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“Still, the SUV took off, right? Didn't wait until you arrived.”

“True.”

“I assume no license plate number?”

“Nope. Only Mrs. Parker's description. ‘A big black sport utility vehicle.'”

I waited for him to go on.

“I'm feeling like it's some kind of phantom automobile. I never see it,” he said.

“Counting the Banger sisters, there are four people who have seen it,” I said.

“Yeah, and three of them are certifiable.” He downed the last dregs of his cup.

“I certainly hope I'm number four.”

His walkie-talkie squawked. “Yes, Edna.”

“Chief, Officer Shung is looking for you. State police dropped off an analysis of Jerome's—”

I
t was all hands on deck for chopping at the Windjammer. Henry had two kinds of salad, soup, and homemade marinara sauce, for vegetable lasagna, on the menu, and that meant a ton of veggies, not to mention the fruit for his dessert medley. Henry, Enrico, and Carmen had each staked out a corner of the kitchen.

I grabbed a bundle of table napkins the laundry service had delivered an hour ago and set myself up at the bar. Ever since I was a kid, kitchen tasks—folding napkins, setting the table, chopping vegetables—have always been restful activities for me. My hands did their thing while my mind wandered or, as necessary, focused. I'd spin imaginative stories with fanciful characters while helping my mother to prepare dinner; it was our special time together and the only time I was allowed to play with knives.

Right now, folding napkins provided the opportunity for me to hunker down mentally. Where the devil was this SUV? Bill was spot-on about one thing: the vehicle
was
a kind of phantom, appearing suddenly in various parts of town, and then disappearing just as quickly. Despite the fact that there were more pieces to the Jerome puzzle available now, the picture still was not taking shape. What was Jerome's connection to Forensic Document Services, and who was MR?

“Dodie.” Enrico had sidled up to my elbow without my noticing. He was whispering.

“Hey, Enrico.” I escorted myself back into the present moment.

“I am worried about Henry. He is afraid of La Famiglia.”

“Afraid?”

Enrico nodded. “That is why he is creating vegetable lasagna,” he said confidentially.

“It's just another restaurant,” I said.

“But Henry has his pride. He was the first and best in Etonville for a long time,” he said seriously.

“There are enough customers to go around.”

“It's hard to surrender your position.”

I patted Enrico on the back and sent him back to work. It was difficult to believe that Henry felt threatened by a small Italian bistro. Couldn't two restaurants live in harmony in the same town? Maybe seeing
Romeo and Juliet
rehearse was affecting my perspective, but the competition between the Windjammer and La Famiglia was feeling more and more like the Capulets and Montagues, without the sword fights and the poison.

I looked up as Benny walked in the front entrance. “The beer and soda delivery should be here any minute.”

“Good morning to you, too,” Benny said teasingly.

“I put on the coffee.”

“Thanks.”

“And would you remind me to tell Henry that he needs to call Reverend Taylor about the May Festival at the Unitarian Church?”

“Got it, chief.” Benny saluted. “Anything else?”

“Probably, but I can't think of it yet.” I smiled.

Lola banged through the door. “There you are. I went by your house and didn't see your car so I figured . . . oh, hi, Benny.” Back to me. “We need to talk.”

Benny raised his eyebrows.

“Come on, Lola, let's go to my ‘office.'”

She followed me to my back booth.

“Coffee?”

She nodded, and I signaled Benny.

“Whew. I need a vacation. Maybe I'll get out of town for a few hours later,” I said.

Lola stared at me uneasily. “Dodie, are you okay? Is the Jerome business getting to you?”

“Yes and yes. What's up at the theater?”

Lola filled me in. The balcony crisis wasn't going away since the budget couldn't afford the lumber and hardware. Chrystal was insisting on velvet and satin for the costumes, and Walter was pushing for cheaper muslin. Romeo claimed he had a sprained ankle this morning, the Nurse finally quit, and Lola didn't think Edna had the role in her.

I shook my head. “Everyone is on edge.”

“Tell me about it. Walter and I don't know what to do to hold it together. If Elliot wasn't in the cast, we'd be in even more trouble.”

