Moonshadows (8 page)

“I was only kidding, little Mother Hen,” he said.

Chelsea conceded a slight smile and gave a reluctant nod.

Stephen took Janet’s arm as they crossed the street to his car. The slight pressure of his hand gave her a feeling of being protected and she realized how good it felt—how it took away some of the vulnerability she’d been feeling lately.

The drive was less than fifteen minutes. Stephen parked his vintage ’65 Mustang a few spaces over from Janet’s car. Both were silent on the walk to her front door.

“Thanks for the lift,” she said, fitting the key into the lock.

“My pleasure. Maybe we can go out sometime.” He smiled. “Minus your protector, of course.”

“We’ll see.”

“Goodnight. Sleep well.”

“You, too.”

Janet stood for a second in the doorway and watched Stephen’s retreating back. He walked with his hands tucked into his pants pockets, his body straining slightly forward.

She watched as he crossed the courtyard and disappeared into the darkness of his apartment.

It was after six the following Monday before Janet was able to leave the library. Hilda chose the same evening to stay over and work on the new coding system. They left the building together. The street was quiet in the early darkness and still damp from a light shower. Somewhere in the distance a door slammed and set a dog to barking. Neither woman spoke as they hurried down the sidewalk and stepped onto the street. Hilda’s head was crammed down into her hunched shoulders and she didn’t see the dark hulk of a car as it swung from behind the office building and sped toward them.

Janet felt the car brush against her coat. Just before she jumped clear, she screamed, “Hilda, look out!”

Hilda raised her head, her eyes wide in astonishment. The car struck with a terrible thud, tossing her into the air and flipping her a couple times before she hit the bricked alleyway. Then she lay still. The car gathered speed, roared away and disappeared into the black night.

Kneeling beside the crumpled body, Janet groped for her hand. “Hilda, are you okay?” She probed the inside of Hilda’s wrist and couldn’t find a pulse. She snatched out her cell phone and jabbed in 911.

Within minutes the street was filled with vehicles blaring garbled messages from their radios. Hilda’s body was placed on a stretcher, pushed into the back of an ambulance, and rushed away. Janet watched it all through dazed eyes.

“Ma’am,” a voice said. Janet felt a touch on her arm. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Janet shook her head. “What?”

“Are you okay? Maybe I better take you along to the hospital too. Wouldn’t be a bad idea to be checked out.”

“No, thank you, I’m fine—just shaken up a bit. May I go home now?”

“Of course. Are you sure there’s nothing else you remember about the car?”

She shook her head. “There’s nothing to remember. It happened so quickly.”

The man nodded. “Would you like someone to drive you?”

Janet shook her head again and walked away.

“I have your name and address,” he called after her. “Someone will be in touch with you tomorrow.”

Janet’s trembling hands clutched the steering wheel as she drove home. Her mind reeled as it replayed the accident.
Accident
? A car with no lights on speeding down a skinny alleyway. Had it been an accident? Of course it had—no other explanation made any sense.

Inside the walls of her apartment, Janet felt better. Safer. She needed to call Miss Austin to let her know what had happened. She dialed the number but there was no answer. Janet was desperate to talk to someone, to hear a familiar voice. She punched in another number. Chelsea answered right away.

“It’s me.”

“Hi.”

“Are you busy—I mean, right now?”

“Why, what’s wrong?”

“There’s been an accident, Chels. Hilda’s been hurt.”

“An accident? What kind of accident? Are you okay?”

“Just shaken up, but I don’t know about Hilda. The car was going awfully fast.”

“Car? What car? Don’t move. I’m on my way.”

The line clicked.

Fighting to hold back tears, Janet replaced the receiver. Just as the phone touched the cradle and cleared the line, the ringer pierced the air. She snatched her hand away, unnerved at the unexpected. Then she steadied herself and answered.

There was only silence on the line. She could hear breathing, controlled and steady, but clearly audible.

“Who’s there?” she demanded.

There was a faint chuckle:
“Riddle me rude, riddle me gallant. Who’s the fool without wisdom or talent?”

Then the line hummed.

Janet’s mind tumbled—riddles at a time like this. Stupid riddles. Speeding cars. She stood holding the receiver until a pounding on the door pulled her back to reality.

“Janet.” Chelsea called from outside. “It’s me, open the door.” She pounded again. “Janet!”

Janet whirled. “Chelsea,” she cried and tugged at the chain on the door.

“What happened? An accident, you said.”

Reaching for the comfort of Chelsea’s hand, Janet pulled her inside and slammed the door. The events of the evening caught up with her, and she could no longer control her trembling. Chelsea put her arms around Janet and led her to the sofa.

“Take time to calm down,” she said. “Then we’ll talk.”

Thirty minutes later, Janet and Chelsea entered the emergency room of the Middlebrook Hospital. The corridor was empty and no one at the admitting desk. A tall, straight-figured woman in white rounded the corner and met them in the hallway.

