1 Killer Librarian

by Mary Lou Kirwin

  “I’m so sorry,” I murmured.

  She looked at me. “You’re the one who found Howard, right? How did he seem? Peaceful?”

  “Very.”

  “I tried to make him come to bed, but he insisted on another cup of his noxious tea and a little read. He never sleeps much. I was going to try to come down and get him, but I was exhausted and fell right to sleep. I should have insisted he come to bed.” A grimace passed over her face; then she cried, “It’s all my fault.”

  I have to admit I jumped to the conclusion that she was confessing something to us, but Caldwell saw it otherwise.

  “I doubt anything could have prevented his heart attack. It was inevitable,” Caldwell said.

  “That’s what they all say once it’s happened. But Howard was doing so well. I had him on a really good regime and he was feeling so much better. I would never have let him come on this trip if I thought it would be too much for him. I was sure he’d live a good many more years. He deserved better.” She collapsed on the couch, her head tucked into her arms, and sobbed.

  “Well, the autopsy will give you some answers,” Caldwell assured her.

  “Oh, I wish they didn’t have to do an autopsy,” Annette said. “Howard would not have wanted to be dissected like one of his plants.”

  “However, in cases like this, it’s usual . . .” Caldwell started to say and then thought better of it. “I’ll get some tea.” He left me in the room with a sobbing woman I didn’t even know.

  I, too, wondered why Annette would not want an autopsy, but I knew some people were squeamish about such things. I’ve never been that good with sympathy, but I figured I’d better try with Annette. I went over and patted her on the back. In a way, we had something in common—we had both lost our men. After quite a few pats, she finally sat up again, wiping her face.

  I knew I should say something. “Did your husband love Winnie-the-Pooh?”

  Annette looked at me as if I was some crazy old lady. “No, he hated that dopey bear. Called him Whiney the Poop. Why?”

  “Oh, I just wondered.” Strange that he’d ended his life reading about the bear. This bothered me.

  I went back and curled into my chair and felt like I was one of the characters in Winnie-the-Pooh.

  How I wished I was Pooh himself, with his immeasurable optimism, but at the moment I was more like Eeyore. With my sad tail dragging behind me as I sat, not knowing what to say, I couldn’t help wondering what I was doing all by myself in this melancholy country.

  ELEVEN

  Biting Dogs

  He was to get an award, and now I’ll have to get it for him. I hate that kind of thing,” Annette said. “No one knows this, but I hate flowers.”

  I wasn’t quite sure what to say to this revelation. “Not everyone has to like flowers,” I tried.

  “Howard thought they did. He spent more time on his roses than he ever spent with me.”

  Annette said no more and I excused myself and went to my room. I knew that anger was one of the steps of grieving, but I hadn’t realized it could come so soon after a death. Annette had sounded positively mad at Howard. How strange.

  I needed to get out of the B and B. Because of the rain, it would be a good day to go to the National Gallery, one of the many museums on my list.

  While I wasn’t crazy about ships or trains, I wanted to see my favorite painting by Turner: Rain, Steam and Speed. I loved what he did with the vehicles, how weather and emotion swirled around them in his work. I had been looking forward to taking Dave to see it. I’d thought the trains and boats might grab his attention.

  The museum was open until six, which would give me plenty of time to wander and have tea in their café, which had a very good reputation. Funny how the thought of tasty pastries and tea could cheer me up. I patted at my hair, swabbed some lipstick on my face, and set out to brave the London transportation system.

  I took only two wrong turns in finding the tube, as they call it; then I couldn’t quite figure out how to work the machines to get my tickets. A sweet woman helped me, even though I didn’t understand a word she said. I could have sworn she was saying something about an oyster card. So much for my work on the British accent.

  As I seated myself in the car, I couldn’t help being excited about riding in the tube, surrounded by people of all skin types and hair configurations. I knew I must look quite odd to them in my royal blue raincoat with my short bobbed hair. I wondered if they could tell I was a librarian from America—or if they might possibly think I was a mystery writer.

  When we were let out at the Charing Cross stop, I emerged from the underground right in front of a huge stone building on Trafalgar Square. I had to remind myself several times which way to look as I crossed the streets. No wonder the Brits literally wrote on the street, right next to the curb, look right, so those backward Americans wouldn’t get hit by a vehicle.

  I forced myself to skip the bookstore and gift shop. The bookstore was usually where I started a tour of a museum. It drove Dave crazy that I wanted to see what I was going to see before I saw it.

  The feel of the Gallery was distinctively different from that of an American museum—the rooms were somewhat small, much more filled with paintings than at home, and the walls were dark—which made it feel more like I was wandering through an art lover’s home rather than a museum. As I stepped through each room, I felt a deep intimacy with the works of art.

  I walked from room to room, letting a painting I could see through an archway pull me on. Many Madonnas gazed down from the walls—wide-faced Belgian Madonnas; sallow, long-faced Spaniard Madonnas; even the small and lovely Madonna of the Pinks by Raphael.

  But what struck me again and again as I wandered from room to room were the dogs. They were usually tucked into the corner of a painting, under the edge of their master’s robes. They were what I would call curs. Small, odd, no-breed dogs that looked stocky and tough. You had a sense that if they decided to grab onto your ankle and shake, you might be in serious trouble.

