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“How's the website coming?” Carol asked in a whisper.

“Pauli's quite the tech expert. He's doing great.”

Carol smiled, fairly bursting with appreciation as Lola showed up bearing chocolate chip cookies.

We all sat at my dining room table scraping the last bits of cheese and pasta from Carol's casserole dish. “Ummm, this is so good,” Lola said. “If I'm not careful, I won't fit into Lady C's costume.” Her mauve top hugged her in all the right places.

Pauli asked to be excused, pushed at the hank of hair flopped over his forehead, and sauntered into my living room with his laptop.

“I heard you visited Chief Thompson.” Carol winked and nibbled on a cookie. “Lucky you.”

“Word gets around fast.”

“Did it have something to do with the murder?” asked Lola.

“I told him about Rita's cousin and the woman visiting Jerome,” I said.

“You did?” Carol sat up straighter.

“What woman?” Lola asked.

Carol and I proceeded to fill Lola in on Monica Jenkins. “Who do you think she is?” I asked. “Could she be someone connected to the ELT?”

Lola frowned. “I don't think so. I would have known about it.”

“Do you think anyone else at the theater might know who she is? I mean, where else would he meet her? He seemed to spend most of his time there.”

The three of us sat at the table munching on cookies, thinking.

“Online? It's very popular these days. I even tried it,” Lola said.

“You did? You never told me.”

“Match.com,” Lola said. “I was kind of nervous about it.”

“Jerome would need an email account.” Carol brushed crumbs off the front of her sweater.

“I'm pretty sure he had an account, because most of the ELT communication is done via email.”

“Well, if Jerome had access to a computer and wanted to find someone, it wouldn't be a challenge. A guy his age, still in great shape? Not a problem,” I said. “But if he had a computer, Chief Thompson must have it. If he didn't, where could he borrow computer time? The theater?”

“There's one in Walter's office, but no one touches it except Walter. And sometimes Penny.” Lola finished her coffee and wiped her mouth. “There's always the library.”

“What?”

“There are computers at the library. I took a workshop there a couple of years ago on using Internet databases, searching the Web, things like that. It was full of people Jerome's age.”

“Great idea.” I thought about Jerome's reading habits. It was likely he'd spent some time at the Etonville Public Library.

Lola glanced at the wall clock, its hands registering six-thirty. “Board meeting tonight. I told Walter I'd stop by a little early. Did you speak with Henry about getting some time off?” She was so hopeful, I was touched.

“As long as I can cover the dinner rush, I'll be able to sneak away around eight a couple of nights a week.”

“Oh, Dodie, that's perfect. We don't usually get started until seven or seven-thirty by the time everyone gets there anyway. I'm so glad you'll be on the scene.”

“Penny will be up in arms.”

“It's for a good cause.”

“I've got to go back to the salon for an hour. I'll drop you off at home, Pauli,” Carol said and cleared the table.

We loaded the dishwasher and left the casserole dish in the sink to soak, and Carol and Lola hurried off in separate directions.

I
proceeded down Main Street to Amber and stopped at the red light. To my left, I could see the entrance to the police station, and that made me think of Chief Thompson. The little buzz I got from remembering his eyes and hair and muscled arms made me wonder about my love life. On the corner of Belvidere and Amber, I pulled into the parking lot of the Etonville Public Library. The April air was brittle, and a brisk wind had picked up overnight. I turned the collar of my jacket up around my ears. The morning sunlight was fierce—not as fierce as it would be glinting off the ocean, but still intense. I missed this time of day down the shore, especially in the spring. No summer crowds yet, few people on the boardwalk, the gulls not as aggressive as they would be in a month or two. I used to meander in the sand and feel the wet granules squish between my toes. That was another life.

The lobby of the library was bustling for eight-thirty in the morning. Directly ahead was the main circulation desk. Off to the right side, a small group of senior citizens, each toting a book, chattered animatedly and filed into a conference room. I recognized a few from the ELT. On the left, a patient young man ushered exuberant tots into a reading room filled with kiddie chairs. Behind the circulation desk, Mildred Tower multitasked, the phone at her ear while she stamped the cards attached to the flyleaves of half a dozen volumes. Mildred and her husband ate dinner at the Windjammer at least once a week, always ordering the soup of the day, salad, and dessert. Rarely ever the entrée. You don't forget patrons with that pattern. The two of them were on a perpetual diet that seemed to have little impact.

I loved the smell of libraries, the dust and floor polish and aging paper. It did something to my insides. Immediately I relaxed and regretted the fact that I had never stepped foot into the Etonville Public Library until today. The campus library had been the best part of my college experience.

Mildred nodded at me, her round face a grin from ear to ear, and held up a finger to “hold on.” I nodded back and looked around.

She replaced the phone in its cradle. “Hi, Dodie. May I help you?”

“Yes, please. I'm wondering if the library has a computer lab.”

