A Killer Clue, page 3
That might provide some evidence to support Eloise’s claim, I thought. Someone definitely could’ve snuck in and killed Ken Anderson and fled without being seen.
I moved away from the desk area, checking out any possible entrances and exits. While the only windows, at the front and back of the building, were sealed shut, I discovered two doors around a corner from the desk. One obviously led to the apartment above the shop, since my quick peek when I cracked the door revealed a staircase. The other had a hazy window in the top half. Standing on tip-toe, I peered out and realized this door led to a loading dock. The door had a dead bolt that appeared newer than the simple twist lock at the center of its doorknob.
But the dead bolt wasn’t latched. I stared at the door for a moment, wondering if Eloise or her staff left it unbolted when the store was open. As I took a photo of both doors, a loud thump from around the corner made me jog back to the service counter.
The noise had to have come from whatever is behind that Employees Only door, I thought, weighing my options. While I didn’t want to trespass, I was worried that someone working in the back could’ve fallen. No doubt they have some tall shelving units that require ladders.
I stepped behind the service desk and gave the knob on the staff door a little twist. It obviously wasn’t locked, and I slowly pushed the door ajar and peeked into the room.
It appeared to be an office. There were no windows and the lights were off, so all I could really see were rough shapes and shadows. What looked like a large wooden desk flanked by file cabinets filled one side of the room, while bookshelves covered the other three walls. There was another door directly across the room that I assumed led to a larger storeroom.
Lowering my gaze, I noticed a bulky shape lying in the middle of the floor. A sob drew my attention to another figure, a few feet away. Seated in front of one of the bookcases, the figure was curled in on itself in a fetal position.
“Eloise?” I asked. “Is that you?” I slid my fingers over the chipped plaster wall just inside the door, searching for a switch. Flicking it on, I blinked as the overhead lights flared.
It was Eloise seated by the bookcase, her arms wrapped around her bent legs and her head lowered, hiding her face. She rocked back and forth as another sob escaped her throat.
But the object on the floor wasn’t a fallen pile of books or a rumpled tarp. It was a man, lying face down, with a knife protruding from his neck. A dark liquid pooled around his head and shoulders.
Blood, I realized, as my mind glitched, not immediately comprehending the scene. He’s lying in blood and there’s a knife and Eloise is the only one here.
I automatically pulled my cell phone from my pocket and tapped in 911. When the dispatcher answered, I couldn’t remember the street address and just stammered out something about Last Chapter Bookshop in Chapel Hill. “Someone’s been stabbed,” I said, when prompted to explain the emergency.
The dispatcher asked if the victim was still breathing. “Not sure,” I replied, glancing over at Eloise. She looked up, her bone-white face covered in a sheen of tears. “Is he breathing?” I asked her, modulating my voice to a calm monotone.
As she shook her head, I noticed crimson streaks in the hair plastered to her forehead and cheek. Her glasses were missing. Without them, her eyes appeared wider and more luminous. She stared directly at me, but it was as if she didn’t see me at all. Her gaze pierced through me, focused on something over my shoulder.
“You checked?” I asked. Another nod. I told the dispatcher what I knew, which was little enough, before crossing to kneel beside the prone figure. “No, I won’t touch anything,” I said, laying down my phone and sitting back on my heels. Turning to Eloise, I asked if she knew the man.
“I do,” she said, her voice coming out as a croak. “It’s Detective Bruce Parker.”
I stared at the man’s crumpled body. “The man who was in charge of your mother’s case?”
“Yes.” Eloise unfolded her arms and legs and used a sturdy shelf for balance as she rose to her feet. “He contacted me. Said he had something he wanted to share about my mom. Something he’d just found out and wanted me to know. That he would stop by today to talk.”
Sirens wailed. Eloise spun on her heel and stared through the open staff door, into the shop. “They’re coming.”
“Where were you?” I asked. “When he was stabbed, were you in the room?”
She swayed slightly. Gripping the edge of a shelf to steady herself, she met my concerned gaze with a little lift of her chin. “In the storeroom. Back there,” she said, motioning toward the door in the far wall. “He asked me about something, you see. A book.”
“What do you mean?” I stood up as the wail of sirens grew louder. “He wanted you to find a book in your storeroom?”
“I didn’t understand either. He said he would explain once I showed it to him. Told me he’d keep an eye out for any customers if I’d go and look for that book. But then I couldn’t find it, even though I knew our inventory ledgers included that range of numbers.” Eloise lifted her hands, which were stained with blood. “So after a bit I came back to the office to explain and that’s when …” Eloise blinked away tears. “That’s when I found him, like this.”
“You didn’t hear anything?”
“No. I was in the far corner of the storeroom and focused on my search, and this is an old building, with thick walls.”
The slam of the front doors and thunder of heavy-soled shoes pummeling the wood floors of the shop stopped me from asking anything more. I stood aside as both law enforcement and emergency personnel rushed into the office.
I was herded out into the sales area of the bookshop by two officers, one who barraged me with questions while the other looked me over, obviously checking for any traces of blood or other evidence. Finally satisfied that I hadn’t arrived on the scene until after Detective Parker was dead, the investigators took my official statement and contact information and told me I’d need to make myself available to answer any additional questions. “Basically, anytime,” the officer said, when I asked about a time frame. “Best if you don’t leave the state for a while.”
