Free Leave No Stone Unturned (A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 1) by Jeanne Glidewell Page A

Stone seemed
     like just the type of person I was visualizing.
    Stone laughed again at my comment about girls loving diamonds. He asked me to take
     the ferry to Liberty Island on Thursday morning, and he'd meet me at the top of the
     Statue of Liberty at eleven o'clock. I told him I'd never been there before, and he
     insisted that no trip to New York was complete without a visit to the statue. He'd
     pick up something at a nearby deli on the way. We could talk and have a picnic on
     the grounds of Liberty Island. It sounded like fun to me, and I was looking forward
     to Thursday. I sincerely hoped he was as nice a guy in person as he seemed on the
     phone. Of course, Ted Bundy could have easily charmed a lady into meeting him on Liberty
     Island too. Oh, goodness, I thought. What had I gotten myself into?
    As Wendy had said, I didn't know him from Adam. When I expressed concern about how
     I'd recognize him in a crowd of strangers, he said, "I'll be the one wearing a T-shirt
     that says, 'Myrtle Beach is for Lovers.' Will that work?"
    I blushed. I was thankful he couldn't see my reaction to his remark over the phone.
     "I guess that'll work," I said, and chuckled nervously. "See you at eleven on Thursday,
     Stone."
    * * *
    I spent the next few days at the Schenectady Public Library on Clinton Street, on
     one of their computers, searching through databases of old editions of the local newspapers.
     I also searched again through the microfilm I'd borrowed from the library where I
     volunteered my services, in case I'd overlooked something about the case. I didn't
     find out much, but I hoped what little I did discover might prove useful at some point.
    One article mentioned that since the murder of his wife, Clayton had been staying
     in Boston with a friend, Jake Jacoby, during the week, and returning home to New York
     on weekends. It was too far to commute to the police academy in Boston each day. Clay
     had told the reporter it was hard enough to go home to an empty house on Friday nights.
    Clay claimed to be at a library in Boston, studying by himself, on the day Eliza disappeared.
     So far no one had come forward to substantiate that claim other than Jacoby, whose
     credibility was also questionable. That answered one of my questions—Clay had moved
     from the Boston motel to his friend's house after Eliza's death. Only on weekends
     did he travel back to his home in Schenectady.
    Another article mentioned that when the hiker, Rod Crowfoot, had stumbled across the
     body some twenty feet off a hiking trail in the Adirondacks, there'd been a thirty-aught-six
     cartridge found near the crime scene, although there were no bullet wounds in the
     body. The authorities had yet to determine if the high-powered rifle cartridge was
     connected in any way to the murder, or murderer.
    One last bit of information gleaned from the newspaper articles was that Eliza's car
     was found in the Food Pantry's parking lot with several bags of groceries in the trunk.
     A young employee of the grocery store, Kale Miller, had carried the bags to her car,
     placed them in her trunk, and headed back into the store. According to Kale, Mrs.
     Pitt was rearranging the contents of her trunk as he walked away from her. He didn't
     recall anyone else in the parking lot, but admitted he hadn't been paying much attention
     at the time. Eliza apparently had been abducted from the parking lot after she'd closed
     the trunk, and before she'd gotten into the car.
    I made photocopies of every article I could find about the case and stored them in
     my notebook. I promised myself I'd go about this impromptu investigation in an organized
     manner, even though "organized" was not one of my natural traits. So far, so good,
     I thought.
    The rest of my spare time was spent reading and relaxing on Harriet's back porch.
     I had found another little diner, several blocks west of the Camelot B&B, which served
     sourdough English muffins for breakfast. I went there