“Of course.” She slipped out the half-door that separated the oval reception area from the rest of the lobby. Despite her size, she practically sprinted to the back of the foyer and turned left, moving down a corridor that had a series of rooms on either side. I saw a foursome playing cards, and one of the players looked up as I passed the open door.

“Hi, Dodie.”

“Hey, Chrystal. Getting ready for
Romeo and Juliet
?” I asked the ELT's costumer.

She looked at me over the rim of her reading glasses and giggled. “Walter has us working on codpieces, dontcha know.”

Shakespearean costume history was not my strength, but even I knew that covers for the men's crotches were an Elizabethan custom. I'd seen leather versions on heavy-metal rockers; I couldn't wait to view the ELT variety. “Sounds like fun.”

I waved at Chrystal and quick-stepped to catch up with Mildred. I passed large multicolored murals with cartoonish characters grinning crazily. Someone's version of a nightmare.

At the end of the hall, Mildred paused beside an open door and waited for me to enter. There were four computer stations. Only one was being used. “Feel free to stay as long as you like.” She cocked her head to one side. “Do you have an email address, or do you need to set up an account?”

“I have an address. But how would I set up a new one?”

Mildred placed a plump hand on the top of the console. “It's very simple.” She touched the mouse and clicked on an item. “You begin here and need only follow the prompts. They will lead you through the process to create a new account and password.”

I nodded my appreciation.

“I imagine a young woman like you will have no problem finding her way. It's mostly the older gentlemen and women who aren't acquainted with the Internet.”

“Do you have many seniors using the computers?”

“Oh yes. Our computer room is very popular. Everyone these days needs to email. Well, let me know if you need any help. I'll be at the front desk until four.”

“Thanks. By the way, did you know Jerome Angleton?”

She put a hand to her mouth. “Poor Jerome. So terrible what happened to him.”

“Yes.” I allowed a proper beat. “Did he use this lab?”

“Oh, he was a frequent visitor,” she said. “To the computer lab, to our Friday morning non-fiction book club ...”

Jerome read other things besides mysteries and thrillers?

“... and our special collections,” Mildred added.

“The special collections?” I asked.

“In the basement. It's where we keep our rare books and papers.” She glanced at the wall clock. “I'm sorry, but I need to get back to the circulation desk,” she said contritely.

“No problem. Thanks for your help.”

As long as I was here, I might as well see exactly what Jerome would have had to do to get an email account. I clicked on the first prompt. I was able to set up an email address and password with a minimum of effort. If Jerome was surfing the Internet, it would be simple enough to come here for a few hours and check out various dating websites.

I decided to stop by the basement area before I headed to the Windjammer. Downstairs was the media room, with a checkout desk in front of rows of metal shelves covered with old VHS tapes, CDs, and DVDs. To the left were the small listening rooms with CD players and headsets. Directly across from the desk was a locked door with S
PECIAL
C
OLLECTIONS
stamped on a frosted window. I looked around; the floor was empty. Since there was no one to talk to, I retraced my steps to the lobby, waved good-bye to Mildred, and walked out into the sunshine.

* * *

Henry's cream of asparagus soup and grilled three-cheese sandwich killed during lunch. It took all hands on deck to handle the crunch of customers. But Henry was happy, and that made me happy. While my feet were running from the phone to the tables to the bar, my mind was slowly sifting through everything I knew about Jerome's life and death. It wasn't much.

I wanted to chat with Chief Thompson about the possibilities generated by the appearance of the mystery woman; but what could I add that I hadn't mentioned to him two days ago? There had to be something or someone else that could shed some light.

By three o'clock, I'd made up my mind. My break provided enough time to visit Ellison Street and hopefully get a look at Jerome's living space. And by going during the afternoon, I stood a better chance of dealing with the “friendly old man” instead of the “pill of a landlady.”

I stepped outside the Windjammer. The late-afternoon sun had reached its zenith and begun to drift toward setting. It was going to be a lovely evening, high sixties and a beautiful sunset. Of course, nothing could compare to the sun over the ocean. Though I loved Etonville, I missed the pounding waves and thin film of foam that lapped at the sand as the tide rolled in.

After a short ride, I pulled down Ellison Street, which seemed as quiet by day as it did by night. I checked out the houses across the street from Jerome's residence. No sign of Monica Jenkins on a front porch. There was plenty of street parking so I eased my Metro to the curb and switched off the motor.

In the mystery novels I'd read, I'd learned that when gathering evidence, adopting a low profile was often more productive than entering with guns blazing. My plan was to knock on the door, tell whoever answered that I was Jerome's friend, and ask, politely, to see Jerome's room.

I couldn't concoct some wild, cockamamie story in this town. Word traveled too fast. I needed to play it straight.

