Checked Out (18 page)

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hat’s Lisa doing walking down Federal Highway with a Julie’s Smoothie? Helen wondered.

It was ten thirty Monday morning, and Helen had slept in. After their wild weekend, she was so hopped up on adrenaline she had trouble sleeping, so when the alarm rang, she slapped it until it shut up, then fell back asleep. She knew she wouldn’t be in any shape to investigate the library ghost’s murder if she didn’t get some sleep.

When she woke up at nine thirty, Phil was gone and Thumbs had been fed. She borrowed Margery’s Lincoln Town Car. In the big, square white car, Helen felt like she was driving a living room—a cigarette-smoke-filled living room. She rolled down Federal at a stately pace, terrified she’d ding one of the car’s fenders.

About a mile from the Flora Park Library, she saw the board president trudging along the side of the highway, carrying a clear plastic smoothie cup filled with something pink. Tall, thin Lisa looked hot and uncomfortable. Her colorless hair was wilted. Damp patches of sweat bloomed on her faded blue blouse.

Helen pulled over and got out. “Lisa,” she said, “may I give you a ride back to the library?”

“Thank you,” Lisa said, and sank gratefully into the Lincoln’s plush seats. “It’s hotter than I thought it would be.”

“Aren’t you worried about walking along Federal?” Helen said. “There are no sidewalks here.”

“Most of the walk’s through Flora Park,” Lisa said, sipping her smoothie, “and that part’s pretty. Nobody ever has any problems. The library staffers and patrons walk over to the smoothie shop all the time. The drinks are probably full of sugar, but I feel so virtuous walking there. The heat and humidity got me today. I’m glad you stopped.”

“Are Julie’s Smoothies good?” Helen asked.

“The best. I like the mango-strawberry with a scoop of protein powder,” Lisa said. “I feel guilty indulging, but I couldn’t stand any more break-room coffee. The staff never cleans the pot. The coffee tastes like tar.”

That’s what Charlotte told me, Helen thought. The late Charlotte Dams.

“Are the smoothies that expensive?” Helen asked.

“I guess not,” she said. “But Mother has Alzheimer’s and I can no longer care for her myself. I’ve had to hire someone to be with her while I’m at the library, but one person isn’t enough. Mother really needs full-time professional care and I have to move her into a home very soon. I need every dollar to get her in the best possible place.”

“I’m sorry,” Helen said.

“I am, too,” Lisa said, twisting a lock of her sad colored hair. “She’s such a good mother. Alzheimer’s is a doubly cruel disease. First it took Mother’s personality, and now it’s taking her life. She barely knows who I am anymore.”

“I am so sorry,” Helen repeated, and felt guilty for even suspecting Lisa. But a million dollars would definitely solve her
problems. And if a mother would do anything for her child, wouldn’t a child—a devoted daughter like Lisa—kill to keep her beloved mother in comfort?

Lisa’s straw made that sucking noise that said her smoothie was over. She stared silently out the window.

They were under Flora Park’s cool tree canopy now. Helen wondered if Lisa’s personal revelation had embarrassed her.

“Well, I didn’t mean to go on about my problems,” Lisa said. “Here’s the library. Thank you so much.”

Helen had barely parked the car when Lisa bolted and ran for the staff door.

Helen sat in Margery’s smoke-cured car, and noticed that Lisa had left her smoothie cup. She could see her fingerprints on the plastic surface.

White car. Fingerprints. Smoothie shop. Julie’s Smoothies was in the strip mall where the white car had been stolen and returned shiny clean. A car that had been in an unknown accident. A car . . . that could have been used to kill Charlotte.

I’ve been searching wrong, Helen thought. I’ve been looking for white cars that have been in accidents. But what if Charlotte’s killer didn’t use his—or her—own car? What if the killer stole the car?

Charlotte’s killer could have run—or driven—to the smoothie shop, hot-wired a car, then gone to the building where Charlotte had her job interview. The killer knew where Charlotte was going and her interview time. Helen had heard someone listening outside the Kingsley collection room door. The killer would have had time to hot-wire the white car and get to the parking lot before Charlotte.

Jared, the bitter janitor, already knew how to hot-wire. He was a mechanic.

