“Have you confronted her?”
“Three times. A week ago was the third, and I put my foot down. She wants to be a lawyer, she says, so she gets carried away with research and one thing leads to another. But there’s more to it than that.”
“Name change certificates? You saw her in those?”
“It could have been adjacent records in the same box. She likes looking through permits and licenses, I know that.” Joan took a quick drink of her coffee. “Most of the records here are public information, so she’s entitled to them, and because she works for a local law firm, I’ve let her do searches on her own. But from now on, if she wants a document, she’ll have pass through me.”
“And she’s done this three times?”
“That I caught her at.”
“And you’re not positive what kinds of documents she was looking through?”
“No, sorry. I’ve found her in areas she shouldn’t be in, but I can’t tell you specifically what she’s looked at. Permits and licenses on two occasions. I can’t be more definite than that. Though she did ask for arrest records once. I thought it was funny since Roche and White know those records are kept at the police department.”
Joan’s phone rang. An old-fashioned, multi-buttoned beast, it must have been twenty years old. While she talked—something about fishing licenses—I wondered what Charlotte Wynn was up to. Even I knew arrest records were a police matter.
Was she digging up dirt? And was she the source for Dalton Taylor’s gossipy paintings? It was Charlotte who had told me I was Maureen Nicholson’s killer in one of them. Clay and Mary hadn’t known, or hadn’t wanted to tell me.
Joan set the receiver in the cradle, her charm bracelet clicking on the handset. “Where were we?”
“Do you know if anyone other than a town official has tried to obtain records lately?”
“People from the Post ask for all sorts of records, but I never let them in the boxes or files. No one from the Post sets foot back there.”
“What do they ask for?”
“Town meeting minutes and financial records. But those are legit. Political resignations and appointments—legit. Divorce settlements—none of their business, in my opinion, but in Colorado they’re public records.”
Divorce settlements. I perked up. “Can you remember a specific divorce settlement someone’s asked to see?”
She nodded, a wry grin on her face. “Dalton Taylor and Alison Larkin Taylor.”
Bingo.
“Brodie Keegan filled out a request to see the settlement last year. June.”
“Not long after he arrived in Juniper Grove.”
“Driven by the ambition of a new job.” As Joan set her cup on the desk and laced her fingers, her expression shifted. “People are unbelievable. I don’t care if he works for the paper, divorce is private. And I don’t care if Taylor is a sort-of celebrity. He deserves privacy as much as anyone. Luckily for Alison, she doesn’t live in Colorado anymore.”
“Does Brodie come in often?’
“Does a fox have whiskers? He’s in here like clockwork. Thinks he can charm his way into the records.”
Joan glanced past me toward the door, then pulled her business card from a clear plastic holder and scribbled another phone number on the back. “It’s about to get busy. Try my home phone if you need anything else.”
I rose and slipped her card in my coat pocket. “Has Mary Blackwell ever asked for records?”
A woman hurriedly entered the room, shaking her coat off as she went, and sat behind the only other desk in the office.
“Mary?” Joan seemed puzzled. “Not when I’ve been in the office.”
“Okay, thanks for your time. If you think of anything, let me know.”
“Absolutely.”
I left with the sinking feeling that my question about Mary would make its way back to her in time.
But Mary had asked for my help and was almost certainly holding back on me, and now I was hooked on the pursuit for its sake alone. Like a dog digging for a bone. Or a mystery writer. With or without Mary’s help, I was going to find out who sent her the four pieces of gossip. In the process, maybe I could shed light on who killed Laura Patchett.
I needed to talk to Gilroy. Peanut butter cookies.
Back in my Forester, I drove the couple blocks to the police station, parked across the street, and headed inside with my dozen peanut butter cookies.
At the elbow-level front desk, Officer Travis Turner’s eyes shot from me to the box.
I set the box on the desk, untied the twine, and pulled back the top, savoring the aroma of fresh-baked cookies. “I hope you like peanut butter.”
Turner peered inside. “One of my favorites. Thanks, Rachel.”
“Be sure to leave some for James. Where is he, by the way?”
“He’ll be back any sec.” He helped himself to a cookie. “How does Holly do it?”
“I know, right? They’re just plain old peanut butter cookies, only they’re not.”
“And they’re ginormous.” Turner gobbled a third of his ginormous cookie in one bite. “Snowstorm’s moving in,” he mumbled with a full mouth.
