Murdermobile (Portland Bookmobile Mysteries) by B.B. Cantwell Page A

speech. “As I said, Detective, I wouldn’t have bothered you with this
if it hadn’t been worrying me. I was a cadet at the police academy over at
Clackamas and I know that even the smallest piece of information can sometimes
close a case. The instructors there were always hammering that home. You
remember how it was?”
    Darrow grunted noncommittally. He
tried to veil his irritation for a moment longer.
    “Well, I’ve known Sara Duffy for
most of my life. She and Mother were the closest of friends and colleagues. Her
death has been devastating to Mother.”
    “Colleagues? Your mother is a
librarian, too?”
    “No, no, Mother is the leader of
Women Who Care About Children. You’ve probably seen them on the news. It’s
basically a progressive, pro-family group. Miss Duffy was in line to be
treasurer next year.”
    Kenyon relaxed a bit in his hard
chair. He stretched long, gray-wool-trousered legs and showed a colorful pair
of argyles fitted snugly into tasseled loafers. He bore an expression not
unlike the family feline that has enjoyed a leisurely afternoon snack at the
expense of a prized parakeet collection.
    “I think you will find that Ethel
Pimala is the murderer,” Kenyon stated bluntly.
    Darrow sat up slightly and fixed
his eyes on Kenyon’s. He took a slow swig from the root-beer bottle he still
cradled before responding. “The bookmobile driver? What would you know about
her?”
    “Oh, she’s been around since I
was a kid. She hated Miss Duffy. She wrote the most poisonous letters, letters
you wouldn’t believe, and I personally overheard her threaten to kill Aunt Sara
– that’s what I always called her. I could swear to it in court.”
    Darrow pulled his lanky body out
of the comforts of the rocker and began some manic stretching exercises,
leaning against a wall and pulling one foot up behind his thigh. Talking to
Kenyon over his shoulder, he said, “Letters? How many letters? Did you see any
of them?”
    “Well, some of them were letters
to the editor of The Oregonian . She wrote at least two or three in six
months. And then, of course, Mother saw the ones that were sent to Aunt Sara. I
made copies of them for an evidence folder.” Kenyon pulled from his leather
knapsack a thick manila folder and handed it to Darrow.
    Darrow opened the cover to
inspect a sheaf of copy paper. The typing was light and irregular, obviously
the work of a cheap portable typewriter, with frequent misspellings. Darrow
read aloud the first words that struck his eyes: “You’re racist dayS are all
most over.”
    *    
*     *
    One floor below, Hester’s eyes
were closed as she scrunched far down in the brimming tub. The aromatherapist
she’d been consulting in a little shop down on 21st hadn’t quite gotten it
right yet. This batch of bath oil, guaranteed to cure migraines and aching
feet, smelled like her grandmother’s dusting powder. Rather than drain away
stress, it just made Hester want to sneeze.
    She thought about her day, and
about Nate Darrow. She pictured him, wet and kind of scruffy in the coffee
shop. She remembered their conversation, and how easy it seemed to come. She
imagined his voice.
    Wait, she really did hear
his voice.
    Hester’s eyes opened wide and she
bolted upright and grabbed for a towel before she realized the source of the
sound: the open window.
    “Oh, that weird ventilation
shaft,” she groaned, a hand to her heart. Then she stopped to listen. Something
didn’t make sense about what she was hearing.
    “Your racist days are almost
over,” Darrow said loudly and stiffly. It sounded like he was reciting.
    Then she heard another man’s
voice – another familiar voice. The only word she caught clearly was “Ethel.”
The two voices continued to talk back and forth.
    Hester strained to hear, then bit
her lip when she realized who belonged to the second voice, and the topic of
their conversation. Was Paul Kenyon telling Detective Darrow that Pim was the
murderer? This was