As Richard Bishop stood in the aisles between shelves 500 to 513 and 513.1 to 529, he wondered if somehow, Malachi Ezekiel Mortensen appreciated the fact that the library bore his name. Hardly anyone knew that the late Episcopal minister had founded the Chester County, Pennsylvania town of Bellwether in 1777. Having a library named after him 100 years following his death was the closest he came to achieving immortality.
Richard glanced at the title of one of the books that he was putting back on the shelf. Science and the Imagination. He found himself drifting once again, this time back to a song by the Temptations.
. . .but it was just my imagination, runnin’ away with me. It was just my imagin-a-ation, runnin’ away with me.
“Richard!” boomed the voice of head librarian Jane Braxton.
“Would you please stop?”
Richard stopped, and looked at her. He blinked like a deer staring into headlights. “Stop what? he asked.
The middle-aged woman stood sternly several feet away, her arms folded like an impatient school marm. “You know what,” she chided succinctly. “You were doing it again. Last week you subjected the women’s rotary to your rendition of You Ain’t Nothin' But a Hound Dog.”
“I’ll try and be more conscious of it,” he replied sheepishly.
“Please do,” Jane said. She turned to walk away, then remembered something. “Did you set up the reading room downstairs?”
"25 chairs and two full coffee pots," Richard replied.
"The seminar starts at noon," she informed him.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Richard muttered.
His sarcasm was not lost on Jane. “Being that you’re a man, I don’t imagine that you could appreciate sensitive and poignant literature. Have you ever read anything by Alyce Law?”
“Two of her books,” Richard admitted. “On Bonnie’s recommendation.”
He shrugged. “I wasn’t impressed.”
“Well, I think if a woman writes 23 books in five years, they are definitely worth reading,” Jane said. “Your wife is a better judge of literature than you.”
“That may be,” Richard acquiesced, returning to the pile of books on the cart next to him. He failed to see what relevance gender had to literary merit, but declined to debate feminism with Jane. Satisfied that she had made her point, his stuffy boss headed back to her office.
Richard waited downstairs in the reading room, seated next to an easel with a poster that proclaimed "Writing the Romance Novel. With Chester County's own Alyce Law. Sunday at noon." He opened Whispers at Midnight, by his favorite mystery writer Sam Stamm. The ticking of his wristwatch seemed especially loud and distracting, but as he turned one page, then another, the noise dissipated into the surrounding silence.
Pullington descended the stairs slowly, feeling the dust of four years clearing away as his hand slid cautiously down the banister. Petrified of stepping on a creaky board, he held his breath until he finally came to the bottom of the steps. Four feet in front of him dangled a string for an overhead light bulb. With agonizing slowness, he reached up and pulled it with his thumb and forefinger. As he did so, a cry rang out from the darkness, a voice clear and filled with despair.
What are you doing?
What was he doing?
Richard!
Richard?
"Richard, would you please answer me?" Jane's voice punctured his solitude.
Alarmed, he nearly dropped his paperback. "Yes?" he replied, looking up at her awkwardly.
"What are you doing?" she repeated. "You don't plan to sit there reading through the whole seminar, do you?"
"No, of course not," Richard replied. "I'll go upstairs to my desk."
"No you won't," Jane insisted. "That would be an insult to Mrs. Law. I'd like you to wait by the entrance and greet her when she arrives. Lucretia should be here in a few minutes. She can handle the reference desk."
By 11:55, Jane had herded the twenty attendees –17 women and three men- downstairs. Two of the men had been dragged there by their wives. If Bonnie hadn't been visiting her mother, she would have come as well, and probably forced Richard to pay attention.
Richard remained dutifully at his post at the main entrance. The automatic door slid open to a admit a thin, blonde woman of 31, clad in a flowing green dress and stiletto heels. Richard caught a potent whiff of perfume as she swaggered by him.
Extending his hand he began, "Hello. You must be Alyce Law. I'm Richard Bishop, the assistant librarian here at-"
"Arnold, the girl is lazy and dumb. . .Because I don't have time for household chores."
Puzzled by the incongruous response, Richard finally observed that she had a cell phone glued to her right ear.
". . . Yes, I suppose that I can put up with her, but I don't want to hear any more of her smart remarks. . .She's coming in at 12:30 today, right?"