“All of this happened this morning?” I asked.

“Most of it through email.” She paused. “Some days I hate the Internet.”

“Speaking of the Internet . . . I have news about Jerome.”

Lola's eyes got bigger. “What?”

“You can't talk about this to anyone. Not Walter, not Carol, especially not Carol, at least right now.”

“Tell me,” she demanded.

“I need to tell the chief, but I'm not sure I should yet.”

“I'm going to burst if you don't—”

“Did Jerome ever mention an historic document to you? Something of value?” I asked.

“Never.”

“Well, you know how we said if we could find out who Jerome was seeing, we might learn something about his death?”

“Yes.”

“And how the best way was through his email?”

“Okay.”

“Well, you know how clever Pauli is with a computer. . . .”

Lola's eyes opened even wider as I related my hacking story, concluding with the discovery that Jerome had been in correspondence with Forensic Document Services.

“So where might he get his hands on something like that? And why was he keeping it a secret?” I asked.

“Jerome had a lot of secrets,” Lola said thoughtfully.

“I've got a little more digging to do.”

“If I can help, let me know.” She stood up. “See you tonight?”

“Wouldn't miss it.”

Lola promised to keep the email story to herself, while I promised to show up at the theater.

* * *

The jury was out on Henry's vegetable lasagna. Mildred's husband, who had progressed from soup and salad to entrees, wondered why he couldn't use meat like in “regular lasagna,” and the Banger sisters said it tasted “too mushroomy.” I defended Henry: he was just trying to broaden the palate of Etonville. Abby's Jim said his palate was doing just fine, thank you.

I was relieved to turn over the helm to Benny after dinner and headed next door to the theater. I relaxed into a soft seat cushion in the theater's last row, house left. I'd brought my laptop to do a little more surfing on the Internet in case I got bored. Walter was avoiding me and focusing on the night's work: swordplay. God help us.

He had a limping Romeo, an impatient Mercutio, and a silly Tybalt all flexing foils and horsing around, slapping one another on the butt.

“Hey, you guys. Knock it off. Those things aren't toys and they cost money,” Penny yelled. “This is where the gang stuff starts,” she said to me. “Jets and Sharks.” Then turned her attention back to the cast. “Two minutes until end of break.”

I watched Walter take the men through their paces, counting beats and choreographing steps until somebody invariably ended up on his backside. At which point, the whole process began all over again. I wanted to touch base with Chrystal, but she wasn't due in for another hour and I was getting restless witnessing the men's antics with swords, so I opened my computer.

It wasn't a stretch to believe that Jerome might have had an historical item of great value—I read recently about a baseball card collection worth over a million dollars. People found treasures in their attics and garages. But Jerome had neither, so I had no idea where he might have found his. I Googled rare letters and diaries and learned that they could fetch hundreds of thousands of dollars. But it was all theoretical without knowing what I was dealing with.

Just for fun, I typed in
William Thompson law enforcement
and, no surprise, there were dozens of links. I restricted my search to
Deputy Chief William Thompson + Philadelphia
and there he was. The first link was a story from the
Etonville Standard
quoting Bill on Jerome's murder. The second link was a reference to the anniversary of Bull Bennett's death and mentioned Bill's NFL career in Buffalo and Cleveland. The third link dated from a year ago, and there it was: a story about some scandal in the police department in Philadelphia. This might have been why he took the job in Etonville.

“Hello, Dodie. Having fun?”

I blushed and snapped the lid of my laptop shut as if I had been caught by the teacher viewing unsavory websites. “Hi, Elliot. Just keeping an eye on things. You're not due in tonight,” I said.

“Just keeping an eye on things, too.” He smiled and jerked his head in the direction of the stage. “I don't know who's getting the worst deal. Walter or the actors.”

I stifled a grin. “Maybe the swords?”

We both cackled, and Penny shot us a stern look, her finger plastered vertically on her lips.

I lowered my voice and made a quick decision. “Elliot, did Jerome ever mention a valuable document in his possession?” I fervently hoped I would not regret opening this can of worms, but someone had to know something and Elliot was Jerome's friend.

Elliot frowned and shook his head. “What kind of document?” “Maybe something historical?”

