“I think we need to talk. Don’t you?” Cecelia Holt’s greeting carried an uncharacteristic urgency. She strode into my office Tuesday morning, her tan stilettos clicking with elegant purpose. Her sage green skirt suit complemented her complexion and emphasized her slim figure. The faint scent of her magnolia perfume accompanied her to a guest chair in front of my desk. She set her tan clutch and black faux leather briefcase on the one beside her.
From her demeanor, she could only be referencing one issue: The threats against her son. My heart plummeted into my stomach where it lay like a stone. How had she found out? Had Spence told her or had she overheard something? More importantly, why was she here in my office instead of speaking with him in his?
Urgh!
I didn’t want to be in the middle of a family debate. My initial reaction was to respond with a whiny, Do we have to? But I sensed the library board chair wouldn’t tolerate that.
“You and Spence must have spoken already.”
“He tried to hide this situation from me, but I could tell something was wrong.” She crossed her legs, stacking her well-manicured hands on her right knee. “A mother always knows.”
I’d tried to warn him. But with the secrets I was keeping from my parents, who was I to judge? Families were funny that way. Our parents spent the first part of our lives trying not to worry us. We spent the second part of our lives trying not to worry them.
I settled back against my chair. “I can’t add anything to what I’m sure Spence has already shared with you.”
“Let me be the judge of that.” She pinned me in place with her direct stare and extended her hand. “May I see this...list, please?”
Hadn’t Spence shown her the copy I’d given him?
Oh, Spence. By withholding information from your mother, did you know you were putting me in the middle?
I assessed Cecelia’s tense features. Her jawline looked taut as though she was clenching her teeth. The lines bracketing her mouth were deeper, and the shadows in her dark eyes broke my heart. I couldn’t turn away an anxious mother.
I pulled my purse from my bottom desk drawer and fished my copy of the list from one of its compartments. I handed the sheet to her. Cecelia’s hands shook as she read the four names: Hank Figg, Nelle Kenton, Brittany Wilson, and Spencer Holt.
“I knew he wasn’t lying. He wouldn’t lie to me about something like that. But I couldn’t believe he was telling the truth. I needed to see it for myself.” Her tortured brown eyes lifted to mine. “Who’d want to hurt my son?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”
“I know that you do.” She handed back the list. The hem of her narrow skirt fell just over her knee. “Spence told me you’ve been watching out for him and pushing the deputies with their investigation. Thank you for being such a good friend to my son. You’re one of the best friends he’s ever had.”
I blushed at the compliment. “I feel the same about him.”
There was silence for several moments before Cecelia spoke again. “He’s worried about you. I am too. I want my son to be safe, but I don’t want you to be in danger.”
“Then we want the same things.” I leaned into the table and sent her an encouraging smile. “Did Spence ask you to talk me out of this investigation? Because I’m not going to curl up on my sofa with Phoenix and a good book when I know someone’s trying to kill a friend.”
Her features brightened with the hint of a smile. “You’re both very stubborn. You’ll have to figure out a way to keep each other safe.”
“I’m working on that.”
“I appreciate your loyalty to my son, but he’s worried and I don’t like to see him like that.” She gave a self-deprecating chuckle. “He’s thirty years old, lives on his own, and manages four very successful enterprises. But I still worry about him today the way I have since his birth.”
My lips curved in a partial smile. “I can’t imagine Spence as a baby.”
She laughed. “He’s always been a handful, always wanted to do things on his own and in his way. His father was proud of him because of that. He was excited to see what Spence would do next. I was the overprotective parent.” Cecelia abruptly stilled. From across the table, I felt the fear crushing her. “I wanted to make things easier for him. Remove everything and anything that could harm him. So learning that a serial killer has put him on some kind of hit list is like a waking nightmare.”
A cold hand seemed to grip me and her anxiety became mine. “Do you have any suggestions of who might want to hurt him?”
“Spence said you thought it could be connected to the high school they all attended.” She reached into her briefcase and retrieved three hardbound books. One was black, another blue, the third cream. “These are the yearbooks for each of the years Spence was at Mother Mathilda High School. There may be some clue here that could help with the investigation.”
I reached for them eagerly. “That’s a great idea. Thank you.”
“You’re the best person to review them. The people and places are new to you so you’ll pay closer attention.”
I let my eyes drift from hers as I recalled the tour Spence had given me. “He doesn’t think there’s a connection, and I can see his point. He wasn’t in the same graduating class. And for him, high school was thirteen years ago. Too much time has passed.”
“I disagree.” Cecelia leaned forward as though to emphasize her words. “Remember the saying, ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold.’”
“But how cold? Fifteen years seems like a deep freeze.”
Revenge is a dish best served cold.
Cecelia’s words still lingered on my mind when my desk phone rang a short time later. The clock on my computer monitor read a few minutes after nine Tuesday morning.
