Checked Out for Murder Read online

  Checked Out for Murder

  A HAUNTED LIBRARY MYSTERY

  Allison Brook

  For my darling granddaughter Olivia Brooke Levinson, who loves to read and write.

  From her Meema Marilyn

  Acknowledgments

  I am grateful to my dear agent Dawn Dowdle, who always takes the time to answer my questions; to my wonderful editor Faith Black Ross and the terrific people at Crooked Lane who make each book a success. A special shout out to my copy editor Rachel Keith, who took the time to explain the complicated intricacies of the past perfect tense.

  Chapter One

  “More coffee?” I asked Dylan as I got up from the table to pour us both a refill.

  “I’d love some, babe, but I’d better leave now if I’m going to squeeze in a few important phone calls before my ten-thirty appointment.” He stood and planted a kiss on my lips. “Traffic’s bumper-to-bumper this time of the day.”

  I wrapped my arms around his waist. “All the larceny out there sure is keeping you busy. I’m glad you had time to stop by for breakfast.”

  “My pleasure. The eggs were prefect, Carrie. Just the way I love ’em.”

  Dylan shrugged into his leather jacket and I walked him out to his car, making sure that Smoky Joe didn’t follow me. It was the first week of April, and the balmy weather and budding trees and bushes were sure signs that spring was on its way. My gray feline had a bad case of spring fever and was doing his best to escape the confines of my cottage to explore the great outdoors. But I couldn’t allow that, not if Smoky Joe and I were going to get to work at the library on time. As the head of programs and events, I needed to be punctual, and the library patrons would be wanting a friendly visit from their library cat.

  Dylan slid into the driver’s seat of his BMW. “Have fun. I’ll call or text when I have a free moment.”

  I smiled as I watched him drive off. Dylan was an investigator—a new partner in the company where he’d been working for years recovering stolen art and jewelry. A few months ago he’d opened his own office in New Haven, where he was investigating all sorts of situations. His first client had been a member of a family of restaurateurs who suspected that one of his cousins was skimming money off the top. Dylan had proved his client’s suspicions correct, and now the thief was cooling his heels in jail. Dylan Avery was clever and handsome, and I considered myself lucky that he’d fallen in love with me.

  I was lucky in many ways, I thought as I reentered my cottage, which stood at the end of the Avery property and faced the river. I had my wonderful job at the library, and good friends and loving relatives nearby. Of course, there were some less-than-wonderful aspects of my life—like my mother and her young husband, who were about to descend on Clover Ridge because Tom was going to be in a movie they were filming here in town. But I had a week until they arrived, so there was no point in dwelling on how Brianna, as my mother now called herself, was going to drive me crazy.

  I stacked our breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, glad that Dylan and I had been able to have this hour together. We both had busy work schedules that rarely left us time for each other outside of weekends. Still, it was better having him living in the manor house a quarter mile up the private road than in Atlanta, Georgia, where his company headquarters were located.

  Twenty minutes later, I put Smoky Joe in his carrier and brought it out to my car. I talked to him as I drove to the library.

  “The trees have sprouted their light-green leaves and the forsythia is out. But maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this. You’ll want to go frolicking in the woods, where you can pick up ticks and fleas.”

  I made a mental note to stop at the vet to buy medicine to ward off ticks and fleas. Just in case Smoky Joe managed to get outside. Thank goodness he had been altered the month before, so there was no chance of his racing into the street chasing after female cats in heat.

  Ten minutes later I pulled into the parking lot behind the library. Like the other centuries-old buildings bordering the Clover Ridge Green, the library had once been a large private residence. And like the other edifices, many of which had been converted into restaurants, shops, and art galleries, the library retained its white, wood-framed exterior. Across the Green, which was squarish in shape and roughly two small blocks wide in every direction, my Great-Uncle Bosco and Great-Aunt Harriet lived in one of the eight original homes still used as private residences.

  As soon as we entered the library, I set Smoky Joe’s carrier on the floor and slid open the metal door. He took off like a bullet.

  “Someone’s feeling his oats,” Max, our senior custodian, commented as he halted the dolly cart he was using to move three large cartons.

  “I’m afraid Smoky Joe has spring fever,” I said. “I have to watch him at home and make sure he doesn’t sneak out to explore the countryside.”

  “We wouldn’t want him to run out of the library and into traffic. I’ll keep an eye on him when I can. I’ll mention it to Pete as well.”

  “Thanks, Max. I think I’ll put up signs so patrons will know to watch out for him near the exit doors—at least for the next few weeks.”

  “Good idea, Carrie. We’d all be heartbroken if anything happened to our little friend.”

  I continued to my office, reflecting on how Smoky Joe had become a fixture in the library in just a matter of months. Last fall he’d ventured through the woods to my cottage from a nearby farm. He’d jumped into my car, and I’d ended up carrying him into the library for safekeeping. Smoky Joe had proved to be a very social creature. Patrons loved to make a fuss over him, and he enjoyed the attention of young and old alike. I loved him fiercely, and I knew that the many people who frequented the library would be distraught if anything were to happen to their little mascot.

