“Marvey, I can make an appointment for us with the firm, but you do know that no lawyer—Buddy’s or Fiona’s—is going to tell us about her will, don’t you? That’d be a breach of attorney-client privilege.”
My stomach growled. It must be noon. I ignored the interruption. “I don’t want the details of Fiona’s will… Well, I wouldn’t mind having the details, but what we need to know is whether she recently changed her will. Willy and Bobby were arguing about it in On A Roll this morning. Willy says Bobby claimed to have been named as the sole beneficiary in Fiona’s will.”
“What?” Spence’s response was satisfyingly similar to my own.
“That was my reaction.” My stomach complained again. I took a drink from my now-cold second cup of coffee. “But Willy says he doesn’t believe Fiona would’ve left her uncle’s property to Bobby.”
“Based on the rumors around town, it’s hard to believe she would’ve left anything to Bobby.” Spence spoke as though deep in thought.
I nodded, then remembered we were having this conversation over the phone. “I agree. Willy said Fiona left that property to him.”
“They must’ve been really good friends.” Spence broke the brief but comfortable silence. “Of course, this gives Bobby and Willy a motive to kill Fiona.”
“For Bobby, it’s another motive,” I corrected. “We already had him on our list because Fiona had control over his inheritance. With Fiona’s death, it’s possible he gets his money.”
“Things aren’t looking good for him.” Spence’s tone was as grave as I felt.
“If any of this is true, then no, they’re not. But things don’t look so great for Willy, either.”
“Two people with the same motive.”
“At least.” I leaned into my desk, staring at my piles of reports, proofs, and other paperwork as I shifted my thoughts. “Speaking of Willy, could you check on something for me? Could you ask your Peach Coast Inn manager what time Willy checked into the inn, please?”
“Sure.” Spence’s voice filled with curiosity. “Why? What’s going on?”
“I’m hoping to tie up loose ends.” I plucked a pencil from my holder to roll between my fingers. “Willy said he drove straight from his home in Beaufort, South Carolina, to To Be Read. I have no reason to believe he’s lying, but I’d feel better if we could verify it.”
“I’ll ask Isaiah, the manager, to find out.” Spence sounded distracted. I wondered if he was creating a reminder note as we spoke. “I’m glad you thought of this. Check-in is two PM, so he would’ve had time to check in, then drive—or even walk—to To Be Read before the four PM signing.”
“That’s a good point.” A chill traced my spine.
I wanted to help bring compelling evidence to the deputies, evidence that would at least take the spotlight off of Jo, if not completely clear her name. But every time I reviewed our suspect list, I felt queasy at the thought that I might have come face-to-face with a cold-blooded killer.
Betty shifted her feet and hunched farther into her oversized cream sweatshirt. If that sweatshirt, dark sunglasses, and navy baseball cap were meant to be a disguise, they were epic fails. I hadn’t known her long, but I’d recognized her right away.
I’d been on my way back to my office Wednesday afternoon, but after spotting Betty in front of the library’s display of new and old books by Georgia authors, I was inspired to make a detour.
En route, I passed the customer line, which was winding its way toward the circulation desk. Employees from nearby businesses were visiting the library on their lunch hour. The Peach Coast Library didn’t have money for self-checkout machines, at least not yet. For now, the counter was staffed by two part-time employees serving the dozen or so guests who’d made their selections. It cheered my heart. A busy library was a joyful place.
I stopped within an arm’s length of Betty. A couple of copies of Fiona’s book, In Death Do We Part, were stocked within reach of us. The book was in high demand, in part because of Fiona’s murder, I was certain. But also it was a very good book. I was halfway through it and found it hard to put down.
Connecting Fiona’s book with Betty’s disguise brought a mischievous smile to my lips. “Good afternoon, Betty. Can I help you find anything in particular?”
The other woman jumped at my greeting. “Marvey! What? No, I’m not… There’s nothing in particular I’m looking for. No. Thank you. I’m just browsing. Well, actually, I’m not looking. For anything. I’m just waiting. For someone. Who’s not here. Yet.”