“Peach Coast Library. Marvella Harris speaking.”
An officious voice responded. “Ms. Harris, Chet Little, vice president for corporate giving for Malcovich Savings and Loan.”
Chet’s introduction caught me off guard. “Vice president?”
It had only been ten days since Nelle, Malcovich’s previous vice president for corporate giving, had died. Had they already named her replacement? Wasn’t that kind of insensitive? Hank had been killed three weeks and three days ago. The school system still hadn’t named a new head coach for the high school boys basketball team.
Chet sniffed. The abrupt sound seemed defensive as though my question knocked the wind from his officious sail. “Yes, well, technically, I’m the interim vice president for corporate giving. But, Ms. Harris, I’m calling about the bank’s donation to the library’s Summer Solicitation Drive.”
“Thank you again. The library appreciates the bank’s support in ensuring everyone in our community has equal access to knowledge.”
“We’re withdrawing our donation.” His words were rushed.
Had he said what I thought I’d heard? “You’re withdrawing your support?”
“That’s right.”
Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no!
I tightened my grip on the receiver and gathered my scattered thoughts. “May I ask why?”
“Well, Ms. Harris, there are a great number of charitable organizations that support Peach Coast and we’d like to fund them. We’ve decided one of these other groups would be a better investment of our charitable deductions—dollars.” Chet seemed to enjoy delivering that set down. What had books ever done to him?
“I submitted the library’s application for your bank’s donation in March. Nelle approved it in April. Why has the bank decided to revoke its gift?”
“Our corporate leaders have taken another look at your application in light of certain recent changes.” His tone was defensive. “There are other options for people to get books. The library isn’t as critical to the community as, say, a medical facility, for example.”
I unclenched my teeth. “Is that the organization you’ve decided to support instead of the library?”
There was a short hesitation. “Yes. Yes, it is. Nelle was the only member of the executive team who supported the library.”
With Nelle gone, apparently there wasn’t anyone on the Malcovich Savings and Loan executive team to speak for the library. I couldn’t begrudge donations to the medical facility, though. It also was a worthy cause.
In the background, I heard a tinny sound as though he was nervously tapping his pen against his desk. Had he expected me to accept the bank’s decision to withdraw its gift without asking why? The library’s future was at stake. I wasn’t going to pretend that didn’t matter just because my questions made him uncomfortable.
“I disagree with your characterization of the library’s value to its community.” I spoke slowly so the corporate bean counter could understand my every syllable. “The library’s contributions are different but not of lesser importance. Our services include job search support, homework assistance, voting information, and the summer reading program. Malcovich Savings and Loan could be a part of helping the library expand its programs and offerings even further.”
“I’m afraid you’re wasting your time, Ms. Harris. The bank will not change its position on this matter. We’re no longer donating to your fundraiser.”
Desperation drove me. “It’s unfair of you to take back your gift now, Mr. Little. You’ve made the financial commitment. The fundraiser’s already started.”
“Ms. Harris, the simple fact is it’s our money and we can choose to do whatever we want with it. Enjoy the rest of your day.” And on those bitter words, the line went dead.
“Urgh!” I cradled the receiver and slumped back on my chair.
Enjoy the rest of my day? How would that be possible when I now had to find a donor with deep enough pockets to replace Malcovich Savings and Loan?
“We’ve lost our lead donor.” After breaking the news to Corrinne first, I didn’t waste time bringing the librarians up to speed on Malcovich Savings and Loan backing out of their donor sponsorship commitment for our fundraiser minutes ago this Tuesday morning. It was like tearing off an adhesive bandage: quick, simple, direct.
“What?”
“What happened?”
“Are you kiddin’ me?”
The trio spoke as one voice. Their reactions underscored the devastating blow of the bank’s defection.
“I’m afraid I’m not kidding, Adrian. I wish I was.” We sat in our usual seats around the small conference table in Corrinne’s office. Corrinne was at the head of the table. Floyd was on my left. Viv sat across from me with Adrian on her right.
“What happened?” Viv repeated her question. She appeared to be struggling with anger and disappointment. So was I.
I recapped the call I’d had with Chet Little as I distributed copies of a printout to the four other librarians. “This is a list of possible substitute donors. I’ve indicated the ones who haven’t responded to our solicitation yet. I’ve also noted the ones who’ve already declined to contribute. I want to invite them again. Looking over this list, can you identify any other big donors to replace Malcovich?”
Corrinne circled a name on the list. “Logan Financial Investment’s already made a generous contribution, but perhaps they could be convinced to increase their gift. I’ll ask Cecelia Holt to contact them.”
I recalled that Cecelia’s little sister, Charlene, was the investment company’s president. “Thank you, Corrinne. Let me know if Ms. Holt needs any information to help with her pitch.”
