A Murder Between the Pages Page 6

  “And you know this how?” Arlo asked.

  “Camille told us.”

  Camille, the retired English teacher.

  And the worst part of it all was she was right. There were certain elements that made a story satisfying, and for all of Wally’s rambling writing style, he had hit them all.

  “I say we go tomorrow,” Helen said emphatically.

  “I’m in.” Fern gave a decisive nod.

  They both looked to Arlo.

  “Go where?” she asked.

  “To the police station to talk to Mads about reopening the Mary Kennedy case.”

  She shook her head. “Y’all can leave me out of this one.”

  Chapter 4

  “You have got to do something,” Camille said the following morning.

  As threatened…er, promised…the day before, the book club ladies had met early in order to come as a group to the police station and talk to Mads about reopening the Mary Kennedy missing person/murder case. Of course they had started at the Books and More and left Arlo no choice but to trail behind like an annoying little sister.

  She followed them down Main, into the station, past Frances Jacobs’s desk, and into Mads’s office without so much as a by your leave.

  Now they hovered around Mads while Frances lurked in the doorway and Arlo wished she was any place other than there.

  “I have to?” Mads asked.

  Arlo was pretty sure he didn’t like to be told what he had to do, and any doubts were squashed by his deepening frown.

  “It’s imperative,” Camille continued.

  “I would gladly do something,” he started in a tone that clearly conveyed his apathy. Yet even then he managed to come across as a caring public servant. At least to Camille and the other ladies he did. “But without new evidence, my hands are tied.” He held out his hands as if to show them the invisible ropes.

  “Here’s your new evidence.” Fern slapped a copy of Missing Girl into his open palms.

  Mads had no choice but to accept the tome or drop it. “This is not new evidence.” He tried to hand it back, but Fern’s arms remained stubbornly at her sides. He looked to Arlo for help. Like she had any control over the book club.

  “Have you read it?” Helen asked.

  “I have.” Mads nodded.

  “Then you’ve seen the evidence,” Helen continued.

  “I don’t recall—”

  Fern scoffed. “Wally’s book is full of new clues. You just have to read between the pages. So to speak.”

  Mads shook his head. “A fiction story that is possibly based on a cold case is not enough to reopen that case. I’m sorry.” Once again he tried to hand the book back to Fern. She didn’t take it.

  “Maybe you should read it again,” Fern said.

  He opened his mouth to say something, then sighed and set the book on his desk. For a moment, Arlo was certain he was going to explain the difference between clues and evidence—which would have saved her the trouble, even if the book club wasn’t known for their superior grasp of logic and would probably ignore every word—but he didn’t. Which meant she would have to eventually.

  “So?” Camille asked.

  “So what?” Mads asked in return.

  “Are you going to reread Missing Girl?” Camille demanded.

  Mads looked from the retired English teacher to Arlo. Their gazes snagged and his eyes asked what he should do.

  Arlo nodded as surreptitiously as possible.

  “I suppose,” Mads said, taking her unspoken advice.

  “Good.” Fern nodded, then stepped forward and snatched the book off his desk. “Get your own copy. This one’s mine.”

  * * *

  “He has to be the most stubborn man I have ever met,” Helen harrumphed as they made their way back into the Books and More.

  Faulkner flapped his wings and tsked in response.

  “The most stubborn,” she said again.

  Considering the amount of male traffic Helen had in and out of the inn, that was saying something, though Arlo decided it was best to leave her commentary out of the conversation. Helen was pretty wound up after their encounter with Mads.

  “At least he agreed to reread the book. Surely that will help.” Camille’s optimism was in full swing.

  It was Fern’s turn to harrumph.

  Faulkner tsked again.

  “We’ll just have to solve the Case of the Missing Piano Teacher without his help.” Camille patted Helen’s hand.

  “I don’t think that’s the best name for the case,” Fern said.

  “I like it.” Camille gave a firm nod. “It makes it sound like Nancy Drew—”

  “And you read all of them when you were a child,” Fern cut her off. “Yes, you told us.”

  Camille nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Are you going to tell us about your date?” Arlo asked, doing her best to change the subject. As soon as the ladies had gathered at the bookstore, they had marched down to talk to Mads. This was the first real opportunity Arlo had to ask about it.

  Camille shifted in her seat and picked at a spot on her slacks. “It was fine.”

  “Fine?” Arlo asked. “That’s all?”

  Camille looked up and smiled. “It’s enough.”

  “New evidence, he said.” Helen snorted. “How much new evidence do you need?” She held up a copy of Wally’s book. Little pieces of paper and transparent tabs in a variety of colors stuck out in various places among the pages. “It’s all in here.”

  “Evidence,” Faulkner chimed in. “Gotta have the evidence.”

  Arlo glanced over at Chloe, who only shrugged. These days Chloe had become Switzerland, leaving Arlo to run interference with the book club. Babysit. Whatever. “You still haven’t proven that the book is about the missing piano teacher. What was her name?”

  “Mary Kennedy,” Fern supplied. “And it’s close enough.”