I scanned the library, noting new faces among the more familiar ones. None of the guests seemed to be waiting or watching for Betty. “Who are you waiting for?”
“That’s none of your business.” She stood straighter. Beads of sweat were forming on her pale brow and thin upper lip. I couldn’t see how she’d be comfortable in that sweatshirt. The library was warm. Betty must feel like she was carrying around her own personal sauna.
“Would you like a glass of water?”
The offer surprised her. It surprised me too. “I’m fine.” She used the tips of her fingers to dry her upper lip.
“While you wait for…whoever, I’m happy to make a couple of reading recommendations for you.” I glanced at Fiona’s book.
The rosy flush to Betty’s cheeks suggested she realized I’d guessed her secret mission. “I said I don’t need your help. Why don’t you go find someone who does?”
I gestured toward her uncomfortable costume. “Instead of trying to disguise yourself, why didn’t you just buy Fiona’s book online? It would’ve been so much more convenient, and no one would’ve been the wiser.”
She straightened her shoulders, looking down her nose at me. “Don’t you have work to do?”
The proverbial lightbulb turned on in my mind. “You don’t want to actually pay for Fiona’s book. Is that it? You resent her so much, you don’t want to help her sales.”
She glared at me, retaining her stubborn silence.
“All right, I want to talk with you about something else, anyway.” I faced her, straining to read her reaction in her eyes. Her dark sunglasses made that difficult. “Please stop telling people Jo killed Fiona. You know that’s not true.”
Betty’s flush deepened to a painful-looking red. “I…didn’t… I never actually said she killed Fiona.”
“But you implied it.” I drew a calming breath. “I understand you being upset with me. I’m the one who’s trying to draw the deputies’ attention to other suspects for Fiona’s murder, including you and Bobby. If you truly need to strike back at someone, strike me. But leave Jo out of this. She’s innocent.”
Betty’s glare burned through her sunglasses. “So are my boy and I.”
I recalled her response during our last exchange when I’d said the same about Jo. “Well, in that case, neither you nor Bobby have anything to worry about, do you?”
She narrowed her eyes. She remembered our exchange too. “Why should I keep quiet about Jo when you’re still going around town saying things about Bobby and me?”
“I have never spread rumors about anyone in this town.” Despite my library training, it was a struggle to keep my voice low. “You’re trying to turn public opinion against Jo, but this isn’t a popularity contest. The person with the most likes doesn’t win. This is a murder investigation. We’re trying to protect Peach Coast and get justice for Fiona.”
Betty had the decency to lower her gaze. She removed her sunglasses. “Fiona and I never had a kind word to say about each other.”
That was true of Betty. I didn’t have evidence Fiona had spoken ill of the other woman—unless you looked closely at the plot of Fiona’s story. “Do you think that’s why she wrote her book? Was she trying to discredit you?”
Betty’s flushed and sweaty cheeks paled. Her eyes grew mean. “What are you talking about?”
; “I think you know.” I stripped all inflection from my voice. “Fiona’s story is about a woman who suspects her husband’s first wife killed him and staged it to look like a heart attack. Were you concerned some people might take that to mean you had something to do with Buddy’s death?”
“I didn’t have anything to do with Buddy’s death.” Betty lifted eyebrows she’d plucked to within an inch of their lives. “What would I have gained from killing him? He’d already divorced me. Fiona was the one who stood to gain from his death.”
“And Bobby. Buddy left him a trust fund.”
“Leave my boy out of this.” Her words were clipped and angry. She used the pads of her fingers to swipe the sweat from her hairline. She really did look overheated.
“Why did you go to Fiona’s signing? It was obvious you were angry with her. Did you intend to confront her about her story?”
“Have you forgotten Fiona was probably dead already by the time I got there?” Betty hooked her hands on her hips. Her voice was a low hiss. “What’s supposed to have happened, huh? I killed her, went home, cleaned up, then went back to the bookstore?”
