Death Overdue (Librarian Mysteries) (11 page)

“I came up the stairs from my room, which you know is on the main floor. I even have my own bathroom, right next to the garden room. Quite cozy.” She hiccuped a last sob.

“I’m sure. What did you see?”

“Well, they were all standing around, and it didn’t look good for Sally. Then the medic guys came and said she was dead. I couldn’t believe it, I really couldn’t. Not Sally.”

“In your job as cleaning lady, did you ever notice if the bookcases were unhooked from the walls?”

“No, I wasn’t really allowed in that room very often. Caldwell always said he’d dust it himself. Very particular he was about those books.”

“So you never went in the library?”

“Once in a while I did. To wash the floor, you know. Maybe every couple of months. It didn’t get very dirty since no one hardly went in there, except for him. That room was always kept locked.” She nodded in Caldwell’s direction.

When the coroner told her she could step down, she stood up, then pointed a finger at me. “But it’s all her fault. Whatever happened to Sally. If that woman wouldn’t have come, everything would be like it was. Sally would still be alive.”

I
couldn’t believe what I had heard Brenda say. I knew she had never liked me—maybe because I was American, maybe because she was jealous of my relationship with Caldwell. I had always been so careful not to tell her what to do or to get in her way. But I had never been able to please her.

Caldwell stood and addressed the coroner in a loud voice. “That is a ridiculous accusation. Karen had nothing to do with Sally in any way. Why, she had only just met her that afternoon.”

“Please come to order,” the coroner demanded.

I took Caldwell’s hand and pulled him down by my side.

“We’ll have a fifteen-minute recess and then hear the last witness.”

Brenda ran out of the courtroom before anyone else. No one went after her. I certainly didn’t know what to say to her. Caldwell and I walked out of the room slowly as people stared at both of us.

Just to get away from the eyes, I slipped into the restroom. I looked at myself in the mirror. What had just happened? It felt as if I’d been accused of murdering a woman I didn’t even really know.

I washed my face and dried my hands, then renewed my lipstick. My face was rather wan, but that dash of rosy pink helped.

The doors of the stalls looked inviting. Just slipping behind one, closing the door, and reading while the inquest went on sounded like such a good idea.

As I never went anywhere without one, I did have a book in my purse. But as tempting as it was to go into a stall and close the door behind me, then sit and read a few pages of Karen Armstrong’s terrific memoir
The Spiral Staircase,
I resisted. Caldwell had defended me, and he needed me now.

He was waiting for me right outside the door. “I’m so sorry about that, Karen.”

“Oh, we’re all on edge. I understand Brenda wanting to take it out on me. I know how bad she feels about Sally’s death.”

“No excuse,” he said. We reached out for each other’s hands and walked back into the courtroom.

After a few minutes of everyone filing back into the room, the coroner returned to the throne he sat in and called the last witness. “Would Dr. Steinbeck please take the stand?”

The doctor came forward from where he had been sitting at the back of the room. I hadn’t noticed him before, but then he exemplified the word
nondescript
: a small gray man in a gray suit, with gray hair. And with him gray meant “no color at all.”

“Dr. Steinbeck, what is your occupation?”

“I’m a forensic examiner specializing in dactyloscopy.”

“That is?” the coroner asked.

“I analyze the impressions left by the friction ridges of a human finger. In other words, fingerprints. I analyze fingerprints.”

“And in this case where did you find fingerprints that you could analyze?”

“I was brought in to look for latent fingerprints specifically on two items of interest: the hook on the top of the bookcase and the bookcase itself.”

“And did you find fingerprints?”

“Yes, I did, sir. Yes, using a Kelvin probe scan, which is able to pull prints off of rounded surfaces, I found partial fingerprints on both objects.”

“And did they match any fingerprints to your knowledge?”

He nodded solemnly. “Yes, they matched exemplar prints that had been made at the scene of the crime.”

I remembered us all lining up to have our fingerprints done. I had been surprised by how much of the fingers they printed, not just the tip but almost the whole finger. I wondered what name he was about to say.

“Whose?” the coroner asked, leaning forward.

“There was a nice slice of a print on the hook, and then I got a larger print off the back of the bookcase. In my estimation both of them came from the same person.”

“Yes?” the coroner urged.

“Caldwell Perkins.”

“No.” The word popped out of my mouth.

Next to me Caldwell put his face in his hands. An audible gasp came out of several people sitting near us. I couldn’t tell who.

“What do you make of this?” the coroner asked.

“I can say no more than it is probable that Mr. Perkins was the last person to have touched these two objects.”

O
n the ride home from the inquest, Caldwell and I held hands. We talked of little, both of us shocked by what he had just been through. I wanted to reassure him, but I wasn’t sure I could find the words.

When we drove up to Caldwell’s house, he dropped my hand as we saw a police car sitting in front of it.

“Not already,” he said with force.

