Checked Out (12 page)

H
elen read the praise on Morris Mosselman’s science-fiction bestseller,
Foundation of Doom.
“A meaty novel . . . a must-read.”

A meaty novel maybe, she thought. But spoiled meat?

Helen was helping Blair sort books in the Friends of the Library intake room, and this seven-hundred-page novel was in her four-foot stack of donations. She was glad she was wearing latex gloves. So far this morning, she’d encountered used tissues, wriggling silverfish and a squashed spider stuck to a back cover. Now she had to deal with this smelly novel.

Foundation of Doom
fell open to page 457 and Helen saw the source of the stink.

“Ick.” She tossed the fat book in the trash can for infested books and slammed down the lid, as if it could crawl out.

“What’s wrong?” Blair asked, looking over the top of her equally tall stack. Today, her brown hair was twisted into a tight knot and her long, lean body encased in a dirt-colored pantsuit.

“Someone used a strip of bacon for a bookmark,” Helen said.

“It could go with the fried egg I once found in a book,” Blair
said. The head Friend was in a chatty mood this morning. She didn’t seem to mind that Helen had showed up fifteen minutes late, and Helen didn’t mention she’d talked to the Bettencourt detective. Blair was too full of her own news.

“You missed the excitement,” she said. “Alexa called us together and said that a homeless woman had been living in the library. Can you imagine?”

“Must have been uncomfortable,” Helen said.

“I would think so,” Blair said. “Homelessness is an issue for libraries. Did you know that Washington, DC, even has rules about homeless people? I read that they cannot have bare feet, drink alcohol or have an odor that can be smelled six feet away.”

“Amazing,” Helen said.

“Fortunately, our homeless man, Ted, is no trouble at all.”

She makes the man sound like a pet dog, Helen thought.

“What’s going to happen to the woman who lived in the library?” Helen asked. “Will the library prosecute her?”

“Oh, no,” Blair said. “Alexa said she was killed in a car accident last night. It was on the TV news, but the story didn’t give her name.”

“I saw the news at seven this morning,” Helen said. “The accident happened at the corner of Broward and Bettencourt.” She gave the wrong location to see if Blair knew where the accident really happened.

“Actually, the accident took place in the old Monarch supermarket lot,” Blair said, “almost two blocks away.”

And how did you know that? Helen wondered. “Valerie Cannata interviewed the detective for the case early this morning on Channel Seventy-seven,” she said. “Is that the story you watched?”

“No, I saw it on the ten o’clock news last night,” Blair said. “Valerie Cannata is such a good reporter, isn’t she? She always looks so chic.”

What Valerie’s wardrobe had to do with her reporting, Helen had no idea, but she agreed as she thumbed through a David Ellis
mystery. That hardcover was safe to sell and she put it in the “keep” pile.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you the other news,” Blair said. “The John Singer Sargent watercolor has been found. Alexa had an armed guard take it to Elizabeth Kingsley’s lawyer’s office.”

Good for Alexa, Helen thought. She handled the transfer of the watercolor quickly and sensibly. I’m glad she didn’t mention my name.

“That’s exciting,” Helen said. “Did you see it?”

“No, I wish I could have. I’ve never seen a million-dollar painting before, except in a museum,” Blair said, “but it was already wrapped in protective acid-free paper.

“Alexa said now that the watercolor’s been found, the Friends can sort and sell the Kingsley collection.”

“You’ll find those books are in much better shape than these,” Helen said.

“I know,” Blair said. “We went through a few boxes before Alexa made us stop. I wanted to sort through the last of these donations before we go to work in the Kingsley collection room.”

She opened a Leslie Glass mystery and found a recipe card. “Look at this,” Blair said. “A recipe card for mango curry chicken. No name on it, but the recipe looks tasty. Think I’ll keep that.”

Blair was so delighted that the Friends could start selling the Kingsley collection again, she never asked Helen if she’d found the watercolor. To keep her distracted, Helen asked, “What else have you found in books besides bugs and recipes?”

“Oh, the usual,” she said. “Shopping and to-do lists, airline boarding passes, birthday and sympathy cards. You expect to find those, along with people’s mail. I’ve found brochures on treatment options for cancer, leukemia and Parkinson’s disease in books. I hope those books weren’t part of the sick person’s estate.

“Once, I found a dirty gym sock that had been used as a bookmark. Banana peels are fairly common. And sand. Lots of sand.”

“Real beach books,” Helen said.

“The sand is annoying, but it doesn’t have six legs,” Blair said. “You should ask the librarians. They love talking about the strange things they find in books.”

“Ever find any money?” Helen asked.

