Bait and Witch

by Angela M. Sanders

  A few minutes later, Lyndon joined me in the library’s atrium. The books around us hummed and sighed—they were content. Before following me to the kitchen, Lyndon straightened the urn of dahlias on the table below the cupola. He pulled out a branch of leaves that were starting to curl, and he pinched a drooping blossom from its stem.

  “Coffee?” I asked.

  “Water’s fine, ma’am.” He settled his lanky frame onto a chair, like a spider would take a tuffet. “Is it about Ilona’s meeting tomorrow?”

  I poured us both glasses of water. “No, and please call me Josie. This ‘ma’am’ business makes me nervous.” He was old enough to be an uncle. If anything, I should be calling him “sir.” “Besides, as a trustee, it’s your meeting, too.”

  “I guess.”

  “I wanted to talk with you about a few things. For instance, what will you do if your cottage is sold with the library?”

  “I’ll work it out. I suppose someone needs a handyman.” His thick eyebrows drew together. “That’s not why you asked to see me, is it? Because I hardly think you’re in a better situation than I am.”

  “I can’t argue with that.” I rolled my tumbler between my palms. “If it were up to me, I’d stay in Wilfred.” He didn’t need to know about the vipers’ nest that awaited me in D.C.

  “And?”

  “And I want to do what I can to see that the library isn’t demolished. As far as I can tell, the only thing that will stop that is if the judge rules to hear Darla’s case against the trustees. If he does, the key will be proving that the library grounds don’t foster crime. Like murder.”

  At the mention of the body, both of us swiveled toward the window facing the river. Lyndon shook his head.

  “The sheriff will take care of that,” he said. “Known him all my life. He’s an honorable man.”

  “I saw him questioning you again.”

  Rodney leapt onto the chair next to me and nosed his way into my lap.

  “I swear, that cat never took a hankering to anyone the way he seems to like you.”

  I kissed the top of Rodney’s head. Whatever happened to the library, he’d be coming with me. Somehow I doubted he’d like life much in a one-bedroom apartment in a D.C. suburb, but we were bonded.

  “Does Sheriff Dolby really think you’re guilty? You were with me most of the evening.”

  “Nah. Dolby thinks I might have spotted the gent before I left to pick you up at the airport. That’s all.”

  This was one of the longest sentences I’d heard him speak. Imagining Lyndon and Roz together was to picture a kitchen full of Roz’s downbeat chatter and Lyndon’s occasional nods. Somehow, it wasn’t as crazy as it sounded.

  “The sheriff doesn’t believe that now, does he?” I asked. “You said you were somewhere else all day. You told him, right?”

  Lyndon glanced around the room as if he were afraid someone would overhear us. “I didn’t tell him about that.”

  “Why?”

  “None of his business.”

  “But it is his business. It’s all of our business.” I leaned forward, squeezing Rodney from my lap. He jumped to the floor and trotted toward his dish. “Someone was murdered.”

  Lyndon folded his arms over his chest and wouldn’t look at me. He stared at the ceiling, then the refrigerator, with its weekly list of activities pinned by a heart-shaped magnet, to the faucet. “Tap needs fixed. I’ll change those washers.” He placed his hands on his armrests in preparation to rise.

  “Lyndon!” I pounded my fist on the table. “You want to go to jail because you’re stubborn about where you were?” I lowered my voice. “Maybe no one can verify that you were there?”

  “Oh no. There were plenty of other folks with me.”

  “I don’t understand.” I leveled my gaze at him. “Those people know where you were. Why can’t the sheriff know?” Then it occurred to me. He was embarrassed. Lyndon had been at some sort of twelve-step meeting, and he didn’t want word to get out.

  He pushed his untouched water away. “All right, I’ll tell you, because you’re a stranger here. But it goes no further.”

  “Sure. Don’t worry. My great-uncle was a problem drinker,” I offered.

  Lyndon raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”

  “Go on. Tell me.”

  “I was getting an award from the northwest chapter of the National Ikebana Society.”