Alyce Law continued her conversation as she took the steps down to the reading room. Shaking his head, Richard followed. Terminating her conversation brusquely, she stuffed the phone into a white pocketbook.
Brimming with adulation, Jane accosted Alyce.
"Welcome to Mortensen Public Library, Mrs. Law. I'm Jane Braxton. I love your books. I've read all 23," she gushed.
"Actually, I've written 24," Alyce informed her.
“Oh, well, I’ve read all 24, then,” Jane stammered. Clasping her hands together in front of her chest, Jane said, “I guess you’re ready to get started?”
Jane stepped behind the podium, while Alyce waited beside her. “We are very fortunate to have with us today Alyce Law, president of the Chester County Romance Writers’ Association. As her readers will know, Mrs. Law received the prestigious Ruth Rice Richardson Award in 1999 for best romance novel, and her latest book, The Chambers of My Heart, won the 2002 Pewter Prize. Today, she has generously agreed to give us an hour out of her busy schedule. Please give her a warm round of applause.”
Generously agreed? Richard thought as he clapped half-heartedly. Sure, after Jane managed to convince the Bellwether board of supervisors to take $1,000 from the budget to pay her. Still, he thought it prudent to curtail his daydreaming this time.
He could imagine Jane’s reaction if he started singing in the middle of Alyce’s seminar.
Without so much as acknowledging Jane, Alyce began. Richard wasn’t expecting any great literary insight, and he was not disappointed. Aside from the vague replies to Jane’s occasional questions about such trivialities as character, setting and mood, Alyce spent the first half hour explaining how she summoned her muse by soaking in a bubble bath laced with frankincense, jasmine and Epsom salt, while Mozart’s violin concertos wafted in the background. Then she recounted in excruciating detail her childhood love affair with romance novels, and how she dreamed of writing them one day. She skillfully deflected a question about who her favorite author was, saying that by singling out one, she was disparaging the rest. Jane was non-plussed. The audience was enthralled. Richard was bored.
Then after the longest half-hour of Richard’s life, something wonderful happened. Glancing at her watch, Alyce announced that she would have to cut the seminar short. “This is very embarrassing,” she explained to her bewildered fans. “but I’m afraid I’ve left the oven on at home.”
"Again, I'm very sorry," she said, amid murmurs of disbelief and disappointment.
"Could you call home to see if anyone's there?" Jane suggested. "Maybe your husband's home."
Alyce opened her mouth to reply, then looked at Richard out of the corner of her eye. "Yes, I suppose I could." She reached down and picked up her pocketbook, which she had placed on a shelf on the inside of the podium. As she pulled out her cell phone, Richard noticed that she was shaking slightly. Alyce hesitated for a second, as if trying to remember something. Then she pushed ten buttons, 22 pairs of eyes on her. Alyce waited on the line. Ten seconds. 15. 30. Finally she terminated the call.
"I had a girl coming in to clean today," she told everyone. "She should've been there by now, but there's no answer."
With another brief apology, Alyce headed back up the stairs, Jane following close behind. "Please give me a ring to let me know if everything's all right," Jane called after her. "We'll be open till 5:00 p.m."
Alyce didn't reply. Jane watched in disbelief as her abrupt guest slid into a brand new Toyota Corolla and sped off.
Richard was engrossed in the Arts and Leisure section of The Bellwether, a 12-ounce cup of cold coffee in front of him. He had been trying to find a review of Our Sisters and Brothers, which was playing at the Omnibus Theater in Haversham. In the process, he had read three other articles, and now didn’t even remember why he had opened to the Arts and Leisure section first, without even glancing at the front page.
As happened so many other mornings at about 9:00, the loud voice of Jane Braxton jarred him back to the here and now.
“It’s terrible, Richard! My God, can you believe it?”
Richard looked up sympathetically from his paper. “I know Jane,” he replied gently. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about what happened.”
Jane shook her head. “I wonder how safe any of us are.”
Richard laughed politely. “Jane, I’m sure we’re all perfectly safe. Life is full of little disappointments. Just don’t blame yourself.”
Jane was taken aback. “Why would I blame myself?” she said. “Richard, do you have the faintest idea what I’m talking about?”
Now Richard was taken aback. “Well, I, I’m not sure now. No,” he admitted.
