Stay Tuned for Murder (28 page)

He held the bag up to the light. “I’m not sure, but I think it’s paint.”

“Paint? Blue paint? That’s odd, right? Because there’s no blue in the picture. Look for yourself.” The painting was a study in earth colors: muddy brown, with a few spots of tan and rust.

Rafe stared at the painting for a long moment, and then our eyes met. “There’s something strange going on here. You’re right. It may take the tech guys a little while to figure it out, but they will. They’ll keep going until they’ve got the answer. They’re the best in south Florida.” His cell phone chirped then, and he flipped it open, glanced at the readout, and frowned. “Time for the meeting with the chief.” He scooped up some papers off his desk and touched my cheek with one finger before he headed for the door. “Later, Maggie.”

“Terrible what happened to Miss Mildred,” an elderly librarian told me a few minutes later. Her snow-white hair was tightly secured in a French twist, and her name tag said AGNES MILTON. I’d stopped by the Cypress Grove Public Library to pay a call on Miss Gina Raeburn, the library’s director, and was waiting at the circulation desk while they paged her.

“Yes, it must be a great loss for all of you. And for the patrons, as well. I understand Miss Mildred had been here for a number of years.”

“All her life.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I still can’t believe she’s gone. It happened over there, you know,” she added, lowering her voice. She glanced over her shoulder. “We’ve kept her office closed off since”—she paused delicately—“the incident.”

“Oh, yes, I understand.” Funny the way she referred to the murder as an “incident,” but everyone has a different way of processing grief. I glanced over at the tiny cubicle that had been Mildred Smoot’s office for nearly half a century. It was tucked behind the circulation desk and wouldn’t be immediately visible to anyone walking past the main desk. I tried to imagine the awful scene when someone crept into the library and attacked her. She was frail and couldn’t have put up much of a fight. Rafe had told me that there weren’t any defensive wounds on her body. One swift stab with the letter opener and it was all over. Could she have known her attacker? Maybe she had even let the killer into the library after hours?

“Did she often work here late at night?”

“Yes, I’m afraid she did. She took on way too many responsibilities, you see.” She gave a sad smile. “This library was her whole life. She was the first one here in the morning and the last one to lock up at night.”

“So she was alone in the building twice a day. Did many people know that?” If the killer had time to plan the attack, then it couldn’t have been a random crime. Someone wanted Mildred dead.

“Well, just about everyone who used the library knew it, I guess.” She peered at me. “The police asked me the same thing.” She hesitated and then added, “I suppose I shouldn’t say this, but are you sure they’re doing everything they can to find the killer? I can’t believe they don’t have any leads in the case. And coming so soon after the murder of Althea Somerset. What’s our little town coming to?” She shook her head, her eyes misting with tears.

I was making sympathetic noises when a tall woman with silver-blond hair appeared next to us.

“Maggie Walsh?” she said briskly. “I’m Gina Raeburn. Please come into my office. We can talk privately. I hope you like chamomile tea.” She smiled as she led the way.

“I love it. My roommate makes it every day. She finds it soothing.”

“She’s quite right. That it is.”

Her office was a stark contrast to the rest of the library. It had sleek Danish furniture in polished teak, bold abstract paintings on the walls, and a colorful Mexican rug on the floor. She waved me to a love seat next to a bay window that looked out onto a garden in the back of the library. She’d set out tea and sugar cookies on a low coffee table.

“Thanks so much for seeing me.”

“I want to do anything I can to make sure Mildred’s killer is brought to justice,” she said, her tone direct. “I’d like to think the police are on top of things, but I’m beginning to doubt it. They came by and did a cursory examination of her office, took the murder weapon, and that’s the last I’ve heard from them.” An angry flush crossed her porcelain-like skin.

“I’m sure they’re doing what they can,” I said diplomatically. “They probably can’t show their hand too quickly because they’re building a case. I’m sure the uncertainty is very hard to deal with.” I waited until she nodded before I went on. “It sounds like Mildred didn’t have any enemies, and I suppose nothing was missing from the library?”

