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Authors: JoAnna Carl
Tags: Mystery
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Vanderklomp had definitely wanted into that basement before the police got there. The news that they’d probably already searched it had been unwelcome. It hadn’t exactly sent her into a panic, but she sure hadn’t liked it.
Maybe I should have told her that she had nothing to worry about. Butch and I were the obvious suspects.
I got to my feet, still determined to go home and eat worms. What a lousy day this had been. And what could I do about it? I couldn’t think of anything.
I told Aunt Nettie I was leaving, instructed the counter girl to catch the telephone, and headed out. I don’t think I even knew where I was going. The rednecks who hang out in my dad’s garage back in Texas would have said I was lower than a snake’s belly.
I simply had to do something to cheer up.
So I went to the beach.
Our house is on Lake Shore Drive. Every town around Lake Michigan has a Lakeshore Drive or a Lake Shore Drive. Our house is on the inland, or low-rent side. Property with lake views is a lot more valuable, but our side is fine. We can walk to a public-access area of the beach in ten minutes, and we don’t have to pay the taxes the people with a view of the water do.
So I drove to Beech Tree Public Access Area, the beach near our house. The day was sunny, the autumn light was beautiful, the foliage was beginning to turn gorgeous, and that afternoon the temperature was in the mid-sixties. I kicked off my shoes, rolled up my jeans, went down the stairs to the beach, and walked in the sand.
My situation seemed a little better already. Okay, I asked myself, what’s the worst thing that can happen?
Well, Joe could leave me for Meg. The thought made me feel as if I’d been kicked in the middle.
But awful as that would be, I knew I’d go on living. I wouldn’t live very happily, but I’d still breathe and sleep and eat and survive, just as I would if someone close to me died.
What could I do about that situation? First, I wasn’t remotely sure that was a threat. Second, if it was a threat, I didn’t exactly understand what Meg’s attraction was, so I wasn’t sure how to counter it. And if Joe was involved with Meg, did I even want him back? Would our relationship be destroyed in any case?
That situation was the worst thing I had to face, and all I had was a bunch of questions and no answers. I decided to worry about something else.
The other problem of the day was how the detectives investigating Abigail Montgomery’s death could think I had interfered with their evidence.
I considered the missing evidence, the letter that had disappeared. Was I really suspected of taking it? Nah, I told myself. That wasn’t too likely. Hogan knows—in his heart of hearts—that I wouldn’t do that. They might ask me a bunch of questions, but I was telling the truth. I hadn’t taken the mysterious letter addressed to Henry C. Whoever.
Did the missing letter make me a suspect in her death?
It was hard to believe that I’d be a suspect in Abigail’s death at all, since I had never met the woman while she was alive. But I knew from my association with Hogan that one of the main factors in a murder investigation was opportunity. MOM, he said. Means, opportunity, and motive.
Well, the means of Abigail’s death—the rod from the magazine rack—was handy for anybody who went into the basement and wanted to use it. And I certainly had the opportunity. I could easily have wandered down there before the library board meeting began.
Anybody who had been in the library building before the board meeting could have gone into the basement, met Abigail, quarreled with her, and hit her in the head with a handy wooden rod.
But I had no motive at all.
I walked along, sticking to the sandy areas of the beach and avoiding the rocky areas. Those rocks might have been smoothed by the ancient glaciers, but they were mighty hard on bare feet. I kept my head down, looking at where I was stepping.
Which will have to be my excuse for
Maybe I should have told her that she had nothing to worry about. Butch and I were the obvious suspects.
I got to my feet, still determined to go home and eat worms. What a lousy day this had been. And what could I do about it? I couldn’t think of anything.
I told Aunt Nettie I was leaving, instructed the counter girl to catch the telephone, and headed out. I don’t think I even knew where I was going. The rednecks who hang out in my dad’s garage back in Texas would have said I was lower than a snake’s belly.
I simply had to do something to cheer up.
So I went to the beach.
Our house is on Lake Shore Drive. Every town around Lake Michigan has a Lakeshore Drive or a Lake Shore Drive. Our house is on the inland, or low-rent side. Property with lake views is a lot more valuable, but our side is fine. We can walk to a public-access area of the beach in ten minutes, and we don’t have to pay the taxes the people with a view of the water do.
So I drove to Beech Tree Public Access Area, the beach near our house. The day was sunny, the autumn light was beautiful, the foliage was beginning to turn gorgeous, and that afternoon the temperature was in the mid-sixties. I kicked off my shoes, rolled up my jeans, went down the stairs to the beach, and walked in the sand.
My situation seemed a little better already. Okay, I asked myself, what’s the worst thing that can happen?
Well, Joe could leave me for Meg. The thought made me feel as if I’d been kicked in the middle.
But awful as that would be, I knew I’d go on living. I wouldn’t live very happily, but I’d still breathe and sleep and eat and survive, just as I would if someone close to me died.
What could I do about that situation? First, I wasn’t remotely sure that was a threat. Second, if it was a threat, I didn’t exactly understand what Meg’s attraction was, so I wasn’t sure how to counter it. And if Joe was involved with Meg, did I even want him back? Would our relationship be destroyed in any case?
That situation was the worst thing I had to face, and all I had was a bunch of questions and no answers. I decided to worry about something else.
The other problem of the day was how the detectives investigating Abigail Montgomery’s death could think I had interfered with their evidence.
I considered the missing evidence, the letter that had disappeared. Was I really suspected of taking it? Nah, I told myself. That wasn’t too likely. Hogan knows—in his heart of hearts—that I wouldn’t do that. They might ask me a bunch of questions, but I was telling the truth. I hadn’t taken the mysterious letter addressed to Henry C. Whoever.
Did the missing letter make me a suspect in her death?
It was hard to believe that I’d be a suspect in Abigail’s death at all, since I had never met the woman while she was alive. But I knew from my association with Hogan that one of the main factors in a murder investigation was opportunity. MOM, he said. Means, opportunity, and motive.
Well, the means of Abigail’s death—the rod from the magazine rack—was handy for anybody who went into the basement and wanted to use it. And I certainly had the opportunity. I could easily have wandered down there before the library board meeting began.
Anybody who had been in the library building before the board meeting could have gone into the basement, met Abigail, quarreled with her, and hit her in the head with a handy wooden rod.
But I had no motive at all.
I walked along, sticking to the sandy areas of the beach and avoiding the rocky areas. Those rocks might have been smoothed by the ancient glaciers, but they were mighty hard on bare feet. I kept my head down, looking at where I was stepping.
Which will have to be my excuse for
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