Between a Book and a Hard Place (6 page)

“Well . . .” I should say no, but I had wanted to see that show for a while and it had been sold out almost since day one. “I can't go to the theater in my jeans, polo shirt, and tennis shoes.”

“How long would it take you to go home and change clothes?” Noah asked.

“If I have Dad come in to work the last couple of hours, he could bring me an outfit and I could change here,” I admitted, then added, “If I can get ahold of my father, that is.”

Returning my attention to the basket, I decided that since the panties were out, I'd include a Kissaholic Aphrodisiac Lip Stain and Melt Chocolate Body Fondue instead.

As Noah asked, “Does that mean you'll go out with me?” I heard the beeping that indicated someone else was trying to call me. I couldn't identify the number, so I tapped the
IGNORE
button. The only one for whom I would put another person on hold was Birdie.

“If I can get a change of clothes.” My phone beeped for a second time. It was the same unfamiliar number, so I hit
IGNORE
again. “And this doesn't mean that I forgive you for springing Jett and my mother on me.”

“As I've repeatedly tried to tell you, St. Onge didn't let me in on the fact you weren't aware they would be at the meeting.” Noah's voice had an impatient edge. “But I am sorry that I didn't make sure he'd informed you.”

“Fine.” In my heart, I knew Noah was telling the truth. “I'll let it go this time.”

“Thank you.” Noah's smile was evident. “If you can't get ahold of your father, I could run out to your place and pick up an outfit for you, and we can leave later.”

“Okay.”

I stepped back to admire the birthday basket and nibbled my thumbnail. Something was missing. Rummaging through my “naughty box,” I found the perfect finishing touch for my creation. Just as I was adding a Va-Va Voom Boa, my phone beeped once again. It was the same number as previously. That was odd. Most people would have left a message the first time they called, rather than continue redialing. A shiver ran down my spine. Something was wrong.

“Listen,” I said to Noah. “I've got to go. I'll text you if I need you to get my stuff.”

We said good-bye and I answered the incoming call. At first I didn't recognize the frantic voice coming from the cell's speaker, but when I did, I interrupted and said, “Dad, slow down. What's the matter? Are you hurt? Is it Gran? What happened?”

“I'm fine and your grandmother is fine.” Dad sounded as if he'd been running. “But I need you to come over to the library right now.”

“The library?” Had I heard him right? “It's not even open yet.”

“The side door is unlocked.” Dad murmured something to someone, but I couldn't make out what
he'd said. “Don't tell anyone where you're going, and don't let anyone see you enter the building.”

“Okay. I'm grabbing my purse and locking up the back entrance as we speak.” My father had never asked anything of me, so I sure wouldn't refuse him when he did. “But what's going on?”

“Jett Benedict is dead.” Dad's voice cracked, and he cleared his throat before he continued. “And it looks as if he was murdered.”

Before I could respond to that startling announcement, he hung up, and I stared at my cell. What was Kern doing at the library with my deceased stepfather? And why had Dad called me instead of the police?

A
fter turning on the neon
CLOSED
sign, I rushed out of the dime store's front entrance, locking it behind me. Then, my heart pounding and my pulse racing, I sprinted across the town square. The library was located between city hall and the movie theater, so this whole mad dash reminded me of running away from my mother after the city council meeting. Talk about bad déjà vu.

The library was housed in a redbrick mid-nineteenth-century Italianate building. Long, narrow two-story windows with crescent-moon stained-glass inserts stretched upward nearly to the roof. Keystones at the top of the arch gave the structure a look of permanent surprise. Facing the street, narrow slits marched across the top of the edifice, almost as if to provide snipers a location to repel an enemy attack.

I checked over my shoulder. Lucky for me, there were no adversaries in sight. Tuesday afternoon wasn't exactly prime shopping time, and the town square was completely deserted. Relieved that I
wasn't being observed, I darted into the alley separating the library from the movie theater.

After hurrying to the side door, I twisted the knob. As Dad had promised, it was unlocked. Slipping inside, I hastily closed the door behind me. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, and as I waited, apprehension skittered along my nerves, tightening my shoulders.

Once I could see again, I discovered that I was in a short hallway. To my right was a storeroom and to my left was a staircase that I assumed led to a basement. I looked into the dark abyss and cringed. Ever since I'd been accidentally locked in my grandmother's cellar, I was not fond of dank, subterranean spaces.

There were no sounds of activity coming from the single large room in the front of the building, and I deduced that there wasn't any remodeling going on today.

“Dad,” I called out softly. “It's Dev. I'm here. Where are you?”

Silence.

“Dad?” I lifted my voice.

Nothing.

A quiver of fear raised the hair at the back of my neck. What if the person who'd killed Jett had also murdered my parents and was now lying in wait for me?

Peeking into the storage room, I saw that cobwebs covered the boxes on the shelves and an old oak worktable was thick with dust. It looked as if no one had been in here for quite some time. Evidently, the library reopening project hadn't made it to this area yet. I wondered what was holding up the work.

