Checked Out (10 page)

H
elen fought the traffic on Broward Boulevard, but she was trapped in the concrete canyons of downtown Fort Lauderdale. Cars poured out of the nearby parking garages and clogged the streets. Her progress could be measured in inches. The rush hour was just beginning.

It was sticky-hot at three forty-five, and an overheated black Mercedes died in the far-left lane, snarling traffic further.

Helen had to get to Norton Management Associates on the other side of I-95, but the whole town seemed to be heading for the interstate. She eased out of the middle lane and found herself behind a bus belching diesel fumes.

There’s a reason why they call this the slow lane, she thought, and swung out in front of a pickup truck with inches to spare. The driver gave her the bird and a well-deserved horn blast.

Time’s running out, Helen thought. I have to get to Norton before everyone leaves the office. I only hope information about job interviews isn’t confidential.

If Charlotte’s made off with the Kingsley watercolor, I’m sunk. Why was I so trusting? She doesn’t need this job. She just wanted
to get away. Now she has a car, two hundred bucks and a million-dollar painting.

I can’t believe I didn’t check her briefcase. Some detective I am.

I was careless because Charlotte said she grew up in a small town. Well, plenty of people consider somebody like me from St. Louis a hick from the sticks. I assumed Charlotte couldn’t sell the watercolor because she didn’t have the contacts, but she’s been living at the library. Surrounded by books and computers. Information’s everywhere.

Everyone’s connected these days, thanks to the Internet.

Traffic eased slightly once Helen crossed the railroad tracks. As long as she stayed in the middle lane on Broward, she kept moving. Now she was past the exits for I-95, a major traffic hurdle. The cars thinned to a manageable number. Not much longer now and she’d be at Norton.

What time was it?

She checked her dashboard clock. Three fifty-five. If she pushed the Igloo, she’d make it before the evening exodus. Then the traffic light turned yellow. She slammed on the brakes and waited. Another delay. Fort Lauderdale had such long traffic light waits, but she’d had enough tickets from the blasted red-light cameras.

Helen drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. In the distance, she could see the white Norton Management Associates sign on the top floor of a blue glass tower. Almost there.

Then she hit an unexpected jam: A line of cars was backed up to enter the Norton parking lot. The six-story blue-glass building shimmered like a mirage. So close, but still out of reach.

As she crawled forward, the cause of the slowdown became clearer. The Norton building was planted in a small parking lot, landscaped with palms and edged on the north side by a tall ficus hedge. There was a break midway down the hedge for another driveway.

Now Helen saw a carnival of flashing police lights and
emergency vehicles clustered at that driveway break. Was there an accident in the Norton parking lot? Was someone sick? The victim of an assault?

At last she swung the Igloo into the Norton driveway. Now she had a clearer view. Gawkers were three deep, most in business dress, clustered at the gap in the hedge. Helen could see a chain across the gap to keep cars from entering the lot next door, but anyone could step over it.

The crime scene—or whatever it was—was on the other side of the hedge, but the view was blocked by a boiling mass of busybodies.

Shameless, Helen thought. The Norton building must have emptied out so the office workers could watch the commotion next door.

She caught a better glimpse of what was going on. Now she saw a vast, potholed asphalt parking lot that belonged to a boarded-up supermarket with a rusting sign.
MONARCH
MARKET
:
THE
KING
OF
DEALS
, it said, and was topped with a prophetically slipping crown.

Helen saw half a dozen cars parked on the Monarch Market lot, including a lizard green Honda with a dented passenger door. Helen felt her stomach lurch.

Didn’t Charlotte say she drove a beat-up green ’87 Honda?

Now Helen saw uniformed cops demanding that the crowd move, unceremoniously shooing them away from the scene, while CSI workers erected a screen. Something terrible had happened.

Helen was sweating, even though the Igloo’s air-conditioning kept the car cool. She had a bad feeling.

Don’t jump to conclusions, she told herself. There are a lot of old green cars and Honda is a popular brand.

She drove around the lot twice before she found a parking spot near the back of the Norton building, next to a smelly Dumpster enclosure. A knot of ghouls had gathered there at a break in the hedge, watching the scene with avid eyes. The police didn’t seem to notice them.

Helen was ashamed to join the nosy rabble, but she had to know if something had happened to Charlotte.

She pushed her way through the morbidly curious crowd. “Excuse me,” she said. “Sorry.” She elbowed her way toward the front, earning angry hisses and glares, but Helen didn’t care. They were watching someone else’s pain, sucking in a stranger’s agony for their entertainment. They didn’t deserve courtesy. And she had to know if Charlotte was safe.

One last elbow in a fat man’s side, and Helen could see a little more. A woman was sprawled on the sun-faded gray asphalt, a long plume of dark blood pooled under her head. The woman had dark hair, matted with blood.

