He made a hmph-ing sort of noise. “No wonder you’re having trouble. Why aren’t you writing about what’s-his-name, the new director?”
Inwood knew about our new boss? Wonders never ceased. “Graydon’s doing that himself.”
“And you get stuck with the boring article.” Without his face actually smiling, he gave the impression of having smiled. “Guess that’s what happens when you’re assistant director and not top dog.”
My chin went up. Our relationship, which had started with me accusing him of not doing his job and him telling me to stick to the library, had improved over time, but it could also regress.
Besides, if I’d wanted to be director, I most likely could have been. The sticking point had been if I’d moved up to the director’s office on the second floor, there was no way for me to stay on the bookmobile. Though my coworkers had questioned my choice to keep my far lower salary with its heap of routine tasks, I hadn’t regretted the decision for a moment. There was no way for Hal Inwood to know that, but it was also none of his business.
I folded my hands on top of my desk. “What can I do for you, Detective?” I asked politely.
His shoulders slumped a bit, and just for a moment, he reminded me of Aunt Frances. About the same age, both tall with long arms and legs, and both, within a twenty-four-hour period, acting out of character. “This morning I got the final report on Rowan Bennethum’s autopsy, and considering your involvement with the incident, the sheriff thought I should give you this news in person.”
“Okay,” I said slowly.
He sighed. “The results were accompanied by a toxicology report. A targeted report. The full report will be another week or two, depending on the labs.”
I was starting to get a bad feeling about this. “Just tell me,” I said.
“Ms. Bennethum’s death wasn’t the result of heart issues.”
“It . . . wasn’t?” The inside of my mouth was dry and the words came out raw and scratchy.
Detective Inwood shook his head. “Her system was full of stimulants, medications that weren’t prescribed to her and weren’t found in her home. Rowan Bennethum was poisoned.”
Poisoned? The word rolled around in the air, waiting for me to catch it and understand, but before my brain got itself under control, Inwood said it flat out.
“She was murdered.”
Chapter 3
After Detective Inwood left, I stood and went to my office window. Outside, it was one of those thick cloud cover days, when it felt like the sun had never gotten completely out of bed. Though it was almost noon, the daylight was so meager that the parking lot lights had turned on, which made the dim light seem even worse.
I leaned my forehead against the cool glass. “She was murdered,” I whispered.
Someone had intentionally killed the mother of two wonderful young adults. Someone had taken the life of a loving wife. Had destroyed a family, and done who knew what damage to a neighborhood, friends, extended family, and coworkers. The ripple effects could go far. I could almost see them in the falling snow. If one flake was blown north, it would knock into an adjacent flake, which would knock into its adjacent flake. The pattern could be endless.
Well, almost. I hadn’t retained much from high school physics, but I did remember that friction played a factor in pretty much everything. Ripple effects, even on a completely flat lake, eventually phased back to a flat surface, as if nothing had ever happened.
But that was physics, and I could easily imagine the ripples of murder going on forever. One or both of the twins could spiral down into—
No.
I stepped back from the window and stood up straight. No good came out of that line of thinking, so I needed to stop. What I needed was a little bit of caffeine and a hefty dose of camaraderie from my fellow staff members.
With my favorite mug in hand, one I’d picked up at an Association of Bookmobile and Outreach Services conference, I made my way to the break room. I’d hoped to talk to either Holly or Donna, but Josh was the only one there.
“Hey,” he said. Or at least that’s what I assumed he said, because his face was buried in a sandwich and his mouth was full. Holly, if she’d been there, would have pointed out that it was rude to talk with his mouth full, but I just said, “Hey,” back, and made a direct line for the coffeepot. “What’s lunch today?”
After Josh had bought his first house last year, many of his habits had changed. Formerly a vending machine soda and take-out lunch guy, he’d shifted to using the library’s coffee for his caffeine intake and bringing a brown bag lunch. And he’d started spending time with the library’s generous selection of cookbooks. It was all very unexpected for a computer guy, and Holly was still wondering who had flipped what switch inside him.
Josh eyed his sandwich. “Not much. Chicken I heated up in the microwave and put on that bread. You know, the one that starts with an F? Plus some baby spinach, a little bit of pesto, and Swiss cheese.”
“Did you happen to make an extra one? That sounds really good.”
He took another bite. “Bring your own lunch.”
I had, but my peanut butter and jelly suddenly didn’t sound very appealing. The news about Rowan might have had something to do with my loss of appetite, but usually the will of my stomach was stronger than that of my emotions. Or my brain.
With a longing look at Josh’s meal, I took my sad little sandwich out of the refrigerator and sat across from him. I had no desire to discuss Hal Inwood’s visit, so just in case Josh had seen him in my office, I preempted the conversation. “What do you think about Graydon?”
Josh shrugged. “Seems okay.”
“Really?”
He swallowed. “You sound surprised.”
“Well, your disapproval rate of the last two directors was roughly one hundred percent.”
“You make it sound like I was the only one,” Josh said. “Everybody hated Jennifer, and she doesn’t count since she was barely here long enough to do laundry. And Stephen was such a tool. Maybe he kept the library in decent financial shape, but that was the only good thing about him.”
“Sure, but two weeks ago you were all doom and gloom about having to break in a new director.”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugged again. “Graydon could be okay. It seemed like he was really listening when I explained the reasons we needed a new server. It’s the new board president, Trent What’s-his-name, that’s making me wonder.”
“Ross,” I said. “His last name is Ross. Makes you wonder about what?”
“Oh. Well.” He shoved the last of his sandwich in his mouth, then held up a finger.
His sudden concern about etiquette tweaked my radar. “Wonder about what?” I asked again, putting my sandwich down on the table and staring him down.
He got up to rip a sheet of paper towel off the roll and wipe his mouth. “Holly told me not to tell you, but I think you should know.”
“Know what?” This time my question came out a little loud. “If you don’t tell me now, I’ll keep bugging you until you do, so you might as well save us both some serious time and energy and talk.”
“Don’t tell Holly I told, okay?”
I kept my eye roll internal. Sometimes those two acted more like sister and brother than coworkers. “Promise.”
“When you’ve been out on bookmobile runs, Trent has been in here asking questions. He’s been talking to staff, members of the Friends of the Library, people in the reading room. Everybody.”
It was a little weird, but maybe he was just trying to learn about the library, about the community, about the wants, needs, and desires of the staff. If you looked at it that way, Trent’s actions were commendable, and I told Josh so.
“Yeah? Would you say that if almost all his questions were about the bookmobile?”