1 Killer Librarian

by Mary Lou Kirwin

  “Good, go on then.”

  “Well, the fact of the matter is . . .” I had to do this. I took a deep breath, looked him square in the face, noticed his warm eyes, and said, “I’m not.”

  “Not what?”

  “A writer.”

  “Oh,” his brows lifted up on his forehead as he took my statement in.

  I held my breath. Why had I told him the truth? I watched as his lips twitched up in an almost smile.

  “That’s a relief,” he said.

  “It is? I’m sorry I lied. I don’t know why I did. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to fool you or anything. It just came out. I’m on vacation and I didn’t want to be myself anymore. Why is it a relief?”

  “So what are you?”

  My occupation, of which I was proud, seemed hard to say. Revealing who I truly was would bring all that old part of my life back and I would have to face it again. “I’m a librarian.”

  Caldwell stared at me. “Really, truly?”

  “Yup.”

  The smile broke in full force across his face. “That’s fantastic. Much better than a writer.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, if you were a writer, I could only be a fan, but this way—how can I put it?—well, we’re more like equals.”

  “Caldwell, what can you mean by that?”

  He screwed up his face. “That didn’t come out right. I meant that if you were a writer, you would be in a different league, I might not feel as comfortable with you, that sort of thing. But you’re a librarian and that I understand. I thought of being one myself.” He beamed at me.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, it seems like such a noble occupation. I would imagine that you’re a killer librarian.”

  “I try to be.”

  “Actually, I have a secret that I’ve been wanting to talk to someone about, someone who might understand what I want to do.” He said it so dead seriously that I got worried. What possible secret could he have?

  “What?”

  “I’m thinking of giving up the B and B.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m running out of room.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, the books are taking over. You know that other room on the second floor. I can’t rent it out anymore because it’s completely filled with books. I mean piled high, in some places to the ceiling. And soon I’m going to have to take over another bedroom to manage my stock. It would be hard to run a B and B with so few rooms to rent. Hardly worth it.”

  “Stock?”

  “Well, that’s the other thing. I sell books online. But what I really want to do is open a shop.”

  “A bookstore?”

  “A bookshop.”

  “How exciting.”

  The waitress brought our two plates of food. The sole looked pale and delicate on my plate. I was happy to see a large mound of mashed potatoes next to it.

  “Does Dave like to shop for books too?” he asked, picking up his fork.

  “Dave who?” I asked, then snapped to attention. “Oh, yes, Dave.”

  “The plumber.”

  “Well, that’s another thing that I haven’t been completely truthful about.” I took a deep breath. I had to say it. “Dave dumped me.”

  “Dumped you? What does that mean?”

  “Broke up with me. Gave me the boot. Told me to get lost.”

  “I did understand the phrase. I’m just surprised.” Caldwell put down his fork. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude on your personal life.”

  “No, I can talk about it now. But when we first met I was so upset about it I didn’t think I could manage to say what had actually happened without bursting into tears, and you didn’t really know me and I was trying to hold it together. So I pretended that he just couldn’t come. You see, I was all packed and ready for him to pick me up for the airport when he told me he didn’t want to be with me anymore.”

  “What a cur!”

  His reaction cheered me up immensely. “Yes, I guess he was.”

  “I know how you feel. When Sal left me I didn’t go out of the house for a month. Didn’t want to see anyone, didn’t want to have to talk about it at all. The only good thing about that period in my life was that it gave me time to really get my books organized.”

  “I know what you mean. There’s nothing like cataloguing books for taking your mind off of things.”

  “Exactly. When you said you wanted to kill someone, you weren’t doing research for a book?”

  “No. There were some moments when I thought I wanted to kill Dave.”

  “Of course you did. After what he had done to you. It will take you months and months to get over it.”

  “I’m not sure it will take that long. This trip has helped a great deal. Really given me a new perspective on everything.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, looking back on my relationship with Dave, I see how it was really a compromise for me. Probably for both of us.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I know this will be hard for you to believe, but he didn’t like books.”

  Caldwell shook his head sadly. “It’s a shock to realize that there are people like that in the world, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know how I thought we would be able to really make a go of it—stay together when he didn’t even like to see me reading a book. How did Sally feel about your books?”

  “I think she was jealous of them. For some reason, she seemed to feel that when I was reading, I was ignoring her.”

  “Dave was the same way. I don’t understand that at all. Reading next to someone can be the most companionable thing to do in all the world.”

  Caldwell cleared his voice, then launched, “I completely understand about the wanting to kill him part. When Sal left me in the lurch—and I do mean in the lurch, four guests on the way, no food in the house, and not much money left in our joint account—I wanted to do something that would accurately express my feelings at that time. Since she had disappeared I couldn’t take it out on her. There was little thinking in what I did next.” He paused.

  “What?”

  “Under cover of night, I took our mattress that we had spent a pretty penny on and had had for less than a year, and tied it to the top of my car. I drove it to the Thames and threw it in.”