“Nothing was missing. Not even the few dollars we had in petty cash.” She paused to pour us both a cup of tea. “Do you think they have any leads yet?”

“I’m afraid I’m not really in the loop,” I began, but she cut me off.

“But you do the news at WYME, don’t you? You have every right to be involved.”

I smiled. She must not have realized that I was low on the totem pole at the station. “I do a talk show, not really hard news. What I do is entertainment.” I didn’t want to admit that Big Jim Wilcox was unofficially covering the case for the station. I’d lose what little credibility I had.

“I thought you had some theories about the case and that’s why you wanted to see me.” She gave me a speculative look. “You know that I gave Vera Mae a box of Mildred’s personal papers, right? I dropped them off at her house the other night.”

I nodded. “Yes, I know that. I wondered if they could have had anything to do with Mildred’s murder, but I haven’t had a chance to look at them yet. Vera Mae said they were connected to some research Mildred was doing on the time capsule celebration. A series of e-mails, that sort of thing.”

“Yes. Mildred was fascinated by the time capsule, and she was communicating with historians all over the country. She was so excited when she was a guest on your radio show. It was quite a thrill for a small-town librarian. You know, she got letters from listeners in Boca and Miami after she was on the air.”

“Really? I’m glad to hear it.”

I had the feeling there was something Gina Raeburn wanted to say to me, and I wondered why she was holding back. Was there something I didn’t know about Mildred, some dark secret in her past? It seemed unlikely. And it also seemed improbable that in a gossipy little town like Cypress Grove, I wouldn’t have heard it by now.

I glanced at my watch. I needed to get back to the station to prepare for my afternoon show, so I took a chance. “Miss Raeburn—,” I began.

“Call me Gina, please.” She smiled.

“Gina.” I took a deep breath. “Are you sure there isn’t anyone who had a grudge against Mildred? For any reason at all? I’m sure the police have asked you this, but I thought that maybe you’ve had more time to think about it—”

“Everyone loved her,” she said firmly. “There was no reason not to love her. She was a wonderful person.” The words shot out of her mouth like bullets, and she tilted her chin defiantly. Vera Mae did the same thing when she was annoyed, so I knew that look very well.

“I’m sure she was wonderful,” I said, hoping to placate her, “but sometimes people harbor a grudge for no good reason.”

She gave me an intent look, reached for her tea, and stopped. She started to say something, bit her lip, and then said, “That can happen, I suppose.”

“There can be misunderstandings, arguments going back decades.” I waited a moment. “I’ve seen it happen again and again back in my psychology practice back in Manhattan. The presenting problem was just the tip of the iceberg. People would start to tell me all about their current problems, and suddenly they’d start talking about some long-buried grudge, something that should have been settled years earlier. And the anger was so fresh, you’d think it had just happened. Mildred could have been a wonderful person, and still have an enemy out there.”

Gina nodded. “I know you’re a psychologist. That’s why I thought you might have some special insight into Mildred’s murder. I figured you could be the one person who could connect the dots. No one in town seems to be able to do that.”

“Well, I’m glad you have faith in me.” I smiled at her. “I’d like to connect the dots, but first I need to find out more about Mildred.” I glanced at my watch. I really needed to be going if I was going to have time to go over the guest material for today’s show. I took a last swallow of tea and stood up. “Are you sure there’s nothing else you can think of?”

“Nothing other than what I’ve already told you. You could start by reading her papers,” Gina said crisply. “That would be the best place to begin. You might find the answer in her own words.” I stared at her for a moment. Was she directing me to something specific in the papers? I had the feeling she’d read them. Gina leaned back and stared at the bright pink hibiscus bushes lining the garden. I knew with absolute certainty that she’d said all she was going to say on the issue.

Rafe had ruled out Gina as a suspect in the break-in at Vera Mae’s place. According to the security tape, she’d been in the house for less than thirty seconds. She was seen on the security tape opening the back door holding a cardboard box, and then emerging without the box, seconds later. But was there something she wasn’t telling me? I had the nagging feeling there was more to the story.

