Bound for Murder, page 3
“She did mention that there’s a winery the next county over that has a banquet hall,” Richard said. “But even that’s a drive.”
Aunt Lydia drummed her fingers against the arm of her wooden rocker. “Were you considering holding the ceremony at Holy Trinity?”
I sipped my wine before meeting her piercing gaze. “Maybe.”
“Mom does approve, shockingly.” Richard flashed a wry smile. “I guess, being Episcopal, it’s ‘high church’ enough for her. Although she did question whether it would hold enough people, since, as she told me, ‘it’s probably small, being out there in the country.’”
I tightened my lips before I could express my thoughts about that comment.
Aunt Lydia had no such qualms. “Honestly, does Fiona think we’re all bumpkins? Her own uncle lived here for decades, for goodness’ sake.”
“She considered that a mistake,” Richard said. “She used to complain about inheriting Great-Uncle Paul’s house, saying it was impossible to find decent renters. She even tried to sell it a couple of times but never received an offer big enough to suit her.”
I leaned over him to set my empty glass on his side table. “Thank goodness, or she and your dad would never have signed the house over to you and we wouldn’t have become neighbors.”
“True. I’m grateful for that stroke of luck.” Richard pulled a comical face before leaning in to kiss my temple. “Extremely grateful,” he whispered in my ear before straightening.
“Me too.” I lifted my hand to admire my engagement ring. It dated from the late 1800s and featured a square-cut diamond sunk into a filigree setting of white gold studded on all sides with tiny diamond chips. “I’m still shocked that Fiona offered this to you when she heard about our engagement.”
Aunt Lydia sat forward in her rocker. “It is beautiful. I’ve always preferred vintage rings over the newer styles. I’m not fond of the ones with the diamond just perched in a pronged setting.” She rose to her feet and turned to the side table. “And as for Richard’s mom being gracious for once, well, that doesn’t seem so odd to me. From my conversations with her, I can tell that Fiona’s quite enamored of preserving family history. Since the ring originally belonged to Richard’s great-grandmother and he’s an only child, it made sense for him to inherit it.”
“It was actually bequeathed to my great-uncle Paul first,” Richard said, standing and striding across the porch to help Aunt Lydia collect items from the table. “I imagine my great-grandmother thought he’d eventually marry, but he never did, and since he didn’t have any children, it was eventually passed down to my mom.”
“Paul Dassin did have a foster child.” As I crossed to join them at the table, my thoughts leapt to a mental image of Kurt Kendrick, known as Karl Klass back when he had been fostered by Richard’s great-uncle Paul Dassin.
“That’s true, but I suppose Paul decided to bequeath the ring to Fiona after Kurt left town when he was eighteen.” Aunt Lydia walked past me, an empty bottle in each hand. “I can certainly understand why, since Kurt never contacted Paul again after he left. Besides,” she said, pausing in the doorway, “even without the disappearing act, I suspect Paul Dassin wouldn’t have given Kurt the ring. He probably assumed Kurt was unlikely to marry.”
“He could today.” Richard crossed the room with the corkscrew dangling from his fingers and my aunt’s wine glass clutched in his other hand. “But yeah, back then I guess it wouldn’t have occurred to my great-uncle that it was a possibility.”
“Thank you,” Aunt Lydia said, as Richard met her at the door. “Just bring those things along to the kitchen, dear. And Amy, if you could collect the other two glasses …” My aunt sailed out of the room, followed by Richard.
“Sure thing,” I replied, but lingered for a moment, staring out the tall windows that lined the back wall of the sun porch.
Aunt Lydia’s entire backyard was a garden. Vibrant beds filled with vegetables, herbs, and flowers were set in a grid pattern, separated from one another by paths of gleaming white pea gravel. At the far edge of the yard, a narrow grove of trees created a living backdrop in shades of green, while the gently rolling Blue Ridge Mountains rimmed the tops of the trees with dusty purple.
