A Killer Clue, page 8
“I didn’t know that,” I said. “But I’m still learning about this area. I’ve lived in North Carolina for many years, but not around here.”
Vince tapped my arm. “They have a collection of scrapbooks from the late forties through the early eighties. Newspaper clippings, photographs, and that sort of thing. I thought that might be a good place to start our research.”
“I bet you’ve been here many times before,” I said.
“Sure, Vince is a regular. I keep telling him he needs to sign up as a volunteer, but we haven’t roped him in yet.” Anna tucked a strand of white hair that had escaped her low bun behind one ear.
“Maybe someday,” Vince said, shooting me a conspiratorial grin. “The scrapbooks are upstairs,” he added, pointing toward a wooden staircase.
I expressed my thanks to Anna and followed Vince up the steps. “Wait a minute—if you’re a regular, surely you’ve looked through many of these scrapbooks before. But you said you never saw anyone who looked like Lily. So what good is this going to do?”
“I haven’t looked through them all,” Vince replied as we reached the top of the stairs. “And two heads, or pairs of eyes, are better than one. I could’ve missed something before.”
We crossed to an expansive wooden table placed in front of a row of metal bookshelves. Tall bound volumes, their spines marked with dates, filled the shelves. “Wow, that’s a lot,” I said, surveying the scrapbooks. “Someone spent a good deal of time putting these together.”
“That someone would be me,” said a man’s gravelly voice behind me.
I spun around and came face-to-face with a tall, lanky man whose white hair and lined face told me he was at least a decade older than me. “Hello,” I said, extending my hand. “Jane Hunter.”
“Gordon Glenn,” the man said, giving my hand a surprisingly strong shake.
Vince, who’d climbed up on a stepstool to retrieve two of the scrapbooks, hopped down, the volumes pressed to his chest. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there, Gordy, or I would’ve made introductions.”
“No worries.” Gordon looked me up and down, his deep brown eyes sunken in his bony face. “So this is the librarian hired by Cameron Clewe. Vince has mentioned you a couple of times, Ms. Hunter.”
“Saying good things, I hope,” I replied with a smile. “And please, call me Jane.”
Gordon’s lips parted as he smiled, displaying yellowed teeth. “Then I’m Gordy. That’s what everyone’s called me since I was knee-high to a grasshopper.”
“Very well, Gordy it is.” I studied him for a moment, noting the slight hunch of his shoulders. “You must’ve been a volunteer here for many years to have accomplished all of this.” I motioned toward the full shelves.
Gordy shook his head. “I began compiling the scrapbooks long before this museum even existed. It was mostly newspaper clippings back then, but as I got older, I convinced my friends and family, and eventually the town council, to provide me with photographs and other memorabilia. When the museum opened in the eighties, I donated my collection. I didn’t feel like continuing with it once digital stuff started taking over, but I thought the earlier years could be useful.”
Vince laid both scrapbooks on the table. “Gordy started scrapbooking back in … what was that year again?”
“Around 1947,” Gordy said. “I was fourteen.”
A quick calculation put his current age at ninety, which actually surprised me. He’s very well-preserved, I thought. “So you started this as a hobby?”
Gordy shrugged. “My family owned a small farm outside of town. It was pretty isolated. I went to school, of course, but my parents were too busy to chauffer me around for sports teams or after-school clubs or anything like that. Except for schoolwork and farm work, there wasn’t much to do.”
“Gordy’s always loved history,” Vince said as he took a seat at the table. “And I’ve certainly picked his brains about things that happened in the area back in the day.”
“You have indeed,” Gordy said.
I sat down across the table from Vince. “Did Vince tell you what we’re researching today?”
Gordy strolled over to one of the bookshelves. “No, just that you’re mainly interested in the late fifties on.”
“We’re trying to find out more information on this woman,” I said, fishing the copies of the photograph and drawing from my purse and laying them on the table. “Has Vince shown you these before?”
