Valentine Murder Read online

  VALENTINE MURDER

  Sitting down at the table opposite Zoe, Lucy stirred her hot cocoa. Thank goodness the other kids were still at school—she wasn’t ready to deal with the noise and confusion they brought home with them.

  “Careful—it’s hot,” she warned Zoe.

  “I know, Mom.”

  “Good.”

  Lucy lifted the mug to her lips. It felt heavy and she used two hands so it wouldn’t spill. This is ridiculous, she thought, feeling that all her energy had somehow drained from her body.

  If only she didn’t feel so responsible. She knew it was absurd. She was the newest person on the board; she hadn’t had time to do anything. But still she couldn’t help feeling that she should have done something to prevent Bitsy’s death. How could such a thing happen? And in the library of all places?

  They should have had a security system. But if one of the directors did kill Bitsy, as Horowitz seemed to think, it wouldn’t have made any difference. Lucy put her head in her hands. How could she go back? How could she ever face those people, wondering all the time if one of them was a murderer?

  There was only one way she could get through this, and it was by finding the murderer as soon as possible. . . .

  Books by Leslie Meier

  Mistletoe Murder

  Tippy Toe Murder

  Trick or Treat Murder

  Back to School Murder

  Valentine Murder

  Christmas Cookie Murder

  Turkey Day Murder

  Wedding Day Murder

  Birthday Party Murder

  Father’s Day Murder

  Star Spangled Murder

  New Year’s Eve Murder

  Bake Sale Murder

  Candy Cane Murder

  St. Patrick’s Day Murder

  Mother’s Day Murder

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Valentine MURDER

  A Lucy Stone Mystery

  LESLIE MEIER

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  VALENTINE MURDER

  Books by Leslie Meier

  Title Page

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  Teaser chapter

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Teaser chapter

  Copyright Page

  PROLOGUE

  Once upon a time there was a poor kitchen maid named Cinderella . . .

  On the day she died, Bitsy Howell didn’t want to get out of bed. Her bedroom was cold, for one thing. It was always cold, thanks to her landlady, Mrs. Withers, who turned the heat down to fifty-five degrees every night to save money on heating oil. It didn’t matter one bit to Mrs. Withers that it was the coldest winter in twenty years.

  And if the cold bedroom wasn’t reason enough to stay in bed, well, the fact that it was Thursday made getting up especially difficult. Bitsy hated Thursdays.

  Thursday was story hour day at the Broadbrooks Free Library where she was the librarian. Just thinking about story hour depressed Bitsy. She found it practically impossible to keep ten or fifteen pre-school children focused on a storybook. Thanks to TV and video games, they had no attention span whatsoever. They fidgeted and wriggled in their seats, they picked their noses, they did everything except what Bitsy wanted them to do which was to sit quietly and listen to a nice story followed by a fingerplay or song, or maybe a simple craft project.

  This Thursday, however, happened to be the last Thursday in January. That meant the library’s board of directors would meet, as they did on the third Thursday of every month. Bitsy would not only have to cope with story hour, but with the directors, too.

  Bitsy had come to the tiny Broadbrooks Free Library in Tinker’s Cove, Maine, from a big city library. One factor in her decision to leave had been her poor relationship with her boss, the head librarian. Little had she known that she was swapping one rather difficult menopausal supervisor for seven meddlesome and inquisitive directors.

  Bitsy sighed and heaved herself out of bed. She padded barefoot around her rather messy bedroom, looking for her slippers. She found one underneath a magazine and the other tangled in a pair of sweat pants. One of these days, she promised herself, she would get organized and pick up the clothes that were strewn on the floor. Not today, of course. She didn’t have time today.

  On her way to the bathroom she raised the shade and peered out the window, blinking at the bright winter sunlight. Shit, she muttered. It had snowed again.

  Arriving at the library, Bitsy studied the new addition which contained a children’s room, workroom, and conference room. It was undeniably handsome, and badly needed, but it had been a dreadful bone of contention.

  When she had first come to Tinker’s Cove the library was a charming but antiquated old building that was far too small for the needs of the community. Getting the board to agree to build the addition, and then raising the money for it had been a struggle, one Bitsy wouldn’t want to repeat. Now, if she could only get them to take the next step and buy some computers so the library could go on-line.

  “Tiny baby steps,” she muttered as she unlocked the door. Flicking on the lights as she went, Bitsy headed for her office. She had an hour or so before the library opened and she wanted to have her facts and figures straight before the board meeting.

  Pushing aside a few of the papers that cluttered her desk, she set down a bag containing a Styrofoam cup of coffee, with cream and sugar, and a couple of sugary jelly doughnuts. She draped her coat over an extra chair and took her seat, flicking on the computer. Soon she was happily immersed in numbers and percentages, all the while slurping down her coffee and scattering powdered sugar all over her desk.

