Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 05 - Just Ducky (9 page)

“Okay, I suppose I see your point,” Stone said, sitting straighter up in bed. “But the note could have been typed anywhere. If she had been planning to kill herself, she could have used her home computer to produce the note.”

“I know, I thought of that. But it’s much more than that. I’m almost positive she told me her grandkids were named Melissa and Barney, not Marissa and Bernie, as stated in the suicide note. I remember thinking her grandson had the same first name as my cousin in New Mexico,” I explained. “And no grandmother is going to forget her grandchildren’s names.”

Stone shook his head as he contemplated the situation. “That is rather curious, I’ll admit. But grandmothers under duress, as anyone writing a suicide note would surely be, could accidentally mistype a name, even a grandchild’s name. If she was typing rapidly, a few typos are not out of the question.”

“It just seems like too many questionable inconsistencies to me to not warrant a closer look. And frankly, I can’t imagine her signing her note ‘Bertha Duckworthy’ because she adamantly insisted that I never refer to her as ‘Bertha,’ but only as ‘Ducky.’ She told me she hated the name ‘Bertha.’ I can’t see her using it in her final note, unless it was some kind of document that required giving your full legal name. And that’s not a typo. That was just plain out of character for the woman.”

“Hmmm. Well, let’s go down and have some coffee. I know I’m not going to go back to sleep, and you don’t look like you’ve slept at all. You can call Wyatt after eight when he reports to work, and tell him what you just told me,” Stone suggested. “I’m seriously beginning to think you may be on to something. Ducky killing herself seems too unlikely, and, like you, I also believe that the official cause of death deserves another look.”

I was relieved that Stone agreed with me there was too much skepticism regarding the manner of Ducky’s death to arbitrarily classify it as a suicide, without taking the time to dig a little deeper. I, for one, was going to dig deeper, even if no one else would. As the last person, besides the potential killer, to see Ducky alive, I felt like I owed that much to her. Because if Ducky didn’t end her own life, she deserved justice against whoever did, as did her family!

“And, one more thing, sweetheart,” Stone said, as he got out of bed.

“Yes?”

“Why do I dream about catching huge bass, walking on beautiful beaches, and of course, big-busted women, while you’re dreaming about filling out requisition forms? I’m beginning to think you need a little more joy and excitement in your life!”

If he hadn’t ducked just then, he’d have been hit squarely in the face with one of the colorful throw pillows on our bed that he detested so much!

* * *

“What?” I asked Wyatt later that afternoon when he stopped by for a few minutes to speak to Stone and I. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

“I’m sorry, Lexie. I happen to agree with you that Ducky’s death needs to be explored further. But unfortunately, that’s not my call to make. Chief Smith doesn’t think there’s enough evidence to warrant a full-on investigation at this time. He thinks the suicide note could have easily been created on Ducky’s home computer and, in her distressed condition, typos would not only be possible, but also expected. He did agree, though, to re-open the case if anything else significant comes to light that points to anything other than a suicide.”

“Oh, jeez. No offense, Wyatt, but that seems a little lame and unprofessional for the Chief of Police.”

“Well, there have been a string of break-ins on Main Street, and he has all hands on deck looking into who the culprit, or culprits, might be. Just last night the department store got robbed after the back door was kicked in.”

“So the fact that a comb might have been pinched from the five and dime takes precedence over what is potentially a murder case?” I asked a bit sarcastically, due to my current disgust with the police department.

“It’s more than the theft of a comb, Lexie,” Wyatt said. “Narcotics, like Percocet and Oxycodone, were stolen from the pharmacy the night Ducky died, and it’s only a matter of time before someone gets injured, or worse, by the perpetrators. Still, I agree with you that a couple of detectives should be freed up to pursue the possibilities surrounding Ducky’s death.”

“Well, then the way I see it, there’s nothing preventing me from pursuing those possibilities on my own,” I said, more to myself than anything.

“No way!” Detective Johnston and Stone said in unison. Both reacted with so much vehemence that Stone spit coffee across the kitchen table, and Wyatt removed the half-eaten long john from his mouth and sat it down on the table. I’d never seen this eating machine remove something already in his mouth and I sat back in my chair in surprise.

“We are not going through this again,” Stone said. “Nothing good has ever come from your nasty habit of stepping into the middle of police cases.”

“Totally untrue,” I replied, in my own defense. “How about the arrests of murderers for starters? And from what I’m hearing from Wyatt, this is not a police case at all. Apparently it’s not important enough to be considered a ‘police case,’ Stone.”

“You know what I mean, Lexie! Your life has been threatened on a number of instances, and you’ve been to the emergency room on numerous occasions because of the cases you’ve gotten yourself involved with. Please let well enough alone!” Stone pleaded with me.

Pointing what was left of his half-eaten long john at me, Wyatt said, “I agree with Stone. It would be best if you stayed out of it completely.”

“Best for whom? Certainly not for Ducky! She deserves justice!” I nearly shouted at our guest. “What about her family? They deserve justice too, and they deserve to know the truth. How else will they find closure?”

“Justice for what? The chances she was murdered are still remote, Lexie. And you have my word that if anything comes up that says differently, the police department will check it out. I know her family deserves the truth, but my hands are tied.”

I nodded without much enthusiasm. Wyatt’s word was the best I was going to get at this stage of the game. But, I still felt like I owed it to Ducky to ask around and see if I could find something even more substantial than the inconsistencies of the suicide note. Something concrete enough that the police department could not deny indicated Ducky’s death was not self-inflicted.