Floyd tapped the sheet he held in his hands. “Peach Coast Savings isn’t on here.”
“They’ve already donated.” I admitted to myself to being tempted to approach the bank again. “And they were our lead donor for the winter solicitation. I don’t want to wear out our welcome by asking them to be lead donor for every campaign.”
“You raise a good point, Marvey.” Viv lowered her printout to the table. “I’m uncomfortable always asking people for money.”
Floyd’s grunt conveyed his empathy. “I agree. At some point, people are going to head in the other direction when they see us coming.”
I understood their discomfort. I really did. People think fundraising is fun and glamorous. In reality, it’s extremely stressful.
I looked at each of the librarians in turn. “Remind people that when they support libraries—and medical centers and schools—they’re strengthening their community.”
Viv extended her right hand toward me, then Corrinne. “But can’t we manage without a big donor?”
Corrinne shook her head. “We’re better positioned now that Marvey’s set up multiple donor streams, but our costs increase every year: subscriptions, new books, educational resources, software upgrades, as well as our utilities.”
“And jobs?” We’d been skirting the issue of additional budget cuts. It was time to face it directly. Could the library be facing layoffs if the summer drive doesn’t turn a profit?
Silence was deafening as we waited for her response.
“Neither the town council nor the board have made a decision, you understand?” Corrinne waited for our nods of confirmation before continuing. She exhaled a heavy breath. “Candidly, I’m concerned. If this fundraising campaign isn’t effective, we’ll be forced to cut summer hours again next year. And it’s possible that we’ll also have to furlough staff. We may even have layoffs.”
My stomach muscles knotted. I felt sick. Corrinne continued speaking, but I couldn’t process any of it. I wasn’t alone. Floyd, Viv, and Adrian also were frozen in shock. We were librarians in a town with only one library. What would we do, where would we go if our jobs were eliminated? Well, Floyd could retire. He was supposed to retire last year, but the rest of us would be in bad shape.
I’d left my home and family in Brooklyn, bought a house in Peach Coast. I’d been putting down roots, becoming a part of the community, developing a routine and making plans for the future, but by this time next year I could be out of a job.
Fighting off my panic, I brought my attention back to Corrinne.
“Several board members believe fundraising distracts libraries and our patrons from our primary mission.” She played with the string of pearls accessorizing her blush sheath dress. Her clear coat nail polish was subtle. “To get their approval for this to be an annual event, we have to prove it’s worth everyone’s effort.”
“But isn’t fundraising a major part of my job?” Another blow to my job security. I massaged the back of my neck, trying to ease the growing tension. “How does the board think we’ll raise money without fundraisers?”
“It would be a lot easier to focus on our mission if we didn’t have to constantly worry about our budget.” Floyd’s tone was gruff.
“But we do, so we need to start brainstorming.” There was too much at stake for us to give up at the first sign of trouble.
“Tetrahydrozoline? Like eye drops?” Adrian seemed disappointed the poison used to kill Hank and Nelle wasn’t more exotic. Perhaps tetradotoxin from pufferfish or ricin from the castor oil plant, dubbed the deadliest plant in the world, would have excited him more.
Adrian, Viv, Floyd, and I were sharing a late lunch in my office Tuesday afternoon. My door was closed. I imagined hours later, I’d still be able to smell the spicy aromas of Adrian’s chicken and sausage gumbo. The air was swollen with the scents of Viv’s blackened chicken salad and Floyd’s fried chicken and okra. My ham and cheese on multigrain sandwich couldn’t compete.
I slid a look toward the large blue plastic bowl that contained Adrian’s gumbo. Would he be amenable to a trade, half of my sandwich for half of his gumbo? Probably not. I stifled a sigh and went back to my sandwich. Next time, I’ll dress it up with some oil and vinegar, salt and pepper. A tomato slice. Something. I had to stop fixing my lunches on autopilot.
I wiped my mouth. “That’s right. Tetrahydrozoline’s used in regular, over-the-counter eye drops. Anyone can purchase them.”
Floyd drank his sweet tea. “Then there’s nothing about the poison that could help identify the killer.”
“I have eye drops in my medicine cabinet.” Viv shrugged as she cut into her salad. “I haven’t used them for years, though.”
“So do I.” I pursed my lips in thought. “I don’t even notice them in the cabinet anymore, which brings us to another complication. Our suspect may not have purchased the eye drops recently.”
“So where do we go from here?” Viv fed herself another forkful of salad.
I told the librarians about the murder trial of the North Carolina paramedic who used tetrahydrozoline to kill his wife. “I did a search and found two other cases of tetrahydrozoline poisoning in Charlotte alone. In those cases, women were charged with poisoning their partners.”
