The Last Thing She Said Page 29

  “That is something to consider,” Chris said.

  “If you want to come up here to follow this lead, let me know,” Joshua said. “You’re welcome to stay with us. We’re literally five minutes away from Foxes.”

  After thanking Joshua, Chris disconnected the call and turned to Helen. “What do you think we should do?”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sal Loughlin’s bookstore was a three-story red brick building that occupied a street corner in State College. A royal green shingle with gold lettering hung outside that read “Loughlin’s Antique Book Shop.”

  A bell above the door jingled to signal Jacqui and Francine’s entrance to admire the treasure trove of literary collectibles housed among the bookshelves and display cases. Lamps with green glass shades shone spotlights on rare documents, secured under lock and key, encased in glass cases.

  A middle-aged woman wearing thick eyeglasses looked up from a book she was reading to offer them a soft grin. “Good afternoon.” Wordlessly wondering if they could afford anything the shop offered, she watched them. Possibly, they were simply nosey, as so many visitors were.

  Jacqui and Francine responded in a congenial nature before moving to the nearest bookcase, which was filled with hardback books.

  Together, they perused the collection of books, one after another. Ernest Hemingway. F. Scott Fitzgerald. Mark Twain. There was even a first edition Gone With the Wind. Some were autographed. Others were rare first editions.

  The more valuable finds were behind the glass cases. They could be seen, but not touched without the assistance of the owner or a store employee.

  “I wish I knew what we were looking for,” Francine whispered as they moved onto a wall of glass cases housing fragile-looking letters.

  Jacqui studied a yellowed letter written in beautiful calligraphy. She read the signature. Virginia Woolf.

  “Like you expected us to walk into the shop and have the motive jump off the shelves and slap us in the face?” Jacqui asked in a low voice before leaning over to read the letter dated 1 May 1913.

  “My Dear Thomas …I enjoyed the play that you had sent to me in your last correspondence. However, I am not certain about the title you have decided upon. The Waste Land seems so dark, so hollow…”

  “This is a letter from Virginia Woolf to T.S. Elliot,” Jacqui murmured.

  “Who’s that?”

  “T.S. Elliot is the poet who wrote Cats.”

  “Cats wasn’t a poem. It was a musical.”

  With a roll of her eyes, Jacqui returned to reading the letter.

  “May I help you ladies?” a man with a refined voice startled them.

  Francine thought she was going to jump out of her shoes. She turned around to face a tall, willowy man with a smooth, almost feminine face. His hair was exceedingly thin with the hairline starting on the very top of his head. “We’re just looking.”

  The man stuck out his hand. “Sal Loughlin. I am the owner of this humble shop. And you are …”

  Francine shook his limp, clammy hand. It was like shaking hands with a dead fish. “Francine Duncan.” She looked in Jacqui’s direction to discover her companion bent over the display case containing Virginia Woolf’s letter.

  “I am sorry to say that my cooking instructions are not going well. I have burnt myself multiple times, and yesterday I baked my earring into a soufflé. My instructor was not amused…”

  “Jacqui,” Francine said as casually as possible while tapping her on the shoulder, “this is Sal Loughlin. He’s the shop owner.”

  Jacqui stood up and turned to them. Her face was white. Blinking, she stammered, “I-I was just looking at this letter … from Virginia Woolf. Wh-where did you get it?”

  “I found it last year among a shipment of rare books from a library that was closed in upstate New York,” Sal said with a wave of his hand. “You’d be surprised about the type of discoveries that I have made when buying old books and other antiques.”

  “I can imagine,” Jacqui said.

  “Are you interested in old letters?” he asked.

  “I’m interested in old everything.”

  He took a set of keys from his pocket. “Would you like to take a closer look at this letter?”

  “Oh, I would love to.” Jacqui took a quick glance at her watch. “Unfortunately, we have an appointment.” She grabbed Francine by the arm. “Come along, Francine. We don’t want to be late.”

