“Maybe you’ll adopt a dog after you move in,” Angela said.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  Evelyn was delighted with my news. She nodded her head thoughtfully when I told her about Abigail and Lucy.

  “Dylan and I don’t mind sharing our home with two little ghosts, but Lucy is unhappy because they haven’t moved on.”

  Evelyn nodded. “I can help you help them with that.”

  “Thank you,” I said solemnly. “I was hoping you would.”

  She cast me a sideways glance. “I’m impressed by how quickly you and Dylan made up your minds to buy this house.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “It’s more than beautiful. It’s the right place for you and Dylan, and you both knew it immediately.”

  “And I wasn’t afraid to act on it,” I murmured.

  “Indeed you were not.”

  I knew Evelyn was thinking how much I’d changed from the person she’d first met, who had balked at the first sign of commitment and long-term plans. Because I was remembering that person too.

  Evelyn faded away and I settled down to see what required my attention. But focusing on library work was difficult. Dylan called to tell me that he’d arranged to have an engineer inspect the house, then rhapsodized about several projects he planned to undertake as soon as we took possession. Marjorie Wolcott called to tell me how happy she was that Dylan and I had bought the house.

  And suddenly I was too excited to get anything done. I was getting married, and soon I would be living in my new home! My life was changing quickly, and I was eager to take the next step.

  Trish arrived and I told her about the house we were buying.

  Her eyes lit up with delight. “Your children will be going to the same elementary school my kids attend.”

  “Really? I didn’t realize.”

  “Yes. It’s the best elementary school in the district.”

  Trish went on to tell me more than I needed to know about the excellent teaching staff and advanced methodology at my future children’s school. I was too wired to sit still, and I needed to burn some energy, so I left to check on the programs in progress.

  Now that all the rooms in the new wing were being used, half an hour had passed by the time I returned to my office. I heard shouting as I opened the door. There stood my easygoing assistant, hands on hips, her face red with emotion as she ordered someone to get out of the office. But the intruder, a scrawny man only inches taller than Trish, refused to budge.

  “Can I help you?” I said.

  They both turned to me.

  Trish opened her mouth to speak, but he got there first. “My name is Garrett Grimm. I have a bone to pick with you.”

  So this was Garrett Grimm! He wore jeans and a T-shirt that revealed tattoos on both arms, and appeared to be in his late forties to early fifties. His black hair was streaked with gray and pulled back in a ponytail. His pointed nose and beady eyes reminded me of a rat.

  “Fine,” I said meeting his angry scowl. “I’ll talk to you as soon as you calm down.”

  “Shall I call Max?” Trish said, referring to our head custodian.

  “Are you going to calm down?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Sure.” He turned to Trish. “This is personal, so if you don’t mind …”

  “Carrie, would you like me to leave?” Trish asked.

  “No need.”

  Garrett Grimm’s laugh was derisive. “She wants you here for protection.”

  I glared at him. “I don’t need protection, and I won’t put up with your insults. Perhaps you should leave, Mr. Grimm.” I sat down at my computer.

  “Hey, sorry.”

  I spun around, startling him. “What exactly do you want to tell me?”

  He cleared his throat. “I don’t like what you said about me in the Gazette.”

  “That makes two of us because I didn’t much appreciate your letter.”

  The anger was back. “Just because you read Verity Babcock’s diary, you think you know what happened all those years ago.”

  “And you do?” I said.

  “I’ve read several accounts of what was going on at the time. Many people died. They were sick people who depended on Babcock to make them well.”

  “And this has nothing to do with the fact that John Whitcomb is your ancestor?”

  “Of course it does!” he sputtered. “That Babcock woman poisoned him! She was getting revenge because a few of the Whitcomb cattle happened to graze on her land. Get all your facts, Ms. Singleton!”

  “That dispute was settled in Verity’s favor. As for John Whitcomb, his wife, Hester, came to Verity begging for her help after he’d been sick for days. Verity told her the herbs might not save his life. She wrote that in her diary.”

  I gave a start as Garrett Grimm stepped closer to me. “Yeah, well, I want to see that diary for myself.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible right now. We’re waiting for a forensic specialist to advise us on how best to make a copy of the diary so patrons can read its contents themselves.”

  He scowled at me, then shook his head in disgust. “You’re pathetic, and this pardon business is pathetic. Mark my words, Verity Babcock will never be exonerated.” He stormed out the door.

  Trish and I stared at each another. “That’s one angry man,” I said.

  “I don’t get it. Why does Garrett care about something that happened hundreds of years ago?” Trish said.

  “Verity’s neighbor, who died after taking her herbal medicine, was his ancestor.”

  “I heard that, but Garrett Grimm doesn’t care about family trees. He’s a grifter who never worked a day in his life.” Trish laughed. “Both his wives divorced him. He’s no more than a petty thief.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t understand why he insists that Verity’s a murderer. I hope this is the last we’ve heard from him on the subject.”

  * * *

  After lunch, I stopped by Sally’s office. She listened with pursed lips as I told her about Garrett Grimm’s unpleasant visit.

