Bound for Murder

  Bound for Murder

  A BLUE RIDGE LIBRARY MYSTERY

  Victoria Gilbert

  Dedicated, with thanks, to all librarians, archivists, and library assistants everywhere.

  I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.

  —Jorge Luis Borges

  Acknowledgments

  As always, I offer flowers and rainbows to:

  My “groovy” agent, Frances Black of Literary Counsel.

  My “fab” editor, Faith Black Ross, and everyone at Crooked Lane Books, especially Matt Martz, Jenny Chen, Chelsey Emmelhainz, Rachel Keith, and Ashley Di Dio. You guys are “totally boss.”

  Lindsey Duga and Richard Taylor Pearson, my “ultra-cool” critique partners.

  My husband, Kevin Weavil. “The Force” is definitely with this guy (and so am I).

  My “primo” family and friends.

  All my readers, with deep appreciation for your continued support of this series. I’m so glad you “dig it”!

  Chapter One

  There are two times in a woman’s life when complete strangers think it’s appropriate to offer unsolicited advice—when she’s obviously pregnant, and when they discover she’s planning a wedding.

  “I’m telling you, Amy, don’t make the mistake my grandniece did and spend a fortune on one of those fancy cakes dripping with inedible geegaws.” My eighty-year-old neighbor, Mrs. Dinterman, tapped the pitted wooden surface of the library circulation desk with one ruby-painted fingernail. “I know that bakery over in Smithsburg likes to show off their cakes like they’re sculptures or something, but I sampled one at my grandniece’s wedding, and lord-a-mercy, it tasted like sawdust.” Stepping back, the older woman patted her hair, which was dyed blue-black as a raven’s wing. “You want a delicious cake, you just ring up my cousin Arletta Shober. She makes a divine vanilla cake with just a hint of almond. Looks pretty too, if I must say so myself.”

  “I’m sure,” I said, casting my gaze over her plump shoulder. A tall, white-haired man browsing the art section of the book stacks caught my eye. Help, I mouthed at him.

  He raised his bushy eyebrows before strolling over to the desk.

  “Hello, Mr. Kendrick, can I help you with something?” I asked, silently adding please. Mrs. Dinterman, who was focused on the image of Patrick Stewart on the READ poster behind me, ignored Kurt as she continued to extol the merits of her cousin’s wedding cakes.

  “Yes, thank you, Ms. Webber,” Kurt Kendrick replied, loud enough to cut through Mrs. Dinterman’s monologue. “I was looking for something on Caravaggio. Would you have any books on that artist?”

  “I’m sure we have something,” I said, raising my voice to match his volume. Making my excuses to Mrs. Dinterman, I followed Kurt to the shelves. “Caravaggio?” I muttered as we walked. “Couldn’t you think of something a little less obscure?”

  Kurt shrugged. “I thought perhaps your rather loquacious patron might recognize a more popular artist and wonder why I, an art dealer and collector, needed help finding information on them.” He glanced down at me, his blue eyes bright with amusement. “You did want me to rescue you from that endless prattle about cakes, I gather.”

  “Yes, and thank you.” I ran my fingers across a row of book spines. “Let’s see what we can find in this one,” I called out in a voice loud enough to carry to the desk. Mrs. Dinterman, obviously sensing that I might be stuck helping another patron for quite some time, waved her hand in a cheery goodbye before turning and bustling toward the exit.

  “Everyone and their cousin has an opinion on weddings, it seems,” Kurt observed as the main doors closed behind Mrs. Dinterman. Stepping back to look me over, he tapped his broad chest with one finger. “Except for me. I’ve never given such celebrations much thought.”

  “Me either,” I said, gazing up into his craggy face. Kurt dwarfed me, but unlike when we’d first met, I no longer felt intimidated by his commanding presence. Most of the time, anyway.

  “You mean to tell me that you haven’t been planning your wedding since you were but a wee bairn?” Kurt ran one hand through his thick white hair. “What kind of woman are you, anyway?”