“Excuse me,” Chelsea said to the nurse. “Could you help us? We’re trying to find out about Miss Jamison—Hilda Jamison. She was brought in earlier tonight.”

The nurse studied the clipboard in her hand. “Miss Jamison—the accident victim.” She frowned. “I’m sorry, I can’t give out any information. That would have to come from the doctor.”

“Oh please.” Janet touched her arm. “Can’t you tell us anything at all? It’s very important.”

“Are you family?”

Chelsea shook her head. “But we are her friends.”

“I was with her when the accident happened,” Janet insisted. “I have a right to know.”

“The nurse’s face softened. “I really can’t tell you anything—hospital rules, you know. But it’s been very quiet tonight, and I do remember when they brought her in.” She consulted her chart again. “At six-fifty. The doctor saw her right away and they took her up to surgery. I’ve heard nothing since.”

“Could you find out?” Chelsea asked. “Can you call somebody?”

“Wait here,” the nurse said.

She crossed the hall and entered the glass cubicle behind the desk. Janet and Chelsea watched as she picked up the phone and pushed in some numbers. Chelsea reached for Janet’s hand as they stood silently watching the nurse speak into the phone, getting news of life—or death. Replacing the phone, she looked at them through the heavy glass. She looked sad. Janet felt Chelsea’s hand tighten on her own. The woman in white opened the door.

“I’m sorry. Miss Jamison expired at seven-twenty.”

“Thank you,” Chelsea said and led Janet away.

Back in Janet’s apartment, Chelsea prepared hot chamomile tea and carried it to the living room. Still wearing her coat, Janet sat on the sofa and tried to stop the quaking that had taken over her body. Chelsea handed her a steaming cup.

“Drink this; you’ll feel better.”

Janet nodded. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.

“You don’t have to,” Chelsea said.

“I can’t believe this. We were working together just a couple of hours ago and now she’s dead.”

Chelsea unbuttoned Janet’s coat and slipped it from her shoulders. “Try not to think about it for awhile. Drink your tea before it gets cold.” She stood up. “I’m going to call Miss Austin. She needs to know what’s happened.”

Janet held the cup and felt the warmth against her hands. Through strained eyes and a throbbing head, she watched Chelsea reach for the phone on the end table and listened as she spoke almost immediately.

“Miss Austin, it’s me, Chelsea. I’m at Janet’s. There’s been a terrible accident.” She listened for a moment. “No ma’am, Janet’s fine, it’s Hilda. She was struck by a car as she and Janet left the library. Miss Austin, Hilda’s dead.”

Janet watched as Chelsea listened to the voice on the other end of the line.

“No ma’am, they don’t know who did it,” Chelsea said. “Janet didn’t recognize the car or see the driver. She’s already talked to the police, although there was little she could tell them. Apparently they seem to think it was somebody trying to rob one of the offices across the alley. With all the doctors over there, they were probably after drugs.” Chelsea tapped the phone and continued to listen. “I understand. Thank you.”

She hung up.

“She seems to be taking it rather well,” Chelsea said as she turned and sat down beside Janet. “She said the library will be closed tomorrow and for neither of us to bother coming in.”

Janet nodded. “It’s the least we can do, I suppose. I never cared much for Hilda, but she didn’t deserve this. She didn’t deserve to die.”

F
or all practical purposes the investigation into Hilda’s death ceased. Inquiries had been made and leads followed up, but none yielded any positive results. While the authorities didn’t officially close the books, interest in the case dwindled until it was rarely mentioned. The car that struck Hilda was found abandoned a few blocks away. It had been reported stolen just a few moments before Janet and Hilda left the library.

Hilda’s body, claimed by a relative, was taken away. Janet felt a twinge of guilt from the relief of not having to attend another funeral. She and Chelsea put in extra hours and the library continued to run as a matter of routine.

Janet was enjoying a quiet evening at home after an unusually hectic day at work. She had just settled back against a cushion when the doorbell interrupted her unwinding. With a touch of irritation, she stepped to the door. Stephen stood on the porch holding a red and white striped bag from Really Cool Treats, the town’s only ice cream store.

“If you’re busy, no sweat,” he said and held out the bag. “I just popped over to bring you this.”

Janet unfolded the top and peered in. “Yummy,” she said. “Rocky Road.”

“I tried to call, but my phone’s on the fritz—dead battery probably. Guess I’ll have to make a trip to Best Buy.”

Suddenly Janet’s energy level didn’t feel so low. “That’s okay,” she said and widened the doorway. “Come on in.” She weighed the bag in her hand. “I’ll get a couple of bowls.”

She motioned him to have a seat while she went to the kitchen and scooped the ice cream into her prettiest cereal bowls. She handed one to Stephen, then settled down beside him and they dug in.