“There goes my trip to Bora Bora,” I replied, earning a glare instead of the chuckle I was going for. As one of the police officers escorted me to my car—using the back door to avoid the press, who’d already shown up—I mentioned the fact that the dead bolt on that door had not been latched when I arrived. “Someone could’ve gotten in and out that way, as well as the front door,” I said. “I think the doorknob lock is one of those you can set before you exit. You know, it’s already set to lock once you pull the door closed behind you.”
“Is that so?” The officer, a lanky young woman who towered over me, gave me the side-eye.
“I just wanted you to know that someone could’ve gotten away easily enough before Ms. Anderson re-entered the office. And of course the front door was open, so they could’ve just strolled in.”
The officer just made a noncommittal noise and stood with her arms crossed over her chest until I got in my car and took off.
I drove a short distance before pulling into an empty church parking lot. After taking some deep breaths to calm my nerves, I called Cam to tell him what had happened.
“You’re sure Eloise was there with the body when you walked into the office?” he asked.
“Definitely. Sitting in the dark, which is a little strange, now that I think of it.” I gazed out my side window at a crepe myrtle, which had leafed out but not yet bloomed. “I don’t know why the lights were off. Eloise said she left Parker in the office when she went into the storeroom to find a book. And no, I didn’t find out what book it was.”
“Too bad. That would’ve been helpful.” I could hear Cam’s fingers drumming against his desk. “As for the lights, that might help Eloise’s case. She had no reason to turn off the lights if she was planning to return with that book. But a case could be made that the actual killer turned them off without thinking. To cover their crime, so to speak.”
“Are we going to be taking on this murder as well as the cold case one?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“We have to do whatever we can to help Eloise. You know she’ll be the prime suspect.”
“With good reason, you must admit.”
“Must I?” Cam’s light tone didn’t fool me. I could tell he was already planning to provide Eloise with all the assistance he, and his considerable wealth, could offer.
“The victim was the detective who helped convict her mother,” I said. “And she was the only person I saw in or near the building, not to mention she had blood on her hands and clothes, and even in her hair.”
“Circumstantial evidence,” Cam replied. “She probably tried to save the guy. You could get a lot of blood transfer from checking for a pulse or attempting to stanch the wound or whatever.”
“True.” I slumped down in my seat. “Okay, you have the gist. We can discuss this another time. Right now I want to head back to my apartment and chill. It’s been quite a day.”
“It’s still only mid-afternoon. You could stop by Aircroft on your way home.”
“I could, but I won’t. Goodbye, Cam. Talk to you tomorrow,” I said, ending the call.
Chapter Six
After my brief conversation with Cam, I drove home from Chapel Hill dreaming about a large glass of wine and a chunky book. I was definitely ready to kick off my shoes and relax on my well-worn sofa with some light jazz playing in the background.
But as soon as I parked in front of his brick bungalow, my landlord, Vince, opened his front door and strolled out. “Hello, Jane,” he said, leaning over the balustrade of the covered porch’s white railing. “Do you have a minute?”
Knowing Vince’s minutes tended to stretch into hours, I swallowed a sigh and plastered on a smile. “Sure. I have some news to share, anyway,” I said. As I crossed the small gravel parking lot, I fought the urge to cast a longing look toward the stairs that led to my small apartment over Vince’s garage.
Vince and I were both in our sixties, although he was five years my senior. He was attractive in a rough-hewn sort of way, his hazel eyes bright behind the lenses of his wire-framed glasses. Only slightly taller than me, he had a stocky build and a full head of steel-gray hair.
Also like me, Vince was supposedly retired. But after a career as a reporter and editor for a local newspaper, he’d turned his investigative skills to other uses, like working on a historical account of the Airley family, who’d originally built Aircroft. He’d also offered some invaluable assistance to Cam and me. It didn’t hurt to have a reporter helping us dig into cold cases, especially someone who still had connections to several news organizations.
“Have you already heard about a murder in Chapel Hill?” I asked, shifting the strap of my purse from one shoulder to the other.
“No, but I haven’t checked any news today. A murder, you say?” Vince looked me up and down. “Didn’t you go there today to visit that bookshop where another murder took place years ago? That’s what you told me when we ran into each other before you drove off this morning.”
“I did. And stumbled over another dead body, I’m afraid.” I swayed slightly. Saying those words brought back a vision of the murder scene.
“What? Well, for heaven’s sake, come inside and sit down.” Vince strode across the porch to reach his front door. “My news seems pretty insignificant compared to that,” he added as he gripped the doorknob, “but I do have some information that might be of interest, in terms of another cold case.”
“The death of Calvin Airley?” I asked, noting the barely repressed excitement in Vince’s eyes. The fate of the lost heir to Aircroft was one of Vince’s obsessions. Calvin, the only child of the wealthy couple who’d built Aircroft in the 1920s, had died young, in what officials had called an accident. Many people disagreed with this finding, suspecting that Calvin had committed suicide, but Vince was convinced he’d been murdered.