“Not that I recall. Why?”

“I'm not sure. It's just something that has come up,” I said.

“Oh.” Elliot waited.

“I thought that since you were friends, he might have said something about it.”

Elliot shrugged. “I'm sorry, but if he had a document like that it's news to me.” He hesitated. “Sometimes Jerome could be . . . reticent about his personal life.”

“I'm beginning to see that,” I agreed.

By the final hour of rehearsal, Mercutio, Tybalt, and Romeo had nearly poked each other's eyes out brandishing the swords as Walter tried to choreograph the big fight scene. When Tybalt whirled right instead of left and whacked Walter on the rear end with the flat edge of his sword, Walter decided to call it a night even though it was only ten o'clock. I'd already buttonholed Chrystal about the dress rehearsal schedule and had listened to her lament on the budget. She'd managed to find a compromise on the principles' costumes and had agreed to settle for cheaper, and slightly less authentic, undergarments. Who would know anyway?

It had been a long day and I was exhausted. Even my skin was tired. I offered to drop Lola off at home since her Lexus was in the shop again—I thanked the stars for my sturdy Metro—and things seemed to be cooling a tad with Walter. Lola stopped to speak to Elliot, and, as she turned to go, he gave her a brief hug. Hmmm . . .

L
ola slammed my car door shut. “Could we drive to Belvidere on the way to my house? I have a book I'd like to put in the overnight library drop. It's due tomorrow.”

Since budget cutbacks had started last year, the library now closed at eight on weeknights.

“Sure. But do they really check that kind of stuff?”

“I had a five-dollar fine last year.”

I remembered Jerome's overdue copy of Sherlock Holmes. I wondered if Mrs. Everly had bothered to return it.

We rode down Amber a few blocks, and I turned right onto Belvidere. The street, like most of the others in Etonville at this time of the night, was dark, lit only by a handful of streetlights and a haze of ambient light from the moon.

I drove past the entrance to the Etonville Public Library, where the windows were transparent in the dark, and coasted through the parking lot to the far corner of the building, where the book depository was located. Security lights illuminated this side of the lot, where an asphalt paver and a backhoe had spent the day blacktopping.

Lola grabbed the door handle. “I'll just be a second.” She hopped from the car and stepped ten feet to the library wall.

Idly tapping the steering wheel as I waited, I glanced out the car window, past where Lola was standing, and detected a sliver of light that leaked out from a lower-level window. Odd, I thought, when everything else was dark. Then the light disappeared.
Maybe it was my imagination
.

“Done. I can check that off my list,” Lola said as she slid onto the seat.

“Did you see that light?”

“What light?”

I pointed into the inky night. “There. Just beyond where you were standing.”

Lola stared through the windshield. “I didn't see anything.”

I put the car in drive, turned the corner of the building, and slowly proceeded to follow the wall of the library. We passed a bank of lower-level windows, all of them dark. “I could have sworn I saw a light.”

“The library's been closed for hours. Who would be working there this late?”

I reached the end of the north wall and was about to turn left when I saw a broken window.

“Look. The glass is shattered,” I said.

“Probably some kid with a rock.”

I jammed the car into park and peered into the first floor. I debated getting out and investigating. All that was left of the window was a series of jagged splinters outlining the metal frame. I flicked on my cell phone flashlight. The circulation desk was visible. I knew the layout: to the right of the desk was a conference room, to the left, a reading room. Behind it a hallway with smaller meeting rooms and the computer area where I talked with Mildred. All was quiet.

“Maybe somebody broke in,” I said and clicked off my flashlight.

“Another robbery?” Lola asked.

I turned off the engine. “I'll call Bill.” But before I could access recent calls a door creaked open, then shut at the back of the building.

“What was that?” Lola whispered.

“Shh.”

There was a moment of silence; then a figure emerged from the shadows along the library wall. We bent down to avoid detection. My heart stopped in my mouth and Lola closed her eyes. All was still for a moment. Then the soft tread of shoes hitting pavement reached our ears.

“Maybe I should follow him.” I started to move, but Lola grabbed the back of my jacket. “Dodie, no! Wait for the police.”

