Claws for Concern

by Miranda James

  FOUR

  Diesel and I arrived at the public library the next morning promptly at eight forty-five. Bronwyn Forster admitted us and then locked the front door behind us.

  “Good morning, Charlie, Diesel,” Bronwyn said. “Thank you again for helping out like this. I’m so glad you’ll both be here today.” She scratched Diesel’s head, and he rewarded her with a happy warble.

  “Our pleasure.” I indicated the container of cat litter I was carrying. “Let me just stow this away and clean out his box, and I’ll be back to help you get ready to open.”

  “While you do that, Diesel and I will finish turning on the lights and making sure the computers are ready.” Bronwyn smiled. “Come on, Diesel, you can help me.”

  Chirping and meowing, the cat followed Bronwyn while I took care of Diesel’s litter box in a small storage closet in the staff area at the back of the library. When I returned from completing that chore, the librarian and the cat awaited me near the reference desk. While Bronwyn and I discussed sharing duties at the desk during the day, Diesel stretched out nearby and commenced cleaning his front paws.

  “We’ll have two assistants today,” Bronwyn said, “so they should be able to handle the circulation desk and any shelving that needs doing.” She smiled. “We’ll be busy enough answering questions and helping people with the computers.”

  “Nothing like a busy Saturday at the public library,” I said, remembering hectic past days at my branch in Houston.

  “It’s supposed to be near a hundred degrees today,” Bronwyn said, “so I imagine we’ll have a full house by midafternoon.”

  “I’m sure we will.” I would love to win the lottery just so I could afford to pay for adequate air-conditioning and heating for all the families and the elderly in Athena who needed it. And feed them as well.

  Bronwyn checked her wristwatch. “Time to open the gates.” She flashed another smile before she headed to unlock the front door.

  I joined Diesel behind the reference desk and watched as a dozen or so people streamed through the door. Among the group were the two library assistants, a couple of teenage girls, who went to clock in before starting work.

  Upon seeing me at the desk three children immediately asked if Diesel were with me. Hearing his name, the cat came out of his relaxed state and walked around the desk to greet his young admirers. After a couple minutes of feline adoration, the children let Diesel go, and he returned to my side. This scene would replay itself throughout the day, with both children and adults. Diesel was a popular attraction whenever we worked at the library.

  After I answered three questions and pointed one of the questioners to a particular database, I had time to look up Jack Pemberton in the library’s online catalog. I wanted to see whether the library held any of his books. If one was available I figured I might as well read it to help me with my decision. If Pemberton’s work turned out to be cheap sensationalism, I wanted no part of it.

  A quick search revealed that the library did have one of his books, published a couple of years ago. The title was Hell Has No Fury. I wondered if the title referred to the old adage “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” That, in turn, was a misquoted version of a line from a play by the English poet and playwright William Congreve. I concentrated for a moment, trying to remember the original. When the words failed to come, I resorted to the Internet and found them in a few seconds.

  Ah, yes, from the play The Mourning Bride. The original read: “Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.” I congratulated myself on at least remembering the Congreve connection.

  Then I had to laugh at myself a little. I had quickly wandered from my original purpose. Not unusual behavior for me. I went back to the online catalog to the record for Pemberton’s book. There was no summary but the subject headings told me that the murder took place in Mississippi. Unfortunately for me, however, the book was checked out. I debated whether to place a hold on it, but the book wasn’t due for another ten days and I couldn’t count on its being turned in on time. I needed to make a decision before then.

  I had another thought. Our local independent bookstore, the Athenaeum, opened at ten. I would call there later and ask whether they had any of Pemberton’s books in stock. If by chance they did, I could run by after Diesel and I left the library at five and pick one up. The bookstore stayed open until seven on Saturdays.

  For the next half hour we had a slow trickle of patrons in and out of the library, mostly to return books and movies and to check out more of the same. I checked my watch and noted that there was still a quarter of an hour before I could call the bookstore. When I glanced toward the door a moment later I saw the older man I had noticed yesterday entering the library.

  He hesitated a few steps inside the door before he turned to approach the reference desk. Once again I had that vague feeling of familiarity as I regarded his face. I wished I could figure out who it was that he reminded me of, but I still couldn’t quite grasp it.

  “Good morning,” I said when he reached the desk. “How may I help you?”

  He flashed a brief but nervous-looking smile, then cleared his throat. “Good morning, sir.” His voice was soft, his tone diffident. “Sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you could tell me if you’ve got any old phone books for the town.”

  “It’s not a bother at all,” I told him cheerfully. “That’s what I’m here for. We do have old phone books. Let me show you where they are.”

  “I sure would appreciate it,” the man said.

  I nodded as I moved from behind the desk to escort him to the room where we kept the objects of his request. Diesel stirred from his latest nap and followed me. As he emerged from behind the desk, I could see the man’s expression change. He took a step backward, as if in fear.

  “It’s okay, he won’t bite or scratch you,” I said. “Will you, Diesel?”

  Right on cue, Diesel warbled, sounding indignant, if that were possible.