“Yes.” Okay, it sounded crazy, but that was the only way it could’ve happened. Jo was innocent.
“That makes no sense.”
“Why not?”
“For starters, it was Saturday.” Betty’s triumphant shout drew the disapproving attention of several nearby library guests, as well as Danny, who was restocking a bookcase.
“And?” I didn’t even attempt to mask my confusion.
Betty gave me a smug smile. “I couldn’t have killed Fiona. Saturday is my cleaning day.” She announced this as though it was the eleventh commandment.
Somehow, I didn’t think it would hold up in court. Betty would remain on my suspect list.
Chapter 17
I spotted Bobby through the library’s front picture window. He was leaning against a small dark sedan parked at the curb. His arms and legs were crossed in a pose that denoted he expected to be waiting for a while. I made another detour on my way back to my office, postponing lunch a few minutes more.
A quick check over my shoulder confirmed Betty was still contemplating Fiona’s book. If she decided to borrow the mystery, I’d have at least a few minutes with Bobby. If not…well, I’d figure out some way to smooth things over with her if she caught me questioning her son.
I pushed through the double glass doors of the library’s main entrance and was hit by a blast of warm air heavy with moisture from the nearby coast.
I approached Bobby with a smile. “You didn’t want to come in?”
Bobby’s smile was full of boyish charm and subtle humor. His dark blue jeans, ice-blue short-sleeved shirt, and matching baseball cap looked more like a uniform than casual wear. “Mama wanted me to wait out here. Guess she doesn’t want me to see her borrowing Fiona’s book.”
Surprised laughter burst from me. I glanced over my shoulder before turning back to Bobby. “So you know about that.”
His only response was a shrug of his broad shoulders.
“I suppose Betty doesn’t want anyone—not even you—to know she’s curious about Fiona’s book. Have you read it?” I studied his tan, blunt features. The brim of his cap shadowed his hazel brown eyes. His thick black hair hung a little long in the back.
It occurred to me I’d never seen a picture of Buddy Hayes. Bobby didn’t look much like Betty, so he must favor his father. In that case, I could understand why Fiona would go after the man and why Betty resented the heck out of the woman for luring him away from her. Bobby was a handsome young man.
His smile remained in place as he returned my steady gaze. It felt as though he was determining how best to answer my question. “I have a copy. I’m not much of a reader, though.” His shrug managed to convey both apology and humor.
My eyebrows knitted. “Why did you buy the book then?”
Bobby answered with another shrug.
I gave him a considering look. He wasn’t much of a talker, either. “Does Betty know you have a copy of Fiona’s book?”
“No, ma’am.”
I didn’t think so. If I were him, I wouldn’t have told her, either. She wouldn’t be pleased. “Do you know what the book is about?”
Again Bobby took his time answering. He lifted his ball cap and ran the thick, blunt fingers of his right hand through his glossy dark hair. His orange, black, and brown snake tattoo undulated as his fingers flexed. The scratches on the back of his hand were fading.
Bobby pulled his cap back on and crossed his arms before tossing me a half smile. “Doesn’t the woman suspect her husband’s ex-wife of killing him?”
Bobby’s expression was open and friendly, yet I sensed him daring me to ask the obvious question: did he believe Betty may have killed Fiona because of her book?
No one believed Betty had anything to do with Buddy’s death. And only Betty suspected Fiona of killing Buddy. The coroner had ruled Buddy died of natural causes. But could the plot of Fiona’s book make Betty angry enough to do more than confront Fiona about it? Could it have pushed her to kill the woman?
As difficult as this was, I had to ask the uncomfortable question to clear Betty and Bobby of suspicion—or further pursue them as viable suspects.
I braced myself as best I could. “The plot of Fiona’s book turns the tables on your mother. She’d been very vocal about her suspicions that Fiona had something to do with your father’s death.” When he didn’t comment, I continued. “Did your mother attend the signing to confront Fiona?”
“Did she?” Bobby’s gaze never flickered. His stance never shifted.
