Books Can Be Deceiving (23 page)

The black cloak of anonymity made Lindsey feel even more violated. Not being able to identify who was in her apartment made the feeling of vulnerability so much more acute.

She snatched her cell phone off the dresser and quietly flipped it open. She knew that dialing 911 would connect her to a dispatcher the next town over. She needed someone here now! She needed someone to chase the bad guy out of her home. Someone close by—Charlie! Nancy’s nephew, downstairs! She quickly scrolled through her contacts until she found his number. She fleetingly thought about texting him, but what if he didn’t get the message? She needed to talk to him to let him know this was urgent. She prayed he was home in his apartment and not out playing a gig somewhere.

The phone rang four times. She was about to give up when a very groggy voice answered.

“Hello?”

“C
harlie,” she whispered.

“Hello?” Charlie answered. “Who is this? Megan, is that you?”

Lindsey couldn’t help but notice the hopeful note in his voice. She did not have time to contend with his romantic exploits at the moment.

“Charlie, it’s Lindsey, from upstairs,” she whispered. “There’s someone in my apartment.”

“What? Who is this? I can’t hear you,” he said. Now he sounded grumpy.

“Lindsey,” she hissed louder. “Someone is in my apartment. I need you to call me back and scare them off. Now!”

The sound of the footsteps stopped, and Lindsey caught her breath. The intruder must have heard her. She peered around the door. The shadowy black figure was standing by the kitchen table. In a blink the intruder snatched up the box of Ernie’s things and made for the door. Oh, hell, no!

Lindsey bolted out of the bedroom in pursuit. She planned to turn that box over to the police. She had no intention of letting someone make off with it.

The intruder heard her coming from behind and turned to glance over his shoulder. He saw Lindsey, and he yanked open the front door. He hit the landing at a jog, with the box tucked under his arm.

The cold air outside her apartment was like a slap in the face, and Lindsey welcomed it as she pounded down the stairs after the burglar, not caring that she was shoeless.

There was a bang, followed by some cursing, and she arrived on the second-floor landing in time to see Charlie flat on the floor with the stranger sprawled on top of him. As Lindsey charged forward, the burglar grabbed a work boot of Charlie’s and threw it squarely at Lindsey. She dodged, but not in time, and the hard sole of the boot clipped her on the shin.

“Ouch!” She hobbled forward, but the assailant had already snatched up the box and bolted down the stairs.

Lindsey tried to catch him, but once she reached the front door without shoes, she knew there was no way she could run over the gravel driveway in bare feet.

She stomped her foot in frustration, and then turned and hurried back up the stairs to where Charlie sat. His jet-black hair stood on end, and he looked as though the wind had been soundly knocked out of him.

“Are you okay?” she asked. She knelt beside him, and he blinked at her.

“You’re the one who called me, right?”

“Yeah, sorry,” she said. “I just wanted you to call me back to scare off that burglar. I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“I’m fine,” he said, sitting up. “Just not awake yet. So, who the heck was that, and why was he in your apartment at three o’clock in the morning?”

“I wish I knew,” Lindsey said.

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” He frowned.

“No, he just took a box of things that I had other plans for,” she said.

A cold draft in the hallway caught her by the back of the neck and shuddered through her. The lace curtains on the window rippled, and she realized the burglar must have come through the second-story window.

Who had been in her apartment? Why had he taken the box of Ernie Shadegg’s things? It couldn’t be coincidence. Someone didn’t want her digging into Rick’s past. And the only person it could be was the murderer.

“Are you all right?” Charlie asked. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine,” Lindsey lied. “Come on, let’s get you up.”

She held out a hand and helped Charlie to his feet.

“I’m going to lock the dead bolt on the front door,” she said. “You don’t think Nancy will mind, do you?”

“Heck no,” he said. “But don’t you think you should call the police?”

“Uh, I don’t really see the need,” she said. “I think we managed to scare him off. I’ll stop by in the morning and fill out a report then.”

