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Contents
Epigraph
Acknowledgments
Chapter One: Cracking the Spine
Chapter Two: What Now?
Chapter Three: Mohammed Ali
Chapter Four: Magic Pill
Chapter Five: Mr. Toad
Chapter Six: Vindaloo Curry
Chapter Seven: Twad and Tweed
Chapter Eight: Nodded Off
Chapter Nine: Dial 999
Chapter Ten: The Morning After
Chapter Eleven: Biting Dogs
Chapter Twelve: Clotted Cream
Chapter Thirteen: Barb and Betty
Chapter Fourteen: The Richest Blend
Chapter Fifteen: The Flower World
Chapter Sixteen: Bangers and Mash
Chapter Seventeen: Favorite Tragedy
Chapter Eighteen: That Damn Spot!
Chapter Nineteen: Companion?
Chapter Twenty: Madame Frou-Frou
Chapter Twenty-One: To Be Regular
Chapter Twenty-Two: Raise a Ruckus
Chapter Twenty-Three: Why Hay-on-Wye?
Chapter Twenty-Four: Holiday, Anyone?
Chapter Twenty-Five: A Rose by Any Other Name
Chapter Twenty-Six: Really Blue Annette
Chapter Twenty-Seven: In the Gloaming
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Analysis of the List
Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Right Book
Chapter Thirty: Secrets Revealed
Chapter Thirty-One: High Praise
Chapter Thirty-Two: Hot Toddies
Chapter Thirty-Three: Kidnapped
Chapter Thirty-Four: Mosh Pit
Chapter Thirty-Five: Dominoes
Chapter Thirty-Six: Double Decked
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Shelving and Drowning
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Back Garden, Backyard
About Mary Lou Kirwin
Merci mille fois to Janet
There are such beings in the world, perhaps one in a thousand, as the creature you and I should think perfection, where grade and spirit are united to worth, where the manners are equal to the heart and understanding: but such a person may not come in your way. . . .
—a letter to Fanny from Jane Austen
“. . . how are you?” said Winnie-the-Pooh.
Eeyore shook his head from side to side.
“Not very how,” he said. “I don’t seem to have been at all how for a long time.”
—Winnie-the-Pooh, A. A. Milne
“What are you thinking?” he inquired at last.
I opened my mouth to reply, changed my mind and shrugged my shoulders. I could not bring myself to say it, but there was a dead body between us.
—No Love Lost, Margery Allingham
Acknowledgments
While I have visited England many times, I’m much more familiar with Sunshine Valley. For vetting the book in England I’d like to thank Janet Cox, Ida Swearingen, and Ellen Hawley. And for checking the book out, I’d like to thank librarian Mary Steinbicker.
Also, as always, my partner and critic extraordinaire, Pete Hautman. And my sidekicks: Pat Boenhardt, Deborah Woodworth, and Kathy Erickson.
Rosie, now there are two dead men.”
“Karen, is that you?” a very sleepy voice asked me.
I knew it was the middle of the night in Minnesota, but I had to talk to someone. “This has not turned out to be the trip to England I thought it would be.”
“Come home and we can talk about it,” she said.
I could tell she was not even awake. Then she hung up the phone before I could explain.
How had I gotten to where I was?
ONE
Cracking the Spine
A week earlier
You know how it feels when you open the pages of a new book, the sense that all is possible, that this might be the book that will sweep you up so completely that you will lose yourself in its story, not stopping to eat or sleep or answer the phone, and when it ends, you will be close to weeping, knowing this experience might never happen again?
Well, that’s how I felt the morning of my first-ever trip, with my boyfriend, Dave, to England, a place I had come to know intimately thus far only through books, starting with the Hundred Acre Wood of Winnie-the-Pooh continuing to present-day London streets of Ian McEwan’s Atonement.
A place of infinite promise and romance was how I viewed England. The thought that I would be there within the day made me feel as if bubbles were popping on the surface of my skin. Back to the homeland, for I’m of English descent: Nash, Karen Nash.
My trip, indeed, was to prove unforgettable.
* * *
Standing behind the counter at the Sunshine Valley Library, my assistant librarian, Rosie, was staring off into space and putting a couple more bobby pins in her short, spiky auburn hair, just for decoration. When she saw me, she wrinkled her nose and asked in her squeaky voice, “What are you still doing here?”
I shrugged, hoping that I didn’t need to explain.
When she continued to stare at me with her big blue eyes, I said, “Just checking on things one last time. In case you needed anything from me . . .”
“I want you to get on that darn plane.” She squinched her mouth to one side, “But as long as you’re here, there is one thing I want to ask you.”
Rosie was a good twenty years younger than me, but rather than the daughter I had never had, she was my best friend. She was slightly taller than me and weighed thirty pounds more than my 122 pounds—a little rounder than she wanted to be. I thought her absolutely gorgeous—lovely skin and fantastic dimples.
