“Well, it’s strange that Sophie Rosenthal renewed her library books online the day before she died if she was planning to commit suicide.”
“Really?” I stared at her. That wouldn’t be enough of a clue for Serrano, but as far as I was concerned, it was another nail in the coffin for Chip Rosenthal.
Debby left me alone then, and I settled down to read.
Apparently Charles Rosenthal, his wife, and stepdaughter had gone to a New Year’s Eve party. Driving home, their car skidded on some ice on Swamp Pike and crashed over the barrier, plunged down a hill, and slammed into a tree. Charles Rosenthal and his wife were killed instantly. The only survivor was the girl, who had been thrown from the car, but miraculously sustained only cuts and bruises and managed to crawl up the snow-covered hill and flag down a passing car for help.
I enlarged the photo that was captioned “Margaret Jane Rosenthal.” She was a beautiful, if slightly chubby blonde. I shook my head, catching that wisp of a remembered fragment of a dream again.
Margaret Jane Rosenthal.
A picture of the monogrammed heart Laura had used for her necklace flashed into my mind. But the initials were MAJ, which didn’t fit.
I gritted my teeth and scrolled through more of the microfilm. I read all the accounts I could find on the accident and then changed the reel for one brief account of Sophie’s death, but there was no additional information there.
I stared at Sophie’s photo. The arched brows, the prominent nose. A steely look in her eye that was tempered by a softness to her smile. Definitely a moneyed air about her, and I could see where she might have been a high-maintenance chore for the stepdaughter.
The grainy images on the screen were making my eyes water.
I switched off the microfilm and started searching on the Internet. I typed in Charles Rosenthal and found news items about his various business deals over the years. I was just about to give up and head home when I stumbled across their wedding announcement.
Charles Rosenthal to Dana Avery. Apparently Margaret’s mother used to be married to someone with the last name of Avery, before he died and she married Sophie’s brother.
Margaret Jane Avery. And wasn’t Peggy sometimes a nickname for Margaret?
With shaking fingers, I reinstalled the reel of the date of the accident. I adjusted the magnifying lens and enlarged the photo as much as it would go, of the blond girl with scratches across her face and badly bruised eyes.
I squinted, trying to imagine her without the mass of blond hair and thinner, to the point of emaciation. I then added purple contacts, cut her hair, and dyed it black.
PJ Avery, the Sheepville Times’ star reporter, stared back at me.
Chapter Fourteen
I hurried out of the file room, at what I hoped was a dignified fast walk past the people sitting at the reading tables.
Debby was at the reception desk. She read my body language instantly, dropped the books she was checking out for a startled patron, and rushed over to me.
“You’ve done it! You’ve cracked the case, haven’t you, Daisy?” Her voice was hoarse in its whispered excitement.
I grabbed her hands. “I don’t know yet, but thanks for your help. I’ve got to run now. Call you later.”
With that, I broke into a real run, out of the heavy front doors and hell for leather along Main Street to the intersection with Sheepville Pike. It was faster than moving the car and trying to find another parking spot.
The sergeant on duty was singularly unimpressed with my frantic plea to see Detective Serrano on a matter of grave importance. He finished making notes on his pad in what had to be the worst cursive in the world, and took his time dialing Serrano’s extension, while I paced up and down, panting.