From down the block, a car engine hummed to life.

I called Bill's cell number.

“Chief Thompson,” a voice said wearily.

“Bill? It's Dodie. Lola and I are at the library, and there's been a break-in—”

His voice grew alert. “Where are you exactly?”

“In the car.”

“Stay put. I'm on my way.”

* * *

Bill arrived first, in his personal automobile—a late-model BMW, who knew?—and walked over to my Metro. “Are you two okay?”

“We're fine,” I said.

“Tell me what you saw.”

I described the broken window and the fleeing figure and the car motor.

“Stay here while I take a look around.” He switched on his flashlight and started for the building.

“I'm coming with you,” I called out and opened the door.

Bill stopped. “I'll signal you when the place is secure.”

“But—”

He took off.

Suddenly, Mildred pulled up behind us in a modest compact car. “What's going on? The police department called Luther, and Luther called me.”

“Someone broke into the library,” I said.

“We heard him run away,” Lola added.

“Bill . . . Chief Thompson is investigating right now.”

Luther Adams arrived in an ancient Cadillac. He was a little man with beady eyes and pursed lips. I'd only crossed his path once before at an ELT opening night reception. Benny had spilled fruit punch on his white bucks. He had not been pleased. We filled Luther in and waited around for what seemed like forever until Bill returned.

“Chief, I'm Luther Adams, the director of the library.”

“Mr. Adams, it looks like someone broke into the lower level.”

“This is horrible. Just horrible,” Mildred said, holding back tears.

“Could you follow me to turn on the lights?”

“Of course.”

Mildred and I went along, and Lola stayed in the car.

Luther unlocked the front door and turned on the lights. The first floor was untouched, and the upstairs stacks were not disturbed. The lower level was another matter. The shelves of the media room were empty as though someone had run his arm down every aisle and swept all of the contents onto the floor, but the special collections area had been hit the hardest. Rare and oversized books were scattered about the room; some were opened with spines bent and broken. A locked case had been shattered, shards of glass everywhere, and the most valuable of the library's holdings flung with total disregard into a pile that formed a mini-volcano. A handful of brown boxes had been stomped on.

“Who could have done this?” Mildred said, then bent down to turn a chair right side up.

“Please don't touch anything until we've had a chance to dust for fingerprints in the morning,” Bill said.

Mildred straightened up quickly. “Sorry.”

Bill called Ralph to come to the library and cordon off the crime scene.

“What can we do?” Luther asked. “Nothing like this has ever happened before.”

“My team will secure the area. In the morning, after we've investigated the scene, we'll need a complete inventory of anything that is missing. Right now, there's nothing you can do. I suggest you return to your homes.”

That included Lola and me, I guess.

Mildred and Luther thanked Bill, but decided to hang around until they could lock up.

Meanwhile, Bill took my official statement. “What were you doing here so late at night?”

“Like I said, Lola had to return a book in the night depository. Then I noticed a light in the lower level and saw the broken window. I heard the perpetrator—”

Bill cocked his head.

“A back door opened and closed. I saw a figure and then heard him running away.”

“Can you describe the figure?”

“Sorry. It was dark. It looked like a male, though.”

“Was he carrying anything?”

I shrugged. “Not that I could see.”

“And then?”

“We heard the engine of a car down the block.”

“Is that everything?”

“Yes, that's everything,” I said simply.

“Okay. Good.”

“Whoever it was could have taken some of those first editions and sold them for a lot of money,” I said.

Bill nodded.

“So maybe it wasn't books they were after.”

Ralph's squad car arrived, lights flashing, houses on all sides of the library lit up. But it was late and only a few people briefly viewed the proceedings from their porches. I could visualize what the town would do with tonight's events.

“Oh, Chief,” Mildred said, blotting her eyes, “Who would want to harm these precious books?”

Mildred was childless so the prized volumes in special collections were like offspring, to be cherished and well cared for. I knew how she felt. I had a thing for old-fashioned paper and binding. I couldn't get into Nooks and Kindles.

“I don't know, Mrs. Tower, but we're going to do our best to find out,” Bill said and gave her a brief, sympathetic smile.