She had three tattoos, all birds and quite small, one pierced eyebrow, and a belly-button piercing, which I had never seen, thank the Lord. I finally got my ears pierced at her urging when I turned forty-five, but I wasn’t quite ready for a tattoo.
While we both were library professionals, Rosie had made the transition to the twenty-first century as a media specialist; she was an absolute whiz on the computer. The title of plain old “librarian” still suited me.
Rosie was way into speculative fiction—often asking me her favorite question, what if?—and I was the champion of the mystery section. I loved the psychology of people pushed to the ultimate act of desperation and passion. I adored the classic hard-boiled guys—Raymond Chandler, Ross MacDonald, and Dashiell Hammett—but some of my favorite writers were the latest crop of British women—Frances Fyfield, Minette Walters, and our own Elizabeth George. The mysteries that asked the question why? were the ones I had always cherished.
Having read literally thousands of them, I was sure I knew every which way of killing someone. I never thought a time would come when I would make use of it.
“Did I tell you that he came in again yesterday, the cute sci-fi guy?” Rosie whispered, her eyes wide with glee.
Rosie had developed a severe crush on a library patron. It happens. We librarians are only human. The young man she had her eye on came in about once a week. Rosie liked the kind of books he checked out: lots of sci-fi with a little gardening thrown in. She liked his glasses, thick black frames. And she liked his name: Richard Wrangler. The fact that he was a frequent library patron answered the first question we wondered about on seeing a cute man—does he read?
“You might have mentioned it two or three times,” I said.
“How did you get Dave to ask you out?”
I thought back to when I had met Dave, who is a plumber, arriving at my doorstep with his box of tools. “I didn’t really have to work very hard. It seemed as if it was meant to be.”
“You make it sound easy. And now look, you’re going to England together. What should I do to get this guy to notice me?”
“You could stop up your toilet.”
When she gave me her slivered-eye look, I suggested, more reasonably, “You could comment on something he’s taking out.”
“What if I haven’t read it?”
“Wouldn’t be good to be caught in a lie so early on in your relationship. Maybe say something like you’ve heard it’s a good book.”
“I could do that.” She fingered her eyebrow piercing. “Don’t you think he’s cute?”
I had only seen Richard once. He looked like I had always pictured Ichabod Crane, tall and thin to the point of it being slightly painful. “He’s got a certain charm.”
Rosie reached out and put her hand on my shoulder. “I can’t believe you’re leaving. I’m going to miss you. E-mail, snail mail, postcards are even good.”
I nodded, getting a little misty. I couldn’t believe I was going on this trip either, but I knew adventure was waiting for me over the ocean.
TWO
What Now?
I was an efficient and organized packer. Of course I’d made a list of all I’d need, but the most important thing was figuring out what books to bring. I had been planning this trip for six months, saving books as they came along: Josephine Tey, Dorothy Sayers, even some Agatha Christie. Then came the winnowing them down to six, one for every two days of the trip. I knew they had books in England, but I just didn’t want to be caught out.
I should say we had been planning this trip—Dave and I. Dave, the love of my midlife.
I’d been with other men. I was even married for two years and four months in my early twenties. Roger Lundgren had been my best friend in library school. When we both graduated it seemed natural that we should marry. However, when he realized that he liked boys better than girls, our parting was sad, but very civil. We had really enjoyed each other and had been such good companions. We still send each other Christmas cards.
After that I was wary with men. Plus, the opportunities did not present themselves very often—certainly not in my line of work. After all, most librarians are women: 84.6 percent, to be exact.
Dave and I met in our forties when he fixed my toilet. I was so happy to have found a man who could fix things—unlike the usual type I went out with, who didn’t even know what a hammer looked like—that I felt we were meant to be together through the hardships of life. I ignored the fact that all he read was the business section of the paper and books on golfing—even though he didn’t golf.
A year ago, Dave had been trying to design a new toilet. With the green movement coming on strong, he wanted to cash in on it. I suggested he figure out a way to create a holding tank where the effluence could be stored and flushed only once or twice a day, thus saving many gallons of water. I even gave him the name: the Flush Budget.
Dave patented the idea and sold it for a large chunk of change. He put my name on the patent and offered me half of the royalties, but I demurred. After all, I figured that soon our finances would be commingling. To celebrate, he suggested this trip to England.
When he told me he had bought airline tickets for London, I was so excited I snapped the pencil I was holding right in half.
I had the trip all planned out—what bed-and-breakfast we would stay at, what plays we would see, what museums we would visit. The one tour I had to strike off the list was a trip to Hay-on-Wye, a town in Wales with more bookstores than any other in the British Isles. Dave would have died of boredom.
* * *
Even though our plane wouldn’t leave for hours, I was already dressed in my new outfit—a pair of beige knit pants and matching Eileen Fisher hoodie—bought especially for the trip.