  “He had no business haranguing you. If he comes back, call me immediately. If you can’t reach me, call Max.”

  We both knew it wasn’t in Max’s job description to handle unruly or difficult patrons, though he took it upon himself to do so on the rare occasions it was necessary.

  “Interesting that he wants to see the diary,” Sally said.

  “So does Winnie Thompson. In fact, she thinks the diary should belong to her since she’s Verity’s closest ancestor.”

  “Don’t I know it. Have you seen today’s issue of the Gazette?”

  “No.”

  Sally typed in the newspaper’s URL on her computer. A minute later she turned the screen to face me so I could read the letter Winifred Thompson had written in the Letters to the Editor section.

  “It is only right and proper that the diary be returned to Verity Babcock’s family, namely, me, as I am her closest living descendent,” I read aloud.

  “That’s not going to happen,” Sally said grimly. “The diary belongs to the library.”

  “I wonder if, given its age and historical importance, the diary is worth a lot of money,” I said, “and that’s why Winnie wants it.”

  “Could be. We’ll find out what it’s worth when the forensic expert examines it. Meanwhile, no one handles the diary. It remains in the display case, under lock and key.”

  I sighed. “With so many people interested in the diary, I wish the security system were already in place.”

  Sally sat back in her chair. “Carrie, don’t worry so much. By next week, our security system will be extended to include the Historical Room. Surely nothing will happen till then.”

  I returned to my office, shaken by the attention Verity’s diary was stirring up. Garrett Grimm probably wanted to read it in hopes of finding proof that Verity had actually murdered his ancestor, whereas Winnie wanted the diary as a family heirloom. We wanted it kept here in the library so everyone could see it as part of our local history. For sure, an ugly side of our history, but a side no one could ignore. I believed strongly that presenting our history, warts and all, was the only way we could move forward and hopefully never repeat the damaging actions and events of the past.

  Reading Winnie’s letter in the Gazette made me wonder if joining the Wise Women’s Circle was right for me. While I agreed with its mission statement and appreciated that its membership included many women I liked and admired, Winnie Thompson’s high-handed attitude regarding Verity’s diary bothered me. What good would the diary be hidden away in her home, when so many more people could see it here in the library? I couldn’t wait for a copy to be made so patrons could read it for themselves, and we could perhaps offer another copy to Winnie.

  As Angela and I walked over to the Cozy Corner Café, I told her about Garrett Grimm’s unpleasant visit and Winifred Thompson’s letter in the Gazette.

  “Interesting how they’re both hung up on their ancestors, people they never even knew,” Angela said.

  I thought a minute. “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it. Grimm insists on regarding his relative as a homicide victim, while Winnie wants to exonerate her ancestor, which is what I want for Verity too.”

  “Except Winnie Thompson lays claim to the diary, which doesn’t belong to her,” Angela said.

  “No, it doesn’t. I’m wondering how far she’ll go to try to force the library to hand it over.”

  Chapter Twelve

  A chat with my best friend over a delicious baby greens salad had its usual soothing effect, and I was in better spirits when we walked back to the library. Smoky Joe was waiting for me outside my office. I fed him and gave him some attention; then he scampered off to socialize with his many admirers.

  I turned to my computer to see what new email had come in. I forwarded the run-of-the-mill requests to Trish and asked her to answer them. The last post had my heart racing:

  Dear Ms. Singleton,

  I am writing to you because you are a good detective and you have solved some murders in Clover Ridge. I have information that might help you solve the two recent homicides. Write back and let me know if you can meet me at six p.m. this evening to talk. If you promise to come alone, I’ll tell you where to meet me. Don’t waste your time trying to figure out who I am. Please keep this between us.

  A Friend

  I stared at the email and read it again. Who had sent me this? Was it from Tino, the third friend who had taken part in the bank robbery? Should I show it to John?

  No. Whoever had written this was frightened and didn’t want to contact the police. I started typing.

  Dear Friend,

  From your email, I understand that you don’t want to go to the police for some reason. I will be happy to talk to you. Where shall we meet?

  Carrie Singleton

  The reply came immediately: “The parking lot of the Elm Street Elementary school. Six p.m. Come alone.”

  I answered: “I will. How will I know you?”

  “I’ll be standing by the door that leads to the gym. It’s right on the other side of the fence from the parking lot.”

  “The door to the gym near the parking lot. Got it.” I exhaled loudly as I shot off my email to my mysterious correspondent. The sound caught Trish’s attention.

  “Everything okay?” she asked.

  “Just a crank email,” I fibbed.

  “Yeah, we get too many of those,” she said.

  Maybe it is a crank email. How quick I am to assume it came from someone who actually has information about the murders.

  With all the attention Verity’s diary had been receiving lately, I suddenly felt the need to make sure it was safely inside its case. Smoky Joe joined me, tail held high, as I headed over to the Historical Room.

  Since the newspaper article was inspiring more patrons to stop by to get a glimpse of the diary, Norman had spent the last few days putting the room in order. He’d asked Max and Pete to bring whatever items still needed sorting down to a storage room in the basement, along with the many old papers and mementoes that patrons were dropping off by the droves. It seemed that the diary was inspiring residents to go through their family heirlooms and donate whatever they considered of historical importance.

