1 Killer Librarian

by Mary Lou Kirwin

  Again I didn’t want to learn what he had learned from her so I asked, “What does she do?”

  “She handles a line of table linens. Very upmarket. They’re quite attractive, but the big thing about them is they’re covered with a coating of something. Which means that you can spill gravy or wine on them and then wipe it straight off. She’s started marketing them here in England and comes over about once every two months to meet with clients. She’s also been helping me take a new look at my life.”

  I wasn’t sure how much more I wanted to know about her. “I’ve been meaning to ask you—what do you do besides running this place? For fun. Not that running a B and B isn’t a lot of work; maybe it keeps you completely busy.”

  Caldwell thought for a second, then waved toward the windows. “Well, there’s the garden; I potter away at it rather ineffectively. And then I have my books.”

  “Yes, you have a terrific selection of books. I’ve been enjoying the small library in my room.”

  “I’ve thought of doing more with them—a bit of buying and selling—but it’s hard on one’s own. I’m just not sure I’m up to it.”

  I took another sip of sherry, thinking about being on my own again. For a moment I pictured my life when I went back home, working every day at the library, coming home to an empty house, having to make dinner for one. Dave and I hadn’t spent every night together, but three or four nights a week we would do something—go out to eat, grill at his house, I’d make us dinner, go catch a movie. Half my evenings were filled with him and the other half I enjoyed being alone. Now, if Rosie had a boyfriend, she’d be too busy to hang out with me. “I know what you mean. Takes energy to be alone.”

  The dark was settling in more thoroughly. Caldwell hadn’t turned on any lights in the room and I could barely see him, though he wasn’t that far away. His voice rose out of his chair. As if reading my mind, he asked, “How many days left now for you on your trip? Only five?”

  “Yes, it’s going too fast. But I am looking forward to Hay-on-Wye. I didn’t think I would be able to get there. The trains don’t go there. I had checked into the bus service, but it would have been quite a complicated trip.”

  “Our train system is not what it used to be. When I was growing up, you could get anywhere on the trains.” I heard him sigh and wondered if he was thinking about the trains, but he said, “I’ve been enjoying your stay.”

  I flushed and wondered if it was the sherry making me warm. “You have made me feel very welcome here.”

  “I’m glad.” He cleared his throat and added, “I’m sorry that your friend Dave wasn’t able to come along with you.”

  Dave. Funny to hear his name come out of Caldwell’s mouth. I was so done with Dave. It was time to come clean. There was no reason not to tell Caldwell what had actually happened, leaving out the gory details. No need to explain about my inadvertent hit man, if Guy was even that. At least, not yet. “Well, yes, Dave—”

  Right then the front door pushed open and the hall light came on. Sharp pointy heels hit the flagstone in the entryway. A wire-thin French voice yahooed, “Caldwell. Bonsoir. I’m arrived.”

  We both sat up straighter in our chairs, as if we’d been caught at something. Francine stood in the doorway to the sitting room. “But it is very dark. You cannot see at all. The light, it does not work?”

  Francine switched on the overhead lights and the glare made me blink. She walked into the room like a whirlwind, dressed in a formfitting tweed suit that could have come right off the runway. Her scent permeated everything—sandalwood, with a hint of roses. Francine’s presence took over the small space.

  Spying the bottle of sherry, she clapped her hands. “Parfait. Just what I was wanting. The aperitif. Cheri, please to pour me some.”

  “Get yourself a glass, Francine.” Caldwell uncorked the bottle.

  She turned and opened a cabinet. With slight distress, I noticed that she knew right where the glasses were.

  * * *

  After listening to Francine tell us about her day, the meetings, the stores she had gone to with samples of her newest tablecloths, Caldwell stood up and said, “Ladies, I’m off to bed. Please feel free to have more sherry.”

  “I should go too,” I said, not wanting to be left alone with Francine.

  She reached out her long fingers and pressed her hand down on top of mine. “Oh, please stay. I don’t want to drink all by myself. Plus, we have not really had a chance to talk.”

