The Unkindness of Ravens by M. Hilliard (readera ebook reader .txt) 📗

the new library issue, but their paths didn’t cross elsewhere that I knew of, and I’d sensed no personal animosity between them. I also couldn’t see Millicent resorting to physical violence. She was more the poisoned petit four type. Of course, I would have said listening in on other people’s conversations was beneath her, too, but knowledge is power.

I considered that. Joanna was in the news business. There was always the possibility this was related to her work, though from what I understood she was more involved in production than investigation. Still, she was in a fiercely competitive business, full of people with big egos and a strong sense of entitlement. Professional rivalry? Was she in a position to fire anyone?

What about a love triangle? Was there another man? Could Vince have a little something going on? It seemed like I’d heard something. What had Jilly said? Vince and Felicity?

I grabbed the PW’s I was done with and headed for the door. I wanted a look at the collection of Raven Hill yearbooks in the local history collection. While I was there, I could take a look at what we had on the manor’s history. If there were any old architectural drawings, they’d be there or in the archives. The staff mailboxes were a good vantage point—I could see who was where and choose my moment. I wasn’t ready to share my half-formed theories.

I arrived at the vestibule outside the director’s office without encountering anyone. Helene was not at her desk. I sorted the magazines into various slots as I reconnoitered. The lights near Circulation were on, and I could hear voices from the same direction. The back of the reading room was dark and quiet, only the natural light that came through the windows spilled out into the hallway. Perfect.

I slipped across the hall and paused in the rear entry to the reading room. The voices were clearer now. I craned my neck and spotted Helene with officers O’Donnell and Webber near Circulation. Helene and O’Donnell had their backs to me but Webber had a clear view up the center of the room and was dividing her attention between the conversation and regular scans of her surroundings.

Blast the woman.

The local history collection was in the far corner of the room. I eyed the distance and the arrangement of shelving units and spin racks and decided I could get there unnoticed if I was careful. The only wild card was the ancient wood floor. On some days it was sturdy and silent beneath the worn Oriental carpets covering it, and on others the tap of a toe or a dropped book would elicit a screech of protest. I’d have to risk it.

I flattened my hand against the door frame and slid into the room. I slithered along like the Grinch stealing Christmas, freezing in place at the squeak of a floorboard. I was so busy keeping an eye on Webber, I stubbed my toe on an abandoned book cart and swallowed a curse. This acting casual while sneaking around was no mean feat. I snagged a copy of Vogue as I went through periodicals, figuring I’d claim to be after some light reading if discovered. Another ninety seconds of cooperative floorboards and careful timing and I had achieved my objective.

Just under eight decades of Raven Hill High yearbooks were ordered by date, their colorful gold-stamped spines aligned precisely on the shelves. Beneath these were several bound volumes of the school paper. Running my finger along the row I did some quick math. Joanna was a few years younger than I, and I was pretty sure Vince was roughly the same age. I started in the mid-90’s and hit pay dirt on my second try. There he was, beaky nose, prominent Adams-apple, and superior smirk. Vincent Goodhue, Senior Class Treasurer, lettered in cross-country and track. He listed as interests journalism and film, and his goals were “to run the New York City marathon and make award-winning documentaries.”

Good for Vince. When I graduated high school, I wanted to get away from my mother, have a really good time, and make a whole lot of money. I had achieved my less lofty goals, at least for a while.

I flipped through the rest of the yearbook. No sign of Matthew Prentiss. Perhaps he was older than I thought. I didn’t know Felicity’s maiden name, but there was no senior portrait that could be her. I finally found her in a junior class photo. Felicity James, a slender blonde girl with glasses and a shy smile. I scanned the candid photos. Felicity and Vince appeared often, and more often than not they were together. Prom, club activities, hanging out—no matter the setting, the two were together. They were clearly a couple. According to Jilly, they were still pretty tight, in spite of being married to other people. The question was how tight?

The floor gave a protesting squeak.

“Find something interesting in there?” Officer Webber’s voice came from behind my right shoulder.

I’d wanted to give the police a few more suspects. Time to throw somebody under the bus.

“Not really.” I said, “It’s just that I never realized Vince Goodhue and Felicity Prentiss were an item.”

She raised her eyebrows. I felt a twinge of conscience. I’d always liked Felicity, but I’d liked Joanna more.

“In high school, I mean. Jill mentioned earlier that the Prentisses and the Goodhues were friendly, but that Vince and Felicity seemed especially,” I paused, as if searching for the right word, “well, close you might say. But I guess it makes sense, given the two of them go way back.”

I closed the yearbook and put it back on the shelf, leaving it sticking out slightly from the rest. I picked up my magazine.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I said.

Officer Webber nodded. I was sure she’d take the bait and look through the yearbooks. She was the thorough type. I’d wanted to snoop through them a little longer myself, but I’d leave them to Webber.

The yearbooks