“You must live in a void,” she snapped. “Look at the front page.”
Richard did. WOMAN FOUND MURDERED IN HOME OF CHESTER COUNTY WRITER. Shocked, Richard read.
DORRINGTON-A 25 year-old woman who was employed as a maid was found dead in the home of Chester County romance writer Alyce Law Sunday afternoon. The victim, Desdemona Harris, had been struck over the head with a large crystal paperweight. Mrs. Law, returning from a seminar at the Mortensen Public Library, discovered the body at approximately 12:50 p.m. and called police. Chester County detectives are questioning Ms. Harris’ ex-boyfriend, 29 year-old Chip Maslow, against whom she had a restraining order.
Richard put down the paper. “My God,” he whispered. “She rushed out of here to find that. Unbelievable.”
“I hope they hang that creep,” Jane said.
“What creep?” Richard asked.
“The ex-boyfriend,” Jane replied. “The one who killed her.”
“But they don’t know who killed her,” Richard answered. “They’re just questioning him. Maybe it was a burglar.”
“I doubt it,” Jane huffed.
Richard read the entire story twice. The crime scene showed signs of forced entry -a broken window pane on one of the patio doors. According to Alyce, she heard a window being opened in the master bedroom, and ran down the hall to see who was there. That was when she found the maid. There was no mention of whether the oven was on.
Later that day, after spending a half-hour explaining the Reader’s Guide to Periodical Literature to a skinny, pimply-faced 19 year-old coed, Richard was returning to his desk when he noticed Jane talking earnestly to two men. One was about 45, dressed in a tan raincoat and taking notes attentively. The other man was about 35, very tall and thin, and dressed in a blue suit with a pinstripe tie. He wasn’t saying much. Richard watched the conversation for about five minutes, though he couldn’t hear a word. Finally, the one in the tan raincoat nodded to Jane, who turned to Richard and pointed directly at him. The pair headed his way.
“Mr. Bishop,” the man in the raincoat announced. “Detective Tom Cornwell, Chester County Homicide.” He gestured towards his tall friend. “This is my partner, Eddie Baker.” Baker nodded.
They didn’t talk to Richard very long, nor ask him too many questions. Just protocol, he supposed. They didn’t want theories or impressions or opinions. Like Joe Friday –just the facts. Richard asked if they had any leads, but Cornwell declined to air any speculations. He gave Richard his card, and asked him to call if he found out anything.
Richard sat at his desk in Reference, staring at the photograph of Desdemona Harris on the front page of Sunday's paper. He didn't find her especially attractive, but wondered if Arnold Law had. She wasn't a homely girl, but a wealthy attorney like Arnold could have done better. Maybe this had been an affair of convenience. Maybe Desde had something he liked. Maybe Richard was totally on the wrong track.
"Excuse me, sir."
Richard jumped. Embarrassed, he looked up to find a short, nervous, bespectacled man of about 50 standing at his desk.
"Yes, hello. How can I help you?" Richard replied.
The man fidgeted. "I'm looking for some software," he said in a whining, nasal voice. "Can you take out software?"
Richard nodded. "Sure," he said. "But can you be a little more specific?"
"The software for PC's," Mr. Milquetoast said. "The three and a half inch floppy disks, the ones that fit into that slot underneath the CD ROM drive."
Richard stifled an exasperated sigh. "Yes, I know," he said. "But what kind of software? Music? Games? Spreadsheets?"
"Oh, that," the man replied with a self-conscious laugh. "Screenwriting software. "Like Filmo-rama by Superscripters. It formats the screenplay for your, lists character surnames, even comes up with plot ideas."
Richard laughed. "Doesn't it let you do any of the writing?" he asked.
"Oh, yes, it just points you in the right direction."
Richard thought. "Is there any other kind of software for writers?"
"Oh, yes," came the high-pitched response. "Some of it even randomly generates stories. Like the old saying about a room full of chimpanzees with typewriters. I don't think they're very good stories, though. So, are you going to help me?"
"I'm afraid I can't," Richard admitted.
"You can't?"
"No," Richard said. "We don't have anything like that. It
doesn't sound like something that would be freely distributed, like in a library. I'd try the Barnes and Noble in the Mall."
