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BY THE END OF THE AFTERNOON, I was setting up the community room for the self-defense class by pulling chairs and tables into a roomy closet.
Wilson stuck his head in the door and held out an envelope. “Mail for you.”
“Mail?” I asked. I smoothed down my hair absently, realizing it was sticking up in the back from the furniture moving. “When do I get mail at the library?”
I took it from Wilson and frowned. “This isn’t even mail. No stamp. Looks like someone must have dropped it off.”
He shrugged. “Well, they dropped it off in a pile of library mail. I know the best way to find out more—open it up.”
I did and then stared at the single sheet of paper inside.
“What is it?” asked Wilson.
“It’s a warning,” I said slowly. I held up the paper so Wilson could see what I did: Stop Being Snoopy.
Wilson sputtered and then said, “And someone dropped this off for you? What does it even mean?”
“I think it means someone thinks I’m asking too many questions about Roger Walton’s death,” I said. I took a deep breath.
Wilson’s eyebrows drew together to form a woolly line. “What’s the event you’re preparing for?”
“Chief Edison’s self-defense class,” I said. My voice sounded curiously toneless to my ears.
“Perfect,’ said Wilson crisply. “We’ll hand this over to him right away then.”
I said, “It looks like it was written on a computer and it’s been stuck in a plain envelope. There’s no handwriting. Probably no fingerprints. And there aren’t even any threats listed. Like I said, it’s more of a warning.”
Wilson said, “I don’t care what the thing says or what clues it does or doesn’t provide. No one sends warnings, threats, or anything like them to my staff at this library.” He glanced up and saw Burton Edison tapping at the glass door outside the room. “Excellent. Perfect timing.”
Wilson handed the letter to Burton. “Here’s something you need to see. It was apparently dropped off here.”
Burton read it silently and then looked up at me. “Does this make sense to you?”
I felt myself flushing a little. Wilson said, “She’s apparently been looking into things a little.”
Burton raised his eyebrows. “Have you? Why?”
Wilson glanced out the glass door and said, “Excuse me; I need to help out front.” He hurried out of the room.
I said slowly, “I’ve been worried about a friend of mine, for one. Nathan Richardson.”
Burton raised his eyebrows. “The retired professor? He’s a friend of yours?”
“He was my favorite professor in college and we’ve become good friends. I hoped maybe I could find out some information to put him in the clear—or maybe redirect your investigation,” I said. I flushed. It sounded a little crazy when I said it. Absently, I fingered the locket I wore.
Burton tilted his head to one side, watching me. “I’m also remembering what you told me Friday night at Roger’s house.”
“What was that?” I asked, trying to think back over our conversation.
“Just your backstory—the fact you said you didn’t feel the world was a safe place after your mom died. That must really have affected you. Being that little and losing your mom.”
I sighed. “I wish I remembered more about my mom, but I was all of eight years old when I lost her. Mostly, I just remember the nightmares I used to have.”
He nodded to the locket, which I hastily let go of. “Was that your mom’s?”
“It was. I wear it every day,” I said with a short laugh. “It’s a way of remembering her, I guess.
“Still, it must have really impacted you. Must have made you want to be safe,” said Burton.
I nodded. “Actually, you’re right. Mama’s death was . . . well, it wasn’t natural. She was taken before her time. My mother was the victim of a random act of violence. Someone broke into our house one night. I was asleep—at least I was until I heard the gun go off. My aunt explained later that my mom had surprised the burglar. Then, when the police caught a suspect, I had to go into the station and identify him. I’d seen him when he was leaving.” I shivered.
Burton blew out a deep breath. “That must have been awful. I can’t imagine bringing an eight-year-old into the station to identify her mother’s killer.”
“The police did their best to assure me I would be fine—that the man wouldn’t be able to hurt me. But I was always so scared he’d come after me later because I’d been the one who’d gotten him locked away.”
Burton shook his head. “He was the one responsible for that. If he wasn’t happy about going to jail, he shouldn’t have committed a crime.”
I said, “That’s what my aunt told me, too. Maybe I was just too little to be rational. I had nightmares forever until I realized how quiet and secure Whitby seemed. It was the perfect place for a kid who wanted life to feel safe again.”
Burton shrugged. “I’m no psychologist; I’m just a cop. But it seems to me you’re probably more invested than most folks in making sure Whitby stays safe. Plus, you’ve made a self-defense class possible,” he pointed out.
I smiled at him. “You must be a detective or something,” I said lightly.
Burton said, “I’m starting to think you must want to be one. What have you found out?”
I told Burton about talking to Mary Hughes, Nathan, and Kenneth Driscoll. He listened carefully and made notes in the little notebook he kept in his shirt pocket.
When I’d finished, he said, “So, Dr. Driscoll. That’s one on me. I’d heard from other people about Mary and Nathan and have spoken with them. But the good doctor is a new one for me. How did you find out about that?”
I said, “One of my coworkers overheard an argument between him and Roger. She told me about it.”
He said, “Well, I thank you. You’ve not only given me some helpful information, but you’ve also provided very thoughtful impressions of the different people involved. You make a good resource.”
I grinned at him. “So I’m not going to get warned off from asking a few questions?”
