I couldn’t believe my good luck. Here I was, given free rein in the very library where Monica had told me Oliver Lance kept his records.
Crossing to the bookshelves, I surveyed the rows of books until my gaze finally landed on a set of tall, narrow, gray suede volumes that lacked print on their spines. The ledgers, I thought, hurrying over to that section of the shelves.
I pulled down the first volume in the set and opened it. On the title page, handwritten dates informed me that this was far too old to contain the records I wanted. But it also told me that each ledger represented one year of Blue Haven’s operations. Replacing that volume, I counted down the row until I found the volume I thought would contain records from four years ago.
Opening the ledger, I sped through its pages, looking for any mention of the influenza outbreak or the death of the horses. I kept an eye on the door to the hall too, not wanting Oliver to return and find me rifling through his records. I was sure that, despite his apparent attraction to me, he’d be angry at such an invasion of privacy.
All for a good cause, I told myself as I flipped through the ledger. Reaching the pages covering the summer of that year, I finally noticed a mention of two new horses being brought in as boarders. In the column dedicated to medical notes was a notation of the horses having a clean bill of health, signed off by Dr. Mitchell Smithy.
But just a page later, two other horses were marked as deceased. The vet confirming their deaths was not, as I already knew, Dr. Smithy, but rather a Dr. Winston Duran.
The guy quoted in the article in the archives, I thought. I skimmed through the rest of the pages in the ledger but never saw Dr. Duran’s name again. Another veterinarian was mentioned once or twice—Dr. Kiner, who was someone I’d actually met at one of Kurt’s parties. She was a pleasant woman who still practiced in the area and had, as far as I knew, a spotless reputation.
I flipped back to the page that included Dr. Duran’s name. Pulling my cell phone from my purse, I took a couple of quick snaps of the relevant entries before closing the ledger.
The library door opened just as I shoved the ledger back in place on the shelf. I turned to face the door, expecting Oliver.
“Sorry, I wanted to take a few photos of the library,” I said, waving the phone I hadn’t been able to stash in time. “I know I should’ve asked first …”
“What are you doing in here?” asked Glenda Lance.
I swallowed and shoved my phone into my purse. “Your son was showing me the library, but he got an important phone call and told me to wait and … well, being a librarian, I got a little carried away looking at all these wonderful books and wanted to get some photos.” I realized I was babbling, but hoped my obvious embarrassment would be enough to placate my hostess.
Glenda’s eyes narrowed. Tapping the toe of one of her navy pumps against the hardwood floor, she raked her gaze over me. “Oliver left you in here?”
“He was giving me a brief tour of the house, but I was most interested in this room, being a librarian.”
“Yes, yes,” Glenda said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You mentioned that before.”
The hair on the back of my neck stood at attention as Glenda stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. “I’m very sorry if I wasn’t supposed to be in the house. I know the party is actually outside. But since Oliver invited me, I thought it would be okay.”
“Oh, that part is fine. It’s Oliver’s home as much as it is mine, so he can do as he pleases about who comes and goes. It’s just that”—Glenda crossed to the desk and picked up a glass mosaic paperweight—“I don’t like people taking photos of the interior of my houses, unless I’ve arranged it beforehand. I hope you can understand.”
“Of course,” I said, stepping away from the bookshelves. “I’m sure it feels like an invasion of your personal space.”
“Exactly.” Glenda bounced the paperweight from one palm to the other. “And I don’t particularly like snoops either. That was one of the things that always annoyed me about my ex-daughter-in-law, Meredith, rest her soul. She tended to be a little too nosey. Always poking around in other people’s business.”
I opened my mouth but snapped it shut without saying anything. Glenda Lance was staring at me in a way that made my heart feel like it was bouncing off my ribs. There was a ferocity in her gaze, like a caged wild animal. She’d spring on me if she could break convention’s leash, I thought, inching sideways in the direction of the exit.
“I truly am sorry,” I said. “I should’ve known better.”
“Indeed, you should have.” Glenda clunked the paperweight back down on the desk. “I suppose I shouldn’t keep expecting young people to have any manners, though. That seems to have gone out with video cassettes.”
The door opened again, revealing Oliver, who looked from me to his mother and back again. “Ah, how nice, you two having a little conversation.”
I could tell by the set of his shoulders and jaw that he was not actually thrilled by this development, but decided to play along. “Yes, it was great to have a chance to chat again.”
Glenda turned her intimidating stare on her son. “You really shouldn’t abandon our guests when you’ve promised them a house tour. I thought I’d taught you better than that, Oliver.”
