Read A Bookmarked Death Online
Authors: Judi Culbertson
C
OLIN
WAS
STAYING
in a condo that belonged to a friend, another professor, who was teaching in Japan for two years. I did not know what financial arrangements they had made, but Colin had left the interior exactly as it had been when he moved in. The condo was part of an upscale complex, though not gated, three miles from the farmhouse.
Driving over, it was dark enough for headlights—but light enough at the complex to see that the two allotted parking spaces in front of number 47 were vacant. Colin’s dark green BMW convertible was nowhere to be seen. I prayed he had just gone out for food. I had the key and knew he wouldn’t mind if I waited inside.
I knocked on the door anyway. To my surprise, Colin pulled it back, looking scruffy in jeans and a red Seawolves sweatshirt. The mythical animal seemed to snarl at me as I stepped inside. Why had the university picked such an ugly animal as its mascot?
“I didn’t see your car,” I stammered.
“They took it. And my laptop.
And
my phone.”
“Really?
Why?
” No wonder he hadn’t called me or picked up when I called. Thank God I hadn’t said anything about fleeing the country!
Colin closed the door behind me and sighed. “Just looking for evidence. Making sure I wasn’t doing Internet searches on how to burn my enemies alive. If the phone comes up clean—and it will—they promised to return it tomorrow. I’m lost without it.”
I stared into the room at the Asian decor. A full-sized kimono with a beautifully embroidered stork, wings unfurled, hung over a dark red couch. There were a lot of low ebony tables and brass pieces. A flat-screen TV hung between some framed calligraphy.
I felt too shaky to stand any longer and sank onto the brocaded couch. “What did they
ask
you?”
Colin pulled up a black lacquered chair across from me. “They wanted to know where I was Saturday night.”
I held my breath. “Where were you?”
“At a dinner at the Three Village Inn. Cliff Mallow, the head of the anthropology department, is retiring. He was here when I began. We didn’t always see eye to eye, but we go way back.”
I didn’t want him to start reminiscing. “What about after that?”
“I went home. I read for a while, then went to bed.”
“So you didn’t drive out to Southampton.” A terrible thing to say, but I had to know.
“Delhi.” It was a look he would give a student who had made a rude comment in class.
“I know you didn’t, I’m just trying to think like the police. They were taking Ethan’s note so seriously.”
“What note?”
“The note he sent Elisa. They didn’t tell you?” I felt as if I were on the carnival ride where the floor drops away pinning you against the wall. Any moment gravity would fail and I would crumple to the floor.
“What note?” he repeated.
I realized my fists were clenched and made myself relax my fingers. “Ethan sent Elisa a letter that she got this morning. Express mail because there was a check inside. He said that if anything happened to him to blame
you
.”
“What? That doesn’t make sense. Blame me for what? How could he know he was about to die?”
“I don’t know.”
“He mentioned me by name?”
“I don’t know why they didn’t tell you.” That was terrifying, though I wasn’t sure why. Were they holding the note back to spring on him in a courtroom setting? But no, that only happened in Perry Mason novels. Now there was some kind of disclosure law where both sides had to know the evidence before the trial.
“Because they’re just looking for a fall guy.”
Yes, that’s what they do.
“Did they ask you about the mud on the boots?”
“They showed me the boots, they practically shook them in my face! They’re going to check out the mud to see if it’s from the Southampton house when I wore them out there Saturday night. The problem is, I was never there.” He eyed me resentfully. “For that matter, it could just as easily have been you
.
The boots were at the house where you are.”
I jerked up on the sofa. “What—you’re ready to throw me under the bus? You think I’d try to frame you? Or be dumb enough to put them back outside if I’d worn them?”
“You think
I
would?”
We glared at each other for a moment, then I said, “Of course not. I told them that. How stupid do they think we are?”
“You’re sure you didn’t put them on when it was muddy just to walk around the yard?”
“Of course not. You know I hate those boots.”
“Maybe when the kids were home for the weekend they used them.”
“But that was back in March.”
“True. If they damage my car . . .” Colin’s vintage BMW was his baby.
“Your car’s the least of it. Thank God they didn’t arrest you!”