  In for a penny, in for a pound, Arlo always said. “Explain this to me.” Arlo eased down into the armchair and looked at each of the ladies in turn.

  “We wanted to explain that to Mads,” Helen huffed. “But no. I tell you what, Arlo. I don’t remember him being such a testy boy. Was he like this when y’all were dating?”

  “I honestly don’t remember.” But that was honestly a lie. She remembered almost everything about him from that time. He had been the same back then as he was today: thoughtful but maybe not as stern. And these days there was an air about him of sadness. No, that wasn’t right. It was more of a loss, like he had come so close to having it all. Maybe he had. Though she thought that it had less to do her with and more to do with his football career cut short.

  “Well, he wouldn’t even listen,” Fern complained.

  “Tell me,” Arlo requested. Not bothering to try to explain that Mads was trying to solve a recent murder that had the whole town in a tizzy.

  “We’ve been trying to tell you for a week now,” Camille shifted her handbag in her lap but still didn’t place it on the floor.

  “Sorry.” Arlo shot them a smile. “Tell me again. Now.”

  Fern frowned but started. “Mary Kennedy was a nice lady.”

  Arlo nodded encouragingly, though she was certain they could have left out that part and still completed the story. She had promised to listen, so that’s exactly what she would do.

  “I didn’t know her that well.” Helen shrugged.

  All eyes turned to Camille. “Don’t look at me. All I know of her is she taught a lot of my students piano. They seemed to like her well enough. I mean it was fifty years ago, but I don’t remember anyone complaining about her. In fact it’s a miracle that anyone remembers her at all. She was very average.”

  “That’s right,” Fern said. “We went to church together.”

  “You went
to church?” Arlo couldn’t stop her mouth from dropping open at that one.

  “Very funny,” Fern said. “I’m going to let that slide and tell you that she had an average voice, she didn’t sing in the choir, and she was always dressed nicely enough. I mean, her husband was a delivery man, and she taught piano. They weren’t exactly rolling in the dough.”

  “Children?” Arlo asked.

  “None.” Fern shook her head.

  “So, the two of you were friends?” Arlo nodded.

  “Not really. We just went to church together.”

  Arlo shook her head at that one. “I just can’t get over that.”

  “Well, try,” Fern snapped. “I wasn’t always as enlightened as I am now.”

  Camille frowned. “Does that mean you don’t believe in God?”

  “I don’t believe in church,” Fern replied.

  “Aren’t they the same thing?” Arlo asked. She hadn’t been raised in church. Her parents were hippies, not staying in one place long enough to find the cheapest grocery store much less a church home. She had gone a couple of times since then, but she never felt God there. Only when she was outside and alone did she feel the presence of a higher being than herself. Call it what you will.

  “Not in the slightest.” Fern drew in a deep breath obviously preparing for a lengthy speech on the topic, but Camille cut her off.

  “This has nothing to do with Mary Kennedy,” she reminded them.

  “Right,” Arlo said. “So, Mary Kennedy…”

  “She would come to church with marks on her from where her husband grabbed her and probably shook her. I remember this one time when the air conditioner went out in the sanctuary. Lord, it was hot in there. She was wearing a sweater over her dress. She took it off. Bruises all up and down her arms.”

  “And no one did anything about it?” It was unfathomable to Arlo.

  “Things were different back then.” Fern shrugged one shoulder.

  “I find it hard to believe,” Arlo said.

  “That no one would say anything?” Fern asked.

  “Yes, this poor woman was being abused. It’s ridiculous that it was just allowed to happen.”

  “Ri-dic-u-lous,” Faulkner enunciated.

  “I agree,” Helen said. “But times were different.”

  “Different times,” Faulkner said. “Different strokes. Different folks. Different—”

  “Hush,” Arlo told the bird.

  “I love you,” he said in return. She might have to reconsider her decision to not to take him home with her. It seemed he was lacking for attention during the evening hours. At least that was the only reason she could think of for his loquacious attitude of late.

  “I know for a fact several women from the church tried to talk to her,” Fern added. “Not all at once, mind you, but at separate times. They needed her to admit that something was wrong. Once she had done that, we could have stepped in to help her, but until she came forth…”

  “That is something I will never understand.” Arlo shook her head.

  “Different times,” was all Helen said in return.

  “Different times,” Faulkner repeated. “Different strokes. Different folks. Different colors. Pick a rainbow.”

  Arlo rolled her eyes. “You just had to say it, didn’t you?”

  Helen merely shrugged and leaned over toward the bird. “Gimme a kiss,” she said. He obliged by nipping at her pursed lips.

  Arlo shook her head. “So she didn’t come forward, and he continued to abuse her.”

  “Yes, until one day she disappeared.” Helen gave a negligent shrug.

  “She was driving home from giving Baxter Whitney his piano lesson,” Fern jumped in.

  “Baxter.” Camille shook her head. “Trying boy.”

  “Mary had been going out there for a while,” Helen said.

  “How do you know that?” Arlo asked.

  She shrugged again. “I dunno. Probably beauty parlor talk.”

