To Kill a Hummingbird Read online

  Derek flinched. “That’s—” He struggled for words.

  “Vicious?” I finished.

  “Yeah,” he said, running the tip of his tongue over his lips. “I was going to say terrible, but vicious says it all. If you had gone to the bookstore earlier, you might have been a victim, too.” He held me tighter. “You didn’t see Mason when you entered Bookarama?”

  I shook my head. “No. I couldn’t see the signing table because the projection screen was in the way. Somebody had moved it.”

  “That might not mean anything. It could have been moved as a first step in putting it away. Then again, it could have been meant to hide the body.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “Where was Mrs. Smith?”

  I folded my legs up underneath me. “That’s the weird part. She came out of the storeroom lugging a big area rug.”

  “Did she appear surprised to see that Mason was dead?”

  “No,” I answered. “In fact, she told me that she killed him.”

  “What?” Derek stiffened.

  “And that she was glad he was dead.” I let the words sink in.

  Derek drank his tea. “I don’t get it,” he said finally. We both followed the action on the silent TV. Derek had muted the sound. Men and women danced gaily on the screen in all their black-and-white glory. Derek knew how I loved my musicals, and this was a Busby Berkeley extravaganza called “Dance Until the Dawn” from the 1931 musical Flying High.

  “Do you think you could go down to the police station tomorrow?” I asked.

  “What for?”

  “To talk to Rose. Find out what’s going on. Maybe you can help her.”

  “Help her?” Derek shook his head. “The woman’s apparently admitted to cold-blooded murder. I am not a criminal defense attorney, Amy.”

  “Maybe she didn’t do it,” I countered. “Or maybe there were extenuating circumstances.”

  “Like what?”

  I didn’t know and said so. “Just go see her?” I planted a kiss on his chin. “Please?”

  Derek frowned, and I knew I had him. “Fine.” He kissed me back. “But you owe me.”

  “Don’t worry,” I replied. “I always pay my debts.”

  6

  I filled Mom in on the murder over breakfast.

  “I’m not sure I can even eat.” Mom added a dollop of dark brown sugar to the oatmeal in the saucepan, then served it up.

  I carried the coffee carafe to the table. It had rained in the middle of the night, but the sun was up bright and hot this morning. Steam rose off the nearby rooftops. “I know what you mean.” I added some slivers of almonds and a handful of dried cranberries to my bowl. Mom enjoys her oatmeal plain.

  “You must be feeling terrible this morning, Amy.”

  “I’ve slept better.” The dark rings under my eyes were a testament to that.

  “Why would Rose want to kill your friend Mason?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know. I asked Derek to stop by the police station this morning. Maybe she’ll talk to him.”

  “Maybe,” Mom agreed. “I wonder how her daughter is holding up.”

  I stopped, a spoonful of oatmeal halfway to my mouth. “Oh, my gosh. I hadn’t even thought about Amber.” My free hand flew to my mouth. “I can’t imagine what’s going through her mind. A man murdered in her store. Her mother in jail.”

  “We should prepare a basket of food and take it to her.”

  “That’s a good idea,” I said. When someone was down, Mom took them food. When they were dead, Mom sent flowers to their family. “Do you know where Amber lives?”

  Mom pursed her lips. “I’m not sure. I believe she has an apartment near the shop. Rose lives above the bookstore.”

  There was a loud knock at the door. “I’ll get it.” I opened the door. “Amber? Mom and I were just talking about you!”

  Amber Smith stood in the doorway. Her blue jeans and T-shirt were caked with dried mud. Her face was smudged, and her hair looked like she’d just rolled down a mountain. “Hello, Ms. Simms.” She tugged helplessly at her mud-caked blond locks. “I hope you don’t mind my coming up. The lady downstairs said it was okay.”

  I stepped aside. “That would be Esther.” Sure, she complained every time she saw Derek come up to the third floor, but a muddied stranger was no problem. “It’s fine. Come on in.” I noticed her face looked drawn and her blue eyes were rimmed in red. There was dirt under her fingernails.

