Past Due for Murder Read online

  Past Due for Murder

  A BLUE RIDGE LIBRARY MYSTERY

  Victoria Gilbert

  Dedicated to all who rescue, support, love, and protect the animals who share our beautiful planet with us.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks and overstuffed library shelves full of gratitude to:

  My agent, Frances Black of Literary Counsel.

  Everyone at Crooked Lane Books, especially my editor, Faith Black Ross. Also, thanks to Matt Martz, Jenny Chen, Sarah Poppe, and Ashley Di Dio.

  Lindsey Duga and Richard Taylor Pearson—critique partners extraordinaire.

  My husband and most supportive fan, Kevin Weavil.

  My family and friends.

  All my readers, with deep appreciation for your support of this series.

  Chapter One

  It’s amazing how much easier it is for people to learn something when you turn lessons into stories.

  I surveyed the fifteen Girl Scouts seated around the bonfire we’d lit at the organic farm owned by the Fields family. The girls huddled on the blankets they’d spread across the cold ground, their wide-eyed gazes focused on the woman who circled the fire as she recounted folktales and legends from the Blue Ridge Mountains.

  I elbowed Sunny. “They’re never this quiet when we host their troop at the library. I’m usually hoarse at the end of the session from trying to shout over all the shrieking and giggling.”

  “I told you Mona was a great storyteller.” Sunny sniffed the end of her long blonde braid before she flipped it over her shoulder. “My hair smells like burnt toast. But I guess it’s worth it to prove to the town council that young people do participate in library events. And even on a Friday evening.”

  I gazed back at the fire, studying the middle-aged woman dressed in a flowing peasant skirt and a quilted embroidered jacket. Ramona Raymond, a folklorist and lecturer from nearby Clarion University, held her flashlight under her chin, allowing its beam to transform her angular face into a macabre mask.

  “And then the girls dashed off in their lace-trimmed, beribboned white linen dresses, chasing the mountain lights, and were never seen again.” Mona waved her flashlight toward the nearby woods. “This happened on the first of May, after the town’s traditional May Day celebration. Sadly, the warmth of the day soon gave way to a cold, cold evening. Most people claim the runaway girls were lost in the mountains and eventually died from exposure, but some say”—Mona stepped closer to the fire, smoke as ephemeral as the dresses she’d just described spiraling up into the star-sprinkled night sky—“that they were lured into the underground court of the fae, forced to dance at fairy balls forevermore.”

  A collective gasp escaped the girls’ open mouths. Only Cicely Blackstone, the mayor’s daughter, appeared unmoved.

  That isn’t surprising, I thought. Cicely would probably yawn and proclaim her boredom if a herd of unicorns pranced out of the woods right now.

  Sunny leaned into me. “My grandparents claim it was a UFO, not fairies.”

  “Of course they do,” I said with a grin. “But you know …” I raised my hand to my lips and mimicked a smoking gesture with my fingers.

  “Yeah, there is that.” Sunny’s blue eyes shone with good humor. Her grandparents—Carol and Paul, whom everyone called P.J.—had once been part of a commune briefly housed on the Fields family farm. Now they were respected members of the community, and their business supplied fresh vegetables to local restaurants and food co-ops. But I’d spent many nights in their cozy farmhouse kitchen when I was younger. The sparkle in Carol and P.J.’s eyes when they recounted tales of their time as members of the ’60s counterculture had told me that they’d never entirely given up their rebellion against the more staid elements of society.

  Cicely tapped a pointed stick against the packed earth bordering the bonfire. “But how can there be fairies here? I thought they all lived in Ireland and Scotland and places like that. How’d they get to America?”

  “Oh, they’ve always been here.” Mona tossed her wild mane of curly, silver-streaked, dark hair away from her face as she knelt beside the girl. “My theory is that the fae live in another dimension, so they can appear anywhere. They travel through interdimensional portals.” She rose to her feet, brushing some dust from her skirt. “Anyway, if you don’t want to believe that, can’t you imagine that fairies might have immigrated here, just like your ancestors did?”