  That stopped me cold. “What?”

  “I study ikebana.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said. At the same time, I could see it.

  “I’ve always had a knack with flowers and plants. Auntie Lyn got me started with a book on ikebana, actually.”

  Blue room, shelf near the window, my brain supplied. “You mean, you’re too embarrassed about the award to admit it? Embarrassed because it has to do with floral arrangements?”

  He looked at his hands.

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “It don’t matter,” he said. “I told the sheriff something better, something that proves I couldn’t have done it.”

  I waited for his response while Rodney nipped at the heel of my shoe.

  “I’ve never shot a gun. Don’t know how.”

  “I thought hunting was a rite of passage out here.”

  He shrugged. “Everyone in town knows. I just had to remind Dolby.” He lowered his gaze again. “In fact, I’m vegan. Don’t approve of violence against people or animals.”

  I let the words soak in. Vegan. Ikebana master. Pacifist. For a few seconds, I wondered if Roz had cast her affections in an unproductive direction but decided she still had a chance.

  “Lyndon?”

  “Ma’am—I mean, Josie.”

  “Have you read Fifty Florists Who Changed Bouquets Forever?”

  * * *

  Despite Lyndon having cleared himself to the sheriff—or so he said—he didn’t seem particularly happy. Given his standard demeanor, I couldn’t tell if it was his usual gruffness that clouded his mood or something else. Maybe I could draw him out.

  I caught him as he returned to the vase of flowers in the atrium. Splashes of ruby and cobalt light fell from the cupola’s stained glass. Lyndon’s constant fooling with the vase made more sense now.

  “Little did I know our flowers were designed by a nationally recognized expert.”

  He didn’t respond, but I caught a quiver of a smile. Just because he’d cleared himself didn’t mean he couldn’t help point the way to the murderer.

  “Lyndon, what do you think of Sam Wilfred?” My heart beat in double-time when I said his name.

  “Sam? Why? What do you want to know?”

  “I mean, with the murder and with Sam showing up unexpectedly—could there be a link?”

  “Nah.” He pulled out a branch of leaves and reinserted it at a sharper angle, transforming the bouquet’s shape from loose to elegant.

  “Why not? He voted to sell the library. Maybe he wanted to throw shade on the library’s grounds.”

  “Not the type.” Lyndon turned away from the vase to face me. “He was just a kid when his family shut down the mill, you know.”

  “What do you mean by ‘not the type’?”

  “Haven’t you talked to him?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “Then you know. He’s a watcher, not a meddler. Even as a boy he could sit on Big House’s porch and stare over the bluff for hours. He knew who’d been at the tavern and who got a new vehicle and when the snowdrops would be coming up. Loved the library, too. Always had a stack of Hardy Boys mysteries next to him.”

  “Then why did he agree to sell it?”

  “I said he wasn’t a murderer. Didn’t say I could read his mind. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d better get back to my cottage. I have a batch of cashew cheese in the food processor.”

  He strode toward the library’s front door, unusual for him. He liked to keep to the tradesmen’s entrance at the side. I thought I’d try one more time.

 
; “Lyndon.”

  He sighed and faced me. “Yes?”

  “I know the library’s fate bothers you. But is there something else?”

  He pulled at a button on his plaid shirt, as if to see if it were loose. Finally, he said, “You’re Roz’s friend, right?”

  “Sure,” I said quickly. As quickly as I could about a woman I’d met less than a week earlier.

  “I’ve seen her looking out the conservatory window.”

  “Yes . . .” My shoulders relaxed.

  “Kind of intently, like she was looking for something. You don’t think she has something to hide, do you?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that.” I pictured Lyndon as the Marquis de Forstaire, in a powdered wig, wielding a sword. “She has an active imagination. That’s all.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Last night’s rain had left the grounds moist but the sky clear. A trail of smoke rose from Lyndon’s cottage. Behind it, Big House was dark. If Sam was home, I couldn’t tell.

