Renewed for murder, p.1
Renewed for Murder, page 1
Renewed for Murder
A BLUE RIDGE LIBRARY MYSTERY
Victoria Gilbert
Dedicated to all the authors who have enriched my life with their books, poetry, and stories.
Acknowledgments
Books don’t come into being without the assistance and support of many people. While I appreciate them all, I have to single out a few individuals and groups for special thanks:
My agent, Frances Black of Literary Counsel.
My editor at Crooked Lane Books, Faith Black Ross.
The Crooked Lane Books team, especially Melissa Rechter, Madeline Rathle, and Rebecca Nelson.
Critique partners and fellow authors Richard Taylor Pearson and Lindsey Duga.
My husband, Kevin, my mom, and the rest of my family.
My friends—both online and in real life.
My author colleagues, as well as bookstores and libraries. (Without you, what would I read?)
The bloggers, podcasters, YouTubers, and reviewers who have mentioned, reviewed, and promoted my books.
And, as always, readers!
Chapter One
One thing I loved about being married to someone who jumped out of bed wide awake was that he often made coffee before I even stumbled downstairs. I was less appreciative when he tried to talk to me before I’d ingested any of that caffeine.
“I’ll be home early,” Richard said, polishing off his own mug of coffee before I’d taken my first sip. “Since classes don’t start until next week, all I have today are meetings with the dance faculty and some course planning. I also have an appointment with Emily Moore to discuss using a piece of her poetry in the folklore project, but that shouldn’t take too long. So I can start dinner if you want.”
“Uh-huh,” I muttered, casting my bleary-eyed gaze around the kitchen. Renovated to honor its farmhouse origins, it featured whitewashed cabinets, soapstone countertops, and a tall, narrow oak table that functioned as an island. In one corner, where adjacent windows created a sunny nook, a round oak table served as a casual dining space.
As my gaze swept back to Richard, I noticed his beautiful gray eyes were sparkling with good humor. Enjoying the warmth that radiated from his smile, I once again marveled at the surprising turn my life had taken. Three years ago, I’d been a disillusioned thirty-two-year-old who’d fled a university library position and a failed romance to take over as the director of small public library. I willingly admitted that moving to Taylorsford, Virginia, had been driven by a need to escape my past.
Fortunately, I was happy in my new career. Taylorsford, my mother’s hometown, was a beautiful and historic village situated at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains. I’d grown to love its eclectic community, and the move had allowed me to spend more time with my best friend, Sunshine “Sunny” Fields. I’d also relished the opportunity to live with my Aunt Lydia, who’d offered to share her three-story Queen Anne revival home. The move had settled me into a comfortable, if uneventful, life.
Then Richard Muir, a celebrated contemporary dancer and choreographer, had decided to renovate the house next door to us—a 1920s two-story his mother had inherited from her uncle, novelist Paul Dassin. Having taken a teaching job at nearby Clarion University, Richard also traveled to continue to choreograph and dance professionally.
Although I’d liked him from the start, the last thing I’d expected was that my new neighbor would become my husband after only two years of dating. But here we were, married for almost three months. It was, I confessed as I blew on my steaming coffee, the best decision I’d ever made. Even if Richard was far too chipper in the morning.
Richard pointed and circled one foot in an unconscious dance move as he ran his fingers through his dark hair. “Hello, earth to Amy. You never answered my question. Do you want me to fix dinner, or should I pick something up?”
“Either is fine.” I clutched the handle of my ceramic mug like a lifeline, still disgruntled over a dream where someone had rearranged all the books in the library by spine color instead of our regular classification system.
“You’re not working late today, are you?” Richard bounded over to the kitchen’s apron-front sink.
“No, eight to five today.” I took a long swallow of my coffee. “I can actually help with dinner, if you choose a recipe and make sure we have all the ingredients.”
“No problem.” Richard glanced over his shoulder as he rinsed out his mug. “You’re still half-asleep, aren’t you?”
I offered him a wan smile. “More like seventy-five percent.”