The others might know, too, or they could have looked up the information online. Helen had seen the step-by-step hot-wiring instructions on the library computer. A patron could have looked up that information, but if the person hadn’t signed out before
their session was up, anyone could have conducted an Internet search on that log-in: Gladys, Blair, Seraphina and Lisa were all in the building. So was Alexa, for that matter. I was busy and distracted, Helen thought, hunting for a new computer mouse, and then filing a report. They could have slipped into the room then.

All I need are their fingerprints. I’ll take the prints to Detective Micah Doben, who’s investigating Charlotte’s murder. He can compare their prints with the print found on the stolen car’s steering column.

I won’t have to worry about confronting a killer. He can make the arrest and take the credit. I’ll take the cash when the killer’s caught.

I’ll have backup. That’s what we had last night when Broker arrested Trey. That’s what I’ll have today when I go after Charlotte’s killer.

I already have Lisa’s prints on the smoothie cup. Now I need the other five.

Helen locked Margery’s car. She found Jared near the staff door, working on the building’s drain spout.

“Hey, Jared,” she said. The janitor saluted her with his Coke can, took a last, long drink, then looked around for a trash can.

“I’ll toss that for you,” Helen said.

“Thanks,” he said. “This whole drain spout was about to come loose. I’ve been wrestling with it for over an hour.”

“Looks like you’re nearly finished,” Helen said.

Jared lowered his voice and asked, “Alexa’s not looking for me, is she?”

“Not sure,” Helen said. “I’m just getting in.”

“I’m running late. I had to fight the traffic all the way to West Broward Boulevard in Fort Lauderdale to pick up a copy of my accident report. The insurance company has been hounding me for it. I thought I’d run in and get it, but I had to wait in line. Took up half my morning and now I’m racing to catch up.”

“Your accident with your white truck?” Helen asked. “That happened in Fort Lauderdale?”

Charlotte was run down in Bettencourt, miles away, she thought.

“Didn’t I tell you? Happened right around the corner from the Home Depot on Sunrise. Some yahoo came flying around the corner and hit me. Of course, he’s not insured. Thanks for throwing that soda away for me. I’ve gotta go back to work.”

“See you later,” Helen said, and mentally scratched Jared off her suspect list.

Inside the library’s staff entrance, she tossed Jared’s soda can in the trash. Jared was such a perfect suspect, she thought. He’s bitter enough to kill, he needs money and he knows how to hot-wire cars.

As she passed the break room, Blair and Gladys were chatting. Once again, Blair looked like a librarian stereotype in a baggy pantsuit and a white blouse with a limp bow. A cup of hot tea completed the ensemble.

“Join us, Helen,” Gladys said. “The library’s new
Economist
arrived and I came in to read it, but I got wrapped up in a conversation with Blair.” Gladys had her biker boots propped on a chair. For once, the librarian wore pants instead of a short skirt.

“I was reading the
Library Journal.
” Blair held up her magazine.

“What’s so riveting?” Helen asked.

“The
Economist
says we have Neanderthal DNA,” Gladys said.

“I believe it,” Helen said. “I dated a few.”

“You and me both,” Gladys said, and smiled. “But it’s a scientific fact that most of us have one to three percent Neanderthal DNA. Here, you can read the magazine.”

She handed it to Helen, leaving more fingerprints on the shiny surface. That was easy, Helen thought. “Thank you so much,” she said, then realized she sounded ridiculously grateful for a library magazine.

“You like magazines that much?” Blair said.

“Love them,” Helen said.

“Well, I’ve finished reading mine. I’ll lend it to you if you promise to return it. I’ve marked several reviews of books I want to read.” The head Friend of the Library had been amazingly friendly to Helen since she’d been allowed to sort through the Kingsley collection. Helen wondered why. She’d never trust that woman. She was sure Blair had put that rattlesnake in the musty box of books.

Helen held up her fingers in the Girl Scout pledge sign. “I’m trustworthy, brave and loyal,” she said, and took the
Library Journal
. “Now I have hours of good reading when I get home. But I should be shelving books.”

“There’s a full cart behind the checkout desk,” Gladys said. As Helen started to leave, the librarian said, “Helen, I’ve said this before, but I really do appreciate your volunteer work.”