Gordy cast a quick glance at the pictures before looking away. “Yes. And like I told him then, I don’t know anything about her.”
“We have some new information. Apparently, her first name is Lily, and she dated Calvin Airley in the late fifties, right before his unfortunate death,” Vince said, flipping open the scrapbook.
“Sorry, doesn’t ring any bells,” Gordy said. His back was to us, but I could see his grip tighten on the edge of one of the shelves.
“You never saw her around town?”
Gordy released his hold on the shelf and turned to face us. “No. But I wasn’t around much. I’d gotten into farm equipment sales and traveled a lot.”
“You kept up with the scrapbooks, though,” Vince said, waving his hand over the open pages.
“That was still my hobby, when I was at home.” Gordy flashed a tight-lipped smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to head downstairs and see if Anna needs help with anything.”
After Gordy’s footfalls on the stairs faded away, Vince looked over at me, his bushy eyebrows raised far above the frames of his glasses. “Is it just me, or does he seem very tetchy about our research on our mystery woman?”
“Not just you. He seemed distinctly uncomfortable,” I said.
Vince slid the closed scrapbook across the table. “Maybe they dated? If she dumped him for Calvin, he might still be bitter.”
“I don’t know. From what Ruth Young said about her being around the same age as Calvin, she’d be in her mid-nineties by now. So she’d be older than Gordy by several years.”
“That doesn’t always matter.” Vince lowered his head to peer at something in his scrapbook. “Here’s photos from some party at Aircroft in 1956, but unfortunately, I don’t see any signs of Lily in these.” He turned the book around so I could see the page.
“I’m not surprised. Ruth said Calvin and Lily were keeping their relationship a secret.” I studied the newsprint photos. “I guess this was from the society page. There’s Calvin, appearing rather glum.”
“He does look like he’d rather be anywhere else,” Vince said. “Even while surrounded by all those pretty girls.”
“This must’ve been about one year before he died.” I sat back in my hard wooden chair. “It’s a little spooky, seeing him in these pictures and knowing what happened to him.”
Vince shoved his drooping glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “But we don’t really know, do we?”
“True. Was it an accident, a suicide, or a murder?” I pushed the scrapbook back across the table. “Do you think we’ll ever know?” I asked as I opened the other volume.
“If I have anything to say about it, we will.”
“It would help if we locate Lily.” I cast Vince a speculative glance. “She might know, or at least have the information you need to put it all together.”
Vince’s jaw clenched. “Which is just one more reason we need to find her.”
Chapter Fifteen
Vince and I scoured the scrapbooks until the museum closed for the day but found no evidence of Lily in any of the pages. There were a few discolored spots on the scrapbook pages that made me think that photos had been removed at some point in time, but when we asked Gordy, he said he “reckoned people took out a few pictures of their parents or grandparents or something.”
As Vince and I walked back home, I mentioned my theory that our mystery woman had come to the area to work at a local business.
“Perhaps she felt like an outsider,” I said, when we reached Vince’s house. “She may have kept to herself, which is why there are no pictures of her at community events.”
Vince paused with one foot on the step of the porch stairs. “But Calvin met her somewhere.”
“It had to be at her workplace.” I wiped a little sweat from my upper lip. “Which could narrow things down. If we consider what establishments Calvin would’ve frequented …”
“Great idea!” Vince gave me a thumbs-up. “I’m going to check my notes. With all the facts I’ve collected on Calvin’s life, there should be something in them about his favorite haunts.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Haunts? Are we sure we want to call up spirits?”
“Wouldn’t do any good, anyway,” Vince said with a rueful smile. “You’ve said you haven’t seen any evidence of ghosts at Aircroft, and if any place was going to be haunted, I think that estate would be it.”
“I haven’t seen or heard anything yet,” I replied, with an answering smile. “Maybe Calvin just isn’t ready to talk to me.”
