Dead to Rights by Jack Patterson (fiction book recommendations .txt) 📕

had a clean brick facade along with a bronze statue of Carl Pickett, the man who founded the city in 1803. Cal stopped to read the plaque that explained how Pickett had moved to the area from Cambridge, England, and settled the small farming community. He opened trade with local native Americans and created a supply company for other farmers. However, in 1842, Pickett mysteriously disappeared and was never seen or heard from again.

Cal chuckled and pointed to the last line of the plaque. Kelly didn’t find it nearly as amusing as he did.

“I don’t get it,” she said. “What’s so funny?”

“He went missing. Maybe it was the Marsh Monster.”

“Oh, stop it, Cal. You can be so ridiculous sometimes.”

“No, no. Think about it.”

Kelly rolled her eyes and nodded toward the door. “Are we going in here or not?”

Cal turned serious. “Depends on if the Marsh Monster is in there or not,” he deadpanned.

“You’re insufferable.”

“Didn’t you see the motto on the website? ‘You can check a book in, but you can’t check out.’”

“Oh, Cal. Come on.”

Inside the library, Cal and Kelly were greeted by a rosy-faced woman who appeared to be in her fifties with curly hair that was turning gray. The nameplate labeled Mrs. Louise Kirkwood rested at the edge of the desk in front of her.

“Good afternoon,” she said. “Can I help you two?”

“I’m looking for a book on how to keep your husband from telling bad jokes,” Kelly cracked.

Mrs. Kirkwood stood up and started to walk around the desk.

“That’s not a request we get every day, but we do have some books over in our relationship section that might—”

“I’m sorry. I was just teasing. A little joke between me and my husband.”

The woman stopped. “Oh, I see. Sorry. I never like to assume anyone is joking when they enter our library. People don’t typically do that in here.”

“I know, I know. It wasn’t appropriate. I understand.”

Mrs. Kirkwood crossed her arms and sighed. “So, what do you want?”

“We want to see some copies of The Searchlight from spring 2004.”

Mrs. Kirkwood’s eyes widened as she studied Cal and Kelly more closely. “Follow me.”

Mrs. Kirkwood led them to a small room in the back that contained a microfiche machine.

“Whoa, microfiche?” Cal said. “I didn’t know this was still a thing.”

“It’s the most space-saving way to keep our newspapers,” Mrs. Kirkwood said. “This room may not look very big, but it could contain several centuries of The Searchlight in that filing cabinet alone if everything was placed on microfiche. Maybe one day, Mr. Arant will pony up for an archive for The Searchlight’s website. Until then, this is your best bet.”

Cal and Kelly settled into seats next to Mrs. Kirkwood as she demonstrated how the machine worked. Then she removed files from the time of the murder and placed one of the microfiche sheets on the magnifier.

“So, what exactly are you doing here in Pickett?” she asked.

“Is it that obvious that we’re not from around here?” Kelly asked, resisting the urge to put on her fake southern accent.”

“Very,” Mrs. Kirkwood said. “But I can’t quite place where you are from? Canada, maybe.”

“Close,” Cal said. “We’re from Seattle, and we’re working on a story about Isaiah Drake.”

Mrs. Kirkwood nodded knowingly but remained tight-lipped. She stood up and yielded her seat to Kelly, who eagerly began to scroll through the paper.

“What should I be looking for?” Kelly asked.

“Anything about Jacob Boone,” Cal said.

“Jacob Boone?” asked Mrs. Kirkwood, who appeared taken aback by the name.

“Yes,” Cal said. “Is there something we should know about him?”

“What did you say you were doing here again?” Mrs. Kirkwood asked.

Cal peered hard at the tiny lettering on the screen. “We’re working on a story for The Seattle Times about Isaiah Drake.”

“Then why in the world would you be looking into Jacob Boone? What could he possibly have to do with it?”

“Just following a hunch,” Cal said.

Before Mrs. Kirkwood could protest any more, Cal almost jumped out of his seat with excitement.

“Ah-ha! There you are. Exactly what we were looking for. Read this, Kelly.”

Kelly cleared her throat and read a photo cutline:

Jacob Boone collects trash along U.S. Highway 1 on Monday. Boone, who only spent three months in prison out of a seven-year sentence, was released early last week on the condition of giving twenty hours per week for the next two years for community service. He will remain on probation for the duration of his original sentence.

“I’ve never seen a paper use a photo to report this kind of information,” Cal said.

“Welcome to Pickett,” Mrs. Kirkwood said. “Around here, we don’t always do things like everybody else.”

“So, what does this have to do with anything?” Kelly asked.

Cal turned to the librarian. “Mrs. Kirkwood, who prosecuted most of the crimes around here during that time?”

“Susannah Sloan, of course. She handled everything. Didn’t matter what it was. It wasn’t like she was that busy. Pickett isn’t exactly a hotbed of criminal activity. Honestly, that’s why Susannah’s death was so shocking.”

Cal turned to Kelly. “Susannah tries to put Jacob Boone away for seven years and fails. Maybe Boone goes after her for revenge.”

Mrs. Kirkwood started to snicker.

“I’m sorry. Did I say something funny?” Cal asked.

Mrs. Kirkwood shook her head. “It sounded like you were trying to pin Susannah’s murder on Jacob Boone.”

Cal dug in his pocket for a quarter to make a copy of the paper. “Well, maybe not pin it on Boone, but at least come up with an alternative theory as to who actually killed Susannah.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Murphy, but you’ll be spinning your wheels if you think you’re going to find someone else who killed that poor girl.”

“Why’s that?” Kelly asked.

“Because we all know Isaiah did it.”

“What else did everyone know?” Cal asked.

“Well, maybe not everyone knew this, but it was common knowledge that Susannah and Jordan Hayward were engaged in some”—Mrs. Kirkwood paused to deliberately clear her throat—“extracurricular activities, if you will.”

Cal stared at her wide-eyed. “While she was still engaged to Drake?”

Mrs. Kirkwood nodded emphatically. “Supposedly, Susannah