“Well, I think it’s adorable. You look like a sleepy kitten.” Richard jabbed his thumb toward one of our cats, a tortoiseshell named Loie, who was curled up on one of the wooden ladderback chairs at the kitchen table.
With the caffeine kicking in, I was finally able to formulate a proper response. “But Loie and Fosse never stumble around like zombies. They’re always graceful, even when they’ve just woken up. They’re more like you than me.”
Richard grinned. “Dancers and cats do have a lot in common.”
“Yeah, like their annoying habit of being deeply asleep one minute and leaping about the room the next.” I shook my head. “How do you do that?”
Richard spread out his hands. “Don’t know. I’ve always been able to wake up quickly. A gift, I guess.”
“Well, it’s also adorable, I suppose. In an annoying sort of way.” I wrinkled my nose at him. “Anyway, now that I’ve reached something resembling consciousness, I’ll confirm it’d be great if you’d start dinner.”
“That’s the plan then,” Richard said. “I assume you’re walking to work today?”
“Absolutely. The weather is supposed to be good. And, unlike you, I need the exercise.”
Richard shrugged. “I need it just as much. But it’s easier for me to fit it into my schedule. I mean, it’s basically a part of my job. Besides, I have to stay in shape. It’s hard enough to continue to dance at my advanced age …”
I snorted. “You’re only thirty-seven.”
Richard’s bright expression faded a little. “Like I said, an advanced age, at least for a dancer.”
I examined him for a moment. Even if he spent more time these days on his teaching and choreography, I knew how much he still loved to dance. “Oh, I expect you’ll be leaping about when you’re ninety. You’re insufferably fit, you know.”
Richard reached me in three long strides and pulled me into a close embrace. “Are you complaining?”
“Of course not,” I said, my words muffled by the folds of his white cotton shirt. Although Richard was of average height for a man, I was rather short, which meant the top of my head only reached his shoulders. I leaned back and looked up into his amused face. “Which is one reason I feel compelled to walk more now. I have to stay somewhat in shape if I hope to keep up with you.”
“You’re fine, just as you are,” Richard said, before kissing me again.
A gentle knock on the door interrupted this enjoyable interlude. Stepping back, Richard turned and called out, “Come on in. Must be Lydia,” he added, turning to me. “No one else uses the back-porch door.”
“Or would show up so early,” I said, frowning. “I hope nothing’s wrong.”
The door swung open to reveal my aunt, frozen in place, as an orange-striped tabby wound his way around her slender ankles.
“Hello there.” Aunt Lydia held out a basket filled with muffins. “I just finished baking and thought I’d share. If Fosse will allow me to enter, that is.”
“He’s taken it upon himself to be the welcoming committee, I’m afraid.” Richard bent down to scoop up the cat, who snuggled into his arms and shot my aunt a triumphant, golden-eyed stare. “I knew putting in that cat door was a mistake.”
Aunt Lydia crossed over to the kitchen island to set down her basket. “I disagree. It gives the cats access to the screened porch, which provides them with fresh air without allowing them to roam outside. Which the birds in my garden appreciate.”
“It protects the cats from the wild critters wandering the woods in back of our houses too,” I said.
“Not to mention the cars out front.” Richard set Fosse down on the wood-grained vinyl plank floor. “Run along, you rascal. Join your sister on the kitchen chairs.” Straightening, Richard cast Aunt Lydia a warm smile. “We usually have to dump them off before we sit down to eat.”
“Which is one of the reasons my pants are always covered in cat hair.” I leaned over the island to inhale the spicy aroma of the muffins. “Mmmm, cinnamon and ginger?”
“My famous whole-wheat spice recipe.” Aunt Lydia’s smile lit up her lovely face. Always elegant, her smooth complexion and brilliant blue eyes belied her sixty-seven years, even if her hair had turned completely gray.
But gleaming and smooth as liquid silver, I thought, returning her smile. “Thanks for bringing us breakfast, but I suspect there’s something else motivating this visit. You don’t usually stop by so early.”
