“And no more murders in the bushes,” Duke pointed out. “With a retreat, the place will be busy. Kids like Craig Burdock won’t be loitering about, shooting visitors.”
“You really believe that?” said a woman with maroon-dyed hair that matched her sweater. “I don’t see it. It’s a setup, if you ask me.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Craig’s always been all talk, no action. The kid’s fundamentally lazy.”
I hadn’t seen Rodney all day, but now here he was, his gaze fixed on a ball of coral yarn in the basket of the knitter near the radiator. Remembering how he took off with Ilona’s purse, I kept an eye on him. “Why would someone set him up?”
“Who knows?” the woman in the maroon sweater responded. “He’s gotten himself on the wrong side of lots of folks.”
“You’re saying he ticked off someone enough that they’d go and kill a stranger and pin it on Craig? I don’t think so,” Duke said as he pulled a half-finished tea cozy from his bag.
“If we had jobs here, boys like Craig wouldn’t be getting in trouble,” a tall, thin woman said.
The ball of coral yarn jiggled as its owner pulled a skein from her tote. Rodney’s haunches rocked from side to side. He was preparing for a strike.
Don’t you dare, I warned him silently.
“I’m just saying there are other folks in Wilfred more likely than Craig to off someone.”
I was just about to ask, “Like who?” when Rodney went for the kill. I was a second too late. By the time I’d reached him, he was belly up in the tote of yarn, with a coral strand in his mouth and his feet kicking variegated green.
“Rodney!” I yelled as the owner of the coral yarn neatly extracted the cat from her bag and handed him to me. “I’m so sorry.”
“Been fostering kittens for years now,” she said. “I should have seen that coming.”
“We’ll get him out of here. Enjoy this week’s knitting club.” Roz put a hand on my elbow and guided me, Rodney slung over my shoulder, toward the hall. “Coffee’s in the urn. In an hour and a half we’ll be back to clean up.” Then to me, “Come on.”
Roz led me to the kitchen. Rodney went straight to his dish to crunch kibble.
“Have you had dinner yet?” Roz asked.
“No. I thought I’d eat last night’s leftovers.”
“Darla always makes us something for knitting circle night as a consolation.” She tilted her head sideways toward the conservatory. “They’re sharks.”
“They’re okay,” I said with hesitation.
“Sharks. Marsha Boyes has been working on the same sweater since 1976. She comes here only to tear into Wilfred’s residents. If you had stayed a few minutes longer, the knitters would have had you in tears. Either that, or reaching for Lyndon’s pruning shears in defense,” Roz said. “No mercy, that crowd.”
“They seemed convinced that Craig isn’t guilty,” I said. “Except Duke, that is.”
Darla’s gumbo steamed as Roz dished it into bowls. “I have to admit I agree with them. I just don’t see it. As for Duke, he’d believe anything that besmirches the library.”
The image of an old hardback of Zola’s writings flashed through my brain, with J’Accuse . . . ! highlighted. Wasn’t it a letter about a man who’d been wrongfully sentenced? Strange. When I returned my attention to dinner, I noticed Roz staring at me.
“What’s with you, anyway?” she said. “You’re so jumpy.”
“Think about it. You’d be jumpy, too, after finding a dead woman in the bushes.” I stared back at her, hoping she’d buy my story.
She kept her eyes on me. “I was there. That’s not what I’m talking about. You don’t seem afraid, just surprised. And wary.”
“I guess I’m still adjusting. It’s been a lot to take in.”
“You’re not hiding anything from me, are you?”
I forced a smile. “Hiding? Oh no. I just—I don’t want the library to go away, that’s all.”
Roz seemed to accept this explanation. Her gaze passed over the kitchen’s casement windows, its pendant light fixtures, the old six-burner stove, and rested on the doorway with its view of books. “I know. The retreat center could be built somewhere else. Heck, I’d give up my space at the Magnolia Estates, if they wanted to use that. But no, it had to be above the river. Had to be fancy.”
“Had to be out of the flood plain, is more like it,” I guessed.
