Pinned for Murder (23 page)

“That sounds good. I haven’t noticed any yet, but the weather has been fairly good since the storm and it’s enabled me to keep the windows open all day long.”

Glancing up from his notepad, he studied her. “There’s another room now, isn’t there? A kids’ room?”

“Yes.” Beckoning him to follow, she led the way down the hall. “But, as you’ll see, that room suffered no damage at all.”

They stepped into the room, a small, gasplike sound emerging from the man’s mouth. “Wow, this is spectacular.”

“Thank you. We like it.” She walked into the room and spun around, her hands indicating the lowest level of shelving. “No water. No damage. Which made us happier than I can tell you.”

He flashed his first smile. “Trust me, we’re happy, too,” he said as he began wandering around the room, peeking at titles and studying the various drawings on the wall. “Why didn’t they have this kind of stuff in the libraries when I was a kid? Maybe I wouldn’t have dreaded being dragged there by my mother quite so much.”

“I don’t know. But I do know that it’s kids like you just described that prompted me to want to do this.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “Of course. Sure, there’s a part of me that wanted to reward the kids who already love the library. Take their enjoyment to the next level. But there was another part that wanted to find those kids who despise the library and despise books and capture their interest.”

“You’ve certainly captured mine.” He took a step forward then stopped, his hand digging into the costume trunk. “They get to play dress-up?”

Again, she nodded. “They get to act out their favorite stories . . . make them come alive beyond the pages of the book. Sometimes they act it out exactly the way it happened in the story. And sometimes they tweak a character to have a different trait . . . or change the ending to see what might have happened.”

“Wow. I love this place. It’s . . . I don’t know . . . it’s happy, I guess.” He pulled out a gingerbread costume and held it up. “What story is this for?”

“Do you remember the line, ‘you can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man’?”

The man’s face lit up. “I do! He has all these animals and people chasing him, trying to eat him, right?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

He chuckled. “I bet the kids have a fun time acting that one out.”

“They do.”

He reached inside again, this time grabbing hold of a vest. “And what about this one?”

“That’s for Robin Hood.”

“Oh, yeah. He was a good guy. He did what most of us wished we could have done.”

“Steal?” she teased.

“I suppose, if you get technical about it, it was stealing. But back then, as a kid, it just seemed like the right thing to do.”

“How so?”

Turning the vest over in his hand, he opened it wide and slipped it on, the child size costume coming just halfway down his chest. “Well, the rich people already had everything they needed and they really didn’t need anything else. Yet there were so many people who
did
need things—things like food and clothes and a place to live.” He dug around in the chest again, pulling out the matching hat and placing it on his too-large head. “Kind of like what happens when a storm hits and people lose everything they own. When that happens . . . and those images are played on televisions across the country . . . I always wonder what the rich people are thinking while they’re watching it. You know, do they feel bad? Do they wish they could help? Or do they just sit back in their leather chairs and change the channel with their remote control?”

She couldn’t help but grin as he turned to check himself out in the wall-mounted mirror, his middle-aged body looking rather silly in the child’s costume. “He was a hero for doing what he did,” he finished.

“Funny how people don’t see it that way when it’s not happening on the pages of a book.” The second the words were out, she wished she could recall them. Now was not the time to lament the injustice that was being done to Kenny Murdock. There would be time to work on that task after some of her red circles were tackled.

“I suppose. But I can tell you this much . . . if I’d lived in this town when I was a little boy, I’d have been wearing this costume every time I came here.”

Peering over his shoulder into the mirror, she couldn’t help but laugh. “I think you would have had some competition.”

“From who?”

“A little boy named Curtis who loved his childhood trips to the library as much as I did.” She took the hat from the man’s outstretched hand and positioned it atop her own head. “He told me Robin Hood was his favorite book as a kid. That he, too, liked what the character stood for.”

“How could you not?” He slipped the vest off and folded it neatly in half. “Anyway, is there anything that you want to
say
is damaged? We might be able to pull it off so you can get money to buy something you need . . . maybe more chairs? Or a table for the kids to sit at?”

“I appreciate that, but you and I both know that wouldn’t be honest. Besides, we just got a donation that will cover a few things I’ve been wanting to do in here for . . .” Her voice trailed off, her mind transporting her back to a similar conversation not too long ago—a conversation where she’d listed each of her remaining dream items for the room. . . .

Feeling her mouth begin to gape, she covered it with her hand, a troubling notion taking shape in her thoughts as a face appeared before her eyes.

“Miss Sinclair? Are you okay?”

She shook her head against the thoughts that threatened to consume her where she stood. “I’m going to have my assistant show you the damaged books. I—I have to go, I have to . . . I have to look into something that just came up.”

“Hey, I was only kidding about what I said. I wouldn’t really falsify a claim.”

Jogging toward the door, she paused her hand on the light switch, the sense of urgency her gut had created compelling her to keep moving. “Don’t apologize. Please. That statement—joke or not—may have just saved someone’s life.”

Chapter 21

It made sense. Perfect sense, actually. But if she’d learned anything from her own experience as a murder suspect, the more convincing the evidence she could provide to the identity of the real killer, the better.

A conversation, where she happened to mention her wish-list items to a man who happened to respect Robin Hood for his actions, wasn’t enough. Not yet, anyway. She needed to lay all the pieces side by side until the picture emerged with such startling clarity that his hand in Martha Jane’s murder couldn’t be denied.

But where did she start?

“The wish list,” she whispered, her words echoing her thoughts. Breezing into the main room, she motioned Nina over. “Nina, something has come up that I need to address right now. Could you take a few moments to show Mr. Fielding the storm-damaged books?”