“So, how are you liking Middlebrook?” Janet asked.

“Like it fine.” He smiled. “Quiet, though.”

Janet licked her spoon. “You’re not used to quiet?”

He twirled his bowl. “After New York, I can get used to anything,” he said. “I’m very adaptable.”

Janet nodded. “A good thing to be—adaptable.”

“Makes life a heck of a lot easier. I’ve rattled around enough to know if you show the world you’ve got a chip on your shoulder, somebody’s going to want to oblige you by knocking it off. So why bother?” He shrugged. “Just do your thing and let other people do theirs.”

“And what’s that—your thing?”

He laughed. “Ah, now, there again—adaptable.” He frowned as he scraped the side of his bowl. “Mostly, I put pen to paper and scribble, for magazines, periodicals—that sort of thing.”

“You’re a writer?”

“Just a columnist. Nothing to be ashamed of, I guess. It pays good and the work’s steady, but I’m looking for more.” He grinned. “Like I said at the coffee shop, we do what we can until something better comes along.”

“And it will?”

“Oh, sure. I’m nothing if not optimistic.” He swiped a fingertip across the back of his spoon and dropped it into the bowl. “An optimistic tumbleweed, that’s me.”

“Tumbleweed?”

“Pretty much.” He glanced at his watch. “Golly, look at the time. I’m expecting a call along about now, better hot-foot it across the courtyard.” He stood up. “Thanks for the ice cream.”

Janet smiled. “You’re the one who bought it.”

“Yeah. But you shared.”

“So I did,” she said, walking him to the door.

“Goodnight,” Stephen said. “See you later.”

Janet nodded and watched as he crossed beneath the streetlights and wondered if he would miss his call. Then she remembered what he’d said about his phone not working—dead battery, he’d said. Odd. Very odd.

Janet’s life rolled along smoothly for nearly two weeks. The tranquility was a bit unsettling, knowing there had to be another shoe that was going to drop and mess up her comfortable existence—it was only a matter of time. And she wished it would hurry up and plop. And it did. Sort of. On a Monday morning, Miss Austin called her and Chelsea into the office. The older woman crouched forward from behind her desk, her enamel eyes raking across the top of her glasses.

“The members of the library board have directed me to convey to the two of you their deep appreciation for the admirable job you’ve done during the course of the past weeks.”

The message was like a train clattering along at a steady clip, no pauses or inflections, just get to the end of the track as quickly as possible. But there was nothing in her recital to suggest that she concurred with that opinion. In fact, her voice was more chilled than usual, and her eyes kept shifting away from Janet’s gaze. She seemed to resent having to offer any form of appreciation.

She steepled her fingers. “Having said that, I’m pleased to tell you that a replacement has been found to fill the vacancy left by Hilda.” A faint smile touched her lips. “I had a meeting only last night with Ethan Chandler. He informed me that the new staff member has been hired and will arrive for work the first of the month.” She folded her arms and pursed her lips. “It will mean another few days of long hours and short breaks, but I’m sure you’ll manage beautifully.”

Pushing the palms of her hands against the top of the desk, she started to rise.

“Do you have any idea who the replacement is?” Chelsea asked. “Is it anyone we know?”

Amanda Austin dropped back into her seat. “I’m sure he isn’t.” She gave a tight grin. “Sebastian Massila is from New York, where he’s just finished up his education and, if one is to believe Ethan Chandler, more than capable of handling the job. According to him, we are truly fortunate to be getting a person of such quality. And, I might add, because he’s a personal friend of Mr. Chandler, he’s entitled to our utmost support. I look forward to welcoming him and hope you two will do everything possible to make his coming onboard pleasant.”

She pushed back from the desk.

“Of course, we will,” Janet said.

“I appreciate that.” Miss Austin walked around her desk and toward the door. “I understand he’s a person of high moral character and above reproach, so let’s watch our manners, shall we? And remember that we’re ladies.”

She put her hand on the doorknob, a signal that the meeting was over.

Chelsea seemed glued to the floor. Janet grabbed her arm and dragged her from the room. They stood on the other side of the closed door and glared at each other.

“Watch our manners!”
Chelsea exploded. “Watch our manners! Since when do we have to be reminded to watch our manners? Tell me, Janet, since when?”

Janet smiled ruefully and headed Chelsea in the direction of the staff lounge.

“Well, she did say Mr. Chandler himself made the recommendation—and you know how she’s always kissing up to him because he’s the chairman of the library board. Maybe she just wants to make sure that this Sebastian fellow is favorably impressed.”

“And you can bet your sweet you-know-what that she’ll bend over backward to see that he is.” Chelsea sat down at the table and accepted a consolatory cup of coffee. “But to tell us to
watch our manners
!”

“I’m sure she didn’t mean it exactly the way it sounded. She probably meant for us to be kind and accepting of him—him being new and all.”

