Buried in a Book (21 page)

I hung on his every word. “Did he? Keep his distance?”

“He didn’t listen to me, of course. The next thing we knew, the police were at his door, the girl was traumatized, and Marlette was branded as a sexual predator.” He looked up at me, his eyes glistening. “Every professor’s nightmare. The camp fired him. The university revoked his tenure, and we never heard from him again.”

This account matched the story in the tattered article I’d found in the barn birdhouse as well as what my reporter friend had told me. I felt queasy as I was once again faced with the possibility that Marlette had committed a violent crime against an innocent youth. “Do you know who the girl was?”

He shook his head. “We never were privy to the details.
She was a minor, after all. Even Marlette wouldn’t reveal her identity. But I
know
he was innocent. He would not have done anything inappropriate. Couldn’t have. It just wasn’t in his nature.”

The professor’s confidence eased my disquiet somewhat. This man’s opinion matched that of my mentor, Jan Vance, as well as my own initial impression of Marlette. We believed in his innocence. We believed that he was too kindhearted and good to have caused harm to a helpless teenage girl.

I touched Professor Walters’s arm. “You were his friend, weren’t you—not just a colleague?”

He nodded. “The last thing we talked about before everything went wrong was his book. He was writing a suspense thriller or some such thing. I guess he lost the impetus for that, too.”

My heart skipped in anticipation at this hint about Marlette’s query. “I’ll keep looking into it, Professor. Maybe we’ll discover that he did finish his novel.”

Slowly, Walters got to his feet. “And now I must go home. Can I keep your card?” He held it up. “In case I think of anything else?”

“Yes, but wait. My phone number has changed.” I took back the card and crossed out the
Dunston Herald
number, writing my cell phone number beneath it. I didn’t want him to call my old place of work and find out I’d been fired. Returning it to him, I said, “And thank you so much for your time. I’ll let you know if I learn anything important about your friend.”

He shuffled out the door with much less energy than when he’d entered. I hoped that my questions hadn’t burdened him with the weight of bad memories.

Reflecting on the conversation on my way out to the truck, I felt disappointed that I hadn’t really found out any new information. Other than the snippet about Marlette’s novel, of course. At least I now knew the genre. And it felt good to hear that other people believed in Marlette’s innocence. Maybe it had been worthwhile to sit through the Shakespeare lecture after all!

I saw that my mother was in the driver’s seat, so I climbed into the passenger side of the turquoise truck. My mother’s head was pressed against the steering wheel, and from the steady rise and fall of her chest I could tell that she was fast asleep.

The dim light from the streetlamp shone on a book propped open on her lap. I slid it free and realized it was the flower book I’d purchased at the Secret Garden. Marlette’s sketch with the dried flower slipped out from between the pages, and I placed it on the dashboard before scrutinizing the open page.

In vivid white, yellow, and green was a photo of the flower from Marlette’s sketch. I had looked at that drawing so often, the flower was etched in my mind, but I glanced at the sketch on the dashboard just to be sure. Large white petals with a round cluster of yellow stamen at the center—an exact replica.

I pressed the overhead light, and my mother stirred beneath its soft glow. Stretching, she yawned loudly. “I was just gettin’ lost in a lovely dream involvin’ Robert Redford and a large chocolate cake,” she scolded as she turned the key in the ignition. “And don’t worry, I’m not drinkin’ and drivin’. That damn flask was empty.”

Turning back to the book, I read the caption:
Paeonia lactiflora (Luella Shaylor Peony)
. My fingers started to
tremble at the significance of this discovery. The flower from Marlette’s diary had betrayed a secret. It had given away the name under which Sue Ann was now living.

My mother looked over her shoulder as she reversed the truck. She then paused before shifting gears in order to turn off the overhead light. In the darkness of the cab she murmured, “This is quite a pickle you’re in, darlin’. Sue Ann’s your coworker.”

“Yes,” I said in stunned agreement. “Sue Ann is Luella Ardor.”

