Dewey Decimated, page 7
But Charlie the Ghost hovered in the back of my mind. It looked like he was a fixture in the library for the time being. What was going to happen when he got tired of hiding out in unused rooms? I shuddered to think of the havoc his presence would cause among the patrons.
Evelyn stopped by my office to tell me she had to leave for a while and that Charlie would remain downstairs in the meeting room as he’d promised. But for how long? Now he couldn’t even return to the other building, not that I wanted him to stay in a place he feared and hated.
Then Susan arrived. After we chatted a minute or two, she cleared off the desk she shared with Trish, got out her art supplies, and began working on Halloween decorations. Susan’s handiwork was unique and much appreciated by everyone who came into our library. For the children’s room, she’d created a huge jack-o’-lantern made of wood and oak tag. The kids loved to play with its movable parts. She was working on a large witch sitting on a broomstick, also with movable parts. I couldn’t wait to place it on the wall for the patrons to see.
Susan was too engrossed in her work to wonder what I was doing, for which I was grateful. Because I was looking up everything I could find online about the Whiteheads.
I started with James. There were several newspaper articles available, among them his obituary. The newspaper articles referred to various businesses and enterprises he’d been involved in over the years. Most were Connecticut-based, but I was surprised to see that two of them were based in Chicago.
I skimmed over the houses he had owned—one in Florida, a ski lodge in Aspen, as well as a home outside of Clover Ridge—and focused on his family. His wife was deceased and his two children, Chloe and Andrew, were both married and lived in neighboring towns. James, his obituary reported, had died of congestive heart failure at the age of eighty-nine. A year and a half ago.
A year and a half ago. Perhaps Charlie had come to do business with James. They got into an argument. James killed him and stashed the body in the basement of his abandoned property. Then he himself died a few years later and never got the chance to get rid—
“Carrie.”
I gave a start. “Yes?”
Susan laughed. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t,” I fibbed.
She shrugged. “Did you happen to hear Julie Theron’s interview with Lieutenant Mathers?”
“No. When was this?”
“At one this afternoon outside the police station. She questioned him about the body they found in the building next door.”
My ears perked up. “Did John report any new developments?”
“No, which pissed Julie off. She made a few digs about him and the police department, saying maybe it was time they brought in a special investigator.”
“Oh, no! The case is hardly a week old. She’s just trying to bring attention to herself.”
“It gets worse,” Susan said, her eyes shining with excitement. “Julie mentioned you.”
I bit my lip, knowing I was going to hate what I was about to hear.
“She said that you were responsible for solving all the homicides this past year and John should consider resigning.”
“Poor John. What did he say to that?”
Susan nodded appreciatively. “He handled himself very well. He said they were actively pursuing the case and Ms. Theron would be one of the first to hear when there was something to report. Then he turned his back on her and her crew and went inside the station.”
“Good for him. The reporter who had the job before her was never this snarky.”
“Well, Julie Theron’s another breed. She announced that since the police were doing nothing to solve the case of the unidentified body, she planned to do it herself!”
Chapter Nine
Susan’s news upset me. John Mathers was a good friend of mine. Yes, I had played a role in solving some of his cases, but he was a good detective and did solid police work. Whenever I landed in a spot of trouble, he always had my back. Though John sometimes got annoyed at what he called my interference, over time he’d learned to appreciate whatever I managed to uncover about suspects. But now he had to contend with Julie Theron, a brash young investigative reporter who was yanking his chain.
I didn’t much like that she’d brought me into the picture. I had been totally out of the loop regarding this investigation—as far as she knew. And now she intended to do some sleuthing on her own. That thought put an end to my musings. Not that I was in competition with Julie Theron, but I wanted to talk to James’s sister and cousin, Marcella and Albert Whitehead. Surely they could tell me something about James and the building next door.
As soon as Susan left the office to spend an hour at the hospitality desk, Evelyn paid me a visit.
“How’s Charlie?” I asked.
“Fine. Resting. Have the police made any headway?”
I filled her in on what Susan just told me.
“So, Clover Ridge has another Nancy Drew,” she teased.
“Right now I’m checking out the three Whiteheads who owned the property next door. I’ve read up on James and I’m about to find out what I can about his sister and his cousin.”
“I doubt you’ll find very much,” Evelyn said. “Albert was a dud when it came to making money. He lived on whatever funds he could cadge from his relatives and the few business enterprises they allowed him to join.
“And, as I told you, Marcella was totally dominated by her brother. Their father died when James and Marcella were probably fourteen and ten. James quickly made himself the man of the house, bossing his mother and sister about.”
“Marcella never married,” I mused.
“No one met James’s approval.”
I squashed my retort about chauvinistic males and googled Marcella Whitehead. To my surprise, a few sites came up. They referred to The Best Blueberry Bake Book and to a small community herb garden that she had sponsored and helped to create years ago and that was still flourishing.
