Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 05 - Just Ducky (22 page)

As I stood at the sink peeling carrots for a big pot of vegetable soup I was preparing, it occurred to me that Stone and I had not been locked in the library basement for no reason. I hadn’t hidden the fact from anybody that I suspected Ducky’s death wasn’t a suicide, and that someone out there was responsible for maliciously hanging her from the rafters, and purposely making it appear as if it was of Ducky’s own doing.

I’d made it clear to everyone I’d spoken to that I was trying to ferret out the true circumstances of that fateful evening. Could that knowledge be making the killer feel threatened, and maybe even thinking I’m closer to the truth than I am? Are they making an effort now to silence me? Or did getting locked in the basement have no relevance to Ducky’s death at all?

Could Ducky’s killer really be responsible for what had occurred in the library basement Wednesday night? I asked myself. If so, Stone and I could be in danger and our lives in jeopardy. For example, had the killer been hoping to do away with Stone and me with the carbon monoxide poisoning, before we stumbled on to the truth? Could the detectives not see the two events were related to each other, and be proof enough Ducky might have been murdered to warrant a closer look?

I placed the peeler on the counter and called Detective Johnston. He picked up the phone on about the seventh ring, just as I was thinking about what I needed to say to him in a voice mail message.

He told me he was tied up, working on yet another burglary in town. According to Wyatt, Tom Melvard had called 9-1-1 for the second time Wednesday evening at about ten p.m. to report that when he arrived at Joe’s Gun and Ammo on Birch Street, he found two men in blue jeans and black hoodies robbing the store. When Tom unlocked the front door to the gun store for its scheduled Wednesday night janitorial service, he witnessed the perpetrators grab a handgun and several long arms off the shelf, and quickly exit out the back door, which they’d kicked in earlier in order to enter the shop. He was unable to see their faces or give any descriptions of the robbers, other than the fact that they were both of medium height and weight, but he did state the cash register was open and had been emptied out.

“This at least confirms our suspicions there are two individuals involved, and gives us a vague description of the pair. It wasn’t much of a description, but it’s a start,” Wyatt told me. “What I thought would be a routine extra shift last night turned out to be very interesting. I’m discovering I kind of like working nights. The day shift can be pretty uneventful. Sometimes I give people a warning for jaywalking in downtown Rockdale just to break up a long boring day.”

I laughed, but I knew he was busy, so I quickly told Wyatt my thoughts about the unlikely coincidence of Ducky’s death, and Stone and I being locked in the library’s basement just days later. I knew the police department would not be pleased to know we were doing a little investigating on our own, so I left that part out.

“I don’t know if it will do any good, but I’ll run it by the Chief this afternoon,” Wyatt promised me. “It may be associated with the string of burglaries, and not Ducky’s death. But in the meantime, be vigilant and extra cautious, and don’t do anything stupid.”

“Okay, Wyatt. Good luck with the investigation you’re working on.” I was a bit insulted by being told not to do anything stupid. But I also knew telling me to be extra cautious was like telling Ted Bundy to be extra angelic. In neither case did the two things belong in the same sentence. I would be vigilant to a degree, but I could only be extra cautious if it didn’t stand in the way of me getting to the truth of the matter.

* * *

Stone planned to spend the morning finishing up the restroom in the suite we were going to use for the couple checking in later that afternoon. They would be celebrating their tenth anniversary, so we had assigned them what we called our “Honeymoon Suite.” It was designed for honeymooners but also worked well for occasions such as this one. The bed featured a red and white quilt with appliquéd hearts, the one I’d won in the raffle at the county fair the previous year.

I had the box of Ducky’s personal items in the back seat of my car, and thought it’d be a good opportunity to take the box over to give to Quentin. If he wasn’t home when I got there, I didn’t feel safe leaving it on the front porch, even though it was hidden from view by a row of untrimmed knockout rose bushes. The first-edition Capote book was too valuable to leave unattended, where even a boy scout selling rolls of trash bags could pick it up and take it home with him. More likely, the kid would pilfer through the box for the tootsie rolls and Pez dispenser, and throw the book and school supplies in a nearby dumpster.