“Not that we mind.” Richard plucked a muffin from the basket. “Especially when you come bearing gifts.”
Aunt Lydia leaned forward, pressing her palms against the top of the oak island. “It’s Zelda. I’m a little worried about her.”
“Whatever for?” I grabbed two small paper plates from the pantry cabinet. Handing one to Richard, I plopped one of the muffins on the other before pulling a knife from the caddy we kept on the counter. “Butter?” I asked, waving the knife at Richard.
“Nope. Have to
“Hah, as if.” I pulled a plastic tub of whipped butter from the fridge. “Anyway, what’s all this about Zelda? She always seems like the happiest person on earth. I can’t imagine why you’d worry about her.”
I caught Aunt Lydia’s frown as soon as I turned around. “She has her troubles, like everyone else.”
Zelda Shoemaker had been my aunt’s best friend since elementary school. A cheery widow who owned a lovely bungalow on the edge of town, Zelda was also a regular volunteer at the library. Although we weren’t as close as she and my aunt were, I still considered Zelda a friend. Observing the worry lines wrinkling Aunt Lydia’s brow, I shared a concerned look with Richard. “What’s going on? Are she and Walt having problems?”
“Nothing like that,” my aunt said, with a flick of her fine-boned hand. “But she seemed so anxious and preoccupied when I saw her yesterday. It isn’t like her, as you know.”
I split open my muffin and buttered it. “Did she explain what was bothering her?”
“No, which was also strange. You know how chatty Zelda usually is. She isn’t one to keep secrets, even when you want her to.” Aunt Lydia flashed me a wry smile. “But yesterday she kept saying everything was fine, even though I’m sure it isn’t.”
“Maybe it does have something to do with Walt? She knows you’re also his friend. She might not have wanted to put you in the middle of things,” Richard said, before polishing off his muffin.
“I don’t think so. I asked her that directly and believe her disclaimer was genuine. No”—Aunt Lydia squared her slender shoulders—“I think this has to do with something else. There was a stranger who scurried away when I arrived at the house—an older woman who looked about the same age as Zelda and me. She resembled Zelda, if I’m honest. Same build and similar curly blonde hair.”
“Dyed blonde, you mean,” I said, thinking of Zelda’s perfectly tinted locks. She always urged my aunt to color her gray hair, with no success.
“Of course. Although I think she, like Zelda, was probably a blonde in her youth. You can tell, you know. The eyebrows and complexion give it away.” Aunt Lydia frowned. “Come to think of it, she had the same light brown eyes as Zelda, too. I suspect they might’ve looked quite a bit alike when they were young.”
“But not now?” Richard asked, with a lift of his dark eyebrows.
“Not really. Zelda isn’t all wrinkled, like this woman was. I suspect she was a smoker, or maybe spent too much time outdoors without sunscreen.” My aunt slid two fingers along her own smooth-skinned jawline. “Amy’s mom and I used to make such a fuss because Grandma Rose wouldn’t allow us to sunbathe like so many of our friends. They spent hours baking in the sun, slathered in nothing but baby oil. Now we’re grateful.”
“One good thing she did,” I said, as thoughts of some of her not-so-great acts spooled through my mind.
“She had her moments.” Aunt Lydia tapped the polyurethane-sealed oak with her short but well-groomed fingernails. “Anyway, the really odd thing is, when I asked Zelda about the woman, I got no response, other than a squint-eyed stare. I could tell Zelda didn’t want to discuss her visitor, which I found extremely peculiar. Since when does Zelda refuse to talk?”
“Never, at least as long as I’ve known her,” Richard said.
Aunt Lydia’s lips thinned. “Exactly.”
“Maybe she was out of sorts for some other reason,” I said, after taking a bite of my muffin.
Aunt Lydia lifted her golden eyebrows. She didn’t have to say a word to express her opinion of talking while eating. “To be honest, Amy, that was one reason why I wanted to stop by before you headed off to work. I know Zelda is scheduled to volunteer at the library today. I thought you could engage her in some friendly conversation and find out what, if anything, is bothering her.”