  Finally, I could wait no longer and took myself directly to the room that housed the Turners. The paintings were much smaller than I’d thought they would be. In reproductions, they seemed magnificently large. My second surprise was that this in no way diminished their power.

  My third and most surprising surprise was that standing in front of the one painting I most wanted to see, Rain, Steam and Speed, was the one person in the whole wide world I did not want to see.

  Yes, Dave the plumber had somehow managed to ferret out my favorite painting and was standing staring at it. It shouldn’t have surprised me so much. I had talked about it quite a bit as we were planning our trip. I just hadn’t thought he was listening to me.

  I was rooted in the doorway to the room, hoping that he wouldn’t turn and see me, but stapled to the spot. He was standing where I should be.

  In that moment I saw Dave as if he was someone else’s boyfriend (which he was), a schlumpy American in a sodden beige raincoat, the little remaining hair he had plastered to his glistening pate. His posture was slumped—belly forward, shoulders down, chest concave. He was no prize.

  I had the overwhelming urge to run at him and push him in front of Turner’s speeding locomotive, but I controlled myself and stepped back around the corner into the previous room.

  As I leaned against the wall, my head was spinning. What did it mean that he was looking at my favorite painting? Was he still thinking about me? Where was his Honey? I wanted to make like the Wicked Witch of the West and melt away.

  I happened to glance across the room at a large painting of a dolled-up man in a ruffled collar and his snarling dog. The dog looked so vibrant I believed it could have jumped out of the gilded frame.

  In that moment I decided I would become that dog, that happy, snappy dog. I would stand my ground, wherever that happened to be.

  Pushing off the wall, I turned back to the Turner room, just in time to see Dave shake his balding head at my favorite pa
inting and walk off, disappearing through the opposite doorway. I waited a few beats to make sure he was really gone, then walked over to the Turner painting and planted myself right in front of it, ready to claim it as my own.

  The locomotive was steaming toward me in diaphanous and glistening light.

  TWELVE

  Clotted Cream

  The National Café was enormous—cheery and clattery. The waitstaff bustled around and people came and went with a sort of flair. A soft fog of light drifted in from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

  I asked to be seated way in the back, near one of the tall windows, out of the way so I could hide behind a menu if I saw Dave or Honey coming in.

  After glancing out at the drizzling rain, I gave myself over to watching the people around me: women in flowing red and gold saris, men in tweed jackets, girls with pierced eyebrows, and red-cheeked boys in school uniforms. I kept reminding myself that I was one of them: I was now a world traveler.

  I pored over the menu, wondering what I should have, knowing full well that it was the afternoon tea I would splurge on, with its finger sandwiches and its clotted cream, but I considered fish and chips and even some oddly named desserts like Eton mess and treacle tart.

  The waitress came, a whip of a girl with dark black hair spiking out from a topknot on her head, and asked, “Wha’jou like?”

  I said, “The full cream tea, please,” in my most perfected English accent and she did a double take.

  “Cor, I could have sworn you were an American and you’d want a hamburger.”

  I just dipped my head, not wanting to risk saying another word. When she scurried away, I had to give a little laugh. Maybe I did belong here after all.

  Even though I hated people who did this, I decided that since I was off in a corner by myself, I would call Rosie on my cell phone. I was wondering how she was doing without me, but also, I needed to talk to someone I knew.

  Since it was five in the afternoon here, it would be eleven in the morning in Minnesota and she would be at work. I dialed.

  Rosie answered, “Sunshine Valley Library. How can I help you?”

  “Hey, Rosie.”

  She squealed when she heard my voice. It wasn’t hard to make her squeal, but I was glad to hear the sound just the same.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “London, England.”

  She squealed again.

  “Specifically,” I went on, “having tea in the National Gallery café. I’ve been wandering through the museum.”

  “How I’d love to be there,” she whispered. “How’s it going? Did you get jet lag? Are you doing okay—by yourself and everything, I mean?”

  “I guess I’m fine. It’s been a weird day. I found a dead man at the B and B last night. It’s assumed he died of natural causes and all, but I’m not sure, and it’s still very unsettling, and then I almost ran into Dave in this museum. Oh, I didn’t tell you—he and his new girlfriend were on the same plane as me. I feel jinxed.”

  “Wow. You are having adventures, aren’t you? How did the dead man die?”

  “He was older, in his seventies, and I guess his heart gave out. But he was holding a book upside down and for some reason that has me thinking there might be more to his death than meets the eye.”

  “You do love your mysteries,” she said, then asked, “What would you have said to Dave?”

  “I’m not sure I would have said a thing. I feel like he doesn’t belong here. This is my country. I’m claiming it for my own.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Oh, the one good thing. I went out with a fellow to a pub last night.”

  “You went out with a fellow? My, aren’t you the fast worker? What’s he like? Don’t you just love a British accent?”

  “No, it wasn’t like that. It was only Caldwell, the man who runs the bed-and-breakfast I’m staying at. I had fun, but I also had a little too much to drink. Actually, I had gallons too much to drink.”

