Booked for Death by Victoria Gilbert

Author:Victoria Gilbert
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CROOKED LANE BOOKS

Chapter Seventeen

Having given Alicia the day off, I was prepared to make breakfast for the few remaining guests, but soon discovered it was unnecessary. As I fiddled with the percolator, Jennifer Delamont wandered into the kitchen to inform me that she and Tara were taking off before breakfast. They’d been given permission by the authorities to leave the Beaufort area for the day, and planned to drive into Wilmington to consult with a lawyer on several matters concerning Lincoln’s death. Scott, my only other guest, had also refused my offer to make him breakfast, simply requesting one of Alicia’s cinnamon rolls and coffee.

“I want to take some additional photos of the area before I dive into more research at the Maritime Museum’s library,” he’d told me.

So I was left with more time on my hands than I’d expected. Pondering Ophelia Sandberg’s comments about my great-aunt hiding things in her books, I decided to search the library. Not that I could go through every volume in a morning, but I could at least make a decent start.

In the library, I stood in the middle of the room and surveyed the shelves covering all four walls. The idea of taking down every volume and checking for hidden papers or other secret documents was daunting, but I knew the best way to accomplish any major goal was to break it into smaller components. I couldn’t allow myself to become overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of my task. Instead, I’d simply choose one section of shelving and make that my goal for the morning.

There’s no rush, I reminded myself as I climbed the rolling ladder to start at the top left edge of the shelving section. Whatever Isabella’s secrets, they’ve remained hidden this long without causing any harm. Or, at least, none you know about. Surely they can keep for weeks or even months longer.

It was two hours later before I discovered anything inside the books other than their bound pages. Shoved inside a first edition of Agatha Christie’s Murder at the Vicarage, I found a stash of folded onionskin paper. The type of thing that was once used for international correspondence, I thought as I backed away from the shelves, clutching the slender packet of papers.

Sitting down at the desk, I carefully opened the papers and spread them across the leather-bound blotter that covered the wooden surface.

I didn’t recognize the handwriting, but it was obvious from the sloppiness of the black ink scrawled across the translucent paper that the author had dashed off this letter in a hurry.

My dear Bella, it said, before devolving into an account of the weather in some unnamed country. Paragraphs devoted to banal descriptions of rainstorms and snow showers were followed by equally boring depictions of meals and visits from people only designated by the first initial of their names. My eyes glazed over as I read scintillating passages such as: Mr. K stopped by to ask my opinion on the best way to fertilize roses.

I slumped down in my chair with a sigh.

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