“And you said both Marcella and Albert are currently residents of the Clover Ridge Home for Seniors.” I looked up the address. It was right outside of town.
“Why don’t you call Marcella?” Evelyn suggested. She’d been peering over my shoulder, careful to keep enough distance so I wouldn’t get chilled.
“And say what? ‘A body has been discovered in the building you used to own. I’m trying to find out the victim’s name. And by the way, do you know if your brother murdered him?’”
Evelyn laughed. “Some questions are more tactful than others. You want information, right? Why not start with that?”
Why not? I thought as I dialed the senior residence’s number and asked to speak to Marcella Whitehead.
I was almost surprised when the operator connected me to Marcella’s room and she answered in a surprisingly chipper voice. “Hello, who is this?”
“Hello, Marcella. Miss Whitehead. My name is Carrie Singleton. I’m the head of programs and events at the Clover Ridge Library.”
“Ah. Not so long ago, the library was one of my all-time favorite places. I suppose you’re calling about the body they found in the building that we sold to the town.”
“Well, yes, I am,” I said, surprised at how coherent and alert Marcella sounded. Not at all like the timid woman Evelyn had described. “I’m curious about the history of the building. And I was hoping you could tell me a bit about your brother, James.”
“Ah, James.” Was that derision, sadness, or dislike I’d heard? More likely a combination of all three.
“Would it be all right if I came and talked to you some time?”
“How about later—after dinner?” Marcella said. “Say, five thirty?”
Five thirty is after dinner? “That would be fine. I get off work at five, but I’ll have Smoky Joe with me. He’s the library cat, but he actually belongs to me. Or I could drop him off at my aunt and uncle’s house.”
“By all means, bring him along. It will be nice to have an animal in the place for a change.”
“Okay, I will. I’ll see you later.”
I was about to mention Albert when Marcella said, “I’ll ask my cousin Albert to join us, if you don’t mind.”
“I’d love that,” I said.
“I must run,” Marcella said. “I want to get to the dining room early enough to snag the table beside the fireplace. I so hate when my friends and I have to eat in the center of the room.”
I turned to Evelyn. “She didn’t sound at all like a timid sparrow.”
“No, she didn’t,” Evelyn agreed. “Being set free of her brother’s control seems to have made a big difference.”
* * *
As I drove to the senior residence, I wondered what other surprises were in store for me. I’d called Dylan to let him know I had something to do after work and he should eat on his own. As it turned out, Dylan was glad to have the opportunity to take Gary, his new assistant, out to dinner. I was relieved when he didn’t ask me what I was doing. I would have told him, of course, but he wouldn’t have liked to hear I was sleuthing again, even though tonight’s outing was perfectly safe and there was little chance I’d be ruffling any feathers.
I managed to find a parking space close to the entrance of the Clover Ridge Home for Seniors, which was much appreciated since I was bringing Smoky Joe’s carrier inside. Residents oohed and aahed when they caught sight of him peering out at them. I walked over to the desk and was asking the receptionist to call Marcella when a woman in her mid-eighties approached, her hand outstretched.
“Hello! You must be Carrie Singleton.”
“I am.”
“Welcome! Welcome! I’m Marcella Whitehead.” She bent down to peer into the carrier. “And you must be Smoky Joe!”
Smoky Joe responded with a meow.
Marcella was petite and birdlike, as Evelyn had described, but there was a glint in her blue eyes. I found it difficult to believe that her brother had browbeaten her all her life.
“So nice to meet you both,” she said. “Follow me to the elevator and we’ll go up to my apartment. Albert will join us momentarily.”
We rode up to three, which was the top floor, and walked along a carpeted hallway to Marcella’s apartment. Once inside, she glanced at the small kitchen area to our right. “Can I get you something to drink? Soda? Coffee? Beer? Wine?”
“No, thanks. I’m good.”
She glanced at the cat carrier I was holding. “If Smoky Joe’s well behaved, you can let him out.”
“He is,” I said, hoping this would be the case. Though he spent most days in the library and had been to several people’s homes, I couldn’t swear to his good behavior.
I opened the carrier’s door. Smoky Joe took his time sniffing the air before stepping out gingerly and peering around. Marcella led me to the living room just beyond the small hallway. She gestured to the sofa. “Why don’t you have a seat? I’ll join you in a minute.”
Just then, the doorbell rang. “That must be Albert,” she said and went to let him in.
I heard them speak in voices too low for me to make out any words. A minute later, Albert walked slowly into the living room, leaning heavily on his cane.
“Hello! Hello! So nice to meet you, Carrie.” He offered me his hand and we shook.
“Nice to meet you, too, Albert.”
He sank into what appeared to be his usual chair and stretched out a leg on the accompanying hassock. Like his cousin, he was short, but where Marcella was thin, almost frail, he was portly. They were first cousins and I discerned a family resemblance, but Albert’s pointy nose and recessive chin made me think of a rat, just as Evelyn had said.