The jangle of our landline phone shook me out of my reverie. “I’ll get it,” I called out. As I jogged into the hall, I made a mental note to go back for the wine glasses.
The voice on the other end was a surprise. “Hello, Amy,” Chief Deputy Brad Tucker said. “Sorry to bother you at home, but I just wondered if you’d be willing to help me with a little research. Nothing major; just a little digging into the past.”
“You had me at research,” I said. “Are you going to reinstate my temporary deputy status too?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of using you as a consultant.”
“Unpaid, of course.”
“Of course.” A hint of humor infused Brad’s deep voice.
“What do you need?”
“Well—and this is strictly off the record, you understand—our forensic experts have noted that the skeleton’s skull was bashed in, most likely by some heavy object. Which suggests foul play. Of course, they’re now working on the identification. It will probably require dental records, and that means canvassing all the dental offices in the region. Which might not even help, especially if the bones belong to someone from outside the area. But we have to start somewhere.”
I wrapped the long phone cord around my free hand. “What can I do?”
“Maybe nothing. But if you could do a little research in the town archives and any other places you think appropriate and look for mentions of disappearances in the sixties or early seventies, it might narrow down the list of possibilities. It helps if we can target specific people and then focus on a likely dental practice or two, rather than having to go through hundreds of records from numerous dentists.”
“Sure, I can do that.” I glanced toward the kitchen. “Should I keep this under wraps?”
“If you don’t mind.” Brad cleared his throat. “Especially from Sunny.”
“Because you’re afraid her grandparents might’ve had some involvement in this case?”
“No comment on that.”
I frowned. I didn’t like keeping secrets from my friend, but I understood the reason for Brad’s request. If Carol and P.J. had had any involvement in the events that had resulted in a skeleton being found on their property, he couldn’t risk involving their granddaughter. “All right, I’ll see what I can find.”
“Thanks. Just contact me directly if you discover anything.”
“I expect you already know about that Jeremy Adams case,” I said.
Brad paused and exhaled before answering me. “Yes, of course. Thanks again, Amy,” he added, before saying goodbye.
I stared at the phone receiver for a second, wondering if the sheriff’s office already suspected that the bones might belong to Walt’s cousin.
Walt Adams had claimed that Jeremy had headed out west immediately after he left the commune. But Walt had been a child blinded by a major case of hero worship. Jeremy could’ve lied about being on his way to LA and Walt would’ve believed him.
I walked back into the sunroom, my mind a jumble of conflicting thoughts. I wanted to help Brad, and the investigation, especially if doing so would remove any suspicion from the Fields family.
But I also knew it might not. In fact, I was afraid it could easily produce the opposite effect.
Chapter Three
The following day, the news about bones being found at Vista View was all anyone at the library wanted to discuss.
At least most of the library patrons had the common decency not to say anything in front of Sunny. But as I walked to the back door, I caught a glimpse of a slight blonde woman in the children’s room. I paused to listen to the gossip Elspeth Blackstone, the mayor’s wife, was sharing about Carol and P.J. Fields and their farm.
“It was a commune back in the sixties, you know,” Elspeth told Samantha Green, one of our regular patrons. “Heaven only knows what went on there. Strange rituals and lots of sex and drugs, I bet.”
Samantha shot a quick glance at me before grabbing her daughter’s hand. “I doubt that. Come on, Shay, you have enough for now, and I still need to look for some books before we check out.” She pulled a protesting Shay away from the shelves that housed our middle-grade fiction.
“It wouldn’t surprise me. Those two old hippies are still a little odd,” Elspeth said.
Samantha ignored her and guided Shay, whose arms were laden with books, toward the French doors that led to the main part of the library. She rolled her dark eyes as she walked past me.