"Okay," the man answered meekly. "Thank you."
"Thank you," Richard said softly as the man walked away. "Thank you."
Richard looked both ways as he stood in the hallway, not wanting to seem too conspicuous. A 40 year-old man in a college dormitory would probably look like a professor. That's what he would say if anyone asked him. He rapped on the door five times quickly.
A thin, pale, scruffy face decked with crooked glasses peeked out at him. The hair stood on end, a carefully-orchestrated tangle of black wires.
"Dude, do you know what time it is?"
"12:30 a.m.," Richard replied. "Are you up, Dave?"
"Yeah, man, I was just. . .studying."
"I need to talk to you."
"Sure, okay," the kid said, opening the door and letting Richard into the cramped, cluttered room. Two beds, both unmade, sat on either side. Opposite the door a computer occupied a small desk underneath a window. Richard did his best to avoid stepping on piles of clothes, books and paper. Dave closed the door.
"What's wrong, man?" Dave asked. "Your hard drive didn't crash again, did it?"
"No, nothing like that," Richard assured him. "You did a good job. I just need to ask you a few questions."
"A few questions?" Dave repeated. "At 12:30 in the morning?"
"Yes," Richard told him.
"Okay."
Richard took a deep breath. "Dave, are there programs that keep track of the date and time that you spend on the computer? I mean, a files that act like a time clock, almost."
Dave nodded. "Yeah, sure," he said. "A lot of companies have them to make sure their employees aren't surfing the 'Net on work time." He laughed. "Big brother, you know."
"But I'm talking about a PC that would be in somebody's home," Richard explained. "Not an office machine."
"Yes," Dave said. "A lot of them have that. Most people don't even know it."
He looked at Richard strangely. "Is that what you came out here to ask me? I don't mind, but you should've just called, man."
Richard paused. "You're a pretty good hacker, aren't you?"
Dave was alarmed. "What do you mean?"
"Come on, Dave, it's me. Be on the level here."
"I suppose so."
Richard thrust a wad of $200 at Dave. "I need a favor," he said.
Dave stared in amazement at the cash. $200 to a college kid.
"Is it something that could get us in trouble?" he asked.
"Yes," Richard said.
"Okay."
Richard casually leafed through the pile of envelopes that lay in the outgoing mail bin. Overdue notices. A letter to the township. A birthday card for Jane's sister in Wyoming. Something addressed to Alyce Law. Richard stopped. After examining the envelope, he discreetly tucked it into his back pocket. Then he walked out of the building, and went to the pay phone in the parking lot. He placed two quarters into the coin slot and called.
"Hello," he said finally. "It's Richard Bishop."
Stopping by 2128 Willow Lane seemed like a risky proposition to Richard, but he did, anyway. He rapped on the door five times, feeling like a pesky reporter.
The door opened and there stood a man of 36, dressed in black loafers, gray slacks and a white dress shirt that was unbuttoned at the top. He had obviously been wearing a tie most of the day. Richard looked at him in confusion, saying nothing.
“Yes?” he asked Richard. “What do you want?”
“Oh, hi,” Richard stammered. “I’m Richard Bishop, assistant librarian at the Mortensen Public Library. I'm sorry if this is a bad time, but I wanted to stop by and give Alyce this check." He pulled the envelope out of his back pocket and handed it to the man. "$1,000, as agreed."
"Oh, well, thanks," the man said. "Won't you come in? Have a cup of coffee or something?"
"Yes, that'd be great," Richard replied.
Stepping back, he held the door open for Richard. “I’m Alyce’s husband Arnold.
Richard stepped inside. “Thank you very much,” he said.
Arnold walked over to the staircase. “Alyce,” he called. “Come on downstairs, honey.” He said to Richard, “She’s always on the computer. I guess that’s why she’s so prolific.”
A door closed on the second floor, and moments later, Alyce came down the stairs. She was wearing a red t-shirt and blue jeans, and had traded her stiletto heels for a pair of white tennis shoes. She looked at Richard.
“Hello,” she said, with faint mistrust.
“Hello, Mrs. Law,” Richard said. “Nice to see you again. Sorry it has to be under such circumstances.”
“I’ve never seen you before,” Alyce replied flatly.
