Maid of Murder (An India Hayes Mystery) Page 9

  “Is there anything I can get you?” I asked.

  He ignored the question. “I can’t even believe it, you know. Can you?”

  “No.” Tired from standing but not wanting to move any closer to my brother, I sat on the cool cement floor.

  “I knew that she didn’t love me and never did. I was just someone she used to pass the time,” he muttered. “But when I found out that she was engaged, I lost it. I thought I was over her. All those equations and theorems I put in my head pushed her out. But now, I know I wasn’t over her, I was just distracted from thinking about her. With her face splashed on the front page of the paper announcing the wedding, I couldn’t be distracted. I didn’t expect to feel that way when I heard about her wedding. I’m not a total idiot; I knew she was bound to get married some day. I wish I didn’t feel this way about her.”

  “I didn’t think—”

  “You didn’t think at all, India. You knew that I’d find out about the wedding, the social event of the summer.” His teary voice didn’t veil his anger. He stood up. “You should have told me, to at least prepare me. You could have done that much.”

  I was fixed to the floor.

  “So, I went to the Blocken house, the last place in the world I’d ever want to go, only to find my sister there, laughing and socializing with the family that I was never good enough for, that she was never good enough for.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to do it when she asked. I wasn’t thinking about you and her. I was thinking about her and me. She is my friend . . .” It was all I could say. Mark would not understand how Olivia pulled me in with childhood memories, why I didn’t think of him before agreeing to be a bridesmaid. He wouldn’t understand why Olivia’s use of creepy Brad Coldecker had changed my mind.

  Mark stepped back and laughed hollowly. “You mean she was your friend. She’s dead, India, dead. Do you understand that? She’s not marrying anyone now.”

  My stomach dropped and tears welled in my eyes. “Mark, no. You didn’t.”

  “I didn’t what? Tell me what I didn’t do.”

  I stood. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “Did I kill her? Isn’t that what you want to know? No. But thank you for your sisterly faith. Did I see her on campus yesterday? Yes. I couldn’t believe that she actually came to see me. But she wasn’t alone.”

  “Who else was there?”

  “I didn’t see anyone. I only heard her talking to someone. Since she wasn’t alone, I went back to my office and waited for her to come to me. After a half hour, she never showed, and I went to the fountain and found her.” His voice trailed off.

  “What were they talking about, Olivia and this other person?” I said Olivia’s name for the first time since I’d found Mark in my studio.

  Mark swallowed hard. He walked directly to my easel and kicked it over. Both easel and canvas clattered to the floor. We both looked at the damage. The sharp edge of the metal easel had torn a five-inch gash into the canvas just above Olivia’s head. With a moan, Mark pushed past me and fled the room.

  After a moment of paralysis, I followed him. At the front door, he struggled with lock and bolt.

  “You have to tell the police what you heard.” I said, frightened by his behavior but also terrified for him. “You have to. If you don’t, even if they can never prove that you attacked her, people will still think you had something to do with it. You have to prove them wrong.”

  He continued to wrestle with the door. His mania made it impossible for him to manipulate his hands correctly.

  “Don’t you want to be cleared, Mark?”

  I heard the mechanical click as the bolt recessed into the wooden door frame. Mark threw open the door and was gone.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I tried Carmen’s cell phone number but only got her voice mail. A quick rap battered my door. I peered through the peephole and saw just the crown of Ina’s white permanent.

  “India Veronica Hayes, you open this door to an old woman.” Her head bobbled aggressively. “I’ll get louder. I’ll wake up the whole street from their Sunday naps.” More quietly, she added, “And anyway, Dearie, I’m your landlord, so I have a key.” She waved my apartment key over her head where she knew I could see it. It dangled from a three-inch-wide blue glittered shamrock.

  I opened the door. “Home invasion, Ina?”

  She sniffed. “What’s that unbelievable racket I heard through my wall?”

  Ina had changed from her Sunday morning green suit into pink capri pants and matching tank top.

