1 Killer Librarian (20 page)

“I can hear it in your voice.”

“Just a trickle. Nothing serious. A feeling sorry for Howard and, I guess, myself kind of cry. What am I going to do?”

“Tell someone.”

“Oh, God, Rosie, but I don’t trust anyone. They all have reason to want Howard dead. Except Francine,
and I don’t have a good relationship with her.”

“Even Caldwell?”

“Unfortunately yes. Howard stole his girlfriend away from him years ago.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Sometimes feelings can last a long time.”

“I guess you’re right,” she said, then fell quiet.

“What?” I asked.

“Well, I have the opposite problem. I’m trying to figure out how not to bolt from Richard.” She took a deep breath, then burst out with, “I really like this guy and that scares me and when I get scared I don’t like to stick around and so I find some reason to not like him and I don’t want to do that.”

“At least you don’t think he might have killed someone.”

“So you
like
like Caldwell.”

“Um . . . maybe.”

“Well, then you better clear his name. Find out who killed Howard, if you really think that’s what happened. And deal with that French femme.”

“And you hang in with Richard.”

“Deal.”

*   *   *

When I walked into the pub where we had planned on meeting, only Francine was waiting there. She waved me over.

“I could not stand it,” she said. An empty plate sat in front of her with a half-finished cup of coffee. “I do not like these shops filled with books I do not want to read. Besides, being dark and dirty, they are very smelly, like unwashed clothes. I was hungry and so I came here and ate some sort of fried fishes.”

I sat down, tucking my bag of books under the table. I thought of arguing with her about the smell in the bookstores—which I found much more like a favorite old sweater—but maybe we were describing the same fragrance.

“I understand,” I said though I didn’t at all. “Where is Caldwell? Have you seen him?”

“I left him back there in the bowels of a store. He was being devoured by the books. That man,” she said, shaking her head. “He doesn’t really seem to live in the real world.”

I nodded, but I was getting a little angry with her. Here she was with the nicest man in the world and she was complaining about him.

“I’m going back to London,” she announced.

“How?”

“There is a bus leaving. The man at the bar told me. Please tell Caldwell that I have departed.” Francine stood up and gathered her belongings.

She couldn’t desert Caldwell like that, without saying anything. My voice rose in spite of myself. I
came close to screaming at her in a very loud whisper. “Aren’t you going to wait and tell him yourself? How can you treat him like that, when he cares about you? Deserting him without telling him why.”

She stared at me. “What are you talking about?”

“I think it’s horrible of you to leave him here. All alone. How do you think he will feel?”

“But you will be here. He’s not alone. He will feel fine.”

I could see that she was choosing not to understand me. “Yes, but it’s not the same. After all, you two are like a couple. He’s counting on you.”

She shook her head. “We’re not a couple.”

“You’re not?”

“But of course not. At one time I thought maybe it could be, but then I saw we are not meant for each other. It would be very bad if we tried to be together. I have too much of the energy and he is too calm. We pull in very different directions.”

“Oh,” I said and sat down. “Being pulled in different directions. I know what you mean.”

“Caldwell is very good to me. We have helped each other out from time to time, but that is all.”

“Before you leave can I ask you a question?”

“Certainly,” she said.

“Do you think Caldwell could kill someone?”

“But of course!”

“You do?” I wondered what she knew.

“Silly question.” She shook her head. “Everyone could kill someone. It’s just the way we’re made.”

“Would he have killed Howard Worth?”

“Certainly not. Why would he kill that old man? Not any reason.”

Suddenly, I believed her, and relief flowed through me like a strong river. How could I ever have thought Caldwell capable of such a thing?

Francine went on. “He liked Howard. In the end he was even glad Sally went away, although it took a while. But now I must go.”

“I’m sorry that you didn’t enjoy yourself,” I said and found I really meant it.

She shrugged. “No, it’s nothing. This town is for you and him. Not for me. That much is very clear. Do you see it?”

I wasn’t sure what she was talking about, but took a guess. “Yes, we both like books.”

“It is not so much about the books.” She pulled on her coat. “I see more. You have a good mind. Employ it.”

I watched her walk out of the pub, swaying on her high heels, pulling her poncho up around her neck. Then she was gone.

I sat still and pondered her words. What had she seen? What was she talking about?

Caldwell walked in a few minutes later, his cheeks rosy and his smile large. He was carrying a very full bag of books. “You must see what I’ve found.”

“I have a few books to show you too.”

