See Also Deception

by Larry D. Sweazy

  I heard nothing. I feared the possibility of Delia Finch rushing into the office and catching me there. Instead, there was a low rumble of respectful voices, evidence of a crowd in a quiet place.

  I made my way to the desk, focused my mind on the task at hand, not on what once was or what could be, and picked up the phone—Calla’s phone—my connection to the wider world. I had to face Richard Rothstein and get past that. Hank was waiting for me. I could feel his loneliness and need for me in every breath I took.

  I dialed zero.

  “Operator. How may I help you?” It was a voice I didn’t recognize, thankfully. Perhaps I had clicked into the Bell switch offices in Bismarck.

  “Long distance, please.”

  “Phone number?”

  “212-555-0408.” I knew the phone number to H.P. Howard and Sons by heart.

  “One moment please.”

  All I had was a moment. That and a lifetime of worry and sadness. At least that’s what it felt like as I ran my hand over the top of Calla’s desk. It felt cold, impartial. I couldn’t sense her at all there, and I desperately wanted to. I needed her to urge me on, and it was a realization that at first was uncomfortable, then a relief. I had needed Calla in my life for a long time. I hoped she had known how much she meant to me.

  The phone clicked, then a second of silence, then a ring. The magic of technology never ceased to amaze me. Somewhere in a New York skyscraper, a harried editor was being summoned to the phone from the middle of the country, from a farmer’s wife standing, sweating, in a chilly librarian’s office.

  “Richard Rothstein’s office,” a fast-talking receptionist answered.

  My spine stiffened, and my voice cracked as it exited my lips. “This is Marjorie Trumaine, returning Mr. Rothstein’s call.”

  “One moment.”

  Silence. The line hissed distantly as she transferred the call. At least I didn’t have to worry about Burlene Standish listening in. This was a dedicated line, not a party line.

  “Miss Trumaine,” Richard Rothstein snarled.

  He always did that. Called me miss. I had corrected him a few times, told him I was a missus, but obviously he had not noticed—or refused to be corrected.

  “Yes, I’m sorry . . .”

  “There is no excuse for being late.” He interrupted me. I was ready for that and pursed my lips together. It didn’t matter what I had to say. My job was to listen. I was a subordinate, at his mercy, that had been made clear over and over in our dealings. Hank hated to hear the name Richard Rothstein. I was certain more than once that, if he’d been able, Hank would have stood up, walked out the door, caught the first airplane to New York, and boxed Mr. Rothstein’s ears for the way he talked to me. That was not the kind of trouble we needed, so I suppose there was even a reason to be grateful for paralysis.

  “We had an agreement, Miss Trumaine. The index for The Last Tower of Rome was to be on my desk two days ago. I have to say I am extremely disappointed . . .”

  I did not hesitate to interrupt him. “I beg your pardon, but what title did you say?”

  “The Last Tower of Rome.”

  I said nothing. I had, of course, never heard of that book.

  “Miss Trumaine? Are you there? Are you aware of the severity of this situation? This is a very important book for us.”

  Not so important that you know who the indexer is, I wanted to say, but I didn’t. I said nothing. It was the first time he had made such a mistake, but I couldn’t imagine that it would be difficult, juggling as many books to be published as he did.

  “Are you still there, Miss Trumaine? You have done acceptable work for us in the past. I am amazed at your lack of concern.” His New York accent was difficult to decipher, but I’d had some practice. And honestly, I had never had a conversation with anyone who spoke so fast as Richard Rothstein. I could barely keep up.

  “I’ve never heard of that book,” I finally said.

  I swear I could hear him suck in air like he had been punched in the gut from a thousand miles away. That one was for you, Hank.

  “Oh. Are you certain?” he said.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Let me look.” Silence, though I was tempted to tap my fingers on Calla’s desk. “Oh, dear,” he said. “That book is assigned to Prudence Wilkins. You’re on the Common Plants of the Western Plains: North Dakota book and it’s due . . .”

  “In five days, if my calendar is correct.”

