April Fool Dead by Carolyn Hart Page B

couple of months.”
    Henny understood. “That means somebody else used your computer to go to the Gazette site.”
    â€œThere it is, fourth from the top. And I didn’t go to the web site.” Edith tapped her fingers near the mouse. “No one on the staff would use my computer without asking. There’d be no point to it anyway. Everyone has a computer. So, not the staff. This room”—she waved her hand—“is off-limits to patrons. Whom does that leave?”
    â€œMonday night’s ghost. But Edith, I don’t understand why anyone would go to the trouble to sneak into the library just to look up something on the paper’s web site.”
    Edith folded her arms, her bright dark eyes serious and thoughtful. “Oh, I get it, Henny.” She pointed at the computer. “That’s where all the information came from that was used in the flyers.” She pulled the flyers from her pocket, spread them out on the worktable. “Look at this.” Edith pointed at the list of clues on the first flyer. “There are stories in the Gazette files about the hit-and-run and Jud Hamilton’s manslaughter conviction and the deaths of Emma’s husband and Laura Fleming, lots of information in lots of stories. But you know what scares me?” She swung toward the computer monitor, her dark eyes intent.
    â€œGetting information from The Island Gazette web site?” Henny looked puzzled.
    â€œNo. What scares me is, Why did the ghost go to the trouble and effort to come here? After all, Cordelia could have called the police.” Edith tugged at a sprigof hair, wrinkled her face in thought. “You see, the person who did this must be really computer-savvy, smart enough to know that the computer used would always contain the information on its hard drive that it had been linked to The Island Gazette site. Now this person, our Monday-night ghost, obviously knows computers, probably has one both at home and at work. What scares me is, Why was it so important not to have that information on his or her computer?” Edith swept up the flyers from the worktable. “What’s going to happen next, Henny?”
    Â 
    My Attic occupied a beautiful brick Georgian house with a glorious view of the harbor. A pleasure boat moved slowly out into the Sound on calm water that glistened in the April sun like polished jade. A flock of royal terns rode high in the sky. Annie breathed deeply, enjoying the mingling of creosote, salt and fish smells.
    Carrying two posters, she climbed the creaking wooden steps of the antique shop. An old Flying Red Horse MOBIL sign leaned against a barrel with faded letters: MILLER ’ S FLOUR , SOUTH CAROLINA ’ S BEST . Tattered books overflowed a wooden trunk. A sign read: YOUR PICK $1. Annie took a step toward the trunk, forced herself to march to the screen door. She opened it, stepped into dust, must and dimness.
    As her eyes adjusted, she had the overpowering feeling of sadness that always swept over her in antique stores. Bits and pieces of long-ago lives jostled each other in disconnected chaos. On a scarred Federal-style table, a toy soldier in Napoleonic uniform, the musket broken off, stared blindly at a little Frenchclock studded with semiprecious stones—garnets and lapis lazuli and carnelian. Some child once played with the toy soldier. Some drawing room was once proud host to the little clock. Some gentleman’s study held a shining mahogany table. But the human eyes and hands and hearts that cared for these pieces, as well as all the other relics—tables and chairs and mirrors and clocks and tapestries and china and silver—had long since turned to dust. Now the mute pieces awaited new owners, who in turn would yield their prized possessions to time and death.
    The spacious entryway was filled with antiques, and more could be glimpsed in the matching rooms to either side. Near the staircase, a slender