  She fascinated me, this elegant Frenchwoman, and I couldn’t bring myself to say no. I sank back into my chair. Caldwell stood in the doorway and said good night.

  Francine blew him a kiss and said, “Fait de beaux rêves, rêve de moi.”

  The phrase sounded beautiful, especially coming out of her mouth, but I wanted to know what it meant. “Can you translate that for me?”

  “Just one of those little things the parents say when the children go to bed, you know. Funny things. It means, Make beautiful dreams, dream of me.”

  Much more poetic than “Don’t let the bed bugs bite,” I thought.

  Francine poured herself another glassful of sherry. “How are you finding this side of the ocean?”

  “In some ways not very different from where I live.”

  “Really?”

  “So many of the same shops, the same clothes. We really are living in such a global economy now.”

  “I know what you mean. Next I will be selling my linens to everyone in America. The market is enorme.”

  I didn’t correct her English since my French was pretty much nonexistent. I finished off the last little sip of sherry in my glass. My long day was catching up to me. I could feel myself fading away while Francine looked like she could go all night.

  “As I have told you, I love the mysteries. May I buy your books here in England?” she asked. “Or perhaps even in France?”

  “My books?” I asked before I could stop myself.

  “Yes, you are the writer, no?”

  “Yes, I write, but I’m not sure if they are here. Not usually published in foreign countries. Not my latest one at least,” I scrambled, trying to sound like I knew what I was talking about.

  “It is coming out soon?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Right after I go home.”

  “I am not so much the reader, but Caldwell likes the books,” Francine said. “Maybe too much.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “He is truly a gentle man,” she said, giving me a stare.

  “I think he is too.”

  “After this horrible woman left him—he tells you about this Sally woman, yes? He was very, very sad.”

  “Was he mad at Howard Worth?”

  Francine thought for a moment. “I would guess he was mad, but I’m not sure he really blamed Howard. Sally was a restless woman.”

  “How long have you known him?” I asked, fearing the answer.

  “I have been knowing him for a year or so now. We are getting quite close,” she said.

  She was obviously staking out her territory. I wondered if she felt threatened by me. “Good.”

  “I’m a very busy woman, but I make the time to come and stay with him.”

  “He has made a comfortable place here.”

  “He knows how to do that,” she said. “He has always been comforting for me too. Is that how you say it in English?”

  I nodded. Francine was certainly clarifying their relationship for me. At least her side of it. I now knew that Francine wanted Caldwell. But I still wasn’t sure how he felt about her.

  “Well, I’m off to bed.” I stood up and knocked over my empty sherry glass. Caldwell’s father’s glass. I would have felt terrible if I had broken it, but I caught it in time.

  Francine sat like a cat, watching me, and, after another swallow of sherry, said, “Be very careful. You don’t want to break anything.” She paused, turning her glass around in her hands. “Caldwell, he is like an enfant terrible about breaking his delicac
ies. The temper he has is incroyable.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Analysis of the List

  When I crawled into bed and thought of having to spend a whole day with Francine and her catty ways, I almost decided not to go to Hay-on-Wye. I wasn’t sure I could stand to watch Francine and Caldwell together all day long. But the lure of all the books I might find won out in the end. I couldn’t give up this opportunity, which might be, literally, a once in a lifetime for me.

  I plumped up the covers on the bed, got out my notebook, and started to make a list of books I hoped to find.

  When I had filled a page with titles, I called Rosie to get a report on her sort-of date. Because of the time difference, I figured I’d catch her on her lunch break at the library. She picked up on the first ring.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey yourself. How’s it going?”

  “It was a date,” she said.

  “What makes you so sure now?”

  “Because he kissed me.”

  I pulled myself up in bed. This was good. “Excellent. Do you still like him after spending this time with him?”

  “Are you asking me as in—I wouldn’t want to join a club that would have me for a member?”