The woman nodded, her dark hair bobbing against her shoulders. “I’d be happy to, but is everything okay? You look upset.”

“Not upset. Just surprised . . . and, I guess, a little hopeful that I can make a difference.” She gave her assistant’s hand a gentle squeeze and turned back toward the same hallway from which she’d just come, her office her destination of choice this time around. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I promise.”

The second she entered their shared office, though, her confidence began to slip. What if she was wrong? What if the thoughts swirling in her head were nothing more than a case of someone grasping at straws?

Was it worth getting Rose’s hopes up for something that might be nothing at all?

No.

But she needed to bounce her suspicions off someone, see if what made sense to her made sense to anyone else. . . .

She dropped into her desk chair and stole a peek at the wall clock. Milo’s school day was still in full swing, the final bell not set to ring for two more hours.

Her shoulders slumped. Could she really wait another two hours to share her thoughts with someone?

No. Not unless you want to explode . . .

Glancing around her desk she looked for something, anything, to keep her busy for the next two hours. There were books to order as per the second red circle on the calendar, calls to return, next month’s event and activity calendar to schedule, and an order to be placed for the table and chairs in the catalogue. . . .

“The catalogue,” she whispered. Bolting upright in her chair, she pushed the calculator off the booklet and started thumbing through the pages, her hand finding the dog-eared page with surprising speed. It stood to reason that if someone knew exactly what you were going to buy, he or she could give you the exact amount of money.

Curtis knew what she wanted. He’d stood there in the children’s room with her, listening to her talk about the table and the chairs, the curtain and the brackets. But even with that kind of knowledge, he had no idea where she’d go to purchase those items.

She needed to talk to someone, someone who would hear her out and help her brainstorm all possible avenues. . . .

Eyeing the clock once more, she grabbed the phone from its base and punched in Margaret Louise’s number, the digits as much a part of her memory bank as her favorite color and the sound of her late grandmother’s voice.

The phone was answered on the first ring. “Why Victoria, I was just thinkin’ ’bout you.”

“We need to talk.”

The woman’s loud, boisterous laugh filled her ear. “That’s what I reckon we’re doin’ right now.”

“No, I mean in person.”

“You found something out, didn’t you?”

Had she? She wasn’t sure. But it was worth following . . .

“I’m not sure, but I think so. Can you come over?”

“Are you at home?”

She shook her head, then realized the gesture was futile. “No. I’m at work. In my office.”

“I’ll be there lickety-split.”

Replacing the phone in its base, Tori swiveled her chair around and stared out at the hundred-year-old moss trees that adorned the lawn of the Sweet Briar Public Library. From the moment she’d started working there, she’d loved this view—the trees, the occasional pedestrian meandering along the sidewalk, a few avid readers stretched out on benches with their latest stack of borrowed books. It was a view that gave her peace and afforded clarity at moments when she needed it most.

She had no idea how long she sat there, staring into space, but it was long enough for the ears she needed to show up at her door.

“I got here as fast as I could,” Margaret Louise huffed as she strode into the room and over to the pair of rattan chairs in the corner. “Of course I got stuck behind some old man drivin’ at a turtle’s pace . . . land sakes they seem to come out of the woodwork when there’s places to go, don’t they?”

“I’m just glad you’re here.” She stood and walked over to her friend, her body suddenly too antsy to be confined to a chair. “I don’t think Kenny stole Martha Jane’s money.”

“You’ve said that before. So what’s different now?”

“I think Curtis took it.”
There.
It was out. In the open.

She stole a look at her friend, the woman’s unusual silence making her suddenly less sure of her thought process. “Just hear me out, okay? It makes sense, it really does.”

In a tone that sounded a lot like babbling to her own ears, she laid out her train of thought, including the who and why that had gotten her to the drifter’s front door. “I think it was a day or two before the money showed up that he stopped by the library. I remember being surprised to see him because I hadn’t necessarily pegged him as a reader—though, in hindsight, he fit the stereotype perfectly. He’s quiet, a little brooding, and he drifts from town to town. What makes a better companion for someone like that than a book?”

“A needle and thread . . . a swig of moonshine . . . take your pick.”

“Margaret Louise!” The woman’s silly asides always made her laugh, and today was no exception. In fact, if she was honest with herself, they helped to lessen the tension that had her body in knots. “Could you follow along, just this once?”

As her friend shifted her weight a touch, the chair beneath her creaked and groaned. “Go on. But you might want to hurry it along. I’m not sure this pretty little chair can take my big ol’ body much longer.”

“Anyway, he came to drop off some books he’d finished reading. They were mostly popular titles and they were all in pristine condition. He said he bought them before he moved on from his last place of employment. He reads them once and then donates them to the library in whatever town he’s in at that point in time.”

“A carpetbagger with a bent toward philanthropy? Now isn’t that a fine howdoyoudo?”

She cracked a smile. “We got to talking . . . about how libraries played a big part in each of our childhoods. He told me about the carpeted stairs he used to sit on as a kid while he looked through book after book and I told him about the little rocking chairs that I adored.”

“I saw one of those rockin’ chairs at Stu’s week before last. I think Lulu would love one, don’t you?”

“I do.” She exhaled a strand of hair from her forehead and continued on, the words finally starting to lead to the part that mattered most. “I took him back to the children’s room to show him what we’ve done and he loved it. I don’t think I’ve seen a man react to that room the way he did . . . except for maybe Milo and Mr. Fielding.”