“Forgive me, I was detained longer than I expected,” Oliver said, keeping his gaze fixed on me. “I hope you were able to examine some of our more interesting volumes.”
“She also appears to have taken some pictures,” Glenda said, causing Oliver’s focus to immediately snap to her.
“Nothing wrong with that, is there? Amy’s the library director in Taylorsford. She has a great interest in books.” Oliver kept his tone light, but I could see tension tightening the lines around his mouth.
“No, of course not. It’s simply that, as I told her, I prefer no one take photos inside our house. Without our permission, I mean.” Glenda strolled over to stand in front of her son. “Unless you gave her permission? In which case I must apologize.”
“Not explicitly,” Oliver said. “But I also didn’t tell her not to.”
“Well then, we’ll just call it a mistake and let it go, shall we?” Glenda flicked her wrist in the slightest semblance of a wave. “Goodbye, Amy. Oliver can show you out.”
She sauntered out of the room, brushing past her son without an apology.
“I am sorry about the pictures,” I told Oliver as soon as his mother disappeared. “I wasn’t thinking. Your library is just so lovely, and I wanted to be able to show it to a few people who appreciate books like I do.” I kept my head down, hoping Oliver would read this as evidence of my embarrassment instead of the duplicity it really was.
“It’s not a problem,” Oliver said. “You’ll just have to send me copies of the photos when you get a chance.”
There was something different in his eyes—a calculating gleam that matched his mother’s piercing gaze. “Sure, I’ll do that,” I said, not intending to do any such thing. “But for now I guess I should be getting back to the party. My aunt will be wondering where I am.”
“Understood. Well, come along then. A more complete tour of the house will have to wait for a future visit.”
I flashed him a bright smile before I followed him into the hall. Of course, I had no intention of visiting Oliver’s home again, but there was no point in making such a declaration now. Following him back outside, I thanked him again for showing me the library before I made a beeline for the party tent.
“And where have you been?” Aunt Lydia asked, side-eyeing me.
“Oliver Lance offered to show me the family’s private library. You know I can’t resist that.”
My aunt arched her pale eyebrows. “And did you find anything interesting?”
“As a matter of fact, I did,” I said, closing my lips over my next words when Zelda bustled up to join us.
“You’ll never believe what I just heard,” Zelda said, her expression barely containing her excitement. “Remember that woman who told us she’d won awards at the National Flower Show in the UK?”
Leaving Zelda excitedly explaining to Aunt Lydia that this claim was, as they had expected, a fabrication, I wandered over to one of the display tables to examine some flower arrangements. But although I admired the beauty of the plants, and the skill required to achieve the floral designs, my mind was actually focused on my recent encounter with Glenda Lance.
Does her barely repressed anger, directed at Meredith as well as you, mean she could be the killer? But why? Could it be that Meredith, whom she accused of snooping, discovered some secret Glenda wanted to keep buried?
I paused in front of an artful arrangement of peppermint-striped carnations and rosy pinks in a vintage ceramic milk bottle. As I inhaled the spicy scent of the flowers, I once again considered the possibility that Meredith had been a blackmailer. If she’d uncovered some information her ex-husband—or someone else in the Lance family—desperately didn’t want to come to light, had she forced them to pay for her silence?
“That would explain the note I found,” I said to myself.
“Excuse me?” someone at my elbow asked.
I shifted my gaze to the speaker—a slender, gray-haired gentleman wearing silver-framed glasses and leaning on a cane. “Sorry, just muttering to myself,” I said, mustering up a smile.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you at any of our events before,” the man said, his watery pale eyes sweeping over me. “What club are you with, if I may ask?”
“None, actually. I’m a guest of Lydia Talbot, who’s part of the Taylorsford area club. I’m her niece,” I added, as the man’s expression brightened.
“Ah, dear Lydia. I knew she had a niece, but I’d never have picked you out as her relative. You look nothing alike.”
“I know. I take after my mother, Lydia’s younger sister.”
The older man’s eyes sparkled behind the lenses of his glasses. “That’s right, there was a sister. Deborah, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but she goes by Debbie, and it’s Debbie Webber now. I’m Amy Webber. Well, Amy Webber Muir, actually.” I extended my hand. “You must’ve known my family in the past.”
“Jerome Kline,” the man said, briefly clasping my fingers with his free hand. “I was a fresh-out-of-college teacher at the high school when your aunt and mother were students of mine. English class,” he added, with a thin-lipped smile. “I taught your aunt’s future husband too. Andrew Talbot.” Jerome’s expression grew distant. “Unlike Lydia and your mom, he wasn’t much for reading, but he certainly was a talented artist. I wish I’d picked up a few of his early paintings back then, when they were affordable. I bought one much later at a considerably higher price.”