  “Well, not really that, but you can be rather skittish,” I said, remembering the time she had bolted in the middle of a coffee date, telling me later that he had asked her what she wanted to do with her life and she thought that was too probing.

  “Richard has good boundaries.”

  “So he’s standoffish too. Perfect. With you two keeping each other at arm’s length, how was the date? Give me the gory.”

  “You know what’s weird is it was rather awful. The movie was super bad, but we started laughing and couldn’t stop. Finally we just had to leave. Then we went to Sawatdee and Richard ordered a curry that was so hot, he turned completely red. I swear steam was coming out his ears. He had to go outside for a few minutes to recover. When we got to my house, he was too perfect a gentleman. I had to jump him, but he joined in immediately.”

  “Did it lead to a stay-over?”

  “No, just some heavy petting.”

  “How old-fashioned. Any future plans?”

  “Well, he already asked me out again. He’s been texting me all morning. Nancy, priss-butt herself, has been giving me dirty looks, but I don’t care. She won’t fire me as long as you’re gone and she needs me.”

  “She can’t fire you. I’m your boss.”

  “Oh, yeah. But now I’m worried about you. How are you doing? Did you find Dave?”

  I told her about how Honey had thumped me and knocked me over. I also told her about the scene at the Chelsea Flower Show. And I told her about Francine’s thinly veiled threat, to watch out not to break anything, and me wondering if it was my body or my spirit that she was worried about breaking.

  “Rosie, this is a dangerous place, this England. If you don’t watch it, you’ll inadvertently kill someone or be killed. I’ve already tripped over one dead body. And I’m starting to think Howard might have been killed. All the people who were there that night, with the exception of me of course, had a motive for killing him. Plus, he wrote that cryptic note in the book he was reading, as if he knew something. I don’t like it.”

  “Really? You think he might have been killed? Maybe you should move to a different B and B.”

  “Oh, I think I’m safe enough. And there’s Caldwell. . . .”

  “Well, I’d say enjoy your vacation while you can. Nancy’s been piling work on your desk lately. Now it looks as if you’re going to have to work months to make up for the time you’ve been gone.”

  “I don’t care. I’m going to Hay-on-Wye. With Caldwell and Francine.”

  “You told me about that town with all the bookstores. Sounds like fun. If you see something I might like, get it for me, would you please? I’d love an old book from England.”

  “Absolutely. I’ll add it to my already quite long list. In return, why don’t you walk by my desk and accidentally knock all the work on the floor?”

  “Oh, she’d make me pick it up. Try not to kill or get killed on your trip to book land.”

  * * *

  After my first cup of tea in the morning, I casually opened the back door to the garden and strolled down the path. I was quite sure I had seen the foxglove flowers when I looked out the window, but I had never been out in the garden to check. A veritable cottage garden had been created, a mixture of all the bright and glorious flowers that bloomed in England. But it did look a little overgrown. Caldwell said he didn’t do enough with it.

  Toward the back, standing upright as soldiers, was a patch of foxglove, at nearly five feet tall, hard to miss. The purple blooms looked like the finger pads we librarians wore to get through a sheaf of papers fast. I walked as close as I could get to them on the path, then eased my way through the flowers to stand right by them, making sure to hold my breath.

  Toward the top of the plant, right under the blooms, it looked like leaves had been taken off of a couple of the plants. Could have been bugs, could have been wind, but I was guessing it was hands that had gathered the toxic leaves. What was I to do about it? Who could I tell? The coroner had declared Howard Worth’s death the result of an accidental overdose; why would I suggest otherwise?

  I heard Caldwell calling me from the front of the house, so I scurried out of the flowers, quickly slipped through the door, and went back to the sitting room. It was eight o’clock sharp, just when he’d said we would depart.

  I went out front and found that Caldwell had pulled his car up to the front of the house. I climbed into the front seat. Caldwell had warned me that we would probably encounter rain, so I’d dressed for it. I had on my Burberry raincoat and my lime-green walking shoes, which were also waterproof. I’d come to think of them as frog shoes.

