Death Overdue (Librarian Mysteries) (10 page)

“And when they find out what happened to Sally?”

“The inquest will resolve that,” Caldwell said with a deep certainty that I did not feel.

“T
his is horrible. I can’t believe we have to go through this,” Caldwell said as he fastened the top button on his suit coat.

“I know, but the inquest will be over soon. Maybe then we’ll know what happened, or at least what the police suspect,” I told him, stepping in closer to adjust his tie. I had rarely seen him so dressed up: a suit and a tie—he looked mighty handsome, if rather somber.

I wasn’t as dressed up, but I wore my one dark skirt, a peasant blouse, and a light cotton sweater—even though it
was a warm day, I knew those public rooms could be over-air-conditioned.

“Karen, all an inquest does is ascertain how the deceased came to be dead—it does not try to establish who might be guilty.”

“Oh, so we won’t learn anything we don’t already know?”

“We must wait and see.”

Almost everyone in the B and B was going to be at the inquest: Penelope as the closest of kin, Alfredo as Sally’s lover (he didn’t quite fit into the category of civil partner yet), and the rest of us as concerned persons and witnesses.

Bruce, since he had slept through most of the event and had never even met Sally, was not going. The police had not deemed his presence necessary. This morning, as per usual, he’d headed out bright and early with his list of bookshops to visit, and I would be surprised to see him before nightfall.

Alfredo and Penelope had left right after breakfast, even though the inquest didn’t start until ten thirty.

Caldwell insisted that Brenda ride with us. She was wearing a clean but dowdy-looking shirtwaist dress. She had pulled her hair back tight, which I thought gave her face a squinched look. She looked more like a librarian than I did. As we walked out the door, she avoided looking at me. I wondered, as I often did, why she hadn’t warmed to me.

We had decided to take a cab so we wouldn’t have to try to find parking, which, according to Caldwell, was getting
harder and harder even though they had passed the tariff for cars going into the City.

Caldwell held the door of the cab for me. I slid across on the backseat. Then Brenda climbed in and sat on the jump seat, and Caldwell slid in next to me. He gave the driver the address and off we went.

“I’ve never been to an inquest,” I said, trying to be conversational. “Have either of you?”

“For my auntie,” Brenda murmured.

“Oh dear. Why? What happened to her?” I asked.

“She died,” Brenda revealed.

“Under unusual circumstances?”

“She choked,” Brenda said.

“On what?” Caldwell asked.

“Turned out it was a peach pit,” Brenda said. “That’s what the autopsy report said. But I didn’t even know she liked peaches.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“Wouldn’t have been so bad if it would have been something she liked. She loved oranges, but kind of hard to choke on an orange pip.”

I grabbed Caldwell’s hand but didn’t look at him. He squeezed hard, and we both managed not to break out laughing. The ride was short and quiet.

When we got to the Laws Court building, we were directed by a signpost to the basement. Somehow it seemed
right that, like the autopsy, the inquest should take place in the bowels of the building.

It was a small gathering in the courtroom. The coroner presided and started by calling Inspector Blunderstone to the stand.

The inspector told the coroner what he had found on arriving at the scene: “A forty-two-year-old woman named Sally Burroughs was lying on the floor of a library surrounded by books. The room was located on the second floor of a house that was being run as a B and B.”

“Was she dead when you arrived?” the coroner asked.

“Yes, quite dead, sir.”

“How was this determined?”

“The paramedics had tried to resuscitate her and called her death at around four
A.M
. That was a good half an hour before I came on the scene. So I think it was safe to assume that she was very dead.”

“When you arrived what were you told had happened?”

“That after a loud crash, said woman, Sally Burroughs, had been found under a bookcase full of books, which had fallen on top of her, so to speak.”

“Indeed. And is that what it looked like to you?”

“Yes, it did. However, in order to help the woman, the books and the bookcase had been taken off her, you know, to see if she was still alive. So I didn’t actually see her under the books.”

“Very good.” The coroner looked down at his desk, then asked, “Were you able to ascertain how the bookcase had come to fall?”

“Yes, it appears that the hook which attached said bookcase to the wall had been unhooked.”

“So it fell by itself?”

“It might have, but I rather doubt it. The bookcase stood in front of an old-fashioned door that led to the hallway and was locked. But this door had a transom at the top, which is where they are usually located, and this transom could have been pushed open and thus the bookcase could have been pushed from the hallway, if you see what I mean.”

“I do indeed,” the coroner stated. “Please continue.”

“Well, I don’t mean to repeat myself, but the top of the bookcase stood right in front of the transom, and the door itself was about six feet tall, so anyone who was tall enough or had use of a stool or ladder could have pushed with enough force to cause the bookcase to topple.”

“So what you’re saying is that someone might have caused the bookcase to fall and killed the poor woman?”

“Yes, that is a distinct possibility.”

After thanking the inspector for his time, the coroner called Penelope Burroughs to the stand.

“What is your relationship with the deceased?”

“I am, I mean, I was her sister. I guess I still am.”

“Are you the closest of kin?”

“In a way. There is my mother, I guess she might be closer, but she’s not very compos mentis.”

The coroner looked at her, his eyebrows sinking down over his eyes. “She’s not very what?”

“She’s very muddled. She seems to forget from time to time that Sally has died. So I didn’t think she should come to this.”

“Yes, I see. Did you find your sister in the library?”

“No, I think it was Caldwell, the owner of the B and B. He was my sister’s significant other for many years, and he’s a really nice man. I think he was the first one to find her.”

“Was anyone else there?”

“Yes, that woman,” and here Penelope pointed to me. “Karen Nash. She was already in the library when I came in.”

