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I DIDN’T SAY A WORD. This woman didn’t look as if she was in the mood to be messed with, and I certainly had no protective feelings for the doctor.
Without even a glance to see where the physician was or if he was approaching, the woman hopped back into her modest sedan and sped off.
I winced. I had the feeling Dr. Driscoll wasn’t going to be very happy to see this. From what I could tell, he took very good care of the car.
The door to the gas station opened, and the doctor appeared, grasping a soft drink. He gaped at his car and then glanced over at me.
I raised my hands. “I had nothing to do with that. But I saw who did.”
Dr. Driscoll tightened his lips together and gave a curt nod. He ran a finger lightly over the damaged paint and then unlocked his car with his key fob.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
I frowned at him. “Calling Chief Edison, of course. Your car was vandalized. I saw who was responsible, Dr. Driscoll.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said with a shrug.
“Of course it matters!” I said.
“Look, I don’t want to report it,” he snapped. Then he took a deep breath and started again. “I’m sorry. I just don’t want to get the police involved, that’s all. It’s probably some patient who is upset I missed a diagnosis or something. Maybe she had to wait too long in the waiting room or the exam room one day. Or maybe she thinks her medical bills are too high.”
“And I didn’t say it was a she,” I noted coolly. “What’s more, she was talking to herself—something about you dumping her.”
He froze, giving me an icy look, and then slumped against the damaged car. “Okay, you’ve got me. It’s been a long day and I guess I’m not really thinking straight.” He glanced around him to make sure we were alone. “The thing is, this woman and I were in a relationship. She wants me to leave my wife. I never gave her any indication I wanted to do so or ever planned on doing so. And she . . . she won’t give up.”
“She’s stalking you?” I asked.
“Or something. It’s at the point where she’s starting to even come by the house or sit outside. Our affair was a mistake and I don’t want my wife to find out. It would only deeply hurt and distress her, and there’s simply no reason to do that.” His words came out perfunctorily as if he’d either rehearsed them or had spoken them to his lover . . . or both.
I said slowly, “And Roger Walton knew about this.”
Kenneth Driscoll again froze. “What do you know about that?”
“Nothing. I didn’t even really know Roger. But I do know the kind of person he was, and I haven’t really gotten the greatest impression of him. I could totally see him trying to blackmail you over an affair. Although I’m not really sure how he would have found out about it,” I said.
Kenneth said, “Who knows? Who cares? He knew about it, and that was enough.”
I said, “Did you hear Mary Hughes has been murdered?”
His face was puzzled. “I have no idea who Mary Hughes is.”
I said, “She used to work with Roger. Now she’s dead.”
Kenneth Driscoll gave a short huff. “Well, I’m very sorry to hear that, but I certainly had nothing to do with it. I’m sure I don’t have any patients by that name, or any acquaintances. As small as Whitby is, there are still people here I don’t know. Why on earth would I want to kill someone I’ve never even met?”
I took a deep breath. “The thought is maybe Mary knew something about who murdered Roger.”
The doctor tilted his head to one side. “You’re thinking this Mary character saw or heard something about the previous murder. Then she blackmailed the perpetrator, and they decided to do away with her. Is that right?”
I nodded. “That’s the long and short of it.”
“Whoever she was, it sounds like she didn’t operate in a very smart way,” he said.
“How much did you want to cover up your involvement with the woman who just scratched up your car?” I asked.
“Not enough to kill two people over it!” The doctor scowled at me. “Look, I don’t really know who you are and I’m pretty sure you don’t know who I am. I spend the majority of my day, every day, trying to make people in this town feel better. I save lives, I don’t eliminate them.”
I gave him a tight smile. “I get it. Okay, thanks.”
I turned away to get in my car and he called out to me in a panicked voice, “Hey, what are you planning to do now?”
I raised my eyebrows at him. “I’m planning on getting in this car, heading home, and eating an uninspired supper of tuna salad unless I muster the energy to go to the grocery store. It’s been a long day.”
He glowered at me. “I mean what are you planning on doing with the information you’ve just found out?”
I snorted. “I’m not planning on blackmailing you over it, if that’s what you’re saying. I might only be a librarian, but I’m not desperate enough for cash to break the law.”
Dr. Driscoll seemed to relax slightly. Then he said, “But you’ll talk about it.”
“I’m not going to run to your wife and tell her about your affair, but I feel as though Chief Edison should know about it. Besides, I’m not the only person who knows. Someone else told me about an argument you’d had with this woman recently.” The last thing I needed was for him to think I was a threat to him: or, at least, the only threat.
He said impatiently, “But that’s only going to send him on a red herring! It’s going to distract him from finding the actual murderer. And he may ask questions that lead to my wife finding out about my affair.”
I said coolly, “If you’re concerned about your wife, perhaps that’s something you should have taken into account before you embarked on the affair.”
I got into my car, started it up, and drove away with the doctor staring after me with narrowed eyes.
The next morning when I arrived at the library, there was yet another letter waiting for me. Wilson made a face as soon as he spotted it.
“I’m calling the police,” he said grimly.
