Lemon Tart (10 page)

“Were the two of you raised here?” Detective Cunningham asked.
Sadie shook her head and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Having
thought of Ron, she felt guilty for not telling the detective that Ron had been
at Anne’s house. She also wondered if he’d called since she’d been out. She
should have brought her cell phone, but then imagined getting a call from him
while she was standing with the detective. That would be uncomfortable. She
remembered that Cunningham had asked her a question.

“We grew up in Boulder and have one more sister between us—she
lives in New Hampshire. Neil and I moved here about twenty-seven
years ago—Neil got a vice principal position at the
high school—and Jack and Carrie moved out here a few years
later because we raved about it so much.”

“And what do you do for a living?” Detective Cunningham asked,
moving on.

Sadie nodded. “I’m a teacher—well, I was a
teacher. I taught for several years before I met Neil, quit when we adopted our
children, then went back to work after he died and the kids were in school all
day. I took early retirement so I could care for my dad when he got sick. I substitute
now; the flexibility is nice and I’ve always been a homebody at heart.”

“You do a lot of volunteer work,” he said rather than asked. “I
seem to remember your name popping up in the community section a fair amount.”

Sadie blushed. “I was thirty-seven years old when my
husband died—my kids became my life. I volunteered for anything
they were involved in, and things spiraled from there.”

“If only everyone was so generous with their time,” he said,
smiling at her. This time she knew he meant it and his sincerity made her
strangely uncomfortable.

Detective Cunningham finished writing and closed his notebook.
“I really appreciate all the information you’ve given me; it’s helpful for us
to get the background. I might need to talk with you again,” he said. “Will
that be okay?”

“Sure,” she said. She turned and let herself back into her
house, disappointed that she hadn’t told him about Ron, but unable to find the
words. She looked at the clock. It was 12:35. Ron was now an hour late. The
empty house made her stir-crazy and she wondered what on earth she
was going to do until the Bailey kids got home from school. She needed a few
groceries, but the idea of doing something so ordinary on a day like this
seemed horribly wrong—not to mention she’d already judged
Carrie for doing the same thing. The ringing phone saved her from having to
make a decision.

“Sadie?”

“Carrie,” Sadie replied, recognizing her
sister-in-law’s voice. “Are you okay?” Sadie asked. “This is
just so awful.”

“Yeah, quite the shock to wake up to. I noticed they let you in
her house,” Carrie continued. “What did they tell you?”

Grateful to have someone to talk to, Sadie told her what they’d
found. After a few minutes of Carrie listening, she concluded. “So I think
she was strangled, but I don’t know for sure and they wouldn’t tell me.”

“Wow,” Carrie said, her voice soft and obviously overwhelmed.
“I guess it just goes to show you can’t run away from your past.”

Sadie thought about that. “We don’t know that it was her past,”
she said. “We don’t know anything, really.” Except that Anne was dead. The
thought caused another pang of regret and Sadie wondered what could have been
done differently to prevent this. Could it have been prevented?

“Right,” Carrie said. “But she was certainly no shiny
penny—no one can run away from their mistakes forever.”

“I suppose not,” Sadie said, but she didn’t like the tone of
Carrie’s observations—as if Anne somehow deserved what had
happened to her. “But you’d hope for a chance at a better life once you changed
your choices.”

“I guess that depends on how many people get hurt before you
change those choices. Or if you really change at all.”

Was everyone determined to think the worst of Anne? Even with
Ron’s shocking admission of being with Anne last night, Sadie felt sorry for
the girl. She didn’t deserve this, no matter what she might have done.

The doorbell rang and spared Sadie from having to explain her
perspective or lecture her sister-in-law on being compassionate.
“I’ve got to get the door, Carrie. I’ll talk to you later.”

A few moments later she opened the door. “Officer Malloy.”

He nodded in greeting and stretched out a hand holding all
three of the library books she’d seen at Anne’s house earlier. Sadie looked at
them without making any move to take them from him, forcing Malloy to explain
himself. “CSI cleared them and the detective asked me to bring them over and
ask if you’d return them.”

“Oh,” Sadie said in surprise. “Really?” She met his eyes and he
shrugged. She pictured Cunningham giving the books to Malloy to give to her.
She’d have to make him cookies when all this was over. Was he an
oatmeal-raisin or a chocolate-chip man? She took the books
from Malloy and smiled. “Tell him thank you.”

Malloy nodded again and headed down the steps.

She shut the door and spent five minutes eagerly poring over
the books before determining there was nothing of significance in their
pages other than a blank Post-it note that seemed to have been used
as a bookmark. With a sigh, she stacked them on the table and wondered what
she’d thought she would discover. But at least she had something to do.

She changed into her favorite pair of Gap jeans and white
Skechers. After considering the sweaters in her closet, she decided to stay in
the CSU hoodie. She spent a few minutes on her hair, trying to coax some style
out of it without having to do it completely. Then she rubbed some moisturizer
over her face and applied her makeup, hoping she wouldn’t cry it all off before
the end of the day. She hadn’t showered and hated the grimy feel of her skin,
but she wasn’t going to take time to clean up now. Later.

Chapter 9

“Yes, hi,” Sadie whispered when it was her turn in line
to check books in at the library. The young librarian with
green-rimmed glasses smiled and took the books. She had only worked
at the library for a few months and Sadie didn’t know her. “Can you tell me if
there are any fines on these books?” Sadie asked, even though she knew they
were being returned early. She just wanted . . . something.

“Sure,” the woman said, running each bar code under her
scanner. Once she’d finished, she looked at the screen and then at Sadie. “No
fines—they’re all early in fact.”