I stared at the mayor’s wife, noticing the self-satisfied smile that had twisted her thin lips. Only in her forties, Elspeth had already resorted to plastic surgery or at least Botox, if the tightness of her skin at the corners of her hazel eyes was any indication. “How’s that? You weren’t even alive when the commune was active.”
Elspeth flashed me a haughty look as she placed her hands on her narrow hips. “True, but my parents were. And they’ve told me plenty of stories.”
I bet they have, I thought. I’d dealt with Elspeth’s mother, Sheila Pembroke, when she’d been active with our Friends of the Library group. Having quickly decided that a more opinionated and judgmental person would be difficult to find, I hadn’t been upset when Sheila left the group following the rather traumatic events of the previous fall.
“I think it’s best to wait for an official report from the sheriff’s office before jumping to any conclusions.” I eyed the other woman with suspicion. It wouldn’t be out of character for the Blackstones to use this discovery to sabotage my friend’s mayoral race. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better go. I have some work to do in the archives.”
I turned on my heel and left the room before Elspeth could reply.
Making my way outside, I crossed the gravel parking lot to reach the archives, which were housed in a small stone building behind the library. Once the home of the original library director, it had been converted to hold town records and memorabilia.
Before unlocking the door, I brushed my fingers over the new bronze plaque that had been installed on the side of the building. The larger inscription read THE GREYSON-FRYE ARCHIVES. It was followed by smaller script that declared: HONORING TOWN RESIDENTS ADA FRYE AND VIOLET GREYSON, WHO TRAGICALLY LOST THEIR LIVES IN 1879.
Entering the single-room building, I immediately flicked on the overhead fixture. There was no natural light, as shelving stuffed with archival-grade banker’s boxes lined the walls of the interior, covering the windows. This was no mistake, as the lack of sunlight also protected the archival materials from harmful UV rays.
I’d come out to the archives to follow a hunch that had occurred to me that morning, over a plate of Aunt Lydia’s delicious French toast. Brad needed information on missing persons, and I wanted to make certain Jeremy Adams had actually left town after departing the commune. To help with both goals, I’d decided to examine the town’s historical photographs collection.
I pulled down a box labeled 1963–65 and lifted out one of the smaller interior boxes that held photographs. Slipping on a pair of white cotton gloves, I flipped through the pictures, hoping to find photos of Jeremy Adams from around the time he’d disappeared.
It might’ve seemed odd to anyone else, but I knew a clear photograph would aid my search for further information. To successfully conduct online image searches, I needed a better starting point than the grainy newspaper photo I’d discovered with the missing-person article. With a clearer picture for reference, it would be easier for me to pick out Jeremy from any photographs I might find online. I’d already bookmarked some archival collections documenting the LA music scene in the 1960s and planned to start there.
Although I knew I still needed to check our other records for any additional disappearances around the same time, if I could at least prove that Jeremy Adams had left for LA, as Walt claimed, I could tell Brad to eliminate any connection between him and the skeleton found at Vista View. Not an easy task, but perhaps possible, I reminded myself as I examined the photographs. Sure, it would be like sifting through all the sand on a beach to find a tiny diamond. But that was often the case with research—hours, days, or even months invested in digging through information just to discover one essential gem.
I wouldn’t be deterred, even though I knew such searches often ended in futility. The less-than-stellar odds never quelled my desire to sleuth for answers. The miniscule chance for success was part of the joy of the hunt.
Searching through the files, I noticed that many of the photos had been taken during the Heritage Festival, which had been held in Taylorsford every October since the 1940s. I squinted, carefully examining every photo from the mid to late sixties. Despite the helpful identifications of local residents that had been jotted across the backs of some of the pictures, there were also many unknown visitors. But one photo that included a tall African-American man with a guitar slung over his shoulder caught my eye. I flipped it over.
Swallowing back a whoop of excitement, I read the inscription, which identified the young man as Jeremy Adams. I glanced at the date—October 1964.