  “The sensible kind.” My smile acknowledged the sarcasm lacing his words. I studied his face, still handsome despite his seventy-two years. “Why would I be worried about details at this point? Richard and I only got engaged a few months ago.”

  “I certainly don’t blame you for being irritated by that sort of unsolicited advice. You haven’t even set a date yet, have you?”

  “I’m sure you’d know if we had,” I said dryly. Kurt ran an informal network of spies who kept him informed on most activities in our small town of Taylorsford, Virginia, among other locales. “I expect your little birds would’ve tweeted something like that to you by now.”

  “Indeed, they would have. Besides, I’m expecting a special invitation. I am a friend of the family, after all. Both families, if it comes to that.”

  “Are you?” I wrinkled my nose at him. “Aunt Lydia might dispute that claim.”

  “I doubt it. We’ve put aside many of our differences over the past year.”

  “Then why haven’t I seen you at our house since back in May? Your absence has been noted. Richard mentioned it just the other day. I told him you’d probably been out of the country on one of your art-buying trips, but I confess I’ve also wondered why you’ve become such a ghost.”

  Kurt stared at the row of books above my head. “It’s true, I’ve been traveling a lot, but …” He cleared his throat. “There is another reason. Most of those gatherings included a certain art expert who asks rather probing, and often unwelcome, questions.”

  “Ah, Hugh.” I pressed two fingers to my lips and considered my sixty-six-year-old aunt’s significant other, Hugh Chen, for a moment. “You’re not worried about him uncovering some shady dealings on your part, are you? I mean, not that I suspect you of engaging in such activities.”

  Kurt’s lips curled, baring his large, white teeth. “I’m sure the thought has never crossed your very inquisitive mind, but yes—I prefer to keep some of my activities to myself. You know Hugh Chen has confessed to a long-term interest in my dealings in art acquisition and sales. So”—Kurt spread his hands wide —“I thought discretion was the better part of … well, not valor, I suppose.”

  “Expediency?” I suggested, widening my eyes and fluttering my lashes.

  “Let’s say prudence.” Kurt shot me an amused smile. “And, just so you know, those innocent doe eyes don’t quite work. That tactic might work for your friend Sunny, but for you … not so much.”

  I grimaced. “I’ve heard that before.”

  “I’m sure.” Kurt glanced toward the circulation desk. “Where is Ms. Fields, by the way? Off today?”

  Sunshine Fields was the only other paid library staff member, as well as my best friend. Although we typically covered the library hours together, there were times when we traded off, especially when our library volunteers were scheduled to work.

  “No, but she told me she’d be in late. She had to run some errands for her grandparents. Do you know Carol and P.J. Fields?”

  Kurt looked away, although not before I noticed his lashes lower to shadow his bright-blue eyes. “Of course, although we’re not personally acquainted. But I’m aware that they run an organic farm outside of town. My chef often buys fresh fruits and vegetables from them. The farm has a picturesque name, as I recall.”

  “Vista View. It’s been in P.J.’s family for generations and, unlike most land around here, has been continually farmed. Sunny’s told me the whole story—P.J. inherited it, along with enough money to run the place, from his grandparents after his parents refused to move back from the ci
ty. People in Taylorsford thought P.J. would sell Vista View, since he was only eighteen at the time, but he surprised everyone and decided to take it on and turn it into an organic farm, although he and Carol also ran it as a commune for a few years back in the early sixties.” I tipped my head and examined Kurt’s rugged profile. “Were you still Paul Dassin’s foster son when Carol and P.J. started up the commune? I think that was in 1962 or ’3. It was the talk of the town, according to Aunt Lydia, so I bet you would’ve heard something of it.”

  “No, I left Paul’s house in the early sixties, right after I turned eighteen, so I wasn’t in the area at that point.” Kurt took a deep breath. Turning back to face me, he offered up a smile that once again reminded me of the wolf in one of the library’s picture books. “Do you think your assistant will be in soon? I only ask because I actually dropped by the library expressly to see her.”

  I drummed my fingers against my thigh. “I wondered what brought you here. I knew it wasn’t for resources on art. We have a decent collection for a small public library, but having been to your home, I’m well aware that your personal collection is more extensive than what we could ever hope to shelve on that subject.”

