The Unkindness of Ravens M. Hilliard (popular novels txt) 📖

potential victim I didn’t know, but I was glad to have them handy.

I donned jeans and a sweater, did my best to disguise the dark circles under my eyes, and headed to the Java Joint. It was Raven Hill’s answer to chain coffee bars, and a hub of Sunday morning activity. Like everything else in the village proper, it was locally owned and operated according to the whims of its owners, a couple of aging hippies who claimed they had come upstate on a pilgrimage to Woodstock and never left. Meadow baked and Jack roasted and brewed—the place always smelled delicious. The combination of good food and comfy, quirky décor meant the Java Joint was always hopping. Though most nights it was crammed full of the kind of college students who wore a great deal of black and fancied themselves poets, the morning crowd tended to be village residents who wanted breakfast and a look at an actual print newspaper. If there was any scuttlebutt about last night’s events, I would hear it here first.

I settled in to an overstuffed chair with a good view of place. I thought longingly of the days—was it only last weekend?—when going out for coffee and the paper meant I would spend the morning drinking coffee and reading the paper. Instead, I prepared to gossip and eavesdrop on my neighbors. I’d had a brief conversation that morning with Helene, who was concerned and supportive, and another with Anita, who was clearly tempted to shoot the messenger for lack of a better target. I’d expected that, and immediately went on offense, gushing about how glad I was I had decided to stay and tidy up, because who knew what might have happened if I hadn’t interrupted the attack? She grudgingly agreed, but warned me not to spend any more time alone anywhere in the manor “for safety’s sake.” I would have to step carefully at work.

After a few brief conversations with people I knew, and thirty minutes of careful listening to the chatter around me, it was clear that what had happened at the manor was not yet common knowledge. Saturday night sirens usually meant a traffic accident, so many villagers wouldn’t have paid too much attention. I also had the sense Sam O’Donnell ran a tight ship, and anyone Anita informed would be strong-armed into silence. The library staff would have to be told, but that would be Monday. My guess was the official story would be that Vince got locked in accidently while looking for something he’d dropped, and somehow hit his head in the dark. Thin but until the police had some answers Anita would try to spin it.

Once I was sure there was no immediate intelligence to gather, I picked up the local paper and applied myself to a second mug of coffee. The warmth of the sun, the mundane sounds of voices and crockery, and the burble and hiss of the coffee makers lulled me into a state of relaxation. It was short-lived. Sensing movement across from me, I looked up to find Officer Jennie Webber, coffee in hand. It was a large to-go cup, but any hope she wouldn’t be staying long disappeared as she said, “Mind if I join you?”

Like I could stop her. I shrugged.

She sat and adjusted her chair, shifting it enough to have a clear view of the entrance. She glanced over her shoulder once or twice, taking in the back of the Java Joint and the line at the register. She didn’t like the blind spot behind her. I watched her over the edge of my mug. The whole process only took a few seconds. She picked up her coffee and looked at me.

“Got a good enough view of the door?” I asked.

“For now. Do you always sit with your back to a wall, Ms. Hogan?”

“Upon the advice of my Irish granny, whenever I can. This is the best seat in the house.”

Kitty Hogan was a fount of wisdom. She’d followed the “always know your exits” portion of her fight-or-flight lecture with “and the more important question, Greer my love, is ‘fight or fight dirty?’ I’m sure you’ll find that what the latter lacks in elegance, it makes up for in efficiency.”

This didn’t seem the time to share that little gem, though I suspected Officer Webber would appreciate it. She’d taken another quick look around at my “best seat in the house” remark and given a nod. Now she turned her attention back to me.

“I understand there was some more excitement at the library last night.”

“I’m sure your boss filled you in. He was the first to arrive.”

“I’d rather hear it from you.”

I was under no obligation, but a little cooperation cost me nothing and might get me something in return.

“I set the alarm, locked up, and was pulling out of the lot when I saw movement in an upstairs window. I called 911 and went back in. I found Vince Goodhue in the second-floor hallway, unconscious. The EMTs arrived and carted him off to the hospital. I talked to Lt. O’Donnell and went home. That’s it.” I stopped, and added, “Vince had come to by the time he was taken to the hospital, so I presume he’s fine.”

“Treated and released. No signs of concussion, but he’ll have a headache for a day or two.” She sipped her coffee. “So, what do you think happened?”

“Well, I don’t think he tripped and fell. Someone must have hit him, but I would’ve sworn there was no one else in the building when I set the alarm.”

“Mr. Goodhue was there,” she pointed out, “and you, of course. That doesn’t leave a lot of options. Unless there was someone else, someone who managed to slip out without being seen. How likely is that, Ms. Hogan?”

“Unlikely, but not impossible.” I flashed back to the unlocked door I’d found when I went back through the building with O’Donnell. Then I realized what she was implying.

“You can’t honestly believe I bashed