“Well, even I only have one, and that was a gift from my aunt. I certainly couldn’t purchase any on the open market these days. Where did you find yours?” I asked, always on the lookout for dealers in my Uncle Andrew’s work. Aunt Lydia still owned a lot of it, but there were other pieces floating around the art world. I knew my aunt liked to keep track of where they were and who owned them.
“At a gallery in Georgetown. A place owned by that Kendrick fellow who has an estate outside of Taylorsford.” Jerome’s expression turned sly. “At any rate, he calls himself Kurt Kendrick these days, although I remember him by another name.”
“Really?” I kept my tone light, hoping it wouldn’t betray my interest. “And did you make a good deal?”
“I did. Once I reminded him of our past association, that is.” Jerome studied me for a moment. “Taught him too, for a brief time. Karl Kloss he was called back then. Bad apple, I’m afraid. I was surprised to discover he’d become so successful. Figured he’d be in jail by the time he was in his twenties.”
Of course, I knew about Kurt’s name change as well as his past adventures on the wrong side of the law, but I wasn’t about to confess that to Jerome Kline. “He must’ve turned his life around.”
Jerome tapped his cane against the short-cropped grass beneath our feet. “Maybe. I just remember he and Andrew Talbot were thick as thieves, and that always concerned me. Andrew was a good kid. I didn’t want to see him get tangled up in whatever illegal activities that Kloss boy was into.”
Knowing the less than reputable activities my late uncle had ended up getting drawn into—none of which was really Kurt’s fault—I just murmured something noncommittal before changing the subject to ask Jerome about his involvement in garden clubs.
“I’m part of the Smith County group,” he told me. “I moved to a senior living community here a few years back. Luckily, I was able to get a cluster home that does have a small backyard so I could continue to grow things.”
“You must know our hostess then,” I said.
“Glenda? Only casually. She’s not the most chummy sort, and if you ever get on her bad side”—Jerome cast a withering gaze over my head—“she can be ruthless.”
I turned to follow his gaze. Glenda, deep in conversation with other guests, fortunately didn’t notice us. “I’ve gotten that impression.”
“All I did was to question whether she’d actually grown one of her exhibited flowers from seed. It was one where that’s extremely difficult to do, you see,” Jerome said, his frown curling into a smile as he looked back at me. “You would’ve thought I’d insulted her family name, the way she reacted. She’s been cold as an icicle to me ever since.”
“So, not the forgiving sort?” I asked, mulling over this confirmation of my suspicions. It seemed that if Meredith had done something to anger Glenda Lance, the older woman could’ve still been furious with her, even years later. Which, to my mind, pushed Glenda up the suspect list.
“Hardly. She’s the type to hold a grudge until the end of time. But enough of such unpleasantries,” Jerome said, straightening his back. “I’d really rather talk about flowers.”
We chatted briefly about his gardening exploits before I excused myself and located Aunt Lydia standing by the buffet table.
“I need to ask Ms. Lance for the recipe for these delicious lemon tarts,” she said before dabbing her lips with a napkin.
“You think she’ll share?” I asked. “Besides, I’m sure this was catered.”
“True.” Aunt Lydia stared over my shoulder. “There’s Zelda. Why don’t we round her up and make a graceful exit? I’m certainly ready to leave. I can only take so much schmoozing. I showed up today, and I’ve already made my rather meager contribution to the fundraising campaign, so I think I’ve done enough.”
After we collected Zelda, we sought out Glenda Lance to express our thanks for the party. I couldn’t help but notice the warm wishes she extended to Aunt Lydia and Zelda were not offered to me. I received a curt goodbye without so much as a smile.
“Glenda didn’t seem very fond of you, Amy. What did you do to tick her off?” Zelda asked as we reached the circular driveway.
“I was too nosy, I think,” I said. Just like Meredith …
Once we were in the car, heading back to Taylorsford, I slipped my cell phone from my purse and examined the photos I’d snapped of the ledger pages.
It was evidence I needed to share with someone who might know more about a veterinarian named Dr. Winston Duran. I texted Monica Payne, asking her to meet me at the library as soon as possible.
She texted back, offering to stop by the next day, although she wasn’t sure of an exact time.
Doesn’t matter, I told her. I’ll be there from eight to five. Anytime during those hours is fine by me.
She sent back a thumbs-up emoji.
I turned off my phone and settled back in my seat, hoping I could at least clear up the confusion around Monica’s firing. Even if it didn’t have anything to do with the murder case, it would be one positive thing to come out of all my recent research.
And one question I could answer was always better than none.