The Icing on the Corpse (24 page)

Chapter 38

After Adrian left, there were no more distractions. Stan had to sit with herself and figure out what to do about Jake. Not to mention the bombshell about Don Miller. Which wasn't really any of her business, but Fox had trusted her with the information. Which meant she should probably call Jessie Pasquale. If nothing else, it might buy Cyril some time if she could successfully weave it into some kind of narrative that culminated in Helga's death.

That was the problem. It seemed like a stretch for a ghost-hunting out-of-towner who had a mishap on an old staircase to have a connection with a woman murdered in a completely different place. Unless she could bring the right evidence to Jessie. Not that she knew what the right evidence was. She wished Fox had recorded his clandestine meeting with Miller. But what would that prove? That he didn't want a ghost hunt. Nothing else. But if she could find something, it would save her the dance of trying to convince Jessie when she clearly was content with her suspect sitting in his cell. Jake and Brenna were both already angry at her, why not go three for three and get Jessie firmly on board, too?

But even thinking Jake's name made her stomach hurt. The look on his face, before the suspicion and anger took over, had been pure hurt. Obviously with everything else going on he would be suspicious to see Fox in her kitchen this early in the morning. Especially after the whole googly-eyed thing when Fox first came to town. But did he really think that little of her, that with one spat she would start cavorting with someone else? Now who didn't trust whom?

That nagging, annoying voice that popped up whenever she needed negative reinforcement was off and running.
You're clearly starstruck by Fox, you never bothered to hide it. He probably thinks you're going to tire of this small-town stuff and look for a life with more flash and pizzazz. And, he thinks you don't trust him.

“But I'm happy here. I don't want more flash and pizzazz,” she argued out loud. Scruffy came over and held up her paw, clearly concerned for Stan's well-being. Stan rubbed her ears. “We love it here. We have a house and a business. And . . . I do trust him. I love him.”

Even as the words left her mouth, they shocked her. She hadn't allowed them to even pass through her brain before. It was too soon.

But was it, really? Or was that just an excuse to keep her distance? It had been so long since she'd been in a functioning relationship—her last boyfriend, Richard, was more a convenience thing since they worked together and understood each other's crazy schedules—that she wasn't sure she remembered how a real relationship should be. She'd dated Jake for four months. Why couldn't she love him already? Things didn't have to follow a pattern. Life was crazy. Love was definitely crazy. There was no right or wrong way to approach it.

She had some soul-searching to do, it seemed. Although now wasn't the time to try to sort that out, as Frog Ledge fell apart around her.

But maybe she could help prop it back up. Armed with a new resolve, Stan checked her watch. Ten-fifteen. The Frog Ledge Library was open until noon on Saturdays. And she had a date with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. And Betty, if she'd speak to her.

 

 

The Frog Ledge Memorial Library was hopping today. There was some kind of kids' program going on in the children's section, and every computer on the main floor was in use. The two librarians at the reference desk were running around like crazed chickens. Betty was nowhere in sight.

Stan waited nearly fifteen minutes before a computer freed up. She searched for “Doyle” and, as expected, was sent to the Sherlock Holmes novels. She located the books and pulled out
A Study in Scarlet
first. She read the first page, then flipped through the book, half hoping a signed confession would fall out. Just for fun, she went through each copy of each book in the stack, just on the off chance.

Nothing fell out. No names were written in the margins with an asterisk citing “killer” at the bottom. No key to a secret lockbox with said confessions either. What was she supposed to do, read each book and short story for a clue? This was silly. She sighed in frustration and replaced the book on the shelf. She needed Betty. Maybe Betty would understand the cryptic message delivered by both Arthur and Sarah, and actually speak to Stan to convey it. On second thought, she grabbed one of the Holmes books to check out. It had been a while since she'd read them. What was the harm? Maybe some of Holmes's logic could help her solve her own mystery.