Marcella joined us a minute later. She handed Albert a glass containing what looked to be beer. Holding a glass of wine in her other hand, she sat down in the wing chair facing me.
“This seems like a very nice place,” I said, stroking Smoky Joe, who had just climbed onto my lap, having finished investigating the apartment.
“It’s not bad, though the food’s not up to par,” Albert said. “They advertise they have a gourmet kitchen. Hah! What a joke.”
Marcella shot him a sharp glance. “Carrie hasn’t come to listen to your complaints.”
“You’re right. Sorry.” Albert gulped down half his glass of beer.
“How long have you been living here?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“Albert’s been here a year. I moved in six months ago,” Marcella said.
“Can you tell me something about the building that you owned until recently?”
Albert glanced at Marcella, and she gave him the tiniest of nods before sipping her wine.
“My mother, Marcella’s father, and our aunt Agnes were siblings. Aunt Agnes and Uncle Barney never had any children. The property next to the library was one of Uncle Barney’s real estate steals. That’s what he called his deals that were practically giveaways. He died, and when Aunt Agnes died, she left it to James, Marcella, and me—her niece and two nephews.”
“We were, none of us, thrilled,” Marcella said. “The house, or whatever it was in its last phase, was a mess. I was all for unloading it as soon as possible, but big brother had other ideas.” She scoffed. “James thought that being situated on the Green meant it was worth a lot of money and we should hold out for a big number.”
“Only no one saw it like James did,” Albert said, his tone sour, “or at least no one ever agreed to his terms.”
“But the two of you seem to be in accord,” I said. “That’s two versus one.”
Albert pursed his lips. “You don’t know what James was like. Bossy. Intimidating. We had a few offers, but none were high enough to suit him. And believe me, I could have used the money years ago.”
Marcella grimaced, her expression very much like her cousin’s. “It was impossible to argue with James. He always managed to cow Albert and me until we agreed to see things his way. And since, of the three of us, he was the only one with connections in the business world, we left it to James to deal with the sale of the building. Only that never came to be while he was alive.”
“Did your brother let you know when someone was interested in buying the building?” I asked.
Albert made a scoffing sound. “You mean, did James allow us to have input regarding offers we received? The answer is no. He thought women didn’t have a head for business. And I was no better in his eyes since the few times I undertook a commercial venture, for some reason, it always ended up going bust.”
“I do remember James getting excited about a possible sale.” Marcella squinted as she tried to recall the details. “Maybe five years ago? No, more like six.” She turned to her cousin.
“You’re right. He was smiling and happy because finally someone was willing to pay his asking price.”
Six years ago! My spine was tingling. That was well within the period of time the medical examiner thought Charlie had been murdered and placed in the basement. “So what happened?”
“Nothing,” Albert said. “Absolutely nothing. When I asked James about the deal a few days later, he snarled at me and said the deal fell through.”
“Did he say why?” I asked.
“No. Just spat out a few choice words and mumbled something about the curse on the building being real.”
“Which is a lot of nonsense,” Marcella quickly added as she glanced at me. “It’s just a coincidence that some of the people who owned it before us had a run of bad luck. And unfortunately there were a few fatal accidents. But this is a centuries-old building we’re talking about. I’m certain the library patrons will make good use of the new addition once the renovations are finished.”
I could have hugged her for being so solicitous about my feelings. Or was Marcella worried that something unforeseen was bound to be discovered and the town would demand a refund—if that was even possible?
“I’m looking forward to our new, enlarged library,” I said. “We have several plans for the new rooms and the stadium-seating auditorium. You both must come and see it for yourself when all the work is complete.”
And we must have a dedication to honor you both, I thought. Perhaps name a room after you.
“Thank you. We sure would like that. Wouldn’t we, Albert?”
“Most definitely.” Albert laughed. “I’m thinking how none of this would have ever happened but for Aunt Agnes’s clever stipulation in her will.”
Marcella nodded. “As soon as James died, his son and daughter came around asking what we were willing to pay them for their third of the property. We told them zip. Were they pissed!”
“I’m surprised their father never explained the terms of the property to them,” Albert said.
“Or they thought we were plum ignorant,” Marcella said with some heat. “We knew that Aunt Agnes’s will stated that if one of us were to die before we sold the property, his or her share went to the two surviving heirs. And that’s what the judge told my niece and nephew.”
“Several months later,” Albert said, sounding bitter. “It held up the sale.”
I cleared my throat. “I’d like to backtrack a bit and ask you both something you might have trouble talking about.”
“Shoot,” Albert said, looking interested.
Marcella burst out laughing. “You want to know if we think James might have killed that poor guy found wrapped in a blanket in the basement of the house.”
“Yes, I do,” I said, astonished by her candor.
“James had quite a temper,” Albert said. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Me, neither,” Marcella said. Observing my expression, she added. “Maybe you’d like to reconsider and have a bit of wine.”
“I think I’d like that,” I said as I leaned comfortably back against the sofa.