  “We’ll be back,” Francine called to the shop owner while Jacqui dragged her out onto the sidewalk. “You saw something,” she hissed at Jacqui.

  “Oh, yeah.” Jacqui glanced over her shoulder to see Sal Loughlin staring at them through the shop window. She practically dragged Francine down the sidewalk. “Virginia Woolf baked her wedding ring into a pudding.”

  Francine had to fight to keep from tripping as Jacqui pulled her along. “And that should matter to me because …”

  “According to what she supposedly wrote in that letter, she baked her earring into a soufflé,” Jacqui said.

  “But you’re saying she didn’t.”

  “I know she didn’t.”

  “How do you know Virginia Woolf didn’t bake her earring into a soufflé? She could have been a really lousy cook. One week she lost her earring. The next week it was her wedding—”

  “Everyone knows she didn’t,” Jacqui said.

  “I didn’t.“

  “Well, you’re not everyone,” Jacqui said. “Plus, that letter is dated 1913. Virginia Woolf didn’t even meet T.S. Eliot until 1918.”

  “I guess everyone knows that, too?”

  Turning to her, Jacqui pointed back at the shop. “That letter is a forgery. Lacey Woodhouse was an English major.”

  “One of my sources said Lacey was really into literary history,” Francine said.

  “Which means she would have known things like what jewelry Virginia Woolf was most likely to bake into her puddings,” Jacqui said. “Lacey must have realized that her boss was a master forger making a fortune flooding the market with bogus letters from great literary masters.”

  “He had to kill her to protect his reputation as one of our country’s greatest experts in rare documents,” Francine said.

  “Mary Ann White worked for him, too,” Jacqui said. “She must have figured it out as well.”

  “He killed them both.”

  Together, the two of them turned around to see that Sal Loughlin was still watching them through the shop window.

  With both Matthew Paxton and Sadie in surgery at their respective hospitals and the girls secure at their church pastor’s home with marked police cruisers outside, Doris ordered Chris and Helen to head north to West Virginia’s northern panhandle to hunt down Caroline Andrew’s other sister.

  The sooner they closed the case, the better for everyone involved.

  Ray had double checked Caroline Andrew’s background and found no record of a second sister. Possibly, they surmised, the Sunday visitor was a sister-in-law who could hopefully be close enough to Caroline to help them.

  It was early evening when Chris exited the Pennsylvania freeway and made his way down the Ohio River to cross into the most northern town in West Virginia—Chester.

  Sterling pressed his snout against the window to take in a giant white teapot resting in the middle of a traffic circle. Following the instructions on his GPS, Chris made his way to Fifth Street and up a small hill to a cobblestone road called Rock Springs Boulevard.

  “Oh, my,” Helen breathed upon seeing a grand three-story stone house with a wrap-around porch resting on top of a hill.

  Chris checked the address. “That’s where we’re going. I hope their animals are better influences on Sterling than Gnarly.” He turned right into the driveway which looped around a floral garden.

  The front door opened as they climbed
onto the porch. A large black and white furry creature shot out and leapt onto the porch railing. Upon seeing the black creature with a white stripe down its back, Helen fell back. Chris darted in front of her to take whatever it had to offer.

  Sterling planted his front paws on the railing to sniff it.

  “It’s okay. That’s just Irving. He’s a cat. Everyone thinks he’s a skunk.”

  In the open doorway, an exceedingly slender teenaged girl with big eyes and curly blond hair that fell to the middle of her back held back an Irish-Wolfhound-Great Dane mix who was bigger than she was. Chris gauged her to be approximately the same age as Katelyn. “I’m assuming you’re our company. I’m Izzy. This is Admiral. What’s your dog’s name?” She patted Sterling on the head.

  Based on how his tongue hung out of the side of his mouth, Sterling had already declared Izzy to be a friend.

  “Sterling.” Chris held out his hand to her. “I’m Chris and this is Helen.”