“Isn’t this brilliant?” he asked, sitting down next to me.

I was very happy to see him. “Yes, totally and completely brilliant. Way better than I had imagined.”

“I’m starving. Work up quite an appetite shopping. I’d like something warm inside me.”

“Me too.” I noticed he hadn’t asked about Francine. “Oh, Francine decided to catch a bus back to London.”

He nodded. “I’m not surprised. I’m not sure why she insisted on coming in the first place. She wouldn’t listen to me. But sometimes she has to find out for herself. She’s usually a pretty good sport. Did she seem upset?”

“Not particularly. A little cranky.”

“Yes, that sounds like Francine. She can turn into a monster if she doesn’t get her way.” He frowned, then gave me a concerned look. “How about you? Are you ready to leave?”

“Not by a long shot. I could happily spend a week here with you, looking for the right book.”

“Yes, I know what you mean,” he said, looking at me. “That would be heaven.”

THIRTY

Secrets Revealed

W
e grabbed something to eat and then the rest of that long, luxurious afternoon, Caldwell and I were never more than a bookshelf apart.

He would show me a book, I would nod. I would show him a book, he would shake his head or gleefully take it out of my hands to give it a going-over. Occasionally we would have a short discussion over the pros and cons of a certain book: its age, its condition, its edition. There was never a sense of being bothersome, and always the feeling the other person was available.

I had forgotten how completely comfortable one could be with another person, especially with a man. I wasn’t sure I had ever experienced this level of camaraderie before. In short, Caldwell and I were kindred souls.

I felt a small glow of hope that all could be well in the world. But I also had the tugging sense, as if I was being pulled into a dark current, of what I hadn’t told Caldwell: that I was really a librarian, that Dave had broken up with me, that I had thought of killing him. And then, worst of all, that I had thought it possible he had killed Howard Worth.

If we were to have any kind of real relationship, I had to tell him these facts about myself.

Finally the shop owner in the Book Nook started to make noises that he was closing.

“They shut early here,” Caldwell whispered. “Five-thirty. Must get tea on the table.”

“I can’t believe it but I’m starving again.”

“Well, we’ve been on our feet all day long. This book hunting is hard work. I’d say we deserve a good meal. What do you fancy?”

“I could eat a horse,” I said.

“Since this isn’t France, I don’t think that will be available. How about fish? Might that do?”

“Yes, please.”

“I know the very place. It’s a little early, but I’m sure they’re open.”

We walked to the car, laden with our bags, and stashed our books in the backseat. It was a good thing that Francine had decided to take the bus back to London as I wasn’t sure there would have been room for her. There was hardly room for a toy poodle.

We walked over to the Three Tuns, a pub and restaurant dating back to the sixteenth century, Caldwell told me. The whitewashed walls and the dark beams had the look of old England about them.

When we were asked where we would like to sit, I spied the Inglenook chimney and saw that there were seats available by it.

“Oh, let’s sit by the fire,” I suggested. I was feeling not only hungry, but cold and tired. Caldwell gave me the seat closest to the fire. I could feel the heat on my back like a massaging hand.

I leaned back with a sigh. “Thank you.”

“For what?” he asked.

“For this,” I waved my arm at the room. “For this whole day. For giving me this seat,” I started, then continued, “For taking me to Hay-on-Wye, for being the perfect host, for helping me find some books . . .”

“Whoa,” he said. “Go no further. This was no obligation
on my part. Quite the opposite. This was all a scheme to get you alone and defenseless in the wilds of Wales, and ask you all the questions about being a writer that I’ve been wanting to ask during the whole of your stay.”

“What?” I said, getting a little worried. I had much to answer for. I picked up the menu and held it in front of my face. “What do you think you’re going to have?” I asked. “Oh, look, they have black pudding.”

“It’s quite nice, that,” Caldwell said. “But do you mean you’re not going to try the steamed beef and oxtail pudding? Where is your sense of adventure? That might rival your pork pie of the other day.”

“Stodgy, you think?”

“I’m sure of it. But made for a day like today.”

“I think I will have the fish.”

“Sounds good.”

The waitress came and took our orders. I ordered the sole and Caldwell followed suit. I asked Caldwell to select a beer for me, trusting his judgment, but to make it just a half-pint.

When the waitress came back with our beers, we clinked them together, said, “Cheers,” and then each of us took a healthy swallow. Without waiting for a breath, I dove in, “I have to tell you about me being a writer.”

“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.”