Roz’s phone chimed. “Darla,” she said and answered.
I put down my fork. With all the action lately, Darla’s call could be about anything. I hoped it would be good news from the judge.
Roz hung up. “Darla says the judge will accept our report on the library.”
“That’s great news.”
“Except that we have to have it to him by close of business tomorrow.”
* * *
It was past midnight when I made my rounds of the library, double-checking that doors and windows were locked. I’d made a good start on the report after the knitters left. If I rose early, I should be able to finish it in time to deliver it to the judge’s chambers by five o’clock. That is, as long as no last-minute emergencies got in the way.
Rodney followed me upstairs. The night had cooled, but my rooms were warm and smelled of old wooden beams and the bowl of apples Lyndon had left for me in the kitchen. Before closing my bedroom curtains, I pulled up the window and took a few draughts of moist autumn air.
Lyndon’s cottage below was dark. I imagined him in bed dreaming of compost and lawn mower parts. Beyond him, a light was on at Big House, and the strains of a soprano filtered through the trees. Opera. Sam listened to opera. Another sound joined the music: the whoo-whoo of an owl.
I shut the window and turned toward my bedroom. I never would have chosen the room’s faded floral wallpaper and ornate Victorian furniture, but, surprisingly, I liked them. I liked knowing they had a history, and I loved running my fingers over the hand-chiseled detail. They couldn’t have been more different from the clean-lined furnishings I had at home. As soon as I returned to D.C., I was going to offload my bland couch and hit the antiques stores.
This was only one way Wilfred had changed me. So much had surprised me during the four days I’d been here. It was as if I’d lived in a filtered dome that grayed out my environment and emotions. Now the dome had lifted. Colors were more vibrant, and I was quicker to laughter—and anger. The very air smelled richer. And my dreams, all my crazy dreams.
Something unusual was definitely happening. How much of it was me, and how much was Wilfred? It felt almost—magic.
On a whim, I said aloud, “Books.” Rodney jumped on the bed and sat, alert. I breathed in deeply. “Books. Tell me how to train a Chihuahua.”
Chihuahuas: The Big Book on a Little Dog, third edition.
A chill prickled the backs of my arms. “Books,” my voice faltered a bit, “what are the plots of Mozart’s operas?” It might have been Don Giovanni I’d heard through the bedroom window.
Opera through the Ages, back shelf in the drawing room. A Cambridge Companion to Opera. On loan to Big House.
I barely had time to catch my breath when another title slipped into my mind. Folk Witch.
Whoa. I fought to steady my breath, and my finger went to my shoulder, where my birthmark tingled. I fell to the bed next to Rodney. He was purring, eyes half closed.
When my pulse calmed, I sat up. Time to try something else. My brush sat on the old dresser with its cheval mirror. “Hairbrush, move to the right.” I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to see. After a moment, I opened them. The brush hadn’t budged. This time, I kept my eyes open. “Move, hairbrush.” Nothing.
So, my weird power was reduced to a supernatural card catalogue?
Not that that was so bad. Below me, books held the world’s knowledge and imagination—oceans of it. Even a few feet of shelf told stories of generations of love, war, comedy, and tragedy. People were lost at sea, flew to the moon, crossed the Sahara
in caravans, and dawdled in Queen Elizabeth’s court. They grew wiser—or not. They survived—or not. The experience a single page could communicate awed me.
All that energy. My body felt warm with it now. I held out a hand. It tingled. I rested it, palm down, on the quilt and yanked it back when the heat grew too intense. The quilt’s cotton smelled as if it had just been ironed. Rodney squeezed under my hand and pressed himself against it. He flopped next to me and licked a paw.
I couldn’t ignore it. Since I’d come to Wilfred, something strange had happened to me. Strange, and scary. And wonderful. I had power I’d never felt before.
But what good was this power if it couldn’t help find a murderer? Enough doubt had been cast on Craig Burdock that I wasn’t entirely sure of his guilt. Real power would lead me to the truth. The ability to match a reader with the book she needed was nothing compared to saving lives—right now, my own.