  “It is, and I even own numerous tomes on Caravaggio.” Kurt winked before tugging the sleeves of his tailored woolen jacket over his crisp white shirt cuffs. “No, as you guessed, I’m not here for the library resources. The truth is, I was in town on other business and just dropped in to see if I might talk to Ms. Fields.”

  I examined his expression for a moment but couldn’t read anything there. Which didn’t surprise me. What concerned me was what Kurt wanted with Sunny. I couldn’t imagine why he’d want to talk to her, and given some of my previous encounters with the art dealer, it made me a bit uncomfortable to guess. “Really? What about?”

  “I want to make a contribution to her mayoral bid.”

  “That’s very generous of you,” I said, continuing to eye him, now with suspicion. Somehow, Kurt Kendrick supporting a political campaign seemed out of character.

  “Not really. I heartily dislike the current mayor—probably for the same reasons you do. I can’t imagine Sunshine Fields doing a worse job running Taylorsford than Bob Blackstone. In fact, I expect her to make some much-needed improvements.”

  “I’m sure she will, if she gets elected. Anyway, you can talk to Zelda Shoemaker about contributions. She’s Sunny’s campaign manager.”

  “Ah yes, I’d heard something about that.”

  Of course he had. I leaned back against one of the bookshelf posts. “I’m surprised you didn’t already think to make your donation through Zelda.”

  Kurt shrugged. “I prefer not to be trapped by Ms. Shoemaker’s quite entertaining, but often endless, chatter.”

  I grinned. Zelda Shoemaker, Taylorsford’s former postmistress, was my aunt’s best friend. She possessed a warm, generous nature, and I loved her dearly, but I had to admit that she did relish sharing gossip. “There is that. But if you want to hand over a check, you’ll have to deal with her. Sunny isn’t accepting any money directly. She says she doesn’t want to touch any of the contributions, just in case that could be misconstrued as improper handling of funds.”

  “Quite right.” Kurt flashed a toothy smile. “You see, she does have the smarts for the job, even if she is a little on the young side.”

  “Her intelligence was never in doubt, was it? And as for being young, she’s a year older than me and I’m thirty-five. Hardly a babe in the woods.”

  Kurt looked me up and down. “A mere child, compared to me, although I admit that you and your friend occasionally display a surprising amount of common sense for your age.”

  “Occasionally?” I wrinkled my nose at him, but he ignored me, his attention apparently captured by something on the opposite wall.

  “You convinced Emily Moore to do a reading and signing? How did you manage that coup?” he asked.

  I turned to face the flyer posted near the main doors. An older woman, her square face framed by a sleek bob and her dark eyes encircled with large tortoiseshell eyeglass frames, gazed owlishly back at me.

  “Oh, that was no trouble at all. She moved to Taylorsford recently, you know.”

  “Did she?” Kurt’s thick white eyebrows came together over his nose. “I’m surprised. She always seemed like such an urbanite. All her novels and poetry give that impression, anyway.”

  “Well, you’re pretty sophisticated, and you live here,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, but not exclusively.”

  “Anyway, Ms. Moore is quite nice and very sweet …”

  “Unlike me,” Kurt said.

  “Unlike you. And, also unlike you, she didn’t hide out for a few years before introducing herself around her new town. She actually came in and offered to do something to benefit the library before I even had the chance to visit her. She said she wanted to get involved in the community and thought the library was the best place to start.” I glanced up, noting Kurt’s stoic expression. “I thought surely you would’ve heard that she bought that Craftsman only a few blocks from here—the one that needed so much work. But I guess, like you, she has the funds to take on a fixer-upper.”

  “I’m sure.” Kurt gave his jacket sleeves another tug. “It seems my little birds have failed me this time. I’d heard that she was teaching a few courses at Clarion University, but I honestly didn’t know she’d moved to Taylorsford.”