“WAIT A MINUTE. HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT SUE ANN
and the woman I work with are the same person?” I asked my mother once I’d digested the possible connection between the face in the drawing and the name of the flower Marlette had glued to the bottom of the page.

Althea gave a nonchalant shrug. “It’s what I do, remember? I just feel my way around these things.” Without taking her eyes from the road, she reached over and touched the book on my lap. “The second I saw that peony, I got electric tingles from my fingertips to my toes. I don’t get those every day, I’ll have you know.”

Though the connection she’d voiced rang true, echoing my own thoughts, I still felt the need to play devil’s advocate. The only way I could process this shocking turn of events was to look at it from all angles.

If Sue Ann really was Luella Ardor, then Marlette had been visiting the workplace of the very woman who’d cost
him his reputation and livelihood so many years ago. Surely, she must have recognized him. And he undoubtedly realized that the sexy and sophisticated literary agent who routinely ignored his presence was the girl who’d forever changed his life. Otherwise, why would he have pasted the peony on his sketch of her?

I shook my head. “Too many assumptions. I’m assuming Marlette was falsely accused. I’m assuming that Sue Ann is Luella Ardor. And now I’m jumping to the conclusion that she knew Marlette, was possibly threatened by him, and therefore was motivated to kill him.” I leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes, hoping the rhythmic sound of the road passing beneath the tires would help clear my mind.

“You’ve gotta chase after these wild thoughts, honey,” my mother said softly. “They’re leadin’ you somewhere, even if it’s not where you wanna go. They’re like wily little foxes and you’re the hound. The trail is gonna zig and it’s gonna zag, but in the end, you’ll catch your fox.”

I prayed that she was right, because the significance of what I was doing suddenly hit home.

In the beginning, I’d gotten involved to make sure that Marlette’s death wouldn’t go unnoticed, but I never realized how deeply it would affect me. Since he had collapsed in our reception area, his story had permeated every day of my life. And even though I’d been viewing my coworkers as possible suspects from the beginning, the strength of the connection between Luella and Marlette now lent my investigation more weight. Accusing a coworker of murder was a far cry from running around town and discussing theories with Makayla. And to be honest, I was frightened of what I’d gotten myself into. If Luella could commit such a cold-blooded act once, then what was to stop her from doing it again?

My dreams that night were colored in shades of black and red. Sue Ann’s dark eyes stared at me from Marlette’s drawing until they transformed into sinister birds with pointed beaks and daggerlike black feathers. The two oversized crows multiplied into a flock and chased me through the woods near Marlette’s cabin. Their crazed caws and the roar of their wings were terrifying. They were hunting me.

When I burst into the cabin in search of shelter, I found only a dirty sleeping bag on the floor. There was fresh blood on the fabric, and a person was zipped up inside. With trembling fingers, I touched the zipper pull and then hastily drew back in revulsion. I was kneeling in a slick puddle of crimson. My dream self, though sickened by the sight of so much blood, had just reached for the zipper again when one of the giant crows crashed through the cabin’s window. It slammed against the wall, hard enough to break a real bird’s neck, but this one merely shook out his knife-sharp feathers and began to caw triumphantly. In a stream of black, the rest of the flock started to pour in through the window, their hungry, malicious eyes locked on me. I screamed myself awake.

Lying there, damp with sweat, I wished I’d taken my mother’s advice and tossed back a shot of warm whiskey before bed.

“You need a solid eight hours if you’re gonna figure out if that Luella woman hurt Marlette,” she’d told me, offering her bottle of Jim Beam. “If what I saw in those eyes in the picture he drew of her is a reflection of the real girl, then she’s got a soul as twisted as a pretzel. You’d best mind your step.”

I’d declined the whiskey, changed into my pajamas, and wished that Trey were down the hall playing a game on his computer. I felt adrift, as though my family and my career
anchored me to reality and now, the rope tethering me to them both had been abruptly severed. My son was gone, my mother’s psychic abilities weren’t adept enough to assuage my fear, and one of my coworkers might be a murderer.