Backing out, I eyed the stairs. Venturing into a dark basement after receiving a call about a murder was something a naive young heroine in a Victoria Holt Gothic romance might do, but certainly not me. At least not without some lights and a weapon.

I searched for a switch near the top of the staircase.

Strike one. There wasn't anything on the wall but an old sign advising the staff to use caution when descending the steps.

Wishing I had brought along my trusty Maglite, which was strong enough to turn the midnightlike darkness into high-noon brightness, I settled for the flashlight app on my cell.

Now that I could see my surroundings, I scanned the area for a weapon.

Strike two. I didn't see anything I could use to defend myself. Why was it that libraries rarely had swords lying around?

Just as I turned toward the storeroom, thinking there might be something useful in there, I remembered that after our first investigation together, Jake had given me a pepper-spray gun. He'd insisted that I keep the bright blue revolver with me at all times. I had thrown it into my purse, then promptly forgotten about it. Digging it out from beneath all the detritus that had settled on top of it, I tried to remember his instructions for its use, but all I could recall was
aim and squeeze the trigger.

I slung my purse strap across my body, and then with the cell in my left hand and the pepper-spray gun in the other, I crept down the stairs. I kept the light trained on the step in front of me and hoped that if there was a bad guy—or girl—waiting for me
at the bottom, my stealthy approach would give me an advantage.

With both hands occupied, I wasn't able to hang on to the railing, and as I put my weight on the next tread, I heard a sharp crack. Afraid I was about to plummet to my death, I let out a scream.

Strike three. Whoever was down there now knew that I was heading their way.

Scrambling upward, I decided that, despite my father's warning, I needed backup. But before I could figure out whom to call, I heard my dad shouting my name.

I leaned forward and squinted. I could see a figure moving toward me.

A few seconds later, Dad grabbed me by the elbow and said, “Hurry. Benedict's in the archives.”

Having no idea where the library kept its archives, I allowed Dad to escort me down into the basement, but I kept both the pepper-spray gun and cell phone light clutched in my hands, ready for any trouble.

As we passed through a large area piled with old furniture, cartons, and trunks covered in spiderwebs, I asked, “Whose phone did you use to call me?” I would have recognized the number if it were his.

“Your mother's.”

“Why?”

“She said hers was a prepaid disposable and couldn't be traced.”

My breath caught in my throat. Why did my mother carry a burner cell? And more important, why didn't she want my dad's call to me to be traceable? This situation had disaster written all over it.

Before I could put my questions into words, Dad
led me into a room lined with shelves and file cabinets. Evidently, Jett had arranged for the electricity to be turned on, because a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling illuminated the scene.

The light was dim, but it was bright enough for me to see my stepfather's body collapsed over an open drawer, the back of his head a bashed-in, bloody mess. My hope that he really wasn't dead evaporated faster than a genie returning to his bottle after granting the third wish.

When the yogurt I'd recently eaten threatened a reappearance, I swallow hard and averted my glance from Jett's wound. Looking away from the carnage, I spotted Yvette slumped in an old wooden chair, her face buried in her hands. Mom's shoulders were shaking, but she wasn't making any sound.

Taking a deep breath, I turned to Dad and asked, “What happened?”

“Benedict kept texting your mother while she and I were talking at the dime store,” Dad explained. “At first she didn't read his messages, but when she did, she said he wanted her to meet him at the library. We were in the middle of an important discussion, so she ignored his request, but he kept bugging her.”

I raised a brow. My father knew darn well he and his ex-wife had been flirting, not ironing out a treaty for world peace.

Dad had the grace to look a little sheepish as he continued. “Finally, your mom said she'd better see what Benedict wanted and left to go to the library to find out what the fuss was about.”

“I take it you didn't go with her.” I was fairly
certain Mom's new husband didn't know she had been spending so much time with her old one.

“Not all the way to the library.” Dad refused to meet my eyes, finding the band of his wristwatch too fascinating to look away from. “I waited for her in my car. The plan was that she'd run over here, take care of whatever Benedict needed, and then we'd head to the barbecue place over by Sparkville for a late lunch.”

“What happened next?” I asked, although I had a pretty good idea.

“Yvette walked across the square and used her key for the side entrance.” Dad glanced over at my mother, who still hadn't lifted her head or moved from her perch on the wooden chair. “She knew Benedict was in the archives, so she went down here to find him.”

“And?” I swear getting Dad to tell me the whole story was as hard as getting the last bit of caramel sauce from a glass jar.

“And your mother discovered Benedict like this.” Dad pointed to the body of my stepfather. “It was obvious he was dead, so she called me.”

“Why?” I narrowed my eyes and looked at my mother. She was now staring straight ahead. “Why didn't she get out of here and call the police?”