“No, this is the one involving the mystery woman you’ve been trying to trace.”
“Really?” This information wiped away any regrets over my wine and book. The mystery woman, as we called her, had appeared in an old picture I’d found in the attic at Aircroft. Although we knew she must’ve had some connection to the Airleys, since her photo was included in their family collection, no one seemed to know who she was. The fact that a sketch of the same woman, considerably older, drawn by Cam’s late mother, Patricia Clewe, had turned up in Patricia’s art studio had only deepened the mystery.
“It’s actually Donna’s info, if I’m honest.” Vince smiled. “You know what a clever sleuth she can be when she puts her mind to it.”
“Is Donna here?” I asked, hoping that Vince’s girlfriend was visiting. I hadn’t seen Donna in a few weeks and would be happy to catch up with her. “She must’ve parked in the garage.”
“Yeah, she did. Thought it would keep the car cooler. Come on in if you have time. You can tell us all about this new murder and Donna can share her news while we split a bottle of wine.” Vince held open the front door, allowing me to walk in ahead of him.
I stepped into the airy, open space, marveling as I always did at the disconnect between the exterior and interior of Vince’s home. Other than painting the shutters forest green, he hadn’t changed the outside of his traditional 1920s brick bungalow, but inside he’d removed walls and altered almost everything to fit a Scandinavian aesthetic. The open great room, connected to a sleek and bright kitchen by an expansive island, had off-white walls accented by blond wood trim and floors. On one wall a large flatscreen television was surrounded by austere wood cabinets and bookshelves, facing a low-backed ivory sofa that was anchored by a shaggy blue rug.
Seated in a sculptural wood chair across from the sofa, Donna Valenti looked up as Vince and I entered. She was a short, plump woman whose vitality made her seem younger than her sixty-four years. “Jane! So good to see you. I was hoping you’d drop by.” As she sat forward, her pewter-gray braid, still threaded with a few dark-brown strands, fell over her shoulder.
“I know. We haven’t talked in far too long,” I said. “Of course, you and Vince were out of town for a while on one of your exciting trips. Hawaii of all places. I have to admit I’m envious.”
“It was lovely,” Donna said. “But it’s always good to be back home.”
“So they tell me.” I cast her a smile. “Not that I would know anything about taking a trip anywhere these days. It seems I’m indispensable at work.”
“And how is Cam?” Vince asked, as he headed over to the kitchen island.
I laughed. “You think I’m indispensable to Cam?”
“I think you’re doing two jobs at once because your boss needs a partner in his new avocation,” Vince said.
Donna’s scarlet sandals swept a trail through the pile of the rug in front of her chair. “Now Vince, you know Jane is equally obsessed with these cold cases. Right, Jane?”
“I’m afraid you’re correct,” I replied as I sat down on the sofa across from her.
“So, white or red?” Vince held up a bottle of wine. “I have this pinot noir, but there’s a nice Australian chardonnay chilling in the fridge.”
“I think I’d prefer the white. If only because I’m sitting on this lovely but very pale sofa,” I replied.
Vince set down the bottle and turned to open the refrigerator. “Good point. White it is.” Returning to the kitchen island with the chardonnay, he pointed the corkscrew at his girlfriend. “Donna, before you spill your very interesting info, Jane needs to tell us about her day. It was apparently a not-so-great one.” He shook his head as he drew out the wine cork. “She encountered another murder scene.”
“Oh dear, how did that happen?” Donna asked, her deep brown eyes widening.
I leaned back against the sofa cushions and launched into a recitation of the day’s events, keeping my tone as neutral as possible. But when I reached the part where I’d almost fallen over Bruce Parker’s prone body, my voice cracked.
“Here, you definitely need this,” Vince said, handing me a large glass of wine.
I took a long swallow before responding. “It wasn’t pleasant, that’s for sure. And then there were all the questions from the police.”
Vince returned with two more glasses of wine, one of which he gave Donna before he sat at the other end of the sofa.
“What a horrible experience,” Donna said, with a little shudder. “And when you were trying to clear that young woman’s mother’s name, too.”
“Yes, it doesn’t look good for Eloise. She was the only one in the store when I found the body.” I frowned. “It’s starting to seem like a repetition of her mom’s case.”
“The Anderson murder. I definitely remember all the news reports on that case. Tons of coverage at the time.” Vince’s expression grew thoughtful. “Same MO—a stabbing, and only one person in the building at the time.”
“That we know of,” I said. “The back door was locked, but the dead bolt was not engaged. It was only the doorknob, which could’ve been set to lock after someone shut it from the outside. I told the police about that, of course.”
Vince motioned toward me with his wineglass. “Excellent sleuthing.”
“The ironic thing is that I was going to ask you about the original murder,” I said, turning sideways to face Vince. “I figured you might’ve done some reporting on it back in the day, or know someone who did.”
Vince set his wineglass on a glass-topped side table. “It was about fifteen years ago, wasn’t it?”
“Must’ve been,” Donna said. “I remember hearing about it when I was still the secondary secretary at the high school. Before I got promoted to lead,” she added, with a glance toward me.
