One Hot Murder (14 page)

McKinlay Mill’s library was located on the west end of Main Street, where it reverted to Route 8. Housed in the old elementary school building, it was big, brick, and ugly. The main floor housed the library and the second floor doubled as the senior/community center. Whose bright idea had it been to force the village’s elderly to traverse up a flight of stairs? There was an elevator, but it was creaky and slow and Katie wondered how safe it really was.

But for such an old building, it did have reliable air-conditioning. Katie felt positively frozen her first five minutes inside the building, but she soon grew acclimated. Taking a stack of ten or twelve books from the shelves, she commandeered one of the upholstered chairs and settled in for a good read. Before she’d left the Alley, she’d tossed some Post-it Flags in her purse to mark the pages of any interesting recipes.

From her vantage point, Katie had a good view of the library’s entrance, the circulation desk, and the computer carrels, where every seat was occupied, and stationed nearby was a large bottle of hand sanitizer. The thought of all those strangers manhandling the keyboards day in and day out was sobering, and Katie was glad she didn’t have to share her computer at the Alley with anyone else. Well, occasionally Vance or Rose would use it for Alley business, but it was usually to take on a task that Katie had delegated. She knew she needed to do that more often, too.

She’d flipped through half of a Martha Stewart cookbook when she looked up to see Abby Wheeler standing at the returns portion of the circulation desk, handing in a pile of books through the return slot.

Katie piled her cookbooks on her chair, hoping to save it from another patron’s encroachment, and hurried over to the circulation desk. “Abby,” she called.

Abby looked up, her expression one of startled fear, and then she recognized Katie and visibly relaxed. “Katie, you don’t know how good it feels to see a friendly face.”

Had she seen a host of unfriendly faces of late?

“How are you doing?” Katie asked, concerned.

“Not so good,” Abby admitted. “A reporter and camera crew were camped out on my front lawn most of yesterday and again today. What must my neighbors think?”

“Haven’t any of them checked in to see if you need anything?”

Abby shook her head and fed another one of her books into the return slot. “I always heard that when trouble struck, people banded together to help someone in grief. So far, no one’s offered me so much as a bagel in a grocery bag.”

Katie swallowed down a pang of guilt. “Maybe they’re hoping that it’s all a mistake and Dennis will show up with amnesia or something.” Katie winced. That was the most idiotic thing she could have said, yet Abby didn’t seem to be listening all that hard. She fed yet another book into the drop slot.

Abby’s gaze strayed. Katie turned to her left to see a couple of library patrons staring in their direction. “I have to get out of here,” Abby said, sounding panicked. “Would you return the rest of my books?” She shoved them at Katie and fled for the exit.

Katie watched her bolt and then looked down at the pile of books before her. They appeared to all be mysteries. She fed them one by one into the slot before returning to her seat, feeling oddly disconcerted by her encounter with Abby.

She picked up a Rachel Ray cookbook and studied the table of contents. When she looked up few minutes later, she saw Detective Davenport standing at the circulation desk, leaning close to speak to the woman checking out books. She kept shaking her head, her expression stern, and yet neither spoke loud enough for their voices to carry.

Finally, Davenport moved away from the desk and looked around the library at large, spying Katie. She waved. His grim expression didn’t waver, but he did march toward her.

“What are you doing here, Mrs. Bonner?” he asked.

“Escaping the heat. How about you?”

“Uh…well, to be honest, I’d followed Mrs. Wheeler here.”

“You aren’t thinking Abby killed her husband?” Katie asked, aghast.

“It’s a possibility,” he admitted. “I was hoping the library staff would volunteer to tell me what books she’d just returned, but they’re not about to say without a warrant—if I could even get one. Libraries have fought hard for First Amendment rights for their patrons—damn them.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think I’d want just anybody to know what I’m reading,” Katie said.

Davenport looked down at the stack of books that sat beside Katie’s chair. “So, you like to cook. So does one of my kids. Big deal.”

“I spoke to Abby before she left,” Katie said.

Davenport’s eyes widened. “Oh?”

“A couple of people were staring at her and pointing. It seemed to frighten her. She fled and I had to feed her books into the return slot.”

“Oh?” Davenport said again, and this time she feared his eyes might actually pop out of his skull.

“She reads mysteries. And doesn’t everybody?”

“I don’t,” he said, scowling.

“Well, I’ve been known to. I like the ones where the heroines bake. They include recipes.”

Davenport actually grimaced.

“Do you really suspect Abby of killing her husband?” Katie asked.

“Under these circumstances, the spouse is always a suspect, although more often it’s a man, not a woman, who commits homicide.”

“I saw Abby on Saturday night—and so did Gilda Ringwald-Stratton. She was terribly upset. There’s no faking that kind of hysteria.” Odd. Katie had labeled both Nona and Francine with that descriptor. But Abby had been truly upset and frightened. Perhaps she needed to amend her description of the two Victoria Square merchants. Perhaps they were just plain nuts.

“You’re probably right,” Davenport admitted. “But until we make a positive ID on the body, it’s open season on suspects.”

“And do you have more than one suspect?’ Katie asked.

“Yes,” Davenport answered without hesitation, yet he didn’t elaborate. “I need to get home. My girls are keeping the dinner warm, and I hate dried-out meat and vegetables. It’ll be good to sit down and eat a decent meal once I retire.”

“I envy you having someone to share dinner with,” Katie said.

“Don’t you have a boyfriend, Mrs. Bonner?”

“He works nights, and I work days. But we try to eat together a night or two every week.” One meal here or there. Well, it could be worse. She could eat all her meals alone, like she had during the months she and Chad had been estranged, and then just as many after he’d died. She and Seth had become close during the past ten months, going to lunch on a regular basis, and as she’d told Davenport, she and Andy tried to eat together as often as his job allowed.