If Quentin was home, I’d ask him if he knew anybody else with even a remote motive to murder his late wife, even if he wasn’t convinced Ducky didn’t take her own life. I’d eliminated most of the suspects on my list, and wasn’t sure it was worth the time and effort to revisit those individuals. But I wasn’t sure where to turn next, and I wasn’t ready to give up on my desire to find her killer.

When I pulled in his driveway, Quentin was tacking a “For Sale” sign on the side window of Ducky’s Volkswagen Beetle, which was parked in the front yard. I unrolled my window to speak to him. “Have you got a minute, Mr. Duckworthy?”

“Of course. I’ll always have time for you, Ms. Starr. Why don’t you come in and join me for a glass of lemonade in the kitchen?” I wondered if he’d still
always have time for me
if he knew I was still a bit suspicious of his involvement in the death of his wife. I’m not sure if it was a reflection of my personality, or not, but in times such as these, few people seemed as genuinely happy to see me as this man did right now, and that departure from normal bothered me somewhat.

As soon as that thought flitted through my mind, another more sinister thought flitted right past it in its haste to bring itself to my attention. It was very possible the perpetrator in Ducky’s death, was also keen on perpetrating mine. Could that be why this fellow was so happy to see me this morning? Had I been drawn right into his trap, like a mosquito to a bug zapper?

Had I been practicing my “extra cautious” skills, I would have made up an excuse about not having the time, handed him the box of Ducky’s stuff, and high-tailed it out of there like a purse snatcher running away from an angry old lady with a cane. However, we all know my skills in the extra cautious department need a great deal of work, particularly when my curiosity antenna is picking up a signal that piques my interest.

New Year’s Eve was rapidly approaching and I made my decision for this year’s resolution as I walked through Quentin’s front door. I was signing up for a “conceal and carry” class, and purchasing my very own handgun. I’d read an article in one of Stone’s magazines about a nine-millimeter pistol made by Smith and Wesson called the Ladysmith 3913. It would be easy to conceal, and I could get birdshot ammunition for it. I didn’t really want to ever have to live with the fact that I’d killed another human being. But it would sure be nice to be able stop someone in their tracks if they were approaching me with a knife, or a rope tied into a hangman’s noose, some evening as I was locking up the library.

Stone had a “conceal and carry” license but rarely packed a weapon. After I’d nearly been killed while investigating the murder of Walter Sneed in our parlor almost exactly a year ago, Stone had suggested the idea of my taking shooting lessons and pursuing the same license for myself. At the time, I thought it was unnecessary, but I was beginning to realize his suggestion had merit. An added bonus - the little gun was incredibly cute!.

I soon realized I hadn’t been lured into Quentin’s lair on false pretensions. He merely wanted to chat with someone to help him deal with his loneliness. I was beginning to think my earlier impression of the man had been correct. He was genuinely upset about his wife’s death, and although he had a few quirks, and who of us doesn’t, he was basically a decent human being. He felt comfortable with me too, he told me. In retrospect, it was an affirmation that should have concerned me. He patted my hand affectionately, and said, “You’re such a nice lady, and I guess I just needed a shoulder to cry on today.”

“Feel free to cry on mine,” I offered. “I can only imagine what you’re going through with the loss of your spouse.”

I had placed the box of stuff I’d collected from Ducky’s desk on a vacant kitchen chair. I picked up the box, handed it to him, and said, “It may be too hard to go through this box right now, but eventually you may find comfort in some of the things it contains. I’m sure a few will have sentimental value to you.”

“Yes, I’d rather not deal with the emotions a few of the items might evoke right now. I’d rather spend the time visiting with you. You’re such a sweet and delightful woman.”