“Did you take the books off your sister’s body?”

“I think I helped. It’s all rather a blur, but I would have helped, wouldn’t I have? You see we hoped that she was still all right even though it didn’t look very good. There wasn’t really any blood or anything. Just so many books. And she was lying so still, never moved.”

*

Next was Caldwell. He squeezed my hand as he stood to take the stand. I squeezed back and off he went. I knew he was nervous as he didn’t like speaking in public much.

“State your full name.”

“Caldwell Perkins, sir.”

“Mr. Perkins, you are the owner of the B and B where the deceased was residing at the time of her death.”

“Yes, she was one of my guests.”

“But you had known her previously?”

“Yes, for several years. Sally and I had run the B and B together.”

“You were on good terms with her?” the coroner asked, looking over his reading glasses.

“Actually, sir, I was on no terms with her—neither good nor bad. I hadn’t spoken to her in nearly seven years.”

“And why is that?”

“She ran off on me.”

“Were you upset by this?”

“Yes, I was at the time. Surprised, but also rather relieved.”

“Why?”

“Sally didn’t like running the B and B, and she made her feelings clear. I was doing most of the work anyway, and so it was actually easier after she left.”

“But now she came back and wanted to reclaim her ownership.”

“That’s what she said.”

“How did you feel about that?”

“Again, surprised to see her after all this time, but willing
to work something out. I was planning a change of careers myself.”

“To what?”

“A bookseller.”

“This is why you had so many books?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How many books do you have?”

Caldwell’s eyes met mine. He admitted, “Four thousand three hundred and twenty-four.”

“Hmm. And they were all in this room?”

“Most of them.”

“Were they on sturdy bookcases?”

“Yes, the bookcases were made to carry such loads, solid oak. I had them made to order.”

“And had one ever fallen over before?” the coroner asked.

“No, I was careful about that. As has been established, I had them attached to the walls with hooks. It’s an old house and the floors aren’t exactly level, but I shimmed the bottoms of the bookcases and attached them to the walls. So, they shouldn’t have fallen over—even if they had been unhooked.”

“Had you unhooked them from the walls?”

“No, sir. I hadn’t done that.”

“Did you ever unhook them?”

“No, sir. I didn’t. No need.” He hesitated, then continued. “That’s not quite right. I might have unhooked one to move the bookcase, but that was long ago.”

The coroner told him he could step down.

Next up was Alfredo. Before even being asked he announced who he was. “My name is Alfredo Remulado von Savoy.”

“My,” said the coroner. “That’s a good mouthful of a name. Where are you from?”

“But of course Italy.”

“How did you know Sally Burroughs?”

“I was sleeping with her,” Alfredo announced.

“So you were with her the night she died?”

“I was in bed with Sally that night.”

“Do you know why she got up and went to the library?”

“I don’t know. She wanted to read, maybe.”

“I see from the pathologist’s autopsy report that her blood alcohol was rather high. Had you been drinking a lot?”

“Yes, we have much wine with dinner. A celebration.”

“What were you celebrating?”

“To be in England, you know. Sally was happy to be home. She had not been for a very long time.”

“How did you come to find Sally that night?”

“I hear this screaming so loud from that woman.” He pointed at Brenda. “I can’t stand it. I get up and go to the hall and see there are people in the library. I go there and my Sally is on the floor. She had died.” Here Alfredo looked at the coroner and said, “You know I had loved her very much.”

After Alfredo, I was called to the stand. I must admit it
felt odd to be in front of all the people who had been at the scene of the crime and repeat what I was fairly sure everyone in the room already knew. Possibly even the coroner.

But I told him my name, mentioned I was a librarian from Sunshine Valley, Minnesota, and said that I was considering a move to England to be with Caldwell Perkins.

“Describe what happened the night of Ms. Burroughs’s demise, please,” the coroner asked of me.

“Sally came to the B and B that afternoon. Both Caldwell and I were surprised by her appearance, since the room was registered under Mr. Remulado’s name and we had no idea she was coming. She told us her plans . . .” I paused.

“And they were what?” the coroner prodded.

“That she wanted to reclaim her part of the B and B and that she was back to stay.”

“How did you feel about this?”

“Well, I thought it was grossly unfair to Caldwell. After all, he had been running the business for years without her. And when she had deserted him she said that he could have the B and B.”

“Were you upset about this?”

“I’d say more stunned and confused. I don’t always understand the way things work in this country, and I wasn’t sure what this all could mean for Caldwell.”

“Then what happened?”

“Well, as you heard, Alfredo and Sally went out for dinner and came back fairly late. Caldwell and I were sleeping, but I woke when they came up the stairs because they were so loud.”

“Why were they so loud? Were they fighting?”

“No, nothing like that. They were laughing and stumbling about. They sounded very drunk. Then I fell back to sleep and I was awakened by a loud crash that sounded quite near. When I sat up in bed, I saw that Caldwell wasn’t there and I was scared that something had happened to him.”

“Why did you assume that?”

“I wasn’t thinking logically. Just where my mind went in the middle of the night.”

“What did you do?”

“I jumped out of bed, opened the door, and saw Caldwell standing in the doorway of the library. He looked horrified.”

“Had he already been in the room?”

Oh, how I wished I could answer with any certainty that he hadn’t been. But I had to speak the truth. “I really couldn’t tell, but it appeared that he had only just come up to the door and looked in.”

“But there was no way for you to know this,” the coroner insisted.

“No,” I admitted.

Brenda was the next witness, but she wasn’t much help. She was crying so hard she could barely say her own name.
When she had wiped her face and settled her tears, the coroner asked her what she knew.