Final Draft

I hurried closer to check for a pulse, but there wasn't one. I took a deep, steadying breath. The man had been hit over the head with something, something that wasn't lying around him. I had no idea who he was. In a town the size of Whitby, you tended to know or at least recognize most people, tourists aside. I walked back out of the shop where George was still standing. I wondered if giving him a job to do might settle him down. I picked up Fitz's carrier, handing it to George. "Do you mind sitting in my car with Fitz? Here are my keys so you can turn on the a/c."

I watched as George silently took the cat and the keys and headed to my car. Then I called Burton Edison, the chief of police and a friend of Grayson's and mine.

"Ann?" he said. "What's up?"

"Hey Burton." I swallowed, my throat suddenly feeling very dry. "I'm at George Terry's shop. There's a body inside."

Burton's tone shifted from easy-going to a strictly business voice. "Got it. I'll be right there."

I walked over to see about George. He was looking slightly less gray, but definitely the worse for wear. He was a big, burly guy with a sturdy frame and usually a kind of crusty, tough, demeanor. I wondered if he was in shock and if I should call for an ambulance.

When I opened the car door and sat down, he looked at me. "You saw him too."

I nodded. "Are you feeling all right, George? You're not looking great. How about if I call for an ambulance? Maybe they need to check you out for shock."

He was shaking his head immediately. "No. No, I'm okay." He looked at me. "I just opened the door, Ann. That's all I did. I opened the door and saw him."

I was about to push again for someone to check him out when Burton showed up. He was actually on foot, since the police station was just yards away. He wore his uniform and a grim look on his usually kind features.

George pointed wordlessly to his shop, and Burton strode inside. It wasn't long before he was back outside again, making a call on his phone, likely to the state police. He rubbed the side of his head as he spoke, then approached my car.

"Okay," he said slowly. "How are you doing, George? Holding up okay? That had to have been quite a shock."

Burton's steadiness seemed to lend itself to George. "Yeah, I guess I'm doing okay. I sure wasn't at first, though."

"Do you know who that guy is?" asked Burton. "I didn't recognize him."

George nodded. "I do. I think I do. I didn't look too close, you know. I just made sure he didn't need a doctor. But he was past that point."

Burton nodded.

A couple of deputies hurried up with crime scene tape. Burton briefly walked away to speak to them, rubbing his head again as he did.

"Okay," he said when he returned. "Ann, you're on your way to work, correct?"

I nodded. "But I can call Wilson and tell him I'm going to be delayed if you need me to."

"No, no, that's fine. Can you give me a brief overview of what you saw?"

"I was driving over to the library and saw George standing outside his shop. From the look on his face I could tell something was wrong, so I pulled over. He looked almost like he was in shock, Burton."

"I've called an ambulance to give him a once-over. They should be here in just a moment."

I said, "I walked into his shop to see what had happened and saw the body in there. I did feel for a pulse, but couldn't find one. Then I joined George outside until you showed up."

"Did you see anybody else in the area?"

I shook my head. "Only a couple of women walking for exercise."

"Can you describe them? I may need to talk to them in case they witnessed anything."

I did the best I could, considering it was a fleeting glimpse. Then Burton asked in a low voice, "Did George say anything to you? Tell you what had happened?"

"No. He said he'd walked inside the shop and found the body there. That was really it."

Burton asked, "Did you recognize the victim?"

"I've never seen him before."

Burton said, "Gotcha. Okay, thanks. You're good to get to the library." He was called away by a deputy and hurried off, right as an ambulance pulled up.

George had a long-suffering look, but consented to being checked out.

I got back into my car and pulled my phone out of my purse.

Grayson picked up a moment later. "Hey. Everything good?"

"Not great, no. You remember George Terry from film club?"

"Sure," said Grayson. "Is he okay?"

"He found a body in his typewriter shop this morning. I saw him standing outside looking shaken up when I was driving by with Fitz."

Grayson said, "What? That's crazy. Did he know the victim?"

"I don't know. Burton was talking to him when I left. I'm heading to the library now, but I wanted to let you know."

"Yeah." His voice was quieter. "Poor George."

We hung up, and a minute later I'd unlocked the main door to the library and walked inside with Fitz, locking the door back behind me since it was still thirty minutes until we opened. Now I felt like I needed the relaxing ambiance with its smell of old paper and lemon polish more than ever. I emptied the outside book drop, activated the computers, printer, and self-checkout stations before making a lap watering the plants. Fitz yawned and padded over to a favorite spot near the front windows where the morning sun was the strongest.

A tap on the locked door startled me until I saw it was George. He was still looking pale, but his color looked to be coming back.

I quickly opened the door. "Come on in."

We walked over to one of the round tables in the reading area and took a seat. "Sorry," George said. "Hope I'm not taking you away from anything important. I just needed to talk to somebody."

"No, I've gotten everything set up for the day. How are you holding up?"

George gave a short laugh. "Well, I'm not working today, that's for sure. The cops have taped off the shop as a crime scene." He rubbed his face. "I just cannot believe this is happening. Finding him in there was the shock of my life."

"Do you have any idea who he was?"

George was quiet for a few moments. "Yeah, I sure do. He was Martin Vance. He was a dealer in vintage paper, typewriters, and ephemera."

"I didn't even know there was such a specialty."

"You'd be surprised," said George. "There are avid collectors for it. These people focus on paper goods, vintage office equipment, and literary estates. And this guy was particularly interested in typewriters."

"As a dealer?"

George said, "Yeah, but also as a collector. Martin kept some of the typewriters for himself. He'd told me he'd been an English major before he dropped out to be a dealer. With that interest in literature, he owns a lot of typewriters used by writers."

"I see," I said. "So he's looking for machines with provenance, not just pretty typewriters."

"Exactly. Although he's not opposed to a pretty machine, either. But for the bigger deals, he'd get an Underwood from a minor Southern novelist or a portable Hermes from a literary estate."

"Was he new in town? I don't remember ever seeing him before."

George said, "He doesn't live in Whitby now, but he grew up here. I think he bounced around to different towns before he ended up in Asheville. His sister still lives here in town. Martin moved away right after he dropped out of college." He ran a hand through his hair, absently ruffling it so it stood straight up. "This is all bad, though. Burton and the state police were asking me a lot of questions. I couldn't even answer them. I have no idea why Martin was in my shop."

"He didn't have a key or anything, I guess?"

George shook his head. "Nope. I have the only key. But I did leave a window on the back end of the building cracked. That must have been how he got inside." He sighed. "Burton was asking me for an alibi. Of course, you know I live by myself. I was at home watching a movie."

I smiled a little. "Anything film club should watch?"

I was glad to see George finally give a chuckle. "Not unless you think the gang would want to watch Tombstone. It's a movie I've watched twenty times, so it's like a comfort watch for me. Actually, I'm going to watch it again as soon as I get home. I need something to chill myself out."

I glanced at my watch to make sure it wasn't time to open the doors. Seeing I still had some time, I asked, "Martin didn't have an appointment with you to see a typewriter or something?"

"Well, that's where things get unfortunate. The kind of unfortunate that makes me a suspect. Martin was in town to buy a couple of typewriters from me. At the same time, I hear he was interested in some papers that belong to Dr. Cavett. So he was in town to see both of us. But I've got no idea why he'd break into my shop to steal typewriters."

I remembered Dr. Cavett, an English professor at Whitby College. He'd taught me a class or two and wasn't a young man at the time. He must be in his late 80s or early 90s by now. Dr. Cavett used to be a regular in the library to find research materials and attend lecture series, but I hadn't seen him there for a while. I also seemed to remember him playing chess with Linus, one of my favorite...