An Open Book (4 page)

I went back into the building, but instead of returning to the library, where the
line had grown and everyone in it was staring at me through the double doors that
led to the hall, I turned left and went into the police department, heading straight
for Vanessa’s office. She looked up when I rushed in.

“What?” she demanded.

“Somebody just returned Edith’s library book.”

Vanessa’s expression sharpened. “Who?”

“I don’t know. It’s busy today, and this kid just dumped the book on the desk and
left, fast. I tried to follow, but he got into a car and drove off.”

“Description?” she demanded.

“Youngish—I’d say late teens. White. Neatly dressed, looked like any kid his age,
nothing stood out. He got into a car with out-of-state plates.”

“What state?” she asked.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Not New Jersey, New York or Delaware, because I see plenty
of those and I recognize them.”

“What color?”

I shut my eyes and thought. “The car? Grayish, maybe.”

“No, I mean the license plate.”

“Uh, white, with blue letters.”

“How many digits?”

“Seven, I think. I got the first three, but he was too far away for me to get the
rest.”

“What are they?”

“ABG. Is this enough to tell you anything?”

“Closest white and blue would be Ohio. It’s worth a try. What’d the car look like?”

I’m clueless about cars. “Two-door, I think. Not too old—maybe a couple of years?
I don’t keep up on that kind of stuff. No obvious dents, at least in the back end,
which is all I saw.”

“Anything else you remember? Stickers on the car? Slogan on his jacket?”

“Nope, plain quilted jacket. No limp or obvious scars, but I only saw him out of the
corner of my eye for half a second. His hair wasn’t too long. But my impression was
that he was clean and polite—he didn’t shove into line, just kind of sneaked around
it to lay the book on the desk, like he didn’t want to bother anybody. Look, at least
he returned the book, which should tell us something. He could have dumped it somewhere
or taken it with him. I mean, it’s new—only came out last week.”

Vanessa flashed me a brief smile. “Yeah, I’ll put out an APB for a clean, polite and
considerate young man. Should be easy to find him.”

“Hey, it’s the best I can do. You want me to give you the book to see if there are
fingerprints?”

Vanessa sighed. “I guess. Might as well go through the motions.”

I crossed the hall again to retrieve the book, but I hadn’t taken into account the
fact that it was the most recent book from a very popular author, and as I approached
the desk I could see people handing it back and forth and skimming the pages. So much
for fingerprint evidence—although I wasn’t sure who could do that for us.

“Sorry about that, folks. Look, I need to check that book in before I can sign it
out again, and I’m pretty sure there’s a waiting list. If you don’t mind?” I held
out a hand, and someone gave it to me, rather reluctantly. I stashed it under the
counter and went back to processing the stacks of books and DVDs that people were
waiting in line to check out.

It was after one when the crowd thinned, and I finally had a chance to look at Edith’s
book. First I checked the library sticker code—yes, this was the right book. Maybe
if she had left a bookmark in it, I could estimate how much time she had had to read
it, before she was . . . diverted by her death. I flipped through the pages: no bookmark,
but a slip of paper fell out from the middle, and I recognized Edith’s spiky handwriting.
It said only, “Edward, 3.” No last name, no convenient phone number. Not much to go
on, but it was all we had. Since there was a lull in the library, I took the book
across to Vanessa.

When I handed it to her I said, “Sorry—by the time I got back to the desk, half the
town had handled it. Everybody wants to read it. But there was a slip of paper in
it, and I touched that as little as possible. Page one hundred thirty-seven. It’s
clearly Edith’s handwriting—I’ve seen it before, on envelopes and such.”

Van used a letter opener to turn to that page. “Interesting. I’ve got good news about
the car, by the way—looks like it’s a rental, rented by one Edward Fairfield, age
eighty-eight.”

Edward? That fit with the note. “Well, I’m sure the person I saw wasn’t eighty-eight.
Maybe someone rented the car for the younger guy, because he was too young to do it?
Or didn’t have a credit card? Anyway, the name Edward matches the name on that piece
of paper. Do you think she was expecting to meet him at three?”

“Could be,” Vanessa said.

I shook my head. “Not much to work with. But at least we know there are other people
involved—the boy who brought the book back, and this Edward who rented the car. Somebody
has to know something about how she died.”