  The loose skin under her upper arm waved as she shook her index finger at me. “What on earth is going on over here? First, I see you peel out of the driveway without waving hello, when Juliet is in the car with me of all things. Then, I overhear you screaming like a crazed banshee. It was all I could do not to come busting in here when all that yelling was going on.”

  Ina shuffled further into the room. I shut the door behind her. Wouldn’t want to wake those Sunday nappers. She perched on the edge of the rocking chair, feet dangling above the floor.

  “Spill it,” she ordered. “Man trouble got you, honey? I tangled with some of that in my day. Tell me the problem, Ina has the answer. I’ve been on this earth a lot of years, and I’ve learned a thing or two about handling a man. How do you think I managed not being saddled with a husband and a screaming brood of my own?”

  Ina took a breath, and I jumped in. “It’s Mark.”

  “Oh, I see. It’s about Olivia, is it? The accident was a terrible thing. Juliet had all the juicy gossip about it. And did she ever lord that over me, seeing how my tenant was at the scene of the crime yesterday and neglected to tell me the biggest news flash since Stripling got city-wide sewer.”

  The migraine threatened to resurface. “I didn’t deliberately not tell you.”

  Ina blinked, probably trying to digest the double negative. She’d placed me on the defensive and retarded my grammar.

  “Is that why that bloody Englishman was over here yesterday? About Olivia?”

  “Yes. I don’t have time for this. Mark ran off.”

  Ina cocked her head to the side and her face softened. “I’m sure he’s fine, lassie. Maybe he went over to the hospital to visit Olivia.”

  “Olivia’s dead.”

  Ina covered her mouth like a heroine in a silent film. My phone rang. Irritation replaced the horror etched on her face. She scowled when I picked up the phone.

  It was Carmen. “I’ve had about enough of your cryptic voice messages, India. What’s this about Mark?”

  With Ina listening opened-mouthed, I told Carmen about Mains’s visit after church and finding Mark in my apartment. For once, Carmen listened without interruption.

  “Okay, first relax. Mark’s probably at his office taking his frustration out on that five-hundred-dollar calculator of his. Try not to worry.”

  “He was livid.”

  “He needs time to cool off. You can’t canvas Stripling trying to find him. He wouldn’t—he won’t do anything stupid. Mom and Dad are at the Chaulkers for the afternoon. Wait until they get home. The last thing Mark needs right now is them on his case. He obviously wants to be alone, and you know as soon as Mom finds out she’s going to be all over him. I’ll call Mom and Dad later in the afternoon.”

  Carmen’s strategic planning provided me the illusion of safety.

  “How are you?” Sisterly concern inflected her words.

  I choked for a second and turned away from Ina, who was still on the edge of her seat. Her expression was equal parts concern and barely contained excitement.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Do you want me to come over?”

  “No, don’t bother. Ina’s here.”

  Carmen laughed. “I’m sure she’s doing her best to comfort you.”

  “Of course.”

  An hour later, when Ina realized I wasn’t going to rush out the door in search of Mark or take her other suggestion and visit the mo
urning Blockens, she stomped out the door, claiming that she was missing a program about Irish folk singers on the public television station.

  The remainder of the day, I floated around my apartment, starting a multitude of pursuits, but finishing nothing. I tried to read a novel, but the words blurred on the page. I started to tidy my bedroom, but after making my bed, I dropped a pile of dirty laundry on the floor and gave up. I picked up one of the dozens of half-full sketchpads that decorate my apartment and etched thumbnail sketches on the thick paper. The poor renderings frustrated me. I ripped the page out of the wire-ring notebook and threw it into the small hallway. It bounced off my studio’s door. I didn’t enter the studio or upright the toppled easel and painting. I’d simply shut the door.