  “It is. Hum. I suppose I will have to call Miss Wilkins. Good day, Miss Trumaine.” Then the phone went dead. No apology, no goodbye, no nothing. Just a click. It was all over. The end, that’s it. I’m finished with you. On with the next thing. I suppose that was how publishing worked, but I would never get used to it.

  CHAPTER 40

  I didn’t hesitate, didn’t set the receiver down. I tapped the switch posts in the cradle of the telephone and spun the hospital’s number as fast as the rotary dial would turn. I knew that number by heart.

  Olga Olafson picked up on the second ring. “St. Joseph’s Hospital. How may I help you?”

  As much as I found Olga irritating, I was glad to hear her voice, encounter a semblance of normalcy. “Hello, Olga, it’s . . .”

  She cut me off. “Oh, hey there, Marjorie. How are you doing?” She sounded casual.

  “I’m fine. I called to check on Hank.” I hushed my voice so Delia, or anyone else out in the foyer of the library, wouldn’t hear me.

  Olga didn’t hesitate with her answer. “Oh, he’s just fine, other than he’s gettin’ anxious to go home. Poor man can’t fidget a lick.”

  The word “other” sounded like udder, just like my father used to say it. Olga’s North Dakotan accent gave me another moment of comfort, and I smiled slightly.

  She went on without missing a beat. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be impolite about Hank’s condition.”

  “It’s okay, Olga. It’s the truth of things, I know what you mean.”

  I heard an audible sigh, a release of momentary shame. The silence between us only lasted for a brief second. “You all right yourself, then, Marjorie? I can barely hear you,” Olga said, restored.

  “I’m at the library. There are a lot of people here.”

  “I’d imagine there are. Who would’ve thought that poor, simple Herbert Frakes could ever do something like that? I always thought he and Calla were . . .”

  I cut in this time. “You’re sure Hank’s all right?”

  Olga let out a slight harrumph. I pictured her nose sailing straight to the ceiling in one swift, offended move. “Yes,” she answered. “Doc said he could go home this evening once he makes his last rounds and makes sure Hank himself is fit to make the trip out to your place. I told you that.”

  “All right, I’ll be there shortly. Can you tell him?”

  “You betcha, but there’s no hurry. Doc’s got his hands full with one thing or another. He won’t sign the release papers till he sees Hank again. You know how Doc is, slower’n Christmas but just as certain to show up.”

  I nodded. “Thanks, Olga.”

  “Sure is a shame about Herbert,” she said, wanting to go on about the arrest.

  I wasn’t interested in discussing Herbert’s fate any more than I had to. I’d seen and heard enough. “I have to go, Olga. Goodbye.”

  I stood next to Calla’s desk and tried to gather myself. I was still stunned that Richard Rothstein had made a mistake, and I was relieved that Hank was all right. My emotions were so conflicted that I didn’t know if I was coming or going. But Hank was ready to go home. More than anyone, I knew how much he hated being at the hospital. Inside that shell of a body of his, he was tapping his fingers and toes to a ragtime beat, but nobody could see the severity of his discomfort. Nobody but me.

  I drew in a deep breath and looked around the office, taking the time to examine everything a little closer than I had when I’d first stowed into it.

  This was probably the last time I would ever be in
this room. Or at least, while there was still a hint of Calla in it. The next librarian, whomever that would be, would surely make it their own. As it was, all I could see of Delia Finch was her ugly purse—from what I knew she was the temporary librarian, not appointed yet. The rest of the room reeked of Calla. Her long, enduring presence was hard to miss; I could almost smell a hint of her ever reliable Ivory soap lingering in the air, mixed with the wonderful smell of polished walnut bookshelves and books. It would take a concerted effort and a great amount of time to erase the fact that Calla Eltmore had spent her entire professional life at the library, in the office.