And the library. Laying facts before a judge was a start to saving the library, but magic to open minds would be so much more useful.
“Books,” I said, “what will happen to the Wilfred library?”
This time nothing came.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The next morning I was putting the finishing touches on circulation figures for the report when Roz burst into my office.
“It’s Lyndon,” she gasped.
“Hold on. Catch your breath.”
“The sheriff.” Roz leaned against the door frame and patted her pockets, probably for her fan. She came up empty. “The sheriff’s questioning Lyndon. Come and see for yourself.”
I followed Roz to the conservatory. She pointed between potted banana trees. “There.”
A mist had risen from the river and lay in a haze over the stretch of garden between the library and the trail toward the woods. The sheriff, about Lyndon’s height but twice as wide, stood legs slightly apart, nodding his head in response to something Lyndon was saying. The sheriff pointed toward the river. Lyndon shook his head, dropping his rake and adding hand gestures that clearly said, “No way.”
“He thinks Lyndon did it,” Roz said. “But he couldn’t have. This is a disaster.”
“I thought he arrested Craig Burdock.”
“I did, too!” She twisted her plump fingers together.
“Then why is it a disaster? You said Sheriff Dolby is fair. He’ll figure out that Lyndon was driving me from the Portland airport when the stranger was killed.”
Roz groaned and sank to her desk chair. “It doesn’t look good. I mean, who has the strongest motive for keeping the library going? Lyndon. Without the library, he doesn’t have a place to live. Or a job.”
“How does shooting a stranger help keep the library alive?”
“Maybe he thought Ilona sent her to vandalize the grounds. I don’t know.” She let out a mew.
“Still, remember the timing. If he wasn’t here, he couldn’t have done it. Besides, the sheriff already has his suspect in jail.”
This seemed to have no effect on Roz. She fidgeted with a drawer pull on her desk. Everything here was tidied up and locked away. What had she been doing in the conservatory, anyway? She was supposed to be out front at the circulation desk.
“I bet the sheriff has to talk to everyone. To cross them off the list,” I said. And certainly to Lyndon. Roz was right—he had a solid motive.
“Josie . . .”
“Yes?”
“He left Wilfred right after lunch. I saw him.”
“He didn’t need to leave town that early. The airport is only a few hours away.”
“I know.”
“Well,” I said, casting about for something reassuring, “If he wasn’t in Wilfred all afternoon and evening, he definitely couldn’t have shot anyone. He’ll just have to tell the sheriff where he was.”
“You see, maybe he didn’t go anywhere,” Roz said. “Maybe he made it look like he was leaving, but he stayed behind.”
“Oh.” She didn’t have to lay out the rest of the scenario.
“Not that he would—or did. But the sheriff might think so.”
“This sounds thin. I’m sure Lyndon will tell the sheriff where he was, and that will be that.” Crows cawed in the distance, and at last, the sun began to burn through the cloud cover and illuminate the conservatory’s windows. “I think I saw some returned books to process up front.”
Roz seemed to snap to. “I was just—I just stopped by the conservatory to make sure the knitters had cleaned up. And then I saw Lyndon.” Slowly, she rose to her feet. “Plus, we have to get ready for the quarterly trustees’ meeting.”
The sheriff and Lyndon were walking toward the caretaker’s cottage, Lyndon leading the way and the sheriff following purposefully. The rake lay forgotten in a pile of leaves.
“Trustees’ meeting? I didn’t see it on the calendar.” I still needed to finish the report laying out the library’s value to Wilfred.
“Tomorrow night. It was cancelled due to all the in-fighting, but Ilona decided at the last minute that they should hold it anyway. Darla told me this morning at the diner. We have to put together a quarterly report, and they’ll take care of the rest.” As she spoke, Roz gazed mournfully toward Lyndon’s back.
“Thanks to all the work I’ve done for the judge, a quarterly report will be no problem.” When she didn’t respond, I added, “I’m sorry. This is hard on everyone. Remember, I promised. I’ll do whatever I can to help sort this out.” Starting with a talk with the sheriff.
