In Plain Sight (13 page)

“Eight!” I echoed. Yesterday it was five. How long before she was accusing me of carting them off by the carload?

“Eight, yes, that’s what she says. Anyway, she claims these books are missing, and no one but you had access to them.

She says you worked alone in the house while she was away overnight.”

“Yes, I was alone there one day. Which gave me the perfect opportunity to make off with any number of items, I suppose. Is she missing a potato peeler? Or perhaps something larger? That leather furniture is quite nice. And I had time to call in my criminal cohorts, the Over-the-Hill Gang, and make off with a sofa or two. Although the bigger stuff is difficult to handle when you all have lumbago and rheumatism.”

Sgt. Yates frowned disapprovingly. “Did anyone ever tell you, Mrs. Malone, that you have an attitude?”

Apparently he just had. I remained silent.

“She didn’t go so far as to request that charges be filed against you—”

“How generous of her.” I’m not, unfortunately, above a bit of snide sarcasm as well as facetious exaggerations.

“But she wants us to investigate.” He frowned again, pulling that scar across his eyebrow into greater prominence. Did the criminals he interrogated find that scar intimidating? I did. It had an attitude of its own. “I’m with the Major Crimes Unit, and this isn’t the type of case I usually handle, so I didn’t talk to her personally. But when I saw your name on the report I became … concerned.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I can tell you, as I told her, I don’t know anything about any missing books. I may have been the only person with access to them at the moment she discovered they were missing, but who knows how long they’ve actually been gone?”

“An interesting point.”

“As I pointed out to her, many people may have had access to the books before I came along.” I ignored the echo of Leslie’s accusation about my “ready list of ‘someones’” and plowed through the possibilities.

“I’ll suggest the officer check on what you’ve mentioned.”

“Does Leslie indicate when that master list of books was made up? Was it before or after her father’s death?”

“Why do you ask?”

“If it was an inventory made after his death, then yes, the books are missing now and someone must have taken them. But if the list was made while he was alive and the books still in his possession, perhaps he simply disposed of some of the more valuable ones but didn’t take the names off the list. I believe the check marks on the list were made by an expert on the basis of titles and authors only, not a physical examination of the books.”

Sgt. Yates folded his arms across his uniform. “Read a lot of mystery books, do you, Mrs. Malone?” he inquired.

I felt myself reddening. Okay, I’d been hitting Mike’s library of mysteries rather hard lately. But that was surely irrelevant to this situation. I tossed his question back at him. “Why do you ask?”

“No particular reason.”

Which we both knew was less than accurate. He was thinking that with my excursion into minute details I was trying to play clever amateur sleuth like some character in one of those mysteries. The one who comes up with that tiny but vital clue all the experienced officers and detectives have inexplicably missed.

He made no further comment along those lines, however. Instead he said, “Why don’t you tell me a bit about your … ah … involvement with the books. Ms. Marcone indicated that you were organizing them, I believe. She requested that you do this?”

“No. I volunteered.”

“I see.”

A world of speculation in those two small words. Obviously, I should have stuck to the old army adage of never volunteering. I explained about my past as a librarian.

“There really wasn’t all that much housekeeping to do with only one person in that big house, so I had extra time.” Then, feeling as if I might only be digging myself in deeper, I stopped the explanations.

“Well, we’ll see where we can go with this,” Sgt. Yates said, not committing himself. I thought the interview was over. Because it had definitely been an interview. He may have been “concerned” about me because of his friendship with Mike and DeeAnn, but he was all cop, and this was business. Then he surprised me with another question.

“How do you feel about all this, being accused of something you say you didn’t do, and getting fired?”

How did I feel? It seemed a non-cop type inquiry, too touchy-feely for a lawman, yet he was watching me with interest. Although at the moment I was undecided as to whether it was friendly interest or the kind of interest a scientist has in a wiggly new microbe he’s peering at under a microscope.

“Well, I … uh … I’m certainly not happy about it. It seems unfair. And it’s frustrating that I don’t have any way to prove my innocence. Unless your department uncovers the real guilty party.”

“Yes, it does seem an unfortunate circumstance. I hope you’re not frustrated enough to retaliate in some … ah … physical way?”

I blinked at him. Physical way? “You’re suggesting … what? That I might push Leslie down the stairs? Arrange for that dining room chandelier to fall on her? Whack her with an oar from the boathouse?”

“You’re very imaginative, Mrs. Malone.”

For a moment I thought he might actually be teasing me. There was a certain glint in those steely cop eyes. But it’s difficult to discern teasing when a man is watching you from under an Al Caponetype scar on his eyebrow.

“According to official reports you did send a member of the Braxton clan up in Missouri to the hospital with a concussion.”

I mentally rolled my eyes.
One little incident in my life, a purely
accidental incident as I was trying to escape a dangerous criminal,
and Sgt. Yates acts like I’m a major menace.
“This isn’t the first time you’ve mentioned this,” I pointed out. “I really don’t think it has any connection with the current situation. My life was in danger then.”

“Maybe I’m impressed with your … ah … unexpected capabilities.” Was there a smile behind that statement? I couldn’t tell. Then he added, “My father has been a widower for a number of years now. He’s somewhat older than you. But very active. Maybe you two should meet.”

I was astonished at this apparent indication of approval. Was he suggesting that a woman capable of sending a Braxton to the hospital and jail would make a nice companion for his father? On second thought, it occurred to me that he could be saying that his father, who presumably did not go around attacking strangers, might be a good influence on me. I murmured a noncommittal, “That might be nice.”

He appraised me a minute longer but didn’t pursue this line of thought. Perhaps he decided he should check with his father before making any rash commitment to introductions. “In any case, you may be assured that we won’t railroad you into a prison term,” he added solemnly.

