He stared at her.
“Mom and Dad tried a do-it-yourself job putting shelving in his office. Maybe a year or two before she disappeared? She was getting mad at the piles of books everywhere. I think she’d thought the bookcases in the family room would solve the problem.”
“Doesn’t sound like she knew him very well.”
Beth’s smile was sad. “Apparently not. Anyway, they put up those wall-hung tracks, and used some kind of special screws or thingies that are supposed to prevent the whole thing from tearing out of the drywall.”
“Books are heavy.”
“They started collapsing almost right away, leaving holes in the walls.” She hesitated. “Mom was not happy. They had to hire someone to replace the drywall and spackle it. Then, instead of custom built-ins, they just bought tall, wood bookcases. I…have this vague memory of a piece of wallboard left over. It was lying on its side over there.” She gestured.
“So our killer was an opportunist.”
“You mean, he knew the wallboard was there.”
“Yeah. It’s been bugging me. Bringing the new sheet in and breaking up the old one and getting it out unseen wouldn’t have been any easier than carrying a body out unnoticed.”
She shivered. When Tony apologized, she shook her head. “Believe me, I’ve been envisioning all of it already.”
She went on to the next box in hopes of distracting herself. This one held children’s board games, puzzles and toys, as did the next one, confirming her suspicion that her mother had pack rat tendencies, too. When she said so, Tony laughed.
“I think my mother does—or did—too. Every time one of my sisters has another kid, Mamá comes up with more baby clothes, or a plastic rattle or a creaky old stroller.”
“She might be shopping thrift and consignment stores,” Beth suggested. “Wanting to help her kids without them knowing she’s spending money.”
His gaze sharpened. “I never thought of that. Huh. It sounds like her. I always wondered because wouldn’t you think eight of us would wear everything out?”
She enjoyed his chagrin. “Yep.”
“Well, crap. Do I tell my sisters?”
What an unexpected conversation to be having with the detective investigating her mother’s murder. She said, “Unless your mother is struggling financially, I’d vote no.” As if she had any vote in his decisions.
He didn’t seem to notice her embarrassment. “Mamá isn’t rich, but she’s okay. We’d take care of her even if she runs through her savings and Social Security. You’re right. I’ll keep my mouth shut. I’ll bet she enjoys the shopping.”
“Most women do.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “But not you?”
“Not especially. If I need something to wear…well, it’s just something everyone has to do. I guess if I ever have children, it might be fun.” To distract herself, she reached for something enveloped in black trash bags, secured with masking tape that was peeling. When she tugged up one edge enough to peer in, she said, “Oh, ugh.”
Tony took a look, too. “That’s the saddest looking Christmas tree I’ve ever seen.”
“Well, assembled…” She gave it up. It would still look tattered and fake. “I hated not having a real tree. I can’t remember when we quit using this one.” She stood and dragged it to sit next to the big box labeled Toss. Returning, she said, “I would really like to think I didn’t inherit the frugal gene. At least, not taken too far.”
Grimacing, he said, “The Depression did this to our grandparents’ generation. Well, not my paternal grandparents. They weren’t able to bring much at all when they came to America. Mamá’s parents, now, they fussed over every penny any of their kids or grandkids spent.”
“I do understand that.” She waved at the remaining accumulation. “This, on the other hand…”
“Maybe you should buy your father an automatic garage door opener for Christmas. No, his birthday. It’s in September, right? If he started parking in here, he might quit thinking of this as a storage unit.”