“She went out of her way to congratulate him and your aunt on their engagement. This is a small town, and the Villantrys have obviously ruled it for years. If Crabshaw had done anything thirty years ago that was considered the least bit unsavory, Madam Villantry would not have stopped at our table.”
“I suppose you have a point.”
“Thank you. I like to think that I’m not completely unsuited to my work.”
“Still, it won’t hurt to look in the old papers, will it?” Amy continued brightly. “As you said, it’s not as if we have anything better to do this morning.”
Owen narrowed his eyes. “Is this why you had to quit your high-powered real estate career in Seattle? In your zeal to close a big deal did you finally manage to push one of your clients a little too far?”
To his amazement, Amy paled. “That question does not deserve an answer.” She took a deep breath and returned her full attention to the menu.
• • •
An hour later Owen found himself reluctantly ensconced in front of a microfilm reader. He was supposed to be perusing the headlines of the old issues of the Villantry Gazette that were rolling slowly past his gaze, but his real attention was on Amy. She sat at the machine next to him, her attention on another reel of the Gazette.
Owen was still berating himself for the unwitting crack about her real estate tactics. He had obviously stumbled into awkward territory. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to deduce that something bad had happened in Seattle. He recalled a remark Bernice had made at dinner. Something about Amy being burned out after “that dreadful incident last year.”
At the time, Owen had concluded that Bernice had been referring to an affair that had gone sour. He hadn’t paid much attention to the comment because whatever it was, it was in the past. He was only concerned with Amy’s future.
“Find anything interesting?” Amy asked in a muted tone.
“Interesting?” Owen paused to read the headlines that were moving slowly across the screen. “Let’s see. ‘Villantry Eagles Break Six-Game Losing Streak.’ How does that sound?”
“About as exciting as ‘Raymond C. Villantry Dedicates New Library.’ ”
Owen glanced around. “I guess that would be the old library now. The one we’re in.”
The Raymond C. Villantry Memorial Public Library, a sturdy structure in the tradition of old-fashioned municipal buildings, was surprisingly busy for a small library on a Friday morning, Owen thought. As a book lover himself, he took a certain pleasure from that fact.
In one corner a gaggle of preschool-age children had assembled to listen to fairy tales read by a librarian. Their shouts of glee and shrieks of horror drifted across the cavernous main room. The children’s mothers, no doubt grateful for the respite in parental duties, perused the display of new books.
The janitor, a balding, middle-aged man in coveralls, set up a sign in front of the women’s room and disappeared inside with his wheeled bucket and well-used mop.
Three elderly men sat at tables in the newspaper section poring over copies of the Wall Street Journal. Two librarians and a small group of what appeared to be concerned citizens hovered near the entrance to the new wing. They were apparently making final arrangements for Saturday’s dedication ceremony. As Owen watched, they were joined by Raymond Villantry Jr., who strode through the door wearing a business suit. When he appeared, there was a chorus of respectful greetings. Then the entire group disappeared into a conference room and closed the door.
“Look, here’s a picture of Madeline Villantry standing next to her husband.” Amy leaned closer to the screen. “I’ll bet she was prom queen, homecoming queen, and head cheerleader.”
“You can tell all that from a photo?”
“See for yourself.”
More than willing to take advantage of the offer to move closer to Amy, Owen shifted position to get a better view of her screen. “Right. Definitely prom queen.”
The old black-and-white photo was grainy and blurred, but there was no hiding the fact that Madeline Villantry had been a beautiful woman in her younger days. She stood beside her husband, the late Raymond C. Villantry Sr., who was holding forth from a lectern in front of the library.
Amy wrinkled her nose. “He looks like a politician.”
“Yeah. Junior is a dead ringer for his old man, isn’t he?”
“Yes.” Amy frowned at the photo. “I’ll bet that was not a happy marriage.”
Owen glanced at her in surprise. “What makes you say that?”
“I’m not sure. Something about the expression on Madeline Villantry’s face. Poised. Gracious. Aloof. Dutiful. Anything but happy.”
“I think you’re trying to read a little too much into a thirty-year-old photo.”
“Maybe.” Amy shrugged. “Not that it matters to us. Aunt Bernice said that Raymond C. Villantry Sr. died three years ago.”
“And young Raymond Junior took over the company. Wonder how he likes being called Junior.”
“Between you and me, he doesn’t look any nicer than his father.”
“I don’t think that being nice is a job requirement for running a company the size of Villantry.” Owen took advantage of the situation to lean in just a little closer.
He caught a whiff of the flowery fragrance of Amy’s hair and inhaled deeply. Along with it came a more intriguing scent. Warm, female, and deliciously spicy. He did not think he would ever be able to get enough of it. Of her.
“Owen,” Amy hissed.
“Sorry, I was just trying to get a better look at the picture.”
“Never mind that. Look.”
“At what?”
“Arthur Crabshaw. He just walked into the library. See? Over there by the magazine rack.”
Owen straightened reluctantly and turned to look at the racks. Sure enough, Crabshaw was leafing through a new copy of Newsweek. “So what?”
“What’s he doing here?”
“Reading a magazine?”
“That isn’t funny. Owen, he told us that he was going to play golf this morning.” Amy scowled impatiently. “It’s not raining, so why did he cancel his game?”
“Why don’t we ask him?”
“Don’t be silly. He’s up to something. I know it. I told you there was something shifty about that man.”
“Amy, the first rule in the investigation business is not to jump to conclusions. Crabshaw simply dropped into the library to scan a few magazines. Don’t make a federal case out of it.”