Placing the photo on the large worktable that dominated the center of the room, I pulled the printout of the article on Jeremy’s disappearance from my pocket. A quick read confirmed my memory—Jeremy had supposedly left the commune, and Taylorsford, in August of that year.
I frowned as I picked up the photograph again, aware that I might be holding the proof Brad needed. Despite Walt’s recollection of a phone call from the road, his older cousin had not immediately headed out to the West Coast. I tapped the beveled edge of the photo against my gloved palm. Or, even if he’d told Walt the truth, Jeremy had obviously returned to Taylorsford that fall. Without informing Walt or any of his family.
I studied the photograph more closely. Jeremy Adams had been a handsome young man, with an intelligent expression and an infectious smile. Even in a photograph he exuded charisma.
Wish I could’ve known you, I thought, before shaking off a strange feeling that Jeremy was reaching out to me over the years, trying to convey some important information.
But that was just another one of my odd fancies, like the feeling that long-dead artists were at my elbow when I studied their works. It was something I’d felt before, although not, I had to admit, simply upon seeing a picture. I sighed and slipped the photograph into an acid-free folder, then slid the folder into a plain manila envelope.
Locking up the archives, I returned to the library. Crossing behind Sunny, who was busy checking out stacks of books to Shay Green and her mother, I hurried into the workroom and placed the manila folder under some statistical reports piled on one of my work shelves.
I forced a smile as I joined Sunny at the circulation desk.
“Have a great day,” Sunny called out as Samantha and Shay headed for the exit.
“I’m done searching the archives for today,” I told her.
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Not entirely. But I’ll wait and do more digging later.” I busied myself straightening a batch of flyers promoting our literacy programs so I wouldn’t have to meet her eyes. “Oh—avoid the children’s room, unless you like swimming with sharks.”
Sunny arched her feathery golden brows. “As in the mayor’s wife? Yeah, I saw that she had popped in there. But she’s gone now.”
I picked up some scattered bookmarks and shuffled them into a neat pile. “Good, because she was bending Samantha’s ear with some of her nonsense. Fortunately, Samantha wasn’t buying her rumors.”
“Glad to hear it.” Sunny tapped a pencil against the edge of the desk. “But I’m afraid a lot of people in town will be more receptive to Elspeth’s particular brand of gossip.”
“I don’t know. Bob Blackstone isn’t that popular, and neither is his wife.”
“Maybe so, but something like this might sway undecided voters.” Sunny jammed the pencil into a black metal cup that held other writing implements. “This discovery on our property is just the sort of scandal that could tip the race in Bob Blackstone’s favor.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, finally offering her what I hoped was an innocent smile. “It’ll probably turn out to be something archeological. Those bones could’ve been buried there since before the town was incorporated.”
Sunny frowned. “Alison doesn’t think so. She told me—in confidence, of course—that they didn’t appear old enough to have been in the ground that long. ‘Seventy-five years, tops,’ is what she said.”
“You’re besties with your ex’s girlfriend now?” I twitched my lips. Alison Frye was a deputy in a neighboring county. She was also Brad Tucker’s new girlfriend. “Anyway, how would she know that? She isn’t assigned to Taylorsford.”
“They called in some extra people to help with this case, and since Alison once worked in our county, she was one of the lucky ones.” Sunny made a face. “And no, we aren’t best friends, but we get along just fine. I saw her when I popped into the diner to grab a muffin this morning. She was meeting Brad for breakfast and he was late, so she and I chatted a bit.”
“But Alison’s no expert on such things. The state forensics team will have to give the definitive answer on the age of the skeleton.”
“And maybe tell us who it is.” Sunny twirled a long strand of golden hair around her finger. “That might be the crucial factor. If they can link it to someone from the area, I mean.”
“I suppose.” I hoped my face hadn’t flushed from the knowledge of what I was hiding in the workroom. My brain warned me that I had to share the photograph with the chief deputy first, no matter what my heart said. “How are your grandparents doing?”