“Oh, yes. I found seven dollars once. Of course, I donated it to the Friends. We have one library patron who uses a dollar bill as a bookmark. Sometimes he leaves the dollar in the book when he returns it. The librarians at the checkout desk always give it back to him the next time he comes in. He says it’s cheaper to use a dollar than to buy a bookmark.”

Helen wondered about that. Her bookmarks were either free or to-do lists and airline boarding passes.

“I’ve found some lovely pressed flowers and leaves,” Blair said. “I could talk all day about what turns up in books.”

Instead, Helen let her talk until twelve noon, when Blair wanted her lunch break. She thanked Helen somewhat formally.

I have an hour before I meet Phil at the Coakley mansion to interview the servers from Bree’s wild birthday bash, she thought. Might as well say good-bye to Alexa now.

Helen stopped by Alexa’s office and found the library director having tea with Elizabeth Kingsley. The two women sat on a pale yellow sofa on the far side of the room. Alexa presided over a Blue Willow tea set and a tiered plate of iced cakes and crustless sandwiches.

“Helen, I’m glad you stopped by. Would you care to join us?” Alexa asked. The library director looked rested and relaxed today. Her dark hair was perfect, and that unusual white lock was accented by her cool cream suit. Elizabeth was the picture of a well-bred lady in Minton blue.

“Just a quick cup,” Helen said. “I have to leave at twelve thirty. I wanted to say good-bye, since my work here is done.”

“That’s one of the things we wanted to discuss with you,” Alexa said.

One? Helen thought, as she took the delicate blue-and-white cup from Alexa.

“Elizabeth and I have your permission letters,” Alexa said. “How did the interview with the police detective go?”

“He wasn’t interested in my information,” Helen said, and sipped her tea. “He believes Charlotte’s death is a hit-and-run accident.”

“That’s a relief,” Elizabeth said. “Maybe we won’t be in the paper after all.”

“I don’t believe your work here is finished,” Alexa said. “Both Elizabeth and I agree that we need you to find Charlotte’s killer. Do you still think the killer has a connection to this library?”

“Absolutely,” Helen said. “It’s no coincidence that Charlotte was killed right after she told me she’d found the watercolor. Someone here at the library overheard her talking to me. I think that person was listening at the door. I thought I heard something, but when I opened the door, I didn’t see anyone. Charlotte left for her job interview and was run down before she could return and tell me where she hid the painting.”

Helen mentally ticked off the people who’d been in the library at that time: Elizabeth’s jealous friend, Seraphina. Blair, the annoying head Friend who listened at doors and wanted the watercolor to restore the library. Jared, the bitter janitor who was mopping floors instead of enjoying a comfortable old age. Gladys the librarian babe in debt down to her designer shoes. Lisa Hamilton, the tall, thin library board president who’d enlisted a medium to call up the ghost of Flora Portland and save her beloved library.

“I think the killer wanted Charlotte out of the way to look for the Sargent artwork,” Helen said.

“We cannot have an unsolved murder here, no matter how tenuous the connection to our library,” Alexa said.

“And I won’t feel safe until the killer is caught,” Elizabeth said.

“That’s why we’d like you to find Charlotte’s killer,” Alexa said.

“I can’t quit this job no matter how hard I try,” Helen said, but she smiled. “I’ll draw up a new contract and bring it in tomorrow.”

“Yoo-hoo.” Seraphina stuck her head in the door. “Come out and see my super new Mercedes.”

Elizabeth’s towering, horse-faced friend wore a striped navy top and white linen pants, with a sweater tied around her neck. Why do rich people drape their sweaters like capes? Helen wondered.

Elizabeth raised one eyebrow in surprise. “I thought you liked Beemers, Seraphina,” she said, sipping her tea.

“Time to move up,” Seraphina said. “Naughty of me, I know, but I bought an S-Class—the S65 AMG.”

She’d just spent more than 220,000 bucks for a car, Helen thought. Phil, who had a keen interest in cars, had been talking about the S-Class recently. Not that he would—or could—trade in his beat-up Jeep for one. The Jeep was good for surveillance, and blended in to most neighborhoods.

“Come for a test drive,” Seraphina said, flashing a pearly row of white teeth. “You won’t believe the ride.”

“This is sudden,” Elizabeth said. “I thought your Beemer was pretty.”

“I’m tired of white cars,” Seraphina said. “Old ladies drive them.”

“Don’t tell Lisa that,” Alexa said. “She loves her white Jaguar.”

“Well, Jaguars are different,” Seraphina said, though Helen wasn’t sure why.

