1 Killer Librarian (4 page)

“My, your first time. We shall do all we can to make this a very pleasant visit for you.”

I wondered if he was using the royal “we” or if he was married or perhaps had a male partner. Since my unfortunate marriage, I suspected most men of harboring secret desires for their own sex. Plus, it had to be said, he was a small, almost delicate, man who ran a B and B.

The landing at the top of the stairs was at the end of a hallway that had six doors off of it. We walked down to the far end, the farthest away from the street and overlooking, as I had hoped, the garden.

Caldwell opened the door to my room and I was pleasantly surprised. The room was simpler than I had thought it might be. Not floofy at all, but rather spare and elegant. The bed was high, with crisp white sheets; the curtains were white linen; and a dark maroon reading chair was tucked in a corner with a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf behind it, filled with books. A wondrous wall of books.

I couldn’t help it. I let out a small peep.

“Is something wrong?” Caldwell asked.

“No, I’m just happy to see all the books,” I explained. “It makes me feel at home.” I resisted telling him I was a librarian. After all, I was on vacation and I could be anyone I wanted to be. Someone more adventurous.

“The tea is ready when you are.”

“I’ll be right there. Just give me a moment to freshen up.” After Caldwell left, I ran some water in the bathroom sink and washed my face. Forty-six years old and I didn’t look a day over forty-three. My short dark hair was curling a bit more than usual in this rainy weather, but I rather liked that look. A little softer.

I was as presentable as I could be at that moment, plus why did I care what I looked like? There was no one who knew me here. Except Caldwell.

“This is a beautiful room,” I said as I walked into the sitting room. “You’ve got a lovely backyard.”

“That is not a backyard. It is my back garden.”

“Of course it’s a garden. I remember that now. At home we call them backyards.” I looked around the room and spotted an old glass-doored bookshelf filled with books all in cellophane covers.

Caldwell noticed my gaze. “Those are my first editions. Mainly British children’s books, one of my specialties.” Then he asked me, “Would you like some coffee?”

“No, actually I’d prefer tea.”

He nodded. I thought I had pleased him. “Do you take sugar or lemon?”

“Just a touch of milk, please.” I sank into a love seat, feeling the down cushions give way beneath
me, and watched him pour the tea into a delicately flowered porcelain cup, put it on a wafer-thin saucer, and hand it me.

“So many Americans only drink coffee,” he said, watching me with admiration.

“You get a lot of Americans?”

“I’m just about full up with them this week,” he said. “Two retired ladies from Nebraska, Betty and Barb. They are rather hard to tell apart as they often dress alike. I think of them as the Tweedles.”

“As in
Through the Looking-Glass
.”

He nodded. “Exactly. Then there’s an older gentleman with his new bride, Howard and Annette Worth, from Connecticut. They met when he was convalescing from a slight heart attack, not an unusual story, wealthy older man falls in love with his shy young nurse.”

“I think I’ve read that story recently,” I couldn’t help but say.

He smiled and continued, “Both couples are here for a horticultural event, the Chelsea Flower Show. They come every year, although this is only the second year for Howard’s new wife. I’m not sure she’s into flowers. There’s no love lost between the Tweedles and Annette. I think they’re horridly disappointed that Howard married her. They always thought his first love was flowers.”

“Oh, I’d like to hear about that show.”

“Oh, you’ll hear plenty. Then there’ll be Francine, a French entrepreneur. Not at all interested in flowers. She sells lovely linens for a living. She’s here on business.” Caldwell paused and looked at me. “What do you plan to do while you are in London?”

“Find a good way to murder someone.” The words pushed out on their own, surprising me with how calm I sounded as I said them.

Caldwell, bless his heart, didn’t look too shocked. Instead he leaned back and tapped the tips of his fingers together. “How interesting. I’d love to hear more. Would you care to join me for a curry tonight and then on to a pub?”

“Jolly good,” I said.