  “Guess so,” the girl said, squirming under Mona’s intense gaze.

  “Now there’s a new wrinkle.” I glanced over at Sunny. “Interdimensional portals?” While assisting Mona with the research she’d been conducting at the library, I’d recently read more than I’d ever wanted to know about the mountain lights but had not run across this theory.

  Sunny shrugged. “She mentioned it when I took her classes at the university. I did wonder how much of that talk was an act, though. I figured it might be part of her bag of tricks as a storyteller, like the bohemian chic clothes.”

  My gaze swept over Sunny’s fringed suede jacket, tie-dyed T-shirt, and artfully patched jeans before resting on the leather boots that encased her legs up to her knees. “Thinking about taking up that profession, then?”

  Sunny wrinkled her nose at me. “Only if you’re signing up as a grunge band groupie.”

  I yanked on the ties of my well-worn hooded sweatshirt. “Hey, just because I like to wear flannel shirts over concert tees …” I glanced down at my faded jeans and battered leather sneakers. “Okay, point taken.”

  “Should we go ahead and set out the food?” a voice called from off to my right.

  I turned toward the speaker. It was Bethany Virts, the owner of the local diner, The Heapin’ Plate. She was flanked by Scout leaders and a few other volunteers. Two battery-operated lanterns cast intersecting ovals of light, illuminating the food spread across the table.

  Bethany waved a package of marshmallows. “I didn’t want to open these bags too soon. I know how quickly they dry out.”

  “Go ahead. I think Mona is wrapping things up,” Sunny called out. “She always finishes her presentation with the fairy lights story,” she added, addressing me.

  “This tales-by-the-fire event was a good idea,” I told my friend. “Thanks for organizing it. We might as well get something more than just a dry lecture out of Mona’s research.”

  “Especially since the town council is paying for it.”

  “That does put the cherry on top. Although it’s a shame we aren’t getting any additional pay for the extra work it took to set this up. Especially you. Hustling tables from the Lutheran church and picking up all the stuff for the s’mores is above and beyond the call of duty.”

  “You expected extra pay from the Taylorsford town council?” Sunny quirked her pale eyebrows. “How long have you lived here again?”

  “Over two years, and yeah—I should have known better.”

  Since the public library where I worked as director also maintained the town archives, Sunny and I had recently spent numerous hours assisting Mona, and the students she’d dragged along as part of some extra-credit assignment, with research into area folklore. Her grant from our notoriously stingy town council had shocked me until I learned that Cicely’s father, Mayor Bob Blackstone, was planning a revival of Taylorsford’s long-neglected May Day traditions. He probably thought that since the fall Heritage Festival was such a success, a spring event might also drum up tourism.

  As Sunny and I strolled toward the snack table, two young people stepped in front of us.

  “Hello, Ms. Webber and Ms. Fields,” said Hope Hodgson, one of the three students who’d accompanied Mona Raymond on her library research trips.

  “Hi there.” Sunny flashed a smile but
didn’t stop walking. “And excuse me, but I’m needed over at the s’mores station.”

  “Wait,” Christopher Garver said as Sunny strode away. “We just wanted to know if you’d seen Lacey.”

  Noticing the concern etched on the faces of both students, I paused. “No, I haven’t run into her this evening.”

  “We haven’t seen her either.” Chris’s deep-brown eyes were shadowed by his dark lashes. “Not since Thursday morning. She had studio yesterday, so she couldn’t catch a ride with us, but swore she’d be here tonight.”

  “And she isn’t answering her phone. It must be broken or something, because I can’t even leave a message.” Hope tugged on one of her head-hugging braids, popping loose a few of the vibrant green beads entwined in her dark hair. The beads sailed into the darkness, momentarily illuminated by the lanterns on the table behind her.

  “She probably forgot the assignment or someone asked her out on a last-minute date or something,” I said.

  Hope shook her head. “That isn’t like Lacey. She’s kind of flaky about some things, but she usually stays in touch.”

  “Too much, sometimes,” Chris said. “She’s always blowing up my cell with her texts.”