  I was sad and nervous, but, beyond that, I was driven by my own curiosity and lack of faith in Duke Parsons and the local police. I wasn’t convinced that Herbert had killed Calla—that he could kill Calla—but then I didn’t know what the police knew. I hadn’t all along. Duke and Guy had been quite adept at hiding the inner workings of their department. I was more than a little miffed at Guy for allowing me to believe that Calla had committed suicide for one second longer than I actually had to. I wouldn’t have told a soul. He knew that. But I understood that he couldn’t tell me. I just didn’t like it.

  I didn’t know everything about Calla, either, and that was nearly as unsettling as everything else.

  Nina Tutweiler had introduced me to her husband as Calla’s local celebrity. I blushed at the thought of such a thing. An indexer as a celebrity. How silly. It wasn’t like I was an author, for land’s sake. But I appreciated knowing that Calla felt that way, that I was something special to her.

  Nina had also said that Calla had kept a list of all of the questions that I had ever asked her. I knew we shared the compulsion to organize things, it was part of our bond—that and our love of books, of reading, of taking our own silent, private adventures that only we could talk about in our own special way—but I hadn’t known about that list. We both listed things to organize our days, our lives, but I had never considered that Calla had kept a list with my name on the heading. It made perfect sense to me that she would do such a thing now that I thought about it.

  I had to wonder, then, what other lists she had kept over the years. Was there one with Herbert’s name on it? One that revealed her fears of him, or other things I couldn’t imagine? Had Duke or Guy found it, and that was what led them to see Herbert as a suspect in a crime that wasn’t initially a crime? There was no way to know. I could only speculate. And my gut told me that Calla wouldn’t leave such things lying about. She would hide them, or, at the very least, keep the lists in a safe place that only she knew about. I was certain of that much. I did know a few things about Calla and her ways.

  If I were Calla, where would I hide my lists? I looked down to the desk, at the three drawers on each side, and contemplated opening them. You’re trespassing . . . the voice inside my head warned. Besides, Duke would have already rifled through each drawer.

  I looked at the door for any sign of Delia. The foyer was still loud with the noise of the crowd. So far, so good. She had her hands full.

  Instead of relying on what I thought I knew, I grasped the brass handle of the top drawer. The metal was cold, warning me off, but it was too late. I had already committed myself to going somewhere I shouldn’t.

  CHAPTER 41

  I didn’t know how much time I had. Calla’s reference log was on the very top of a disorganized pile of notebooks, envelopes, and thin stationary boxes. There was no question that someone else had been through the drawer, confirming my earlier suspicions. I couldn’t go through everything. Delia would have caught me for sure.

  I heard footsteps walking toward the office door and I froze. I was no moth, had nothing to camouflage myself with. I could hear my heart beating, could feel it in my chest. It was going to give me away if it pumped any louder.

  Whoever it was passed on by and I relaxed for a second. I had to go, get out of there. Hank needed me. He was fidgeting; I could feel it in the depth of my soul. But just as I started for the door, something caught my eye, something out of place, something that I immediately recognized.

  A single book lay on top of a file cabinet next to the forbidden bookshelf. The book was red leather with gold gilt letters. It was Men and Women by Robert Browning. The same book that Nina Tutweiler had dropped when she had taken the tumble down the outside steps.

  I stopped and wondered why the book hadn’t been properly shelved. Surely Delia hadn’t been that busy since her arrival—or perhaps, she wasn’t as efficient as Calla. I doubted that anyone really was.

  I eased my way over to the file cabinet and stared at the book, then glanced down. Letters of the alphabet fronted each of the six drawers. Without thinking any further, I slowly opened the top drawer, which was unlocked, and peered inside.

  The drawer was full of books. Old books like the one on top of the file cabinet. The aroma of them was like a whiff of an ancient tree, sweet and slowly rotting. I picked up the first book that I recognized—Poems by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, her most famous work. Then I opened it to the plate page and quickly discovered that it was a first edition.

  Calla had kept the books in a safe place, off the shelves, out of ordinary circulation. It, and the rest of the books, must have had value of some kind, either financial or otherwise. I didn’t know about such things.