  I hoped all afternoon and into the evening that Mark would call. He never did. My mother eventually rang and chastised me for not calling her at the Chaulkers. She agreed with Carmen that Mark needed time alone, although I knew she was dying to counsel him. I went to bed early, hoping that Olivia would call in the morning to tell me she’d found a miracle self-tanner or a ridiculous hat for me to wear during the wedding. Or even a golden dress.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next morning at Ryan Memorial Library began with a staff meeting and with Jefferson Island complaining about the Dewey Decimal System. Even when I was in top librarian form, I wasn’t up to hearing one of Jefferson’s cataloging speeches, and with events of the previous day still fresh in my mind, I wanted to run screaming from the room.

  “If Martin College is going to transform itself into a university within the next ten years, it is imperative that we find another way to organize our resources that allows for growth,” Jefferson said.

  It was a diatribe we’d heard countless times before.

  Lasha interrupted him, “We will consider your recommendation, Dixie. Are there any other issues that should be brought in front of the entire group?”

  Jefferson frowned. “I made a slideshow to illustrate my argument.”

  Lasha’s expression looked pained. “I think it would be best to email it to the staff, so each librarian can review it as he or she has time.”

  Beside me Bobby snickered. I bet he wasn’t going to be watching Jefferson’s slideshow.

  “Well if you think that that’s best. However—”

  “Excellent, I think this meeting’s over, people,” Lasha declared and rose.

  “But,” Jefferson began. “I brought it with me . . .”

  However, it was too late—the room emptied before he could boot up his laptop.

  Behind the reference counter, Bobby slipped into one of the high chairs.

  I took the other. Seeking a distraction from my thoughts, I studied Bobby’s get-up. “What’s with the suit, Bob-o? Have an afternoon dalliance planned in the stacks?”

  Bobby adjusted his perfectly straight collar. “Regrettably, no, but thank you for the idea. I’m having lunch with Bree and have to exude some level of professionalism.”

  “Really?”

  Bobby gave me a sideways glance, “Yes.” He paused. “I’m sorry about Olivia.”

  “How’d you hear?” I asked. I slapped my forehead in mock surprise. “Duh, Bree told you. Over breakfast, maybe?”

  Bobby ignored my acid tone. “She called me after they removed life support yesterday morning. She was with the family and Kirk when they made the difficult decision. It’s been hard for her.”

  “I’m sure. I’m glad you’re there for her.”

  I booted up my computer and logged on to the library’s email account. There were a couple of messages from professors with research requests and the College president’s secretary reminding us to renew the president’s overdue books.

  “She doesn’t know anyone here. She’s from Virginia and only here for the wedding.” He paused. “Now, for the funeral.”

  “Wow, and here I was only thinking about myself, having heard about my friend’s death from police hours after it happened.” I said as I renewed the president’s books. “But I have plenty of people in this town to comfort me, don’t I?”

  Bobby’s brow wrinkled. “Would you stop playing with your mouse and look at me?”

  I shut the email account and turned my chair to face him. He looked confused and a little hurt. I felt a twinge of guilt for mistreating him. I knew that I should feel sorry for Bree. Her closest friend had been murdered, and now she was stuck in a strange town miles from home. Despite knowing this, I couldn’t bring myself to feel sorry for her. I hadn’t liked how she’d fawned over Olivia at the picnic, nor did I like that she had moved Bobby’s sympathy from my family to her and the Blockens. I knew from dealing with Bobby and his past girlfriends that he would repeat anything I said to his current love, so she had effectively stolen my best friend when I needed him most.

  “Why didn’t you call me?” I asked.

  Before Bobby could answer, Nasia, Lasha’s thirteen-year-old daughter, sashayed to the desk. She wore a skimpy tank top and shorts covered by her mother’s mammoth red cardigan. Lasha had mentioned that Nasia was in a “rapper’s hoochy mama” stage.

  “Good morning, India,” she greeted, adding a sophisticated tone to her still-juvenile voice.

  Lasha and her daughter lived just off campus, so Nasia was a frequent visitor to the library during the summer, especially when there wasn’t anything good to watch on television, or so she said.

  “Hi, Looker,” she said, using her mother’s pet name for Bobby.

