Overdue for Murder (Pecan Bayou) (19 page)

"I needed to talk to you about something."

"You, uh, could have called."

"I know, but I also needed to discuss this with Edith as well."

Peter gestured me into the newsroom behind a swinging half door.

"Did you hear about Martha Hoffman?" I asked.

"No, but I did have a message to call a Sergeant George Beckman this morning from the Pecan Bayou Police Department," he said. "Is she the person who killed Vanessa? I hadn't had a chance to call. To tell you the truth, it's awfully nice to be away from all of that."

"I know. I wouldn't mind being away from it, too. Martha Hoffman was found dead."

"Seriously?" Peter's chair wheels squeaked on the tile floor.

"Pretty serious. Someone strangled her with the belt from her robe."

"When?"

"I guess it was night before last. They said she probably knew who her killer was, but here's the thing – they found a note that was typed up and signed by me saying I was going to kill her."

"Did you write her a note like that?"

"No. That's why I'm here," I said. "I need to find out where everyone who was at Vanessa's murder was during Martha's murder."

"You mean like an alibi?" Peter laughed. "Okay, another alibi for the police over there. Let's see, I guess I was home alone that night because Edith was out doing a book talk at the Texas Sweethearts Romance Readers Club. That gives you her alibi too, so you won't have to track her down – and trust me, you don't want to have to track her down. You wouldn't believe the grief she gave me seeing you hugging me at my front door."

"Good to know," I said. "I appreciate that, Peter. I'll check with the people at the romance novel club to corroborate Edith, but how about you?"

"No can do. I was watching a baseball game on television. That's all there was too it. I went to bed before the game even finished. Since Vanessa's death, I seem to be sleepy all the time."

"Well, that's what the police are probably calling about."

"Have you ever thought of the possibility that the two murders are not connected?" he asked.

"Not really," I replied. "Both women were involved in the author night. They have to be connected."

"Maybe Martha finally stamped somebody's library card the wrong way," he said.

"You mean like mine?

"Yours and half the town's. I was in there one day trying to check out something in an old Sports Illustrated, and she was telling off some little kid for bending a page. She wasn't exactly Mother Goose."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Later that day when I walked into the children's section of the Pecan Bayou Library, Peter's words echoed in my head. Maybe the two murders weren't connected, but somehow I felt I had to piece together the first murder in order to get whoever did the second one.

"Can I help you?" I turned around to see a pleasant young woman dressed in a pink short-sleeved blouse and gray skirt. "Yes ... um ... no. I was just looking around. The place looks a lot better than the last time I was here. I should probably tell you I'm the person who discovered Vanessa Markham's body on the floor there." I pointed to the freshly replaced carpet.

"Oh," she said in recognition. "That must have been awful for you." What a marked contrast she was to Martha Hoffman. Maybe the library job bitters you after a few years, but this girl was delightful.

"I was just wanting to look around for a bit."

"Oh," she repeated. "No problem. Take as much time as you would like."

"Let me ask you," I said, "do you know exactly what time the painters left that day?"

"Um, I heard it was around 4:30 or 5," she said. "I could get you the name of the painting contractor, if you would like."

"That would be great, thank you," I answered as I followed her back to the checkout desk.

"I usually work on the weekends so I wasn't here that day," she said. "After Martha was ... found ... my schedule was changed to full-time, so now I'm here during the week."

"Congratulations ... sort of."

"I know. It doesn't seem right. Martha put her heart and soul into this library, and even though I wanted her job, I sure didn't want it this way." She wrote down the name of the painter on a small piece of paper and handed it to me. "Anyway, I hope you find what you're looking for."

I walked back over to the children's reading area and positioned myself to stand where she was when she fell. If someone came in through the accordion doors, everyone in the library must have seen them. Could the person have been hiding somewhere in the room, and if they were, how did they get into the room in order to hide after the painters left? There had been a wet paint sign on an easel that I remembered having to step around. It would have noticeable from Martha's perch at the checkout desk. Maybe the person slipped in when Martha was telling off some little kid for bending down the corner of a page?

I glanced around the room looking for a place to hide. The bookshelves were all waist-high so the killer would have to have scrunched down behind one of them. In one corner was a giant cardboard grandfather clock. I walked over to it and pulled it away from the wall. The backside of the clock revealed an open cavity that could have easily housed a person who was hiding. I put the cardboard clock back against its resting place. The seven-foot-high monster from
Where the Wild Things Are
filled up the other corner. He was big enough and wide enough that someone could have easily hidden behind him. I walked over and slid him out a bit to see how easy it was to hide. As I moved the giant stuffed creature, I discovered how the killer got past the librarian. The monster was blocking another door.

The killer could have used that door to sneak in and then sneak back out again. The door had a sticker on it claiming an alarm would sound if the door was opened. I could understand why they would put the enormous stuffed monster over there to discourage little ones from trying the door and ending up in the library parking lot.

Knowing I would probably get myself in trouble but at this point not really caring, I tried opening the door. As I pushed on the metal bar, the door opened out to the side of the grassy lot the library stood on. Where was the alarm? I took in a deep breath and waited for sirens in my ears. After about twenty seconds of silence, it seemed there were to be none. I let the door close behind me and then tried to reopen it. It was locked. So I knew how the killer got out, but I wasn't sure how he or she might have entered. As I walked back around to the front of the library, I pulled my cell phone out of my purse and called my dad.