“Mildred, did you see anybody strange wandering around the library recently?” I asked.

I could feel the heat from Bill's eyes even before I turned to see his frown. I might be overstepping my bounds, I knew, but someone had to plunge in here.

“I can't say I have. But there are so many people coming and going in the library. You know, even with the budget cuts and closing early and eliminating programs and staff, there's still more happening than we can handle. I warned Luther.”

“About—?”

“About what?” Bill said simultaneously. He whipped around to face me. “Do you mind if I do my job?”

I stepped back. “No problem.”

“Now, Mrs. Tower,” Bill said with a trace of irritation, “what do you mean?”

“Well, we've had new donations from estate sales and some William Carlos Williams items for our New Jersey authors' shelf, and well . . . we can't keep up with everything. I'm not sure exactly what the holdings are in the special collections.”

“Isn't anyone in charge of curating the collection?”

Mildred's voice dropped. “Not since Mary left. I told Luther that letting her go would be a disaster.” She teared up again. “And I was right. How are we going to take an inventory of what's missing? There are boxes of books that have not been catalogued.”

I couldn't help myself. “Who is Mary?” The little hairs were dancing.

“Mary Robinson. The special collections librarian.”

Bill was either oblivious or doing his best to ignore my rising excitement. “And where did she go?” I asked.

Mildred turned up her nose in disgust. “Luther downsized her. Said he had to let some staff go. Budget decreases. She was devastated, poor dear.” She crossed her arms. “But he kept his personal secretary. If you ask me—”

“Mary. Robinson. MR. The mystery lady.” I could barely contain myself. “I don't think we ever met. Could you describe her?”

“Mary? She was seventyish.” Mildred smiled. “But a young seventy. Gray hair . . .”

“Which she often wore in a French twist?” I asked.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Why do you ask?”

I turned to Bill. “She fits the description of the woman with Jerome.”

“Jerome Angleton? Who was murdered?” Mildred asked, eyes round.

“Mildred, did Jerome ever visit Mary here? Were they friends?”

“I couldn't say. Remember, I told you that Jerome came here to use the computer.”

“Right.”

“Sometimes he stopped down in the special collections.”

“To see Mary?”

“Not exactly to see Mary, I wouldn't think. More like the classic first editions down here. He was a retired English teacher, you know. Mary was very knowledgeable about the collection.”

“Would you know whether they socialized outside of work?”

Mildred's laugh was a gentle tinkle. “Oh, goodness no. Mary didn't date, as she told me many times. She had her two cats, her nieces and nephews in New York somewhere, three of them, and the special collections. She tended to keep to herself.”

“Where is she now?” I asked.

“I don't know. I think she left town. The last time I saw her was the day Luther informed her that she was let go.”

* * *

We sat in my Metro in front of Lola's house. It was twelve-fifteen, already the next day. “I feel sorry for both of them. Jerome and Mary Robinson.”

Lola stifled a yawn. “It's been quite a night. And my feet are killing me.” She removed one espadrille and massaged her toes. “Poor Jerome. He had it bad for a woman who was only into cats and books and relatives.”

“We don't know the whole story. Maybe Mildred was wrong. Maybe he and Mary
were
dating. Jerome was very discreet. Mary sounds like she was, too. He spent a lot of money on jewelry. That has to mean something.”

“He was a thoughtful guy,” Lola said.

“I wonder what happened to the gold bracelet he bought at Sadlers in Creston,” I mused.

“I'll bet Mary Robinson's got it. I'll bet she turned over a new leaf, started to see Jerome, fell in love. . . .” Lola said helpfully.

“I'd like to think so, for both their sakes,” I said. “I don't know, it just doesn't add up. There's something missing.”

Lola squeezed my arm. “I have to go in and collapse. Big night tomorrow. We run Act I. I am spending the whole day with the script.”

I gave her a hug. “Thanks for being around tonight.”

I stayed put until Lola was in the house, the door locked and the upstairs lights switched on. Then I drove carefully home, one eye out for the sinister SUV, and wracked my tired brain about how all this was connected to Jerome's murder—if at all.