Chapter Twenty-Two

I finally received my interlibrary loan copy of Emily Moore’s first book of poetry on Thursday, but we were so busy at the library that I decided I’d have to check the contents later. As I shoved the large manila envelope under my purse on a shelf in the workroom, Sunny poked her head around the door and asked me to come out to the desk to help one of our elderly patrons, Carter Scott, who was conducting ongoing research about the history of the churches in Taylorsford.

“What was that ILL, anyway?” she asked, after we’d guided Mr. Scott to the proper resources. “It didn’t feel like a book.”

“It isn’t. No one would lend the actual book,” I said, searching the desk computer to see if I could find any online information to share with Mr. Scott. “It’s photocopies of the poetry from Emily Moore’s first book. The one I couldn’t buy, remember?”

“Oh right. The rare one.” Sunny absently twirled her bangle bracelet around her wrist. “But at least you found a library that would help.”

“I didn’t ask them to copy the illustrations—that would’ve been too much trouble. But they were happy to provide photocopies of the pages containing the poems.” I glanced up to meet Sunny’s inquisitive gaze. “I want to be able to introduce Ms. Moore properly when she does her reading here in a few weeks. I thought it would be nice to reference her earliest poems as well as the later ones.”

“Makes sense.” As if suddenly aware of her fidgeting, Sunny pressed her palms against the top of the circulation desk. “By the way, Dan told me something yesterday. It’s an interesting tidbit he uncovered in the course of his investigations.”

“What’s that?” I asked, closing down my search. I already had a page of jotted notes that I planned to share with Mr. Scott. Knowing how some people shut down when presented with too much information all at once, I didn’t want to overwhelm him before he had a chance to assimilate any information he’d found on his own.

“Dan says that a couple of sources told him Stanley Owens—the guy from the commune who died in that fall—was supposedly in love with Belinda Cannon, but it was unrequited. Belinda only had eyes for Jeremy.”

“Really?” I recalled Ruth’s words about Stan’s unfortunate love affair. So the object of his affection was Belinda Cannon. Definitely one of Jeremy Adams’s lovers. Interesting.

“Yes, and that he basically had a breakdown right before the commune dissolved. That was after Jeremy left, of course.”

I didn’t tell Sunny that I’d already heard this from Ruth, or that it was information I’d already shared with Brad. “I’m not sure what that has to do with the missing-persons cases, though.”

“Well, Dan thinks that maybe Stan killed Jeremy because he was jealous or something. You know, a crime of passion. Then Stan was overcome with guilt. Thus the breakdown.”

“Not so overcome that he confessed,” I said. “And Stan’s death is also a bit questionable, don’t you think? Ruth Lee and Dean Bodenheimer both mentioned his fear of heights.”

Sunny frowned. “I remember you telling me that. Which does make it weird for him to be on that footbridge. Unless it was a suicide. Maybe the guilt finally overwhelmed him.”

“That seems an odd way to go, when he was so afraid of falling. You’d think he’d pick another method. And then there’s the fact that he was already dead when Ruth was killed, so he couldn’t have had anything to do with that.” I gave Sunny a side-eyed glance. “I believe Dan’s theory is wrong, at least in this instance. It seems to me more likely that Stan was killed because he knew too much, just like Ruth. He could’ve easily been aware of the dealers who supplied Jeremy with drugs.”

Sunny slipped her bracelet off and rubbed her wrist. “So you think Stan might’ve known something about Jeremy’s death but kept quiet for some reason?”

“Yeah, maybe because confessing would’ve implicated him? I mean, if it involved buying or selling drugs, Stan could’ve been in a lot of trouble, especially back in those days. Or maybe”—I rapped my fingers against the top of the circulation desk—“Stanley Owens was scared to talk because he knew it would put his own life in jeopardy. But, after all these years, he just couldn’t deal with hiding the truth anymore, no matter the cost. Ruth told me that he seemed to be suffering from guilt when they bonded after Jeremy left the commune. Maybe, later in life, Stan finally had enough of keeping a terrible secret and planned to tell the authorities what he knew about Jeremy’s death.”

“And you think if the actual killer got wind of that somehow, Stan could’ve been murdered in a way to make it look like an accident?” Sunny asked.

“Yes, and then the killer murdered Ruth when she threatened to talk after Jeremy’s body was found. That upped the ante and made the killer take a risk, shooting Ruth instead of taking the time to try to stage another accident, like he or she did with Stan.”

Sunny looked thoughtful. “Because without the body it was still a missing-persons case, but with it—especially given the way Jeremy died—it became a murder?”

“Right. And there’s no statute of limitations on prosecuting a murder.”

Lines furrowed Sunny’s brow. “But if someone is killing people who might know anything about Jeremy’s death …” She bit her lip and cast me a worried glance. “The grands could be in danger.”

“You really think they do know something?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” Sunny shoved her long hair behind her ears with both hands, then kept her palms pressed to her temples as if trying to contain her thoughts. “They continue to give me evasive answers when I ask direct questions about that time. It’s gotten worse since Ruth Lee’s death, and frankly, I’m unsure about everything now.”

I mustered up a smile that I hoped didn’t look as forced as it felt. “You know they didn’t murder anyone.”

“But what if they covered up a crime? I could see them doing something like that, if it would protect their other friends, or the commune.” Sunny dropped her hands to her sides. “They don’t really trust the legal system or any civil authorities, even now, and they were more radical back in the sixties.”

“I see your point,” I admitted reluctantly.