Richard was momentarily caught off guard, but Arnold stepped in. "Honey, this is the guy from the library," he explained. "He brought your check. For the seminar."
Arnold waved the envelope in front of her.
"Oh, right," Alyce said. "How do you do?"
"I'm well, "Richard replied, taking a seat on a black leather sofa. "So sorry about that nasty business on Sunday."
"I'll go make some coffee," Arnold said, disappearing into the kitchen.
They began talking. Alyce confessed that personally, she had never liked nor trusted "Desde," a girl with a checkered past and dubious upbringing. Her friends were thugs and drug addicts, her ex-boyfriend was practically on a first name basis with the guards at the Chester County Jail. Rather Arnold had hired Desde, insisting that his wife's misgivings about her were unfounded. As he had remarked with self-deprecating humor, "Nobody's perfect, honey. After all, I'm a personal injury attorney."
Arnold returned from the kitchen, carrying a silver tray with three coffee cups and saucers, which he set down on a glass table in the middle of the room. Richard took a cup.
"But I feel terrible about what happened to her," Alyce concluded. "Particularly in my house. It's kind of. . .eerie." What a paragon of sympathy, Richard thought.
While sipping his coffee, Richard noticed a square of cardboard taped over one of the window panes in the patio door.
"What happened there?" he pointed.
"That's where he broke in," Alyce replied.
Richard set down his cup and saucer, walked over to the patio door, and knelt by the broken window. He examined the cardboard, then ran two fingers along the wooden floor, and studied the residue.
"What are you doing?" Arnold asked.
"Glass fragments," Richard explained. "Tiny ones."
"Well, that makes sense," Alyce nearly snapped. "I just told you that he broke the window."
Richard looked at her. "Who broke the window?"
"Her boyfriend," Alyce said. "To could get inside. If he had rang the doorbell, she would've called the cops. Or maybe she would've let him in, knowing her. I guess he didn't want to take any chances."
"Apparently, he's taken a big one now," Richard said. He stood up. "It's strange, though, that there are glass fragments so close to the wall. Almost as if the door were opened when he broke the window."
"That wouldn't make any sense," Alyce said.
"I guess not," Richard said, returning to his cup of coffee. To Alyce he said, "What exactly happened again on Sunday when you came home?"
Alyce sighed. "I walked in the door, thinking that I had to turn off the oven."
She hesitated briefly, then continued. "I heard a window being opened in the master bedroom. So I ran down the hall to find out what was going on, and that's when I noticed that the window was open, the screen had been knocked out, and Desde was on the floor bleeding."
"You ran down the hallway?" Richard asked.
"Yes," Alyce said. "That's what I just told you. Now I don't-"
"If I recall, you were wearing high-heeled shoes that day."
Alyce glared at him. "What does that-?" She paused. "Yes, but I guess I kicked them off. I don't remember."
"Bishop, what are you implying?" Arnold demanded.
"Nothing at all," Richard replied calmly. "I'm just trying to get the story straight." To Alyce he said, "The police identified the murder weapon as a crystal ziggurat."
"A what?" she asked.
"A step pyramid, sort of, " Richard explained. "Whoever killed her hit her over the head with this ziggurat paperweight, and didn't leave any finger prints."
"No," Alyce said. "There were no finger prints."
Richard stood up. "So there were no finger prints on the ziggurat paperweight?"
"Why are you making me repeat everything?" Alyce snapped.
"I want to make sure I understand," Richard said. "So whoever broke in and killed her was wearing gloves."
"Or maybe he just wiped his prints off the paperweight," Arnold suggested.
"Maybe," Richard replied. "But would he have had time to wipe his prints off of the window that he had just opened to escape when he heard Mrs. Law come home? Whoever it was left in an awful hurry."
"Then he was wearing gloves," Alyce said impatiently.
"So maybe," Richard began. "it was a burglar, and he was wearing gloves. He would've most likely been carrying some sort of weapon, in case he was confronted by an irate homeowner or a watchdog, right?"
"What is your point?" Arnold said.
Richard moved away from the table, and backed towards the door. "My point is that the crystal paperweight had been wiped clean of fingerprints, and since the burglar would have been wearing gloves and probably carrying his own knife or gun, he wouldn't have bothered to do that. Did you ever use the paperweight, Mrs. Law?"