“Isn’t Lucas Daniel from North Carolina?” Viv’s voice bounced with excitement. “Maybe he heard about those trials and that’s where he got the idea.”
“Spence and I had the same thought. He’s doing more research into Lucas’s background, trying to find motives or at least connections with the people on the list.”
Adrian nodded as he swallowed more gumbo. “I still think we’re looking for a woman as the killer, though. Poison’s—”
“A woman’s weapon.” Floyd finished that thought. He shifted his attention from Adrian’s ponytail. “We heard you the first fifty-eleven times. Did you hear Marvey when she said the paramedic killed his wife? Obviously, men poison people, too.”
Adrian returned his attention to his half-full bowl of delicious-smelling gumbo. “One man to two women. I guess we’ll see who’s right.”
“This isn’t a competition.” Viv nudged Adrian’s arm with her elbow.
“Nelle was killed two weeks after Hank.” I gathered the remains of my lunch. “This Saturday, four days from today, marks two weeks since Nelle’s death. Another person could be killed—either Brittany or Spence. We’re running out of time.”
Floyd moved aside his now-empty plate and turned to Adrian. “How does tetrahydrozoline work?”
No one seemed surprised that Adrian had the answer. “From what I’ve read, tetrahydrozoline can make you feel like you’re having a heart attack.”
“That’s probably one of the reasons the killer chose that drug.” I gestured toward him with my diet soda. “It’s hard to trace back to them and it mimics death by natural causes. Medical examiners don’t typically check for tetrahydrozoline.”
“How does it kill you?” Floyd asked.
“It’s absorbed through your digestive system into your main blood circulation. I think that’s why poison control tells you not to throw up. That would make the poison absorb even faster.” Adrian frowned in concentration. “It travels to your heart and central nervous system and’ll slow your heart and blood pressure by a lot. It’ll also drop your body temperature. You could end up in a coma, and if you don’t get help real quick, you’ll die.”
Floyd shook his head. “Sometimes you scare me.”
“How long does it take to work?” Viv asked.
Adrian spread his hands. “It depends on the dosage. I’d think the killer would’ve given Coach a much bigger dose than Ms. Nelle. She was a lot smaller than him.”
I made a mental note to share Adrian’s information with Spence. “The killer probably poisoned Hank’s and Nelle’s food or drink. It would be easier than trying to inject it.”
Viv started to pack away the remnants of her lunch. “It sounds as though the killer’s someone the victims were comfortable enough to leave alone with their food.”
Floyd looked around the table suspiciously. “For me, that wouldn’t be a long list.”
High school yearbooks: A treasure trove of angsty poetry, promising short stories, and limitless possibilities.
Curled up on my armchair Tuesday evening, I combed through the Class of 2006 yearbook Cecelia had given me. Nothing jumped out at me, nothing of any significance. The senior photo pages listed each graduate’s extracurricular activities, intended college, and ambitions. The ambitions were fun—and revealing.
June Bishop: To be governor of Georgia.
Hank Figg: To be a shooting guard with the Atlanta Hawks.
Nelle Kenton: Work on Wall Street.
Philomena Patterson (now Fossey): Star on Broadway.
Reba Reilly (now McRaney): Develop an exclusive line of cosmetics.
Brittany Wilson: Win the Tour de France.
This trip down other people’s memory lane had raised more questions than answers. Like Hank, Nelle, and Brittany, Philomena had worked on the high school paper. Had she and Nelle competed for stories as well as Hank’s attention?
They were both also in the drama club. With these shared interests, had they ever been friends or had they always been competitors?
Reba also had been in the drama club. According to the yearbook, that’s the only extracurricular activity she shared with Nelle.
The advertiser section in the back of the yearbook conveyed best wishes from several familiar companies, including all the Holt family holdings, The Peach Coast Crier, Peach Coast Inn, Peach Coast Community Bank, and the Camden County Hotel; Trudie’s family’s business, Camden County Construction Company; and Malcovich Savings and Loan. Fortunately, they hadn’t changed their mind about supporting the high school. These same advertisers were among those in the 2007 and 2008 yearbooks.
The yearbooks hadn’t been as helpful as I’d hoped. Perhaps I’d learn more from the high school newspapers Brittany and Spence were tracking down for me.
I exchanged the 2006 for the 2008 yearbook, Spence’s graduating class. His senior photo appeared in the graduating class section alphabetically. He’d worn a dark suit and tie, and stared directly into the photo with determination and intent.
Spencer Holt: newspaper editor; student government; debate team; to earn the Pulitzer Prize for International Reporting; Stanford University.
What happened to that dream, Spence? Have you replaced it, or are you still chasing it?
The doorbell rang, stirring Phoenix from his nap. “Go back to sleep.” For once, he listened.
Checking the peephole, I recognized Jo on my porch. At least, I thought it was Jo.