“How could they do that? On what evidence? Besides, I’m—”
“Yes, I know, you’re a very important person. You’re Colin Fitzhugh.” A joke, but I needed to step back from the abyss. “Elisa thinks—” I stopped then.
“What? She’s rushing to judgment too?”
“After that letter, she doesn’t know what to think.”
“I’ll talk to her. You have her number?”
I hesitated. I knew she wouldn’t want to talk to him. But he
was
her father. I pulled out my phone, found it, and gave it to him. “I told her you were at the house with me all Saturday night.”
“You—what?” He did not seem accusing, just as if he was trying to understand.
“Because she was sure, after Ethan’s comment, that you had set the fire. I couldn’t let her think that!”
He nodded.
“When they were on the way to your condo I thought about calling you so we could run off and just leave. Hide out somewhere.”
He actually smiled. “That doesn’t look guilty?”
“It doesn’t matter. Just until they found out who really did it. We could still go, we still have the van. Or we could just fly somewhere.”
“We wouldn’t get very far.”
I blinked at this roadblock. “Why not?”
“They have my passport.”
“Oh, God.” The net had already dropped over us.
I
SLEPT
WORSE
than ever that night, if I slept at all. When I’m upset it goes first to my stomach, then sends my mind racing like a gerbil banging against its wire cage. A caged creature who knows there is no escape but can’t stop trying. I twisted back and forth under the quilt and blanket that were much too hot and finally set my arm free into the chilly night.
Why couldn’t I have Colin’s confidence that justice would prevail? He knew he hadn’t killed Ethan and Sheila would never take any life. He was appalled by the death penalty and lectured me about it when I wavered over some horrible serial killer, But though I knew he was innocent, the part of me that wanted to run and hide had no faith that it would all work out. If someone had planted the boots to make Colin look guilty, why would they stop there? What if they had tampered with the red plastic gas can he kept in his trunk, to make it seem as if it had been recently filled and emptied? I had no idea who “they” were except that they were the real murderers of the Crosleys.
I suddenly remembered the noises I had heard early Monday morning, a car door clicking shut, the sound of footsteps on the gravel driveway. Could it have been someone returning the boots? The house had been dark and they would have assumed I was sleeping. It was only chance and anxiety that I had not been.
If the police arrested Colin, what would it do to our already fragile family? Hannah would suffer the most. It would have been better for her if we’d never found her sister. She would drop out of veterinary school, start collecting abandoned animals, and live like a hermit in a shack somewhere in upstate New York. She wouldn’t find it such a bad life perhaps, but I would mourn what she had lost.
The world tilted dangerously. My exposed arm was suddenly icy cold, its chill threatening to freeze the rest of my body with it. I jerked the arm back under the covers as if out of danger and rubbed it back to life.
Things couldn’t get any worse.
Don’t ever tell yourself that.
A
T
4
A
.
M
. I was awake, as alert as if someone had pulled me out of bed and slammed me against the wall. The mud! One thing they were checking Colin’s car and the boots for was the Southampton dirt. If they found nothing in the BMW, my van was where they would look next. And what would they find? Mud from when I walked around the Crosley house Monday morning and climbed back into the driver’s seat. I could protest that that had been the only time I had been there, but why would they believe me?
I had watched enough television procedurals to know that they did not need a large sample. CSI was so good that a few grains could be identified as coming from a specific locale. Put Jeffrey Deaver’s Lincoln Rhyme on the case and you would barely need that. If they couldn’t prove Colin had driven his car out there, they would make a case for his using my van. Or my using the van.
Panicked, I pushed out of bed and pulled on the jeans and sweatshirt that were draped over the rocking chair. It was still dark outside, which I found reassuring until I realized I would have to turn on some lights. My small portable vacuum that I used to remove dust from cartons and the edges of books was out in the barn.
I crept down the stairs into the kitchen, crept as stealthily as if someone was watching, with a trail of cats behind me whining for food. I ignored them and felt around for the flashlight magnetized to the side of the refrigerator. Without turning it on, I stumbled down the back porch steps and moved toward the barn. Slowly my eyes adjusted to the early morning. The waning moon was full, though the blackness of the pond made me think of pits of damnation.
