“Mrs. Woolgar, I’m going out for the day.”
KEEP READING FOR AN EXCERPT FROM MARTY WINGATE’S NEXT FIRST EDITION LIBRARY MYSTERY!
Oona Atherton?” I breathed and glanced over to check the entry to the Assembly Rooms just as Dom had. “She’s here?”
He nodded, his head bobbing up and down. “And so I’d better not stay, because . . . you know.”
How well I did. Anyone with any sense would know to steer clear of Oona Atherton. But although Dom said goodbye and left, I didn’t move.
I had erased Oona from my mind, but now all those memories came flooding back, and I saw myself once again her personal assistant and general dogsbody during the exhibition she’d mounted for the Jane Austen Centre five years ago. Held at the Charlotte, of course. She was brash and arrogant and had run roughshod over everyone—the word “demanding” didn’t come close to describing her. I had ended many a day in tears—days that didn’t end until nearly midnight.
The trouble was she worked miracles, mounting the most spectacular exhibitions. And, to be fair, she never asked more of the people under her than she was willing to give herself. If we were there adjusting lights and reconfiguring freestanding enclosed Perspex boxes of letters, lace sleeves, and quill pens, then Oona was there, too. That’s what made it so hard to hate her—she stuck in and never let up on herself or anyone else.
Oona worked freelance, but her name had never occurred to me as I started planning our own exhibition—that’s how completely I’d obliterated the memory of her.
But I had come a long way in five years. I had risen in my profession and built up confidence in my own abilities. I ran the First Edition Library and I would be in charge of the exhibition—the manager would work for me, not I her. And, after all, if it was a choice between pig’s blood and Oona—well, better the devil you knew.
Keeping that thoght, I found myself making my way inexorably into the Assembly Rooms and then to the café where the doors stood open.
I did not go in, but instead ducked down behind the chest-high stand that displayed the menu, and, unobserved, peered over it into the room. The café—a wide open space—had a smattering of people at the tables, but I could’ve spotted Oona in the middle of a heaving crowd. I saw her now, sitting near the windows looking at her phone. She hadn’t changed one whit—her thick brown hair scraped back into a low bun and wearing a tailored navy business suit and low heels. To those who did not know her, she may not look the tyrant, but even the sight of her made me break out in a cold sweat. And yet . . .
Throwing my shoulders back, I stepped into the room, and, as if she sensed a change in the energy field, Oona looked up and her face broke out in a wide smile.
“Hayley Burke,” she called as she stood. “How the hell are you?”
Her voice echoed in the room and heads turned, but Oona took no notice. I scurried over.
“Oona, what a surprise,” I replied in a low voice. We performed one of those awkward half-hug, air-kiss routines.
“Do you have a few minutes?” she asked. “Let’s catch up. What can I get you—coffee? Tea?”
“Oh, no, let me. What would you like?”
I hardly had to ask—her usual order was tattooed on my brain.
At the counter, I said, “One Earl Grey, please—but not in a bag. If you don’t have it loose, would you please tear the bag open and empty it into the pot? Make that two bags. With a slice of lemon, but only if you cut it fresh. And raw sugar. Do you have raw sugar? If not, Demerara will have to do. Also, one normal tea.”
The woman behind the counter gave me a look that was oh so familiar.
The tray of tea things rattled as I carried them over, but Oona didn’t seem to notice. That’s an odd thing about her: she could spot a plate one-eighth of an inch out of alignment in a display of the Austen family’s Wedgwood dinner set, but be oblivious to the feelings of people round her.
“Curator at the First Edition Society,” Oona said as we sorted out cups, saucers, and teapots.
“Oh, how did you know—”
She nodded to her phone. “Looked you up this minute. I see you’re starting off well—a series of literary salons. I always knew you had it in you to build a top-notch organization out of a well-meaning gesture.”
“The Society is entirely Lady Fowling’s creation,” I said, “and it’s only since she died that things have . . . slowed down.”
“Regardless,” Oona said, pouring her tea through a strainer, “you were obviously the right woman for the position.”
“Well.” I blushed. “And not only do we have the literary salons, but—” Don’t say it, Hayley. Yes, go on, tell her. No, don’t. “—we are now planning an exhibition.”
I gulped my tea, the liquid searing my throat. Slowly, Oona took a spoonful of Demerara—no raw sugar available—tilted it over her cup, and watched the crystals sift into her Earl Grey like light brown snow.
“Is this exhibition about detective fiction—Christie, Sayers, Tey, Allingham, Marsh?” she asked.
“It’s called Lady Fowling: A Life in Words. She was an amazing woman, Oona, and left behind a world-class collection of first editions from those authors and more.”
“The exhibition is next year?”
“No, April.”
“April?”
I could hear the scorn in her voice, but in for a penny, in for a pound.
“Yes, April. The Charlotte just became available, and I’ve booked it. I see no need to wait.”
Oona took her time, lifting her cup and letting the steam drift round the contours of her face before she took a sip.
“You must have a crackerjack manager to be able to take the paraphernalia of Lady Fowling’s life and showcase it for all of Bath—for all of Britain and the world—to see in such a short time.”
I squirmed. “Yes, it is a short time, but I am confident it can be done. We’re speaking with a local person for manager.”
“So, you’ve filled the post?”
“We haven’t quite reached an agreement yet.” The silence at the table screamed in my ears, and to put myself out of my misery, I added, “So, how long have you been in Bath, Oona?”
“A few days—a week.”
“On a job?”
“Holiday,” she said. The fact that Oona continued to dress for work while on holiday did not surprise me at all. “I’m waiting for the tap on the shoulder from the British Library,” she continued. “They have a position opening up this summer—it’s only a matter of time before I hear.”
Enough of this cat-and-mouse game—it was too stressful not knowing which role I played.
“As we haven’t actually hired this local fellow, if you are at all interested, I’m sure the board would listen to your ideas on our exhibition. That is, if you didn’t mind interrupting your holiday.”
Only a twitch in her firmly-set mouth betrayed her nonchalance. “I suppose I could—that is, if you wanted to set something up.”
“As it happens, we have a meeting this afternoon at four. If you arrive at half-past, they’ll be ready for you.”
“Done.”
About the Author
A Seattle native, Marty Wingate is a member of the Royal Horticultural Society and leads garden tours through England, Scotland, and Ireland when she is not killing people in fiction.
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The Bodies in the Library Page 30