like to share my good fortune with others. I thought your lovely library would be just the place to support, especially since you’re also preserving the history of the town. I believe that’s always an extremely important thing to protect, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” I said, my gaze still fastened on the check. It had more zeroes than I’d ever seen since we’d received the money from selling Delbert Frye’s donation of gold coins the previous spring. I glanced up to offer Cynthia a grateful smile. “Thank you so much. I just never expected such generosity, especially from a visitor to Taylorsford.”

  “Well, to be entirely honest”—Cynthia tugged on one of the pearl earrings dangling from her ears—“I wasn’t quite forthcoming with you the last time we spoke. I admit I have a few ties to the area. From many years ago.”

  “Did you live here?” I asked, sliding the check back into the envelope and laying it on the book cart.

  “Not exactly. In the area, but not in Taylorsford proper. I never really spent much time in this town. But I do remember meeting some interesting people in those days. One in particular—an artist who was showing his work at the local fair. I really wanted to buy one of his paintings, but unfortunately I didn’t. Not sure why.” Cynthia smiled. “Just couldn’t make up my mind which canvas I wanted and then I ended up with none.”

  “Not Andrew Talbot?”

  Cynthia Rogers pointed a finger at me. “That’s the one. He was forgotten for many years, by everyone it seems, as well as me, but about a year ago I heard about an event that revived his reputation.”

  “That’s right.” I eyed her intently, wondering just how well she’d known my uncle. “The art dealer, Kurt Kendrick, hosted a showing at his house. A lot of the paintings subsequently sold to galleries and collectors.”

  “Doesn’t Kendrick live at a historic estate outside of Taylorsford? I read about that house in some literature on the area.”

  “It’s called Highview.” I studied Cynthia’s eager face for a moment, debating whether to share any more information with her. “As a matter of fact, Andrew Talbot was my uncle,” I said, after deciding that this was not a detail I needed to suppress.

  “Was he? What a coincidence. I don’t suppose you have access to any more of his paintings, do you? I really would like to buy one.”

  This put a different spin on Cynthia Roger’s curiosity about my fami
ly. I looked her over, realizing that she was probably the right age to have been a contemporary of my late uncle. What if they’d been involved in the past and all this questioning was a roundabout way to acquire a memento from a lost love?

  “That’s not my call,” I said, keeping my tone light. “My aunt Lydia manages my late uncle’s estate. You’d have to speak to her about buying anything. Although I must warn you, she isn’t keen on selling too many of Uncle Andrew’s paintings. She did allow Mr. Kendrick to sell some, but she hasn’t parted with any more after that showing.”

  “I’d be willing to pay a very respectable price.” Cynthia Rogers beamed at me. “I do have the resources to meet any reasonable offer.”

  “That’s nice, but again, my aunt is the one who would have to decide on selling anything.”

  “In that case, do you think you could introduce us? I hate to impose, but I have regretted not picking up an Andrew Talbot painting when I had the chance. I’d like to remedy that, if there’s any way I can.”

  “Let me check with my aunt before I promise anything,” I said, my smile tightening. I didn’t like the thought that Cynthia Rogers had donated to the archives just to acquire an introduction to my aunt, and perhaps influence me to encourage Aunt Lydia to sell her a painting. “If you can give me your phone number, I can call or text you once I’ve had a chance to talk to Aunt Lydia.”

  “Of course, of course.” Ms. Rogers rummaged through her purse and pulled out a scrap of paper and a pen. After jotting something down, she handed me the paper. “Here’s my number. I’ll be in town for a few more weeks, so just let me know.”

  I stared at the paper, noting that the phone number had a Washington, DC, area code. “All right,” I said, as I pocketed the number. “I’ll mention your request to Aunt Lydia and see what she says. It will probably be a no,” I cautioned as I looked up to meet Cynthia’s bright gaze, “but I promise to let you know, one way or the other.”

  “Thanks so much. Well, I don’t want to take up any more of your time. Hope to hear from you soon.” Cynthia turned away and strolled out of the aisle.

  I picked up the check and absently studied the blank surface of the envelope for a moment. It was odd for someone who didn’t live in Taylorsford to offer a donation to the library, but I suspected that Cynthia Rogers had betrayed her ulterior motive. For some reason, perhaps something linked to a romance in her past, she was intent on purchasing one of my late uncle’s paintings. I stared after her retreating figure as she turned toward the front doors. It wasn’t impossible that they’d been acquainted in the past, if she’d lived in the area. Uncle Andrew had actually grown up in a neighboring town, only getting to know Kurt and, by extension, Paul Dassin and Aunt Lydia and her family, through some countywide programs that he and Kurt had attended. So it was quite possible that Cynthia Rogers had known Andrew as a young man, even if she’d visited Taylorsford only once or twice before.

  That might also explain her curiosity and questions about Richard’s great-uncle Paul. Maybe she’d actually met him as well, if she knew Andrew. As my mind spun theories about Cynthia Rogers and her connection to my late uncle, I pushed the cart forward, finally parking it behind the circulation desk. “These will need to be statused,” I told Samantha. “One of the volunteers can shelve them later. But right now”—I glanced at my watch—“I need to head over to Hani Abdi’s to confirm a few things concerning the catering for the wedding. She said I could come after work, but I hate to make her wait around that long. She doesn’t usually keep the shop open past two, so I thought I’d run over there during my lunch break. But don’t worry, I’ll be back in plenty of time for you to take yours.”