I unlocked the barn and closed the door firmly before deciding I was being ridiculous and switched on the flashlight. I could be out in my Book Barn in the early hours for any reason. Still, the black corners beyond the small beam were menacing, filled with ghostly police detectives. If one of them had suddenly stepped forward to accuse me, I would have screamed, but not been totally surprised.
The shop vac was on the edge of the worktable, a large silver egg laid by an electric hen. I switched it on experimentally to check the batteries, and the drone was much too loud. Hastily I flipped it off. What was I doing? Tampering with—no,
removing
misleading evidence.
Carrying the vacuum handle in one hand, the flashlight in the other, I slipped out of the barn without locking it. Daylight was now edging the sky just enough to make the way to the house visible. I thought I was moving silently until the German shepherd next door gave a yapping bark, freezing me on the path. I imagined the neighborhood waking and coming to life like actors at the beginning of a play. The retired cop across the street, everybody’s friend, would hurry over to see if I needed help with my van.
“Shh, Mamie,” I said as loud as I dared. “It’s okay. It’s just me.”
Either that calmed her down or I stopped hearing her. I was as alert for other sounds as Miss T stalking a mouse. I stayed in the shadow of the house until I reached the van, then pressed the handle down gently. When I opened the door the light inside flashed a brief greeting before I reached in and switched it off.
I trained the flashlight on the floor beside the gas pedal and brake. As I had imagined, there was a dried tan residue, sprinkled across other grit that had accumulated over time. Rather than work with the door open, I closed it softly, then went around to the passenger side and climbed in. Bending over, I switched on the vacuum and sucked up everything I could see. I had just finished when I realized it would look suspicious to have only that area vacuumed, and went on a cleaning rampage, scouring all the floors and the seats. To do so entailed moving jackets and umbrellas, even a carton of books, but I did not stop until the van was as clean as when I bought it six years ago. And it had been used then.
I moved around to the back door, carrying the vacuum carefully. Then I went into the bathroom off the kitchen, opened the bottom, and shook it over the toilet. Fortunately the little cloth bag had already been half full, so I did not have to worry about Southampton residue left at the bottom. I flushed the toilet twice, then went upstairs, and flung myself on the double bed. I had read somewhere that resting was almost as good as sleeping. Surprisingly, I dozed off.
T
WO
HOURS
LATER
, acting under a territorial imperative of my own, I drove out to Southampton. At 8:30 a.m. I called the Crosleys’ caretaker, Mairee Jontra. As I pressed in her number, I wondered what kind of name Mairee was. Made-up, of course. On the other hand, what kind of a name was Delhi? I didn’t bother to explain it unless people asked, and most people didn’t. My parents’ dream had been to go to India as Christian missionaries. My father had accepted the call to the church in Princeton with the caveat that as soon as the mission field details were worked out, the Methodists would have to find themselves a new pastor.
Only it had never happened. Once partitioning was a reality and India had rid itself of the British pestilence, the government was reluctant to allow other white faces in. They were no doubt sick of being told how to live. By then the idea of foreigners coming to convert the “natives” was losing traction all over the world. If my father had had a specific skill, medicine or engineering, he might have had an entree. But he had been a scholar, and a religious scholar at that.
All I know is that it did not work out. My sister and I were born when they were still actively trying to get to India. They named me Delhi, and my twin Patience, as if to remind themselves where they wanted to go and the attitude they needed to cultivate.
Mairee Jontra answered her phone brightly. “Mairee here!”
“Hi. My name is Delhi Laine. I was wondering if I could talk to you.”
“If it’s about engaging me, I’m afraid you’ll have to speak to the agency directly. You can ask them for me, I’ll be pleased if you do, but they do all the hiring. I can give—”
“No, I need to ask you about some people you worked for.”
I could feel her wariness crackling across the line. “I really can’t discuss our clientele. I’m sure you understand.”
“I’m asking on behalf of Elisa Crosley.”
“Elisa? Oh, my God, what a terrible thing to happen!
Unbelievable.
I can’t get my head around it, Ethan was one of my favorite people. How is poor Elisa doing?”
