Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 05 - Just Ducky Read online

  “I’m not sure about that, Stone,” I said. “I think Ducky also told me they installed a newer, second fuse box in the new maintenance room to run power to the new furnace, water heater, and water softener. I might be thinking about the inn, though. Or maybe Wal-Mart.”

  “What? Oh dear God! I need to get you out of here. Let me think,” Stone said. “There’s got to be a way to alert somebody.”

  I saw him look up at the decrepit old door covering the fuse box, and was knew he was wondering if the door had rusted shut. I was also wondering if I’d fed our pet muskrat before we left the inn, and whether or not I should take banjo lessons. I couldn’t quite follow my own line of thought, but then nothing going through my head was making any sense to me, anyway. My mind was flitting from one thought to another, not stopping to focus on any of them for more than a few seconds. For a moment I couldn’t remember where I was, fearing I might be under-dressed for the occasion and wishing I’d taken the time to put on my best dress and new black heels. I really wasn’t completely aware of much of anything, other than the fact my butt was so cold it was beginning to feel numb.

  I watched Stone walk toward me across a dark expanse. Then I felt him put one hand on either side of my face, and I tried to remember where we were. I recalled being locked in somebody’s nasty bathroom, but I didn’t remember being chilled to the bone at the time, like the way I felt now. Stone’s lips were moving and I concentrated as hard as I could to make out what he was saying.

  “Don’t worry, honey. I’ve got an idea I think will get us out of here. Think hard. Are the lights on the front porch of the library on a timer?”

  I closed my eyes tight, trying to get my bearings, and picture the front of the library. “I’m pretty sure Ducky told me they are on a sensor and automatically come on at dusk.”

  “Good, I think my idea might work then. Fortunately, the breakers in the fuse box are marked. One is labeled ‘outside lights.’ I learned Morse code when I was a boy scout earning my ‘signaling’ badge. Flipping the breaker off and on will make the porch lights flash. I’ll use Morse code to send out an S.O.S. signal, and hope somebody sees it, realizes something’s wrong, and notifies the police. And just in case, I can use the code to say ‘call cops’ occasionally too, hoping somebody sees it and recognizes the code. It just might possibly work. It’s our best bet at this point anyway.”

  “You’re so smart,” I think I said, maybe even out loud.

  “At the very least, somebody might notify the cops about the lights flashing, knowing Ducky was found dead in the library just a week ago.” Stone was basically verbalizing his thoughts to come up with a workable plan, knowing I was finding it difficult to even stay awake. “But I need to hurry before both of us are overtaken by the gas, and I’m unable to even remember where I am.”

  “Don’t worry, darling. You’re at the Pink Floyd concert with me. Hey! Did you say you were a boy scout? I think I was one too,” I said, mystified as to why Stone was looking at me with such an expression of concern on his face. Looking back, I’m sure he was wondering what I’d been smoking at that concert years ago to make me think I was there again. I was now seeing psychedelic hallucinations as my thoughts faded in and out.

  The next thing I remember was a big, burly firefighter carrying me up the stairs and out onto the front lawn of the library. Somebody strapped an oxygen mask on my face and instructed me to take long, deep breaths. I looked up and saw Stone, wearing his own oxygen mask, staring down at me and tenderly stroking my arm.

  “Erg, hey, crung, spoot, Stone, mally,” I croaked, trying to put two words together that made sense.

  “Don’t try to talk, honey. Just take deep breaths. We’re safe now, and you’re going to be just fine.”

  Twenty minutes later, Stone was talking to Wyatt, and another detective I didn’t recognize. The rookie officer, Clint Travis, was walking from the side of the library toward the other two cops with a balled up piece of material. When he held the wadded-up item up to show it to them, I realized it was my light blue windbreaker. I could hear the men talking. “This was stuffed in the exhaust pipe of the furnace which protrudes from the east side of the building. It was clogging the pipe, making the carbon monoxide back up inside. Since it’s heavier than oxygen, it would sink and pool in the basement first.”

  “Damn, I should have thought of that,” Stone said. “I could have taken Lexie up to sit on the top stair, where the air would have been the freshest and had the highest content of CO2.”

  Wyatt put his arm around his friend, and said, “Don’t beat yourself up, Stone. Coming up with the ideas of flashing the porch light on and off was brilliant, and probably saved both of your lives.”