  “Thanks.” She slipped off her shoes, which were equally damp and dirty, and left them on the mat outside the door.

  “I suppose you heard what happened last night . . .” My voice trailed off.

  Amber nodded and bit her lower lip.

  “Hello, Amber.” There was a note of tenderness in my mother’s voice. Mom came forward and gave Amber a squeeze of affection, despite the young woman’s appearance and the grime on her clothes. “How are you holding up, dear?”

  “Okay, I guess.” Amber sniffed and rubbed her nose with the back of her hand.

  We both refrained from asking Amber why she looked as bad as she did. The young woman had been through enough for one night.

  “Would you care for a cup of coffee?” I asked, leading the way to the kitchen table.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  I offered Amber a chair, and she sat with her back to the fridge. Mom cleared the breakfast dishes and rinsed them in the sink while I poured Amber a fresh cup of coffee. “Cream or sugar?”

  “No, thank you.” Amber cradled the cup in her hands.

  “Honey?” I pushed the jar of Quiles toward her, but she shook her head. “How about something to eat?”

  Her eyes lit up for the first time since arriving. “I am a little hungry.”

  I offered her a choice of cereal, both hot and cold, and sourdough toast. There was little else available.

  “I need to go down and get to work,” Mom said, hanging her apron over the handle of the oven door. “If I’m late, the boss gets on my case.”

  I grinned. “Sounds like you’ve got a smart boss.”

  Mom smiled back. “She’s got a smart mouth, that’s for sure.” She gave me a peck on the cheek and squeezed Amber’s shoulder. “Let me know if there’s anything you need, you hear?”

  “I will,” promised Amber, her voice low.

  Amber settled on a couple slices of sourdough bread with peanut butter and jelly. I dropped the loaf on the table and carried over a plate and the jar of peanut butter. I grabbed the strawberry jam from the fridge. “I’m afraid strawberry is all we’ve got.”

  “That’s perfect,” said Amber, pulling the tie off the plastic surrounding the loaf.

  I watched while she slathered on the peanut butter and jelly then wolfed down her sandwich. After what she’d been through, I didn’t know if I could have eaten a thing. But each person handled adversity in their own way.

  “Mom says you have an apartment near downtown.”

  “I did.” She folded her hands in her lap. “I did have an apartment. I live with Mama now.”

  I smiled. “Hey, just like me. People tease me now and then, but I love it.”

  “Me too.” Her finger played with the handle of her cup. “I heard that you were the one who found Professor Livingston dead.” She eyed me timidly.

  “Yes. So you know everything?”

  She nodded.

  I refilled our mugs and took a seat. “How did you hear?”

  “It was on the radio.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, Amber, where were you last night when . . .” My voice trailed off, unsure how to frame the rest of that sentence.

  “I was out.”

  “You weren’t upstairs from the bookstore when it happened?”

  She shook her head. “No. I went camping down by the lake.”

  “Camping?”

  Amber nodded. “I like to do that sometimes. Just to get away. Lie out under the stars and enjoy the night sounds.”

/>   That explained her appearance. “So you didn’t even know about the murder until this morning?”

  “That’s right.” Amber sighed deeply. “I was sitting at a picnic table near the lake. Some campers had a radio on.” She shivered. “At first, I couldn’t believe it. First, that the professor was dead. And then . . . and then when the woman on the radio said that my mother had admitted to killing him . . .” She shook herself again. “I couldn’t believe it.”

  Amber reached across the table for my hands. “You’ve got to help me, Amy. Mama couldn’t possibly have killed him. It’s inconceivable!”

  “I don’t know what I can do, Amber.” She looked at me with big, hope-filled eyes. “But I’ll do whatever I can to help,” I answered sincerely. “Have the police told you anything?”

  “I haven’t spoken with the police yet.”

  “Then you haven’t talked to your mother either?”

  “No.” The beginnings of a tear formed in the inner corner of Amber’s right eye.

  “Amber, do you have any idea why your mother might have done this? Could it have been self-defense? Might Mason and your mother have had an argument of some kind?” Something that would lead to rage and murder, as impossible as it would have seemed.