“As if we wouldn’t—without being told, I might add.”

“Forget it, Chels. Just consider the source and accept it as another one of her spiteful comments.”

Chelsea sipped her coffee and gradually calmed down.

“Feeling better?” Janet asked.

Chelsea nodded and looked sheepish. “Sorry for getting so carried away, but when somebody has the unmitigated gall to questions my manners, I tend to get a little testy.”

“That you do.”

“So, tell me,” she said with a grin, “what about your new neighbor—the one with the Richard Gere hair. Does he have an acceptance problem?”

“Stephen Prescott?” Janet shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know enough about him to say one way or the other.”

“Appeared kind of sudden, didn’t he? Like he just dropped out of the sky—a gift from the gods.”

Janet bunched her eyebrows. “I guess he did.”

“Where did he drop in from?”

“New York.”

“Middlebrook is getting its share of New York defectors.”

“Its share?”

“You know. Your new friend, and now Sebastian.”

“Oh.”

“What does this Stephen person do?”

“He says he’s a writer.”

“Says?”

Janet shrugged again.

“You don’t like him?”

“I could like him a lot, Chels. I guess the word is trust—do I trust him?”

“You’re thinking of Adam?”

“Among other things.” Janet carried their cups to the sink. She turned. “Maybe I’ll change my mind tonight.”

“Tonight?”

Janet nodded. “He called and invited me to dinner at Victoria and Albert’s.”

Chelsea smiled. “Well, at least he has good taste.”

Janet laughed. “In restaurants or in dining companions?”

“Both—but mostly dining companions,” she said as they headed back to work.”

That night Janet dressed for her date. She checked the mirror again. The denim jumper had a smocked yoke embroidered with lilac and green ivy. She wore it over a black cotton body stocking. An amethyst and sapphire pin fastened at the fold of the turtleneck reflected a prism of color against her skin. She had just slid on taupe Birkenstocks when the phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Riddle me different, riddle me same. In whose work will you find my name?”

“Don’t start with me,” Janet demanded. “I’m in no mood for your nonsense.”

“My goodness, are we grouchy tonight—things not going well, are they?” There was a chuckle.
“Listen well to what I tell: some people are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.”

“Why do you insist on doing something so childish? Have you ever considered getting a life of your own and leave me alone?”

“Always questions. Questions, like riddles, have right answers and wrong answers—but you have to put forth some effort on your part, you silly girl. You’re not playing the game.”

“I don’t like this game. Get somebody else to play with you.”

“Sorry, but you’re “
it
.” Now close your eyes and count to twenty.”

“Who are you?”

“No fair asking. You have to solve the puzzle yourself—or until I call
ollie, ollie, oxen free
.”

Janet’s trembling hand slammed down the phone to silence the mocking voice. Slipping down onto the bed, she breathed deeply to quiet her pounding heart. Someone was playing vile tricks. If they meant to frighten her, so far she had allowed them to succeed. Tracing back over the past weeks in her mind, she pondered the riddles. Could they have a connection to Hilda’s death? What if the wrong person had been killed and she herself had been the intended victim?

Janet’s mind raced. She could still feel the violent rush of air as the car brushed against her coat and hear the thud as Hilda’s body was struck. Then she remembered the broken rung on the ladder in the upper stacks of the library. Could these events and the riddles be tied to the Lancaster money and her grandmother’s will? Janet’s life had been so uneventful and predictable, would she recognize danger if it strolled through her front door and tipped its hat?

The doorbell rang. It would be Stephen Prescott—yet another unanswered question. Could she trust him? Right now, Janet decided, trust was a commodity too rare and precious to bestow on a stranger—even a brown-eyed, dark-haired hunk that made her heart go pitty-pat.

Ah
heck
, she thought, and headed for the door.

Victoria and Albert’s, currently in fashion was filled with well-dressed diners. Janet and Stephen were ushered promptly to their table. Eighteenth-century decor blanketed the room with a kind of puritanical innocence that induced subdued conversation. The waiter came over to take their order.

Stephen looked around. “Great place.”

“Expensive, too,” Janet said.

He smiled. “I think I can manage.”

“The writing business pretty good these days?”

“How’s that?”

Janet glanced up as the waiter brought their drinks.

“Have you always been a writer?”

“Has anyone ever ‘always’ been anything?”

Janet nodded as if she understood the vague statement.

“I’ve been successful at a good number of things. Writing just happens to be what I like best.”

Janet sipped her Spumanti.

“What kind of writing do you do?”

He smiled. “Full of questions, aren’t you?”

Janet grinned and nodded. “I guess I am. But people fascinate me, especially mysterious writers who just happen to drop from nowhere right into my neighborhood.”

He shifted in his seat and gave a slight laugh. “I’m not mysterious. I just got bored with New York and needed a change.”