Charlie studied her. His brown eyes narrowed, and he looked older than his twenty-four years. “Remind me to invite you to my weekly poker game. You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Lindsey said. She blinked her eyes in feigned innocence.

“Uh-huh. I get that you don’t want to tell me what’s going on, and that’s fine,” he said. “We all have personal stuff. But make sure that you’re playing it safe.”

“I am,” Lindsey said. She figured it wasn’t really a lie since she had no idea whether she was safe or not.

“Fine.” He didn’t look like he believed her. “I’ll go down and lock the door. You go up to bed and check all your windows and doors before you go to sleep.”

Lindsey opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off by holding up his hand.

“This is not debatable. I’ll keep my cell phone handy in case you need me,” he said. Then he trudged down the stairs with a muttered good-night tossed over his shoulder like a chewed-up apple core.

Lindsey felt bad about lying, but she didn’t really want to deal with Chief Daniels in the wee hours of the morning when there was really nothing he could do.

She climbed up the stairs to her place, where the door still stood ajar. She locked the dead bolt behind her and checked all of the windows, although she had to wonder who would be foolish enough to climb three stories to get in here. Then again, who would break into her apartment in the first place?

But had they really had to break in? She tried to remember if she had locked the door the night before. She didn’t think she had. Briar Creek was such a peaceful place. She knew she had gotten lax about locking her door. Well, she figured she was cured of that. She never wanted to find a person lurking in her apartment again. Ever.

Sleep was going to be impossible. She made herself a cup of cocoa and noted that it was nowhere near as good as Sully’s. Still, hopefully it would chase the chill out of her bones. She climbed back into bed with her mug and grabbed the photo album off of the floor. At least the burglar hadn’t gotten it.

It was from Ernie’s young life. It must have been put together by one of his foster mothers. There were a couple of pictures of him as a baby and then some grade school shots. High school showed him as the scruffy, rebellious artist, dressed all in black.

Throughout the years, he posed with different sets of people. Older couples with strained smiles and younger couples who looked overwhelmed with not just him but several more children in the picture as well.

There was one picture of him as a young boy. Lindsey guessed him to be about age nine. A middle-aged couple posed with him, and they looked delighted. It was the only photo where Ernie wore a smile, a genuine lit-up-from-within smile. Beside the picture was a newspaper clipping, yellowed with age. It stated that Liz and Calvin Shadegg had been killed in a car accident, leaving behind their newly adopted son. With no other family able to take him, Ernie would be sent back into the foster-care system.

A weight like a stone lodged in Lindsey’s chest. She had not liked Rick Eckman. She didn’t like his narcissism or the way he had treated Beth. She had never understood what Beth saw in him, but now she knew. Beth had seen in him that little boy who lost everything. And in typical Beth fashion, she had thought she could make up for all those years of sadness.

Lindsey sighed. She couldn’t help but feel badly for the boy who had never seemed to get a break.

She flipped through more quickly until she reached the college years. There were loads of pictures of him winning awards, most of which had been in the box that had been taken.

She took a long sip of her hot cocoa. Her thoughts drifted back to the box. This had not been a random burglary. Someone had found out that she had gone to his old address and gotten his box of things. She had told Eloise that she planned to turn the box into the police. But the intruder must have wanted to stop her, but why?

Again, she reasoned, it had to be Rick’s murderer. She wrapped her hands around her mug as the shivers overtook her. A murderer had been in her apartment. The realization was not a calming one. But what did the killer expect the police to find in that box that would give him away? The only conclusion Lindsey could draw was that he had to be from Ernie’s past.

She tried to remember the items in the box. The sketch of the girl was the first thing that came to mind, but there had been no name, nothing to give her a clue as to who it could have been, and she could only speculate as to what in that box would be important enough for someone to try and steal it back.

Lindsey returned to the album. Her only hope was that there might be a clue in here. She continued to flip through his college years.