“I gave my white Beemer to my son, Ozzie. He needed a car for school. He demanded a black Beemer, but I put my foot down.
You can have a free Beemer that’s white or you can buy yourself one in a color you like. If you really want a black Beemer, you can pay to have it repainted.
He complained, but he couldn’t afford to turn it down. That boy is so spoiled.” She said that as if she was proud of his faults.

“I bought myself this coal black Mercedes,” Seraphina said, and smiled. “I’ve moved to the dark side.”

S
omeone driving a white car killed our ghost, Helen thought. Ran down Charlotte Ann Dams in a grim, potholed parking lot before she could begin her new life. Now it’s my job to find her killer.

Helen didn’t stay to admire Seraphina’s overpriced car. Instead, she fired up the Igloo in the library parking lot, and headed for the Coakley mansion to interview the servers from Bree’s birthday party.

As she followed the twisty, tree-shaded streets in Flora Park, Helen thought about the strange, elusive woman who’d lived in the library.

Charlotte was a survivor. Homelessness breaks most people: They’re defeated by drugs, alcohol, illness, loneliness, heat, hunger and hatred. But Charlotte made a safe haven for herself in the library, and escaped detection for more than a month.

Charlotte was proud. She could have gone home and lived with her mother in a place she didn’t like, but she preferred to fight to live where she wanted—in Florida.

Charlotte was ambitious. She left her comfortable library berth
every morning to look for a new job and a better life. She struggled to keep herself and her clothes clean and dress professionally for her job interviews.

Charlotte had an eye for the main chance. She heard about the lost Sargent watercolor. At night, when the library was closed, she searched for the missing painting in an airless, dusty room, and found it.

When Helen surprised her, Charlotte quickly leveraged her find into a promise of cash. Five thousand dollars would be a sizable nest egg for her.

Charlotte was honest. Yes, she connived to take half of Helen’s fee, but she could have made off with the painting and brokered her own deal with Elizabeth Kingsley. Getting that job was more important than cashing in on a quick sale.

Now Helen steered the Igloo onto busy Federal Highway in Fort Lauderdale, lined with look-alike franchises and struggling businesses, and wondered: How did Charlotte come to grief? Why was she killed right before she claimed her long-awaited prize—the coveted job?

She died for that watercolor. Someone else wanted that million-dollar painting. Someone with easy access to the Flora Park Library. Someone who thought she—or he—could outsmart the homeless woman, find Charlotte’s nest inside the library and take the painting.

A killer with a white car.

Except Helen, Alexa and Phil had found the watercolor first.

A white Lexus cut Helen off in traffic, and a waddling creamy Lincoln hogged the fast lane.

White was a common color in South Florida. Snowbirds avoided white vehicles in the cold north because they’re harder to see in the snow. Once northerners moved down to Florida, they rushed out and bought white. Longtime Floridians were also partial to that color.

Why did Seraphina, Elizabeth’s snotty friend, suddenly give her white Beemer to her son and buy a black Mercedes? Everyone knows black cars show the dust and dirt, especially during South Florida’s rainy season.

I guess if you can afford to spend nearly a quarter of a million dollars on a car, Helen thought, you don’t worry about car-wash costs. Maybe Seraphina has staff who clean her car.

Or maybe she was telling the truth: She really did go to the dark side—and kill Charlotte.

Lisa Hamilton, the library board president, drives a white Jaguar. Did she need money?

What color car does Blair, the cat-hating Friend of the Library, have? Helen wondered. I never noticed.

What about Gladys, the librarian who longed for a Ferrari? Was Gladys tired of living on a librarian’s salary and ready to splash out? If she sold that million-dollar painting, she could live in style.

Helen couldn’t see it. But then, Helen had trouble seeing the real Gladys beyond the stereotypes that plagued her profession.

What did Jared, the disappointed janitor, drive? A pickup truck? A van? An old clunker?

I never noticed, Helen thought. But people don’t notice the help, do they? That was what ruined Jared’s chance for retirement.

The great Davis Kingsley had made a princely promise to his faithful servant, but never bothered to find out what Jared would need for a decent pension. Stealing the dotty old man’s watercolor would be the ultimate revenge.

Helen turned the Igloo off Federal Highway into the charmed circle of Peerless Point, a wealthy bougainvillea-draped enclave where the royal palms whispered secrets and the residents kept them.

The Coakley mansion was on the right, an extravagant sugar cookie of a building with lacy arches and delicate French
windows, neatly whitewashed and set amid emerald lawns. Lawns that my husband mows and waters with his sweat, while he tries to learn who stole twenty-one-year-old Bree’s ruby pendant.

Helen pulled into the Coakleys’ circular drive, parked next to the family’s white Range Rover and locked the door of her own white car.