Murder by Page One by Olivia Matthews (good novels to read in english TXT) 📕

guns: chamomile tea, meant to soothe her. I nudged the rose porcelain mug across the table toward her with one hand and gently pushed her fingers away from her mouth with the other.

“Start from the beginning—and stop biting your nails.” I took my seat at the head of the table.

Jo took a deep drink of the herbal brew. “The deputies came to my house around eight o’clock this morning. I was on my way to church.”

I’d attended the Saturday evening Mass and lit a candle for Fiona. “Which deputies?” I asked.

“The older one who questioned you, Jed Whatley, and the tall one who questioned me, Errol Cole.”

“Go on.” I sipped my coffee. For me, it was still too early for tea.

“They asked me tons and tons of questions. How well had I known Fiona? Had we had any disagreements? Can anyone confirm I hadn’t checked on her while she was in my storage room? Well, of course I hadn’t checked on her! And if she’d been as rude to the deputies as she’d been to me, they wouldn’t have checked on her, either.”

Tension seized my shoulders. “Did you actually say that to them?”

“Of course not,” Jo grumbled. “They would’ve taken it as a confession.”

“Probably. The deputies questioned you again, but what makes you think you’re a suspect?”

“When I asked them if I was a suspect, they said yes.” Jo pushed herself up from the table and paced the width of the room. Thank goodness Phoenix had left. Her agitation would’ve given him a coronary. “They said, ‘Well, ma’am, the murder did take place in your store.’” Jo deepened her natural cadence to impersonate the male deputies.

Although I was starting to share her concern, I made a good faith effort to be the voice of reason. “This is only the second day of the investigation. Right now, everyone’s a suspect.”

Jo stopped and stared at the black-and-white picture of the New York Public Library, my previous place of employment. I’d mounted the photo in a thin black nine-by-twelve-inch metal frame to display on my wall. Odds were Jo wasn’t seeing Patience and Fortitude, the marble lions that greeted the library’s guests. Instead, images from her disturbing early-morning visit from the deputies were surely playing on a loop in her mind.

“As I told the deputies, I was in the storage room with Fiona for probably less than ten minutes. From there, I went straight to check on the event setup with my team. I was helping them arrange the tables and chairs when Zelda showed up, and then you arrived with Spence.”

What a relief. “You have people who can corroborate that you didn’t return to the storage room until you, Spence, and I went to get Fiona.”

Jo turned to me. “Yes, but as the deputies pointed out, that means I was the last person to see Fiona alive.”

“No, you weren’t. The killer was.”

“And the deputies think I’m the killer.” Jo dragged both hands through her hair. Freed from the ponytail she wore at work, the thick raven tresses tumbled halfway down her back. “I’m scared, Marvey. I don’t have money for a lawyer.”

“You won’t need one.” I needed to believe that was true. We both did.

“Oh, yes, I will.” Jo resumed her pacing. “I’m not convinced these Bulldog fans will do an unbiased investigation.”

What, now?

Jo had caught me off guard. Don’t get me wrong—New Yorkers were avid sports fans. But college football wasn’t a thing in New York. It was a thing in the South, though. A very big thing.

I regarded Jo with mild concern as I tracked her journey back across my dining room. Connecting a murder investigation to a college rivalry sounded insane. “I read the Crier’s article on Fiona’s murder. The deputies are taking this case very seriously. This is about justice for Fiona, not a college prank.”

Jo stopped with her back to me. “I’ve never felt so isolated.”

“The investigation’s just started. You didn’t have a motive to kill Fiona, nor did you have the opportunity.”

“Then why do I feel like I’m going to wake up tomorrow and be served with a warrant for my arrest?”

What was it about the deputies’ behavior that had made Jo so paranoid? “That’s not going to happen.”

We were silent for several moments. Jo paced while I sat, holding my pendant like a talisman. Today’s image was an orange-and-black illustration of the cover of Maya Angelou’s 1969 classic I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.

I monitored Jo as she wandered past me again. “The deputies will get on the right track in a day or two. I’m sure of it.”

She stopped beside the table. Her knuckles showed white as she gripped the back of the chair. “I can’t sit around and wait to be railroaded. I need to do something. Now. I need someone on my side.” Her gaze locked onto me. “Marvey, you’re on my side.”

“Of course. I know you didn’t do this.”

“Help me prove it.”

My mind went blank. “How?”

Jo pulled out the chair and sat. “By helping me find proof that clears me. All I’m asking for is reasonable doubt.”

“You have reasonable doubt.” I leaned into the table, anxious to convince her. “Your team, Zelda, Spence, and I all saw you outside the storage room after Fiona had arrived. If you’d killed her, you would’ve been covered in blood.”

Jo was shaking her head. “I need something more to get the deputies to stop focusing on me.”

“Jo, I’m a librarian, not a crime fighter.”

“Please, Marvey. There’s no one else I can turn to.”

Urgh. I squeezed my eyes shut to escape the plea in Jo’s wide dark stare. What did I know about investigating murders, coming up with motives, suspects, timelines, and evidence?

But…Barbara Gordon/Batgirl was a librarian. And so was I. At its core, an investigation was research, learning about people, tracking down clues, and putting together the results of your inquiries. I could do that.

Couldn’t I?

“All right.” I exhaled the words before I could change my mind.

Jo popped off her chair and wrapped her