  “You didn’t?” I asked.

  “Watching that big white barge float away was one of the most gleeful moments in my life. It didn’t last more than a second, but I’ll never forget it. Occasionally acting out your feelings can be very helpful.”

  “Very inspiring,” I said. My first thought was that he might understand how I talked to Guy about Dave, maybe starting something I didn’t intend.

  My second thought was that I wanted to kiss him.

  THIRTY-ONE

  High Praise

  A toilet could be a work of art, I reflected as I entered the bathroom stall. I owed this trip to England all to a toilet—the Flush Budget. Hard to believe. A song bubbled inside of me even though I couldn’t carry a tune. I had told Caldwell about my real life and warmth had not fled his eyes. In fact, I’d say if anything they shone more brightly at me.

  As I washed my hands, the water ran like silk over my fingers. All was well with the world. I hadn’t looked at a clock all afternoon. Timeless. I didn’t want the day to end.

  I took my cell phone out of my pocket and for a moment thought of calling Rosie. The impulse to tell someone what was happening was strong, but I could simply savor it all myself. I’d call her tomorrow.

  When I walked back to our table, I saw that a concoction of chocolate in the shape of a castle had been placed between us with two forks.

  “I went ahead and ordered,” Caldwell said with a pleased smile.

  “Perfect,” I said.

  “It’s dark chocolate,” he said.

  “I thought it might be.”

  We took a bite together. The richness of the chocolate made me yearn for
everything good and tasty in life.

  But there was one more thing that needed to be cleared up.

  “I’ve been wondering about Howard,” I started.

  “Yes, I have been too,” he chimed in.

  “Do you think it’s possible someone killed him?”

  “I’ve been wondering about that. Much as I want his death to be an accident, I just have a feeling about it, that someone is behind it.”

  “Like what?” I asked, curious what he had gleaned.

  “Well, that Annette seems to be getting rather a lot of comforting from a certain handsome man, that Howard Worth was worth a lot of money, and that the means to getting digitalis were certainly in her hands, literally. And who would know if it was an accident or not?”

  “Yes, I agree with all that, but then why would she insist that he couldn’t have overdosed, why would she tell everyone that she was in charge of his medications? Seems odd to me to make such a point of that.”

  “But that could be just to lead them off the trail.”

  “But no one, except you and me, even thinks he might have been killed. Oh, and the killer.” I hesitated but I knew I had to tell him this one last thing. “I even suspected you for a moment.”

  “Good on you. You are leaving no stone unturned. But I have no access to digitalis.”

  “But you do,” I said.

  His face went blank, then turned puzzled. “I do?”

  “The foxglove in the garden.”

  “Which one is that?”

  Either he was a master actor or he really didn’t know his flowers. “The tall flower with purple blossoms that point downward and look like fingers.”

  “Toward the back of the garden?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was Sally’s garden. I don’t have a clue about flowers. But why would it matter if I have foxglove?”

  “That’s what digitalis comes from.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Then there’s Betty and Barb,” I pointed out. “The Tweedles do know their flowers.”

  “Yes, they’re rather keen.”

  “And Barb was in love with Howard.”

  “But just in a schoolgirl way.”

  “Schoolgirls love very seriously.”

  “You can’t really think—” he started.

  “I walked back to look at your foxglove and there are leaves missing from the top of the plant. I’ve looked into it. It doesn’t take much to overdose on the drug. It’s a very dangerous plant. Why someone told me even a strong inhale of a leaf can kill you.”

  “My. I had no idea. Why would anyone even put such a flower in a garden? What should we do?” he asked.

  “Eat this scrumptious dessert, talk of other things, and when we get back home, ask Betty and Barb some questions.”

  “Brilliant,” he said and took another bite.

  We ate it slowly and talked, strolling back through our lives as if we needed to catch up on everything that had brought us to this moment. Caldwell told me about his pet ferret named Dandy, I told him about my grandmother Butty and her peanut butter cookies. He talked about starring in a play at his public school; I bragged about being the editor of my high school newspaper. He described swimming in the sea by Brighton; I tried to tell him how cold it could get in Minnesota in winter.

  “Is it so cold that sometimes you don’t take off your coat and put it in the boot when you get in the car?” he asked.

  “It’s so cold that sometimes you don’t take your coat off when you get into bed,” I told him.

  “How high does the snow get?” he asked.

  I stood up and reached my hand over my head. “The drifts can reach up to the rooftops.”

  “This I must see.”

  I could not bring myself to say anything, afraid I was reading too much into his comment. The thought of Caldwell continuing to be in my life was completely too good to be true.

  Finally, at a sign from Caldwell, the waitress slid our bill onto the table. The restaurant was closing around us, most of the tables empty. We were the only ones left sitting by the fire. I didn’t want to leave. Never in my life had I been with a man with whom I had so much in common, with whom I did not need to explain the important things in life: books, reading, and chocolate.