  “I-I can’t imagine.” Her voice was soft and plaintive as a hungry baby songbird’s.

  “Neither can I.” Though I only knew Rose casually, she seemed sweet and harmless. And Mason, while he had his quirks, had never so much as raised his voice in all the time I’d known him. “Are there any security cameras in the bookstore? Maybe they could tell us something.”

  Amber shook her head. “We don’t have anything fancy like that. There’s never been any need.”

  I understood and said so. I didn’t have security cameras in my store either. The only thievery I had to suffer was Jerry Kennedy constantly helping himself to the peanuts in the bin at the front of the store. “You need to go talk to the police. And see your mother. I’m sure she’s very concerned about you. I asked my friend, Derek, to go down to the police station this morning. He may have been there already.”

  “Mr. Harlan? An older man with black hair with some silver in it? I’ve seen him in our store. He buys a lot of legal thrillers.”

  I shook my head. “No, that’s Ben Harlan, Derek’s father. They’re both lawyers. And good friends. Now,” I said, rising from the table, “why don’t you go get yourself washed up and change clothes and go see your mother? She must be scared stiff.”

  Amber rose and took her plate and cup to the sink. “I’ll do that.” She turned to me suddenly. “Do you think the police will let me in the house?”

  “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.” With the Smiths living upstairs from the bookstore, would the entire building be off limits?

  “In fact, now that I think about it, I wonder if we’ll even be able to open the bookstore today. I’ll have to let the others know.”

  “Others?”

  “Our staff.”

  “Do you have much staff?”

  “Only a couple of part-timers. A high school girl and a woman who’s retired from the library.”

  “You could get cleaned up here, if you’d like. Then give them a call. Use my phone.” I looked her up and down. “We’re about the same size. You could borrow some clothes.”

  Amber plucked at her muddy nylon jacket. “No, thank you. I’m sure the police will let me into the apartment. It’s not like anything happened there. Besides, if they don’t, I can borrow something from one of my friends.” She started for the door.

  “If you’re sure—”

  “I’m sure.” Amber opened the door and slipped into her shoes.

  “Can I give you a lift?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve got my bicycle downstairs.”

  “Okay. I’ll walk you out.”

  “You don’t have to bother, Ms. Simms.”

  “It’s Amy. And I was going that way anyway.” We went down the steps together. Esther gave us a funny look and opened her mouth to speak, but Mom drew her attention away by asking Esther to give her a hand in the storeroom.

  I pulled open the front door. “I’m sure everything will sort itself out, Amber. Please, see your mother as soon as you can.”

  Amber nodded and picked up a unisex bicycle that leaned against the wall on the porch. The teal bicycle also looked like it had been through a mud storm.

  She pushed the bicycle down the path to the sidewalk and climbed on. A sleeping roll and a small knapsack were strapped to a carrier over the rear tire.

  “And don’t judge your mother too harshly!” I shouted as her feet pushed down on the pedals.

  She turned her head in my direction, looking quite serious as she said, “I won’t, Amy. Believe you me, I won’t.”

  Back inside the shop, I dialed Derek’s cell phone to see if he had paid a visit yet to Rose Smith. I got his voicemail, and my call to his office was answered by his secretary, who said she had no idea where he was. Ben Harlan was in conference with a client, so he couldn’t help me either.

  * * *

  As soon as I could get away from the store, I went to Professor Livingston’s trailer to poke around. Maybe there was something in his camper that would give me a clue as to why Rose Smith would have wanted him dead.

  The first thing I noticed were the eggs. Hands on my hips, I gaped up at the giant birdhouse or tiny house or whatever Mason might have called it besides “the best little birdhouse in Texas.”

  “I know this is supposed to be a birdhouse, but aren’t the eggs supposed to be on the inside?” I muttered.

  The outside of Mason’s birdhouse was splattered with broken eggs, all around the sides and up on the peaked roof. Mason’s unhitched red pickup truck appeared unscathed.