“I don’t think there’s anything Chief Edison can do,” I said. “He already knows about the first letter. It’s not as if I can have an armed guard around me twenty-four hours a day. Besides, I don’t really get the sense I’m in much danger.” I decided not to mention how freaked out I’d been both at home and at the library at night. That was simply my imagination working overtime.
Wilson frowned at me. “Why not? The letters sound serious.”
“The letters sound like someone is desperate but not brave enough to confront me in any way,” I said.
“Regardless, I’m calling the chief,” said Wilson briskly.
And in a testament to the size of the town, the chief was at the library in only seven or eight minutes.
I was checking out a patron’s books when he came in. Wilson said, “I’ll take this over. You and Ann can speak in the breakroom, Chief Edison.” He handed the policeman the letter, which he’d carefully wrapped in a tissue.
I sighed and led the chief to the back.
He and I sat down at the breakroom table and he skimmed the letter. “This is the second one you’ve received.”
“That’s right. It’s made my boss pretty unnerved, but I think it’s because it’s pulled the library into the whole mess. But then, after all, I’m here at the library most of the time,” I said.
Burton nodded. “I’ll take this with me, although I don’t have a lot of hope that we’ll find out who’s behind this. What this letter does make me think is that you’ve continued to try to get information about the two murders.”
“Guilty,” I said ruefully.
“I’m not going to tell you no. You’re a grown woman, after all, and you can assess your own risks. Just be careful. The last thing I need right now is another problem.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You’ve been busy?”
“Astoundingly, yes. Whitby has lots going on. I’d completely underestimated what I’d be dealing with here. I’d assumed this job would be a piece of cake after the last place I worked. Instead, there are all sorts of things going on that need addressing,” said Burton, sitting back in his chair, which groaned in protest.
“What kinds of things?” I asked curiously.
Burton started counting off all the local crime issues on his pudgy fingers. “Chronic shoplifting, car break-ins, speeders, domestic issues, and a fatal accident involving a tree.”
I frowned. “I had no idea. Of course, I knew about the accident, since that was big news. But not the rest of it.”
“Yes, poor Elsie Brennon,” said Burton, shaking his head. “That was pretty much my introduction to the town, too. You probably missed the other stories because you’ve been so wrapped up in these murders. You’ll see it all in the local paper—I know the library carries it.”
I nodded absently. “I’ll check them out. So, with all of that going on, have you found out anything more about either of the murders?”
“Nothing very big. And I feel like the residents are getting impatient about my making some progress. No one wants to think their town has a murderer running around it,” said Burton.
I said, “What makes you feel that way?”
“They’re asking me about it—all the time. Just like you just did,” said Burton. “The fact is, all I really know is Mary Hughes was the type of person you didn’t want to know your secrets. She liked to gossip and tell tales. What’s more, I found some evidence while searching her home and computer that she might be a blackmailer on top of it all.”
I said, “That definitely makes sense. Why else would someone want to kill Mary?”
Burton raised an eyebrow. “That’s what I asked myself. I looked into her family—and they weren’t really around anymore. Most of them were dead and the rest of the family she hadn’t been in touch with for years. She’d never been married. There didn’t seem to be a reason why anyone else would possibly want to murder her.”
We both thought about this for a moment until we were interrupted by the appearance of Fitz. He rolled over on his back and looked fetchingly at Chief Edison.
Burton wasn’t convinced. “I’m not so sure about rubbing your tummy, buddy. I have the feeling you’d take my hand off.”
I laughed. “This cat is as mild-mannered as they come. But I’m with you—I’m not much of a belly rubber when it comes to cats. Maybe just tickle him under his chin.”
Burton delicately did this and chuckled when Fitz closed his eyes and started purring loudly. “Well, you sure do have a sweet cat, that’s for sure.” He paused and then asked casually, “Luna working today?”
“Yes, but she’s out for a little while. She needed to take her mother to an appointment.”
Burton nodded, but I saw the disappointment flash in his eyes.
I said lightly, “I don’t think I’ve even asked anything about yourself and how you came to be here. Do you have family nearby? What made you decide to move over to the big city of Whitby?”
“No family nearby,” he said. “I had much older parents, and I lost them both ten years ago. I was an only child, so no brothers or sisters, either.”
“Not married?” I asked. I was guessing the answer to the marriage question was a no, judging from his response to Luna, but you never knew.
“I was married a long time ago, but it didn’t go so well, unfortunately. We ended up going our separate ways. The divorce was my fault—I was spending a lot of hours on the job and not enough hours at home. That’s not an equation that really adds up to a successful relationship,” he said ruefully.
“Did you have children?” I asked.
“I have a son, but he lives on the west coast. I see him as much as I can and he flies over a few times a year. It’s not as often as we’d both like, but we keep in touch by phone and online. He’s a great kid.” He laughed. “Okay, so not really a kid—an adult. But he’s terrific.” He paused and then asked curiously, “And you don’t have a significant other? Not divorced?”
I shook my head. Usually I let it go at that, but there’s something in Burton’s calm manner that makes me want to tell him things. “I haven’t had a serious relationship since one I had in college.” I gave a short laugh. “My personal life has always been a mess. I lost my boyfriend, Robert. He was killed by a drunk driver when we were in school.”