SIX

Vindaloo Curry

W
aiting in the front entry, Caldwell looked very British and quite dapper in a tweed jacket with a brown scarf tied around his neck. I felt a little more comfortable when I looked down and saw he was wearing jeans.

“How was your walk?” he asked.

I didn’t want to confess that it wasn’t much of a walk. I had managed to go all of three blocks, found a little tea shop, and plunked down and read a book, every once in a while glancing up to see if I was still really in England. “Fine. I’m starving.”

“Do you like curries?”

“I love curries.” The few times I had tasted them. I would have said I loved anything he had offered. I thought of Dave’s reaction to Indian food the one time I had persuaded him to try it. He had taken a large mouthful of vindaloo and almost spat it out. “Are you sure you don’t have anything else to do?” I asked Caldwell.

“It’s my pleasure,” he said calmly and helped me on with my brand-new, bought-for-the-trip, Burberry raincoat.

“Is this part of the deal?”

“I beg your pardon?” he said mildly.

“You know, part of the bed-and-breakfast deal. A single woman and you feel compelled to take her out? You know, entertain her?”

“Not at all. Many a woman I have let wander her way through the corridors of London on her own. I’m intrigued by your desire to murder someone, having been there myself, and wouldn’t mind some company at the pub. Plus, I’m starving.”

“I’m ravenous,” I said. A curry sounded divine and very imperialistically English.

Just then a tall white-haired man and a small dark-haired woman burst through the front door, shaking rain off themselves and their umbrella.

“Cats and dogs,” the man said. He was handsome
in a rather dissolute way, good posture, piercing blue eyes, but loose joints and a blowsy manner.

“A downpour,” the small woman agreed. She would have been lovely had she not been so hunched over and scurrying. She had wonderful hair, but her eyes were small and looked down as if watching for mice.

Caldwell introduced us. “Karen, this is Howard and Annette Worth. They arrived yesterday. This is a new guest, Karen Nash, from America also. Sorry about the pouring rain.”

“Good for the flowers, bad for the show,” Howard muttered as he took off his raincoat and managed to shower us all with water.

Annette took the coat from him and hung it on the coatrack. Even though she was his wife, she was still acting as his aide. He strode past us all and then turned and asked, “Is there a fire going in the parlor?”

“Turn it on, if you wish,” Caldwell said.

“Annette,” Mr. Worth summoned, “please attend to that.”

Annette peeled off her coat in a rush, then scooted past him down the hall.

“I’m off for dinner,” Caldwell said.

Mr. Worth gave me a look as if I were a wilted flower specimen. “I see. Tomorrow’s the big day. The show starts. We’ll be up and out rather early.”

“I’ll have breakfast ready for you at six-thirty,” Caldwell assured him.

“That should do.” And without another word, Mr. Worth strode down the hall as if he owned the place.

The rain had eased up when we stepped outside. Caldwell had brought one big “brolly,” as he called it. The two of us squeezed under it and walked the three blocks to his favorite Indian restaurant. He took my arm through his, I hoped a wonderful custom in England.

I fell in love with the restaurant as soon as we walked in. The smell of cumin and coriander hung thick in the air. Sitar music wafted through the room, as exotic as the smells. The walls were covered with red flocked wallpaper, which gave the place an odd elegance. The lights above the tables seemed at first to be made of the most intricate of metalwork, casting a delicate, perforated light on the walls, but when I looked at them more closely I saw that they were actually two colanders fastened together with a lightbulb in the middle.
How ingenious,
I thought.

“So, you like Indian food?” Caldwell asked, as we were seated by a thin, dark, and handsome man in a white shirt.

“I think so.”

“You’re not sure.”

“The little I’ve eaten, I’ve liked. But I’m from Minnesota. We eat meat loaf and hot dish.”

“Hot dish? What, might I ask, does that consist of?”

