Chapter 5

5

The "something" Whitlock found was a crumpled-up sticky note, which wasn't all that unusual given we were in a library. Written on the note was a description I found curious:

Short curly hair

70s

Glasses

"Could mean something, could mean nothing," Whitlock said. "Hard to say."

"It describes Cordelia to a T," I said.

"How many people work here?" Foley asked. "Any idea?"

"I'm not sure. It's a small library. Maybe a couple of employees and one or two volunteers."

Foley turned toward me. "The key ring you found … If she was attacked, I was hoping it had fallen from the assailant's pocket. Turns out one of the keys unlocks the door to the library, and another unlocks Cordelia's car."

"She must have dropped them on her way out, or when she realized she wasn't alone," I said.

Whitlock moved a hand to his hip. "A library seems like such a strange place for a murder. Wouldn't you agree?"

" If she was murdered," I said.

"Sure looks like murder to me," Foley said. "What makes you believe otherwise?"

"Oh, I don't. I was just thinking about something my mother said to me today. Cordelia made a comment to her about not having anything to live for after her husband died. I'm not saying her loneliness caused her to kill herself, and the whole idea doesn't work for me. But it does need to be ruled out."

"Guess we'll have to wait and see what Silas has to say on the matter after he examines the scene and conducts the autopsy. Until then, it's fair to assume foul play was involved."

"I agree."

I heard a sharp rapping sound, and in unison, our heads turned. In the dim glow of the library's porch light, a woman stood at the threshold, knocking on the doorjamb. She was dressed in a long nightgown with a puffy coat over it. In her hand was a hot fudge sundae.

Foley cupped a hand to the side of his mouth and shouted, "Library's closed, ma'am. You'll have to come back another day."

"I know it's closed," the woman said. "I work here. What I don't know is what you are all doing here at this hour."

Foley, Whitlock, and I exchanged glances.

"What do you think?" I asked.

"I think we should talk to her," Whitlock said. "What say you, Foley?"

"She's not coming in here and messing with my crime scene," Foley said.

"I'm not saying we should let her in," Whitlock said. "I'm saying we should talk to her."

"Go on, then," Foley said. "But I don't want her stepping a single foot inside this place."

Whitlock saluted and said, "Roger that."

He started for the front door, and I followed, half expecting Foley to stop me, but he didn't.

Whitlock grinned at the woman and said, "Hello there. Mind if we talk outside?"

"Of course, I mind," she said. "It's cold out here. Let me in."

"It is a wee bit nippy, isn't it? How about we hop in my SUV? It has the works—heated seats, a blanket in the back, everything to get you warm in no time."

The woman raised a brow, confused. "I want to know what's going on here. Why won't you let me in?"

"We're investigating an incident that happened earlier this evening."

"What are you talking about? What incident ? Who are you two?"

"My name is Georgiana Germaine," I said. "And this is Detective Whitlock. What's your name?"

"Samantha Swan. I manage the library, and you still haven't answered my question."

"Come with me, and let's get warmed up," Whitlock said. "I'll answer whatever questions I can."

She hesitated a moment, taking a few bites of the sundae, which had all but melted. Then she nodded, and we followed Whitlock to his SUV. My buns were cold, and as soon as I hopped into the back seat, and he started the vehicle, I cranked the seat warmer all the way up.

"Forgive my appearance," Samantha said. "I was at home, planning on making it an early night, and I had a craving for something sweet. So I threw on my coat and left, thinking I wouldn't run into anyone while I was out. Well, no one except for an employee at the drive-thru."

"We've all been there," Whitlock said. "How long have you known Cordelia Bennett?"

"She's been a patron of the library for decades. For years, she'd come in once or twice a month and read to the kids on the weekend. We just brought her on as a volunteer. I'd hoped it might cheer her up after the loss of her husband. Why do you ask?"

I waited to see how Whitlock would respond, knowing the truth of what happened tonight would be public knowledge soon enough.

"I don't know how else to say it, so I'm just going to be straight with you," Whitlock said.

"Please do."

"Mrs. Bennett is dead."

"What? How? Where?"

"She died in the library sometime this evening."

Samantha gasped, slapping a hand against her mouth, her head shaking. "No, no, no, no, no. I don't believe it. I can't believe it. I saw her earlier today, and we talked. What happened?"

"We're not sure yet. That's what we're trying to figure out."

"Is she … still in there?"

"For now."

"How did she die? Was it a heart attack or something?"

Whitlock went quiet for a time, running a hand along his chin, thinking. "What I am about to say won't be easy for you to hear, I imagine. Since you're the one who runs things at the library, I feel it best you know the truth. She sustained a gunshot wound."

