Death in the Stacks: A Molly Wright Cozy Mystery, #3

Prologue

Gary Owen

Coffee was not his drink of choice, but that idiot at the corner cart had been out of his limited selection of teas. Only six in the morning and he was already out of tea? Bollocks to that. Was there no one in this flyspeck of a town who could do even the simplest of things proper? This was bloody England, and a corner cart ought to be able to sell tea to a visitor. Well. When he was finally able to see the arse end of Little Clegghorn he would be a happy man, indeed.

A yawn caught him by surprise. A huge gulp of the coffee from his takeaway cup sent a jolt of heat and caffeine through him, if not exactly a surge of energy. If Gary Owen hadn’t been called to a meeting with his contact at the local school—St. Cuthbert’s—then there would be nothing that could’ve gotten him out of bed this early. His room at the Star Harbor motel might not be palatial and that bed was more rock than mattress, but he’d much rather be asleep than standing here at the school’s front door, waiting to be let in.

It was autumn, and the day was still warm even if rain threatened on the horizon, and once upon a time when he was young he would’ve enjoyed a morning such as this. Now he was a successful businessman, however, and he had too many responsibilities to find pleasure in a pretty sunrise or a warm breeze. He didn’t like being out by himself, either, but his new bodyguards wouldn’t be hired on until Monday. Besides. What could possibly go wrong to hurt him in a town too small to even have a Costa coffee shop?

Walking here had been a bother as well. The charm of these little towns was much overrated, in his opinion. The little houses, the trees… everywhere, trees! Nothing a few good strip malls wouldn’t cure. Somewhere a bird warbled out its call, and Gary wished the thing would go find a cat to play with.

Next time, he promised himself, his work would bring him to London. Or Manchester, perhaps. Somewhere that could give him the sort of accommodations that he was used to. At forty-five years old, he had made quite a name for himself in certain circles. Yes, Gary Owen was known and respected and sometimes even feared, depending on who was telling the tale. There were very few people he counted as friends, but he couldn’t really care less. He was the Chief Financial Officer for a charity known world-wide for giving children a better life. Whether it was money for better schools or housing for the homeless, the Children’s Courage Endowment had done it all.

Under his careful direction, of course. He was the public face for all of it. Who needed friends when you could have power and influence and newspapers calling you a bona fide hero as they printed articles with your face next to them?

Not that it wasn’t a handsome face, he supposed. He was often compared to a slimmer Ricky Gervais. Good looks never hurt anyone, and in his case, they helped him separate donors from their money time and again.

No, good looks never hurt. But, he added with a wry smile, being rich was better.

Thankfully, as the CFO of the charity, he was in a unique position to shuffle money from the main accounts into his own. He’d siphoned so much money out of the Children’s Courage Endowment that in another year or two he’d be able to retire to this nice little home he’d found on Portsea Island. Oh, the kids still got money for whatever they needed, naturally, but he got his as well. It was a win-win as far as he was concerned.

This morning was about giving money out again, actually. St. Cuthbert’s Academy was going to be getting a new computer lab. At least, they would if his contact ever showed his face. Some trouble with the contract, or so he’d been told over the phone. He took another sip of coffee, and waited. He hated waiting. He checked his watch – again – and was just about ready to call the day quits when a vehicle pulled into the car park in front of the school.

Finally.

The man who approached him smiled and waved. Gary hid a scowl behind another gulp of his coffee. ’Bout time, he grumbled. You always keep your own hours, do you?

Well it is Saturday, the man replied. I know it’s early. This won’t take long, I assure you. Just a quick run through of the paperwork, is all. Let me show you ‘round to the library. That’s the space the new computer lab will go into.

Sounds positively brilliant. Can’t we just use the front door here?

It appeared he wasn’t heard, for around the building they went.

St. Cuthbert’s resembled a prison when seen from the outside, made of stone and brick in an austere style that had no doubt stood the test of time well even if it wasn’t very pretty. There was a place further on where the walls of the school went inward to create an alcove of sorts. There were three round tables set up on flagstones. A little commons area. It was here that Gary was being led.

Why’re having our meeting here? he asked. This is not what I’m used to.

I thought it might be nice to be outdoors for a bit, was the fast and ready response.

Gary stopped as he came around the corner. There were windows at the end which looked in on a library, a good-sized room by the looks of it, with shelves of books all along the walls and free-standing stacks filing up the middle. It was a pauper’s paradise of reading compared to some better outfitted schools that he’d been in. The windows were open just the width of a hand and no more than that, to let in fresh air.

He sighed. High-end computers donated by his charity would be wasted on the yokels who lived in this town. Well. He needed to keep up the pretense of the charity if he was going to continue getting rich from its coffers.

And he so did enjoy being rich.

Are you sure you work here? he asked. Wouldn’t they give you a key to the front door, or –

The man was on him in an instant, crushing his takeaway cup and spilling the rest of his coffee down the front of his immaculate suit. As he tried to shout in alarm, in anger, in surprise, a rag was placed over his mouth. It was coarse, and it smelled bitter and foul. He struggled but the man had one hand on the back of his head and the other holding the odious rag to his face and there was no breaking that grip.

As bright spots began to burst in front of his eyes, he heard the man speaking to him. Sorry to get you down here under false pretense. Then again, that’s something you’re used to, now isn’t it?

He was killing Gary Owen, CFO of a reputable charity, benefactor of the poor and needy. Liar. Thief.

And much, much worse.

When it was over, and Gary was dead on the ground, the killer looked up at the side of the school building. The windows were only open a bit, and the one closest to him always did like to stick, but with some effort he got it opened higher.

High enough to lift a body through.