  I examined his pickup truck first. The front seat of the pickup was littered with old newspapers, magazines, and fast-food wrappers and cups. The bed of the pickup was empty.

  I turned my attention to the egged trailer. Balancing on my tiptoes, I peeped in one of the tiny house’s windows. Nothing looked much different than it had when I’d found the professor dozing yesterday.

  I walked around to the rear and jiggled the door handle. The couple I’d spoken with briefly outside their motorhome the other evening had set out a couple of chairs in the grass and were reading quietly.

  I waved and walked over. “Good morning,” I began. “Any idea who did that?” I looked pointedly at the egg-spattered house. The yellow yolk and bits of white eggshell contrasted vividly with the bright red paint job.

  “Not a clue,” said the man, looking up from his book.

  “We’re just glad they didn’t egg us.” The woman petted the collie at her feet.

  “Yeah, that’s going to be near impossible to wash off. If that fella’s a friend of yours, you’d better tell him to get to cleaning it up before the sun bakes it on but good.”

  “Haven’t you heard?” I asked.

  “Heard what?” asked the woman.

  “The owner was, well, he was murdered yesterday.”

  The woman’s book fell from her hands to her feet. The collie bounced around it and barked once. “In there?” She appeared uneasy.

  “No. In town.”

  The woman turned to her husband. “I’m not so sure this town is safe, dear.”

  He nodded. “It might be time to move on.”

  “I’m sure you don’t have anything to worry about. I didn’t mean to alarm you.” I turned my attention back to the professor’s eccentric camper. “You didn’t see anybody hanging around, I suppose?”

  Both shook their heads. “No,” answered the man. “And whoever egged the place must’ve done it after we turned in last night.

  The wife agreed. “We would have noticed. Believe me.”

  I thanked them for their time and explained once more that the camper’s owner had been a friend of mine. “I came by to collect his things,” I said, hoping that my excuse, vague as it was, sounded plausible. I d
id not want them reporting me to the campground’s management or calling the police on me. I returned to the professor’s home away from home.

  The door was unlocked, so I ascended the stairs and pulled it open.

  7

  It was no fun stepping inside a dead man’s home—albeit his traveling one—especially when that man was only very recently dead and had been a friend. More than dead, this was no simple heart attack; Mason had been stabbed savagely, his life taken from him way too soon. He’d only been in his fifties. That was far too young to die. What had possessed the bookseller to kill him and in so brutal a fashion?

  Scrutinizing the tight space, I could see that Mason was clearly not a neat and tidy sort of man when it came to his housekeeping habits. Funny, because he had always taken such care with his personal appearance.

  The narrow bed was at the far end of the trailer. There was a small kitchenette built in on the right side, across from the tiny bathroom. Clothes and personal items were strewn around or tucked away in any available cubby. There were also plenty of books. It was no surprise that most were about birds.

  I lifted a well-worn copy of Hummingbirds and Their Habits and flipped through it. I didn’t know if I’d ever get back the copy Derek had bought for me or if Mason had even had the chance to sign it for me. Why had he asked Rose to bring him a new one the night he spoke to our group?

  Several pages contained highlighted text or circled passages. The professor had probably used the personal copy in preparing notes for his talks. A black laptop computer, several dirty paper plates, and a mug sat atop the small fold-out table that appeared to have served as his dining table and work desk.

  A stack of mail lay on the floor beside the bed. I flipped through the pile—a few magazines, a couple of bills, and various letters, including one from Frank Duvall, a local businessman. I remembered seeing him at our last Birds and Brews meeting and later at the bookstore for the professor’s book signing. I could not remember if the two men had spoken to each other at either event. All the pieces of mail had been addressed to Mason via a post office box address in Texas.

  A phone number with a local area code had been scribbled in pencil on the back of another of the envelopes. I made a note of the number on my cell phone, curious as to who Mason might have been calling. It wasn’t my number. I didn’t think it was the number of the bookstore, but I’d check. Mason hadn’t mentioned knowing anyone else in Ruby Lake.