A Killer Read (19 page)

“Well, when you put it that way…,” she said. “Did he have any next of kin?”

“No, just his former wife— they were divorced— but nobody else.”

“Did anyone claim his body?”

Mark shook his head.

“What happens to it?”

“Well, the county will give him a burial. They’ll do it on the cheap, no service, inexpensive casket. There’s a portion of the local cemetery reserved for such situations.”

“That’s so sad.”

Mark shrugged.

Lizzie shook off her melancholy mood. “Do you still think someone in the book club might be involved?”

“We haven’t found a connection yet. But we can’t ignore the fact that he was killed outside Molly Mathews’s house during a book club meeting. I’m focusing more on Telford, and Officer Craig is looking at the book club end of it. She thinks that’s where the killer’s to be found.”

“Of course she does.”

“Look, I know you believe none of your group is involved. And I suspect you and some of the others will continue to nose around, but I want to know what, if anything, you find out. Will you do that?” He stared at her. She had to say yes. “And won’t do anything that could prove to be dangerous?”

She nodded this time.

“Good. Now how would you like to grab some dinner and maybe a movie tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow night?” she croaked with dismay.

He nodded.

“I’d love to, but I teach literacy on Mondays and Wednesdays.”

He sighed. “Well, what night don’t you have something?”

“Um… Thursdays are open.”

“Thursday, I have to attend the City Council meeting. How about Friday?”

“Sorry, choir. Saturday?”

“Unfortunately, I’m working this Saturday.”

“The chief of police has to work on a Saturday night? What do you have officers for?”

“Well, the older ones have families, and the younger ones like to go out on the town on weekends. Besides, I don’t have anyone to free up my time for.” He cocked an eyebrow and stared at her. “If I did, I’d want to give them plenty of notice about a shift change.”

She hardly skipped a beat. “What if you did have someone to do something with, say, a week from this Saturday?” She couldn’t believe she said that.

“I’d assign the shift to someone else, well in advance.” He smiled. “Which is what I’ll do.”

“Good.” She stood up and turned to leave, then walked to his desk instead. “By the way, can you check into an old police report for me?”

“Probably, but it may take awhile if it’s not been entered into the computer system. When did it happen?”

“In 1990. Mark, I want to know what the police found about my daddy’s car accident.”

He looked at her a moment before answering. “Can I ask why?”

Lizzie took her time replying. “Because I received a phone call in the middle of the night.” She took the message out of her purse and shoved it across the desk. “I wrote it down as well as I could remember before going back to sleep.”

Mark read it slowly, then looked at her. “Have you had anything like this happen before?”

She shook her head.

“Do you remember what happened to your daddy?”

“Only what Mama told me. That Daddy had been on his way home from work and was coming over Broward Hill when someone, trying to pass another car, hit him head-on. He died instantly.” Lizzie suddenly felt like she was about to burst into tears. Where had that come from? She’d talked about his death many times over the years. She must be overtired.

“That doesn’t sound too sinister.”

“No,” she admitted, feeling more in control again, “but why did I get this call?”

He came around the desk and put a hand on her arm. “I’ll look into it. See what I can find out.”

She smiled. “Thanks, Mark.” She resisted turning around to wave as she closed the door behind her.

When she got home, she tried phoning Molly. No answer.
She had a moment of worry, hoping everything was okay, then reasoned that Molly was entitled to a private life, one that Lizzie knew nothing about. Who knew, maybe Bob Miller had talked her into some further snooping, maybe even going undercover.

T
he next morning, Lizzie added another quarter mile to her run, taking a left on Partridge Lane rather than going straight along Jackson. This section of the town was home to mainly older, retired couples or young ones just starting out. The housing prices here had remained fairly stable during the recession. There wasn’t much movement, among the older homeowners anyway, at the best of times. And fortunately, this area had not been hit by foreclosures, as some of the newer ones had in the past few years.

The houses along this street were mostly built in the thirties, a fact underscored by the still-present white clapboard that had been so readily available in those days. Her favorite was a two-story, with yellow trim and a yellow gate that brought some pizzazz to the traditional white picket fence. The gardens were awash of color in the summer, mimicking an English cutting garden. Now, in the early throes of fall, gold chrysanthemums and orange azaleas set
the tone, with several small cedar bushes a background of greens.

She waved at the owner, a wizened white-haired woman who often was out snipping away at the flowers when Lizzie ran by, even at that early hour. Interesting how many people she knew to wave at or say hey to as she ran. The easy camaraderie added to the run and made her happy she’d chosen to return to Ashton Corners.

Nathaniel Creely waved her over as she walked past on the way to her place. “I have some freshly baked cheese scones I thought you might like. And a cup of coffee to go with them, of course.”

What Lizzie really wanted was a tall glass of water and a shower, but she wasn’t about to pass up his invitation. “Sounds wonderful.” She turned up his walkway and did a couple of stretches before joining him on the porch.

“That smells so good. You know, this is why I have to keep running each morning. I just can’t say no to such wonderful treats.”

Nathaniel chuckled. “And it’s such a pleasure to have someone to bake for, my dear.” He leaned over and served her, then himself. “Now, take a bite and enjoy, then tell me the latest news.”

Lizzie did as instructed, taking an extra few moments to savor the melting of the cheese in her mouth. She took a sip of coffee and looked at Nathaniel’s expectant expression. Something was different. His glasses were pulled down and rode on the tip of his nose. That was it. His mouth, as usual, was open slightly in a small “O” shape, as though he wanted to be ready for any exclamation.

