Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 05 - Just Ducky (18 page)

I had actually preferred the “Forever” stamps since the price of postage went up regularly, and I’d soon have a year’s worth of stamps at the rate I was purchasing them. I felt a bit guilty about my Christmas card story because I usually sent out about a dozen cards, often two or three days after the actual holiday. Still, I was a little proud of my ability to make up believable excuses at the drop of a hat in situations like this.

Now I had another two hours to fill, and since Stone’s appointment with Elroy Traylor at city hall was scheduled to have just commenced, there was little left to do but swing by Quentin Duckworthy’s house, one more time, and see how he was faring. Just a friendly gesture, on my part, of course. Maybe I could assuage his grief a bit with my words of comfort and concern.

When he answered the door after my second attempt of raising him, he didn’t look as if he needed a great deal of consoling. The TV was tuned to an old war movie,
Patton
, I think, and was so loud I could understand how he hadn’t heard my rapping on his door the first time I’d knocked.

He had a roll of packing tape in his hand and there were cardboard boxes stacked up against the back wall.

“I’m sorry. Did I catch you at a bad time?” I asked.

“No, I needed a break anyway. It’s nice to see you again, Lexie. Come on in and join me for a soda, cup of coffee, or even a beer, if you’d prefer,” Quentin said.

“Coffee, please, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all. I just brewed a fresh pot. Let’s sit in the kitchen. Was there something I could do for you?” He asked.

“No, I just had some spare time and thought I’d drop in on you and see how you were faring.”

“I’m doing okay, considering the circumstances. I’ve kept my mind off Ducky’s death by boxing up a bunch of her old books. I’m going to use the room she used as a personal library, of sorts, as a room for assembling my woodworking projects. I like to construct little wooden toys and pass them out to kids at Children’s Mercy Hospital every Christmas. I enjoy making them, and they enjoy receiving them, so it’s a win-win situation,” Quentin explained.

“What an incredibly sweet and thoughtful thing to do,” I said, sincerely. And what an unlikely thing for a cold-blooded killer to do in his spare time, I thought. Perhaps I’d misjudged this man entirely.

As we drank coffee, Quentin told me a few humorous antidotes about Ducky that made me realize she was even more eccentric than I’d given her credit for. He didn’t say or do anything I felt was inappropriate for a man who’d just lost his spouse. I couldn’t quite picture this congenial man having an illicit affair with a much younger woman, and I didn’t think it was the time or place to inquire about it.

I enjoyed conversing with him so much, I almost lost track of the time. When I heard his grandfather clock signal it was four o’clock, I stood up and told Quentin I had to get to an appointment. I was surprised when he leaned into me with a heartfelt hug, and said, “Thank you so much for taking the time to come see how I was doing. It’s support from people like you that are helping me handle my grief and get through this horrific ordeal.”

“I greatly enjoyed our conversation too, Quentin, and, like I said, if you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to call. I wrote my name and number on a post-it note and left it on the table. I can be reached at the library too, of course. I’m sure you already have that number memorized.”

“Thank you,” he said, with a great deal of emotion in his voice. I was thankful he didn’t know I’d come to his house hoping to find evidence substantial enough to pin the murder of his wife on him. When I’d walked into his house, I’d wanted to see him arrested, convicted, and crucified. Now I only hoped he’d find happiness again, even if it was with a buxom blonde half his age.

Without taking a second to think it over, I pointed to a small box on the fireplace mantel and, wanting to lighten the mood, said, “Those must be some tiny books to fit in a box that size.”

“That’s my Ducky, not her books,” Quentin said, with a bittersweet laugh. I’d wanted to brighten his spirits, but not in the manner I’d chosen. I should have realized she’d already been cremated. They don’t delay the funeral, or cremation, of the bodies of people who weren’t considered to be the victim of a crime.

For the second time in two hours, I’d left a building with my face crimson with embarrassment. Humiliating myself was not a hobby I wanted to pursue.

* * *

I finally hit pay dirt at the post office at ten after four. After waiting in line only a couple minutes this time, I walked up to the counter to be waited on by Barbara Wells. I’d had her identity confirmed earlier in the day by the older male clerk who’d had to listen to my recital about my holiday season rituals. I hadn’t wanted to spend an entire day waiting to talk to someone who only resembled the photo I’d seen on Quentin’s phone.

After visiting with Ducky’s husband for nearly two hours, I wasn’t sure I even needed to speak with this woman. I was fairly convinced the association between Quentin and this lovely woman was innocent and aboveboard. But I was here, and I never liked to leave a stone unturned, so after purchasing yet another book of stamps, I said, “You look very familiar to me. Do I know you from somewhere?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” she answered politely.

“Oh, say, I know where I’ve seen you! I was talking to an acquaintance of mine, named Quentin Duckworthy, when his phone rang and your face popped up on his caller identification screen. I knew I’d seen you somewhere,” I said, as I casually put my stamps and change into my fanny pack. “You must be his daughter.”

I said this just hoping to encourage her to explain her actual association to Quentin, so I was taken aback when she nodded and said, “Well, actually that no-good, gold-digging bastard is just my stepfather. Please excuse my French, but I would never claim him as my father, not that my biological father is any prize either.”

Just then, it occurred to me that this gorgeous and statuesque young woman was the offspring of Bertha Duckworthy and Bo Reliford. I knew she had come by her ample breast size naturally, but wondered where, in the combined gene pool of Ducky and Bo, the rest of her assets came from. I was tempted to ask her if her parents had utilized a sperm bank in order to create a beauty like her. Instead, I chose to offer my condolences.

