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

he needs to hang up his badge. The police department had people here half the night.”

Dory was unfazed. “Well, I think the whole thing is suspicious. If they don’t think she was murdered, why are they spending so much time here, asking questions and trying to figure out where everyone was? Alibis, that’s what they’re after. And,” a note of triumph entered her voice, “they had people guarding the place all night. I wouldn’t be surprised if we saw the state police if this goes on much longer.”

How Dory knew about the guard was a question mark, but I was going to trust her sources on this one. It made sense. Raven Hill didn’t have its own police department. We shared a force with several other towns near the Helderberg Mountains. Not a large population, but a lot of ground to cover. The state police had more resources and more experience with violent crime. O’Donnell didn’t seem the type to get caught up in a turf war with another law enforcement agency. He’d call in help as needed. Maybe this would be wrapped up quickly. That would be good for me, as long as they got it right. I’d do my part to make sure they didn’t waste time looking in the wrong direction. At me, for example.

“But why would anyone want to murder Mrs. Goodhue?” This from Anne Marie, a library school student intern who was with us for a semester. If this was murder, we might never see another.

“Well,” said Dory, clearly enjoying herself, “I really don’t like to say. But there were plenty of people she rubbed the wrong way with her opinions about how things should be done in the village. Particularly about the new library.” She cut her eyes toward Millicent Ames, who had joined us and was fixing herself a cup of tea. Fortunately, Millicent had her back to the room, and Anne Marie spoke to me before Dory could go on.

“Didn’t you find her, Greer? That must have been creepy. I would have fainted.”

“I never faint,” I said. “I’m not the type.”

“So, what do you think happened?” Dory asked me. “You must have a theory, Greer. You found her, and the two of you were friends.”

Time to redirect, and maybe get an answer to a nagging question.

“I really don’t know what to think,” I said, which was true. “Though I do wonder …” I paused, as if I was hesitant to say what was on my mind, and waited until I had everyone’s attention.

“I do wonder why Vince didn’t come looking for her. Didn’t he notice she wasn’t home?”

I could almost hear mental gears shifting as the group thought about this. Dory was the first to speak.

“Maybe he didn’t want to leave the girls?” Dory sounded doubtful. “Though he could have called someone.”

“The girls are with their grandparents this week,” Anne Marie said. “Sophie, the younger one, told me at story hour. But she didn’t say why.”

“If you want to know what I think,” Dory began, but at that moment the door opened. Officer Jennie Webber stepped in. The room fell silent. Millicent spoke first.

“Good afternoon, Officer Webber. Can we be of some assistance?” Millicent had the kind of low, cultured voice that brought to mind silver tea services and carefully cultivated rose gardens. Her tone, while pleasant and correct, implied that it was a lucky police officer indeed who received aid of any sort from Millicent, and by extension, anyone else in the room.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Officer Webber replied. “I was hoping to find you here. If you could spare a few minutes this afternoon, I have some questions about the archives. But first I need to spend some time with Ms. Hogan.”

“Of course.” Millicent inclined her head regally. “You’ll find me at my desk.” She glided past Webber and swept out.

“Lieutenant O’Donnell has a few more questions for everyone. Please wait here for him,” she said to the group and then turned to me. “Ms. Hogan? Please come with me.”

Once the door closed behind us, she turned to me and said, “We’d like you to take a look at the attic and the stairs where you found Mrs. Goodhue. You’re familiar with them—we’re hoping you might notice something that would explain how she ended up going down the stairs.”

Again, the word “fall” did not come into play. Did she fall or was she pushed? Inevitably, she was pushed. That was my theory, anyway. It was the little things that didn’t jibe. The light switch. The odd assortment of things at the top of the stairs. It looked like a stage set, the things that were there and the things that weren’t.

I was suddenly back in my apartment in New York, doing the post-police clean-up and inventory. The things that were taken, and the things that weren’t. It didn’t make sense. But I wanted to be done and gone, and the friends helping me didn’t seem to notice.

“Ma’am?” Officer Webber was looking at me.

“Yes, of course. I’ll do what I can. Do you want to go up the back way?”

“Whatever you did yesterday. I’d like you to retrace your steps. I understand you often go up to the roof to eat your lunch?”

“Depending on the weather. It’s nice to get outside, out of the building for a bit.” I headed toward the back stairway as we spoke. It went from outside the kitchen to behind Helene’s office on the main floor, twisted back on itself and ended behind the archives on the second floor. When I reached the second floor, I crossed the hallway and started up another set of stairs that began behind the community meeting room.

“Isn’t there another way up from this floor?” Officer Webber asked.

She already knew this. “Yes, there is. The way you went yesterday—through the archives.”

“I’m just wondering why the stairs don’t connect. And why you used this one, ma’am.”

What was she after? And what was all this “ma’am” business? Professional courtesy, I guessed, but it made