Then again, she might not. How on earth was I going to incriminate Luella Ardor without losing my job?

“I need to be certain she’s Sue Ann for starters,” I’d murmured drowsily into my pillow. It didn’t take long before I’d slid into the dream, into the place of nightmares where the crows had been waiting for me.

ALTHEA HAD NO
more wisdom to impart as she drove me to Novel Idea the following morning. My head throbbed, I had bags under my eyes, and copious amounts of my mother’s bitter coffee had failed to dispel the images of my nightmare.

I couldn’t wait to order Makayla’s biggest, most potent espresso drink, but when I stepped into Espresso Yourself, she immediately waved me out of line, indicating that I should wait by the pick-up counter.

A man grumbled about my cutting ahead, but Makayla smiled at him with such radiance that he immediately apologized.

“Don’t give it another thought, Mr. Peterson. We all get a little crabby without a caffeinated kick in the pants. Why don’t you treat yourself and have a croissant with your coffee? You look like you could do with something flaky and buttery. I’ll even pop it in the microwave for you so it’s nice and warm.”

Mr. Peterson nodded gratefully. “The wife’s got me on fiber bars for breakfast. They’re not very satisfying.”

“I reckon not,” Makayla said and winked at me.

I shifted impatiently while she whittled down the line. Finally, there was only one customer left, a woman who had no idea what to order. She squinted at the chalkboard over Makayla’s head and began to read every line aloud. Makayla told the indecisive woman to take her time and then seized the opportunity to make me a cinnamon dolce latte. After she placed my drink on the counter and I paid her, she handed me a takeout bag.

“But I didn’t—” I began to protest.

“Order any food,” she quickly interrupted and then lowered her voice. “Girl, this is no chocolate chip scone. I was jawing with a customer yesterday after you left, and after we both agreed that the last James Patterson book wasn’t his best, we got to talking about Marlette. This gentleman, one of my regular customers, spends an awful lot of time hanging out at the bookstore, and he told me about another of Marlette’s hiding places. So this morning before I came to work, before the birds were even up and singing, I decided to see if anything was inside.”

Wishing she hadn’t mentioned birds, I glanced down at the bag. “And you found something.”

She beamed. “Broke a nail prying out a loose brick in the alley side of the bookstore’s wall, thank you very much. But if it helps you”—her smile disappeared and her lovely green eyes grew serious—“and it helps put this whole sad mystery to rest, then it’s worth an acrylic tip.”

I wanted to reach over the counter and hug her, but at that moment the woman studying the menu came to a decision and started calling out an extremely complicated order without bothering to see whether Makayla was ready.

“Thank you,” I mouthed and, leaving my coffee on the
counter for the time being, headed for the restroom. I didn’t dare examine the find in my office and didn’t want to chance having another agent enter the coffee shop and spy whatever it was that Makayla had removed from a hollow behind a loose brick.

I locked myself in a stall, hung my purse on the hook, and opened the brown bag. I pulled out a transparent photo sleeve and held it to the light. Inside was an eight-by-ten image of a group of teenagers seated in a row of chairs. The students were all wearing shorts and T-shirts bearing the Woodside Creative Camp logo (a paintbrush, pen, and the masks of comedy and tragedy over a roaring campfire), while the three adults in the photo wore polo shirts embroidered with the same crest. The hairstyles of both the campers and counselors were dated. The men had pronounced sideburns, and both they and the boys had shaggy, unkempt hair while the females wore theirs long, straight, and parted down the middle. The room where they’d gathered looked like a rustic lodge and featured an enormous stone hearth and handwoven rag rugs on the floor.

My eyes were immediately drawn to the girl seated in the middle of the group of campers. After seeing Marlette’s drawings, I’d recognize her anywhere. Sue Ann’s dark, calculating gaze was unmistakable, but the way she held her body was also familiar. With one hand placed saucily on her hip and her bust pushed forward, she was striking a pose I’d seen Luella perform a dozen times, especially when a man was present.