“Oh, sweetheart, I am so sorry for your loss. Ducky, your mother, I mean, had just hired me to temporarily replace her at the library until a permanent replacement could be found. I didn’t know her long, but found her to be a very intriguing woman.”

Barbara had the grace to smile and say, “That’s the understatement of the year. But thank you for your kind words.”

People in line behind me were beginning to sigh, cough, and make themselves known in any way they could. One even whispered to the customer in front of her, “Will we still get waited on if that woman is still yacking when they lock the doors?”

Embarrassed once again, I said, “I guess I better keep the line moving.”

“Yes,” Barbara said. “We close in ten minutes.”

* * *

I was really curious why Barbara Wells referred to Quentin as a “no-good, gold-digging bastard.” There must be more to Quentin than meets the eye, I thought. Knowing Barbara would be clocking out shortly, I decided to wait in the parking lot for her to exit the post office. I parked my car where I could keep an eye on both doors. I hoped she didn’t think I was stalking her when I approached her as she left the building. I’d had a stalker before, while investigating a previous murder, and I knew how scary it could be. I didn’t want to frighten Ducky’s daughter, just gently pump her for more information.

As it turned out, she didn’t seem at all surprised to see me waiting for her as she came out the back door. “Hello again,” she greeted me with a friendly tone.

“Hello. I don’t mean to pry, but I am involved with the investigation of your mother’s death—”

“There’s an investigation going on?” She stopped and quickly interrupted me. “I was under the impression it’d been ruled a suicide and no investigation was deemed necessary.”

“Yes, you’re correct,” I agreed. “But I have reason to doubt Ducky would take her own life, and I’ve taken it upon myself to look for evidence to prove otherwise. What do you think? Do you think your mother could honestly have killed herself?”

“Well, I know she’d been on a lot of anti-depression medication, and was upset about having to retire, so I never questioned the official cause of death notated on her death certificate. It was pretty cut and dried, so I’m not sure you taking on such an uphill battle is warranted, or worth your time and effort,” Barbara said. I couldn’t read her eyes through her sunglasses, but I got the impression she wasn’t interested in helping me with my mission to prove her mother was murdered. Maybe the possibility of that conclusion would be too much for her to bear.

“You’re probably right,” I said. “Do you mind me asking why you don’t like your stepfather?”

“Quentin was only interested in my mom for one reason. He wanted her for her money.”

“Money?” I asked. The Duckworthy house was nice, but very modest, and I’d seen nothing there that indicated Ducky had any substantial wealth. I doubted a small town librarian cashed huge paychecks.

“Well actually, it’s her investments. She had a very impressive collection of first-edition books, worth well over a million dollars. Instead of taking vacations, buying expensive cars or nice clothes, she spent her spare money on old books.”

I could certainly agree Ducky didn’t waste a lot of money on nice clothes. I smiled at Barbara, and encouraged her to continue with her story.

“Mom owned most of these books before she even met my stepfather, but, now that she’s passed, he thinks he should inherit everything she owned. As her only child, I feel like I deserve the biggest chunk of her wealth. I don’t know where the bastard gets off thinking everything Mom owned and worked for should now belong to him after just a couple years of marriage to her!”

Barbara’s demeanor had gone from being soft-spoken and cordial to being so angry she was nearly shouting. People on the sidewalk across the street were staring at us. I hoped no one thought she and I were in the midst of an argument.

I calmed her down as best I could, and told her I’d look into the matter if at all possible. I didn’t tell her, however, that her no-good gold-digging stepfather was already busy boxing up her mother’s book collection, as if in a hurry to dispose of the valuable items. I wondered if he already had a buyer, someone anxious to purchase the entire first-edition collection. As an assistant librarian for a number of years, I was aware there were first-edition copies of some of the classics worth many thousands of dollars.

I walked Barbara to her Ford Taurus and helped her get in it, telling her I’d probably be in touch, and then hurried over to my own car. I was anxious to get home and find out what Stone had learned in his meeting with the city manager, and tell him what I’d learned about Ducky and her daughter.

Chapter 13

Stone was out in one of the flowerbeds digging up bulbs when I pulled down the driveway. We’d had a frost the night before, and he’d mentioned that morning he needed to get the lily, gladiola, and elephant ear bulbs dug up and put away in a cool, dark corner of the basement until spring. He said they were too tender to withstand a harsh winter, as our local weatherman had predicted we might have this year.

I took my two Wal-Mart bags inside, and by the time I’d put my purchases where they needed to go, Stone had joined me in the kitchen. After he washed and dried his hands at the sink, we both grabbed a cup of coffee and went out on the back porch to chat.

I told him about my day first, keeping my accounting very brief because I was anxious to hear what he had to say about his meeting with the Rockdale City Manager. He nodded, knowingly, as I told him about Ducky’s valuable book collection.

“So, what did Elroy Traylor have to say?” I asked, impatiently. “Did you discover anything incriminating?”

“Incriminating? No. But I did come to the conclusion he had no part in Ducky’s death.”

“How did you come to that decision?” I asked.

“First, we talked about the tourism budget for next year. He agreed tourism was crucial to the economy of Rockdale, since most people come here to visit all our antique stores, and unique specialty shops downtown. They also tour the numerous historic homes in the area, and in the process, they stay in hotels and bed and breakfast establishments like ours. A lot of money in our city’s coffers originates with visitors.”