I didn’t like the look in his eye when he made that comment, but gave it no more thought. I did however, want to draw his attention to the valuable first-edition copy of
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
so it didn’t get misplaced somehow. After I explained the book had been in her drawer, and was worth in the neighborhood of seventy-five hundred dollars, Quentin couldn’t dig into the contents of the box fast enough. So much for the emotions its contents might evoke. I guess greed outweighed his sorrow in this case.

After scouring through the box, tossing the miscellaneous items on the floor like a five-year old opening up a birthday present, and haphazardly flinging the scraps of wrapping paper, he looked up at me in confusion. “I don’t see any book in here.”

“Oh my! I guess I never thought to look for it after I picked the box up off the desk in the library.” I hadn’t wanted to mention what had happened to Stone and I the day before, not knowing who was responsible for the incident. But now, with the book missing, obviously pilfered by the intruder at the library who’d locked us in the basement, I felt obligated to tell him what I believed had to have happened to it. I would call Wyatt as soon as I left the Duckyworthy home, and pass on the discovery to him to process. It seems he may have been correct in his assumption that the incident might have been associated with the burglary spree, and not the suspicious death of Ducky.

Having brought up the subject of Ducky’s first-edition books, I felt it might not hurt to find out what his intentions were regarding the valuable collection, so I asked him as if I had every right to know. He told me he planned to sell them, for he saw no reason to keep them, and he wanted to use the room they were stored in as a place to do his woodworking projects. He still had a number of toys he wanted to make before the holidays for the sick kids in the children’s hospital.

“Do you realize how valuable those books are, Mr. Duckworthy?”

“Please call me Quentin, and yes, of course I do. She’s bought a couple of them since we got married a couple years ago. I wasn’t wild about her spending so much money on them, but she assured me they’d only go up in value, and we could use the investment to finance much of our retirement. I was hoping you could help me use the computer to look up their individual worth, and then help me list them for sale on craigslist,” he said.

“I would be happy to help you, but I don’t think craigslist is the place to sell the books. For one thing, being unfamiliar with the website, and apparently computers in general, you could easily become the victim of a scam, and lose a lot of money in the process. I think you need to find someone with knowledge in this area to broker the collection for you. You’d have to pay a fee for the service, of course, but would probably wind up more ahead of the game than if you were to try to sell them on your own,” I said. I could picture this older gentleman packing up books worth many thousands of dollars, shipping them to some postal box in Nigeria, and then waiting patiently for a check that would never arrive.

“Yes, I’m sure you’re right, but I wouldn’t know where to start to find a broker with the knowledge of first-edition books.”

I agreed to help him in any way I could. But I still wanted to know if he intended to keep all the proceeds for himself, or share them with Ducky’s only child. I’d almost promised her I’d look into the matter for her. So, again, I asked him point blank. “Are you going to share the proceeds with your stepdaughter? I assume you are planning to do that since she’s Ducky’s only child, and it sounds like most of the collection was acquired quite a while before you two were married.”

“You know Barbara? Is she a friend of yours?” He asked. He had an expression of uncertainty on his face, as if suddenly wondering if I’d been sent to his home to drill him on his stepdaughter’s behalf.

“Oh, no. We’re barely acquaintances. I just happened to meet Barbara at the post office when I bought some stamps there a couple days ago, and the subject of her mother’s death came up. I asked you because I was merely curious. It seemed to me as if that’d be the natural thing for you to do. Either hand the collection over to Ducky’s daughter, or sell them and split the proceeds with her,” I said, appealing to his sense of fairness.

“She probably told you I was a freeloader.”

“No, of course not. She said nothing of the sort, Quentin.”

I didn’t want to inform him she’d actually referred to him as a “no-good, gold-digging bastard.” I didn’t think that would help her cause any when it came to convincing her stepfather she deserved at least half of her mother’s wealth, which in my opinion was only fair, considering Ducky had amassed the bulk of that wealth before she’d even met Quentin Duckworthy.

“Well, I can tell you think I should split the money with her, and that it’d be wrong of me not to share the proceeds.”