Vince’s expression grew serious. “Have you ever asked Cam if he’s experienced anything paranormal at the estate? He’s lived there all of his life.”
“You want me to ask Cam about ghosts?” A bark of laughter escaped my lips. “Can you imagine his reaction?”
“Yeah, okay. Maybe not my smartest idea. Forget I said that.” Vince grinned and wished me a good evening.
Not long after I settled on the sofa in my apartment, sipping a glass of wine and enjoying the next chapter in my latest read, a loud series of knocks rattled my front door. Swearing under my breath as I set down my book and wine, I padded in my bare feet across the tile floor of the kitchen.
I peered through the peephole. Seeing a middle-aged woman in a tailored navy suit, I cracked open the door, leaving on the chain. “Yes, can I help you?”
The woman flashed a badge. “Ms. Hunter, I’m Terry Lindover, a detective with the Chapel Hill police department. I just have a few questions for you. May I come in?”
“Can I see your badge again?”
The woman pressed it into my palm. I examined the badge and identification card, confirming that this was indeed Teresa Lindover, before I slid off the door chain.
“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting anyone,” I said, scooping up my kicked-off shoes and my purse and carrying them into my bedroom, which was simply an area cordoned off from the main living space by a set of bookcases. “Please, have a seat.”
When I walked back into the living room, Terry Lindover was perched on the edge of my comfortable, but well-worn, sofa. “Can I get you something to drink?” I asked. “I have water, tea, coffee, and a couple of cans of diet cola.” I also had wine, but doubted an officer on duty would accept that.
“Just water,” she replied, tugging her narrow skirt down over her knees.
Bringing her a glass of water from the kitchen, I took a moment to take a measure of the detective. She was an attractive woman, tall and slim, with wheat-gold hair and blue-gray eyes. Her short, feathery haircut framed her face, softening her angular features.
“Here you go,” I said, handing her the glass. “Now, how can I help you?”
“I’m doing a little follow-up from the other day.” Terry delicately sipped the water before setting it on the side table next to the sofa.
“More questions? I’ve already talked to one of your fellow detectives over the phone, and of course I gave my statement at the scene,” I said, sitting in my wooden rocking chair.
“This is a little different.” Terry settled back against the sofa cushions. “Full disclosure—this isn’t exactly an official visit.”
I gripped the smooth arms of the rocker. “Oh? What is it, then?”
Terry met my dubious gaze with a humorless smile. “I’d just like to know more about your impressions of the scene. It’s somewhat personal. You see, the victim, Detective Parker, was my partner for many years.”
Blinking rapidly, I searched for the proper response. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” I said at last.
Terry inclined her head. “Thank you.”
“But what do mean by my impressions of the scene?” I pushed one foot against the floor, sending the rocker into a gentle motion. “I told the detectives at the scene everything I saw, and I reiterated those points when they called me.”
“But those are just facts. I’d like to know how you felt when you entered that office.” As Terry crossed her hands in her lap, I noticed her meticulous manicure. Her nails were buffed, not painted, but I had no doubt that she’d had them professionally done.
“Confusion, at first. It was dark, so all I saw were shapes. It wasn’t until I was able to find the switch and turn on the lights that I realized what I was looking at.”
“The lights were off?” A tiny spasm twitched the corner of Terry’s lips. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. Which is odd, don’t you think? Ms. Anderson claims she left the office and went into the storeroom to look for a book that Detective Parker had requested. There was no reason for her to turn off the lights before she left, and I don’t understand why your former partner would’ve done that either.”
“If she left.” Terry straightened until her back wasn’t touching the sofa. “We only have her word for that. It’s just as likely that she agreed to meet Bruce in the bookshop office, turned off the lights before he arrived, and ambushed him.”
I rocked the chair a little faster. “I suppose.”
“You arrived after the fact, correct?”