“Uh.” Dad's eyes jerked to Mom, and then he shrugged. “I don't know.”

It was more than a little creepy that we were calmly discussing the events leading up to discovering my stepfather's body while he was oozing blood a few feet away. But I needed more information before I could formulate any kind of sensible plan.

“So you came over here.” I was perplexed by the
whole scenario. Mom finds her husband murdered. Sticks around. Calls her ex-husband and waits for him to . . . what . . . resurrect Jett? “What next?”

“After I made sure there was nothing we could do to help Benedict, I called you.” Dad cut his gaze to my mother. “I wanted to contact the police, but Yvette got hysterical at the idea.”

Mom's actions didn't add up. Had she and Jett had a fight and she smacked him over the head with something? Then, when she'd seen what she'd done, had she decided to try to pin the murder on Dad?

Oh. My. God! Dad was on parole. He had been paroled rather than pardoned, because despite the fact he hadn't willingly taken the drug, he had run over and accidentally killed a woman while under its influence. He might have been able to get the conviction overturned, but taking parole had been cheaper and quicker than a new trial.

My heart raced. He could be sent back to prison. I mentally ran through the conditions of his parole. He hadn't traveled out of the state without permission or changed his residence. I could prove he was maintaining employment. Unless Mom was a convicted felon, he was avoiding contact with known criminals, because with the exception of Gran, the chief of police, and me, Yvette was the only person with whom he socialized.

He didn't do drugs or own a weapon. And he reported regularly to his corrections agent. As far as I knew, there was nothing about discovering a dead body in the rules, but I had a feeling that might fall under some sort of miscellaneous section.

My stomach clenched. I had to get him out of here
right now, and then I had to make sure no one knew he'd ever been on the scene.

Grabbing both his hands, I demanded, “What have you touched?”

For a third time, Dad glanced at my mother. He was definitely hiding something, but we'd already been here way too long, so I couldn't take the time to pry whatever secret he was keeping out of him.

When he didn't answer my question, I raised my voice and repeated, “What did you touch?”

Dad's mouth dropped open. Even as a rebellious teen, I had never yelled at him before. Suddenly, his eyes widened, and he shouted, “Son of a bitch! You're afraid I'll be accused of murdering him.”

“Not necessarily,” I hedged. Privately, I thought Mom had more to worry about on that front, but now was not the time to bring up that idea. “However, I am concerned that this might affect your parole.”

My father screwed up his face and then said slowly, “The outside doorknob, the banister, and Benedict's wrist when I took his pulse.”

I dug around in my purse until I located a packet of tissues. Ripping one out of the cellophane wrapper, I handed it to my father and ordered, “Wipe everything you touched or might have touched.”

“What about him?” Dad pointed at Jett. “Does skin retain fingerprints?”

“I don't think so.” I tried to remember every forensic television crime show I'd ever watched and every dark mystery I'd ever read. “But if he's wearing a watch on the wrist where you took his pulse, clean that.”

“His Rolex is on the other arm,” Dad murmured.

When my father continued to stand there, I jabbed his shoulder with my index finger and said, “Move it. You need to get out of here right now.”

“What about me?” Appearing to have recovered from her shock, Yvette jumped up from her seat. “I should leave with Kern.”

“Whoa.” I grabbed her upper arm as she headed out of the room.

“Let me go.” Mom's voice rose, and she tried to break free from my fingers. “I have to get out of here. They'll think I did it. In cases like this, the police always assume it's the spouse.”

“Did you do it?” I asked, watching her expression carefully.

“No!” Mom's face crumpled. “How could you even think that about me?”

“Let me count the reasons.” Sanity might be on back order in our family, but I had an unlimited supply of sarcasm. “On second thought, we don't have time for that list.”

“Why are you being so mean to me?” Mom tried to get away.

I tightened my grip on her biceps, and keeping Yvette by my side, I pointed at Dad and instructed, “You, wipe off your fingerprints, make sure no one sees you leaving the building, and then drive straight home.” When he hesitated, I foolishly promised, “I'll take care of Mom.”

When he continued to hesitate, I threatened, “Unless you want to go back to prison, listen to me and do what I say right now.”

Dad's fair skin turned an ashy gray and he nodded. He kissed Yvette's cheek, muttered that he was sorry, then hurried out of the archives.

While my father wiped off his prints and made
his escape from the library, I had a few minutes before I could execute the second part of my plan, so I whirled on Yvette and said, “What's your game?”

“I . . . I . . .” she stammered, then out of the blue said, “The trouble with life is that there's no background music.”

I was silent only because this was one of those situations where my supply of profanity was insufficient to meet my demands. Instead, I stared at my mother until she spoke.

Apparently, she correctly interpreted the “don't even try” look on my face and said, “Kern always fixed everything when we were married. I thought he could fix this.”

“How?” I wrinkled my brow in disbelief. Maybe I had been right. Could my mother really think Dad could bring back the dead?