  “No problem,” Samantha said. “I brought my lunch today, so I’ll only need a half hour. Take as long as you need.”

  “Thanks,” I said as I headed into the workroom to grab my purse.

  Leaving by the staff door in the workroom, I was surprised to see Cynthia Rogers sitting on one of the benches outside the library. She was on her cell phone, so I didn’t bother to speak to her as I hurried past.

  Hani Abdi ran her catering company out of her home, which was located only a few blocks from the library. One of the few remaining fieldstone buildings in town, her house was a simple four-square structure with a stoop instead of a porch. Its beauty derived from the simplicity of its design as well as the stones themselves, which were mottled and streaked in tones of white and gray. Attached to the main structure, a smaller wood-frame addition clad in white siding housed Hani’s catering business.

  A bell attached to the heavy wooden door jangled as I entered the shop, drawing Hani from the workroom located behind the plain wooden counter.

  “Oh, Amy, hello,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron to remove a dusting of flour. “I thought you were coming by later.”

  “I decided to pop in during my lunch break instead so you wouldn’t have to wait around for me.”

  Hani’s black hair was cut short to hug her scalp, a look that not many people could pull off. But she has the bone structure for it, I thought as she headed back into her workroom and kitchen to grab some samples for me to taste. Like that model Iman. Which isn’t surprising, as both women were born in Somalia. But since Hani’s family had moved to the U.S. when she barely two, she had no accent other than the one most people raised in Taylorsford had.

  “I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page with the vegetarian options.” Hani placed a small pewter platter of hors d’oeuvres on the white quartz countertop. “I know that’s important to you.”

  “Yes, as I mentioned, several of my guests are vegetarians, including my maid of honor and her family.”

  “The Fieldses, right? I know them pretty well. I buy organic vegetables and fruit from their farm.”

  “Which is exactly why Sunny suggested you to handle the reception,” I said with a smile. “She told me you were more sympathetic to the needs of vegetarians and vegans than most other catering businesses in the area.”

  “I just think the client should get what they want. Speaking of which,” Hani said, pointing to the samples, “try out these options and see what you think. I can spice them up or down, according to your taste.”

  I picked up a small cheese puff. It looked deceptively plain, but when I bit into it, an intriguing spectrum of flavors flooded my mouth. The puff was infused with a subtle blend of spices that made me immediately want to grab another piece. “Well, that’s definitely a yes,” I said as I wiped my hands on a napkin.

  Hani beamed. “One of my favorites as well. But also try that one.” She pointed at a date stuffed with what looked like cream cheese. “It’s not quite what you might expect.”

  I tasted the sample and enthusiastically agreed with Hani’s assessment. What I’d taken for cream cheese was a blend of whipped cheeses that had a goat-milk base. Along with the sweetness of the date and richness of the cheese, there was a faint trace of cinnamon and some other spice I couldn’t determine.

  “It’s mace, which actually comes from nutmeg seeds,” Hani said when I questioned her. “So that one’s a yes too?”

  “Absolutely.” I reached for the third and final sample, which looked like a small rice ball. “Oh, by the way, I also wanted to pay you something on the total bill. I know you said we could pay the balance after the reception, but I’d like to stay ahead of that. Easier on my budget,” I added, before biting into the sticky rice ball.

  “Your bill?” Hani’s black eyebrows arched over her dark eyes.

  I finished off the rice ball, which tasted of coconut milk and raisins with a hint of cardamom. Giving that sample a thumbs-up, I wiped my hands again before replying. “Not the whole amount, of course. Just another third.” Richard and I had paid Hani a third of the original quote as a down payment, but I wanted to pay a little more now so our final invoice wouldn’t be quite so devastating.

  “But the rest of your bill has been paid,” Hani said. “I assumed you knew that.”
>
  “I had no idea. Who in the world paid it? Not my aunt, I hope.”

  “No, not Lydia. I know her. This was another lady. Actually, I wasn’t here when she came in. My mother was working in the shop that day. But I can find out. Hold on.” Hani bustled into the back. After a few minutes she reappeared holding a printed invoice. “Here it is. Mom said the woman was older, like your aunt, and just as elegant.” She peered down at the invoice. “Okay, that makes sense. It was Fiona Muir. I assume she’s related to your fiancé?”

  I swallowed a shocked exclamation before answering. “She’s my future mother-in-law.”

  “That’s so sweet. I guess she meant it as a surprise.” Hani offered me a warm smile.

  It’s certainly that, I thought as I smiled in return. “Let’s just say it’s the last thing I ever expected.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  After agreeing to include all three hors d’oeuvres on the reception menu, I wished Hani a good day and headed outside.

  As I walked back to the library, I mulled over Fiona’s surprising gesture. Maybe I had misjudged her. I’d never been certain that she approved of me, but it seemed she’d finally accepted my relationship with her son. At least enough to support our celebration in a meaningful way.

  Approaching the library, I was surprised again—this time by the sight of a young woman half-hidden by the forsythia bushes that formed a natural fence between the library and a neighboring house. It was Honor Bryant, and she was so absorbed in a cell phone conversation that she didn’t notice me stopping to stare at her.

  I paused, waiting for her to complete her call before I said anything. It’s odd that she’s still in town, but perhaps the sheriff’s department asked her to remain. Or return, I thought, as I observed her strained expression and wildly gesticulating hands. Although I couldn’t hear any distinct words, she was obviously embroiled in an argument with whoever was on the other end of the call.