I left Roz in the conservatory and went to the kitchen, where I could keep watch on Lyndon’s cottage. It didn’t take long—only about ten minutes. Lyndon emerged right behind the sheriff and made as if to return to the pile of leaves. I had a hand on the door handle when the sheriff, instead of continuing toward his car, circled the cottage and continued to Big House. He was going to talk to Sam.
Why? Sam wasn’t even here when the woman was killed. Or was he? I remembered the light in the upstairs window the night I’d arrived.
Well, I’d catch up with the sheriff at some point. Meanwhile, I stopped by my office to grab my cardigan, and I went to find Lyndon.
* * *
Lyndon heaped leaves into two open-topped cages in a flower bed running alongside the house.
“Are you going to burn them?” I asked.
“Nope. Compost.” He continued forking leaves in the bins without looking at me.
Despite the sun beginning to pierce the clouds, it was chilly without a coat. I hugged my arms. “I saw you talking with the sheriff.”
“Yep.”
I hadn’t known Lyndon long, but I’d known him long enough to suspect it would be easier to squeeze lattes from river rock than get him to talk.
“Roz was worried about you,” I said offhand. “We saw—”
“Roz was?” He leaned the pitchfork against the compost bin.
“Yes. She worries the sheriff might suspect you. Apparently, she couldn’t find you the afternoon before the stranger was shot.”
“I went into town to pick you up. She knows that. So does the sheriff.” He returned to his pitchfork.
“After lunch? My plane didn’t even get in until nine-thirty that night.”
“Maybe I had other business in Portland.”
A girlfriend. Lyndon must have a girlfriend. I watched him shovel, a hank of greasy hair falling over his forehead. He hadn’t shaved, and his plaid jacket was neatly mended but not meant for show. No, no girlfriend, I decided. Lyndon was practically feral. It had to be something else.
“Does the sheriff know where you were?” I said. “It would clear you right away if you had a proven alibi.”
He didn’t even raise his head from his task. “How do you know what he asked me about, anyway? Maybe he wanted tips on planting bulbs.”
“Okay.” I put my hands up. “I give up. I wanted to know if the sheriff was making any progress, that’s all. I thought he’d already made an arrest, then he was questioning you—”
“Craig Burdock didn’t do it,” Lyndon said.
I waited for him to say more. He stuck the pitchfork into the ground and faced me full-on. “I’ve known him since he was born, and don’t get me wrong, he’s no angel, but he’s not a murderer. Not even close.”
“Maybe if he were provoked?”
“No,” he said firmly. “I told the sheriff so.”
“Then you’re a possible suspect, especially if you won’t say where you were that afternoon.”
“I was at a meeting,” he said quietly.
“A what?”
“A meeting. Private. I went into Portland early to go to a meeting. That’s all I’m going to say.”
A meeting. Why would he be so secretive about that? “Fine. I’m sorry for prying. I—”
“There’s a lot you don’t know. If you really want to get to the bottom of this, you should be talking to someone else. Or leave it to the sheriff. It’s his job.” One of his eyelids twitched. He wouldn’t look me in the face.
I’d never heard Lyndon angry. I’d never seen him express any emotion, really. His floral arrangements might be tender, but he had the demeanor of a baked potato.
“Anyone in particular I should talk to?” I ventured.
“If you don’t mind, this compost isn’t going to turn itself.”
* * *
The sheriff was waiting for me in the atrium. “Mind if we talk in your office?” he said.
“That’s fine,” I said.
In my office, I gestured to the sheriff to take the armchair this time to better hold his bulk, and I took the chair at my desk.
“I thought I’d give you an update,” he said.
“Thank you. The rumor mill has been working twenty-four-seven.”
“You’ve probably heard we made an arrest.”
I nodded once. “Craig Burdock. People are shocked. They say he doesn’t have it in him to kill someone.”
“Isn’t that what they always say?” The chair that seemed so roomy when I sat in it was full arm-to-arm with the sheriff. I wondered if he had a special source for furniture at home, or if he simply suffered chairs and tables that didn’t suit his giant’s frame.
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