Burton’s eyes were sad. “I’m so sorry to hear that. It’s not like you hadn’t had enough loss in your life. You’re not old enough to have gone through tragedy twice.”
I nodded, swallowing to make sure my voice was steady. I didn’t ever talk about Robert and didn’t trust myself not to be emotional when I did. Not only did I still feel grief over losing him, I also still felt a sense of irrational guilt. He’d been on his way to bring me soup from Panera when he’d been hit by the drunk driver. I’d been sick with a cold and was barraged by exams and he’d picked up soup on the spur of the moment for me. I decided it would be safer for me to ask more questions about Burton instead of being the focus of the conversation.
“And what made you decide to move here?” I asked. “Although it sounds like it ended up being a lot busier here than you were expecting.”
He chuckled. “Oh, I wanted a slower pace. Now I’m kind of laughing about that. I was the chief in a bigger town and it seemed like every day I was absolutely drained by the end of the day. I started looking out for something a little quieter and saw an opening here. Of course, the fact that there’s a lake and mountains and rivers and beautiful old buildings made it an even easier sell. So here I am.”
“I hope you’ll enjoy it here,” I said. “I really think the spurt of busyness is just temporary. Soon, it will be back to being slow paced again.”
“Well, in case it isn’t, you’ve had a self-defense class,” he said wryly. “Just keep your wits about you and you’ll be fine.” I nodded, although my mind was with those newspapers. I wanted to read more about the car accident, which I’d forgotten about until the chief mentioned it.
After leaving Burton, I settled at the circulation desk and opened up my browser to the local newspaper. Since I’d found Roger’s body, I hadn’t done more than give the paper a cursory glance every morning. I sighed. The newspaper’s website was down. This was a fairly typical problem there, which served as a constant annoyance to me. Patrons who weren’t subscribers frequently asked me to print out a copy of a wedding announcement or an obituary. Frequently, I was in the position of having to dig out the physical copy of the paper and make photocopies of it.
I got up and walked to the periodicals, helping a patron find a book along the way. I sifted through the stack of archived copies to find the original story about the fatal car accident. It was several days before Roger had been murdered. I carried the newspaper back to the circulation desk and read the story through. It was written as a tribute to Elsie Brennon, who’d been 85 years old at the time of the crash and had lived in Whitby her entire life. It had been rainy that night, and it was a stretch of road where there were no streetlights (not that there were many in Whitby, anyway). Elsie, on her way home from a church potluck, had apparently lost control of her car on a curve and hit the unforgiving bulk of a large tree near the side of the road.
I sighed. There was really nothing there to suggest anything other than an accident. Then I frowned. This was only the newspaper version of the event—the reporter would hardly have known any details. And, for The Whitby Times, the accident would likely have seemed cut and dried—an elderly driver, a dark and rainy night, and a treacherous curve.
I hesitated and then pulled out my phone to dial the chief.
“Long time no see,” he said dryly when I identified myself.
“I know, sorry. It’s just something you said really made me think,” I said.
He said, “Can’t imagine what that was.”
“It was when you were talking about how busy you’d been and all the different issues you’d been dealing with in Whitby. You mentioned the car crash,” I said.
“Right,” agreed Burton cautiously.
“It’s just that you said that the accident was ‘something you had to deal with.’ Most car accidents aren’t exactly investigations that take up a lot of time, I wouldn’t think,” I said. “Especially this one. It would have seemed more like a tragic accident that occurred in bad weather conditions.” I saw a couple of patrons walking by and I moved to the other side of the desk to make sure our conversation was private.
Burton sighed. “You’re going all Nancy Drew on me again.”
“I was just wondering if maybe it wasn’t a tragic accident,” I said. “Or that it wasn’t that Elsie had some sort of medical event that caused her car to go off the road.”
Burton hesitated. “Okay. I’ll admit it—that’s the direction we’re heading in. Although there wasn’t obviously another car involved because there was no impact of another car on Elsie’s, the car tracks indicate another car likely caused the accident. And we had a witness in town who said there seemed to be one driver who was very agitated with Elsie.”
“Who would have been a very slow driver, I’m guessing,” I said.
“That’s right. At least, that’s what everyone who knows Elsie said. Slow and cautious,” said Burton.
“But if she had been faced with someone with road rage, she might have been distracted or trying to get away,” I guessed.
“Chances are she wouldn’t have been driving like she normally would,” agreed Burton. “And it seemed like the car hit the tree at a high speed.”
“Where exactly did this happen?” I asked.
Burton said, “It wasn’t in the middle of town or else we’d have had plenty of witnesses to it. But apparently, some driver was upset with poor Elsie’s driving in town and then followed her out away from the rest of the traffic.”
“Elsie lived farther out, didn’t she?” I asked.
“That’s right. It’s the old rural route highway. No one really uses it much anymore I hear, since there are faster roads and there’s not much out on that stretch of road,” said Burton.
“And there were no witnesses.” I heard a patron put books down on the desk behind me and quickly said, “Got to go. Thanks, Burton.”