1 Killer Librarian (13 page)

I had to believe Howard’s death was most likely still the result of an accidental overdose, no matter what Annette thought. Maybe she handed him two pills by mistake. Maybe he had taken one on his own earlier and then swallowed the one she gave him.

But if Caldwell was interested in this French hussy, this Madame Frou-Frou, I stood no chance with him. Plus, it was all too much for me right now.

The last thing I needed to do was fall for a man who lived halfway across the planet from me, who thought I was a mystery writer, and didn’t know I had thought of killing my last beau. That final fact might put anyone off the thought of dating me.

Since it was 11:00
P.M
in London, it would be 5:00
P.M
in Sunshine Valley. Perfect timing. Rosie always took a break at five. She was religiously
structured about her day. Five o’clock was time for her cup of Postum (caffeine made her go all blotchy and hyperventilate) and a piece of the darkest chocolate she could find. Not a large piece. She could make a square or two last for her whole break, nibbling at the chocolate like a mouse.

Rosie picked up before the second ring. She sounded as if she was in midbite of chocolate.

“Rosie?”

“Karen? Are you still in England?”

“Of course I’m still here.”

“I can’t imagine it. What are you doing at this very moment?”

“Nothing exciting. Sitting in bed. But it’s a very nice bed with very fluffy pillows and very crisp sheets.”

“Oohh, sounds so British.”

“I went to see
Macbeth
tonight.”

“Was it gory?”

“A bit. Not bad. They played the ghost offstage.”

“Hmm. Which means Macbeth was mad. Just as I suspected.”

“I nearly fainted during the bloodstain scene,” I confessed. “I think finding that dead man has taken a toll on me.”

“Any more news on how he died?”

“Overdose of digitalis—but his wife claims that’s
impossible, that she controlled the meds and he couldn’t have taken too much.”

“Did you fall down when you almost fainted?” Rosie asked.

“No, thank goodness, the man who owns the B and B I’m staying at was with me and he caught me.”

“He went with you?”

“I had an extra ticket because of Dave.”

“Poophead Dave. Forget about him. What is this man like?”

“Well, you know I told you about him. He runs a B and B and he cooks and he’s extremely nice and everything here is perfectly neat and tidy.”

“Sounds like a nice host.” She cleared her throat. “How are his books?”

“That’s the best part. He has an amazing library and I’ve only seen a small portion of it—just what’s in my room.”

“What does he look like?”

I thought of Caldwell, whose appearance was growing in my estimation. “Have you ever seen a hedgehog?”

“Just pictures.”

“Well, he has that sort of look. Trim and tidy, with a hint of prickles.”

“Sounds like you might like him.”

“Maybe. Except this Frenchwoman waltzed in here tonight and kissed him on both cheeks.”

“
Cherchez la femme,
” Rosie said.

I wondered if Rosie even knew she had just said,
Look for the woman.
She sometimes liked to throw in the odd French phrase just because she liked the way they sounded. “How are things going with Richard, your favorite patron? Has he been in to the library lately?”

“He’s a fast reader. You know he took out three books two days ago and he was back in again today for three more.”

“Well, that’s a good sign. He must not have a girlfriend or he wouldn’t be able to get that much reading done.”

“I didn’t quiz him on if he’d read them all. I didn’t want to be rude.”

“No, that was good.”

“What should I do next, Karen?”

I stared out the window at the tops of the trees in Caldwell’s garden. “I’m the last person who should be giving you advice on this subject. My track record is getting worse by the moment. All I can say is, be happy to see him, say his name, and always have a question ready to ask him.”

“That sounds good. What question should I ask him?”

“Maybe who his favorite writer is.”

“I think I can do that. I’ll try it when he comes in next.” She was quiet for a moment, then said, “Finished my chocolate. I’m glad you called. What are you going to do about the Frenchwoman?”

“Off with her head,” I said.

TWENTY-ONE

To Be Regular

W
hen I came down the next morning Caldwell was putting the water on for tea. He didn’t seem in the mood for a chat so I settled myself in the sitting room, waiting for him to bring in breakfast. I tried not to think about why he was being quiet. I thought he could at least thank me again for the evening at the theater.

As I sat there, hearing him thump around in the kitchen making me breakfast, I wondered if, after I left England, I would ever find someone like him in America. A man who knew how to take care of
a woman. A man who read books. A man, period.

Maybe Dave would prove to be the last man in my life. What a horridly sour note to end on.

Sitting there musing on the possibilities of my future, I couldn’t help but peruse the bookshelf of first editions. As my eyes wandered over the titles, I came upon
Winnie-the-Pooh,
the book Howard had been reading when he died. I was sorry he hadn’t cared for the little bear, but knew he was not alone. Dorothy Parker, under her pseudonym Constant Reader, wrote a famous review of
The House at Pooh Corner,
a line of which read: “And it is that word ‘hummy,’ my darlings, that marks the first place in
The House at Pooh Corner
at which Tonstant Weader fwowed up.”

I, however, loved all the Pooh books. Every time I read any of them, I chuckled all the way through.

I gently turned the pages of Caldwell’s edition until I came upon some marginalia. Odd, but exciting. The phrase was written upside down. I turned the book around and read in a large and florid script: “Deadman’s Balls.”

The phrase certainly meant nothing to me. Could it possibly have been written by Howard? As he was dying? What an odd time to make note of that part of the male anatomy? Did he know what was happening to him and wanted to make remark on it?
Was he the deadman? Or had the notation already been there? Maybe he turned the book upside down to read the note. I’d have to check Howard’s handwriting against the script.

I remembered the register Caldwell had me sign when I checked in. It was sitting in the hallway on a small table. I took the book and walked down to the register and turned back a page. There was Howard’s signature: Howard and Annette Worth. I was no expert, but the slope of the writing was the same and the
d
’s were almost identical.