"Of course," Alyce told him. "It was my paperweight."
"So the only fingerprints that would've been on it were," he paused dramatically. "yours."
"But there were no fingerprints on it," Arnold said.
"Yes," Richard replied. "I know." He looked directly at Alyce.
"You called home from the library on your cell phone, to see if anyone was there who could turn off the oven."
"Yes," Alyce hissed.
"Do you have speed dial on your cell phone?" Richard pressed.
Arnold took a menacing step towards him. "I don't think I like your interrogation," he growled.
Richard didn't move.
"Yes," Alyce said, in answer to Richard's question.
"I watched you press ten buttons when you made the call," Richard said. "Why didn't you just hit the one or two-digit code for speed dialing? Don't you have your home number on speed dial?"
"Get out of here!" Arnold shouted. "You're upsetting my wife."
Richard ignored him.
"I don't know!" Alyce exploded. "I was nervous, and I forgot."
"Nervous about what?" Richard hammered. "That Desde was going to see something you left on your computer? That she'd blackmail you, or something like that? What number did you really call from your cell phone that afternoon, Mrs. Law?"
Standing up suddenly, Arnold crossed the room and stood nearly face to face with Richard. "I'm going to give you until the count of five to get out of here," he snarled. "One."
"What number did you call that day, Mrs. Law?" Richard pressed.
"Two." Arnold took a step forward, and Richard a step back.
"I had Detective Tom Cornwell check your cell phone records," Richard said. "You called 610-TI6-1212. The time."
"Three."
"You're a liar!" Alyce shrieked.
"Am I? You're on that computer all the time, like your husband says. Probably have all kinds of programs, don't you?"
"Four."
"Get out of here!" Alyce yelled.
"How many books did you actually write, Mrs. Law?" Richard goaded her. "Have you ever written any?"
"Five." Arnold lunged at Richard, just as the front door flew open. Arnold stopped abruptly, nearly bumping into detectives Tom Cornwell and Eddie Baker.
Like a bar, the Mortensen public library had regulars who showed up every day. Some were even waiting when Richard opened at 8:00 a.m. Old Mrs. Cooper came at the same time every morning, spent exactly 37 minutes surfing the Internet, then left without saying a word to anyone. Tom Jaeckel always headed straight for the Audio-Visual Department downstairs, checked out a video, and returned it the same afternoon. He had seen several of the movies two or three times. Occasionally, he would chat with Sabrina, who worked in that department. Richard was intrigued most of all by the grungy hippy with the old army jacket. He arrived every morning at about 9:00 and read the previous day's Wall Street Journal. Richard surmised he was either a former executive or a derelict with big dreams.
That morning, Richard noticed Jane in the parking lot, getting out of her Volvo. As he watched her head towards the entrance, he flipped the front page over and quickly turned to the Arts and Leisure section, pretending to be engrossed in some movie review. He counted to himself: One. . .Two. . .Three-
"Good lord, Richard," came the shriek. "Can you believe it?"
Richard looked up from his paper patiently. Adjusting his reading glasses, he replied, "I am surprised, Jane. The Bellwether's movie critic gave Tom Cruise's performance five stars. I thought he really did a lackluster job."
Jane's face fell. "What?" she said. "Richard, have you seen the front page today?"
"No," Richard lied.
"They've charged Alyce Law with the murder of that maid, that Delilah girl."
"Desdemona?" Richard suggested.
"Whatever," Jane said. "Go ahead, look."
Richard flipped the paper over to the front page. Pretending to read through the story, he gave a low whistle. "Wow, Jane," he remarked. "You're right. That is something. Seems Mrs. Law was not the person, nor the author, she claimed to be."
"She's made us all look like fools," Jane moaned. "I was actually going to ask her for her autograph after the seminar."
"Don't feel too bad," Richard tried to console her. "I never would have guessed, either."
"No, I suppose you wouldn't have," Jane replied. "You seem to be off in your own little world most of the time." Then patting him on the shoulder, she added, "No offense, Richard. You are a good assistant librarian."
"Thanks, Jane," Richard obliged her. "Coming from you, that means a lot." Then doing his utmost to suppress a grin, he turned back to the Arts and Leisure section to see what the Bellwether's movie critic really thought of Tom Cruise's latest film.
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