Front Page Teaser

with me to examine later.”

“There is something I can do to save you time at the Boston Public Library,” the librarian offered. “I can look online to see which branches of the BPL hold the books you need. I can even tell you if they are listed as checked out.”

“That’s much better than nothing. Thank you.”

“What titles are you looking for?”

“Charles Lindbergh’s The Spirit of St. Louis and Susan Glaspell’s A Jury of Her Peers.”

The librarian rapidly typed in the first title.

“Lindbergh’s book is in at the BPL main branch and in Jamaica Plain. Now, let’s see about the Susan Glaspell. Hmm. Nothing under the title. Let me try the author’s name.”

“What Glaspell work are you looking for?” said a man wearing a “WORCESTER READS!” T-shirt. Below that exclamation, his shirt was emblazoned with the words, “Friends of the Worcester Public Library.”

“Oh, hello, John,” the librarian said. “I’m not seeing the title A Jury of Her Peers under the name Susan Glaspell.”

“That’s because it’s a short story, not a novel,” John said. “It should show up in something like The Oxford Book of American Detective Stories. The story is based on a murder she covered when she was a reporter for some Midwest newspaper. She actually first wrote a play based on the incident, and titled it Trifles.”

“You’re in luck,” the librarian told Liz. “John’s a book dealer and detective fiction buff.”

“Would you have a copy of the play in your store?” Liz asked him.

“I wish I did. It would be worth a pretty penny.”

“Too bad. I want to get my hands on a copy of the book urgently.”

“I’ve been looking for it in the BPL system,” the librarian said, “but it’s not there. Now I see it’s not in our catalogue, either. And I also don’t see it in the Minuteman Library Network.”

“As you can see,” John said, “copies of the play are hard to come by. I could probably get you one through another book dealer, but that could take weeks or more. But if you’re just interested in knowing what the play is about, the short story will be adequate.”

“Our copy of The Oxford Book of American Detective Stories is out,” the librarian said. “Let me look in the short story index to see where else it might be anthologized.”

“Don’t bother,” said John. “I’ve got a copy of the Oxford Book in my store. It’s pretty dog-eared, so it’ll go cheap.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have time to travel far,” Liz said.

“My shop is just across the street.”

“Fantastic!” Liz said, putting on her coat and following the book dealer to his shop.

Except for a single high-school student holding the fort, the Worcester Hills Book Shop was completely deserted. Apparently the bibliophiles who usually frequented it were all clustered at the feet of Maurice E. Bouvard, who was holding forth at the Worcester library at the moment.

John found the Oxford Book without much ado, and then made his way to a section of bookshelves labeled “Aviation History.” He returned to Liz with a wide smile on his face.

“Yup, just as I hoped,” he said. “Here’s the Oxford Book with the Glaspell story in it. And here’s an anthology that excerpts Lucky Lindy’s The Spirit of St. Louis. I realize it’s not Lindbergh’s full account, but it may be adequate if you’re working under a deadline. That’s an odd combination of topics. Do you mind if I ask you what the connection is?”

Liz was usually loath to reveal what she was working on, but the man had been so helpful that she told him, “A missing woman loved both of these books, and some others, too.”

“The combination is a bit suggestive, but I wonder if I think so only because you’ve told me the reader’s circumstances. If she had treasured those two books but never went missing, would the same thought come to mind?” the book dealer mused aloud.

“What thought?”

“This woman flies from home but knows any loose ends she leaves will be seen as significant— if a woman gets the chance to look things over. That’ll be eleven dollars for the two books.”

“They’re worth much more than that to me,” Liz said, waving away change from a twenty-dollar bill. “Thank you.”

Chapter 5

It was mid-afternoon when Liz left the bookshop. She’d lost count of how many times she wished the Banner supplied her with a cell phone. Now, without one, it was a question of taking time to return to the library’s phone booth or waiting until she was in the newsroom to contact Laura Winters, Veronica’s aftercare program teacher. Looking at her watch, Liz figured the aftercare provider would presently be welcoming her charges. She’d wait to phone her and get on the road immediately.

Seated in the Tracer, Liz wished she’d returned to the library after all, since it would have been the source of brownies and coffee served by the library’s friends. Having eaten neither breakfast nor lunch, Liz was ravenous. Once she was moving steadily along Route 290, en route to the Mass Pike, she took a granola bar from her glove compartment and turned on the radio.

The former was inadequate to appease her hunger. The latter only whetted her appetite for finding out what happened to Ellen Johansson.

“Turning to local news,” the announcer intoned, “Erik Johansson has been detained by police for questioning again today, in the case of the missing Newton wife and mother. Johansson’s remarks, reported this morning in the Beantown Banner, indicate he wished he had a better alibi for the hours during which his wife, Ellen Johansson, seems likely to have disappeared.”

Newton Police Chief Anthony Warner’s voice came on the air. “More troubling than that is the guy’s apparent belief that his wife is dead,” he said. “You can see in the Banner, the guy’s talking about his wife in the past tense.”

Hearing this, Liz stepped a little harder on the accelerator and made her way to the Mass Pike. This took her straight past her house and the billboard above it. The latter formed an amusing tableau, since half of the billboard still showed a rain-splashed scene and the words “DON’T BE CAUGHT,” while the other half showed a flashy red sports car zooming down a snaking road straight for the vodka bottle.

“At least the dealership name is not on that half of the billboard,” Liz thought. “Old Man Maksoud would be fit to be tied if he saw this combination of ads.”

The next few billboards along the pike advertised the Museum of Science—“IT’S ALIVE!”—and the Boston World—“The sun never sets on our coverage.”

“They don’t even give their own ad uppercase type,” Liz laughed to herself.

There was no billboard in sight for her newspaper. The Banner made up for that with huge advertisements for itself on the sides of their newspaper delivery trucks. With circulation done for the day, these vehicles were packed into the parking lot, making it harder for Liz to find a space for the Tracer. Backed by an image of the American flag unfurling in a wind, the ads on the trucks proclaimed the Banner’s well-known slogan—“STAR-SPANGLED REPORTING!”—in uppercase type.

Under icy gray clouds that looked loaded with snow, Liz hurried from her car to the Banner’s brick edifice. Liz rushed down the ink-stained hall that led past the huge room filled with printing presses, only stopping to grab a can of orange juice from the vending machine before heading to the photo department. She flung open the door to see Rene working on the Mac on photos of a fire.

In a rare move, Dermott entered the photo department at that moment. Usually, the photographers came to him.

“How you doin’ on those fire shots?” he demanded.