“Well, you know I got another bit of the manuscript. It’s a very gripping story. It reads almost like a journal to me. I’ve given it to my friend, Sally-Jo Baker, to have a read and see what she thinks. But there’s still no clue as to who wrote it and why I’m getting it.”

“I’m sure the author will make it all clear when the time is right,” he commented. “But I can see it would be a bit perplexing. How is this business about the murder progressing? How is Molly handling it all?”

“There doesn’t seem to be anything new, or at least, the police aren’t saying if there is. Tim LaBelle was saying the other night at choir that the name Frank Telford sounded familiar, but like you, he can’t place it either. You haven’t remembered anything about him, have you?” She finished her cup of coffee and refilled both their cups.

“You know, as you said it, the name Telford Construction flitted through my mind. I don’t know why. I don’t even know if it existed, but there you go.” Nathaniel looked pleased with himself.

Lizzie smiled. “That could be a clue, Nathaniel. I’d planned to go to the newspaper offices today anyway, so I’ll see if I can find anything in their files about the company. These are delicious scones, by the way.”

He beamed. “Yes, I’m quite pleased with them, if I do say so. I try a different filler each time, but it’s always good to go back to basics. Have another.”

Lizzie didn’t have to be told twice. In fact, she thankfully took a plate of them back home with her.

A quick shower and change of clothes, a check that the cats hadn’t totally devoured all their dry food, and she left for school, since breakfast had already been attended to.

Her second appointment of the day, with a sixth-grade girl, Jewels, who had a twelfth-grade attitude, was sorely trying Lizzie’s patience. It took all her self-control to refrain from simply slamming her books shut and marching the girl, smoky eye shadow, ruffle top and all, down to the principal’s office. Perhaps she should talk to Jewels’s teacher, see if she had any pointers.

Lizzie had just pulled a short reading comprehension quiz out of her tote when the fire alarm blasted into the room. Jewels let out a shriek and dashed to the door. She
was down the hall, having totally ignored Lizzie’s calls, by the time Lizzie had grabbed her purse and followed.

Orderly lines of noisy children exited into the schoolyard and front boulevard. Sirens could be heard in the distance. Lizzie found the principal and asked if there really was a fire.

Herbert Slocam shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows?” he admitted as he made his way over to the first fire truck that screeched to a halt in front of the school.

Lizzie did a quick search of the grounds for Jewels and finally located her with a group of the older girls, giggling and busily texting away, at the far end of the paved area of the fenced-in schoolyard. A group of office staff stood off to another side. Lizzie went over to them and asked if they knew anything more. No one did. They stood in a bunch, watching the school for signs of smoke, until about twenty minutes later when the all-clear alarm sounded and teachers and staff attempted to round up the students and herd them back indoors.

By then, it was time for lunch. Lizzie went back into her allotted office, noticed Jewels had been by to grab her knapsack, packed up her own books and left. No classes or appointments were scheduled for the afternoon, so she headed over to the offices of the
Ashton Corners Colonist
, on Main Street, right next door to the police station.

The young receptionist gave Lizzie a cursory glance before picking up the phone and telling the editor, George Havers, he had a visitor. Lizzie watched the young man as he read through the “Lifestyles” section of last Thursday’s newspaper, stopping every now and then to clip a story and stick it in one of many file folders spread across his desk. His face showed signs of recent acne problems. Dark curly hair matched the dark-framed glasses he wore.

She didn’t even hear George walk up beside her. “You know, I don’t totally trust computers,” George said, touching her arm in apology as she jumped. “I like the good old-fashioned backup system, file clippings having been a
newspaper staple for many years. It’s good to see you, Lizzie. It’s been awhile.”

“Hey, George.” Lizzie smiled up at him, realizing she hadn’t seen him since she’d returned from college. He hadn’t changed, though, except for the added gray in his thick, wavy hair. He hadn’t shrunk any, still towering over her at his six-five; the black-rimmed glasses were the same, too.

When Lizzie was a girl, George had been a young cub reporter, fresh out of high school, who was always coming by Lizzie’s house, or so it seemed, hanging on every word her daddy uttered. After Daddy died, she’d see George around town covering various events, but had never really connected with him for longer than a few friendly words in passing.

“And you, George. I hope I’m not disrupting your work, but I needed to talk to you about some old stories, and I’m glad to see your filing system. Maybe you’ll have what I need.”

“That sounds intriguing and you know, a newspaper man can never turn away from intrigue. Come into my office in the back here and we’ll talk. Would you like some coffee?” he asked as they passed a half-full drip coffeemaker.

“No, thanks. I’ve hit my caffeine limit for the day already.” She followed him around some empty desks, each with a computer screen and keyboard and not much else. George’s desk, in contrast, was piled with paper and file folders. He caught her staring at it.

“I work best in clutter. And I truly can state that I do know where everything is on that desk.” He chuckled. “Now, what’s on your mind?”

“Well, I’m wondering if there might be any stories from, say, the 1960s or ’70s involving Frank Telford.”

“You mean, aside from the ones about his recent death?”

“Exactly. No one seems to know much about him in Stoney Mills.”

“And just what is your interest, if I may ask?” He started
flipping through the sheaf of papers to the left of his blotter.

Lizzie hoped she wasn’t awakening a journalist’s curiosity by asking about Frank Telford. She didn’t want Molly to have to deal with any more publicity, but she needed information and this seemed a good place to search for it.

“I was part of the book club meeting at Molly Mathews’s house the night it happened. I’m concerned that Officer Amber Craig is treating us all like suspects, and I’m also concerned she might overlook something in her zeal.”