  The man looked uncertainly at my cat but he didn’t step any farther away. “What kind of cat is that? I never did see one that big, except a bobcat once.”

  “He’s a Maine Coon. They’re the largest breed of American domestic cats. He is much larger than average, though. Most male Maine Coons are around twenty-five pounds at maturity, but he’s close to forty.”

  Diesel watched the man intently for a moment before he moved closer. He stopped and looked up at him. He meowed as if to reassure the stranger. The man tensed briefly, then relaxed. He stretched out a tentative hand and touched Diesel’s head.

  “He’s very friendly,” I said. “Maine Coons are laid back and sociable. He enjoys coming to the library with me because he can get extra attention. The children love him.”

  “I reckon I can see why.” The man stroked Diesel’s head gently several times. Diesel rewarded him by purring. “Goodness, he sounds like a truck engine.”

  “That’s how he got his name, Diesel,” I said.

  The man chuckled. “Nice to meet you, Diesel.”

  The cat chirped for him in response.

  “He acts like he knows what I’m saying.”

  I grinned. “I think most of the time he does. He’s a smart kitty, believe me. Now, let me show you those phone books.”

  The man nodded and followed as I led him to the area where the phone books resided. I explained that they were shelved in chronological order and that there were gaps, unfortunately, but the collection covered most of the last five decades.

  “That should do me just fine,” he said. “Thank you again.”

  “My pleasure. Let me know if you have any other questions.” I looked down at my cat. “Come along, Diesel, back to the desk.”

  Diesel glanced between me and the stranger a couple of times. Did he want to stay with the man? After a moment, though, he decided to come with me.
>
  Back at the desk I found two women waiting. I answered their questions in turn, suggesting the resources they might try in order to find what they were seeking. I offered to assist them, but each declined.

  By now it was a few minutes past ten, and as Bronwyn approached the desk, I asked whether she would mind taking my place for a few minutes. I explained that I wanted to make a phone call, and she waved me away with a smile. Diesel, happy to see his friend, remained with her.

  I walked into the staff area of the library and pulled out my cell phone. I had the bookstore in my contacts list, and moments later I was speaking with the owner, Jordan Thompson.

  “Hi, Charlie,” she said. “Any chance you’re coming by today? I have a few books here for you to look over.”

  “You always do.” I chuckled. “Actually, yes, I am planning to come by, especially if you have books by a certain writer in stock. I know you have a small true crime section. Have anything by Jack Pemberton?”

  “Let me check,” Jordan said. “The name rings a bell. I don’t read true crime myself, but we have some customers who buy hardly anything else.”

  I waited while she tapped at the keyboard. I could hear the clicking over the phone.

  “We do stock his books,” Jordan said. “I remember who he is now. He’s from Tullahoma, I think, so he’s practically a local writer. Let me see.” She paused a moment. “I have two in stock, according to the computer. Hell Has No Fury and Murder at Dawn. Would you like me to add one of them to your stack?”

  “Yes, I’ll take Hell Has No Fury,” I said. “According to our online catalog it’s about a murder in Mississippi. I’m working at the public library today until five, but Diesel and I will swing by on the way home.”

  “Great,” Jordan said. “I’ll see you then.”

  Briefly I wondered how many books Jordan had set aside for me. Probably anywhere from three to a dozen or more. She knew my favorite authors and always set aside their books for me, plus she often suggested new writers she thought I might like. I appreciated the level of customer service she and her staff provided, and I enjoyed visiting the store and browsing the shelves.

  I pocketed my phone and headed back to the desk. A few paces out of the staff area, I heard an “excuse me, sir.” I turned to see the man I’d helped with the phone books approaching. I stepped toward him, noting that he held one of the phone books in his right hand. The book was open, and he had a finger of his left hand on a page.

  “How can I help?” I asked when I reached him.

  He moved to stand beside me. “Can you tell me how to find this address?” He held out the book, his finger pointed at an entry.

  I bent closer to read the small print. When I saw the name and the address, I felt a shock. It was my address, and the name, Delbert Collins, was that of my late aunt Dottie’s husband.

  FIVE

  For a moment I couldn’t respond. Why is this man interested in my address?

  “Can you read it okay?” the man asked. “I had a little trouble myself, the print being so small the way it is.”

  I cleared my throat. “Yes, I can read it. It’s not far from the library.” I hesitated, worried that my next words might offend him. “Maybe a little far to walk on a hot day, though. May I ask why you’re interested in this particular address?” I stepped back, and he closed the phone book, one finger inserted to hold his place.

  He regarded me briefly, then his gaze dropped when he began to speak. “My mother used to know Mr. Collins a long, long time ago. I reckon he must have passed on or else sold his house because I had to look in an old book to find his name.” He tapped the cover of the phone book, and I saw that it was dated eight years ago.

  Aunt Dottie was still living when that issue was published. Even though Uncle Del had died more than twenty years ago, the listing in the phone book remained in her husband’s name. That was the custom, of course, and Aunt Dottie had never changed her entry.

