Death Overdue (Librarian Mysteries) by Kirwin Mary Lou

Author:Kirwin, Mary Lou [Kirwin, Mary Lou]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gallery Books
Published: 2013-11-04T16:00:00+00:00

NINETEEN

The Actual Killer

“It’s all my fault,” Brenda wailed when we all were finally seated in the garden room, the teapot and cups perched on the small coffee table.

I took over pouring the tea since I didn’t trust her to do it without spilling, the state she was in. The sound of her voice was making all my nerves jangle. I had to calm her down or I would be forced to hit her.

“What’s your fault?” I asked in my calmest voice. I hoped Brenda would parrot me in answering.

“Them finding those fingerprints, it’s all my fault,” she said as if that explained something.

“How so?” I said, handing around the cups of tea.

“I must not have dusted that room as good as I should have.”

“Well, no one could have expected you to take care and dust the hook or the back of the bookcase,” I said, trying to comfort her.

“I should have done a better job. Wiped down everything in that room, then Caldwell wouldn’t be going to jail. I still think it’s all my fault.”

“That’s bonkers,” I said, my voice rising slightly. “What can they be thinking? If Caldwell had pushed the bookcase over, he would have worn gloves. Or done something to obliterate the prints. He’s a very smart man. But the most important thing is he absolutely didn’t do it. No way.”

Penelope spoke up. “I agree with you. But the police don’t know him like we do. So many murderers are so sloppy these days.”

I was surprised to hear her talk like this.

She continued. “There’s really very few clever killings anymore. Or maybe there were never many, except the ones you read about in good mystery books. Most murderers are stupid and drunk. And almost always the murderer is related to the victim in some way.”

“How do you know all this?” I asked, suddenly very curious about Penelope’s background.

“I worked for the police as a secretary. Husbands beating on their wives while they were drunk was the usual way it went. Stupid bugger often didn’t even know he had killed her until the police showed up. Then he was ever so sorry.” Penelope took a sip of tea and said “Ta” to Brenda for the refreshment.

“Alfredo seems to fit that description of the typical murderer to a T,” Brenda piped in. “Drunk and not so smart and related to Sally by means of being her boyfriend. He’s probably who did it.”

“He is too smart—in his own way, a rather Italian way, I’d say,” Penelope argued. “He just doesn’t speak English that well yet. And he doesn’t drink that much, not compared to other Italians.”

“But he was drinking that night,” I observed. “By the way, where is he right now? Is Alfredo still here?”

“Not at the moment. He went out to buy something to wear to the funeral,” Penelope said. “But I don’t think he had anything to do with my sister’s death. He’s too nice, and besides, he liked her. He had no reason to want her dead.”

“What about her will? Do you know who will inherit Sally’s estate, such as it is?” I asked.

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