“Have a nice dinner, Detective.”

“You, too, Mrs. Bonner.” Davenport nodded and exited the library.

As he left, Nona Fiske entered with a big canvas bag draped over her shoulder, heading straight for the book return.

Katie turned away, aiming for the seat she’d so recently abandoned, and yet as she sat down, she could see the covers of the books Nona favored. Romances with bare-chested heroes and swooning heroines. She smiled. Nona and Rose favored the same kind of fiction, and yet Rose was a sweetheart and Nona was not.

Katie dived back into her cookbook, content to immerse herself in nonfiction and the relative safety of decadent, butter-drenched recipes. Well, maybe they weren’t safe for her heart, but they were safe for her psyche.

In comparison, Dennis Wheeler’s death—or disappearance—was far too horrific to contemplate.

Katie didn’t leave the cool comfort of the library until she, and all the other patrons, were chased out at closing time. She staggered to her car with a load of new-to-her cookbooks and spent the rest of the evening in front of her fan, with one or more cats on or sitting next to her, reading recipes, looking for a fun side dish to placate Rose for Saturday’s potluck dinner. Yet in the end, she decided to bring an old standby that her aunt Lizzie used to make, apricot carrots.

The next morning, Katie got up at first light, put the kettle on for tea, and perused the morning paper, hoping to find an update on the Wood U fire and murder. There was none. On TV dramas, the crime teams always processed DNA evidence in what seemed like minutes. Too bad real life didn’t imitate art—if those shows could be called art.

She’d just polished off a third slice of toast and a second cup of tea when a loud roar outside caused Katie to look up from the Jumble she’d been about to start. The cats, who’d been looking out the window overlooking the Square,
jumped down just as a gigantic thud rumbled through the ground.

“What in the world?” Katie looked out the window to see a huge Dumpster now sitting in front of the Webster mansion. Hadn’t Fred Cunningham said the new owners intended to start work the day after they closed on the property? Would they actually start demolition this morning?

To answer that question, a shiny white pickup truck with burford contracting emblazoned on the side pulled up in front of the mansion. Nick and Don hadn’t been kidding when they said they wanted to open by Thanksgiving.

Katie fought the urge to cry. She’d known this was going to happen, and everybody around her had been tiptoeing around her delicate feelings, but it was time to toughen up. Fred was right. There would be another opportunity for her to open an inn someday…
but never on Victoria Square.

“You can sit around and mope about it or you can get on with your life.”

How many times had her aunt Lizzie uttered those words when she’d had some minor disappointment? But that was the difference. Losing The English Ivy Inn—well, she’d never really had it to begin with—was the biggest disappointment of her life.

She set the newspaper aside without even attempting the Jumble. It was time to go to work anyway. She showered and dressed, locked her apartment, and headed down the stairs. At ground level, the Dumpster looked even bigger. She turned away and headed for Artisans Alley.

No one was waiting to get in to straighten his or her booth, so Katie headed directly for her office…and found the door open. She stood staring at it for a long moment, sure she’d closed it the night before. Was she having a senior moment? She shrugged, went inside, and booted up her computer. Next, she gathered up the checks she’d processed the day before and headed for the tag room, which also
housed pigeonhole mail slots for each of the vendors. She doled out the envelopes, and was about to head back to her office to get the cash for the tills when she saw Rose Nash standing at the door to the vendor entrance and the corridor that led outside.

“Good morning, Rose.” Katie scrutinized her friend’s face. “Is something wrong?”

Rose craned her neck to look outside once again. “I wasn’t sure how to tell you this but…Ida has returned.”

Katie felt her blood pressure start to rise, as well as her anger. She, too, looked out the door but saw nothing outside. “Surely she has something else to do rather than tape down sales tags all day.”

“Oh, yes, she’s found something else to do all right. I think you’d better take a look.”

Katie turned to head back to the tag room.

“You won’t find her there,” Rose called, and Katie stopped, turning to face the older woman.

“Where is she?”

“Out in the parking lot in front of the entrance.”

Katie blinked in disbelief, but instead of commenting, she turned and hurried out the vendor entrance, her annoyance building with every step.

She burst through the doors to the parking lot to find Ida, dressed in long pants and a long-sleeved shirt, holding a sign and marching up and down in front of the building. The sign said:
BOYCOTT ARTISANS ALLEY—UNFAIR LABOR PRACTICES
.

Unfair labor practices!
For asking the woman to dress appropriately? And there she was—clad in warmer clothes, risking heat stroke. Didn’t she know anything about dressing for the weather conditions?

“Ida, what do you think you’re doing?” Katie demanded.

Ida kept up her pace. Five steps toward the north, pivot, five steps toward the south. “Protesting.”

“What for?”

“I want my job back!”

“We’ve been over why you were asked to leave. You took my heater and refused to dress appropriately for the temperature in the tag room.”

“I’m dressed appropriately now.”

“But could I trust you to do so tomorrow?”

Ida didn’t answer. Instead, she kept on marching.

Katie resisted the urge to throw her hands up in disgust, but turned and went back inside the building. Rose was standing just behind the door. “Aren’t you going to try and stop her?”

“I’ve learned from bitter experience that talking to Ida is like talking to a rock. She can’t be persuaded to do anything she doesn’t want to do.”

“But it’s already awfully hot out there, especially standing on the tarmac. She doesn’t have a hat on. When the sun gets higher, she could get heat stroke.”

Somehow Katie managed to hold on to her temper, but she couldn’t think of anything to say to improve her standing with Rose, with Ida, or with anyone else. “Then maybe you should lend her one. There’s cold water in the fridge, too. If you’d care to give her some, I’m fine with it.”