No, she thought. Oh, please, no. She felt dizzy, and it wasn’t the Dumpster stink or the late-afternoon heat.

That woman can’t be Charlotte, she told herself. This building is filled with twentysomething brunettes.

“What happened?” she asked a tall, broad-shouldered black man next to her. She couldn’t keep her voice from shaking, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Hit-and-run,” he said, in a rich baritone. “Our office manager left for lunch about an hour ago. She discovered the body and called the cops. Eleanor. That’s her by the cop car, talking to a detective.”

Body? Helen thought. That means the woman is dead.

The tall man pointed to a plump woman in a red suit straining at the seams, talking to a man in a rumpled beige suit. Eleanor kept shaking her head and wiping her eyes with a tissue.

“Never enough parking places in this lot, so we use the empty one next door,” the tall man said. “That poor young lady had passed, God rest her soul, when Eleanor found her. They think she was out here awhile, all alone.”

Helen had to see the dead woman. “Please excuse me,” she said to the tall man. “I need to see if I know her.”

He stepped aside—and by the sound of an angry screech—on the toes of someone, and Helen popped to the front, like a cork out of a bottle. The air was better here, slightly cooler.

Now Helen could see the hit-and-run victim wore a navy suit, hiked up her thighs and ripped at the shoulder. She couldn’t bear to look closer at the dark head in the lake of blood. The woman’s feet were bare, her dark shoes flung off. She had a briefcase at her side, the same color as Charlotte’s, and it was open. Inside, Helen could see a black notebook, three pens, a wallet, lipstick and a hairbrush. A set of keys was tossed about two feet from the woman’s outstretched hand.

Charlotte. Helen had no doubt now.

She remembered Margery’s warning:
Your ghost could be in danger. It’s easy to kill a dead person. Who’s going to miss her?

Was it only this afternoon that she and Margery had been sitting by the Coronado pool, talking about the library ghost? It seemed like weeks ago.

From the way Charlotte’s body was positioned, Helen guessed she’d been walking toward the building on her way to her job interview. She’d never made it. She never got her job or her chance for a new life. Now Charlotte really was a ghost.

Helen felt queasy. She had to get out of here. She pushed her way out of the crowd, but this time people let her pass without comment.

Once she was free, Helen ran toward her car. She needed to sit down before she passed out. As her feet pounded the pavement, she heard this message in her head: Charlotte’s dead. She’s dead. Dead.

Who did this? Who ran down Charlotte and left her to die?

Was she killed to keep from revealing where she hid the million-dollar watercolor?

Is her killer back at the library now, searching for it?

Or did the killer take the painting?

“P
hil,” Helen said, “the ghost is dead.” Her voice shook and her fingers trembled as she tried to hold on to her cell phone. The cool air in the Igloo had calmed her a little, but she was relieved when Phil answered.

“You’re not making sense, Helen,” he said. “What ghost? Where?”

“Oh,” she said, “I didn’t get to tell you what happened this morning. I found the library ghost. Her name is Charlotte and she’s homeless. She found the Kingsley watercolor and said she hid it at the library.”

She told her disjointed tale several times, until Phil figured out what had happened.

“So Charlotte, who may or may not have walked off with the million-dollar watercolor, was killed by a hit-and-run driver,” he said.

“Right,” Helen said. “She told me she’d hidden the watercolor at the library. We need to search for the painting now.”

“How do you know she was telling the truth?” Phil asked.

“I don’t,” Helen said. “But if she wanted to skip town, she could have. Instead, she went for the job interview.”

“When does the library close tonight?” he asked.

“Early. Five o’clock,” she said. “I’ll ask Alexa to help us search.”

“Make sure she sends everyone else home,” Phil said. “Charlotte’s killer has to be someone connected with the library.”

“I thought someone was listening at the Kingsley collection door,” Helen said, “but I didn’t see anyone. They might have heard me talking to Alexa, the director, too. You don’t think Charlotte’s death was a real hit-and-run accident, do you?”

“That would be an amazing coincidence,” he said. “Too amazing. I’ll leave for the library now and wait for you in the lot.”

She felt a little calmer when she called Alexa. Helen needed only two tries to make the library director understand that Charlotte was dead.

“That poor young woman,” Alexa said, “living from hand to mouth for months, then killed before she could start a new life. Of course I’ll help, Helen. The library closes in fifteen minutes. I’ll meet you and Phil at the staff entrance.”

Half an hour later, Helen was at the Flora Park Library. The late-afternoon sun painted the old stucco building a creamy pink, and the gardens looked cool and inviting.

She saw Phil waiting in his black Jeep, and parked next to it. He folded her into his arms. “You look white and shocked,” he said.

