Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 05 - Just Ducky (6 page)

I instantly felt something was wrong. Had Ducky decided at the last moment to retrieve a book from the top shelf to take home with her? Had she then fallen off the ladder? I couldn’t see the base of it, or even the top, due to the pitch of the roof, but it looked a bit askew, and the sight of the off-centered ladder sent a chill up my back.

I dug furiously through my fanny pack until I came up with a spare copy of the front door key Ducky had given me right before I’d left the night before. I nervously fumbled with it as I tried to unlock the door. After several unsuccessful attempts, I finally got the key to turn in the lock and pushed the door open.

I rushed in through the door and headed directly toward the ladder. What I saw next took my breath away. I gasped in horror as I caught sight of Ducky’s lifeless body dangling from a braided rope, attached to a log beam, just a few feet from the library wall where the ladder was propped.

Her head listed to the left at an unnatural angle, her skin a pale blue, and her eyes were opened slightly. She had on the same plaid flannel shirt, and tattered khaki slacks she’d worn the previous day. It became instantly clear to me she’d never left the building the night before.

My hands were trembling, and I could hardly catch my breath. I knew there was nothing I could do for Ducky at this point, so I pulled my cell phone out of my back pocket and dialed 9-1-1 as quickly as I could. I was not surprised when Detective Johnston was the first officer to arrive just moments later. He knew I’d accepted the job at the library and would have naturally responded when the call was dispatched to the officers on patrol. He had a tendency to always be the first responder to the scene of any death I’d been unwittingly involved with.

“Lexie, are you okay?” This was the first question Wyatt asked me when he walked in the door. I assured him I was all right physically, but shaken and horror-stricken by the turn of events. He led me to a chair and had me sit and put my head between my legs for a few minutes, fearing I might pass out in reaction to the mortifying scene I’d just witnessed.

I tried to calm my nerves by sitting quietly as the library began to fill up with uniformed officers. I heard sirens approaching as I watched a pumper truck pull up in front of the building. When I saw Nate, the county’s medical examiner, and my daughter, who worked as Nate’s assistant, enter the room the finality of the situation hit me like a wrecking ball. Ducky was dead. Sawing her open might be the topic of conversation at our next family gathering, as Wendy would relate every gory detail of the autopsy she and Nate performed on this intriguing woman I’d just become acquainted with. What in the hell had happened after I’d left the building the previous evening? I wondered.

Photos were being taken from every conceivable angle, as detectives scoured the room for any sign of what might have transpired there the night before. As far as I could tell, nothing out of the ordinary was detected other than the ladder leaning up against the wall and the corpse hanging from the ceiling. I tried valiantly to determine if anything else had been disturbed since I’d last been in the library.

Sitting with my head down, and my hands covering my face, I heard someone approach me. I looked up at a police officer I’d never seen before. I recognized the name on his badge as a new-hire Wyatt had told us about just days before. I answered questions as precisely as I could, and hoped that my being possibly the last person to see Ducky alive other than her killer, did not make me a prime suspect should her death be ruled a homicide. I also was the one to discover her dead body, which might not bode well for me if I were to become a murder suspect. I knew in my heart it was precisely that—a murder—someone had to have killed Ducky. The word “suicide
”
was being bandied about by every person in the room, and I wanted to scream out in anger that this was not possible.

I was explaining to Detective Travis in great detail what had taken place the evening before, which included nothing out of the ordinary as far as I knew, when I felt someone’s hands on my shoulders. I turned my head to see Stone with an anxious expression on his face. I’d been too shook up to call him, but assumed either Wyatt or Wendy had done so, knowing I would need him to help quell my agitation.

“Did Bertha Duckworthy seem upset, overly emotional, or out of character in any way while you were with her yesterday?” Detective Clint Travis asked me.

“No. She was often agitated, and her emotions ranged from one extreme to the other, but for Ducky I don’t think that would be considered out of character. In fact, I think it probably would have been uncharacteristic of her to have behaved any other way.”

“Did she seem concerned, worried, distracted, or maybe even depressed?”

“No, not at all. In fact, quite the contrary.”

“Did you notice anyone hanging around the library when you were preparing to leave for the day, or see anything unusual in any way?” He asked.

“No, not that I can recall. Ducky and I were the last ones here. I meant Mrs. Duckworthy and me.”

“Whatever! Everyone in town called her Ducky, I’ve heard,” he said.

“And when I left, Ducky was left here alone,” I continued. “But someone must have come in after I left.”

“Yeah, right, lady. Did she receive any calls that you know of during the day?” The detective ignored my last statement and kept scribbling notes in a small notebook he’d taken out of his shirt pocket.

“No, but she did have a confrontation with a woman earlier in the day. However, she didn’t tell me who the woman was, or what their conversation was about.”

“And you didn’t think to ask her?”

“No, Detective Travis, I didn’t think it was any of my business. And, I don’t have strong enough physic powers to have known Ducky would be found dead the following day, making their argument have any significance to the police department.” I knew I was coming off as rude and sarcastic, but I didn’t appreciate the detective implying I should have made it my business to find out what the two women had said to each other.

“Okay, fine. But could you tell me what you remember about the confrontation, just witnessing the incident from across the room?”

I told him what I could recall about the argument between the two women, even though there wasn’t much to tell. They quarreled verbally, and then abruptly parted ways. Ducky didn’t appear to be shaken after the incident, as if it were an everyday occurrence.