As I primped in front of the mirror I took a good hard look at myself, cataloguing my attributes. Forty-six years old; five foot two; dark brown hair with a few threads of gray, cut in a stylish bob, blue eyes, an okay figure. I needed reading glasses—a badge of honor in my profession. One of my best features was my feet, but I didn’t often get to show them off. I needed to lose twelve pounds and I knew exactly which ones they were.
I had all my accoutrements for traveling set right by the front door—the current issue of Vogue (always my little treat when I fly), the New York Times tucked into my carry-on bag so I could do the crossword puzzle, oatmeal cookies, binoculars, and a few choice books.
We had four and a half hours before our flight, but I was ready to leave as soon as Dave arrived. All I had to do was put on my lipstick.
I was picking out the perfect color when the phone rang.
I checked caller ID. It was Dave.
Dave had not come over last night as he usually did. It was my idea, really. I thought it would be more romantic, build up the tension. He had been busy for the past two nights, so we hadn’t seen each other for a few days.
“Hey, Dave,” I said.
I had decided not to try out my British accent on him yet. I wanted it to be a surprise. Like the black negligee I had rolled up in my flannel nightgown and tucked deep into my suitcase. I had been watching BBC television shows—“Are You Being Served?” and all the many versions of the Jane Austen novels produced by PBS—trying to perfect my accent.
“Yeah, listen, Karen.”
“I can hardly believe we’re really going,” I said. “Can you believe it? I hope you’re packed. Really, I could have helped you, Dave. Do you have your raincoat? When are you coming to get me? Let’s leave on the early side.”
“That’s what I called about.” He sounded all business. “I don’t think this is going to work.”
I felt my shoulders tighten, my throat turn to dust. But I managed to sound calm when I asked, “What isn’t going to work? Is there something wrong with your car? We can take a cab. That might be easier.”
“No, that isn’t what I mean. I mean this whole thing.”
“What whole thing?” My voice was rising. I couldn’t help it. Tension did that to my vocal cords.
“Us. This trip,” Dave answered.
“This trip! Now you’re scaring me.”
He cleared his throat. Not a good sign. He only did that when he had bad news to deliver. Like when he told me my burgundy 1950s-era toilet would have to be replaced. “Well, I’ve been thinking. I don’t think we’re right for each other.”
I could hardly breathe, but I managed to spit out, “What are you trying to say?”
“Karen, you’re great, but . . . it’s over. It isn’t anything you did. It’s me.”
“What about the trip?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Karen. No trip. I’ve changed my mind. I can’t go to England with you.”
“But I have my passport.”
“I know, but I think it’s better this way.”
“Dave?” I had to talk sense to him. The last time I’d seen him everything had been fine. He had loved my meatballs. Later, in bed, he had loved me.
He hung up.
“Dave?” I couldn’t believe it. This simply could not be happening. I let go of the phone. It fell to the floor and lay there like a dead mouse.
I slid down onto the floor next to it. The walls of the room rushed in toward me and I had a hard time breathing.
Something broke inside of me.
That was the first time I thought of killing him.
I couldn’t believe how fast my love, my deep abiding love for this man who had saved me from the emptiness of the middle of my life, could change into bottomless hate. I was a walking hate machine.
Hate, however, was a better feeling than the flood of despair that was pushing behind it.
What about England?
I had taken two weeks off from my job.
What would I tell
Rosie and Nancy, the other librarian? And everyone else I had bragged to about this wonderful trip.
I was all packed.
Everything was in order.
Sitting on the floor, staring at the kitchen cabinets—angry beyond despair—I became very clear.
Nothing was going to stop me.
With or without him, I was going to England.
THREE
Mohammed Ali
After that first tsunami of hate washed over me, I tried to call Dave back. I’m not sure if I was calling him to berate him or to beg him to give me another chance.
No answer. I tried his home number, his cell number, I sent him an e-mail, I called his office. I left no messages until the second time I called his cell. He slept with his cell. I knew this because I had been in bed with both of them.
“Dave, we need to talk. If you’re unhappy about some things, we could work them out on the trip. I know I can be rather rigid, but I would like to change.” I stayed calm, but by the word trip my mouth was quivering. I hung up before I cried.
What followed was a flood of tears, a tornado of wailing. I’d rather not go into too much detail here, but suffice it to say that it was both painful and pathetic. Afterward, I washed my face and reapplied my lipstick.
I stared at my watch. Our plane was leaving in three hours and thirty-three minutes. I was going to be on that plane if it killed me.
I called the airline and asked if there was any way I could get on that flight. That was the one thing I had Dave take care of—the plane tickets. “We’ve had some cancellations,” the woman told me.
I tried to ignore the cost of a last-minute booking. How appropriate that I might be getting my own ticket back—at twice the price. I booked the flight, gave her my frequent-flier number, even though I was really an infrequent flier, and I was confirmed on the flight.
When the phone rang a few minutes later, I jumped for it so fast that I didn’t even check caller ID. I was disappointed to hear Rosie’s squeaky voice on the other end.
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