  At ten minutes past ten she heard someone banging at the main entrance and realized she hadn’t unlocked the doors.

  “I’m so sorry,” she apologized as she pulled open the heavy oak door. “I lost track of the time.”

  “No problem, my dear,” said Gerald Asquith, smiling down at her benignly. Tall and gray-haired, dressed in a beautifully tailored cashmere overcoat, he was the retired president of Winchester College and one of the members of the board of directors. “I know I’m a bit early, but I want to go over the final figures for the addition before the meeting.”

  “Of course,” said Bitsy. “I’ll get the file for you.”

  Bitsy had hoped Gerald would seat himself at the big table in the reference room, but instead he hung his coat up on the rack by the door and followed her into her office. When she gave him the file he sat down at her desk, displacing her, and began studying it.

  Bitsy gave a little shrug and headed for the children’s section. She had to come up with something for story hour anyway; it was in less than an hour, at eleven.

  She was leafing through a lavishly illust
rated edition of Cinderella when she felt a presence behind her. Turning, she greeted Corney Clarke with a polite smile. Corney, an attractive blonde of indeterminate age, ran a busy catering service and called herself a “lifestyle consultant.” She was also a member of the board of directors.

  “Can I help you?” asked Bitsy, mindful of her status as an employee.

  “No. I came a little early to see the new addition. It’s a big improvement, isn’t it?” said Corney, walking around the sunny area, admiring the low bookshelves and child-sized seating.

  “It sure is,” agreed Bitsy. “We must have been the only library in the state without a children’s room.”

  “It must be fun doing story hour, now, in such nice surroundings,” surmised Corney.

  “Oh, yes,” said Bitsy, attempting to sound enthusiastic. “Today we’re reading Cinderella.

  “Oh.” Corney wrinkled her forehead in concern. “I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but are you sure that’s a good choice?”

  “The children like it . . .” began Bitsy.

  “Well, of course they do. But does it send the right message?”

  “It’s just a fairy tale.” Bitsy bit her lip. Personally, she didn’t think every story had to have a socially redeeming message, and she wasn’t sure Corney was the right person to decide what was suitable for young children, either. After all, she was childless and never married, though not from lack of effort.

  “Well, we don’t want our little girls growing up and thinking life is a fairy tale, do we? We don’t want them to wait for Prince Charming to rescue them from the kitchen—we want them to become self-actualizing, don’t we?” Corney gave Bitsy an encouraging smile, and patted her hand. “I’m sure you can find something more suitable.” She paused for a moment and came up with a suggestion. “Like The Little Engine that Could,” she said, turning and striding off in the direction of the office.

  Bitsy rolled her eyes and replaced Cinderella on the shelf. Pulling out one volume after another, she dismissed them. Children’s literature was so insipid these days. Everything had to have a positive, meaningful message. She wanted something with a little bite. Something exciting. She opened a battered copy of Hansel and Gretel and began turning the pages. This ought to keep the little demons’ attention, she thought, admiring a lurid illustration of the tiny Hansel and Gretel cringing in terror as the grinning witch opened the oven door.

  “Say, Bitsy, do you know where those figures for the addition are?”

  Bitsy closed the book and turned to face Hayden Northcross, another member of the board of directors. Hayden was a small, neat man who was a partner in a prestigious antiques business that was known far beyond Tinker’s Cove.

  “Gerald’s got them, in my office,” said Bitsy.

  “I’ll see if he’s through with them,” said Hayden, turning to go. “Say, what’s that?”

  “Hansel and Gretel. For story hour.”

  “Oh, my dear! Not Hansel and Gretel!” exclaimed Hayden, throwing up his hands in horror.

  “No? Why not?” inquired Bitsy, tightening her grip on the storybook and starting a slow mental count to ten.

  “Not unless you want to traumatize the poor things,” said Hayden. “I’ll never forget how frightened I was when Mumsy read it to me. I think it may have affected my entire attitude toward women.” He cocked an eyebrow and nodded meaningfully.

  Bitsy wasn’t quite sure how serious he was. Hayden and his business partner, Ralph Love, had also been domestic partners for years. Hayden thought it great fun to shock the more conservative residents of Tinker’s Cove by flaunting his homosexuality.

  “It’s just a story,” said Bitsy, defending her choice. “I’ll be sure to remind them it’s make-believe.”

  “I’m warning you. You’re playing with fire,” said Hayden, waggling his finger at her. “That book contains dangerous themes of desertion and cannibalism—the mothers are sure to object.”

  “You’re probably right,” said Bitsy, putting the book back on the shelf.

  “You know I am,” said Hayden, flashing her a smile. “See you at the meeting.”

  The meeting, thought Bitsy, biting her lip. That was another sore point. The fact that the board met at the same time Bitsy was occupied with story hour was not coincidental. She was convinced it was their way of letting her know she was not a decision maker. She was just the hired help, allowed to join the meeting only for the last half hour to give her monthly report.