  “Good morning, Nasia,” Bobby said reservedly. He looked panicky.

  She batted her blue false eyelashes in response.

  Lord, I thought.

  Nasia batted her eyelashes again. A stray lash poked her in the left eye. She winced and looked away as if she spotted something else of interest. She oh-so-casually rubbed her eye. Bobby shot me a pleading look. I hopped off my chair and walked around the counter, situating myself in between Bobby and Nasia. She rubbed her eye furiously.

  “Nasia, I want to show you something in my office,” I said.

  She nodded and let me steer her toward the back room. I glanced back at Bobby. He flashed an appreciative grin.

  In the staff bathroom, I dampened a paper towel and handed it to Nasia. “You are going to have to take those ridiculous things off.”

  Nasia sniffled. “Do you think he saw?”

  “Who?” I asked, handing her a second paper towel.

  “Bobby. I’m soooo embarrassed.”

  “Bobby? Naw,” I lied. “He was too busy reading his horoscope on the computer.”

  “Really?” She met my eyes with one-and-a-half of hers.

  “You know, Nasia, Bobby’s a little old for you.”

  She bristled. “I was just practicing for eighth grade.”

  “I went to Stripling Middle School for eighth grade too, and I know, for a fact, that you won’t be allowed to walk through that door dressed like this.”

  “Times have changed.” She patted her hair. “And how would you know what it’s like there, anyway? You’re old.”

  Ouch.

  After I parked Nasia in front of a computer terminal where she immediately logged onto her online profile and would be happily entertained for hours, I lost the rest of the morning helping a tearful August graduate with a paper on The Fall of the House of Usher. I gave the senior every book relating to, critical of, and written by Poe in reference to the short story. Her thin arms strained under the weight of the texts, and I helped her carry them to the checkout desk where Erin stood.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” the girl gushed. “You really saved me. I wasn’t finding anything.”

  I smiled, feeling quite smug.

  The student added, “If I hadn’t gone to college, I think I would really have liked to be a librarian too,” the student said.

  I glanced at Erin, who smirked.

  I had returned to the reference desk when Bree walked in.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bo
bby met Bree at the door and kissed her on the cheek. A student worker rearranging the volumes on the new bookshelf dropped a heavy stack of textbooks on his left foot. He hurried around the checkout desk to the workroom, presumably to walk it off. It’s little wonder, though. Bree was stunning in a form-fitting tailored tank top and slim-fit chinos. Bobby and Bree spoke for a moment before approaching the desk.

  I looked up at the last second.

  Bree’s face was drawn, and her eyes bloodshot. She smiled nervously. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you and tell you about Olivia. Bobby told me that you learned about it from the police.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say. I wouldn’t allow myself to look at Bobby. Bobby, my friend, should have told me, not Bree, who I hardly knew.

  “It all happened so fast. She was in surgery, and then her family had to decide what to do. I don’t think any of us slept the night after the surgery,” she said in a rush.

  I swallowed. “I’m glad that you were there to help them. I’m sure it meant a lot to the family and to Kirk. How are they doing?”

  Bree made a pained expression. “As well as can be expected.”

  “Has the family made any arrangements?”

  Bree shifted her weight. “Not yet. The detective, May, I think it is . . .”

  “Mains,” I said.

  “Right, Mains, he said the . . . the body should be released tomorrow afternoon, or the next morning. He seems confident the case will be closed soon.”

  “He does?” I asked, surprised.

  “He has a suspect.”

  My shoulder ached. I bit the inside of my lip. “A suspect?”

  Bobby placed a hand on Bree’s arm. “We should go I’ve only half an hour for lunch.”

  “Right, of course. I’ll let you know when the service is,” Bree told me.

  “I’d really appreciate that.”

  She turned one last time. “I’m sure it was an accident. He didn’t mean to hurt her.”

  Open-mouthed, I watched them leave the library. When they reached the door, I jumped off my chair and hurried after them. Outdoors, the afternoon heat hit me like a heavy curtain.