(If you want my two cents, given our little town’s low crime rate, he acted like the former most of the time—until something set him off, in which case he acted more like the latter.)
The chief recognized me. I know because I saw him scowl just before he waved me into a space between two fire trucks.
“Park!” Ciders called tersely (even though, what he really cried was “Pahwk!” because his accent was particularly thick).
I had no choice but to pull over. I parked, rolled down the window, and cut the engine. The chief approached the car. Tucking his hat back on his head, he leaned his face into my window and leveled his watery gaze on me.
“Why is it, if there’s trouble in this town, you and Fiona are always in it?”
I blinked innocently. “Whatever do you mean, Chief?”
“I’m talking about the dead fellow we just pulled out of this car. I just talked to Fiona and she told me he was staying at her inn last night. She claims he never checked out, never slept in his bed.”
“And?”
“And apparently he got into his car at around nine o’clock last night, drove away, and never came back. Fiona said she didn’t know where this guy went, but she said that you might know.”
“Me?”
Ciders looked at me squarely. “Fiona said you had business with this man. That your aunt Sadie sent him over to her inn yesterday.”
You’ve been fingered, baby. Your pal the Bird Lady has been singing like a canary.
“Huh?”
Your friend ratted you out.
Jack was, of course, referring to Fiona Finch. He called the innkeeper the Bird Lady because, in addition to her married surname, Fiona regularly wore one of a huge collection of brooches fashioned in the images of birds.
“Was his name Montour?” I asked. “Rene Montour?”
Ciders nodded. “That’s him. Canadian citizen—French-Canadian. He was a solicitor, according to his passport. He’s over there on the stretcher, deader than a monger’s mackerel.” Suddenly the chief remembered that Spencer was in the front seat next to me. “Er…Sorry, Mrs. McClure.”
I was too busy staring at the accident scene to voice any motherly indignation. “What did you find inside the car?” I asked.
Ciders shrugged. “A bunch of old books and a cloud of packing plastic. The box broke open from the force of the crash. There are books scattered all over.”
“I need to see them,” I said.
“Mom!” Spencer cried.
“Stay here, I’ll be right back.”
I climbed out of the car and walked toward the accident scene. I didn’t get five steps before Ciders grabbed my arm.
“That’s a restricted area, Mrs. McClure.”
“I have to see the books,” I repeated. “All of them.”
Ciders cupped his beefy hands around his mouth. “Hey, Womack,” he bellowed.
Near the smashed car, an officer looked up.
“Bring those books over here,” Ciders commanded. “All of them.”
Officer Womack picked up a large box emblazoned with the logo for Tide laundry detergent. He carried the crate across the field, avoiding the rutted tire tracks. Finally he reached the shoulder of the road and plopped the box down on the hood of a police car.
“Go ahead, Mrs. McClure. Take a look. Then tell me what you’re looking for.”
I hurried over and quickly rummaged through the books. The box contained eight volumes—all Raymond Chandler first editions. All were damaged—dents and scrapes, mostly. One had a broken spine, another edition’s dust cover was in tatters. All the books were damp from the morning dew, their pages curled.
“There’s nothing else?” I asked. “I’m looking for a smaller box, with a single volume inside?”
Womack shrugged. “None we can find. But we ain’t looking too hard.”
“This box is smaller. It might not have broken open. The box might be in the trunk, or still in the back seat.”
“The trunk’s empty,” said Officer Womack. “There was only one box in the back seat, ripped open from the crash.” Womack shrugged. “I can look again, but—”
“Please,” I said. “Look again. Or I will.”
Officer Womack stared at me, then faced Ciders. To the man’s surprise, the chief nodded and sent him on his way. The officer returned to the crash scene, grumbling. Ciders redirected his gaze toward me.
“If you just tell me what this is about, we—”
“Is this an accident or a crime-scene investigation, Chief Ciders?”
The man blinked, then his eyes narrowed. “What are you getting at, Mrs. McClure?”
“My aunt and I sold Mr. Montour a very valuable book yesterday, worth many thousands of dollars. If it’s gone, then someone might have stolen it—”
“Nothing, Chief,” Womack called from the crash site. “Just a lot of that packing foam.”
“Thanks, Tom,” Ciders replied. Then he faced me again. “What were you saying?”
“I was saying that if this book is missing, then there may have been a crime committed—”
Ciders raised his hand. “I don’t know about any theft, Mrs. McClure, but it’s clear what happened here. Mr. Montour went to dinner, had a few drinks. Unwisely, he chose to take a drive. On Crowley Road, at the top of the hill, he got the red light. He braked, but while he was waiting for the light to turn green, he passed out. His foot slipped off the brake and his car rolled down the hill, out of control.”
“You’ve completely ruled out foul play?” I asked.
“This was an accident,” Ciders replied, growing increasingly cranky. “You can still smell the booze in the guy’s car, Mrs. McClure. This guy Montour was soused—to the gills.”
“But—”
Ciders cut me off. “Look at the tire marks. The man never braked, not even when his car careened through the fence and hit the grass.”
I looked at the marks—on the road and in the dirt. There were no skid marks on the pavement, no swerving curves in the grass, just a pair of straight lines right into the tree. Chief Ciders was correct: Montour never braked.
“And by the way, Mrs. McClure. I was out here last year, same place, same kind of accident. Only that time it was the high school quarterback, Tyler Scott. The kid went to an illegal drinking party, passed out at the wheel. The punk survived the crash. Can’t say the same for the team. They lost the regional playoffs.”
Ciders looked over his shoulder, at the shrouded form on the stretcher. “That Scott kid got away with two broken legs. Frenchy there wasn’t so lucky.”
CHAPTER 13
Book-marked for Murder
I want a burglar. A good, first-class burglar.
—William Brandon, “It’s So Peaceful in the Country,”
Black Mask, November 1943
AFTER LEAVING THE accident scene, I drove Spencer directly to school. I was plenty agitated about Rene Montour’s death, but for my son’s sake I intended to follow through with seeing Principal Eleanor P. McConnell.
Tightening the grip on my handbag’s strap, I entered the Quindicott Elementary School administration offices. Spencer’s ripped Reader’s Notebook and his torn certificate were tucked inside my bag, ready to be whipped out as incriminating evidence.
But there was no whipping to be done—not yet anyway.
The school secretary informed me that Mrs. McConnell was out on maternity leave and had been temporarily replaced by a new man with “impressive” credentials.
“He got his doctorate in California and worked out there as a professor of education at a prestigious teacher’s college,” the secretary said. “But he’s from Newport originally and even attended St. Francis College, so now he’s back in the area.”