I stood up and walked to the refrigerator to begin peeling potatoes for supper. I had a rump roast in the oven, and wanted to serve it with all the trimmings, including freshly snapped green beans, big, fat fluffy rolls, and even a homemade blueberry pie for dessert. After all, staying at the Alexandria Inn did not come cheap, and the Spurleys deserved the same attention we showered on all our paying guests. I didn’t want to ignore them in my quest to uncover the truth. I was deep in thought when Wyatt patted me on the shoulder.

“I really am sorry I couldn’t do more. As always, thanks for the coffee and doughnuts. I’ll see you two later.” He tipped his hat as he walked backward toward the door leading out to the rear porch. I nodded, but was already thinking about the various people I wanted to find a way to speak with. As usual, I was going to have to go about it as covertly as possible, so as not to upset Stone. I wanted to at least get through the newlywed stage of our marriage before Stone realized he’d made a monumental mistake by marrying me.

* * *

I spent the rest of Thursday evening sulking and pouting between bouts of furiously attacking housecleaning chores. By the time I went to bed, I’d decided nothing beneficial would be accomplished by throwing a pity party for myself, and also for Ducky, who for obvious reasons, was unable to attend.

I then began scheming and thinking of ways to investigate Ducky’s death, without tipping off Stone and Wyatt. Despite the pleas for me to leave everything to the police, I was not going to let the matter drop until I, too, was convinced she hadn’t been murdered. It was clear to me the detectives considered her death to be immaterial, and not worth their time or effort. With any luck at all, I’d stumble upon some piece of irrefutable evidence that would be impossible for them to ignore.

I found the little notebook I referred to as my “Sherlock Holmes pad,” which I’d used several times in the past to jot down a list of people who I thought it might be worthwhile to speak with. That was the easy part of my plan. The more difficult part was figuring out how to accomplish that goal and that audacious task would take a little more thought. But coming up with clever ways to make those conversations happen, was a talent in which I not only excelled, but also thoroughly enjoyed. Let the inquisitions commence, I thought.

Chapter 7

“Ms. Starr?”

“Yes, this is she,” I replied, to an unfamiliar voice after answering the landline telephone early Friday morning.

“This is Colby Tucker, with the county library system. I’m sure you already know about Mrs. Duckworthy’s death.”

“Yes I do, Mr. Tucker. I’m afraid I was the one to discover her body when I reported for work Wednesday morning. It was incredibly shocking. What a terrible thing to happen, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, sure,” he replied, with little or no emotion. “Bertha reported to me, and now you’ll be doing the same as the interim head librarian until we can find a suitable person to fill the position full-time.”

“Okay,” I said. “I look forward to meeting you, and I promise I’ll do the best job I’m capable of doing.”

“Yeah, sure.” My new boss repeated. “Mainly, I’m calling to let you know the library will be closed all next week and reopen the following Monday. You need to pass this on to the other employees there, because I’m about to go on a break, and I really don’t have the time. Did Bertha give you a key to the front door, or am I going to have to interrupt my busy schedule to get one to you?”

“I have a key. Ducky made certain I got one. She was very professional, you know. And I will contact Paul and Carolyn as soon as I get off the phone with you. Do you happen to know when and where Ducky’s funeral services will be held?” I asked. I had promised Ducky I’d never call her Bertha, and even now that she was dead, I would feel a sense of guilt in doing so. It seemed to me Mr. Tucker was using the despised name almost mockingly. But then, I was finding it hard to give him the benefit of the doubt considering the dispassionate manner he was displaying.

“No, I don’t know anything about the services, but I’m sure it will be in the paper tomorrow if it wasn’t already in there today.” It was obvious Colby Tucker neither knew, nor cared about, the details of the services. He sounded like he didn’t even give a rat’s ass that the woman was dead, responding as if I’d asked him if he knew when asparagus would be going on sale at Pete’s Pantry.

With a brisk and impersonal farewell, he rang off, leaving me to wonder if I’d be able to tolerate this man’s demeanor, even on a temporary basis. So far, I had to agree with Ducky’s assessment of her boss. He was a first class jerk! I couldn’t imagine what kind of motive this man might have to kill Ducky, but I was almost wishing I’d discover he was the guilty party. I’d take great pleasure in seeing him arrested and prosecuted.

If nothing else, I now knew I had about ten days to devote to doing a little investigating on my own before my days would be filled with library work.

* * *

I couldn’t find a Paul Miller or a Carolyn Aldrich in the phone book, but I kind of recalled Ducky telling me Paul lived with his girlfriend and her parents, and it stood to reason as a student at the local community college that Carolyn likely still lived with her parents. I decided to run down to the library to scour through Ducky’s desk for their contact information.

When I pulled into the library parking lot, there was an affluent-looking black man surveying the property. He was standing next to a transit attached to a tripod. A plumb bob hung down from the center of the transit. The gentleman was making notations in a notebook, and shouting instructions to a younger man who was standing at the far end of the property holding a measuring rod.

I walked over to the man, introduced myself as the interim librarian, and politely asked him what he was doing.

“I’m planning on buying up this property in the near future, and I’m trying to determine how many apartment buildings I’ll be able to fit on this lot, as well as the others I’ll be purchasing for the project,” he said.

“You must be Elroy Traylor.”