Vanessa sat back in her swivel chair and gave me a stare. “You do remember this is
a tiny police department? We’re not exactly set up to conduct murder investigations.
I’ve given what we’ve got to the detective who’s handling the investigation, and I’ll
pass this new stuff on to him, but don’t expect much. What more are we supposed to
do?”

It wasn’t like Vanessa to just give up, but maybe she was out of her depth with this.
“Aren’t you curious?”

“Of course I am. I liked Edith, and I’m sure there’s a reason why she was out there
on the hill. But I don’t know how to find out what that is, and nobody except the
two of us is likely to care, unless something weird turns up at the autopsy.”

“That’s not right.” I thought for a moment. “Did you talk to anyone at the Johnson
place, to see if they saw anything?”

“Nobody was home yesterday, or at least, nobody answered the door. No cars in the
driveway. You know where I’ve been this morning.”

“Are you going to talk to the Johnsons, if they’re home now?”

“Yes, Sarabeth, I was planning to do that. You still want to play deputy?”

“I do. I want to know what happened. Is that so wrong?”

“No, I don’t think so. You working in the library all afternoon?”

“Nope, I’m off in half an hour.”

Vanessa sighed yet again. “I guess it won’t hurt if you come along.”

When my library shift ended I presented myself back at Vanessa’s door. She looked
resigned, and I followed her out to the police cruiser. Once on the road, she asked,
“Any comments from the people who came to the library?”

“No. Just variations on ‘how sad’ and ‘what a shame.’ Nobody asked any questions,
and I didn’t volunteer any information either. Although they probably thought I was
crazy when I took off after that boy, but they were too polite to ask why.”

Yesterday’s brief snow had already melted, except in shady places. The landscape was
almost monochrome: brown fields, brown trees, brown stone houses. The occasional patch
of evergreens was a welcome relief. The sky was milky and overcast—more snow on the
way? I’d forgotten to check the weather report.

It took no more than ten minutes to reach the Johnson house. I tried to recall if
I’d ever been inside. I knew that I had seen the family now and then, a nice couple
in their late thirties, with a pair of well-behaved kids. The mother borrowed a lot
of romances from the library, and usually returned them on time. Today there were
two cars in the driveway, and I felt a shiver of recognition: one of them was a silver
sedan with Ohio plates.

Vanessa pulled the cruiser in behind the other two cars. To prevent anyone from escaping?
I wondered. She clambered out, and turned to look at me. “You coming?”

“Right behind you.” I got out of the passenger seat quickly and followed her to the
front door, decorated with a large but simple wreath and embellished with an opulent
red ribbon that fluttered in the slight breeze. There were sounds of young voices,
plus a barking dog, coming from inside. Vanessa rang the doorbell, and we waited as
the melee inside subsided and footsteps approached the door. It swung open to reveal
a middle-youngish woman I recognized as Mrs. Johnson. “Can I help you?”

“May we come in?” Vanessa asked politely, flashing her badge.

“Of course, please. What’s this about?” Mrs. Johnson stood back from the door to let
us pass, and closed it quickly behind her. Inside the air was rich with the scents
of pine and cinnamon, and I remembered I hadn’t eaten lunch.

We stood awkwardly clumped in the hallway. “Were you at home yesterday, Mrs. Johnson?”
Vanessa began.

“Laura, please.” She shook her head. “No, we were out all day, or at least all afternoon.
We took the kids shopping, mostly to return stuff, and then we had a quick supper
at the mall before we came back. So, no, we were gone from about ten in the morning
until after the mall closed down. Why?”

Vanessa looked around her. “Could we sit somewhere?”

“Well, we’ve got company . . .” she said dubiously.

A man appeared in the doorway opening onto the living room. He looked about a hundred,
his skin a landscape of delicate wrinkles, his snowy hair drifting across his half-bald
head. “This is about Edith, isn’t it?” he said gently. Laura looked bewildered, but
when Vanessa nodded silently, he said, “Laura, this may take a bit of time. Would
you mind making us some tea, and maybe we could enjoy some of your sugar cookies?”
Even though his request was polite, there was a hint of steel behind it. Laura, after
a bewildered look at the three of us, retreated to the kitchen.