Next I turned to the front where Caldwell had written his name and address. I knew this was silly because Caldwell would never scribble anything in a first edition, but maybe he’d had the book since he was quite young and didn’t know any better. But his handwriting was not at all similar to the writing in
Winnie-the-Pooh
.

As soon as I was back in the room, Caldwell entered, carrying a tray. I quickly shelved the book. I wasn’t quite ready to ask him about the phrase and I wasn’t sure why I was so hesitant. So I asked a different question.

“Caldwell, who’s your favorite writer?” I might as well take my own advice and try to talk to him about something that I knew he loved.

“Seriously?” He didn’t look as chipper as he normally
did in the morning and was dressed quite informally in jeans and a sweatshirt. His hair was sticking up in back and his eyes looked larger and droopier than I remembered seeing them before. I had the odd impulse to reach out and smooth down his hair, pat him on the head, but I resisted.

I, on the other hand, was dressed smartly for the day and felt surprisingly rested. “I couldn’t be more serious.”

“Isn’t it rather early in the day for ‘serious’?”

I didn’t want to know why he was barely awake. I hated the thought of how late he might have stayed up with Francine, drinking wine and who knew what else they might have been doing.

“Do you mean you have to think about it?” I asked.

“Yes, but before I answer your question, I must thank you for a lovely evening. I have missed the theater. Don’t really like to go alone. Not the same at all.” He poured himself a cup of tea and stood, looking down at me. “Back to your question. Do you remember what you said to me yesterday when I asked which of Shakespeare’s plays was your favorite tragedy?”

“Yes, of course I remember.”

“Well, it’s the same for me. It changes depending on the day. And I’m not sure what kind of day this
is. If it’s a Graham Greene day or a Jane Austen day. It might even be a John Fowles day.”

“Really? John Fowles. He is a terrific writer, isn’t he?” I reread
Daniel Martin
about once every three years. I loved the sense he gave in that book of the possibilities in life never closing down, that even in the darkest moments love might appear. I didn’t dare ask Caldwell what his favorite Fowles book was—if he said
The Collector,
I might not like him as much.

He pulled out a chair across from me and sank into it. “So, Miss Bright and Cheerful, who is your favorite author?”

“Fowles is right up there, but I find him uneven. I’d have to say Harper Lee.”

“But she only wrote one book.”

“But it was a perfect book.”

We both heard footsteps on the stairway and turned to see Francine slink into the room.

Unlike myself and Caldwell, she was still in her nightclothes, and what magnificent clothes they were: a lovely, off-white silk robe tied around her waist, with a froth of lace from her nightgown showing at the wrists and throat. Loose, her dark hair waved over her shoulders.

But her eyes didn’t look good—they were sunken and smudged, giving the impression that they were
receding into her head. Without any makeup, her face was washed out, a look that was either tuberculous or vampiristic—either way, not particularly attractive.

“Oh, the night, she was terrible,” she said.

I took her voicing this comment to both of us as a sign that Caldwell had not been privy to her night, which gave me a slight rush of gladness.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I responded, trying to keep the joy out of my voice.

“I told you not to open that second bottle of wine. I hope you didn’t drink all of it.” Without waiting for an answer, Caldwell asked, “Francine, how many shots of coffee do you want this morning?”

She sank into his now empty chair and put a hand to her head.
“Beaucoup, s’il te plaît.”

“How about three?”

“That will do for the beginning.”

When he left us, she tilted forward and put her forehead on the table. There was an awkward silence.

Finally I lifted up the rack of toast. “Would you like some toast? Sometimes eating helps.”

Her head came up slowly and she looked at me as if she had forgotten I even existed. She shook her head at my offer. “You must forgive me. I drank like the fish last night. Sometimes it happens.”

“I know what you mean,” I said. “The first night I was here . . . You know, this is my first time in London—actually it’s my first time on this side of the pond. Well, I didn’t know how big a pint was and I drank a few. Too many. I felt awful the next day. I know what you mean.” I stopped myself from saying any more. It was quite unlike me to ramble on in this manner.

“Never before in Europe?” She squinched her nose.

“Never.”

“But surely you’ve been to France.”

“Not even France.” I asked, “Have you been to the States?”

“But of course. New York, the Miami Beach, Boston. One must travel to see the world.”

“Well, I’m from the middle of the country and everything is a lot farther from there.” I thought about Sunshine Valley for a moment and had a tweak of homesickness. “Do you come to London often?”

At that moment Caldwell carried in a tray with a small cup of very black coffee and a plate with only a piece of dry toast on it. I looked at the toast and then at the large slab of butter.

Francine noticed my glance. “The regime,” she said, patting her belly, or the area where a belly would have been if she’d had one.

The older I got the less interested I was in going on a diet. I was enjoying eating more than ever and I wasn’t about to give it up so I would live a few more months, right at the end of my life, when nothing would taste good anyway.

With that in mind, I reached out for a second piece of toast and set it down in the midst of the crumbs on my plate. I slathered butter on it and, after I had eaten the first bite, said to Caldwell, “Good bread.”

“I bought it yesterday.”

“I think day-old bread toasts better.”

Suddenly a tromping came from upstairs as two pairs of feet hit the stairs and two loud voices pondered the weather. Francine looked up in alarm. I wondered if she had met the Tweedles before.
This should be fun,
I thought.

They came through the doorway at the same time, but stopped when they saw Francine. They were both wearing white blouses and scarves in the style of the Boy Scouts, one green and one gold, neither good colors on the ruddy women. Blue polyester pants completed their ensembles. But one of them had a sweater over her arm and the other had a raincoat.