part0017

On the drive back to town, it occurred to me some snooping might be possible, even outside the gates of the Rigby Estate. If I hurried, that is. The Clarence library closes at five on Saturdays.

I walked through the doors at 4:15 and headed straight to the local history room. I found two books on the Rigbys, but unfortunately both were reference materials only. Okay, so I skimmed.

The first book began with the legend of how Ulysses Forrester Rigby founded Rigby Enterprises and amassed the family fortune at the dawn of the twentieth century. But I lost interest by chapter two. Stocks, bonds, CFOs, CEOs, GMOs. Yadda, yadda, yadda. I stifled a yawn and moved on.

The second book, focusing on the personal lives of the Rigby scions and rapscallions, was far more intriguing. It was, however, over four decades out of date. At least I learned more about Great Uncle Oscar. Once upon a time, Oscar Rigby had been quite the playboy. Several photographs portrayed an extremely handsome man, and I could see where Pierpont got his good looks.

I flipped to the last chapter and found a picture of Pierpont’s parents on their wedding day, and likewise one of Coco’s. But no mention of offspring, and the book stopped there.

The regular stacks were also of limited use. I located the one and only book available for circulation, struggled to pull the oversized The Rigby Estate: Then and Now from the shelf, and with twenty minutes remaining, sat down at the microfiche machine with several rolls of microfiche from the Clarence Courier .

This was not the first time I cursed our local newspaper for neglecting to put its archives into digital format, but sometimes age has its advantages. Not only do I know what microfiche is, I know how to operate the machine.

Despite my archaic skill-set, I learned precious little. Every year the Courier announced the Rigby Estate tours, and duly reported the proceeds. And since Pierpont donates all proceeds, the funds raised for several local charities were also reported annually.

“Piers is a good guy,” I told the screen and searched for something I didn’t already know.

I found an article on his decision to revert some of the estate gardens back to woodlands. A botanist at Clarence University praised the plan, and the president of the local garden club certainly tried to. “The Garden Society laments the loss of even one acre of Isobel Rigby’s exquisite formal gardens,” she was quoted as saying. “Yet we applaud Mr. Rigby’s commendable concerns for the environment.”

No quote from Caesar Newland, although the segment did include a photograph of Piers with his head gardener. Caesar, I observed, did not smile for the camera.

With eight minutes to spare I read the obituaries for Pierpont’s parents, and as the five-minute warning came over the intercom, I found one short article about the plane crash that killed Coco’s parents.

I skimmed rapidly, and barely had time to take The Rigby Estate: Then and Now to the circulation desk, before a librarian chased me through the metal detectors and shooed me out the door.

As the lock clicked behind me, it occurred to me the Clarence library has far better security than the Rigby Estate.

By the time I arrived home, another thought had occurred to me. I set my library book on the lobby floor and checked the mailbox.

I was busy sighing when Peter Harrison stepped out of his condo. “Any news?” he asked.

“No Karen,” I muttered and dropped the stack of useless paper into the nearby wastebasket. “I was hoping for the ransom note.”

“In your mailbox? Why?”

I said something about no stone left unturned. “Speaking of which,” I added. “She’s not upstairs in that empty apartment, is she? ”

Peter rolled his eyes and pointed down. “Anything good in there?” he asked.

“Some pretty pictures.” I retrieved my book with another sigh, but Peter insisted on optimism.

He offered a stout nod. “Karen is safe and sound, Jessie.”

“Optimism,” I agreed.

I headed up the stairs, but just my luck, the dreaded Carter answered Candy’s door. “Long time, no see!” he greeted me.

I greeted him back and was saying hello to Puddles when Candy appeared from her bedroom. “Jessie!” she exclaimed. “How’d it go at Pierpont’s?”

“No Karen,” I said, but as she ushered everyone to the pink seating area, I optimistically asked about her day at Tate’s. “Any insights on you know who?”

“Who?” Carter asked.

“Did you talk to her?” I asked Candy.

“Her who?” Carter asked again.

“She means Coco Rigby,” Candy told him.

While I closed my eyes and prayed for strength, and patience, Candy identified Coco Rigby. “She’s Pierpont’s cousin and Mrs. Marachini’s niece.”

“They were shopping together?” Carter asked. “Pierpont Rigby went bra shopping?”

Bless his heart, Puddles took pity on me. He dropped a squeaky toy at Carter’s feet, and they commenced a game of fetch, which, one hoped, might keep the guy occupied for a few minutes.

I sat forward and asked Candy what she thought of Coco.

“She’s spoiled,” she said bluntly. “She kept bragging about the fancy stores she likes and didn’t even bother looking at all the nice things at Tate’s. Everyone was complaining.”

I tilted my head. “You talked to your co-workers about her? ”

“No, but they talked to me. Everyone noticed she didn’t buy anything.”

“Surely Mrs. Marachini made up for it?” I said, but apparently Coco had distracted her.

“It’ll be alright,” Candy said. “I’m positive Mrs. Marachini will come back tomorrow. Hopefully alone.”

Carter squeaked the squeaky toy. “Without Mrs. M, the Extravaganza Sale isn’t much of an extravaganza.” Squeak, squeak. “Should we tell Jessie our surprise now, Candy?”

“No!” I waved both hands in protest. “I can’t take any more bad news today.”

“This is good news,” Candy said. “But never mind. We’re not ready to tell you yet.

I glanced at her ring finger. “I do not like surprises.”

“What about Destiny’s surprise?” Carter asked.

“Destiny’s Desire . What’s her big secret?” He again squeaked that toy, and I promised myself an Advil the moment I got upstairs.

Then I informed the man I hadn’t given Destiny a thought all day. “The last I saw her, she was in bed crying her eyes out.”

Squeak, squeak. “Whose bed?”

“What do you mean, whose be—” I blinked twice and stood up. “I have to go now,” I said, but a loud rap on the door veritably threw me back to the couch.

“Clarence PD!” I heard, and promised myself two Advils when and if I ever made it upstairs.

Lieutenant Al Kapinski made his entrance, and despite their criminal records, Candy and Carter were downright cordial. They got him settled on a pink easy chair, and Puddles presented him with the squeaky toy.

Al gave it one blessedly brief squeak and tossed it, and then addressed me. “You can leave now.”

I was more than ready to comply, but Candy had other ideas. Demonstrating she’s a lot sturdier than the purple stilettoes she was wearing might have indicated, she called me her “valued guest” and ordered me to stay put. “Now then,” she asked Al. “What can I do for you?”

He reached out an open palm. “Hand them over.”

“Karen’s keys,” I told her. “He confiscated mine this morning. He doesn’t want us—”

“Snooping,” Al helped me out.

“Oh. I guess that makes sense.” Candy pointed Carter to her kitchen cupboards and told him where to look, and Al bragged that he had also confiscated Peter Harrison’s key.

“You’ve spoken to Peter?” I asked.

“You can leave now.”

Candy again protested, but I stood up. “Quite frankly, I’ve had enough for one day,” I announced, but believe it or not, that time Al delayed my departure.

He pointed to my library book. “What’s that?” he asked, and I read him the title.