Stranded by Lorena McCourtney Page B

hasn’t already thought of it, they’ll be adding that on as another black mark against me: I had to murder him before he gave more assets away. Of course the ladies of the Hysterical Society would have had enough money without another donation from him if they hadn’t acted like kids turned loose in a video arcade when they built the new wing.”
    As a longtime librarian, I’m also a longtime book preservationist. “They had to have a good place to put the books,” I protested. “Books deteriorate in poor conditions, and temperature is important.”
    “But did they need 175 -dollars-a-yard carpet and imported teak shelving, and bringing in some artsy guy from New York to do a mural?” Kelli snorted in disapproval.
    “May I go in and look around later?”
    “Sure. Help yourself. The door isn’t locked. I keep thinking there must be more records concerning investments or accounts that I haven’t located yet, but I don’t know where else to look.”
    “I’ll keep an eye out for anything like that.”
    “Anyway, there are tons of old books about Colorado history and mining and various other subjects that interested Uncle Hiram.”
    The spindlework supporting the railing on either side of the stairway looked too delicate to hold up the thick, molded railing, but the rail felt solid under my hand. A green ribbon blocked access to the hallway at the second-floor landing, although it was mostly symbolic, because the ribbon wouldn’t actually keep anyone out. Beyond the ribbon, a haphazard collection of junk and/or antiques lined the hallway. On the third floor landing, a bare piece of plywood lay to one side. Holes and splinters in the wood showed where it had been yanked from a nailed position across the doorway.
    “Didn’t you say the third floor was closed off?”
    “It was, until Uncle Hiram decided to open it up for some unknown reason.”
    We stepped into an enormous, unfurnished space. Dusty light streamed through uncurtained windows. A maze of footprints decorated the dust on the floor, polished hardwood gleaming through them. “A ballroom?” I guessed.
    “Hiram said that when he was a small boy his parents held wonderful fancy-dress balls here, but it’s another part of the house that I was never in until after his death.”
    She led the way across the bare floor to a round tower room, the one with windows. A solid, although slightly warped, door closed off the balcony tower room, but only an archway separated this room and the ballroom. There had once been carpet in the circular room, but it had been ripped up, leaving only shreds on the floor. A smell of old wood and musty carpet hung in the stagnant air.
    “That’s where he went out.” Kelli pointed to the raw plywood covering one long, narrow window. “He landed on the brick walkway below. I had the window boarded up temporarily until I get new glass installed.”
    I went to a window to the left of the plywood. The bottom sill was no more than a few inches above floor level, not all that difficult to plunge through. Kelli stayed back, as if she’d rather not look out.
    Nothing showed that a body had once crashed to the bricks below. No chalk outlined where the body had landed, and the old bricks were too discolored by long exposure to the elements to reveal any blood stains now. Bare-branched trees hung over the yard like dark skeletons leering over a tragedy.
    I had a sudden, dizzying awareness of how it would feel to crash through the window and plunge headlong through open space to death below. I grabbed the framework around the window to steady myself, then jerked my hand away as I realized a grayish powder clung to the woodwork.
    “The police checked for fingerprints?” I asked, looking at the residue on my hand.
    Kelli nodded. “Yeah. They called in people from the county sheriff’s office and were quite thorough. They went through the house with the proverbial fine-toothed comb.”
    I dug a tissue from my pocket and wiped at the