“Good. I’d hate to be known as the Blue-Haired Book Snatcher who got sent up for twenty years.”

I felt restless after Sgt. Yates left. I thought about checking to see if there were any bookstores in Woodston or nearby towns where the thief could have sold the books. But the thought that I might encounter a deputy investigating at those same stores, a deputy who might report my sleuthing to Sgt. Yates, dampened that idea. So I went with a different one.

13

I looked up the name I’d scribbled on a scratch pad when I talked to DeeAnn. The only Diedrich in the phone book was an Alton. I dialed the number, and a woman answered on the fifth ring. Not a hello.

“Can you hold on a minute?” she asked on a frantic note. “Tricia threw a toothbrush in the toilet, and if she flushes it—”

So I held on, intrigued by the clunks and rattles and splashes associated with fishing in a toilet. Then the sound of the phone being picked up again.

“Okay, sorry, thanks for waiting. It’s been one of those days. Kip got hold of my stamps and pasted them in a coloring book. Lisa ate a crayon and threw up. All I need now is for the toilet to plug up.”

“Is this Cass Diedrich?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Who else would want to be me?”

“Uh … you don’t know me, but my name is Ivy Malone. I’ve been working as a housekeeper for Leslie Marcone—”

“My sympathies.”

“I understand you also used to work for her, and I was wondering … I hate to bother you, but do you suppose I could come over and talk to you for a few minutes?”

Given her bad day and a certain animosity in her tone about my connection with Leslie, I expected a rejection. I intended to add the persuasive point that Leslie had fired me, but I didn’t have to. She said, “Sure. Come on over. I could use some grown-up conversation. But I think I should warn you about the Terminator.”

“The Terminator?”

“The kids’ pet rat.” As if knowing what I must be wondering, she added, “The kids named her that. Don’t ask me why. She got loose this morning. But don’t worry. She’s friendly. She just likes to crawl under your armpit.”

I dug out a local map and looked up the address given in the phone book. Fifteen minutes later, arms protectively clamped to my body to deter armpit attackers, I was knocking on the door. I’d tried the doorbell, but it seemed to be out of order.

A frazzled-looking semi-blonde opened the door. She was wearing old black leggings and a sweatshirt, no shoes. Red polish decorated the toenails of one bare foot, but the pedicure had apparently been interrupted before it reached the other foot. A couple of angelic-looking little blonde girls peeked out from behind her. Which meant a third child—and a rat—were on the loose somewhere.

“Come on out to the kitchen. I’m washing dishes. The dishwasher is on the blink.”

The stacked dishes suggested they’d been accumulating for some time, perhaps in hopes the dishwasher would heal itself. I’ve also been known to hope some mechanical breakdown would spontaneously heal.

“How about if I wash dishes, and you do … whatever else needs doing?” Looking around the crumb-strewn floor, empty rat cage, and scattered toys, I figured that there was quite a lot that needed doing.

She looked at me in amazement. She didn’t brush off the offer. “Would you? That would be wonderful. Al, that’s my husband, he’s a truck driver, has been gone since last Wednesday. He’ll be getting in tomorrow, and I’d like to have the house at least halfway clean for him.”

There was already water in one side of the double sink, but it looked a little thick to qualify as dishwater, so I pulled the stopper and started over. Cass disappeared into another room and came back with a load of dry laundry that she dumped on the table. She started folding and I started washing, keeping a wary eye out for anything furry interested in my armpits.

“How did you ever manage to work for Leslie Marcone when you have such a … busy schedule?” I asked.

“Al was out of work then, so he stayed with the kids. You wanted to talk to me about my working for her?” She suddenly sounded wary.

“Actually, I’m not working for Leslie anymore either. She fired me yesterday.”

“Ah.” Cass nodded knowingly, and the wariness went out of her voice. “Up to her old tricks, I see. What was her beef with you?”

“She accused me of stealing some valuable books.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember those boxes of books. The only time I ever went in there was to vacuum and dust. I love to read, but …” She waved a hand in the direction of the kids, all three now playing on the floor and supplying sound effects for a trio of toys whose batteries had apparently long since worn out. “Maybe someday I’ll get beyond
The Fish That
Jumped over the Moon
. That’s their current favorite.”

“Were you happy working for Leslie?”

“I needed the job.” (Honk of child imitating truck horn.)

“You quit because your husband found work?”

“Quit?” (Squeal of child doing skidding brakes.) “Oh, no. She fired me too.”

Somehow this was no surprise. “If you don’t mind my asking, for what reason?”

“There were usually leftovers from her meals. It was hard to figure exactly how much to cook, because you could never tell if she was going to eat like a pig or a hummingbird. And, as you undoubtedly know, she won’t touch leftovers.” (Rumble of toy tractor as interpreted by small girl.) “Anyway, it seemed a shame to throw out good food, and we could sure use it, so I started bringing the leftovers home.”

“Leslie objected?”

“She threw a hissy fit when she found out. Acted like I’d made off with family heirlooms. I suppose I should have asked first, but it just didn’t occur to me that she’d care. After all, as far as she was concerned, after she was done with it, it was garbage.”

“I wonder why what you did with the leftovers mattered to her at all?” (Truck and toy tractor colliding. Crash sound effects.) It was a rather disconnected conversation, but I was getting a more complete, if still puzzling, picture of my former employer.

Cass shook her head. “I think maybe she thought I was cooking too much so there’d be leftovers to bring home. But I’m not really sure. There were lots of things I never could figure out about her. Like why doesn’t she answer the telephone about half the time? Why is she such a fanatic about exercise?”