“Please, come in and sit down. I’m Edward Fairfield. And you are?”

“Vanessa Hutchins. Chief of police.” Van kept her tone carefully neutral, neither
friendly nor aggressive.

“And I’m Sarabeth Dodson. I was a friend of Edith Hathaway,” I added. I watched for
a reaction from Edward, and I got one: he shut his eyes briefly. He knew. “I was the
one who found her up on the hill yesterday.” Was it really only yesterday?

“Ah. I asked Laura to make some tea because she hasn’t heard the story yet, and she
may feel that I wasn’t fully truthful about why I’m here.” The man turned carefully
and made his way into the formal living room, where someone else waited: the young
man I had seen so briefly earlier today, his eyes wide and confused. “This is my great-grandson,
Philip.”

“Hello, Philip,” I said. “Thank you for returning the book. Edith would have been
pleased that you brought it back.”

“Uh, no problem.” He looked between his great-grandfather, me, and Vanessa. “What’s
going on? Where’s Mrs. Hathaway?”

“He doesn’t know?” Vanessa asked Edward.

“No. He had nothing to do with it, and I haven’t told him.”

“Guys, what are you talking about?” Philip asked, clearly spooked by the undertones
of our cryptic conversation.

“I’m sorry, Philip,” Edward said softly, “but Edith is dead.”

Philip jumped out of his chair. “What? No way! She was just here . . .”

“Please, sit, all of you, and I’ll try to explain.” Edward gestured toward several
overstuffed armchairs, whose floral patterns suggested they had been chosen to hide
the wear and tear inflicted by an active family, rather than for their style. Philip
dropped into a chair, looking shocked. Edward peered at the door we had just entered.
“Laura should . . . ah, there you are, dear.”

Laura came in from the hallway carrying a tray laden with teapot, creamer, sugar bowl,
and multiple teacups, along with teaspoons and a plate of cookies. The whole tray
clattered as she struggled to balance it, and her relief was clear when she set it
down on a coffee table in front of the settee. “Would you like me to stay, Uncle Edward?”

“If you don’t mind, I need to talk with these ladies first. I’ll explain later, I
promise. Please don’t worry.”

“Okay, but call if you need me.” Laura cast a dubious glance at Vanessa and me, then
retreated. I wondered if she would listen from outside the door, something I might
have done if the chief of police had appeared unexpectedly at my house and I’d been
shooed out. How did Edward come to be here, and how did he know her?

Philip stayed with us, his eyes on the old man. Edward carefully filled four teacups,
using both hands to steady the teapot, then gestured toward us to help ourselves.
Philip waited until Vanessa and I had our cups before darting forward and cautiously
taking one for himself; he was clearly unfamiliar with the intricacies of balancing
a cup and saucer.

When we were all settled once again, Vanessa began, in her “official” tone, “Mr. Fairfield,
I take it you knew Edith Hathaway?”

He nodded. “I did, a long time ago.”

“Do you live in Ohio?” Vanessa went on.

“I do now. Please, would you permit me to tell this story in my own way? My young
great-grandson here can help out with those parts he knows of.”

Vanessa glanced briefly at me, and I was surprised when she told Edward, “Sure, no
problem. Please, go on.” Not standard interview procedure, as far as I knew; she was
the one who was supposed to ask the questions.

Edward sipped his tea. “If you don’t mind, could you first tell me how you knew Edith?”

Van nodded at me, indicating that I should go first. I said, “She lived in Strathmere
most of her life. I work part-time in the library, and she came in two or three times
a week to take out books.”

“Did she share anything of her history with you?” Edward asked.

“Not personally, but many people in the town knew her background in a general way.
She was married but her husband died a few years ago. They never had children, and
I don’t think she had any surviving relatives—at least, she never talked about any.
She taught school here for years, fourth grade, and retired over a decade ago. Since
then she lived simply and enjoyed reading. She was involved in a number of community
activities, as far as her health and mobility would permit. She was well liked by
many people, and respected by most. Is that what you want to know?”

“Would you say she had led a good life?”

I wondered where he was leading us with his questions. “I think so, yes. Why are you
asking this? What does it have to do with her death?”