Free A Bookmarked Death by Judi Culbertson Page A

dust from cartons and the edges of books was out in the barn.
    I crept down the stairs into the kitchen, crept as stealthily as if someone was watching, with a trail of cats behind me whining for food. I ignored them and felt around for the flashlight magnetized to the side of the refrigerator. Without turning it on, I stumbled down the back porch steps and moved toward the barn. Slowly my eyes adjusted to the early morning. The waning moon was full, though the blackness of the pond made me think of pits of damnation.
    I unlocked the barn and closed the door firmly before deciding I was being ridiculous and switched on the flashlight. I could be out in my Book Barn in the early hours for any reason. Still, the black corners beyond the small beam were menacing, filled with ghostly police detectives. If one of them had suddenly stepped forward to accuse me, I would have screamed, but not been totally surprised.
    The shop vac was on the edge of the worktable, a large silver egg laid by an electric hen. I switched it on experimentally to check the batteries, and the drone was much too loud. Hastily I flipped it off. What was I doing? Tampering with—no, removing misleading evidence.
    Carrying the vacuum handle in one hand, the flashlight in the other, I slipped out of the barn without locking it. Daylight was now edging the sky just enough to make the way to the house visible. I thought I was moving silently until the German shepherd next door gave a yapping bark, freezing me on the path. I imagined the neighborhood waking and coming to life like actors at the beginning of a play. The retired cop across the street, everybody’s friend, would hurry over to see if I needed help with my van.
    “Shh, Mamie,” I said as loud as I dared. “It’s okay. It’s just me.”
    Either that calmed her down or I stopped hearing her. I was as alert for other sounds as Miss T stalking a mouse. I stayed in the shadow of the house until I reached the van, then pressed the handle down gently. When I opened the door the light inside flashed a brief greeting before I reached in and switched it off.
    I trained the flashlight on the floor beside the gas pedal and brake. As I had imagined, there was a dried tan residue, sprinkled across other grit that had accumulated over time. Rather than work with the door open, I closed it softly, then went around to the passenger side and climbed in. Bending over, I switched on the vacuum and sucked up everything I could see. I had just finished when I realized it would look suspicious to have only that area vacuumed, and went on a cleaning rampage, scouring all the floors and the seats. To do so entailed moving jackets and umbrellas, even a carton of books, but I did not stop until the van was as clean as when I bought it six years ago. And it had been used then.
    I moved around to the back door, carrying the vacuum carefully. Then I went into the bathroom off the kitchen, opened the bottom, and shook it over the toilet. Fortunately the little cloth bag had already been half full, so I did not have to worry about Southampton residue left at the bottom. I flushed the toilet twice, then went upstairs, and flung myself on the double bed. I had read somewhere that resting was almost as good as sleeping. Surprisingly, I dozed off.

 
    Chapter Eleven
    T WO HOURS LATER , acting under a territorial imperative of my own, I drove out to Southampton. At 8:30 a.m. I called the Crosleys’ caretaker, Mairee Jontra. As I pressed in her number, I wondered what kind of name Mairee was. Made-up, of course. On the other hand, what kind of a name was Delhi? I didn’t bother to explain it unless people asked, and most people didn’t. My parents’ dream had been to go to India as Christian missionaries. My father had accepted the call to the church in Princeton with the caveat that as soon as the mission field details were worked out, the Methodists would have to find themselves a new pastor.
    Only it had never happened. Once