  “And as for dates—I don’t think there’s anyone in her life right now. She was seeing some mysterious guy for a while, but that must’ve fizzled. At least she stopped hinting about it, which is all she’d do before.” Hope frowned. “Now all she does is complain about relationships not being worth the pain. So I can’t see her suddenly changing her mind, especially if it meant jeopardizing a good grade in this course.”

  “Did you ask Mona if she’d gotten any message?”

  Chris rubbed the smooth dome of his shaved head. “We did, but she claims she hasn’t heard from Lacey today either. She didn’t seem too interested in pursuing the issue, but Hope and I are worried. We don’t think it makes sense. Lacey’s already on academic probation, and she’s sure to fail this class if she doesn’t complete the extra-credit work.”

  “It’s really weird that she’d blow off an easy assignment like this,” Hope said. “Especially since Professor Raymond only allowed her to participate in the project because she felt her workload was unfair.”

  “Yeah, the prof thinks Lacey’s dance training is too demanding and that’s why she’s failing,” Chris said.

  “She’s a dancer?” I called up an image of the third student in Mona’s group. Lacey Jacobs was a willowy blonde who had to be constantly reminded to remove her earbuds when anyone spoke to her. Listening to music while rehearsing steps in her head. I should have recognized that habit. It was something my boyfriend Richard, a dancer and choreographer, also did quite often.

  “I thought you’d know that, ’cause she’s in Richard Muir’s studio and …” Hope’s eyelashes fluttered over her dark eyes.

  “Is she?” I thrust my hand into my pocket and clutched my cell phone. Although I was sure I’d spoken Lacey’s name once or twice when I had complained to Richard about Mona’s research demands, he’d never mentioned that she was one of his contemporary dance students.

  Yet another instance of his odd behavior lately. As Chris and Hope continued to express their concerns over Lacey’s absence, I pulled out my cell phone and tapped the darkened screen.

  Still no return call or text. I pocketed my phone. I hadn’t heard from Richard all day, which had raised my anxiety level higher than the pitch of the Girl Scouts’ usual squeals.

  After receiving a phone call from his mother asking him to come home to help arrange a surprise birthday party for his favorite aunt, Richard had told me he planned to drive to his old hometown after his Thursday classes. We’d chatted on the phone the previous evening, so I knew he’d reached his parents’ home safely, but I’d heard nothing since that call. I hadn’t been too worried at first, since he’d warned me that he’d be forced to run errands and undertake other chores related to the party. But when he hadn’t even sent a text, my mind had conjured visions of accidents and other dire events. Realistically, I knew my fears were foolish. He was with his family, not alone, and if something bad had happened, I would’ve been informed. No, he had to be okay. He’d just gone silent. Which, like not mentioning his connection to Lacey Jacobs, wasn’t like him.

  “There you are, standing around, useless as usual. Why aren’t you helping with the s’mores?” Trisha Alexander, Mona’s graduate assistant, appeared at my elbow, her gaze fixed on Chris and Hope.

  “Aw, come on, Trish. We aren’t here as babysitters.” Chris lowered his eyes and hunched his shoulders. Even though he towered over the graduate student, the expression on his face made him look like a cowed puppy.

  Trish was so tiny that even I topped her by several inches, despite my slightly less than average height. With her feathered cap of nut-brown hair and sharp-featured face, Trish looked like a pixie, but I’d caught her bullying the other three students often enough to know her Peaseblossom fairy appearance was an illusion.

  My lips twitched. A fairy, but not the Tinkerbell type. She’d be one of Mona’s supernatural creatures—the kind that lured away unsuspecting humans and trapped them underground.

  Trish curled her hands into fists and placed them on her hips. “You’re here to assist Mona and the organizers of this event. And right now it doesn’t seem you’re doing either.”

  Hope pointed toward the bonfire. “Looks like Mona’s just answering a few questions, so maybe we can ask her what she wants us to do.” Hope stared down her nose at Trish. “And where Lacey is.”

  The other young woman gripped her own upper arms with both hands as if stricken with a sudden chill. “Lacey lives on campus. That’s probably where she is right now.”