I walked to the front door, alert for any sign of landlady Betty Everly's father staring soulfully into the street. The living room windows were open, and classical music wafted through the sheer curtains. I rang the bell and the music softened. After a few moments, an elderly man opened the door, squinting into the late-day sunlight. He was probably late eighties, with thin wisps of white hair above his ears and around the back of his head. A noticeable paunch hung over a belt that kept corduroy pants and a flannel shirt in place. His light brown eyes were watery, his large nose lined with red threads.

“Yes?” he said and smiled cheerfully.

“Hello, is this the Everly residence?”

“Well, yes. My daughter is Betty Everly. I'm Charles Waters.”

“Mr. Waters, my name is Dodie O'Dell, and I was a friend of Jerome Angleton.”

His face crumpled and his mouth formed an O. He opened the door wider and stepped aside. “Please come in.”

I'd been preparing myself to have to convince someone to let me in. This might not be as difficult as I had anticipated. I followed him into the foyer. The house smelled like a combination of furniture polish and freshly baked cookies.

“So sad,” he said.

“Yes. He rented a room here?” I asked.

“That's right.”

“Did you know him well?”

“We played checkers on Sundays. I think he always let me win.” He stood helplessly at the foot of a staircase and gazed up the steps, as if he expected Jerome to appear and walk down them.

I never saw Jerome on Sundays. The Windjammer was closed, and the ELT rarely rehearsed on weekends unless a show was about to open. “That sounds like him.”

Charles wrung his hands helplessly. “I miss him.”

“Me too,” I said. “Do you think I could take a look at his room? I thought maybe I could find something to send to his family.” It was only a little lie.

Charles looked at me blankly as if the thought that Jerome had a family was completely unexpected.

“Well, you know the police were here. . . .” As his voice trailed off, Charles jammed his hands in his pants pockets and rocked backward on his bedroom slippers. “They took a few things.”

“Uh-huh,” I said and nodded. “That makes sense.”

He closed his eyes as though he might nod off.

“I'll only be a few minutes.”

“For what?” His eyes flew open.

“To see Jerome's room . . . ?”

Without another word, Charles turned, padded to the stairs, and ascended slowly, taking one step at a time.

We paused in a hallway dimly lit by a single window on the back wall. There were three doors, two on one side, one on the other. Charles opened the door to the second room on the left.

Somewhere downstairs, a phone rang.

“That's my daughter. She doesn't trust me home alone.” He smiled again.

“I won't be long,” I promised and scooted into the room. As Charles descended the stairs, I shut the door.

I wasn't at all sure what I was looking for, but I knew I had only a few minutes to scour the place. I allowed my gaze to work its way around the bedroom. Beige walls, a closet, a bed, a rocker, two watercolors of pastoral scenes, a small night table, and the bureau. No computer. I crossed to an old oak chest of drawers and noiselessly opened the top one. Boxer shorts, undershirts, men's handkerchiefs, and half a dozen pairs of socks. The next two drawers held folded shirts: short-sleeved, long-sleeved, and polo. The bottom drawer was nearly empty except for three pairs of pajamas still in their plastic wrap.

I spied the nightstand and slid open its single drawer. It held a Bible, a notepad and pen, and a well-thumbed copy of a Sherlock Holmes mystery, overdue at the Etonville Public Library.

I considered the room again. In the closet I found khakis, neatly pressed, two dark suits, some starched dress shirts, a cardigan sweater, and half a dozen empty hangers. Slippers and a pair of sneakers lay on the floor of the closet. I brushed the suits aside to see if I had neglected anything. No luck.

I moved to his bathroom and checked out the medicine cabinet. Just the usual. Cold and cough products, Vicks, lozenges, Advil, aspirin, and an out-of-date prescription for penicillin.

Surrounding the sink were an electric toothbrush, toothpaste, mint-flavored dental tape, deodorant, and disposable shavers in a ceramic cup. Under the sink, there were ten rolls of toilet paper, probably from Costco over in Crestmont, and a dozen bars of soap. A black men's travel kit held a worn toothbrush.

I crossed back into his bedroom, took a last look around, and was about to close the closet door when I remembered my mother teasingly reminding my father to check his pockets whenever he took off a suit coat, or she'd get to keep the valuables. There was always a treasure trove of fascinating stuff in his pockets—at least so it seemed to a ten-year-old—like lint, gum, and little slips of paper. Never any money.

I eased my hand into the first suit jacket and withdrew a fresh handkerchief. The other pocket was empty. In the second suit, I found an old pen and a matchbook. Then I slipped my hand into the inside breast pocket and withdrew a small velvet box. I flipped the lid and gasped. I was holding a diamond ring. Though modest in size, its clarity was undeniable. Jerome was getting engaged? I was dumbfounded. He'd never even hinted at having a girlfriend, much less a fiancée.

Usually when something bothered me, these little prickly hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. I could feel myself shivering even though Jerome's room was stuffy and warm. I slipped the ring box into my jacket pocket and hurried down the stairs. I couldn't have been in Jerome's room more than fifteen minutes, but Charles was waiting for me at the foot of the staircase, tapping his fingers against the bannister.