There were pictures of more artwork, shows and awards. A few clippings from the school newspaper showed him to be one of the promising young artists of his class.

There weren’t many pictures of him with friends. Lindsey wasn’t surprised; judging by his people skills, she imagined that making friends had not come easily to him.

It was toward the back that she found it. Wedged between the pages of more artwork and awards was a five-by-seven photo of a group of kids in an art room. Ernie was in the center. He had his arm wrapped around a very pretty girl with light-brown hair, who had her hand covering her mouth as if stifling a giggle. On his other side stood a brunette; she did not have the same sparkle as the other girl but was gazing at him with an intensity that bespoke longing or loathing—it was hard for Lindsey to tell which. There were several other teens in the background, but it was the three in front that held Lindsey’s attention.

She studied the two women in the photo. The darker brunette looked familiar. Lindsey recognized the angle of her head and the bluntness of her gaze. It was Sydney, the editor. She was sure of it, which meant that Sydney had known Rick in more than a professional capacity. She had known him as Ernie.

Lindsey sat back and shut the album. She could not believe it was a coincidence that Sydney had been staying in Briar Creek, had gone to school with Ernie and just happened to be in town when he got murdered, even if he was living under a new name.

She wondered if she should tell Chief Daniels and Detective Trimble. Maybe she should wait. It was possible that she was wrong and that this wasn’t Sydney, even though every instinct told her that it was. She’d call Sydney in the morning and let her know what she’d found and then see what Sydney had to say for herself.

The library opened with its usual hustle and bustle. Violet came in to do Beth’s story time, which was a good thing because Beth still looked pasty and fragile, and Lindsey doubted she had the stamina to entertain twenty squirming crawlers.

Lindsey waited until the staff was immersed in their work, and then she closed her office door. With any luck, no one would come looking for her for at least a half hour.

She typed in the URL for Rick’s publisher’s website and then selected its contact-us hyperlink. It listed a main number for Caterpillar Press in New York City. She took out her cell phone and dialed it. She had been hoping to find Sydney’s direct number listed on the website, but no such luck.

The main operator connected her to Sydney’s line, which, after a few rings, switched over to voice mail. Lindsey considered leaving a message, but she doubted Sydney would actually call her back. She decided to get sneaky, and she called the main number again. This time she asked to be connected to Sydney’s assistant.

The phone was answered after three rings. A strained voice answered. “Hello, Sydney Carlisle’s office. This is Tina speaking.”

“Hi, Tina. I’m Lindsey Norris. I was wondering if I could speak with Sydney.” There. That sounded right, as if she and Sydney were on a first-name basis but not overly chummy.

Silence greeted her request. Uh-oh. She wondered if Sydney was standing beside Tina and giving her the slashing motion across her throat indicating that she wanted no calls from Lindsey. The silence continued, and Lindsey wondered if they’d been disconnected.

“Hello?” she said. “Tina, are you there?”

“I’m sorry,” Tina said. Her voice cracked. “It’s just that I’m finding this very difficult.”

“What is it?” Lindsey asked. She sat up straight, knowing by the young woman’s tone that something was very, very wrong.

“Sydney is dead,” Tina said.

“W
hat?” Lindsey asked. She was sure she must have heard her wrong.

“She fell from the train platform this morning on her way to work and was hit by . . . ugh.” Unable to go on, Tina broke down into sobs.

“I am so sorry,” Lindsey said. She felt as if she’d just been punched in the gut. Sydney was dead? How could this be?

“I just don’t understand what’s happening,” Tina sobbed. “First Sydney’s top author is stabbed, and then she’s killed in a freak accident. It’s just so wrong.”

“Yes, definitely wrong,” Lindsey muttered as she tried to process the tragic news.

“I have another call coming in,” Tina said. She took a deep breath as if bracing herself to give more bad news. “Information about her service should be announced as soon as her family has it planned.”

“Thank you,” Lindsey said. “Again, I am so sorry.”

Tina mumbled something that sounded like good-bye before the line went dead.