  “I guess it’s time,” I said.

  “Yes, I think we have to go back.” Caldwell pulled my chair out. “Whether they killed Howard or not, the Tweedles told me they approve of you. You have their blessings.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “They said that you were a solid, reliable Midwestern woman who had her feet on the ground.”

  “As dull as a doorknob,” I laughed.

  “Not at all. Most importantly, they assured me that you were a good person—one to be trusted.”

  “High praise indeed.” I could see them saying it together. “It’s obvious they adore you.”

  “That’s because I make them porridge.” He shook his head. “I hope they didn’t do anything to Howard.”

  “Let’s hope we’re both wrong and that it was some sort of accident. Maybe his heart just gave out all on its own.”

  We stepped out into the night. Rain fell in a spray as fine as mist. I tipped my head back to take it full on my face. Was this all I ever wanted—rain in a town that loved books with a man who understood?

  A hand slid into mine and squeezed.

  Maybe I wanted more. I squeezed back.

  “Let’s go home,” Caldwell said.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Hot Toddies

  After talking nonstop for most of the ride home, we both fell silent as we drove into London. The rain had stopped and the streets were quiet. I admired Caldwell’s confidence as he maneuvered through roundabouts, drove easily on the left side of the road, and always found the appropriate lane for a turn. By this point in the day, I was admiring everything about him.

  The silence was cozy.

  “What’s still on your list?” he asked.

  “Do you mean my book list or my things to do in London list?”

  “The latter.”

  “I haven’t been to Buckingham Palace.”

  “Not yet seen the queen?”

  “No.” I fell silent again.

  “Only four days left,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “Maybe this weekend we could drive down to Canterbury.”

  “Where the archbishop is and the cathedral? So much history. I would love to see all that.”

  “I know where to get the best fish and chips there.”

  “Any good bookshops?” I asked.

  He nodded. I could see his face in the faint light of the dashboard. I wanted to memorize it.

  “The Tweedles are leaving tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll clear everything up with them. I’m sure they did nothing to Howard.”

  “Oh,” I said. “But this will mean no more porridge?”

  “Not unless you’ve developed a yen.”

  “I’ll stick with toast and your good marmalade.”

  “I don’t suppose you could stay any longer,” he asked quickly.

  I thought for a moment of work, my ticket, the mail piling up, my obligations. “Oh, I wish.”

  “Just a thought.”

  I could tell we were getting close to his house. We were off the larger streets and he was making more turns.

  “It was hard for me to get away this long,” I explained.

  “I suppose they need you at the library.”

  “Unfortunately, they do. The fall ordering has to be done.”

  He pulled into a small parking space right in front of his house and turned off the car. We both sat still. My hand reached out for his. “I could try.”

  “Really?” He turned toward me. The stick shift stuck up between us. He touched my face. I leaned toward him.

  “Karen?” he whispered.

  Our faces bumped and our lips touched for a brief instant.

  The door to the B a
nd B swung open and the Tweedles were standing there, waving at us.

  As we got out of the car we could hear them saying, “We were waiting for you to get home. Annette’s run off with that young man. We knew there was something fishy going on.”

  Reluctantly we left our stashes of books well secured in the backseat and went into the house.

  “What has happened?” Caldwell asked.

  The two women jostled in front of him to tell the story.

  “She took a bag with her.”

  “He helped her carry her stuff.”

  “She wouldn’t talk to us, tell us anything.”

  “He held her hand.”

  Caldwell looked at them both. “So you don’t know where she’s gone or even if she’s done anything but gone out for dinner?”

  “We think more than that. We’ve been suspecting for some time that she has taken a liking to that guy. Haven’t we, Betty?”

  Betty just nodded. It was as if she had wound down.

  Caldwell went to work in the kitchen, getting us all something to drink. He and I had tea; the Tweedles went for hot toddies. They had brought their own stash of bourbon. They insisted that Caldwell try the bourbon and he took a swig, then wrinkled his nose. “Nasty stuff.”

  “Howard liked it if it was made into a hot toddy.”

  We all adjourned to the back room. After a sip of our drinks, I decided it was time to ask the Tweedles some questions. I’d start out easy. “Did you make a hot toddy for Howard that last night?”

  Betty nodded. “Yes, he said he was going to have trouble sleeping. I wanted to make sure he didn’t.”

  “But I made him one,” said Barb.

  “You too?”

  “Yes, you had gone to sleep.”

  “Two hot toddies?” Caldwell joined in.

  Before I started to lose track of who was talking I asked, “What did you put in the hot toddies? Any extraspecial ingredient?”

  They both turned and looked at me.

  I decided the best way to handle this was to put it to them straight. Neither of them seemed like the type to be able to lie. So I asked, “Barb, did you put any foxglove in his drink?”

  “No, I did,” Betty said. “I put just a titch of foxglove in his drink. Just enough to make him sick.”