  “You’ll have to give your spies a talking to,” I said with a smile. “By the way, I was trying to purchase copies of all her books for the collection, but there’s one I just can’t buy. Her first book of poetry, the one that made her famous. Or infamous, I suppose you could say.”

  “The one that was only available as a special printing issued by Andy Warhol’s Factory back in 1965? No, I don’t suppose you can afford to purchase one of those.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have one in your collection, would you? As I recall from my research, the book did include illustrations.”

  “Not by Warhol, although it’s still quite valuable due to the association. But no, I don’t have a copy of that particular book. I wish I did, honestly. So few were produced that it’s quite a rarity.”

  “Apparently. Even Clarion couldn’t get one. I checked with the university library, and they told me that all they have is a photocopy, and that’s only used for research, not circulated.” I looked back at the poster, examining Emily Moore’s square, strong-jawed face. “I’m surprised that she hasn’t had the poetry itself reissued in another format, but apparently she’s never bothered to do so. With the popularity of her later poetry and novels, you’d think it would sell.”

  “Perhaps she prefers to keep an air of mystery about her beginnings. Some people do.”

  “As you should know,” I said, as a clatter made me turn toward the circulation desk. “Looks like your mission might prove successful after all. There’s Sunny now.”

  The noise I’d heard was Sunny dropping her keys onto the hard surface of the antique wooden desk. Kurt shortened his long stride to keep pace with me as I walked over to meet her.

  Sunny shoved her keys into the macrame pouch she often used as a purse before sliding the pouch under the desk. “Sorry I’m so late, Amy. I didn’t think completing all the errands on the grands’ list would take so long.”

  “Not a problem.” I stepped behind the desk to stand beside her. “It’s been fairly quiet in here today. In fact, Mrs. Dinterman and Kurt have been the only patrons in the building for the last half hour.”

  Sunny flipped her shining fall of golden hair behind her slender shoulders. “Oh hi, Mr. Kendrick. How are you? Checking out some books?”

  “No, I actually stopped by to see you. I was planning to give you a check for your election campaign, but”—he shrugged—“Amy tells me all the contributions must go through Zelda Shoemaker.”

  Widening her blue eyes, Sunny cast him a bright smile. “Thanks so much, and yes, Zelda’s handling
all that. You know how it is—things can get unpleasant during an election. I decided early on that I didn’t want to touch a cent. Can’t have Mayor Blackstone claiming that I mishandled any campaign funds. He’s always digging for dirt on me as it is.”

  “Or making it up,” I muttered. Despite the fact that our current mayor had been embroiled in scandals of his own, he seemed determined to paint my friend in a bad light.

  “I agree. Knowing the man as I do, he’d be likely to take any opportunity to spread rumors. Without checking first to see if there’s any truth in them.” Kurt gave Sunny a little nod. “I applaud your wisdom.”

  “It helps to know who I’m dealing with. But I refuse to lob any dirt at Blackstone in return, although I have much more ammunition.” Sunny grinned. “As my grandma often says, never get in a stink match with a skunk.”

  Kurt’s laughter rose up to the wooden rafters of our 1919 library building. “Indeed,” he said at last, after wiping his eyes with a cotton handkerchief. “Excellent advice.”

  “Well, if I have to smear my opponent to win rather than get elected on my own merits, I don’t want the job,” Sunny continued.

  Kurt shot me a quick glance before turning his piercing gaze on Sunny. “Speaking of jobs, what will you do about this one if you do win the election?”

  “I hope to keep working here. That is, if Amy will have me.” Sunny absently spun her enameled metal bracelets around her wrist as she looked up at me from beneath lowered lashes. “We haven’t really worked all of that out, but I do want to stay in the library job. I think I can handle both, although …”

  “I know, you might have to drop back to part-time,” I replied, releasing a gusty sigh. “And I’ll have to find someone to work your other hours.”

  “I’m sure there are several people in town who’d like a part-time job.”

  “Yeah, but they could never replace you,” I replied with such vehemence that Kurt raised his eyebrows and Sunny’s cheeks flushed. “You know these collections better than anyone. Better even than me. I’m not going to find someone else who possesses that extensive knowledge.”