“We must help them all we can so this inquisition will be over sooner,” I said. “Don’t worry. They might have come to tell us good news, maybe officially declaring Sally’s death an accident.”

When we walked in the door, Inspector Blunderstone clomped down the hallway toward us with heavy, authoritative steps. He nodded, and the cop standing by the door pounced on Caldwell, seizing him by both hands.

“I’m afraid we’re taking you in, Mr. Perkins,” the inspector said, while not looking one bit afraid. I wanted to kick him in the shins. “I’m formally placing you under arrest.”

“For what?” I asked, while wondering what an informal arrest looked like.

The inspector turned toward me as if he couldn’t quite recall who I was. “For the murder of Ms. Burroughs . . .”

As he was speaking, the constable was putting handcuffs on Caldwell.

“Is this really necessary?” Caldwell asked, looking back at his hands.

“Just a precaution, sir. Very routine.”

“I’d hate the neighbors . . .” Before he could say anything more, a wail came from down the hallway.

Brenda walked up behind the inspector, yowling, “He’s the best man there is. He hasn’t done nothing wrong at all.”

Behind her came Penelope, who had her hands up near her mouth as if to stifle a similar sound.

“But on what grounds?” I asked.

The inspector stopped for a moment and said, “It has been determined that the bookcase could not have fallen over by itself. As Mr. Perkins’s fingerprints were on both the
bookcase and the unhooked hook, I’m arresting him on suspicion of murder.”

“Maybe Sally pulled the bookcase over on herself,” I suggested, desperate to keep them from taking Caldwell away.

“I’m afraid not. Her fingerprints were not found anyplace on the front of the bookcase. Just yours and Caldwell’s were found. As was to be expected.”

When it became obvious that Caldwell was going to be trundled off in this most undignified manner, he turned to me and said, “Can you manage this place on your own?”

“I won’t be on my own,” I assured him. “I’ll have Brenda to help me and we’ll do fine. Don’t worry about that at all. And we’ll have you out in a jiffy. Should I call your lawyer?”

“Yes. His number is written on the wall in the kitchen under emergency numbers. Mr. Clotworthy Prentiss-Hipp.”

“I’m sure I’ll find it.” I was trying to stay calm for Caldwell’s sake, but inside an earthquake was shaking loose my innards.

Caldwell leaned toward me as if he wanted to give me a kiss before he was taken away, but the constable pulled him back and turned him around. The inspector fell in behind him, and I stood back with Penelope and Brenda.

The constable pushed the door open, and led Caldwell down the steps and into the street. It was everything I could do to stop myself from running after him, beating on the constable, and trying to get Caldwell away from this
madness. But I restrained myself and stood silent until he was seated in the police car and it drove off.

Then I broke down. It might not have been obvious to the two women standing with me, but Rosie would have known I was falling apart. I was having trouble breathing and my hands were clenched tight together.

In my mind I was saying over and over again, “It will be all right. It will be all right,” a mantra I always used when I knew it might not be all right. For some reason, the statement still seemed to work.

I took a couple of deep breaths, turned, and asked my companions what had happened.

“Well, the inspector came in and went upstairs before I could stop him, then . . .” Brenda said.

“I had just arrived home before you,” Penelope explained.

I held up my hand and said, “Stop. One at a time. But first let’s go into the garden room and sit down.”

“I’ll make tea,” Brenda suggested.

As much as I didn’t want another cup of tea, I nodded my head. She needed something to do.

“While you’re doing that, I’ll call the lawyer. Penelope, why don’t you turn on the fire?”

I followed Brenda into the kitchen. She hustled about heating the water and getting out the teapot. I read through many telephone numbers written on the wall until I finally found the lawyer’s name in Caldwell’s familiar scrawl.
I dialed the number, hoping that the gentleman would be home.

“Clotworthy Prentiss-Hipp speaking,” a man’s slight voice answered.

“Yes, this is Karen Nash. You don’t know me, but I’m calling for Caldwell Perkins. He needs you. He’s in trouble.”

There was a silence on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry,” the voice said, tentatively.

“Yes, I am too. But that’s the way it is. It’s about his old partner in his business, Sally Burroughs. She died here in the house. Books fell on her. Then there was an inquest and now he’s gone.” I knew I wasn’t being very coherent, but the words seemed to pour out of me on their own.

There was silence on his end of the line, then he said, “I still don’t understand why you’ve called me.”

“Caldwell Perkins, your client, has been arrested for murder,” I said as plainly as I could.

“Oh,” Clotworthy Prentiss-Hipp said quietly, “that’s not good.”

“I
t’s all my fault,” Brenda wailed when we all were finally seated in the garden room, the teapot and cups perched on the small coffee table.

I took over pouring the tea since I didn’t trust her to do it without spilling, the state she was in. The sound of her voice was making all my nerves jangle. I had to calm her down or I would be forced to hit her.