I wiped a few crumbs from my lips with a napkin before replying. “Conduct a little interrogation, you mean.”
“Perhaps not quite that intense,” my aunt said mildly. “And don’t think I can’t spy that sparkle in your eyes. It’s been a few months since your last opportunity to assist the sheriff’s office. I bet you’d enjoy a little sleuthing, wouldn’t you?”
“She does love to investigate things.” Richard slid his arm around my shoulders. “I’ve learned to allow her to pursue the truth, even if it ends up turning my hair white.”
“Nothing wrong with white hair.” Aunt Lydia offered him a smile. “But we do have to make sure Amy doesn’t put herself in danger again. That seems to be an unfortunate side effect of her amateur sleuthing.”
“Now wait a minute.” I squirmed under Richard’s arm, which just made him tighten his hold. “I think I’ve proven I can take care of myself. Besides, talking to Zelda is hardly the most dangerous activity I can imagine.”
“I don’t know.” Richard leaned in to brush a kiss against my temple. “It seems to be the simplest mysteries that spiral out of control.”
“Not this time,” I said. “I’m sure this will be a piece of cake.”
My aunt, who was not at all superstitious, rapped the leg of the oak table.
Chapter Two
By the time Aunt Lydia left, it was seven thirty. I swore and dashed out of the kitchen, almost tripping over Fosse in my rush.
Richard called out a cheery “Bye, sweetheart, see you later,” as I ran up the stairs. I paused to wish him a good day before he left the house.
Somehow, I managed to take a shower and throw on some clothes in time to grab two muffins from the basket Aunt Lydia had brought over. They’d have to do for lunch, since I’d forgotten to pack anything again. Wrapping them in a napkin, I shoved the muffins into my soft-sided briefcase and grabbed my sunglasses from a living room side table. I also determined the location of both cats before dashing outside. I’d recently come home from work to discover Loie had been accidently shut up in a closet, which had resulted in the destruction of a few mittens and a knitted hat, as well as a furious cat.
As I strode past Aunt Lydia’s house, I made a mental note to carve out a little more time for my aunt. She might be lonely, now that she was once again living alone in her big old house.
Glancing up at the dusty canopy of leaves that shadowed the sidewalk, I shook my head. What was I thinking? Aunt Lydia had lived alone for many years before I’d moved in with her, and besides, she was a supremely independent woman who had plenty of friends. She was also busy with a number of volunteer activities, and had plenty to do keeping up her house and garden, along with all her cooking and baking.
Not to mention she has a significant other to keep her company most weekends, I reminded myself, smiling at the thought of the intelligent and charming Hugh Chen, art appraiser and historian. Aunt Lydia had lost her adored husband, Andrew Talbot, after only a few years of marriage. She’d carried a torch for Andrew for decades, never looking at another man until Hugh had come along. Fortunately, he’d convinced her to take a chance on love again.
I picked up my pace as I drew closer to the stone building that housed the Taylorsford Public Library. Built in 1919 with a Carnegie grant, it retained its original period details throughout much of the structure, although a utilitarian addition had been built in the 1960s to house the Children’s Room and staff lounge.
Surprisingly, there were already people loitering on the sidewalk near the front doors. We didn’t typically encounter many patrons so early, but it seemed this day might prove the exception.
Of course, I thought as I circled around to the side of the building. People would naturally show up early on the one morning you’re late.
I slipped past the thick cluster of forsythia bushes that screened the library staff entrance from the street. Unlocking a side door that opened into the workroom, I dumped my purse and briefcase onto the large wooden table at the center of the room before poking my head around the door that led to the area behind the circulation desk. Thankfully, Sunny was already at the desk, firing up the circulation system computer.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said.
Sunny glanced at her watch. “Not really. It’s still two minutes till.” She flashed me a smile, her blue eyes sparkling. “I figured maybe Richard distracted you this morning, since you’re basically still in the honeymoon phase.”