  The paper of the plate page was yellowed and fragile between my fingers, and I suddenly worried that I was doing damage to it. I closed the book and went to put it back exactly where it had come from, and a piece of paper fell out of it, fluttered into the file cabinet drawer like a leaf falling from a tall, dying tree.

  Unlike the Barrett Browning book, the paper that had been dislodged looked pure white, new, recently pulped. I picked it up and slid Poems back where it belonged.

  Curiosity forced me to open the paper, which looked like a note or letter. Reading it would not have been appropriate under any other circumstance, but this felt different.

  Robert and Elizabeth’s relationship had been famous because of their correspondence and the love affair that it provoked. Calla had been enamored with the Brownings for as long as I could remember, had tried to engage me with her passion for the subject, but unfortunately her attempts had fallen short. I knew little of either of the poets’ work, just the basics—How do I love thee, let me count the ways . . . that I learned as a child, picking petals off a daisy. I had been thinking of Hank, of course. I wasn’t even sure that I knew who the poet was back then.

  I looked over my shoulder before I opened the letter, to make sure that I was still safe. Confident that I wasn’t about to be caught and shown to the door—or have the police called on me—I began reading:

  ~C.

  We both know there is far more at stake than being disinherited, as our dearest Elizabeth was. My agreement for appearances seems a lasting mistake, and one I regret with the coming of each autumn. I fear the sight of the wedges of snow geese that fly overhead, south to a safer, warmer clime; I wish to travel upon their wings and take you with me. I know we have dreamed of this together before, but it is an impossible dream. The wrong look or touch in the wrong place is certain to bring a push of wind I have no desire to face. I am growing bitter and bereft with each passing day that I am separated from you.

  How can it be so wrong? Robert and Elizabeth weighed the price of their love, and love won out. We know that. I wish with all my heart that I could be as confident as you that a life together would meet the same success. It is a storm that neither of us is equipped to handle. We are fated to stand on opposite sides of a deep canyon. I can only watch you from afar and marvel at the human being that you are. I can only imagine what a simple, unworried moment alone with you would feel like.

  I must watch carefully now. Time is ticking. This first year seems different. It will pass, too. They all do once the boredom of the season sets in. It is my burden, my penance, my deception to the world, to myself. Let’s try Men and Women next time. I will look for your response in it.
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  ~~N.

  My hand trembled as I finished reading the letter. I looked over my shoulder and wondered if I had time to read it again. More footsteps, more voices. Sooner or later Delia was going to discover my presence. But my feet were glued to the floor. I was shocked by the letter. It seemed so personal, so intimate, so secretive.

  I knew right away that it wasn’t from Herbert. The initial at the bottom noted an N, not an H. The whole town had thought that Calla and Herbert were involved in a relationship of some kind. I had too, and now it looked like we were all wrong. This was a love letter, or it seemed that way, exchanged secretly through the checking out of books. They hadn’t even trusted the post office with their correspondence. Maybe Herbert had discovered something, discovered who the writer of the letter was. Maybe he had killed Calla in a jealous rage. Maybe he had loved her, but she hadn’t loved him.

  Taking the letter to the police would prove nothing. Most likely they had seen it. On the surface of things, the letter didn’t seem to have anything to do with Calla’s murder. But my suspicions suggested otherwise.

  I drew in a deep breath and looked back at the book on top of the file cabinet. Men and Women. Then I looked back to the letter and closed my eyes. In my memory, as clear as a summer day, I saw the book fly out of Nina Tutweiler’s hands as she fled the library.

  Nina.

  N.

  Could it be her? Could N. be Nina Tutweiler?

  What on earth did that mean if I was right?

  CHAPTER 42

  The most important task for an indexer was to decide what information went into the index and what was left out of it. There was no possible way to put access points to every concept, idea, name, and place that appeared in the book. There simply wasn’t enough room or allowed pages from the publisher. Something valuable was always going to get overlooked or left out. And that was exactly how I felt standing there with the letter in my hand. I had missed something all along, but I still had no clue what that something was. The letter created more questions than it answered.