  “Yes, I’m afraid Mr. Collins has been gone a long time now,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I never introduced myself. I’m Charlie Harris.” I was hoping he would tell me his name now.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Harris,” the man said. “Bill Delaney.” He stuck out his free hand, and I shook it.

  “Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Delaney.”

  “Is Mrs. Collins still living?” Delaney asked, his gaze once again lowered.

  Was he really that shy, I wondered, that he didn’t want to look directly at me? Or was he afraid I would read his thoughts?

  I shook my head. “No, she passed away about seven years ago.”

  “Did they ever have any children?” Delaney asked. “Would you happen to know?”

  He seemed overly interested, at least to me, in Uncle Del and Aunt Dottie. I decided I wasn’t going to reveal my connection to them—and to the house—until I knew more about Delaney and the reasons for his interest.

  “No, they didn’t,” I said. That wasn’t completely accurate, because they had had one child, a daughter named Veronica, who died in childhood, but I didn’t see any point in revealing that to a stranger.

  “That’s too bad,” Delaney said. “Sure would’ve been nice to talk to Mr. Collins about my mother. When you get to be my age, you know, there just ain’t that many folk around who knew your parents in the old days.”

  “I know what you mean.” My parents would have been in their late eighties by now, and most of their friends in Athena were gone.

  “Well, I reckon that’s that.” Delaney shrugged. “Thanks again, Mr. Harris, for helping with the phone books.”

  “You’re welcome,” I replied.

  He nodded and walked away. Obscurely troubled, I stood there for a moment and watched his retreating back. I couldn’t explain it, but I had a feeling there was more behind Delaney’s interest than simply wanting to find someone who had once known his mother. But I had no idea what that more could be.

  Back at the desk I found Bronwyn engaged in a conversation with one of the regular patrons, an anxious-looking young mother with twins about seven years old tugging at her blouse. Bronwyn flashed me a grin as she left the desk to assist the mother. I noticed that Diesel was under the desk, well away from any questing hands. He remembered the twin boys and had obviously decided that retreat was the order of the day. I didn’t blame him. They appeared to me to be even more energetic than usual this morning.

  “It’s okay,” I told him in a low voice. “They’re gone now.”

  Diesel meowed, and I nodded. He emerged from beneath the desk and resumed his usual spot by the chair. He stretched out and relaxed.

  For the next two hours, I helped a number of people find the resources they needed. I also helped a youngish couple, new in town, with information about obtaining their library cards. I pointed them to the circulation desk where one of the part-time assistants stood.

  “This young lady will take care of it for you,” I told them.

  During a brief lull after that, with the thought of library cards in my mind, I wondered whether Bill Delaney had registered for a card. I logged into the circulation module and did a quick check.

  I found him right away, although there were several other Delaneys in the database. I looked at his address and frowned. I recognized it. He lived in a small apartment complex with only a few units in a run-down section of Athena. From what I could recall, the complex appeared not to be well-maintained.

  I closed out the circulation module. I really shouldn’t have been prying into the man’s business, but Bill Delaney had aroused my curiosity—and now my sympathy as well. He must be on a severely limited income if his address was any indication.

  Bronwyn appeared at the desk while I was wrapped in thought and startled me.

  “Easy, Charlie,” she said. “Didn’t mean to make you jerk like that.”

  “No problem,” I said. “My
fault for woolgathering on the job.”

  “Would you like to have lunch now? It’s a few minutes after noon,” Bronwyn said.

  Diesel had already perked up with Bronwyn so close, but at the word lunch he warbled.

  I laughed. “I guess Diesel’s ready, at any rate. Yes, we’ll go ahead and eat now. Give me a holler, though, if you need me.” I pushed back the chair. “Come on, boy. Snack time.”

  Diesel knew where we were headed, and he loped in front of me into the staff area. I found him in the small kitchen staring hopefully at the refrigerator.

  I retrieved the food and drink I had brought and took everything into the small lounge next to the kitchen. Diesel parked himself by my chair, and one large paw rested against my thigh seconds after I took my seat. He chirped.

  “Yes, there’s something for you.” I unwrapped a few pieces of boiled chicken from the foil I’d used and pinched off a large bite of breast meat. He grabbed it and moved under the table to eat while I unwrapped my own meal, two ham-and-cheese sandwiches with lettuce and tomato on wheat bread. While we ate, I looked at my phone, checking for messages and e-mails, but found nothing.

  I set the phone aside. I found my thoughts returning to Bill Delaney. That nagging sense of familiarity simply wouldn’t go away but the puzzle refused to resolve itself. The more I worried at it, I thought, the more elusive the answer became.

  Feeling too fidgety to take the full time allotted me for lunch, I cleaned up the detritus of our meals. I had to assure Diesel twice that there was no more before he would stop meowing at me. While I washed my hands and prepared to return to work, he sought out his litter box.

  He joined me at the reference desk briefly, but when he realized Bronwyn intended to go eat her lunch, he trotted off after her. I had asked her before not to feed him, but unless I stood over them, I had no way of knowing whether she would honor my request. Diesel could look pitiful when he wanted to, like all cats determined to con food out of a human. Bronwyn was no doubt every bit as susceptible as I was.