  “Who saw my signal and called it in?” Stone asked Wyatt.

  “Tom Melvard, the janitor, was waxing the floor in the pharmacy across the street and noticed the lights flashing. Since he also does janitorial work at the library, he knew something wasn’t right and got concerned. He doesn’t know Morse code, per se, but like most adults, he recognizes the S.O.S. code. He called 9-1-1 and we came right over. We used Tom’s key to get in, and quickly searched the building for whoever was sending out the help signal. Thank God Tom saw the flashing lights before you both were overcome by the fumes, Stone.”

  I felt much better by then, and removed my mask so they could hear me clearly, “Remind me to thank Mr. Melvard when I see him next Tuesday, Stone. Could someone please drive me to Casey’s so I can use their restroom? I’ve had to go since the very moment I heard the dead bolt slide shut. I’ve never in my whole life regretted my addiction to coffee as much as I have today.”

  Thirty minutes later, we were on our way to the ranch to join Wendy and Andy for dinner. I had retrieved my cell phone, along with the box of Ducky’s personal items to take to Quentin, and called the kids to let them know we were going to be a little late. I explained only briefly what had delayed us, because I had a feeling the events of our day would be the main topic of conversation at the supper table that evening.

  Stone used his phone to call Elroy Traylor and explain why he hadn’t met him at eleven to go fishing. As Stone had expected, Elroy just assumed he’d changed his mind, and headed out to the pond alone after waiting twenty minutes for Stone to show up. I guess we all have our priorities, and apparently, concern for Stone’s well-being wasn’t currently on Traylor’s list.

  * * *

  As I’d anticipated, our supper conversation Wednesday evening was primarily about the events of our long, trying day, and included the obligatory sermon from Wendy about the foolishness of our actions. I was accustomed to being preached to by my daughter, but I saw Stone blanch when she said, “You two need to grow up and leave all detective work to the police department. What part of ‘to protect and to serve’ don’t you guys understand? That’s what cops are paid to do. All anyone expects you to do in the community is to live peacefully amongst your neighbors, respect others, treat them like you’d like them to treat you, and donate half your stinking income to the tax roll.”

  I hate when Wendy treats me like I’m her unruly child, with a noticeable lack of respect, and a great deal of impatience. When she was growing up, I was expected to lecture her when she did dangerous, irresponsible things that could potentially harm her, but I was not expected to accept having our roles reversed later in life. When she brought up the subject of paying taxes, I saw an opportunity to change the topic of discussion. She was ticked off about a letter she’d received from the IRS, so it didn’t take much to get her off the subject of our childish behavior, and up on her soapbox about the audacity of the government auditing an honest, hard-working taxpayer like herself.

  After supper, Wendy and Andy took Wyatt, Veronica, Stone, and me, out to the barn to meet our new grand-chias, and I had to agree baby alpacas were the cutest little critters I’d ever seen. All in all it was an enjoyable evening. But I was anxious to get home, take a long hot bath, and a Percocet for my throbbing headache, and c
all it a day. With any luck at all, I wouldn’t dream about passing out at a Pink Floyd concert.

  Chapter 14

  Thursday was a quiet day at the inn. We had paying guests that checked in early that morning, but none that required special attention. I knew the days were ticking off rapidly, and the library would be opening back up before I knew it.

  I don’t normally act like a lazy slug, but I found myself worn to a frazzle from the events of the week. The day was overcast and drizzly, and our guests spent most of the day in front of the fireplace in the parlor, curled up and reading books they’d borrowed from the inn’s small library.

  I was so bummed out by the lack of progress we’d made in our investigation into Ducky’s death that the last thing I felt like doing was cooking. So I declared it an official pizza party type of night, and had Domino’s deliver supper for us and our guests. I vowed to snap out of my blue funk and get cracking on the case the following morning. With any luck at all, clues would begin to pour in, and all the hens would soon be coming home to roost.

  * * *

  I woke up Friday morning with a sense of foreboding, and a need for speed. I was aware I only had a few days left before I took over my head librarian position at the library, and felt no closer to proving to the police department someone had killed Ducky. If I was going to accomplish my goal of obtaining justice for her, Stone and I would have to speed up our search for the truth. But hanging over my head, like a bad haircut, was the feeling that justice would not be served without sacrifice on my part. Nothing worth having ever came easily, and I felt sure this time would be no exception.

  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.”