  “But she promised she’d meet us here tonight, and none of us has seen or heard from her since yesterday morning.” Chris shoved his hands into the pockets of his fleece jacket. “Maybe you don’t care. I know you don’t like Lacey and probably hope she flunks out.”

  “That’s not true.” Trish rocked back on her heels.

  I narrowed my eyes and examined the graduate assistant. I’d never seen her display any anxious tics, but the mention of the absent dancer had certainly unnerved her. “You really haven’t heard anything from Lacey?”

  “No, but then I’m not her nanny,” Trish said shortly.

  “Neither am I, so if you’ll excuse me, I need to help Sunny and Bethany.” I stepped around Chris and Hope and headed for the borrowed banquet tables.

  The students trailed me.

  “Almost ready to go.” Sunny waved a half-eaten chocolate bar at me.

  “I hope you’re saving some of that for the s’mores,” I said.

  Sunny made a face at me as Bethany looked up from breaking graham crackers into squares. “Oh hi, you guys. Where’s your friend?” she asked the students.

  “That’s what we want to know.” Chris cast Trish a dark glance.

  “She didn’t call you?” Bethany wiped the crumbs from her fingers with a paper napkin. “That’s odd. She promised me she would.”

  “What do you mean, Ms. Virts? Did you see Lacey today?” Hope asked.

  “Yes, around two o’clock. She was waiting outside after I closed up the diner. She told me she’d hitchhiked from the university and needed a ride up to the Twin Falls trailhead.” Bethany scrunched her thin face as she stared at the three students standing beside me. “She really never called?”

  “No.” Chris rubbed his forehead. “Did she explain why she wanted you to take her up into the mountains?”

  “She said she’d lost something up there when you all went hiking last weekend. Some piece of jewelry that had sentimental value.” Bethany lifted and dropped her bird-wing shoulders. “I thought it was strange and didn’t like leaving her there alone, but she swore she’d call one of you later for a ride back into town.”

  “But she hasn’t, and she isn’t answering our calls or texts. And I don’t remember her saying anything about losing any jewelry las
t weekend.” Hope shared a look with Chris.

  I studied the pair, curious why they seemed so shaken by Bethany’s information. Sure, they were probably worried about Lacey wandering alone in the mountains at night, but there was something more …

  Something resembling frustration, or fear, rather than simple concern.

  Hope elbowed Chris. “Come on, let’s take your car and drive up to that trail right now.”

  “Hold on—you won’t be able to see anything, and besides, you haven’t completed tonight’s work yet.” Trish tightened her lips over any additional admonitions under the withering stares from the other students. “All right then, go. I’ll ride back into town with Mona.”

  Chris and Hope took off at a sprint. As I followed their progress to a cluster of parked cars, I noticed a cell phone screen flicker like a firefly near the perimeter fence.

  There was someone standing there, hidden in the shadows. I stepped away from the table, coughing as a puff of wind blew smoke from the fire into my face. Rubbing my eyes with my fists, I squinted at the stranger. I didn’t particularly care for the idea of someone lurking at the edge of the field, especially after all the other adults had headed over to the bonfire to supervise the marshmallow toasting.

  This was a tall, lean figure. A man, if my eyes didn’t deceive me. As he held up his phone to his ear, it illuminated his face for a moment.

  I took a few stumbling steps forward. No, he couldn’t be here. No way was Charles Bartos, pianist, composer, and music professor, lurking at the edge of a small-town library event geared toward teens.

  Except maybe to talk to you, Amy.

  I moved away from the table, my gaze fixed on Charles. We’d never spoken after the night two years ago when I’d discovered him fooling around with violinist Marlis Dupre at a reception given in honor of their new classical music group, the Alma Viva Trio. After humiliating myself by tossing a glass of champagne at him—and hitting the dean of music instead—I’d rushed back to his loft apartment while he’d lingered at the party. Devastated by his betrayal of our yearlong relationship, I’d snatched up the few items I’d kept at his place and fled without leaving a note.