  “Even better. Is he cute?”

  I thought about Caldwell. “Yes, I’d say he’s cute. But better than that, he has a lot of books. If I had known, I wouldn’t have had to bring any.” I oddly felt uncomfortable talking about Caldwell. “How’s it going with your sci-fi guy?”

  “Oh, you’re not going to believe it. I actually talked to him. He took out one of my favorite books. An Ursula Le Guin. I mean, I had to say something. And it came out very naturally. He seemed interested in what I thought about the book. He even asked me questions about what else I liked. I told him I would give him a list. I’ve been working on it all morning.”

  “Try not to make it too long, Rosie. You don’t have to train him in all at once.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. But I want it to be good. I want the list to show him who I really am.”

  “I understand.” I saw the waitress approaching with my tea. “Listen, I have to scoot. Food is appearing. How’s everything going at the library?”

  “Everything’s fine. Listen, Karen, avoid dead men and deader ex-boyfriends. And don’t worry about the library. We hardly miss you.”

  Not what I wanted to hear. I was surprised by how much I missed work, wandering around the library, knowing my place in the world. I wished her luck with Richard, said good-bye, and snapped my cell phone shut.

  The waitress put down the teapot first and reminded me to let it steep a few more minutes. Very civilized. She set down two platefuls of scrumptious food: elongated sandwiches of pure white bread with slivers of cucumber tucked in between, perfectly browned mounds of scones. I took my time, looking over the gorgeous plate of food, forcing myself to eat it slowly. Like a good girl, I ate my sandwiches first, then gave myself into the melting sweetness of the scones and cream and jam.

  I couldn’t get over the fact that I had just seen Dave, much as I wanted to rip him out of my mind. I remembered the first time I met him. He was recently divorced and I had taken a year off of dating after a long-term affair had run out of steam. Then came the disaster that brought us together.

  One evening as I was getting ready for bed, the toilet started running. The next thing I knew it was overflowing. But this wasn’t a slow dribble. That could have waited until morning. A waterfall erupted, flowing all over the whole bathroom and out into the hall. It had to be stopped. I called an all-hours plumber and Dave happened to be on call that night. Minutes later he was at my door, tools in hand.

  Nothing like being rescued in the middle of the night to make a woman’s heart grow very fond. He fixed the faucet with a few quick turns of his wrench and I offered him coffee. We talked for a while until he got his next call. I was sorry to see him go.

  Two days later Dave called and asked me out.

  After seeing him in the Gallery, I couldn’t help continuing to wonder where his new girlfriend was and why he had been checking out my favorite painting. I imagined running into him as I left the National Gallery. Him standing droopily in the rain, seeing me and breaking into a big smile.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” he would say. “I hoped you would be here. That’s why I came.”

  I would look down my nose at him and say, “Do I know you?”

  “Would you like more hot water for your tea?” the waitress held out a large teapot.

  I jumped, then smiled up at her. Just in time, I remembered my accent. “Ta, that would be lovely.”

  Dave was completely out of my life. All I had to do was remember for a fraction of a second what it had felt like to get his phone call telling me we were done. After all our time together, he couldn’t even tell me face-to-face. And I had thought him brave. The bolt of pain, anger, and, yes, devastation that cracked through me was enough to warn me off any thought of even talking to him again. Even if he came begging, crawling on bloody stumps to me, I would not have anything to do with him again. Once a man has dumped you like that, there is no going back.

  Looking out the big windows, I could see that the sky had lightened and the rain
was only spattering. Maybe tomorrow would be bright and sunny. A good day to take a long walk, maybe even go to a garden.

  I paid my bill, walked out of the museum, and stood for a few moments on the stone steps, taking in the scene and looking forward to my tube ride home.

  Off to my left down at the bottom of the stone stairs, I saw a young woman fling her shoulder-length hair back from her face and pull out a cigarette. She had one of those perfect bodies, tall and lanky, that all clothes looked good on. An equally tall blond-haired man was hovering about her.

  I looked more closely, hoping to see a bit of English-style romance in action.

  But as I stared, I saw the young woman was none other than Honey. Figured she’d be out here, rather than inside looking at the art. The blond-haired man leaned over and lit her cigarette.

  I couldn’t see his face, but his physique looked familiar. Too thin and too much hair to be Dave, and too tall to be Caldwell, and who else did I know in London?

  As the man pivoted and sauntered off, I got a glance at his face. Guy, the man I’d spilled my heart to in the pub. What was he doing here? I ran down the steps and tried to follow him.

  I raced toward him, but the light had changed by the time I reached the street. The traffic came from either direction like a river charging wildly about. I would not have dreamed of trying to run through that sea of cars and busses, no matter what direction I was told to look.

  Guy turned when he was half a block away and saw me. I was pretty sure he saw me. He smiled and held his hand up. He pointed his finger up in the air, made his hand like a gun, and acted as if he was shooting at Honey.

  Then he turned and was lost in the crowd.

  THIRTEEN

  Barb and Betty

  When I let myself into Caldwell’s, the house was quiet. Like a morgue, I thought, and then squelched that thought.