He looked down at the paper. “I think somebody’s already taken care of that for me.” He sighed. “I’ll take this note with me, but you know we don’t have a huge forensics department—actually, we don’t have a forensics department at all. Besides, although this was clearly a warning, there’s no specific threat for me to act on. It was written on regular computer paper from a regular word processing program. And the person, if they had any brains at all, would have used gloves.”
“I’m not really worried about it,” I said. “I think somebody just got worried I’m getting too close.”
“I’m a little worried you’re getting too close,” he said.
“Then the fact I’m about to take a self-defense class led by the chief of police is a matter of good timing,” I said with a smile.
He chuckled. “That it is.” He paused for a moment and then said, “So who do you think might have been upset with your questions? Who seems most likely? And what do you think you’ve found out that makes someone feel threatened?”
I considered this and then admitted, “I can tell you who gave me the most pushback, and that was Doctor Kenneth Driscoll.”
Burton raised his eyebrows. “Is that so?”
I said quickly, “I’m not saying he’s responsible for Roger’s death. But he was very defensive, and he seems to be extremely protective over his reputation in the town.”
“Understandably. Who wants to visit a physician who might be a killer?” said Burton dryly.
“I’ll admit I can’t somehow see him sending me anonymous notes, but maybe that’s the point. Maybe receiving an anonymous note is meant to steer me in another direction,” I said.
Burton nodded. “Could be. Hard to say at this point. Look, you’re getting some good information, but I don’t need another dead body on my hands—got it?”
“Of course,” I said quickly. But in my head, I was already considering what my next move might be.
Burton asked, “On another topic, was there interest in the self-defense class, or is it going to just be you and me?”
“Actually, there was a good deal of interest, considering the short notice we gave everyone. Including me, there are twelve now,” I answered.
Burton asked in a carefully casual voice, “Is your colleague going to be there?”
“My . . . you mean Wilson?” I asked. Part of me realized he must mean Luna, but the word colleague threw me off. If you looked the word up in the dictionary, it most certainly would not have a photo of Luna next to it.
Burton shook his head. “No, I mean your new coworker. I can’t remember her name.”
This from a man who gave every indication at having an excellent memory and being very good with name retention. “Luna. Luna Macon,” I said. “And yes, she’s planning on making it. She’s our twelfth, actually.”
Burton nodded, but I could tell he was pleased before he turned away. “Good,” he said gruffly. “After all, you two are frequently leaving here at night. Parking lots are scary places. It’s always good to keep an eye out.” He paused. “And I didn’t bring this up before, but you really should have made your blind date at a more neutral location. A coffeehouse or a restaurant or something.”
I gave him a wry smile. “You’re so right. I thought the same thing when I was standing at his front door and ringing the doorbell. Just because someone’s great-aunt Emily thinks he’s great doesn’t mean he’s not trouble. And I’m always so cautious and safety-conscious! I’ll be more careful in the future—promise.” Not that I was planning on going on any more blind dates in the near future . . . if ever.
The self-defense class went really well. I was, again, surprised by Burton and his friendly and matter-of-fact ease with everyone who attended. He displayed a great sense of humor, which helped with making the students feel relaxed. Luna exchanged banter with him, which also broke any ice that was present. I wondered if Luna was even aware of the number of times Burton’s gaze shifted her way. Maybe she was used to people staring, considering her rather colorful appearance.
Despite the levity, Burton became deadly serious when showing the techniques, which he made us all repeat until we felt comfortable with them and displayed some skill at them.
I felt bad about how much time Burton was taking with this. He must have been tired after a long day of investigating Roger’s death. I appreciated that Burton wanted everyone to nail the self-defense techniques, but we ended up the class about two hours later. Then I spent the next couple of hours getting organized for the next day and helping a patron with a computer issue.
When I got home that night, I wasted little time relaxing since I was so worn out. The note, which I’d made light of with Wilson and Burton, seemed more ominous in the quiet of my house. I narrowed my eyes angrily. My home was my sanctuary, just as the library was. I wasn’t going to let that be taken away from me by some ridiculous anonymous note dropped off by somebody too cowardly to sign a name. Just the same, I took special care making sure the doors were locked and the curtains drawn.
I fell into bed that night, completely exhausted. But hours later, I woke with a start, shivering. Nightmares. I hadn’t had those in years.
The next morning, I headed out early to the library again, thinking I’d knock some work out before we opened to the public. I decided to grab a bagel for breakfast at a shop that wasn’t far from the library.
But when I pulled up to the shopping center, I saw flashing blue lights in front of the tanning salon. At first, I thought maybe Burton had pulled somebody over or maybe there had been some sort of fender bender in the parking lot. But then I noticed nobody was in the parking lot at all—it seemed that it had to do with something inside the tanning salon.
I hesitated and then drove closer to the salon. I got out of my car. I could see an employee, one who definitely wasn’t Mary, and Burton. Burton, face set grimly, escorted the employee out of the salon. He motioned for her to stand away from the building. She was a young woman and was crying, face flushed.
Burton caught sight of me and held up a finger to indicate for me to wait a minute. I saw him talking on his radio and then he motioned for me to come forward. The employee watched as I walked over to speak with Burton.
“It’s Mary Hughes,” he said. “Her coworker found her dead this morning.”