“Was your mother very angry about Fiona’s book?”
Bobby removed his hat and dragged his fingers through his hair again. He resettled his cap, refolded his arms. His half smile grew into an engaging grin. “Ms. Marvey, I understand you’re concerned about Ms. Jo. I feel really bad that the deputies consider her a suspect. Ms. Jo’s a real nice lady. She has great taste in ink. But as nice as Ms. Jo may be and as bad as I may feel about the situation she’s in, I’m not going to help you convince the deputies that either my mama or I—or both of us—are killers. That’s just not going to happen.”
Bobby had made that entire speech without making threats, raising his voice, or losing his smile. Impressive.
I inclined my head in acknowledgement of his message. He was at least as protective of his mother as I was of Jo. “Understood, Bobby. And I want you to understand I’m not going to let my friend be punished for something someone else has done.”
Bobby touched the bill of his ball cap. “Understood, ma’am.”
“One more question.” I gestured toward his right hand. “How did you get those scratches?”
His eyes laughed at me. “Replacing a water heater, ma’am.”
We took each other’s measure one last time before we said our goodbyes. Well, I said goodbye. Bobby gave me another boyish smile.
He was a man of few words. During our conversation, he’d never volunteered a single detail about himself or his mother. I still didn’t know how he felt about Fiona, if he believed she had something to do with his father’s death, or whether he planned to read Fiona’s book. Before re-entering the library, I glanced over my shoulder. Bobby was studying me with a brooding stare.
I sensed his languid persona masked a killer intellect.
I carried my leftover baked ziti, which I’d reheated for lunch in the staff kitchen, back to my office Wednesday afternoon. After my encounters with Betty and Bobby, I would’ve preferred chocolate-covered peanuts, though.
As I approached my desk, a warning whispered in the back of my mind. Was something different about my office, or was I imagining things? Laying the plastic container that held my lunch on my desk, I stepped back for a visual sweep of my room. Everything appeared as expected. My c
luttered desk was still cluttered. My guest chairs and my conversation table and chairs seemed the same. With a mental shrug, I returned to my pasta. A knock on my door stopped me from crossing to my seat.
Adrian stood in the threshold, looking sheepish. “Sorry to interrupt your lunch, Marvey, but I pulled the information on the library cardholders that you were askin’ for.”
“No problem. This is a working lunch. Come in.” I settled onto my chair. But as Adrian rounded my desk, the ground moved beneath me. I began to fall.
My gasp of surprise morphed into a cry of fear. Large hands gripped my upper arms. My head bounced back against a flat abdomen. My feet scrambled for stability on the plastic mat beneath my desk, even as Adrian pulled me up.
“Thank you.” My gratitude was breathless.
What just happened?
“You’re welcome.” Adrian seemed equally disturbed.
I pressed a hand to my chest. My heart pounded beneath my palm. “Thank God you have such quick reflexes.” My voice shook.
“I played basketball all through school. Are you okay?” His blue eyes were dark with concern as he regarded me. His hands still cuffed my arms. I couldn’t tell whether it was to steady me or himself.
My muscles trembled as though an electric current cycled through my body. I nodded, and Adrian let his arms drop.
“What happened?” I turned back to my desk and stared at what used to be my chair. “The chair had probably been here when the bus depot opened sixty years ago, but it was sturdy.”
The item in question now lay in parts on the gray Berber carpet. Its legs had rolled under my desk and toppled over. The back lay wobbling beside Adrian and me.
“That coulda been a bad fall.” Adrian looked over his shoulder toward my window. “Your head would’ve banged up against the windowsill.”
My gaze dropped to the oak wood sill—and its knife-sharp corner. I swallowed. Hard. “I might’ve knocked myself unconscious.”
“Or worse.”
An image of Fiona’s lifeless body in Jo’s storage room settled in my mind. I briefly squeezed my eyes shut, forcing it away, then turned back to Adrian. “Thanks again. I’m really glad you were here.”
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