It read, “For newspapers under threemonths old, you may print from our data base, using our computer oryours.”
“Tessa, I thought you said you were familiarwith the library. Look here, this says you could have accessed thedata base from your computer and printed it from your ownprinter.”
Tessa looked uncomfortable for a moment andread the sign herself. Then she brightened. “It says, ‘under threemonths old.’ I’ve never needed anything that recent.”
I shrugged and waited while the printer didits work. The
result was grainy and not very clear, but thepicture of the woman was good enough for my purposes. The articlealso mentioned her name.
I gasped when I read it: Adele PartonAndrews.
Chapter 7
“Tessa,” I said loudly enough to earn thefrown of a librarian. I lowered my voice to a husky whisper.“Tessa, do you realize what this means?”
“Do I realize what ‘what’ means?”
“The woman’s name, of course. According tothe follow-up article about finding the woman’s body in the well,the reporter apparently learned who she was, Adele PartonAndrews.”
Tessa’s forehead wrinkles rose. “Andrews? Thesame as the dead man?” She changed her puzzled look to a smile.
“Exactly. What else do you notice?”
“Her middle name, Parton, is the same as theman whose cell phone you gave to Watson last night.”
“Bingo!”
The librarian gave me another stern look, soI gathered our papers and other belongings and steered Tessa towardthe door. As we walked out of the building, I elaborated. “‘Parton’was either the woman’s maiden name or her previous marriedname.”
“You mean you think she was married to thedead man, Andrews, but might be the mother of Mr. Parton, the manwe think tried to kill him?”
“I suppose that’s possible, but I lean moretoward thinking she was Parton’s sister.”
Tessa grinned. “You’re probably right. Inthat picture she looks too young to be his mother.”
We’d reached the place where we’d exited fromthe bus that morning, and I turned to Tessa again. “Will you be allright going home alone? I need to get to my job.” I glanced at mywatch. “I’ll be a little early, but maybe I’ll earn brownie pointswith my boss and he’ll give me a raise.” Until I actually signed onwith the police department, I needed to earn money in order toindulge my penchant for Starbucks coffee and Nordstrom shoes.
“Of course I’ll be okay. I’ve done this ahundred times before.”
Like me, Tessa didn’t drive a car in thecity, so I kissed her on the cheek and handed her the tote-bag I’dbrought to hold the material we gathered in the library. “When youget back, go to my apartment and give these to Mr. Holmes.”
“How do you expect me to do that when I can’teven see him?”
“Just leave the papers on the table in thesitting room and he’ll find them. He’s smart enough to come to thesame conclusions we did.”
“Okey doke.” Tessa loves to use expressionsfrom generations past, and I laughed as I always did.
My bus arrived before hers, so I wavedgoodbye, hopped aboard and dropped my fare in the coin box. Findinga seat behind the driver, I settled in for the short ride to thebakery where I worked on weekday afternoons. My four hoursconsisted of slicing bread in the slicing machine, sellingpastries, and, if necessary, helping make sandwiches or deliveringthem to the patrons sitting at small tables in the back of theshop.
Getting paid to work there seemed like icingon the cake—you should excuse the pun—because I enjoyed it. Theshop’s name, Grain D’Or, is French and means “Grain ofGold,” or “Golden Grain” in English, and they made several kinds ofbread every day, including long, crusty baguettes, to saynothing of croissants, some filled with chocolate, and other tastytreats. Their cinnamon-raisin bread was to die for, especiallylavishly coated with unsalted butter, which I did when I broughtsome home to Tessa’s flat before I moved upstairs.
The shop was busy every morning, but, aslunchtime neared, the crowds increased, and we were kept hoppingselling the sandwiches which had been made earlier and making newones according to the customers’ orders. The smell of freshly bakedbread, hot chocolate and coffee, together with the sparkling cleanlook of the shop, made it a joy, not a job, for me. I washed myhands, donned a large white apron, and plunged in.
* * *
When I returned to my flat later thatafternoon, Holmes was waiting for me. He sat at the round tablewith the papers Tessa left for him spread out on the top, and mymagnifying glass in his hand.
“Your grandmother has been here and gone. Shedropped these on the table, announced in a loud voice that she’dbeen instructed to leave them and then hurried out again, as if Iwere an Upper School principal who might strike her with a ruler atany moment.”
“You must admit your being invisible to herpresents a challenge. We’re not used to ghosts of any kind, muchless one so formidable when alive.”
“Nevertheless, you must sit down and listento my interpretation of what you have brought to me.”
“In a moment.” I hoisted my packages. “I’vebrought some wonderful sandwiches from the bakery where I work, andstopped at the deli on the way home for vegetable soup to go withthem.”
“I say, isn’t that more or less what you atelast evening? Do you not cook in that sleek room you call akitchen? Do you not roast a fowl from time to time or a rack oflamb?”
“Not if I can help it. The soup will provideme with my quota of vegetables, and the sandwiches are made withturkey and Swiss cheese. Together with the fresh fruit in myrefrigerator which will be dessert, I think I have a balanced mealat hand.”
Holmes said nothing, and I continued. “Mymother, the actress, doesn’t cook, but Tessa does, or used toanyway. For Thanksgiving dinner, she always roasted a turkey withstuffing, cranberry sauce and