“And when I talk to them about anything to do with the Jeremy Adams case, they always shift their eyes so they aren’t looking directly at me. Like they’re ashamed of something. I’m pretty sure they have something to hide. Of course, they won’t confess anything, because they don’t want to involve me.” Sunny blinked away the tears that had welled in her eyes. “They want to protect me.”

“Look,” I said, reaching out to clasp her hand. “There’s no point in making yourself sick over what-ifs. Just be honest with the authorities about what you know, and allow your grandparents the freedom to make their own decisions. I’m sure, knowing them, that they’ll make the right choice in the end.”

I was glad, at that moment, that I hadn’t shared the CD containing Jeremy’s demo reel with P.J. and Carol. At least that was one thing they wouldn’t have to lie about.

“I suppose you’re right,” Sunny said as I released her hand. “I just don’t want to see them go to jail. They could be charged as accessories after the fact if they actually covered up a murder.”

“It won’t come to that, I’m sure,” I said, although I wasn’t certain of anything. “Now—let me take these notes over to Mr. Scott before he has to leave. He said he only had an hour free for his research today.”

“Okay. I’ll hold down the fort here,” Sunny said, giving me a wan smile. “And I’ll try not to worry.”

“Good, but maybe”—I cast her a speculative glance—“you should warn Carol and P.J. about the possibility that someone is tracking down people who might know anything about Jeremy’s death. Just to be safe, you know?”

“Trust me, I will,” Sunny replied fervently.

As I crossed behind the desk, clutching the paper containing my notes to my chest, I made a mental note to ask Kurt—who I was convinced was keeping tabs on me, as well as probably Richard and my aunt—to have some of his associates also keep an eye on Carol and P.J. Fields.

*   *   *

After sharing a light supper with Aunt Lydia, I headed upstairs to my bedroom to read over the photocopies of Emily Moore’s earliest poetry.

I sat on my bed, popped in my earbuds, and scrolled through the music player on my phone until I reached the file containing Jeremy Adams’s songs. A perfect accompaniment to Emily’s poems, I thought, especially considering they were created around the same time. Although, to be precise, I reminded myself, Jeremy’s music must’ve been written at least a year or two before the publication of Emily’s first book. Which didn’t mean she hadn’t written the poems earlier, of course. Perhaps even during her stay on the commune.

I glanced over the note the librarian had sent along with the photocopies. It outlined what I’d already learned through my own research—Emily Moore, then called Daisy, had moved directly to New York City after the commune at Vista View had closed its doors. She’d immediately been taken up by Andy Warhol’s crowd, and had lived at the Factory off and on for a few years. It was during that time that several unnamed artists had created illustrations to go along with her poems, prompting Warhol to have the slender volume of poetry and art published by a private press.

Even though the book had been distributed primarily through hand-selling at concerts and other events, it had developed a cult following that propelled Daisy—under her Emily Moore name—to fame. Only a year after the release of her first book, she acquired a literary agent and a prestigious publisher and began a career that had continued to the present day.

I set aside the explanatory document and settled back against the pillows I’d piled up against my headboard.

Jeremy’s voice reverberated through my headphones. Despite his gravelly tone, his clear pronunciation of the lyrics allowed me to understand all the words.

“Definitely a true talent,” I said, as if Jeremy were sitting in the room with me. “Such a shame you died so young, before everyone could appreciate your work.”

I focused on the pages of poetry. Almost immediately I could see why it would’ve appealed to the flower-power generation. Mystical, cryptic, yet somehow hypnotic, it evoked the mysteries of nature as well as an obviously drug-fueled exploration of consciousness.

But I could also see why Emily Moore had not bothered to have this particular volume reprinted. It was an artifact of its time. Today it seemed naïve and almost embarrassingly revealing.

As I picked up another page, Jeremy sang something about stars and fireflies, and how both filled the night with flickering light.

I blinked and stared down at the paper in my hand.

The same words—in my ear and on the page. The very same.

I sat up, pausing the music. After pulling a pen from my nightstand drawer, I scrolled back to restart the file containing Jeremy’s demo reel.

Song by song, I matched Jeremy’s lyrics to the poetry. There were more poems than songs, but every lyric on Jeremy Adams’s demo reel was one of the poems in Emily Moore’s first book.

As the final song concluded, I pulled out my earbuds and dropped the player on top of the scattered photocopies that blanketed the bed. Jumping to the floor, I paced around my bedroom.

There were only a few conclusions I could draw from my discovery. Emily could have collaborated with Jeremy while he was writing his songs—willingly supplying him with the lyrics. Or conversely, Emily could have taken Jeremy’s lyrics and presented them as her own work.

I gnawed on the nail of my little finger. The poetry was different enough from Emily’s later style to make that a possibility. Perhaps she’d worked with Jeremy on his music, then taken the lyrics and used them to ignite her own career. Without giving Jeremy any of the credit.

But the reverse could also have been true. If Emily, who Dean claimed had been “tight” with Jeremy, had shared her poetry with the young musician, maybe he’d used the poems as lyrics without obtaining her permission.

I gathered up the pieces of paper from my bed, stuffed them back into the manila envelope, and carried it over to my dresser. Glancing at the wall clock, I decided it was too late to call Brad over something so tenuous. But I would call him tomorrow and share what I’d discovered. Perhaps he’d think the poems were as peripheral to his investigation as the demo reel CD I’d already given him, but I still had to share this discovery.

Because, while I had no absolute proof of anything but a collaboration between the musician and the poet, it certainly seemed—from the lack of attribution on both the demo reel and the book of poetry—that one or both of them had used the other’s work without giving their co-creator proper credit.

Which is, I thought, as sadness filled my chest, as good a motive for murder as I have ever stumbled across.