“I am shocked,” Helen said. “Oh, Phil, if you could have seen that poor woman. Her death was so terrible—and so unfair.”

He held her tight and she felt the comfort of his strong arms. Then Helen looked up and winced when she saw his burned face.

“Ouch. You’re peeling,” she said.

“You mean ap-pealing, don’t you?” he said, and held her close.

“Seriously, how do you feel?” she asked, and kissed his red, flaky nose. They walked hand in hand toward the staff entrance.

“I was so busy edging the drive and walkways at the Coakley house,” he said, “I barely noticed the sunburn. Ana fixed us another spectacular lunch. She loves cooking for an appreciative audience.”

“Learn anything else about Bree’s stolen necklace and the missing golf cart?” Helen asked.

“No, but Ana’s set up a meeting with the two servers from Bree’s birthday party. One o’clock tomorrow in her kitchen. Can you make it?”

“Definitely,” Helen said.

“Be prepared for a treat,” Phil said. “Ana’s cooking lunch again. Both servers have to leave for work at three o’clock.”

“I’ll bring my appetite,” Helen said. But she wondered if she’d be able to eat tomorrow. She felt numb now.

Alexa met them at the library door. Helen could see the long day—or the news of Charlotte’s murder—had taken its toll on the library director. Fresh lipstick didn’t disguise how worn she looked. Even her hair seemed tired.

“I had a hard time getting Lisa to leave,” Alexa said. “The only reason she finally went home was she got a call from her mother’s caregiver. Some problem with a prescription. Now everyone’s gone but Blair.”

“What’s she doing here this late?” Helen asked.

“She took an extra-long lunch and now she insists on staying and sorting books for the Friends’ sale shelves.”

Or snooping, Helen thought. Did Blair overhear Charlotte? Is she conducting her own search for the missing watercolor?

“I know how to get Blair out of the library,” Helen said. “Take me with you this time.”

Blair was in the Friends’ intake room, sorting through tattered paperbacks. “More worthless donations!” she said, holding up a paperback with the cover stripped off. “We can’t resell bookstore returns. The stores strip the covers off unsold paperbacks and send
them back to the publishers. We still need more books for our Friends’ shelves.”

“I appreciate your dedication,” Alexa said, “but I need to lock up and leave. Please.”

Here goes, Helen thought. “I’ll help you tomorrow, Blair,” she said. “I’ll come in at ten and sort until lunchtime.”

“Well,” Blair said.

Alexa took that as a yes. “Super!” she said, steering Blair toward the staff door. “Here’s your purse. Thank you so much.” One more polite shove and Blair was out the door. Alexa double-locked it, then began dousing the library lights.

A few minutes later, Helen, Phil and Alexa heard a car engine start in the parking lot. “I think it’s safe now,” Alexa said. “Helen, where should we start?”

“I surprised Charlotte hiding in the storage closet in this hall,” Helen said.

Alexa flicked on the single bulb, but it barely made a difference, it was so dark in the windowless hall. “We’ll need flashlights for the search,” she said. “We keep two in the break room.”

Alexa was back shortly. She handed a big yellow flashlight to Helen and kept the other.

Now twin pools of light danced off the hall’s dark woodwork and faded wallpaper. The rows of closed doors seemed to be hiding secrets.

“How did Charlotte stand it, living alone in this gloom?” Helen asked.

She felt uneasy. Helen swore she saw Charlotte in the shifting shadows. Paris capered at her feet, but even the playful calico couldn’t lighten her mood.

Helen jumped when she saw Charlotte’s sad brown eyes staring at her.

“What’s wrong?” Phil said.

“Nothing,” Helen said, relieved it really was nothing. The mournful brown eyes were simply the wood grain in an old door.

She pointed her flashlight at a narrow door. “This is the storage closet where I found her. I’ll search if you two will hold the flashlights.”

The closet held a janitor’s rolling bucket, mops, brooms and shelves of cleaning supplies. Helen picked a black sock off the floor and felt herself tear up. The sock was still damp, but the woman who’d washed it was dead. This morning, Charlotte had been conniving to take half of my money, she thought. Now she’s a murder victim.

She wiped her eyes.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Phil asked. She could see his concern in the dim light.

“Tired,” she said. “Like everyone else.”

They searched each room on that side of the hall and found broken chairs, three-legged tables, dusty bookshelves, a broken book cart—the usual library odds and ends.

The trio crossed the hall to open the other row of doors. Helen shined her light on the Kingsley collection door and saw a flat, dusty handprint on the wood, fairly high up.

“Look at that,” she said. “Someone was definitely listening. Someone tall.”

Blair? The head Friend of the Library was known for listening at doors, Helen thought. Lisa the board president? She was tall and skinny, but was she also a snoop? Seraphina, Elizabeth’s snarky friend? Gladys the leggy librarian? Jared, the bitter janitor? His closet was across the hall. What sweet revenge if he could steal the Kingsley watercolor. But I heard him hammering. Except I didn’t check to see if it was him. Just like I didn’t check Charlotte’s briefcase.