“I enjoy it,” Helen said.

Oddly enough, she did. As she trundled her full cart over to the shelves, Helen counted the reasons: Shelving was good exercise. It was useful and satisfying. It was soothing to put the books in their proper places, and straighten out the tangles. Like this one: What were three Sandra Brown mysteries doing in the middle of Rita Mae Brown’s cozy cat novels? Helen put Sandra after Rita, where she belonged.

I need two more sets of fingerprints, she thought—Alexa’s and Seraphina’s. Alexa’s should be easy. I’ll stop by her office for an update. But what about Seraphina, Elizabeth’s snarky friend? I remember her looking at the books by the door here.

Helen pushed the heavy cart over to that rarely visited section. The large-print biographies were shelved there, far away from the large-print novels. Seraphina was tall, and Helen remembered her looking at a book at the end of the top shelf. A slim white book with blue writing. There it was, wedged next to a black metal book support:
Seriously . . . I’m Kidding
by Ellen DeGeneres.

Seraphina would have had to move the book support to pick up that book, Helen thought. Fingerprints would show up better on the smooth metal book support than the book cover. And the library won’t miss it. I have two extra supports on my cart. She switched out the supports, and put the one she hoped had Seraphina’s prints on it on her cart.

Nothing left to shelve but two children’s books. Helen put them away, then rolled her cart down the dark hall to the library supply room. The oak bookcases Charlotte had used for her makeshift home were shoved against the wall, and all traces of her were gone—blankets, battery-operated TV, even the energy bars.

The library supplies were shelved in front, neat as ever, but now two metal shelves were moved aside so there was a narrow path to the dumbwaiter where Charlotte had hidden the watercolor. Fat dictionaries were piled near the door.

Helen pulled five large manila envelopes off the shelves and labeled them. She put Blair’s
Library Journal
in one, Gladys’s
Economist
in another and Seraphina’s book support in the third.

Two empty envelopes waited for Lisa’s smoothie cup and whatever Helen could scrounge from Alexa’s office. She put the envelopes in one of the purple Flora Park Library totes stacked on a shelf. There were so many of those floating around the library, the lavender bags were invisible.

Next, Helen called Detective Doben’s number at the station.

“Hello?” he said. Helen stayed silent.

“Who’s there?” he demanded.

Helen hung up.

If I ask the detective if he wants the fingerprints, he’ll probably say no, she thought. Now I know he’s in his office. Hope he stays there until I get to the Bettencourt police station. I have one more stop—Alexa’s office.

Helen always felt better when she entered the library director’s
office. It was so civilized. Alexa wore a striking black suit with a crisp white blouse that emphasized her unusual hair. Once again, she was frowning at a computer, and sipping a bottle of water.

“Hi,” the library director said. “Do you have something to report?”

“I will later this afternoon,” Helen said.

“Want some spring water?”

“I’ll have to take it with me,” Helen said. “I need to leave for an appointment.”

Alexa turned her back to get a cold bottle out of the small fridge behind her desk, and Helen quickly checked the director’s desk for something that would hold a print. There it was. A fat plastic pen.

“May I borrow your pen?”

“That one?” Alexa said, and handed it to her. “It’s a freebie. Here, keep it.”

“Perfect,” Helen said, careful to take it by the end. She could almost see Alexa’s fresh prints on its smooth plastic surface. She slid it into the envelope in her purse.

“Were you surprised when Seraphina bought that incredibly expensive car?” Helen asked.

“No. I predicted she’d buy something outrageous,” Alexa said. “Retail therapy, remember? I’ve just about talked her into heading the Flora Park Library Restoration Campaign. I think she’ll say yes in another day or so.”

“Thanks,” Helen said, when Alexa handed her the bottle of cold water. “How about a late lunch at Café Vico this afternoon?”

“The cute Italian restaurant on Federal near Sunrise?” Alexa asked. “I’d love it. I’ll meet you there at two o’clock.”

“See you there,” Helen said.

But first, she had to present her case to Detective Doben. He would find the killer, thanks to her evidence.

Should I order Café Vico’s tiramisu or the cannoli to celebrate? she wondered.