  Which meant it might be true, but it might not. And considering it was a fifty-year-old memory…

  “The character in the book,” Arlo started. “Millicent Andrews. She wasn’t abused.”

  “But she disappeared one night after driving home from the largest mansion in the area. Her car was never found.”

  “Okay,” Arlo said. “Let’s take this one thing at a time and compare each item.”

  “Can we get one of those big dry-erase boards like the police on TV use?” Camille’s eyes sparkled with excitement.

  “No,” Arlo said. She was hoping that by giving their ideas an audience she would appease their sense of adventure. And that they would see that the two stories had very little in common. It was worth a shot, anyway.

  “We could set it up right there in front of the used bookshelves. You don’t sell that many used books, do you, Arlo?”

  “No.”

  “See then? It’ll be perfect.”

  “I mean no, you can’t set up a dry-erase board.”

  “Bugger,” Camille grumbled. “That’s no fun.”

  “I’ll write it down,” Fern volunteered and took a notebook from her book bag. Camille had already beat her to it. She had a steno pad from her magical handbag in seconds, out and ready to go.

  “Write that down,” Helen instructed. “Mary was abused and Millicent wasn’t.”

  “That’s a similarity right there,” Fern exclaimed. “Their names both begin with the letter M.”

  “Their last names begin with different letters,” Arlo protested. “That is not a true similarity.”

  The bell rang, and a customer came in. One of the regulars who stopped by as much for a coffee as they did to browse the shelves. It didn’t matter to Arlo as long as they came in.

  “It is,” Fern countered. “I saw a special on CNN about aliases and most people choose an alias that begins with the same letter as their real name.”

  “Mary didn’t pick that name. Wally did.”

  “Mary had a little lamb,” Faulkner interjected. He must have been feeling a bit neglected. He rarely resorted to nursery rhymes in order to gain attention.

  “I still think we should write it down. His name for her could be considered an alias.”

  “No,” Arlo said.

  “Already done.” Camille smiled.

  Helen chuckled.

  She was seriously outnumbered here. “Millicent wasn’t a piano teacher.”

  “But she played the piano in the book. Remember? She plays the baby grand at the beginning of the party.”

  “‘And as I watched, the lady in the flowing red dress settled herself onto the piano bench and began to play, the melody sweet and poignant sending pangs of longing through me of memories best forgotten.’ Page fifty-two,” Helen stated.

  “It’s still different.” Arlo wasn’t sure why she protested; they were going to override her anyway.

  “Close enough,” Helen chirped. “Write it down.”

  “And the narrator of the story,” Camille added. “He’s in love with Millicent.”

  “Like?” Arlo prompted.

  “Well, I believe Weston Whitney was in love with Mary Kennedy,” she continued. “That could be something.”

  “But the narrator in Missing Girl kidnaps the girl to have her for his own.” Arlo thought it was a valid enough point of difference.

  “Kind of like Lolita without all the underage stuff going on,” Helen mused.

  “We don’t know the age of the woman in the book. It could be just the same,” Camille protested.

  “Nah,” Fern interjected. “They would have said something in the story. That was the cutting edge of Lolita.”

  Once again the conversation was getting way off subject.

  “But we know that Weston didn’t kidnap Mary,” Arlo did he
r best to steer them back on track.

  “Do we?” Helen said.

  Arlo would have thought better of her guardian. Helen didn’t normally act as crazy as the other two. But something about this story had her jumping all over the place. At least Arlo hoped it was the story and not something serious. Helen was getting up there in age. They all were. And though Arlo knew it seemed as if they had all their faculties, a person had to wonder at times like this. “Weston Whitney did not kidnap Mary Kennedy.”

  “He might have. He could have snatched her up and stashed her in the basement at Lillyfield,” Fern said.

  Arlo sighed.

  “It could happen,” Camille protested.

  “Especially in a house the size of Lillyfield. Lots of places to hide,” Fern added.

  “And you know the uber-rich,” Helen said. “Very eccentric.”

  “I wouldn’t call Judith eccentric. She’s just mean,” Camille said.

  “Weston was eccentric,” Fern added.

  “But he wasn’t the one with all the money. He only got that when he married Judith.” Helen pointed out.

  “A person can become eccentric. That’s what money does to you,” Fern said.

  They all nodded in agreement.

  “Another book club meeting?”

  “Sam!” The ladies all called his name and stood, each having to give him a hug as if they hadn’t seen him in years instead of just a day.

  “So, handsome, when are you going to come back and join us?” Camille pouted.

  “When my case load eases.” He smiled. He was a skunk, Arlo decided, using the ladies for innocent attention. After all, who didn’t want to be told they were handsome, smart, and fun?

  “How much is there to do in little ol’ Sugar Springs?” This from Fern. Her pout was almost as good as Camille’s.

  “You’d be amazed at the work you can do on the internet.”

  “Helen maybe, but we’ve been trying to solve this Mary Kennedy case the old-fashioned way.”

  He looked to Arlo.

  Don’t ask, she mouthed in return.

  He nodded. “If you need any help—”

  Arlo shook her head in warning.

  “—let me know.”

  Too late.