  Sheriff Dolby was the library’s first customer. “Morning, Josie. Coffee ready yet?”

  “Just about.”

  I was learning that Wilfredians counted on coffee with their reading, and, second to Darla’s, the library was their preferred caffeination location. I’d thought Darla would have been mad at how much coffee patrons drank here instead of at her café. Then I learned she supplied the coffee, for free. She had a strong tie to the library. What it was exactly, I had no idea.

  “I wanted to let you know I’m cutting back on the extra patrols I’d assigned to the library,” the sheriff said. “Now that Craig’s under arrest, you’re fine. Besides, Lyndon and Sam are right nearby.”

  “You’re sure Craig is the murderer?”

  “Absolutely. I know you don’t believe me. I understand why you might be anxious, given your situation.”

  The coffeepot beeped, and I poured each of us a cup. I pushed the sheriff’s across the table to him. “I suppose everyone in town has asked each other where they were that night. For instance”—I stirred my coffee in a deliberately offhand way—“where were you?”

  He gave me an inscrutable look. “At the speed trap, as usual.”

  “All night?”

  “Sure.” His face cracked into a grin. “Caught Darla barreling past, hell-bent-for-leather. Wait until she sees the ticket that’s showing up in her mailbox.”

  “But she said she was—” At the sheriff’s sudden freeze, I bit off the sentence.

  “You’re asking questions? Asking where people were?”

  I studied my coffee cup. “Like you said, I’m here alone. It’s only natural I want to know who I should keep an eye on.”

  “You have particular suspicions?” The chair creaked under his weight. “Josie, if you know anything, you need to tell me.” The joking country boy was gone. Here was the sheriff, serious and measured.

  “I don’t know what to think,” I answered. “First, Darla tells me she was home, but now it seems she was out at least part of the evening. Why does she care so much about the library, anyway?”

  “I have Darla accounted for. Who else?”

  “Ilona, of course. She has the most obvious motivation. Cash. The river trail already has the reputation of attracting trouble. A dead body? What judge wouldn’t rule for the retreat center after that?” On a whim, I added, “I could even see her enlisting Duke’s help. They’ve already started a bogus youth crime prevention group.”

  “Josie, I appreciate all the thinking you’ve given this, and we’re definitely gathering loose ends—some of which you’ve mentioned. But you need to keep out.”

  “I can’t help but be concerned.” Suddenly, the coffee didn’t taste so good. I put down my mug. “What if the murderer thought the victim was me?”

  “You’ve brought this up before. You really think so?”

  “I already told you why I’m here. I can’t help but wonder. And from everything I’ve heard, it just doesn’t seem like Craig Burdock is the type to shoot someone and leave her in the bushes.”

  “Who have you been talking to?”

  “Your sister, for one. She doesn’t think he’d be up for more than joyriding in a stranger’s car.”

  Sheriff Dolby shook his head. “They dated, you know. She’s biased. I wouldn’t rely on what she has to say.”

  “Roz and Lyndon are skeptical, too. Lyndon says until the murder, Craig hadn’t been to the library since he was in high school. Apparently libraries aren’t a big attraction for him.”

  “The river trail might be, though,” the sheriff pointed out. “It’s just the sort of place that draws troublemakers. Lyndon coops himself up in his cottage after hours. He’d have no idea who’s hanging out here.”

  “I don’t know. After listening to everyone, I guess I just want to be sure.”

  “You have a specific idea of the murderer, then? Someone you haven’t already mentioned?”

  I took a deep breath. “Yes. I can’t tell you exactly why, just that I don’t think he’s being honest, and—”

  “Who, Josie?”

  I didn’t want to say his name. Still, here was the sheriff, and it was murder we were talking about. “I can’t figure it out exactly, but I don’t trust him.”

  “Who?”

  “Sam.”

  “No. You’ve got that wrong.” The words came fast and sure. “We talked about this. Let it go.”

  “I can’t let it go. Look at the timing of his visit,” I said. “He hasn’t been in town for years, then suddenly he shows up on the same day the body was found.”