Stan rounded the corner of the aisle and almost slammed into Carla Miller. Carla seemed to be everywhere lately. Fox's story flooded her brain. Had Carla known about her husband's attempt to bribe Fox? Were they in cahoots? It was highly likely.

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” Stan said. “Hi, Carla.”

Carla fluffed her too-big hair. It looked like she'd had a dye job recently. She had blond streaks shooting through the brown. “Hello there. How are you doing?”

“I'm fine. Getting ready for tomorrow's event?”

“The what? Oh, yes. Of course. The event. So difficult.” She nodded at the book under Stan's arm. “Doing some reading?”

“Yep,” Stan said. “It's a good weekend for some Sherlock Holmes.” Baiting her, just a bit. If her husband was bribing Fox to stay away from Felix Constantine's murder, he had to know something about it. And by default, Carla, too. Maybe they knew what Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was supposed to know.

“Holmes is a character, isn't he?” Carla nodded, as if confirming to herself. “So lovely to see you. I'm sure we'll see you tomorrow. Ta-ta!” And she hurried off, bracelets jingling. Stan watched her go. She didn't know Carla well enough to know if her behavior was strange. But it certainly seemed odd that her mother-in-law's memorial event seemed to have completely slipped her mind.

“Stan?”

She whirled to find Betty behind her. Betty's arms were crossed over her teal blue jacket, foot tapping. “Hey, Betty. I was about to come find you. Got a minute?”

Betty's lips thinned. “Not really. I'm putting together photos of Helga during various reenactments for our slide show tomorrow.”

“I can help.” She glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice. “I really need to talk to you.”

Betty sighed and dropped her arms. “Fine. Meet me in my office in five minutes. I need to pick something up at the front desk.” She turned and marched off.

At least she'd agreed to talk to her. Stan checked her watch. They had just about an hour until the library closed. While she waited for Betty, she figured she'd hit the ladies' room.

Weaving her way through the fiction section back to the main room, she headed toward the back of the building where a nice sitting area overlooked the gardens. The gardens themselves had benches for reading when the weather was nice, but you could still sit inside at the large window and experience some of that Zen. When there weren't fifty screaming children right over your head. Stan ducked into the hallway and through the bathroom door. And heard a voice from one of the stalls.

“I've just changed my mind, and I'd like it removed sooner than next weekend. How about today?”

It was Carla's voice. What was she removing? Stan held her breath, letting the door quietly shut behind her so the outside noise wouldn't filter in. She didn't dare walk to a stall for fear of being heard. Plus, Carla might recognize her bright purple sneakers.

“Yes, Dale, I understand that it's difficult with all the activity going on, but the museum isn't open tomorrow anyway. You need to call Marty Thompson back and tell him he must do it.”

Dale? Hatmaker? Had to be. Stan leaned farther into the bathroom, trying to angle her head around the wall that separated the stalls from the little entranceway so she could hear better.

Carla emitted a frustrated sound. “Then by Monday. First thing. I—”

As Stan leaned even farther forward, her cell phone fell out of her pocket and hit the floor with a resounding
smack.
She closed her eyes for a second, then bent and scooped it up. The stall had gone silent. Carla knew someone was there now. Cursing her carelessness—Hadn't she learned yet that she shouldn't carry that stupid phone in her pocket? She always forgot it there and could never find it later—she slipped out the door before Carla exited the stall. Instead of heading back into the main library, she ducked around the nearest corner into the hall where some of the staff offices were located. She held her breath, hoping Carla wouldn't come this way.

When enough time had gone by, Stan peeked out. The coast was clear. She hurried out to the main lobby, but Carla was nowhere in sight.

“Are you coming up?” Betty again, behind her. She held a small box and watched Stan curiously.

“Yes, sure, coming right now.” She followed Betty up the stairs to the second floor.

Betty let her in and closed the door behind her. She dumped the box on her desk. “I don't know why I bother to ask other people to do things,” she said. “I asked for name badges to be made for all the volunteers and organizers tomorrow with a photo of Helga's book cover. What do they give me? A cannon!” She snorted in disgust. “If I'd wanted a cannon, don't you think I would've asked for one?”