  “Dad’s in the kitchen making spaghetti, because Cam’s chasing a killer. But that’s okay. She can’t cook anyway.” Izzy gestured for them to follow her into the house. “Admiral doesn’t bite. He might lick your face off though.”

  She led them through the two-story foyer and down a hallway that passed a living room with a fireplace, formal dining room with antique oak furnishings and yet another fireplace, and back into a spacious French country kitchen. The scent of homemade spaghetti sauce filled the room.

  At the stove, a man with silver hair and an auburn ultra-short trimmed beard and mustache, stirred a big pot of spaghetti sauce while carrying on a conversation with yet another man standing on the other side of the counter.

  His companion, who Izzy introduced as Cousin Tad, tore off bits of a fresh loaf of bread and dipped it into a dipping bowl containing a drizzle of olive oil, parmesan cheese, and garlic. Evidenced by more gray in his hair, Tad was clearly older. Athletic builds, square jaws, and eyes an identical shade of blue was evidence of their familial connection.

  “Tad, I’m not asking you to break any laws,” Joshua Thornton said while stirring the pot. “I’m just asking you to—”

  “Fib,” Izzy interjected, which drew attention to their presence. “Company’s here.”

  She pointed out each as she made the introductions, ending with the German shepherd. “This handsome guy is Sterling.” She bowed to pat his head and gave him a biscuit from a pet treat jar on the kitchen counter.

  Sterling responded with a lick on the tip of her nose.

  Irving and Admiral demanded equal treats, to which she obediently responded.

  Joshua stepped forward to shake their hands. “Any friend of Mac Faraday’s is a friend of ours.”

  “Thank you for inviting us to stay,” Helen said. “It’s only for one night. We need to get home as soon as possible.”

  His brilliant blue eyes sparkling, Joshua spread out his hands to indicate the big house. ‘We’ve got plenty of room since the kids have flown the nest.”

  “I’m the last one home.” Izzy invited them to join her at the kitchen table.

  “My wife is out on a stakeout tonight,” Joshua said. “Don’t freak out if you encounter a woman with a big gun coming in at some un-godly hour.”

  “I assume your wife is in law enforcement,” Helen said.

  “Cameron is a lieutenant in homicide with the Pennsylvania state police.” Joshua returned to the pot on the stove. “Tad here is Caroline Andrews’ doctor at Fox’s. He’s the one who spilled the beans about the sister visiting her every Sunday.”

  “He lured me over here with the promise of baked goods.” Tad moved the loaf of bread and dipping bowls to the kitchen table for their guests.

  “Our background check on Patricia Baker only turned up one sibling,” Helen said. “Caroline Andrews.”

  “Maybe she’s a cousin or sister-in-law,” Chris said.

  “Marcus Andrews had two brothers,” Tad said. “One got married and moved to Columbus. Last I heard, his wife died from a stroke many years ago. I doubt if this woman is connected to Marcus’s other brother. He’s been married and divorced several times, moved all over the place. No one even knew how to get in touch with him for Marcus’s funeral.”

  “Does Caroline have any children you can ask to clarify who this woman is?” Chris asked.

  “She has a grown son whose an engineer with an international non-profit organization,” Tad said. “He’s building a bridge someplace in Africa. I doubt if we’d be able to get in touch with him right away. Caroline’s daughter is a corporate attorney in Chicago. She’s extremely proficient in lawsuits.”

  “Cousin Tad is afraid of her,” Izzy said while petting Irving the skunk cat, who was stretched out across her lap.

  “She’s one nasty woman,” Tad said.

  “But Tad’s not totally useless,” Joshua said. “He did get some useful information about our mystery lady.”

  “Laws can’t stop the staff from talking among themselves,” Tad said. “I managed to find out that this sister’s name is Serendipity.”

  “Serendipity?” Helen crinkled up her nose. “What’s her last name?”

