Free The Angel and the Jabberwocky Murders by Mignon F. Ballard

“Coffee?”
    I thanked her but declined. I try not to drink anything you might have to scoop out with a shovel. I told her how the girls in my class had discovered D.C.’s body and how the police had examined her mail. “We—I—thought you might remember something like that happening when Rachel Isaacs was killed,” I said.
    Josie tossed down her brew like it was a shot of bourbon. “Seems like I did hear there was a message of some kind, but the police were real closemouthed about it. Never gave out so much as a hint. When nothing ever came out about it, I just assumed it was one of those rumors that circulate through the gossip mill.” Shoving her coffee mug aside, the editor leaned across her desk. “Did you actually see these letters? How do you know they were meant for the Hunter girl?”
    â€œThat’s what Sally, her roommate, told police. She’d been collecting the mail and leaving it on D.C.’s desk. I was there when they asked her for permission to enter the room and take them.”
    She frowned. “How many letters were there?”
    â€œOh, I don’t know. Four or five, maybe, but the attention seemed focused on one,” I told her.
    â€œI don’t suppose you know what it said?” She tilted her head to look at me. I didn’t even have to answer.
    Josie Kiker had the look of a bloodhound in her eyes and I wouldn’t have been too surprised if she had dropped to the floor and begun to sniff. Instead she leaned back in her chair. “Wonder if it held some kind of threat?”
    I shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, but it sounds as if it might be something that would tie the two murders together.”
    The smell of scorched coffee filled the small room, and Augusta, standing behind the editor, wrinkled her nose at the sight of the stained pot, which looked as if it hadn’t been scrubbed in this decade.
    I turned away to hide my smile, but thankfully Josie didn’t notice. “They’ll say Claymore Hornsby did it,” she said, studying a spot on the ceiling, “but I just can’t see it.”
    â€œWas he here when the other girl was killed?” I asked.
    â€œOh, yes, Clay’s been at the college for seven or eight years now and had a roving eye for as many, but I never thought he’d actually do anything about it. You’ve seen his wife, I suppose?”
    I shook my head. “Not that I can remember.”
    â€œWell, as the old fellow says, ‘She ain’t got nary turn for inticin’.’ Plain as a rag mop, Monica is—but then he knew that when he married her, didn’t he?”
    I said I reckon he did and tried to signal Augusta it was time to go. I wouldn’t put it past her to go into a cleaning frenzy right then and there. “I just hope they’ll soon find out who did it,” I told her. “Two unsolved murders in less than five years isn’t going to look good for Sarah Bedford.”
    Josie Kiker made a noise that was somewhere between a shish and a grunt. “Two is all they admit to, but I’ve wondered since about that other girl.” She nudged her glasses into place and frowned at the computer screen.
    â€œWhat other girl? You mean there was a murder before Rachel Isaacs’s?”
    â€œAccident, they said . Fell from the Tree House. You know, that circular platform around the big oak on the front campus. They use it mostly on Class Day.”
    I sat back down. “I don’t remember that. When did it happen?”
    â€œâ€™Bout nine years ago, I think. I can look it up. Seems it was a girl from somewhere in upstate New York.”
    Josie bustled out of the room, bypassed the microfilm, and went to a narrow alcove where I heard her shifting through bulky bound copies. Her glasses had slid midway down her nose when she returned dusting off her hands a few minutes later. “Martinez,” she announced.