For good measure, he tossed in the takeaway cup.

1

Molly Wright was rarely at a loss for words. At least, that had been the way of things once upon a time.

Recently her life had been turned inside out – mostly in a good way – and she was finding it harder and harder to describe what she was feeling. Words failed her.

How many different ways were there for a woman to say she was in love?

That was the first big change right there. Having ended what should have been a perfect relationship with one man just a couple of months back, she was now in love with a man who was completely attentive to her and, more than that, challenged her intellectually. It was a joy every day to see him. It was a pleasure to have him wander her dreams at night.

This was love, whether Molly could find the words to describe it or not.

She had all the other usual changes to her life, as well. The semester had started again at St. Cuthbert’s and she was back to teaching students their math and a few life lessons along the way. Summer was long over and the middle of Fall was proving to be warm and damp as any good English autumn should be. She loved her students. She loved her position at the school. In most regards, life couldn’t be better for her.

The notoriety both she and the town of Little Clegghorn had gained those two months ago, after the murder of a sideshow performer here in town had at last died down. She was glad to see her life return to normal, for the most part. No more mention of her in the papers, or on the television news. No more awkward glances for the woman who’d been kidnapped and then conked a strongman over the head with a tea kettle.

Yes. Normal was far better.

But then that brought her to one more unexpected change to her life, and she’d yet to decide if this one was good, or rather a cosmic joke played on her by the almighty Lord just when everything else seemed to be going so well.

For the last three weeks, her baby brother had been staying on her couch. Good, bad, or simply a fact of her life it nevertheless had made things interesting.

Calling him her baby brother was a bit of a stretch nowadays, Molly reflected with a sigh. Mason was taller than her and badly in need of a shave and of course he was drop-dead gorgeous, as one of her friends had so indelicately put it just two days back. He certainly wasn’t the lanky and awkward teen that she recalled from before she left home. Now he was all lean muscle. The auburn scruff on his square jaw matched the color in his wavy hair. His eyes were the same emerald green as Molly’s own, although her short dark hair was a gift from their mother whereas Mason’s was a mix of mom and dad’s both. Even the scar on his forehead, just at his hairline, added a roguish turn to his appearance.

At his age, with those looks, he could easily find himself a lady willing to settle down with him before he grew too old for anyone to notice what a good man he was at heart. Of course, she was no spring chicken herself. At the age of thirty-six she was beginning to see a few grey hairs mixed in with the brown at her temples which, of course, she studiously ignored. Age was in the mind, as Dan so often reminded her.

Dan Canber, she thought with a smile. He was older by three years and certainly knew what he was talking about. Or maybe he was just trying to flatter her. Boyfriends could be like that. Either way, she accepted the wisdom in those words.

Standing in her living room on this mild Saturday in autumn, Molly stared down at her sleeping brother and pondered over one single question.

What was she to do about him?

He was all snuggled up under her Women’s National Field Hockey comforter – 2016 Olympic Champions, thank you very much – and here it was already past eleven o’clock. This was his way most weekends. Which was to say he’d stay out super late Friday night and then come back as he pleased Saturday morning to sleep the day away. When he’d arrived without any sort of warning on her doorstep she’d been elated. They hadn’t seen each other in years.

That feeling was beginning to wear a bit thin. In fact, she was beginning to suspect she was being used.

Dan had actually been the first to suggest it to her. Of course, he’d backed off the subject quick enough when she’d told him he was wrong. Smart man, that one. Molly had been offended and defensive at the very thought that her brother might be hiding something. But after a while, she’d thought it over some. Mason hadn’t exactly lead a clean life and had even ended up in prison a few times. Not to mention the time her mother called her crying her heart out because her only son had disappeared again without a word of goodbye.

Trouble followed Mason everywhere he went. He had a way, as her mum put it, of bringing Hell with him wherever he went. Her little brother. She watched him gently snoring now, and wondered. Had he brought his troubles with him to Little Clegghorn this time?

She sighed again. As much as she loved Mason, she couldn’t just accept him staying with her indefinitely with no explanation. Three weeks should’ve been plenty enough time to find his feet. They needed to have a talk, the two of them, and it needed to be now. Before she lost her nerve.

So, she reached out and took hold of the corner of the comforter, planning on throwing it off and exposing him to the day, and God help her if he slept without his boxers on.

Before she got that far Mason sat bolt upright and swung one arm out to grab her wrist. Their eyes met, and she was sure it took him a moment to realize who she even was. He was keyed up and ready for a fight.

Mason, she said, wriggling her arm in his grip, wake up. It’s me.

In the next instant, he drew a shaky breath and smiled up at her, letting go of her. Five red spots on her skin marked where his fingers had dug in. His voice was gruff from sleep. Warn a bloke next time, won’t you? He scrubbed at his hair, leaving it messier than it had been at first, and stretched behind a yawn. I’m still half-asleep, you know.

I’m very aware of that. Was that his attempt at an apology? If it was, it needed work. Planning on sleeping another Saturday away, were you?

Aw, Molls. Pack it in, will you? I’m a grown man. I keep my own hours.

Not very well, it seems.

Molls, he’d called her. That had been his nickname for her when they were kids. No one else in the world but her brother had ever called her that. They’d been such happy kids together, back before dad had passed on and Molly had gone to find her own way in the world. She stood for a moment watching him now, and suddenly she realized that she had no Earthly idea how to talk to her brother anymore.

It had been too long. Too many years had passed between them without a word. The past three weeks they’d gone to dinner and spent time at home and out with her friends, and the conversations had always been superficial at best. Yes, he was doing all right. No, he didn’t have any permanent place to hang his hat at present. On