"Did you know there's a door to the outside in the children's section of the library?"

"Yes, but the library staff always tries to keep it blocked and there's an alarm on the thing."

"I have news for you," I said. "I just opened it and there is no alarm. Getting out was pretty easy."

I heard the squeak of his office chair at the police department, and I knew he was pulling up to his computer. "That changes things a bit."

"It sure does. It had to be used by the killer either to get in or out."

"Or both."

"The door is locked from the outside, but the room was being painted. What if the painters opened that door for ventilation while they were working there?" I suggested.

"The killer could have slipped in the open door and hidden."

"One problem, though."

"What's that?"

"How did Vanessa Markham get in?"

"Now that's a good question."

"Do you have the name of the painting contractor who was working in the children's section that day?" I asked.

"Sure." I heard a couple of papers shuffle. "It was Mid-Texas Painting."

"Were you the one who questioned them?"

"No. It was Arvin Wilson. I'm not allowed, remember?"

"I remember. I'm thinking about heading over there."

I heard a yawn on the other end. "Will you look at the time? Lunch already? I'll meet you there in twenty minutes."

*****

I didn't recognize the caller ID of my next call as I drove to the address the dispatch operator of Mid-Texas Painters told me to go to. Today they were painting a house over on Walnut Street.

"Miss Livingston? This is Damien Perez. I need to speak with you. Can you meet me somewhere?"

"Sure. What is this about?"

"I just need to speak with you, alone," he said.

"Okay, how about we meet at Earl's Coffee in about an hour and a half?"

I parked on the street beside a medium white panel truck with the sliding door in the up position. I could see the tools and cans lined up neatly inside the truck. The painters of Mid-Texas Painting were sprawled out on the lawn enjoying their fast-food lunches, some of them already napping in the shade of the tree.I walked up to the men, and one of them rose from the lawn and wiped his hands on his white-splattered coveralls.

"What can I do for you? Need something painted?" he said.

"Most likely, but I'm here about the job you did at the public library a week ago."

"Oh, that job. Are you sure this isn't police business?"

"I'm the one who discovered the body," I said. "I'm also the one that seems to be the main suspect in that killing and the death of the librarian just a day ago."

The painter looked at me and stood back a bit. He had to outweigh me by at least a hundred and fifty pounds, and yet he seemed nervous. "Really?"

I cut in. "I was wondering if you saw or heard anybody that day."

"I'll tell you just what I told the police. Didn't hear anybody and didn't see anybody."

"When you were painting, did you open the exit door?"

"Yeah, we had to," he said. "That old bat wouldn't let us open those folding doors, and we were going to die from the fumes in there. I wasn't supposed to, but I had to think of my men."The men sitting on the grass nodded in agreement.

"Did you ever leave the room and also leave the door open?"

"When we ate lunch," he said. "We went out to eat under the trees at the library." The trees he spoke of were about fifty feet from the door that had been propped open. Someone could have easily slipped in if the men were not looking directly at the door.

"Did your men maybe doze off under the trees?" said my dad, who had joined us.

"I think we all did that day. I had a terrible headache from the paint not being ventilated right," said the painter.

Now I knew how the killer got in – but what about the victim?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

An hour later, I sat at Earl’s enjoying anything but a caramel macchiato. Possibly an iced coffee would keep me from crashing my car into the local trees.

"Thank you for meeting me so quickly, Betsy." Today Damien Perez had on a black short-sleeved shirt and tan pants. He wore his sunglasses up in his pitch-black hair, and as he spoke, he fingered the gold watch on his arm.

"You must know I am quite distraught over Vanessa's murder."

"Of course."

"I am mourning, the same as Peter, even though Vanessa and I quarreled shortly before her murder."

I was confused. "I thought you broke up?"

"Yes, yes. We broke up, but that wasn't something I wanted. It was what she wanted. I was in love with her."

"If I may ask, what was the reason she gave to break up with you?"

He stretched out his arms and placed them behind his head as he seemed to be remembering their affair with great fondness. "I know, it is hard to believe. We had been so happy together. We were like a symphony together."

"But she wanted to end it?"

"Unbelievable. She said she had become bored with me. Me? I was greatly surprised by this."

I took another sip of my coffee, set it down and leaned toward him across the table. "So what did you want to share with me? Did you remember something that you forgot to tell me?"

"I found something. Quite by accident." He leaned over and took a cell phone out of his pocket. "I am terrible with this thing. My agent wants me to wear one of those earpieces so he can constantly be calling me." I had the feeling phones were like women for Damien Perez. He would be the one to decide when and where to use them. "I had to check on a text my publicist sent me for another of those dreary book signings. That is when I discovered it."

"What?"

"A text ... from Vanessa. She texted me a few hours before her murder."

Damien tapped the buttons on his smart phone until a text screen appeared.

I cannot see you. I have to deal with this woman. What she is doing is wrong and I can't let her get away with it.

"You know her husband was having an affair with Edith Martin. Maybe she found out after the first author night," I said.

"I don't believe so," Damien replied. "I watched her that first night in hopes that she had changed her mind about us. Her eyes weren't on Edith. She didn't seem to notice her at all."

"What was she looking at?"