  “Doesn’t have one. I’ve seen her. She’s very …” Tad searched for the right word. “artistic.” He shrugged his shoulders. “She’s an artist in Pittsburgh. Someone told me that she has a studio in Oakland.”

  “That’s where the universities are,” Joshua said.

  “If she’s an artist, she has to have a social media presence.” Chris turned to Helen, who was already taking her tablet from her bag. “Look up Serendipity.”

  “I know,” Helen said. “I’ve been on this case from the beginning.” After several minutes of using various phrases for searching, they gave up.

  “What type of artist doesn’t have a website or social media presence?” Izzy took her own tablet from her book bag, which was hanging from a coat rack, to continue the search.

  “One who wants to stay off the grid,” Chris said.

  “This Serendipity could be your missing suspect,” Joshua said.

  “That’s not possible,” Chris said with a shake of his head. “According to the federal agent in charge of the investigation, a serial rapist confessed to killing her and dumping her body someplace.”

  “If she’s not hiding from the police, why is she staying off the grid?” Helen asked.

  “Because she’s an eccentric,” Tad said. “A lot of these bohemian types are anti-government—even paranoid about being tracked. I’m sure there’s a chemical contribution to their paranoia.”

  “Just because someone’s paranoid doesn’t mean someone isn’t out to get them,” Izzy said.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “I hate cocky detectives who are young enough to be my kids,” Francine said under her breath after Detective Jerry Taylor went in search of Lacey Woodhouse’s case file.

  The detective wasn’t aware that he had inherited the cold case until Francine and Jacqui had arrived at the precinct to give him his first lead. After the two older women explained who and why Sal Loughlin killed the young college student over four decades earlier, he rolled his eyes. With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself up from his seat to go hunt down the case file.

  “He’s not going to do anything,” Francine told Jacqui.

  “All they have to do is take a team of investigators into the shop and examine those letters,” Jacqui said.

  “If they can bring themselves to do that, all they’ll have Loughlin on is forgery, not murder, at which point, he’ll say he didn’t do the forgeries. He only bought them—making him the victim.”

  Detective Taylor returned to his desk and tossed the thick case file onto his desk. With another sigh, he plopped down into his chair.

  “Are we keeping you from something?” Francine asked.

  The detective shot her a sidel
ong glare before opening the folder. “Let me get this straight. You think Sal Loughlin, one of our country’s most respected rare document experts, our area’s most successful businessman, former president of the Chamber of Commerce—”

  “Is a phony and a killer,” Jacqui finished. “That is exactly what we’re saying.”

  “What evidence do you have?”

  “He’s got a forged letter from Virginia Woolf on display in his shop right now as we speak.” Jacqui pointed in the general direction of the bookstore. “Go see for yourself.”

  “How do you know it’s a forgery?” the detective asked.

  “Because Virginia Woolf baked her wedding ring into a pudding, not an earring in a soufflé.”

  The detective cocked his head at Jacqui.

  “Everybody knows that,” Francine said.

  “The letter to T.S. Eliot says she baked her earring, not her wedding ring,” Jacqui said.

  “Maybe she baked her earring, too,” Detective Taylor said. “I mean, from what you’re saying, it doesn’t sound like she was a very good cook.”

  Jacqui’s eyes blazed. “Plus, she wrote the letter five years before she’d even met T.S. Eliot.”

  “Get a warrant to go search his shop,” Francine said. “If you take real experts in to examine the letters, you’ll find we’re right. We know what we’re talking about.”

  “Are you experts in rare documents?” Detective Taylor asked.

  Jacqui swallowed. “No, but—”

  “Jacqui knows all types of useless facts that’ll prove he’s a phony,” Francine said, “and that’s why he killed Lacey Woodhouse. She found out he was a fraud.”

  “Because Lacey knew Virginia Woolf didn’t lose her earring in the pudding?” Detective Taylor said.

  “It was her wedding ring in the pudding,” Jacqui said.

  “I thought her wedding ring was in the soufflé,” Francine said.