I left my card on the coffee table. “I’ll go through the papers tonight, Gina. Maybe something will jump out at me. I certainly hope so.”

“So do I, my dear, so do I.”

I was passing the circulation desk on my way out when a display caught my eye. CYPRESS GROVE, THE LAST HUNDRED YEARS. Hmm. The librarian at the desk noticed my interest and smiled. “We just put that up last week, in honor of the upcoming time capsule ceremony. It’s gotten quite a lot of interest.”

“It’s a lovely display,” I said, wandering over for a closer inspection. Someone had made a montage of old letters, menus, and photographs that looked vaguely Victorian. A few yellowed textbooks were arranged on a table along with a genuinely old-looking Bible and a watermarked dictionary. “No newspaper clippings from those days,” I said softly.

“No, it’s a shame. I suppose you know the newspaper building burned down?”

I nodded. “I heard about that. And the courthouse records were destroyed as well. It seems sad that so much history could have been wiped out, just like that.”

“Yes, it certainly is. Of course, people have their family Bibles for records of births and deaths, and some of the more prominent families were featured in the bigger newspapers. Regional newspapers, I mean.”

“Really?” I hadn’t even thought of that angle. Regional newspapers, of course. I should have been doing some research up in Palm Beach or maybe Miami.

“Of course, they didn’t cover stories about ordinary folks, just the ones who were wealthy, or who owned lots of land and property. We do have some resources, though. We have some interesting pieces on microfiche. We haven’t gotten around to putting any of it on computer. There’s always so much to do, and we’re understaffed at the moment.”

“Microfiche?”

“Would you like to look at it?”

I glanced at my watch, wishing I weren’t so pressed for time. I would have loved to take a look, but I couldn’t spend the next few hours churning through spools of material. Probably ninety percent of it wouldn’t be relevant, and just to make it more complicated, I really didn’t know what I was looking for. “Maybe another time,” I said.

“You should probably reserve it,” she said. “We can leave them behind the desk for you, if you know when you’ll be back.” She pointed to a man in his forties seated at the far wall of the library. His eyes were glued to the screen, and he was making notes. “That gentleman’s been sitting there for hours. Maybe all the excitement about the time capsule sparked his interest in local history.”

“That must be it,” I agreed. I felt a little shot of adrenaline go through me when I caught a better glimpse of the man viewing the microfiche machine. My thoughts scurried like a manic squirrel as I tried to remember where I’d met him.

Suddenly it came to me. Ted’s wine party at the Seabreeze Inn. He’d introduced me to Trevor McNamara, who was supposedly in town looking for vacation properties. So why was a real estate broker looking at material from a hundred years ago?

“Was there something else you needed?” The librarian was staring at me, probably puzzled by my sudden fascination with the microfiche machine.

“Just one more question. There’s nothing current on microfiche, right? Everything is old and out of date. It’s all historical material, I mean,” I amended quickly.

She looked surprised. “Yes, you’re right. Everything current is on computer. The microfiche spools contain material with some historical interest. They date back several decades. Would you like to reserve something?”

“Not now, but I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks.” When would I ever have time to look at it? And more important, what was Trevor McNamara doing researching the past?

I was more convinced than ever that his story about looking for vacation properties was bogus.

“If you change your mind, you can sign up for it right here.” She pushed a ledger across the counter to me. “We don’t permit the microfiche spools to leave the library, but you’re certainly welcome to look at them here, for as long as you like. Mildred used to be in charge of all this, but I’m handling the reference materials at the moment.”

“Thanks.” She turned to answer a phone call and I glanced through the ledger. There were very few entries. Apparently not too many people were interested in tripping down memory lane. The only name on today’s page was Trevor McNamara. I glanced at my watch. He’d been looking at the material for more than two hours. What did he find so intriguing?

I idly turned the pages, and then one name jumped out at me.

Shalimar Hennessey.

She’d checked out some microfiche spools to look at a few days ago. Interesting. What was even more interesting was that she’d checked them out the day of Mildred’s murder.