A
ll the way to the Bettencourt police headquarters, Helen debated with herself: Will Detective Micah Doben listen to me? He has to. I’m giving him the solution. Yes. No. What’s he gonna lose? But he doesn’t like me. Well, he’ll like my information.

She pushed Margery’s car over the speed limit, in a hurry to get to the police headquarters next to the golf course. Once there, Helen was afraid to park her landlady’s car in the lot with the sign warning drivers to beware of the golf balls.

Instead, she parked the Town Car on the street, grabbed her purple tote bag and hurried into the police station, where she told the old, gray cop at the desk, “I have information for Detective Doben about the fatal hit-and-run at Broward and Bettencourt Street.”

“Your name, miss?” the cop asked.

“Helen Hawthorne,” she said. Now Doben had to come out, she thought.

He did, though he made her wait twenty minutes. Today, the plump, potato-faced detective wore a beige suit with a dark brown
shirt and a yellow-and-brown tie. His socks were yellow, too. He also wore a plain gold band and Helen wondered how his wife could let him leave home in that outfit.

“Ms. Hawthorne,” the detective said. “You have information?”

“I have the solution to the case, right here,” she said, and patted the tote.

“By all means, come in,” he said, bowing low. He was mocking her, but Helen didn’t care.

Doben led her to the same cluttered cubbyhole with the coffee-ringed table where they’d talked last time. “Now, where’s your so-called solution?” he said. His sneer was as ugly as his suit.

“As I told you, Charlotte Dams was homeless and living at the Flora Park Library,” Helen said. “She’d discovered a million-dollar watercolor in a book and hid it. She was killed for that watercolor by one of five people connected with the library.

“Since I talked to you, a white car was reported stolen and returned to a strip mall about a mile from that library. The car had been cleaned and polished. Inside that car were white cotton gloves—the kind librarians use to handle rare books.”

Helen hoped to surprise the detective with her next bit. “The returned car was impounded by the police for further examination. Was Charlotte Dams’s DNA found on the stolen car? Do the white paint chips on her body match the car paint? Was that stolen car used to kill her?”

“You’re saying a librarian stole a car?” Helen heard Detective Doben’s disbelief.

“Only two of the suspects are librarians,” Helen said. “One’s a society woman, another is the board president and the third is the head of the Friends of the Library.”

“All known car-boosting professions,” he said, his sentence sticky with sarcasm. “Almost as bad as librarians.”

“Just because they seem to be nice women doesn’t mean they can’t commit murder,” Helen said.

“But you don’t know if they did,” Doben said. “You say you have five suspects. Can you narrow the killer down to one person?”

“Well, no,” Helen said. “But I have materials with their fingerprints right here in this bag, all labeled. All you have to do is check five sets of prints against the print found on the murder car’s steering column.”

“Five!” he said.

“Right,” Helen said. “I have two sets on two different magazines, a plastic pen, a smoothie cup and a library book holder.”

“I doubt those items would stand up to judicial scrutiny,” he said.

“Maybe not,” Helen said, “but if a set of prints did match someone, it might create enough probable cause for you to obtain a search warrant to get the person’s fingerprints for a second test.”

He stared at her, stone-faced. Helen babbled on. “Bearing in mind that the US Constitution protects us from unreasonable government search and seizure—I’m not a government employee. I didn’t break any laws getting these fingerprints. So this evidence would be hard for a judge to suppress.”

Helen smiled. She’d handed him the case all wrapped up in a big red bow. He didn’t seem happy with his present.

“I don’t need you to quote the law to me, Ms. Hawthorne,” he said. “I’m surprised you didn’t bring your mouthpiece with you this time. I won’t have a civilian—”

“I’m a private eye,” Helen interrupted.

“—waste my time,” he continued. His voice was low and lethal, his complexion a dangerous red.

“You show up here at this station one more time and I’ll have you arrested,” he said. “Better yet, I’ll have you committed. You
can’t prove there’s any connection between the stolen car and the library, except that it was found in a parking lot a mile away.”

“Yes, I can,” Helen said. “What about those white cotton gloves left in the car? Librarians use those!”

“So do mimes, Ms. Hawthorne,” he said. “But they’re smart enough to keep silent.”

His laughter followed her out of the room.