I spend my spare time at the soccer and baseball fields in summer. In the winter we rescue hunters from blizzards.” He shook his head in exasperation, then laughed again.
Chelsea smiled, too, amused as the sheriff reached into a pocket and removed a pistachio. He ate it absently and tossed the shell over the railing into the lake, obviously lost in thought. She wondered if she should make a citizen’s arrest for littering or maybe polluting the lake.
“Well,” he said at last, “here’s what I think we should do. Holt, take Chelsea over to the library this afternoon and question the staff. Maybe she can pickup on something we missed, sort of a woman-to-woman thing, especially with Molly Brewster. Molly found Harriet,” he explained to Chelsea.
“She went to Harriet’s house, thinking she must be sick or hurt when she didn’t show up for work,” Holt added. He glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly four. We’d better go. The library closes soon.”
“Uh, I guess I don’t need to remind you not to give out any information,” the sheriff told her.
Chelsea observed the sheriff, knowing he wasn’t going to like her next words. “People will figure out something is going on if the investigation continues.”
A frown appeared on the still-attractive features of the lawman as he thought the situation through. He ate another pistachio. “I understand Colby Holmes is spreading the word that his aunt was murdered,” he finally said. “I suppose we can admit that much, but don’t mention the pregnancy. As Holt said, that’s our ace in the hole.”
“Right.” Chelsea insisted on driving herself into town when Holt offered her a ride. She had to stop by the grocery on the way back and pick up something for dinner, she explained. Although nothing appealed to her, she mused as she followed the lawmen along Main Street.
She parked at the library and waited while Holt dropped the sheriff off at the office, then parked his patrol car, an SUV with a rack of lights on top, beside hers. They went inside as a young woman came to the door, key in hand.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “We’re just closing.”
Holt nodded. “Go ahead. We’re here to talk to you.”
Molly Brewster was twenty-seven, of average height with wavy blond hair and blue eyes. Chelsea recalled that she was from Wyoming and worked as an assistant librarian. She’d been hired by Harriet Martel eighteen months ago.
Rage could make a person much stronger than usual, but Chelsea, studying the slender librarian, didn’t think Molly could have sustained fury long enough to accomplish all that needed doing at the crime scene, assuming she had a motive to kill her boss in the first place.
Holt introduced the women, then stepped back, leaving the questioning up to Chelsea.
She started out with general information, recapping what she already knew. The other library workers were adult volunteers or teenagers from the high school who got credit for their help. She asked about each of them and their hours of work.
She also noted Molly was nervous and apprehensive. The woman kept looking toward the front door, then a side entrance as they talked.
Chelsea decided to go straight to the point. “Who might have had a reason to dislike Miss Martel?”
Molly gasped and clutched her chest. She was slow in answering. “No one. I mean, Miss Martel was strict and all, but she wasn’t mean or anything like that. She did a lot for this town.”
Hmm, admiration, not envy, in the tone, Chelsea decided, but why the gasp and the clutching of the chest?
“Was Miss Martel murdered?” Molly asked, her eyes big and frightened, as if she thought a serial killer was loose in the area and she was the next victim.
Chelsea shrugged. “We have to cover all the angles,” she said as if this explained everything.
Holt cleared his throat behind her. She cast him a glance to let him know she wasn’t going to give anything away, then turned back to Molly. “Who were her friends?”
“Well, she didn’t have any.” Molly seemed to realize the stark quality of the statement. “I mean…well, I was her friend, and the volunteers, of course.”
“Of course,” Chelsea murmured.
“But I never saw her with anyone. I mean, she didn’t go out to dinner with friends or anything like that. She did have someone, though.”
Chelsea waited, her heart upping its beat.
“I heard her talking to someone on the phone sometimes. Once I heard her mention a time…as if they planned to meet later that evening.”
“Any idea who it was? Male? Female? Relative?”
Molly shook her head. “She never said, and I would never ask. Miss Martel didn’t approve of people prying into other people’s business.”
Chelsea had already deduced the head librarian was a reclusive woman with a very secret life.
After several more questions about the victim’s life and habits, Chelsea indicated she was finished.
Holt stepped forward. “Please keep the details of this discussion to yourself, Miss Brewster. This is an ongoing police investigation.”
“Because she was murdered?” Molly asked again. “Her nephew says it was murder. He’s told everyone in town.”
Holt’s jaw tightened. Chelsea thought he might have cracked a few teeth as he held in angry words until they were outside before muttering, “I’ll strangle Colby with my bare hands.”
“People were already speculating about the case,” she said to soothe him and because she was sympathetic to the nephew, who, unfortunately, was correct. “They would always wonder, even if we did conclude it was suicide.”
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