  I sat down at my desk and turned on the computer to find several emails waiting for me. I was responsible for making sure our many activities ran smoothly. Given the variety of programs we offered, with new ones being added each month, my job kept me on my toes. My goal was to entertain and educate our patrons, and so far I’d been pretty successful. Sally, my boss, gave me a good degree of freedom and flexibility—as long as I didn’t go crazy moneywise.

  I pulled out three sheets of printing paper. With a blue magic marker, I wrote on each of them:

  When exiting the library, please make sure that Smoky Joe, the library cat, isn’t leaving with you.

  Thank you,

  Carrie Singleton, Head of Programs and Events

  I drew the outline of a cat with a bushy tail on each note. Scotch tape in hand, I set out to post them—one in the coffee shop, another in the reading room, and the third beside the circulation desk.

  At the circulation desk, my best friend, Angela Vecchio, glanced up from the book she was checking out for a patron and waved to me. “See you at noon!”

  I gave her a thumbs-up. Whenever Angela and I had the same lunch hour, we ate together, usually at the Cozy Corner Café a few blocks away. I’d just stepped back inside my office when a ping sounded from my cell phone. I read the message. Thinking of u. XOXO.

  Me 2. I smiled as I texted back.

  I glanced at the schedule of the day’s activities. An exercise class, a current-events discussion, and a writers’ workshop. Then in the afternoon, a book discussion, a lecture on “How to Remain Beautiful as You Age,” and a food presentation of spring desserts.

  I heard a knock on my door and looked up, expecting to see Sally or Angela or Marion, the children’s librarian.

  “Come in,” I called.

  A woman who looked a few years older than me—maybe midthirties—stepped into my office. Her jacket, pants, and boots nicely set off her shapely figure. Well-styled wavy bro
wn hair framed her pretty face. Her smile was tentative, as though she was expecting a rejection of some kind.

  “Hello. I hope I’m not interrupting. I’m interested in giving a library program, and the girl at the circulation desk told me to speak to the head of programs and events and directed me to your office. Am I in the right place?”

  “You are—in the right place, that is.” I stood and held out my hand. “Hi. I’m Carrie Singleton.”

  She shook my hand briefly. “My name is Daphne Marriott.” She gave a little laugh. “No relation to the hotel chain. But I know the name Singleton.”

  “My family once owned what was the Singleton Farm outside of town. My uncle’s on the library board.” I rolled out the only other chair in my office from behind the desk my part-time assistants shared. “Please have a seat and tell me about the program you’d like to present.”

  “Of course.” Daphne cleared her throat. “I recently moved to the area. I’m starting over, so to speak. New location, new career, new life.”

  I laughed. “I can relate to that.”

  “Really?” Her eyes lit up. When she realized I wasn’t going to elaborate, she cleared her throat again. “Before I moved here, I had a near-death experience.”

  “Oh. I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “I’m all right. I’m only mentioning it because, after I kind of blinked out for a short time, I discovered I had psychic powers.”

  I nodded, wondering where this was going. Did I have a nutcase on my hands?

  Daphne must have realized my discomfort, because she continued, “I know this must sound weird to someone who’s never had an experience like this, but after I recovered from my injuries, I discovered I knew things about people and situations—things that no one told me.

  “I started giving readings. My clients found the information I shared with them to be authentic and helpful. I’d like to do that here, and I figured the best way to introduce myself to the people in the area would be to offer programs in the local libraries.” She smiled. “And the Clover Ridge Library is the prettiest library around.”

  “You mean like a séance?” I asked. “I don’t think—”

  “No.” Daphne laughed, all signs of her nervousness banished. “I don’t communicate with the dead.”

  I do, I thought.

  Daphne’s eyes widened with surprise, as if she’d read my thought. Thank goodness she didn’t pursue that. Instead she said, “I’d like to talk about the many different types of psychic abilities there are. Some psychics have the gift of divination and can foresee the future; others can heal; still others are mediums and are able to speak to the dead.”

  “And what type of psychic ability do you have?” I asked.

  “Telepathy. Clairvoyance. They put me in touch with a person’s innermost thoughts, fears, and occasionally his or her future. Honestly, it varies and depends on the person and the situation.”

  “So it depends on various factors?” How convenient.

  “I know.” Daphne smiled. “It sounds self-serving to say it depends on the person and the situation. Gives me an easy out if I’m unable to read someone who asked for my help with a problem. Did you ever watch the TV show Medium with Patricia Arquette?”

  “I’ve seen a few episodes,” I said.

  “Then you probably know the show is based on the real Allison DuBois, who claimed she helped law enforcement agencies solve crimes.”

  I nodded. “She got her information about killers through dreams.”

  “That’s right,” Daphne said. “But if you’ll remember, the dreams were never straightforward. They never revealed the entire picture or situation. They presented themselves as puzzles that Allison had to figure out in order to help her boss, the DA, ID the killer and go after him.”

  “I get it. It works sometimes.”

  “A good deal of the time,” Daphne said. “For example, I’ve gotten a pretty clear picture of you in the few minutes we’ve been talking. You’ve had your position here in the library a short time, and you thoroughly enjoy what you do. You’re in a loving relationship with a man you knew briefly as a child. Your parents are divorced, and your older brother died in a car accident.”