“I think so. There was no shouting or sounds of a violent struggle while I was in the store,” I said. “I did hear a thump, which drew me to the office, but that was all.”
“Which means Ms. Anderson’s story is just that—her story, which cannot be corroborated.” Terry flicked a piece of lint off of her skirt and met my gaze with perfect equanimity. “I know you believe her to be innocent, as does your boss, Mr. Clewe, but you both should seriously consider the possibility that she is not. For one thing, how did someone else kill Bruce and leave without you seeing them?”
“Perhaps they fled before I arrived,” I said. “I imagine the official time of death and other evidence will prove whether that was possible or not. And the back door to the loading dock was unbolted.”
“The official report said it was locked,” Terry said, her nostrils flaring.
“Yes, but the dead bolt wasn’t thrown. That was something I noticed even before I discovered the murder scene.” I stopped the rocking of my chair by skidding one foot against the floor. “That doorknob is the kind you can lock and pull shut once you’re outside. The killer could’ve fled out the back, and the door would’ve locked when they let it slam behind them.”
Terry pursed her lips and looked me over, her expression unreadable. “Not an impossible theory, but a little far-fetched, wouldn’t you say?”
“Not as strange as Eloise Anderson stabbing someone for no reason.”
“But she had a reason. Bruce was the detective who helped convict her mother,” Terry said.
I stared at Terry’s implacable face. She seemed determined to pin the murder on Eloise, but then apparently so did the rest of her department. And Bruce Parker had been her partner, which gave her a personal motive for seeing justice done. “Yes, but Eloise claims that he was the one who wanted to meet with her, to provide some sort of update on the case. She thought he’d discovered new information that might exonerate her mom.”
“I don’t see how that would be possible.” Terry sat up straighter, gracefully crossing her legs at her ankles. “Bruce retired four years ago. He wouldn’t have, actually couldn’t have, still been investigating the case, especially since it was considered solved.” She frowned. “He did visit Abby Anderson in prison a few times, but I thought that was simply his way of trying to understand her motive for killing her husband. He always found that incomprehensible, to tell you the truth.”
So Bruce Parker visited Abby in prison. Which meant he could’ve been the one to slip her the mysterious note. Perhaps he grabbed a book from the prison library and made sure it was delivered to her. I leaned forward, resting my palms on my thighs. “Tell me, Detective Lindover, why are you really here? You said this wasn’t an official visit, and frankly, I have nothing to share with you beyond what’s in my statements to your colleagues.”
“Oh, I just wanted to see if you were a reliable witness.” Terry flashed a humorless smile. “It’s important to me that the case be solved, and I started to have my doubts about your reliability when I heard that your boss had taken the chief suspect under his wing. But you’ve confirmed everything I read in your statements, so I now believe you can be trusted to present the facts as you know them.”
“I’d always do that, especially under oath,” I said. “Besides, the truth is important to me. I won’t bend the facts just to protect someone. I’ll describe the events as I experienced them, whether that’s beneficial to Ms. Anderson or not.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Terry stood up and smoothed down the front of her jacket. “I won’t take up any more of your time.” She turned and strode toward the front door.
I followed on her heels. “I truly am sorry that your former partner was killed,” I said as I held open the door to allow her to exit.
Pausing on the landing. Terry looked back at me with a searching gaze. “There was one more thing. Not really important, since I think it’s all bunk, but since Ms. Anderson claims Bruce sent her to find some mysterious book, I wonder what book that might be. Did she say?”
“No, because she says she didn’t know.”
“That seems odd, don’t you think? In her statement she claimed she only had an inventory number, but if she was telling the truth about Bruce’s request, I can’t imagine him knowing such a thing. The title of a book, yes. But not some random number.” The lines around Terry’s lips deepened. “Another thing that makes me think Ms. Anderson is lying.”
“Perhaps it was something Abby Anderson told him before she died.” I looked the detective directly in the eyes. “You said he’d visited her in prison a couple of times.”