  I paused in the doorway of the Historical Room, impressed by the display before me. Objects were set out on the new shelves that Max and Pete had built, and a large glass case was filled with small farming tools from colonial times. In a far corner, Norman had arranged a display of centuries-old kitchen utensils. I chuckled. Before we knew it, we were going to have to feature exhibits while other items remained in storage.

  The display case showcasing Verity’s diary stood in the center of the room. While three women slowly circled the room, studying everything on display, an elderly couple had planted themselves in front of the diary, where they conversed in animated whispers. Words like witch and hung occasionally rose above their low tones.

  The man standing behind the display case caught my attention. He was close to my age and stocky, no more than five feet eight inches tall. His dark hair was gelled, his facial hair a grubby stubble. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. His upper arm muscles were extremely pronounced, as if he’d put in hours of working out to make them this way. The way men in prison built up their muscles—at least the way they did in movies.

  His intense gaze wasn’t on the diary but focused on the back of the case as his eyes moved from one corner of the sliding door to the other. When he realized I was watching him, he gave a start and strode out of the Historical Room.

  Uh-oh! I thought as I stared at his receding figure. He turned to glare at me, but I caught a flicker of fear in his eyes before he disappeared from sight. I had no time to give him further thought because the elderly couple had spotted me and started plying me with questions about the diary, which I was happy to answer.

  Later that afternoon, Dylan called to say the engineer had called back and would be inspecting the house the following week.

  “That’s good,” I said.

  “I want to have that done ASAP to make sure we’re not running into any huge unexpected problems. We can deal with the closing when we’re back from our honeymoon.”

  “Okay.”

  “We never discussed when we want to move in,” Dylan said.

  Anxiety swooshed through me. “No, we haven’t. Deciding to buy the house came about so unexpectedly. Our wedding’s coming up, and then we’ll be away for weeks.”

  “We needn’t move in as soon as we get back from our honeymoon.” Dylan said. “I figured there will be plenty of small decorating jobs and minor repairs requiring our attention, as well as a paint job. They’ll be easier to deal with while the house remains empty.”

  “Our lives are suddenly filled with so many new changes, and they’re all coming at the same time.”

  “I know. We might consider the cottage our summer home and not think about moving until the fall.”

  I exhaled loudly, releasing a load of anxiety. “I like that idea.”

  Dylan chuckled. “I kinda thought you would.”

  “Dylan,” I began, about to fill him in on the tumultuous events of my day, when he broke in.

  “Sorry, babe, I have to go. Talk to you later. Love you.”

  “Me too,” I said and disconnected.

  I was relieved when Evelyn made an appearance.

  “I thought you might want to have a little chat,” she said by way of a greeting.

  “I do!” I said. “How did you know?”

  Evelyn shrugged. She moved to the corner of Trish’s desk, then said, “It’s been a day full of surprises. I figured you might want a sounding board.”

  “I do,” I said, forgoing the impulse to ask if she’d been observing me. “Someone contacted me, claiming to know about the murders.” I read the emails aloud. “I’ve agreed to meet with him or her at a local elementary school at six this evening.”

  “And?” Evelyn prodded.

  “And I’m beginning to worry that I’ve made a mistake. Maybe I’m dealing with a dangerous killer.”

  “There will be plenty of other people around you. Kids play in schoolyards until dark.”

  “Unless the email writer is a sniper,” I said, “and wants to kill me.”

  Evelyn nodded. “Farfetched, but a possibility, of course. What does your intuition tell you?”

  “That the writer means what he or she has written and is desperate for help,” I said without thinking.

  “Mine tells me the same. I believe the writer is very frightened.”

  I nodded, glad that Evelyn and I were on the same page.

  “You’ll only find out if you go to meet this person,” Evelyn said gently. When I made no comment, she went on, “Anything else bothering you?”

  “Aside from Garrett Grimm and Winifred Thompson, you mean?”

  “There’s not much you can do about them right now.”

  I told her about the young man I had seen in the Historical Room, how he bolted when he noticed me watching him.

  “Again, I trust your instincts.”

  “He was studying the back of the glass case holding the diary. I got the definite sense he was checking it out because he was planning to steal the diary.” I shook my head. “Or am I being paranoid?”

  “I don’t think so, Carrie. The diary might be worth a lot of money.”

  “It might.”

  “Why not tell Sally? After all, she’s the director.”

  I nodded. “Good idea. And I’ll mention it to Max. I’ll feel more secure when the alarm is finally installed in that room.”

  I walked over to Sally’s office. She was out, so I left her a note informing her about the suspicious character I’d seen in the Historical Room. That done, I returned to my office and settled down to some much-needed paper work.

  At four thirty I called Dylan to tell him about my upcoming meeting with my mysterious contact. Though I felt more comfortable about the meet after talking to Evelyn, I knew I’d feel even better after telling Dylan. Rosalind, Dylan’s amazing office manager, told me he was in a meeting. On impulse, I filled her in on the meeting I’d agreed to.