  Not knowing what to do with my hair in this weather, I had pulled it back in a couple barrettes, which oddly made me look younger than usual, like a schoolgirl. Since my coat had a hood, I wouldn’t be needing a hat.

  Caldwell gave me the once-over, then nodded. “Very appropriate. You look like you’re ready to go hunting.”

  I thought of the hunt I had just done and of the discovery I had made, but pushed it out of my mind. I would think of it all later. Today I would enjoy myself. “Maybe we should call it ‘booking.’”

  He laughed harder than my very small joke demanded, but in such a pleasant way that I didn’t think less of him for it. I could tell he, like myself, was all keyed up about this trip.

  Caldwell looked every inch the English countryman. He was wearing one of those amazing waxed cotton coats that makes a great crackling noise when you move in them, like the sound of a million blackbird wings.

  I so didn’t want to think that he had anything to do with Howard’s death, but I had to ask a few questions. “Your garden is so lovely right now,” I said.

  “Thanks. I wish I could take more of the credit. I have a bloke who comes and fusses with it every few weeks. It doesn’t look as good as it used to when Sally—” He broke off.

  “Is that foxglove I see toward the back?” I asked.

  “Might be. I haven’t a clue. Ask Barb or Betty. They’re sure to know.”

  His nonchalance about my questions would seem hard to manage unless one were a very good actor. Caldwell was good at so many things, but I doubted that.

  He had brought a thermos of tea and he poured us each a cup. I wasn’t sure why we weren’t having our tea inside, but then I just figured it was part of the adventure. As we sipped, we waited for Francine.

  Finally I had to ask, “Why are we sitting out here? I mean, it’s quite pleasant, but will Francine know we’re out here?” I was enjoying the intimacy of the small car, the shared tea.

  “She doesn’t like to get up in the morning,” he explained. “She’s less apt to dilly-dally if she’s knows we’re waiting for her in the car. I shouted this information through her door. I did hear
her moving around in her room, which was a good sign. Also, I told her we were leaving in ten minutes with or without her.”

  “We wouldn’t leave without her, would we?”

  “We won’t have to. Francine is very good with deadlines.”

  “I had trouble getting to sleep last night, so I sat up in bed and made a shopping list,” I said.

  “Oh, may I see it?” He reached into one of the many pockets on his coat and pulled out a long list of his own.

  We exchanged lists. I was happy to see there weren’t too many duplicates, so we wouldn’t be in serious competition with each other. As I checked over his list, I was happy to see that nearly half of the authors on it were women, many Americans too: Marilyn Robinson, Jane Smiley, Ruth Hamilton, Louise Erdrich. Not just American, but Midwesterners. I wondered if his selection had been compiled for my benefit. If so, it was a sweet gesture and appreciated.

  Caldwell was murmuring over my list. Finally he looked up. “Good,” he said. “Yes, very nice indeed.”

  “You approve?” I asked, laughing.

  “Not that you need my approval, but it’s an interesting list, revealing of your character.”

  “Oh, I see. Some people read palms, others analyze Rorschach blots, you are able to know an individual by what books they buy?”

  “Something like that,” he said, a little embarrassed.

  “So what do you now know about me?”

  “You have good taste, evidenced by the Harding. A vast spectrum of interest, ranging from the noir books of Highsmith to poems of Wordsworth. You know your books. John Cowper Powys is pretty esoteric, and you like to have fun—Barbara Pym. You are kind, but with a slight edge, that comes through with the Gerald Durrell, and his brother Lawrence. Also a little old-fashioned, as there are not many contemporary writers on your list.”

  “That’s amazing. You see all that in my list?”

  “Well, I must admit it takes some extrapolating.” He slapped the list in his hand. “But the odd thing is that these are all British writers.”

  “When in Britain . . . ,” I started, knowing I didn’t need to finish.

  When he handed my list back, our hands brushed, and I felt a small jolt. He looked up suddenly and his eyes opened wider, really taking me in. I wondered if he had felt the electricity too. I would miss him when I went home.