  “Coincidence,” the sheriff said, maybe a little too quickly.

  “He hangs around. I see him everywhere. I even think he’s been walking the grounds at night.”

  “A fellow’s entitled to do a little walking at night. I don’t see a problem with that.”

  “But he doesn’t even use a flashlight. What’s that about?”

  The sheriff tucked a thumb into his belt. “He knows this land better than he knows his right hand. He used to play here all the time as a kid, along with some of the other boys from the mill families. Hide-and-seek after dark. Big House isn’t very welcoming, really. Not a place for kids to play—his mother made sure of that.” He shook his head. “You should see the front room. Dolled up like a showplace.”

  “He’s been asking around about me, too, according to Darla.”

  “Is that so?” The sheriff looked at me in a way that implied what Darla had told me—that he was interested in me romantically.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “That he’s planning to seduce you and slip you a poisoned library card?”

  I folded my arms. “No, that’s not what I mean.”

  The sheriff chuckled. “Relax. I was just having some fun. You can forget about Sam. It wasn’t him. I’m positive.”

  I took a deep breath. “Sam arrived the day I found the body, right? Or, at least, that’s what he says.”

  “And?”

  “I saw a light on in Big House the night I came to town. The night before Sam said he’d come to Wilfred.” I paused to give the sheriff the chance to respond, but he didn’t take the bait. “He wasn’t telling the truth.”

  “You’d been traveling for hours. Light is tricky. You were tired and saw your own bedroom lights reflected across the way.”

  It wasn’t that. I knew it. I waited for Sheriff Dolby to say more. This was a big ploy I’d read in vintage detective novels. The detective waits for the subject to rush to fill the silence with some juicy nugget of information.

  It didn’t work this time. The sheriff picked up his hat and was at the kitchen door in an instant.

  “See you, Josie. Like I said, don’t worry that we won’t have an officer on the grounds. You’re perfectly safe.”

  I thought of my chart upstairs of suspects and timetables. One person I hadn’t included was the sheriff.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Even from my
third-floor apartment, the books’ grumbling was impossible to ignore. I didn’t blame them. I’d be grumbling, too, if I didn’t have to keep up some pretense of professionalism.

  Tonight was the library trustees’ quarterly meeting. I’d prepared handouts summarizing circulation and patronage, then figured out minutes ago it wasn’t going to be that kind of meeting. Ilona had set up a portable screen in the atrium next to a tabletop display of the proposed retreat center. Platters of cold cuts and cheese covered the kitchen table—I’d been successful, at least, in keeping food away from books. She’d even enlisted Duke’s help to tie a half-dozen Mylar balloons to the front porch.

  “No one will come,” Darla had told me.

  “Sure they will,” Roz had said. “Free food.”

  Hopefully, no free drama to go with it.

  I peeked over the railing to the floors below. Roz had been right. All of Wilfred seemed to be streaming into the library. I leaned back against the doorway to my living room.

  Now what? Darla hadn’t heard a peep from the judge. I could tell from her hesitant tone that she feared their suit would be dropped and the library’s sale would go through. Before long, I’d have to leave—to go where? Home wasn’t safe. I refused to put my family at risk by moving in with them. I couldn’t afford to live more than a month without a job.

  I wiggled my fingers and held up my palms to better feel the energy. The books’ grumbling thickened enough to overpower the voices rising from the hall below, although I knew no one else could hear it. Say Toni was right, and I was a witch. What good was magic if it couldn’t save the library?

  I took a deep breath, pasted on a smile, and went downstairs. At least I could make sure the books were safe from stray cups of punch and half-eaten canapés.

  “Josie,” Ilona said the second I emerged from the stairwell, “glad you’re here. You know how to run the projector? Or didn’t they teach you that in library school?”

  Ilona was decked out as hostess in a silver cocktail dress and rhinestone-studded wine bottles dangling from her ears that matched the charm bracelet dripping miniature champagne glasses.