I sighed. “She’s holding up. But she has some questions she wanted me to ask you. And since I live out here . . .” I let my voice trail away.
“You were a friend of the family?”
“Not exactly. But Elisa is my daughter’s best friend. She was with her when she heard the news.”
“Oh, my God. What do you need to know?”
“It would be better if I could see you for a few minutes.”
“Oh, Lord, today is crazy. So’s tomorrow for that matter. And probably the rest of my life.”
“Just five minutes?”
“Okay.” She seemed to be thinking. “I’m due out on Meadow Lane to let some painters in. They aren’t coming until nine, so if you could get there immediately . . .”
“Just tell me where.”
M
EADOW
L
ANE
RUNS
parallel to the Atlantic Ocean, which can be glimpsed if you are driving only in snatches between mansions, guesthouses, garages, and greenhouses. My twin sister Patience’s vacation home is in the opposite direction, east on Dune Road, and more modest—if you can consider a house that has seven bedrooms and multiple bathrooms a cozy hideaway.
This house I braked at did not look like the typical gray-shingled homes that Southampton was known for. It was more recent, no doubt the work of a well-known architect, and had round ends like fat silos with a recessed middle section. The windows in the center part of the house were very large and lined up with those on the beach side to give a view of the ocean.
The slender figure standing on the slate steps waved.
I waved back, surprised. The title “caretaker” had evoked the image of an old family retainer coming to the house in advance to make sure everything was in order, and stocking the refrigerator with provisions from
Barefoot Contessa
. In my fantasy she would leave a plate of homemade muffins and jam, perhaps even have dinner in the refrigerator for whenever the family arrived.
Mairee upended my fantasy. She was my age, with a mop of dark red curls and an expressive mouth. She managed to look elegant in a peacoat and jeans—elegant and harassed at the same time, her iPhone an extension of her arm.
“Hey there! You’re a book dealer?”
I glanced back at my dented white van with its blue logo, “Got Books?” on the doors. “Right.”
“Great! Give me your card. People are always looking to downsize and they never know what to do with the books.”
Perfect. I was always looking to upsize my collection. Quickly I reached into my bag and extracted one. My sister’s husband, Ben, was always urging me to get a more professional-looking business card but I was too attached to mine to do so. It showed Raj sniffing at a stack of leather-bound books with my “Got Books?” slogan. My information was on the other side.
Mairee unlocked the door and brought me into a living room that overlooked the ocean. We sat side by side on a pale cream leather sofa. The furniture was understated, neutrals and glass tables, a stone fireplace built into a wall to work from both sides. I saw from the plastered walls and some of the woodwork that the house was older than I’d first thought.
“We haven’t had a fatal fire out here in
years
,” Mairee announced. “An artist died recently in a house fire in Sagaponack, but that’s miles away. You think Elisa will rebuild?”
“I never thought about it. It’s hard to imagine she’d want to be out here by herself.”
“It’s a great location.”
“The house may need to come down.”
Mairee nodded, but she seemed to be listening for the crunch of vehicles arriving on gravel at the same time. “That house was in the family forever.”
“When did the Crosleys let you know they were coming?”
“They didn’t! That’s what’s so weird.” She put her head back on the leather and closed her eyes as if she had already put in a long day. “The first I knew they were even out here was when I heard about the fire.”
“Was it unusual that you wouldn’t get things ready for them?”
“Unheard of.” She considered, straightening up. “At least, let’s say it never happened before. But they’ve never come out this early before either.”
I hesitated. Did she have scruples about talking about dead clients? I decided to find out. “You got along with them okay?”
Mairee sprawled back against the sofa and closed her eyes again, red curls against cream. “I thought so. Ethan was a doll. Sheila was . . . difficult. I never saw where she got off being so fussy, wanting everything up to these impossible magazine standards. It was an older house and had the problems you’d expect. Unless you ripped out the bathrooms, which Ethan refused to do, you’re going to have off-color grout. It’s a fact of life. But she blamed the cleaning service for not getting it snow white.”
I thought of Lady Macbeth, obsessively trying to whiten her hands, haunted by bloodstains no one else could see. “Out, out, damn spot,” I murmured.