  My mouth fell open. “Everything you say is true, but it’s also common knowledge. Clover Ridge is a small town. We all know quite a lot about our neighbors.”

  Daphne pursed her lips. “That may be so, but I swear no one ever told me anything about you or your background.”

  Is she telling the truth? Before I could decide how to answer, Evelyn Havers, the library ghost, began to manifest a few feet from where Daphne and I were sitting. Weird! Though my little cousin Tacey and I were the only people who could see and communicate with Evelyn, she never showed up when I had someone in the office. But here she was, with a Cheshire cat grin on her face, looking extremely pleased with herself.

  “Oh!”

  I turned to Daphne. Her hand was pressed to her chest, her body still as a statue.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I sense the presence of an entity from another plane.”

  “Really? You mean a ghost?” I had no intention of explaining Evelyn to someone I’d just met.

  “Yes. An older woman, I believe, who died close by.”

  Bingo! Right on target! I pursed my lips together so I wouldn’t burst out laughing at the sight of Evelyn thrusting her fist in the air. So unlike her!

  Daphne must have thought I was frowning at her, because she said, “You don’t have to believe me. Many people can’t accept what I know to be true.” She stood. “Well, thank you for hearing me out.”

  “Wait!” I called as she opened the door, eager to make a quick getaway. “I think our patrons would enjoy hearing you talk about the different psychic abilities.”

  Daphne turned. “Really?”

  I nodded. “You’re in luck! A presenter had to cancel his program a week from next Tuesday evening. Are you interested?”

  “You bet!” She grinned. “If time permits, I’ll be happy to go around the room and give what I call minute readings.”

  “The patrons will love that.” I handed her a form. “Please fill this out ASAP. You can return it via email or bring it back here.”

  “Thank you! Thank you, Carrie.”

  For a moment, I was afraid she was going to hug me, but instead she held out her hand. As we shook, a small shock ran up my arm and I had a divination of my own—that Daphne Marriott had a troubled past, which was about to spill over into my life.

  Chapter Two

  I glared at Evelyn. “Why did you come here when you knew I had someone in the office? You nearly scared the poor woman to death.”

  “Daphne Harper! As I live and breathe! Well, I neither live nor breathe, but I like the expression. And I must say, I’m pleased that she sensed my presence!”

  My mouth fell open. “You know her?”

  “Indeed I do. I happened to be floating around the library when Daphne showed up. I recognized her though she left Clover Ridge many years ago. I decided to follow her to find out why she came back after that terrible business. And to my surprise, she ended up here in your office.”

  I couldn’t make much sense of what Evelyn was saying. “Daphne came to see me because she wants to give a program about different psychic abilities. She claims to have acquired some psychic abilities of her own after a recent near-death experience. I wondered if she was making it up until I saw how she reacted to your presence. But what terrible business are you talking about?”

  Evelyn perched on the corner of my assistants’ desk, her favorite pose whenever she paid me a visit. “It’s a sad story. Daphne comes from an unhappy, dysfunctional family.”

  I nodded. “I kind of thought so.”

  “There’s a brother, Billy, who’s two years older than Daphne. Their father drank and was abusive to their mother and the kids. When he lost his job, his wife took on a second job to pay the bills. Daphne was sixteen or seventeen whe
n her father was murdered. Killed with a knife to the gut. Daphne told the police that Billy must have done it because she’d heard them arguing an hour or so before the murder. Everyone was shocked to hear this because Daphne adored her brother. He’d protected her since she was a baby.”

  “So what happened? Was Billy convicted of his father’s murder?”

  “He was, and then released after spending a few years in prison. His case was reopened because the knife turned up when the apartment house where the Harpers had been living underwent extensive renovations. They found Chet’s blood on the knife as well as fingerprints, but they weren’t Billy’s.”

  “How sad,” I said. “I wonder why Daphne accused her brother of the crime, given the family dynamics.”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, though I never thought the poor boy capable of killing anyone.” Evelyn sent me a look that meant she was about to give me an assignment. “Carrie, Daphne’s going to need your help.”

  “With what?” I asked, but Evelyn was already disappearing from sight.

  What an eventful morning, I thought as I prepared to focus once again on library matters. I’d already met someone with psychic abilities and learned about a murder that had been committed here in Clover Ridge twenty years ago. So that was why Daphne had thought the Singleton name sounded familiar. I found it interesting that she hadn’t mentioned growing up in Clover Ridge. And I wondered if her return had anything to do with her father’s murder. If her brother was innocent, then the murderer had never been apprehended.

  I felt a rush of excitement. Did Daphne want me to find the person who had murdered her father? Perhaps her psychic abilities had informed her that I’d helped solve a few murders, one of which had been another cold case. I quickly stifled my enthusiasm as best I could. The downside of investigating homicides was putting my life in danger, which upset Dylan and John Mathers, our police chief and dear friend. I’d all but made a lifelong promise to them that I wouldn’t get involved in any more murder cases.