The Unkindness of Ravens, M. Hilliard [romantic books to read txt] 📗

That got my attention.

“So, she was, too?” I asked. “Not just a fall?”

Webber flushed. O’Donnell stepped in.

“We haven’t determined that,” he said. “Jennie?”

Webber flipped some pages in her notebook.

“You lived in New York City, is that correct?”

She was going to check my story.

“To find one dead body, Ms. Hogan, may be regarded as a misfortune; to find two looks like carelessness.” Or homicidal tendencies. What would Oscar Wilde have made of my sad little tale? At least it had taken place in his kind of neighborhood.

“Upper East Side,” I said. She could look up the precinct herself. Would the neighborhood mean anything to her? Probably not.

“And you know Mrs. Goodhue from there?”

“No,” I said. “I met Joanna when she transferred to NYU. I was her RA for a year, as I told you earlier,” I added, turning back to Sam O’Donnell. “Are there any other questions I can answer for you about this afternoon?”

“A few,” he said. He asked about other staff members, how many people used the roof for lunch, general traffic in the building, and the like. He wound up with the obvious.

“When was the last time you saw Mrs. Goodhue?”

“It was yesterday afternoon. She was using one of the computer stations.”

“Was that typical, ma’am? Didn’t she have a computer at home?”

Webber looked curious. She probably did everything on her smartphone.

“If she was here with the kids, or on Friends’ business, she’d use them. We also have databases that you can’t access from home. I think she used some of them for her business. I know she did some research here.”

And her browser history would be wiped as soon as she signed off. I wouldn’t have thought that would matter to her, but now I wondered. She’d been in more than usual lately.

“What time was she in yesterday?”

“I’m not sure when she arrived.” I’d been flying around the reading room, retrieving books and filling in displays, and spotted Joanna in the stacks. She waved and headed toward the computer stations. She caught my eye once or twice, but I was swamped. She was still there when the shift changed at four, engrossed in whatever was on the screen. I had bolted for the quiet of my office.

“She was there at four. I don’t know when she left. I didn’t see her again, but I didn’t go back into the reading room.”

“What time did you leave the building?”

“Five. I had a haircut scheduled, and I didn’t want to be late.”

I gave them the details of my evening. Salon appointment, dinner at the little soup place, and some shoptalk in the bookstore, all in the same plaza. All verifiable, up to when I left the bookstore. I was home alone after that. The worth of my alibi would depend on the time of Joanna’s death.

“Thank you, Ms. Hogan,” O’Donnell said. “That will be all for now. We may ask you to take a look at the attic tomorrow. You might notice something out of place, something that may explain how Mrs. Goodhue ended up going down the stairs the way she did. You weren’t planning any time off? Trips, anything like that?”

“No, I’m not going anywhere,” I said. Which was just as well. It’s not like the police could keep me here, but I sensed a hastily scheduled vacation would be frowned upon.

I walked to the door, then paused with my hand on the knob.

“Just one more thing,” I said, “I was wondering—why didn’t her husband notice she was gone?”

My question was answered by silent stares. I stared back.

“Why don’t you leave that to us, Ms. Hogan?” O’Donnell said.

I’d had my Colombo moment, so I nodded and left.

Chapter Three

When I arrived at her office, Helene was leaning back in her office chair, eyes closed, cheetah print glasses sliding down her nose. Her short silver hair stuck up in spikes. She’d been running her hands through it, something she only did when agitated. Helene Montague was no one’s idea of a stereotypical library director. A fit sixty, she was always both stylishly and impeccably turned out. Having spent many years traveling the globe with her husband, a university professor of some wildly esoteric subject, Helene had a fashion sensibility with an international flair. I suspected it was our mutual love of clothes that had tipped the hiring decision in my favor. My interview had been on a cool September morning. I’d broken out one of the classic designer pieces from my high-paying corporate days. Helene greeted me at the rear door of the manor, introduced herself, and with one quick survey of my black sheath dress and jacket, said without preamble, “Is that Prada?”

This afternoon we had more important things to discuss. Like what they found in the attic. And whether or not she considered me a potential murderer. Equally important, what the board thought of the situation. I knocked gently on the open door. Helene opened her eyes and gave me a small smile.

“Greer. Come in. Have a seat. How did things go with the police?”

“About as well as could be expected.” I seated myself in one of the chairs opposite her desk. “I couldn’t tell them much. Of course, finding the body puts me at the top of the suspect list, if all the cop shows are to be believed. Unless they found someone labeled “first murderer” lurking in the attic?”

“For better or worse, they did not, and I don’t see you as the type to throw a friend down a flight of stairs. Besides, we don’t know what happened, and won’t for a while yet.”

“So now what?”

“We’ll keep the library closed for the rest of today and all of tomorrow. Friday is up in the air. The police will know more once they’ve finished talking to everyone and going over the building. Hopefully, they’ll have something definitive by tomorrow. I’ve informed the board we’ll have to play it by ear.”

“That must have gone over well. What did Anita say?”

“Essentially, that if I were a better library