“Of course,” Stan agreed. At least Betty was speaking to her, if not blathering on a bit nervously about nothing.

“Anyway.” Betty sat. “About the other day. I want to apologize. I was not entirely honest with you.”

“You weren't?”

“No, I told you I had no idea why Edgar Fenwick made that comment to you. About Helga letting sleeping dogs lie. But I do.”

“Oh?” About time.

“Yes, I'm sure he was talking about this disgraceful ghost hunt. Which I understand put that young man in the hospital. Not that I like to see anyone get hurt, but I hope they've learned their lesson. In any event, Helga was obsessed with this dead boxer. I think she felt that event was a turning point in her life, because so many things fell apart afterward. Especially her relationship with Tommy. I used to hear her and my mother talk. She never got over that.” Betty shook her head sadly. “Helga perpetuated this frenzy by speaking to these people in the first place.”

“What do you mean?” Stan asked. She didn't want to let on that she knew Helga had been the tipster.

“When they called her, she spoke with them! She encouraged this. Edgar, once he heard, was furious. So I'm sure that's what he meant.” Betty sat back, seemingly satisfied that she'd done her part. “Does that make sense?”

“It does,” Stan said. So maybe Betty didn't even know that Helga had been the tipster. Unless she was pretending not to know. Betty seemed pretty anti-ghost hunters, too. And her mother did have that connection with the dead man. She wasn't sure she could take anything she said at face value either.

“Well, good. I'm glad I got that off my chest.” Betty fanned herself. “This last week has been so stressful. My goodness. I'll be glad when it's all over and things can get somewhat back to normal. Now, tell me, is that boy okay who got hurt last night?”

“He is. Broke a leg pretty badly, but he'll be fine.”

“It happened in the basement, I heard.”

“The stairs collapsed.”

“I'm so grateful we had the remainder of those pieces taken out of there,” Betty said. “They could have been badly damaged.”

“Pieces?” Stan asked slowly. “What pieces? When were they taken out?”

“The old library materials. We had our original card catalogue down there. Both sets. A through M and N through Z. I believe there were even some very old books. And a few other library-related relics that had been left. The sign for the original library, that sort of thing. We just had them moved a few weeks back.”

“Where did they go?”

“To the museum as Helga requested. I know she had an exhibit in mind. I hope someone is able to take that on. It'll be such a wonderful tribute to Frog Ledge's first library.”

“Interesting,” Stan said. “I'm sure it would be. Would that exhibit be at this museum? Or another one?”

Betty stared at her. “There is no other museum in Frog Ledge, Stan.” Her tone indicated Stan was quite stupid.

“Sure, I get that,” Stan said. “So I'm just wondering where Dale Hatmaker is having those pieces moved to.”

“Moved to?” Betty repeated. “I'm not sure I know what you're talking about.”

“Dale Hatmaker has plans to move the card catalogue for one thing,” Stan said casually. “He told me so when I was in there the other day.”

“He
what
?!” Betty stood, eyes blazing. “Who the devil does he think he is? Who told him to do that? I've got a good mind to go over there and put my foot right—”

“Betty,” Stan broke in. “Listen to me. What does Sir Arthur Conan Doyle have to do with anything?”

Betty's face went ghost white. She sat back heavily in her chair. “Where did you . . . ?”

“Arthur Pierce. And Sarah Oliver. Unless she's a great actress who knows a lot more than people think, she might have some skills,” Stan said. “Tell me what it means.” She held out the book.

Betty looked at it, then shook her head. “I don't know. Believe me, I wish I did.”

“Betty, this is serious. People's lives have been lost. Cyril's future is at stake. And a murderer is on the loose.” She leaned forward. “I know you loved Helga. If you know something, tell me. Please.”

Betty hesitated. She glanced at her closed office door, as if fearful someone stood behind it, listening. Stan got up, opened it, and checked the hall. “Coast is clear,” she said, returning to her chair.