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

local?”
    Hester whirled away from Nate and
furiously stirred at the stove. Amidst the billowing steam, she reached up to
struggle with the switch to an ancient, dusty ventilator fan, which finally came
on with a “pocketa-pocketa-pocketa.”
    “Oh? Her? Um, I don’t know much
about her. She just writes silly little books for girls. Never really met
her...At least, that is, I guess we’ve talked, but I’ve never actually been
introduced.”
    Hester winced and took a slurp of
wine. Damn, why couldn’t Karen just have kept her little secret?
    Darrow sipped at his beer bottle,
then rolled his tongue through his lower lip.
    “Talked, but not been introduced?
Look, Hester, I’m not sure just what you and your friend were really up to last
night, but I have a feeling you’re sticking your nose a little too far into
this whole situation. I know Ethel is your friend. But she’ll get her day in
court. The best way you could help her is to convince her to get a good lawyer.”
    He gazed up at the droplets
collecting on the peeling yellow enamel above Hester’s stove. “Do you know she
plans to defend herself?”
    Hester rapidly nodded her head in
exasperation. “Yes! And I’ve already tried to talk her out of it. To no avail.
Once she gets an idea like that, she’s like a bear with a bun.” She let out a
big sigh. “Look, have you, uh, found out anything about some silly letters Pim
might have written...?”
    Darrow’s head jerked up and his
eyes widened. “And just how did you hear about that part of my investigation,
Inspector?”
    “Oh, well, you know Paul Kenyon.
He talks a lot, wouldn’t you agree?” Hester smiled coquettishly.
    Darrow smoldered. “Thanks a lot
to the genius downtown who put that monkey on my back.” He swigged his beer. “Well,
since you ask, yes, I checked with both The Oregonian and library
administration. Both confirm a history of inflammatory letters accusing Duffy
of racism. All of the letters apparently from the same well-used typewriter,
all bearing the same ‘anonymous’ signature, and I quote: ‘A Discriminated
Liberry Employee.’ But they also all bore the same return address – a P.O. box
out at Troutdale station. Seems your Pim was a stickler for obeying postal
regulations – always included a return address.”
    Hester winced again. “Pim never
was exactly a rocket scientist,” she groaned.
    Darrow looked pensive for a
moment, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a paper clearly
stamped at the top in red ink: “COPY.”
    “You never saw this,” he said to
Hester as he tossed the document on the counter. “And if you tell anybody about
any part of this conversation, I’ll tell them you smoke funny cigarettes and I’ll turn my apartment just above you into a neighborhood homeless shelter
where I’ll teach every bum in Portland to do the flamenco. Do I make myself
perfectly clear?”
    Hester nodded dumbly.
    “We found this in a trash can
when we searched her trailer last night.” He spread it for Hester to read. The
type was uneven, obviously the work of an old typewriter badly in need of a new
ribbon. The letter was to the editor of The Oregonian .
    A sentence near the bottom caught
Hester’s eye:
    “That old biddy Duffy is no
bettur then oNE of them Klu Kluck Klaxoners. IN fact, she probly wearS one of
those pointed pillow cases on her head at evEry meetiNg of the Wommen who
Cain’t havE Chldren. She makEs me sick to my sTumach! She has ruint my life.”
    “Oh, Pim.” Hester crossed her
arms tightly and pursed her lips. She turned to Nate.
    “Look, I know this looks bad. But
this is something she didn’t even mail! She was just letting off steam. Why,
this is an awful invasion of her privacy. She was angry and hurt – more than I
realized. But 90 percent of the staff resented Miss Duffy in one way or
another. You’ve got to believe me. Pim couldn’t have killed anyone.” Her eyes
pleaded with Darrow.
    He remained silent. Then