“That depends on what you have in the fridge—some form of starch, a smattering of meat, and almost always a can of mushroom soup. It’s not haute cuisine, but rib-sticking good. We call it comfort food.”

“Like Lancashire hot pot. Sounds very British.” He opened up the menu. “Would you like me to order?”

“Yes, please,” I said. “But let me have a look too.”

Together we ordered twice as much as we could eat. I was starving and he was generous with our order. A chicken tikka, a lamb vindaloo, raita, dal, naan, lassi . . . Everything Caldwell ordered sounded good. Soon the waiter started bringing piles of food in small bowls of green sauce and red sauce and onions and nuts, then large plates of lamb swimming in a dark sauce, accompanied by mounds of rice.

We ate and talked a little. I had to eat a lot of rice to counteract the spiciness, but I loved the taste of it all.

Finally Caldwell pushed his plate back, looked at
me, and asked the very American question, “What do you do for a living?”

The word
librarian
pushed itself into the middle of my mouth, but I wouldn’t let it come out. I was enjoying not being defined by my profession.

“Well, I’m slightly undercover,” I said.

“My, that sounds interesting.”

“But I guess I can tell you.”

He leaned forward. “Let me guess.”

“Really?”

“I’m getting quite good at this. Whenever I have guests, I try to suss out what their occupations are, and I’m often right on the mark.”

“Okay, what do I do?”

“Someone who loves books, who’s undercover, doing research, I presume. I’m guessing you’re a writer.”

I was immensely flattered. So pleased, in fact, that I didn’t refute it. He was so proud of himself that I hated to dissuade him. Then words popped out of my mouth that surprised me. “You got it. I’m a writer.”

He leaned back and nodded. “It’s the way you look around. You seem to be studying everything.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Yes. You have an air about you. How you notice things. The questions you ask. What do you write?”

I didn’t have to think twice. There was only one kind of writer that I would ever want to be. “I write mysteries.”

“Of course,” he said, nodding his head. “Thus your need to find a way to murder someone.”

“I’m doing research.”

“Yes, I see.”

“I’m working on a new mystery—it involves a crime of passion, a vengeful woman.” I was continuing to be amazed by how easily these lies were coming to me. It was as if my life was a story and I was simply rewriting it.

“Tell me more.”

My own life opened like a book. With the oddest sense of remove, I started to recount it to Caldwell. “This woman has been planning a trip to England for a long time with the man in her life, and on the eve of their departure, he tells her that he doesn’t love her anymore, that he’s seeing someone else. Of course the woman is brokenhearted, but quickly feelings of revenge overtake her and she decides to figure out a way to kill him that is so cunning that she won’t get caught. She makes it look like the new girlfriend killed him. For his money.” I stopped, surprised by where my imagination had taken me.

His eyes twinkled. “Sounds fascinating. So your
heroine is also the murderer? That’s a different spin.”

“I’m still working that all out. Not sure if she’ll go through with it.” I needed to change the subject. “Now it’s my turn to ask questions. Do you run this bed-and-breakfast all by yourself?”

“Yes, my partner left me several years ago, ran off with someone. No warning and it was all dumped in my lap.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Why ever would I joke about a serious subject like that?” He smiled while he was saying this and I wondered if the smile was genuine. I didn’t know him well enough to tell, but everything about him seemed honest.

“How awful. I know how you feel.” I quickly took a sip of tea so no more words could come out of my mouth. I didn’t want to talk about Dave. I asked the obvious next question. “Who was your partner?”

He laughed. “Oh, I guess I shouldn’t use that word with you Americans. You think it means a homosexual arrangement. No, in my case, for better or for worse, and mostly worse, it was with a woman. The bad news is she left me the B and B, but the good news is she did really leave it to me—I am now unofficially the owner.”

“You’ve done a nice job of keeping the place up.”

“Thank you. I know the rooms aren’t as grand as some people like—no swags, no chintz, no twee figurines—but that way it’s easier to keep clean.”