  It hadn’t always been like that. When she first took the job, the board had sought her advice, and had adopted her suggestion that the library be expanded. But as time passed they seemed to grow less receptive to her views, and began easing her out of their meetings. They’d also become increasingly intrusive, always poking their noses into her work.

  Bitsy checked her watch and resumed her search. She had better find something fast; it was already a quarter to eleven and little Sadie Orenstein had arrived. She was slowly slipping a big stack of books through the return slot in the circulation desk, one by one, while her mother studied the new books. The Orensteins were ferocious readers.

  Pulling out book after book, she shook her head and shoved them back on the shelf. It seemed as if she had read them all, over and over. Absolutely nothing appealed until she found an old favorite, Rumpelstiltskin.

  She smiled at the picture of the irate dwarf on the cover. The kids would like it, too, she thought. She would have them act it out and they could stamp their feet just like Rumpelstiltskin. Tucking the book under her arm, and telling Sadie she’d be right back, she hurried to the office. She’d just remembered that she had left a file open on the computer and wanted to close it.

  There she found Ed Bumpus, yet another member of the board of directors, busy disassembling the copy machine. Ed was a big man and when he bent over the machine his shirt and pants parted, revealing rather more of his hairy backside than she wanted to see. She stared out the window at a snow-covered pine tree.

  “We want copies of the addition finances for the meeting, but the danged machine won’t work,” explained Ed. He was a contractor and never hesitated to reach for a screwdriver.

  “That’s funny. It worked fine yesterday. Maybe it’s out of paper. Or needs toner. Did you check?”

  “What kind of idiot do you take me for? Of course I checked!” snapped Ed, growing a bit red under his plaid flannel shirt collar.

  “We’ll have to call for service, then,” said Bitsy, leaning over Gerald to ease open her desk drawer. “You can make copies at the coin machine by the front desk. Here’s the key.”

  “Could you be a doll and do it for me?” Ed gave her his version of an ingratiating smile.

  Still leaning awkwardly over Gerald, Bitsy reached for the mouse and clicked it, closing the file. Then she took the report from Ed. More children had gathered for story hour—she could hear their voices. They would just have to wait a few minutes. She was not going to risk being insubordinate to one of the directors, especially Ed.

  When she returned she found him lounging in the spare chair, sitting on top of her coat, and joking with Gerald, who was still sitting at her desk. What a pair, she thought, annoyed at the way they made themselves at home in her office.

  “Here you go,” she said, handing him the papers and turning to go. She really had to get story hour started.

  “So you’re reading Rumpelstiltskin to them today?” inquired Gerald, who was still sitting at her desk. His tone was friendly—he was just making conversation. Now that he was retired he had all the time in the world.

  “I think they’ll like it,” said Bitsy, eager to get out to the children. Unsupervised, there was no telling what they might get up to.

  “Well, I don’t think it’s a very good idea. It’s a horrible story,” said Ed. “It used to make my little girls cry.”

  “Really?” Bitsy kept her voice even. She was determined not to let him know how irritated she was.

  “In fact, I
don’t even think it belongs in the library. With all the money we spend on new books I don’t know why you’re keeping a nasty old book like that. Just look at it—it’s all worn out.”

  “I guess you’re right,” said Bitsy, who knew the acquisitions budget was a sore spot with Ed, who favored bricks and mortar over books. His objection, however, reminded her of a box of new material that had arrived the day before but hadn’t been opened yet.

  “I’m just going down to the workroom for a minute,” she said, more to herself than the directors. Grabbing the box of art supplies and taking a pile of red construction paper from the corner of her desk, she quickly left the office and hurried through the children’s room, giving the assembled mothers and children a cheerful wave.

  “I’ll be right with you—we’re making Valentines today,” she called, opening the door to the stairs that led to the lower level. She rushed down, hearing her footsteps echo in the poured concrete stairwell, but caught her foot on the rubber edging of the bottom step. She fell forward, twisting her ankle and bumping her head painfully on the doorknob. The sheets of red paper cascaded around her; the coffee can containing child-safe scissors clattered to the concrete floor and crayons rolled in every direction.

  Groaning slightly, she pressed her hands to her forehead and sat down on the next to last step, waiting impatiently for the blinding agony to pass. Using a trick she’d picked up in a stress management workshop, she concentrated on her breathing, keeping her breaths even. Gradually, the pain receded. She unclenched her teeth and blinked her eyes. Grasping the handrailing, she pulled herself to her feet, only to feel a stabbing pain in her ankle. Conscious that she was already late for story hour, she tried putting her weight on it even though the pain made her wince. The ankle held and she limped through the dark and empty conference room and on into the brand new workroom. The workroom, unlike the conference room, had windows and she squinted her eyes against the bright sun. She bent over the box, which was sitting on the floor, and yanked at the tape.