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

insane. She turned off the steaming tap and cocked an ear
closer to the open window.
    Damn, the pacing detective kept
striding over a loose board that creaked loudly, drowning many of his words.  
    “When was this written?” Darrow
asked testily, turning over the top letter. “There’s no date.”
    “Mrs. Pimala often forgot to date
the letters. I think that one was fairly recent,” Kenyon replied, the smug look
still on his face.
    Darrow began to sift through the
other letters in the folder. All written on the same typewriter, it seemed. From
the few dates, the letters appeared to go back to 1991.
    Darrow’s mind raced. These were
published in The Oregonian ? It must have been common knowledge that
Ethel Pimala and the former head librarian were feuding. Why had no one
mentioned this tidbit before? This close-mouthed town would drive him nuts.
    Kenyon, like an impatient puppy,
couldn’t keep quiet. “It might seem odd to you that Mrs. Pimala continued her
vicious letters after Aunt Sara retired. But then Ethel has never been what you
might call a normal person.”
    Darrow looked up with a furrowed
brow. “Oh?” Kenyon had his attention again. His irritation hadn’t subsided,
however, and Darrow felt a perverse pleasure at blaming this particular
messenger.
    “Well, it’s easy to see. Ethel
has delusions of persecution having to do with being non-white. She blamed Aunt
Sara for her awful little life, made all these wild accusations about racism,
claiming she’d been discriminated against at the library. But it was plain to
everyone that Ethel had only herself to blame. She is basically uneducated. Her
people are pineapple laborers or something and she should count herself lucky
to have any kind of job at all. Aunt Sara was kindness personified to keep her
on after those letters started.”
    Hester almost yelled out. She
caught herself just in time. Why that little rat! Pim was not uneducated and
her relatives owned a small sugar cane farm and made a decent living. Pim might
be a hothead at times, Hester reflected, but she was a hard worker, often
boasting that she’d only ever taken three sick days in more than 30 years with
the library.
    True, when discrimination became
a contentious fixture of the workplace, Pim had seized upon it as a cause of
all her frustrations. The library had never officially addressed the issue, but
in an organization with such a long history of lily-white management, it
couldn't be discarded. However much substance was there, Hester knew Miss Duffy
had long ago blackballed Pim as a troublemaker.
    “And it’s never been fair,”
Hester fumed, slapping her sponge mitt into the bath water.
    Bubbles flew as Hester angrily
splashed her way out of the tub. Bingle T., who’d been curled on the bath mat,
scrambled for the hall, pausing only to give Hester a dirty look before he
stalked toward the bedroom.
    “Well, this day isn’t over yet,
Mr. Holier Than Thou Kenyon. You just wait!” Hester fumed as she dried herself.
Remembering Marge Kenyon’s “emergency meeting” Hester stormed to her closet and
flung open the door. “The question is: What do you wear around these kinds of
people?”

Chapter Ten
    It was 7:05 p.m., and the meeting
had already begun as Hester and Karen pulled up to the circular driveway in
front of the Mumfrey Mansion. In these hallowed halls, Women Who Care About
Children gathered regularly.
    The mansion was a historic
eyesore in the west hills of Portland. Its architect and builder had been a sea
captain, to which the miserably narrow staircases offered mute testimony. WWCAC,
by virtue of the membership of Marella Mumfrey, had obtained a permanent
meeting place in the old ballroom on the fourth floor.
    The mansion loomed large and ugly
in the gray, cold Portland night. Small, glaring lights picked out stepping
stones from the parking area to the front door. Floodlights on the building’s
exterior showed a cracked foundation and accentuated the badly listing