“Any other fees on the account?” Sadie asked, hopeful that
perhaps there would be so she could prolong the conversation.

“Nope,” the woman said, though her expression seemed to have
fallen a little bit. The woman behind Sadie made a grunt and the librarian’s
eyes looked past Sadie and gave the woman a sympathetic smile.

“Oh,” Sadie said, having run out of questions. She stepped out
of line and looked around the aisles and aisles of books. Anne was a faithful
library patron, preferring romance novels over anything else, whereas Sadie was
a more eclectic reader, enjoying nearly every genre—except
horror and Harlequin. But as she looked at the rows of books, Sadie found
herself wandering to the racks full of gaudy covers in the romance section. The
images of half-naked women and action-figure men draped
over one another made her roll her eyes.

She turned a rack, smirking at titles like Gloria’s Awakening and The Devil in Blue Dress Boots.
There had been a time in Sadie’s life when she’d read these same books, but she
liked to think that was before she matured into a real woman. These days she
couldn’t imagine reading them anywhere but in a closet with a flashlight, just
so no one would know. It wasn’t that Sadie was a prude, it was just tacky.

Obviously the books didn’t embarrass Anne, though. Sadie looked
up at the other women in the section and tried to imagine Anne among them. She
recognized a woman who worked at the high school and instinctively tried to
hide behind one of the racks before realizing that only made her look guilty of
something.

“Excuse me.”

Sadie jumped, and turned to see a library worker with a cart
full of books waiting to move past her.

“So sorry,” Sadie stammered, then looked up and recognized the
face behind the cart.

“Oh, hi, Sadie,” the young woman whispered with a smile.

“How are you, Jean?” Sadie whispered back. Jean’s mother was on
the Red Cross committee and Sadie always helped with the biannual blood drive
at the Presbyterian church on Oak Street.

“I’m good,” Jean said with a smile as she slid a paperback into
a space on the rack. They chatted for a minute about Jean’s mother, and Jean’s
recent college graduation with her English literature degree. She had a job
lined up as an editor for a publishing house in Los Angeles come January, but
she was still working at the library until the end of the year. They ran out of
small talk about the same time a large woman scowled at them nearby. Sadie
hadn’t noticed that their voices were louder than they should be.

“Tell your mom hi from me,” Sadie whispered as Jean pushed the
cart away.

“I will,” Jean replied with a smile. Sadie watched her push the
cart to the next rack, then she looked at the newly replaced book. It was the
title Sadie had just returned—the last romance novel Anne had
ever read. Once Jean had moved on, Sadie pulled it out of the rack and looked
at it. The cover was like all the others—tawdry and certainly
trite. And yet . . . Anne had seen something of merit in it.

Chalking it up to nostalgia she couldn’t even begin to
understand, Sadie walked up to the check-out counter. The counter was
actually a big circle of countertops in the middle of the room with several
check-out stations to keep people from having to stand in line. The
new library had been built just a few years ago—Sadie had
helped with the fund-raising—and it might very well be the most
modern building in all of Garrison.

“Didn’t you just return this?” the librarian in
green-rimmed glasses asked as she took the book. Apparently she wore
many hats—checking in and checking out.

“Oh, yes, I did,” Sadie said as she handed over her library
card. “I was returning it for a friend.”

“And now it’s your turn,” the librarian said with a smile,
running the bar code on the book under the scanner. “Next time we can check it
in and check it right back out to you if you want.”

“Oh, well, I’ll keep that in mind,” Sadie said with a nod. “My
friend died this morning,” she heard herself say. Then she looked up and felt
her cheeks flush. The librarian froze, her mouth slightly open.

“I—I guess I’m looking for a connection,” Sadie
added, now anxious to get the book back and run away.

A few moments of silence hung between them while Sadie wiped
her eyes and scolded herself. What was she doing?

“I’m so sorry,” the librarian said as she tore off a receipt
and put it inside the book. Sadie put her library card back in her wallet
before taking the book and removing the white slip of paper. It had the title
of the book she’d just checked out—Enrapture at Sea—and today’s date
along with the date it was due back. It also had her name, library card number,
and a list of the other books she’d checked out last week and hadn’t returned
yet. She should have brought them with her.

“Is there . . .” She paused, quickly hid the book in
her purse, and looked up. She had certainly embarrassed herself well enough
already, she may as well finish the job. “Is there any way to get records of
what books someone has checked out?” she asked.

“Your record?”

“No,” Sadie said, allowing her eyes to fill with tears
specifically for manipulation value. “My friend, the one who had checked this
book out. I—I might want to read some of the other books she’d
liked so much.”

Much to Sadie’s relief, the woman’s face softened. “Sure,” she
said. “What’s her name?”

“Anne Lemmon—with two M’s,” Sadie said, hoping
her voice didn’t sound too eager. The librarian’s fingers clicked across the
keyboard, then paused, and then she hit one final button and the tape began to
print . . . and print . . . and print.

“She liked to read,” the librarian said, then her own cheeks
turned pink and she looked away. Sadie just smiled as if she didn’t catch the
slip into past tense. The librarian looked back at the tape, now curling around
itself. “Anne Lemmon,” she said almost under her breath. “Why does that sound
so familiar?”

“Well,” Sadie said as the tape stopped, “she did like to read
and she came in every week for story time with her son.” Sadie’s stomach
clenched like a fist. What was she doing at the library checking out romance
novels when Trevor was still out there?

“Yes,” the librarian said, distracted, “I remember a Lemmon on
the story time list. But there’s something else.” She turned and scanned the
check-out area behind her where two other librarians were busy
helping other patrons.