“Let’s take a look,” Alexa said. She opened the Kingsley
collection room with her skeleton key. Helen saw the stacks of numbered book boxes, the table with the elephant folios protected by their acid free paper, the pair of white cotton gloves resting on top of the folios, the scissors and tape.

“This looks the way I left it,” Helen said.

The search was numbingly dull. Only Paris, chasing shadows and flashlight beams, relieved the boredom.

“What time is it?” Helen asked.

“Ten thirty,” Alexa said, and yawned. “I’m ready to fold. Only the library supply room and the Friends’ intake room are left.”

“Did Charlotte say anything that might give us a clue?” Phil asked.

Did she? Helen was so shocked by Charlotte’s death, she hadn’t thought about their conversation. She’d raced back to the library before the killer found the painting. But now she remembered Charlotte’s taunt, just before she left.

“She may have,” Helen said. “She told me,
Don’t worry—it’s still here. I hid it well. When I get back, I’ll serve it to you on a platter. That’s a clue.
”

“It is?” Alexa said.

“That’s what Charlotte told me,” Helen said. “Didn’t sound like a clue to me. I’d rather check the supply room first. It’s cleaner.”

The supply room was under what used to be Flora Portland’s lavish dining room. The long, narrow room was painted a fresh white. Four gray metal shelves were arranged in a U that took up half the cramped space. Behind the shelves Helen saw four tall wooden bookcases.

“Gladys does an excellent job of organizing our library supplies,” Alexa said. The shelves were stocked with library secrets: bar code labels, liquid plastic glue for book repairs, date-due cards, book jacket covers and more.

“Everything in order here,” Alexa said.

“What’s behind those metal shelves?” Helen asked.

“Old oak bookcases,” Alexa said. “They haven’t been touched in years.”

“I want to check,” Helen said. She and Phil carefully pushed a metal supply shelf aside, and Helen squeezed past. The oak bookshelves had been rearranged to form a room. One shelf was left at an angle, and Helen slid through it. Little Paris followed her.

Helen found a makeshift bed of old cushions and new blankets. The empty shelves had been dusted and held a few sweaters, blouses, underwear, jeans and socks, all neatly folded. She saw a flashlight, half a bottle of shampoo, three energy bars and a stack of paperbacks. The battery-operated TV sat on a box.

A small wooden box held a photo of a smiling, brown-haired woman in a pink dress, and a few papers, including a birth certificate for Charlotte Ann Dams, born May 6, 1993. She was twenty-two.

“I’ve found Charlotte’s hideaway,” Helen said.

Phil and Alexa crowded into the tiny space. “Do you think she hid the watercolor in here?” Helen asked.

“I hope so,” Alexa said. “I don’t want to tackle the Friends’ intake room tonight.”

They checked behind three of the heavy bookcases, but found nothing except an old globe. “Boy, is this map of Europe outdated,” Helen said. “It still has East and West Germany.”

“I’m exhausted,” Alexa said. “Let’s sit for a minute.”

The three searchers plopped down on Charlotte’s bed. Helen noticed the director had a smudge on her cheek. She kicked off her heels and sighed. Phil looked like he was molting.

“There’s nothing else to search,” Helen said, “except behind that bookcase against the back wall.”

“Do we really want to move it?” Alexa said.

“No,” Helen said. “But it’s either that or the bug-infested Friends’ intake room.”

Alexa groaned, but she stood up and dusted off her suit. “Let’s go,” she said.

Paris the cat ran in front of them and squeezed her small furry body behind the heavy bookcase. “Now we have to get Paris,” Helen said. “We can’t shut her up in here overnight. Come on, kitty. Come on out.”

Merp!
Paris said, but the cat refused to budge.

“We can’t leave her,” Helen said.

Phil pulled on the massive bookcase, and it rolled out easily from the wall.

“It’s on castors,” Alexa said.

“There’s a small door in the wall behind it,” Helen said.

“That’s an old dumbwaiter,” Alexa said. “It must have taken food to the dining room upstairs.”

“The dumbwaiter!” Helen said. “That’s what Charlotte meant when she said she’d serve it to me on a platter.”

“I should have figured that out,” Alexa said.

“How could you?” Helen said. “You couldn’t see it, hidden behind the bookcase. Let’s see if it still works.”

She pressed a red Bakelite button set into the wall and the dumbwaiter rumbled to life, then stopped at the door.

On the platform was a giant book of sepia photos:
Portraits from North American Indian Life
by Edward S. Curtis.

“The watercolor,” Helen said. “Charlotte said she hid it in this book.”