Whitlock's comment gave Samantha such a shock, the sundae she was holding slipped from her hands, peppering the back seat in a sticky coat of melted vanilla and hot fudge—now, cold fudge.

She reached for the door handle, saying, "I … I have to go. I can't … I don't … I don't want to be here."

I placed a hand on her arm. "Please, wait just a minute. It's a lot to process. I know. We're going to figure out what happened tonight and why. Rest assured."

Through tear-filled eyes, Samantha said, "Cordelia was one of the nicest people I've ever met. I can't believe it. I can't believe she's dead. What if I'd stayed tonight, and if Cordelia had gone home? Would it have been me instead of her?"

Given the note Whitlock had found, and the fact we believed Cordelia had been murdered, the attack seemed to have been a targeted one. The description on the paper seemed too perfect of a match to Cordelia to suggest otherwise. One thought led to another, and I wondered … Were we looking at a murder for hire?

"I know this news is difficult to take in," Whitlock said, "but it would be a big help to us if you'd stay a few minutes longer so we can ask you a few questions."

Samantha nodded, reaching into her handbag and pulling out a tissue. She blotted her eyes and sniffled, seeming to regain her composure. "Sure, of course I can stay. Anything I can do to help."

Whitlock grinned, pleased with her answer. "What time did you speak with Mrs. Bennett today?"

"Oh, it was right before I left, so I'd say a little after four this afternoon."

"How did she seem when you talked to her?"

"She was in the best of spirits, much happier than I'd seen her in some time."

"What did the two of you talk about?"

Samantha tapped a finger against the armrest, thinking. "It was Cordelia's first time closing the library, and she wanted to go over everything with me to make sure she got it all right."

"Is it common for a volunteer to close?"

Samantha looked down, going quiet for a time.

"It isn't," she said. "I'll admit, I was supposed to close tonight, but my granddaughter had a volleyball game this afternoon. I was telling Cordelia about it, and I mentioned how much I wished I could be there. She offered to close for me. I suppose I should have given it a bit more thought, but I was too excited about making the game to think much of it."

"How many employees and volunteers work here?"

"Johnny Mansfield is an employee, and Cordelia is … was our only volunteer. We had one other volunteer, but she moved away a few months ago." Samantha glanced toward the library, placing a hand over her forehead like a visor. "I don't … I don't want to see … I don't know how I'm ever going to be able to step foot in there after what's happened. I suppose we'll need to close for a while. What's the process like? How long will it take?"

"I can't answer that right now," Whitlock said. "It depends on several things. For one, the chief of police needs to be satisfied that we've gathered all the relevant evidence and we've done all we can here."

"It's surreal. Even after hearing it from your lips, I still can't believe it."

"We appreciate you taking the time to talk to us tonight. Why don't you leave me your contact information? I'll be in touch when I have more news to share."

Samantha nodded, and Whitlock put her information into his phone.

She blotted her eyes a few more times, and I said, "I'm sorry about your friend."

"I am too."

She reached for the door handle once more.

"Would you mind answering one last question?" I asked.

"Sure. What is it?"

"Do you wear glasses?"

"Sometimes."

"You're not wearing them right now, though."

"I don't need to wear them all the time. My distance vision is excellent. It's the things that are close that give me trouble. Can't read the back of a soup can to save my life."

I knew just how she felt.

Over the last few years, my near vision had begun to decline.

"Would you mind telling me your age?" I asked.

"That seems like an odd question. Why do you want to know?"

"I'm just curious."

Whitlock turned, eyeing me like he was trying to figure out why I'd asked, but he remained quiet.

"I'll be sixty-nine next month," she said. "Can I go now?"

"Sure," I said.

"Again, I'm so sorry about the mess I made."

Whitlock shrugged. "Don't worry about it. My vehicle is due for a cleaning, and now I have a reason not to keep putting it off."

Samantha nodded and opened the door, blowing her nose into a tissue as she waved to us and headed to her car.

As she drove away, Whitlock turned to me. "Penny for your thoughts?"

"Based on the note you found and what was written on it, I'd first suspected Cordelia's death may have been premeditated, that she was targeted somehow. Let's say I'm right, and the note was left by the killer. It gives a description of a person who's short, with curly hair, in their 70s, with glasses. At first glance, it's easy to assume it's a description of Cordelia because she's dead. But she wasn't supposed to be here tonight, closing the library. Samantha had been scheduled to close. When we were talking to her just now, it occurred to me that she also fits the description written on the sticky note." I shrugged. "I don't know. It's like you say—maybe the note means something and maybe it doesn't."

"I want to believe it does."

I did too.

I also believed it was possible someone had been hired to commit the murder.

The question was— why ?