Proof of Murder (Beyond the Page Bookstore Mystery #4) - Lauren Elliott Page 0,62

I’ll have to check the photographs at the station, but I don’t remember it being so pronounced on Thursday.”

Addie stood up, her hands on her hips as she studied the fireplace. Three notches were etched into both carved wings of the eagle in the center of the marble mantel’s frieze.

“Jerry, do you have any gloves on you?”

“Yeah, why?” He brushed off his hands.

She pointed to the intricate carving. “Can you press these notches and see if anything happens?”

He tugged on a pair of blue rubber gloves and pressed on the spots she’d indicated. Nothing happened. He ran his fingers over the area. “Nothing. The holes are recessed too deep.”

“Maybe.” Addie worried her bottom lip between her teeth as she scanned the carved marble pilasters on either side of the firebox opening.

“What about the roses carved in the top corners? Could you please press on those and see if anything happens?”

“Nothing; they don’t budge. They’re carved into the marble by the feel of it. They’re not castings that were added.”

“So much for that theory.”

Addie focused on the portrait, rumored to be of Arthur Gallagher’s father, the man who designed Hill Road House, hanging above the fireplace. An original gilded frame encased the man’s imposing pose, complete with muttonchops and tailored waistcoat.

A slight quiver prickled across her shoulders at the man’s daunting expression. There was something alluring and menacing, haunting yet captivating about the look in his eyes. As if he knew a secret.

She shook off her momentary mesmerization. “I don’t think there’s anything else to see in here . . .” A thought struck her, “Jerry, did you find any tea stains under the book by the desk or were they only on the cover?”

“On the cover. Why?”

“There were no stains underneath it?”

“Nope, there were tea stains around it where it splashed, but nothing under it.”

Addie narrowed her eyes and examined the area around where the book had been found on the floor. “We all assumed that Charlotte was working with the book, and then had chest pains, and as she clutched her chest, the teacup got knocked over, and the book slipped from her hands, plummeting to the floor, right?”

“That’s what we figure happened.”

“But that would mean the tea spilt first, and the book landed on the stained area. But since only the cover is stained—”

“That means she dropped the book first and then knocked over the cup.”

“Right. Does that seem odd to you? I mean, it’s like something startled her, causing her to drop the book, then after that tip over the cup.” Addie looked at the position of the chair facing the desk, which is how Charlotte would most likely have been seated. She envisioned the position she found her facing, the fireplace, and then the book covered with tea.

“What are you thinking, Addie?”

“I don’t know. Nothing, I guess.”

“Maybe she bumped the teacup over, grabbed for the book so it wouldn’t get damaged, and it slipped from her fingers and fell under the desk.”

“Then there would have been some sign of the tea under the book.” She frowned. “No, it looks like the book fell first, then she bumped the cup.” Addie played in her mind what may have happened. “If she heard something behind her that startled her, she would have dropped the book as she spun the chair around to see what it was. Her left elbow might have smacked the cup over, which caused the staining on the cover.” Addie returned to the fireplace and frowned at the first notch in the carved eagle wing. “Jerry, can I have some gloves, please?” She held out her hand.

“Yeah, I think I have more in here.” He dug around in his pocket. “Here.”

She pulled them on and traced her finger over the hollowed notches. The center one was recessed deeper than the two on either side. Her fingers were still too large to see if there was a button or if it was an ornate part of the design.

“Find anything?”

She shook her head. “It’s exactly as you said.”

“You doubted me?”

“No, but my fingers are smaller. I was only hoping they might be able to feel something yours couldn’t.”

“I really don’t like being in here.” He glanced around the room.

“You feel it, too, don’t you?”

“What?”

“That chill in the air and the sensation of being watched.”

“I think it’s just that I feel so guilty about allowing you in here that I’m afraid Marc will walk in. We better go.”

“Okay, I don’t want to get you into trouble.” She pulled