“Exactly! She was hipped on everything looking perfect. Here her father was a construction worker. Ethan was the one with the background.” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “I’ve said too much.”
“What kind of marriage did they have?”
“Not my kind. I mean, he was away a lot, totally focused on his career. When he was home they were never alone, the guys who worked for him stayed here too. Craig, he was a few years older than Elisa, and I forget the other one’s name. But Sheila was the one who kept the home fires burning
. Oof
. My bad.”
She looked at me and I laughed. “How long were they your clients?”
“Probably ten years?”
“What did you think of Will?”
Mairee was off and running again, a colt that refused to be confined in the paddock. “That poor kid? He tried, he really did. But it was tough to be a Crosley. Ethan was disappointed that he wasn’t a better student and Sheila was always comparing him to their friends’ kids. And not in a good way.
Elisa
was the one they thought was perfect. Yet even with her—Sheila wasn’t exactly the affectionate type. All she cared about was how things looked to other people.”
“Do you think Will was into drugs?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. What else was there for him? He was good at making things, but nobody cared about that.”
We heard the rumble of the truck at the same time. Mairee jumped up. “Speaking of perfect, we have until Memorial Day to get everything in shape here. We still have to install the scent diffusers.”
“The what?”
She laughed at my expression. “It’s the latest thing. The air goes through the house’s ductwork and gives off a different scent in every room. Sandalwood in here, Fresh Linen in the bedrooms.”
“Pumpkin Pie in the kitchen?”
“Exactly.”
I thought of my own house. Book Dust in the barn, Cat Box when I wasn’t paying attention.
Outside, pushing through the sand to my van, I saw workmen sliding the ladders out of a large truck. They didn’t have a clever business name or a cartoon character printed on the side of their van, just heavy-duty tools and no-nonsense faces. These guys were the real deal. I hoped I was too.
A
S
LONG
AS
I was out east, I decided to visit my favorite Hamptons booksellers—the WOOFF (Welfare of Our Furry Friends) thrift shop, the old Bridgehampton Fire Department that now housed rooms of books, and the Ladies Village Improvement Society in Easthampton. They accepted donations from the community and over the years I had picked up some prizes. The prices weren’t the most reasonable—nothing beats an estate sale where every book is fifty cents—but like most dealers, I was mindful that it would take only one treasure to change my life.
My hopes had just been refueled by the story of a scrap metal dealer who nearly melted down a Fabergé egg for the gold, then decided it was too pretty to destroy. For his good taste he went on to collect millions. That’s what I fantasized happening to me. Nothing on such a grand scale, but perhaps a short story handwritten by Edgar Allan Poe or a missing Massachusetts Bay hymnal inscribed by Cotton Mather.
That day I found no Russian eggs, no trillion-dollar manuscripts, but I turned up some vintage art catalogs. Three were inscribed by the artists, which alone made the trip worthwhile.
I
WAS
WRA
PPING
books to mail in the early afternoon when there was a quick knock at the barn door. People rarely came here looking for books, but when they did I invited them in to browse. I kept the books that were already cataloged on the downstairs shelves.
When I opened the door it was not a bibliophile but Ruth Carew. She was by herself today and wearing a pantsuit the pale yellow of Long Island corn. This jacket seemed a little grimy around the cuffs, but at least there were no food stains on the lapels.
“We’re interested in examining your van and your computers,” she told me bluntly.
I didn’t say anything.
“We can get a warrant, of course.”
Why don’t you do that?
“This just seems easier.”
“You can look at my van in the driveway,” I said. “It’s unlocked. But I need my laptop for my book business.”
“Is that your only computer?”
“Yes.”
She eyed me as if dubious that I could conduct a business with just one laptop. “Do you have a smartphone?”
Did a phone keep a record of Internet searches? Or was she looking for calls to the Crosleys? “Yes, but I need that too.”
“We can get a warrant,” she repeated.
“Do whatever you have to.” With no evidence of any criminal activity on my part, I doubted a judge would give her one.
I didn’t slam the door in her face. I waited until she had turned and was walking down the gravel path before closing it.