“Probably
was
an everyday thing if this Duckworthy lady was as cranky as everyone is saying. But, because I know the Chief will want a description of her, could you describe the other woman to a sketch artist?” He asked, still scribbling in the notebook.

“Yes, but not in great detail, as I was busy with a customer at the time,” I said. “She was a pretty, well-built woman, with long straight jet-black hair and bangs, is about all I can recall.”

“Okay, it’s probably a moot point anyway, as it appears to me and the other investigators, as well as the coroner, that things are just as they appear, and Ms. Duckworthy took her own life.”

“What?” I asked, incredulously. “No way! I can’t believe she’d kill herself the very week of her retirement.”

“All the evidence points that way, but it’s still early in the investigation,” the officer said, as he turned to walk away. I grabbed him by the arm and turned him back around to face me. As I began to speak, I pointed to an area on my left butt cheek.

“Yesterday Ducky showed me a tattoo which read ‘Carpe Diem’ right about here on her backside. Why would anyone so happy to show off a tattoo that stood for ‘seize the day,’ commit Hara Kari just a couple hours later? That makes no sense at all!”

“Yeah, whatever,” Detective Travis replied. “The old lady could have had Wonder Woman tattooed on her ass, but that wouldn’t mean she could fly, or fling a magic lasso around you that’d make you reveal all your secrets, would it?”

I was so dismayed by his sarcastic and incredibly insensitive remark, that I couldn’t even form a response. All I could think about was Ducky’s tattoo, and how her hourglass had just run out of sand. I turned into Stone’s embrace, with tears in my eyes. He rubbed my back, and held me for a long time, until another officer approached us and asked me to make up a sign to hang on the library door, which read,
Closed until further notice.

This was an ominous beginning to my “tranquil” time working at the library. It suddenly occurred to me even my job was up in the air now. If the library were allowed to open again in the near future, would Stone be agreeable to me working there after what had just taken place? Did I ever even want to enter this building again?

Thinking back to the joke Ducky had told the day before about ‘books regarding committing suicide’ sent a chill up my spine. Little did I know she would be suspected of doing that exact thing just hours later. However, I refused to accept the idea that Ducky might have taken her own life. This did not even seem to be within the realm of possibility to me, and I intended to press that point to Detective Johnston when I got the chance.

I suddenly had the overwhelming desire to go home and consume an entire pot of strong coffee while I ruminated over the bone-chilling events of the morning.

Chapter 5

“Are you doing okay? I’m totally stunned, so you must be absolutely blown away by what awaited you at the library this morning.” While Stone spoke, he lovingly caressed my back as I sat hunched over the kitchen table in quiet disbelief.

I was comforted by the touch and words from my husband of just over five months. When I couldn’t form a verbal response, I shook my head and wiped a tear off my cheek that had just escaped from my overflowing eyes. I was not normally highly emotional, but I’d just met the deceased, and was beginning to bond with her. I felt it was a very unfortunate way for one’s life to end, just a couple of days before a long-awaited retirement. I still believed her fate had been at the hands of another individual, and not a decision Ducky had made for herself.

I was having trouble wrapping my head around the very idea Ducky might have decided to end it all by hanging herself from the rafters after I’d left the building the previous evening. Was I being naïve by denying it was even possible? Did I just not want to believe she could do such a thing, despite the fact that every piece of evidence indicated she had? It was not unheard of for me to bury my head in the sand when I didn’t want to face the truth.

Ducky could be crotchety and disagreeable much of the time, but my thoughts kept slipping back to how impassioned she was when telling me of her plans for the future. Would someone who had just expressed a desire to spend her coming days gardening and jumping out of perfectly good airplanes, suddenly decide that life was not worth living? I didn’t think it was likely. Just as I was about to share these thoughts with Stone, Detective Johnston entered through the back door and strode into the kitchen.

“Hey, Wyatt,” Stone said, as the detective pulled his favorite chair out from under the table and took a seat. He had long ago adopted the chair, which allowed him to sit with his back to the wall, a cop habit thoroughly ingrained in him.

“Hi guys,” Wyatt replied in greeting.

Like Stone, Wyatt’s first order of business was to ask how I was faring. I assured him I was all right, but very shocked and dismayed at the untimely death of Bertha Duckworthy. “I can’t help but think that under the circumstances, if her death turns out to be something other than a suicide, I will be the prime suspect. Am I right?”

In response to my question, Wyatt reached out and patted my trembling hand that was resting atop the table. “Relax. I don’t think that will be an issue, Lexie. Her death has been unofficially classified as a suicide. We’re still waiting for the results of the autopsy, of course. I believe Wendy said it would be performed this afternoon. Right after you left, a suicide note was found. Apparently, after you left the library last night, Ducky typed out a short note, certainly not a manifesto or anything of that nature. Then she printed it off and placed it on her chair before pushing the chair up under her desk. It looks as if she then carried out her final mission.”

“What exactly did the note say?” I asked. I was still very skeptical about the true nature of her death, and felt a little uncomfortable knowing my daughter would be involved in slicing Ducky open like a watermelon in a few short hours.

“Just that she could not face the changes in her life that retirement would entail. For many years, her world had revolved around spending her days at the library and the idea of nothing but idle time spent in the company of her husband was more than she could bear,” Wyatt explained. “I didn’t actually read it myself, but was told that she basically said she’d lost the will to live, and was apologizing to her loved ones for ending her life.”