Death Overdue (Librarian Mysteries) (2 page)

I was trying hard to pay attention to what
felt
right to me. After Dave’s horrible and untimely death, I had seen a therapist for a few months. At first, when she would ask me how something made me feel, I literally didn’t know what to say. I hardly knew what she meant. Cold and hot I could distinguish, but how I felt emotionally about an event was a real struggle for me to ascertain. I had a few episodes of sobbing and laughing hysterically in the therapist’s office. I guess you call those breakthroughs although at the time they felt more like breakdowns.

As I sat in front of a wall of books, trying to decide whether to put so-and-so’s book on British history in the historical
books, where it belonged, or in the section on royalty, next to a book on Princess Diana, where it might also find readers, I was also working on simply feeling happy, letting this emotion wash over me in waves.

How odd to have to practice feeling happy.

Just at the moment when I thought I had nailed it—when happiness flooded over me like a warm and powerful rain shower—the doorbell rang. Little did I know that answering it would completely blow my happy world apart.

W
hen I opened the door, I saw the back of a tall, blond-haired woman, who was wearing the loveliest fawn suede shoes I have ever laid eyes on. Shoes that one wanted to reach out and pet. I refrained.

The woman turned, and she was equally good-looking from the front. She was not young, but she was elegant and willowy and very well kept up. She looked at me like I was a marmot, and a hoary one at that. I’m not even exactly sure what a marmot looks like, but that was how I felt, especially in comparison to her.

The tall, blond woman twisted her lovely lips, then undid them and asked, “Who are you?”

Assuming that she was a guest who had been expecting Caldwell to answer the door, I told her, “Oh, this is Perkins B and B, I’m just the . . .” What exactly was I?
Girlfriend
didn’t sound like quite enough, but I certainly wasn’t his fiancée yet. I didn’t work for him, but then I did, by choice. I continued, “I’m just helping out.”

“Doesn’t Brenda still do that?” she asked.

Brenda was Caldwell’s housekeeper-assistant, who had recently moved into a small room on the first floor. She had been with him forever, but only worked part-time. This woman must be a regular guest to know of Brenda—she worked odd hours and didn’t make her presence known much.

“Yes, Brenda is still here, but not at the moment. I’m helping Caldwell with other things.” I was being circumspect because Caldwell and I had decided to keep mum about the possibility of the bookshop. We didn’t want to scare the current or future guests away.

The blond woman craned her long neck and looked past me into the house. “How nice that he’s been able to keep the place going.”

Thinking that was a rather odd comment to make, I asked her, “Do you have a reservation?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Remulado. It’s under the name of Alfredo Remulado.”

She looked like neither a Remulado nor an Alfredo, but I stepped back to let her into the entryway. She left her single suitcase on the steps, and I realized she expected me to serve as bellboy. I reached out for the case and was surprised by how heavy it was. Then I saw that the thing was made of some sort of metal. Thank goodness it was on rollers.

“When do you expect him back?” she asked as she walked down the hallway toward the garden room.

I followed, the suitcase trailing me like a robotic dog, squeaking as its little wheels turned. “Shortly,” I said. “But I’m sure your room is ready if you’d like me to show you the way.”

“Oh, I’d rather sit down here and wait. I want to see his face when he finds out I’m here.”

As she sank into the couch in a languid movement, I perched the suitcase next to her, in case she might need anything out of it. “Can I get you something to drink?”

She looked at me as if seeing me for the first time, then said, “Oh, you’re American, aren’t you?”

The contempt with which she asked this question was unavoidable, and I stepped right smack into it. “Yes,” I answered bravely, then added, “Minnesota.”

“Wherever that is.”

I had learned not to try to explain precisely where my home state could be found—people didn’t know where it was because they didn’t care. So I made my usual statement, “Not far from Chicago.”

“I know Chicago,” she said, then nodded as if that was way enough information. Then she said, “Some tea would be nice. I haven’t had a cuppa in years.”

Caldwell didn’t usually let me make the tea. He said I hadn’t quite yet perfected the British way of brewing it. I didn’t argue. I liked having him make the tea, and I figured it was such a small thing to disagree about. But I had watched him carefully and now followed his steps. Heat the water in the kettle until it just comes to a boil, rinse the teapot with the hot water, a swirl will do. Then measure a teaspoon for each person consuming the tea and one for the pot. I figured I might as well join her, as I deserved a break from book arranging. I threw in another teaspoon in the hopes that Caldwell would return shortly.

On a tray I placed not the super-good teacups, but the second best. No need to kowtow to her superiority. A pitcher of milk and a bowl of sugar, two spoons, and I was off.

Taking care not to spill the tea, I navigated the hallway. When I entered the back room, I found the woman standing and staring out the window at the garden.

“It’s not quite what it used to be,” she said sadly.

“So you’ve stayed here often?”

“You could say that,” she agreed as she sank back down into a chair.

I didn’t want to serve the tea just yet. Caldwell was very particular about letting it brew five minutes, and it had only been three.

“Well, let me introduce myself. I’m Karen Nash. A librarian. This is my second visit to England.”

She smiled. “So I suppose you’re a real booklover?”

“You could say that,” I responded. My hackles were rising. There was something about this woman that I didn’t care for. She was acting as if she owned the place.

“My name is Sarah. Like Bernhardt. But everyone calls me Sally. Sally Burroughs.”

I wanted to tell her that Sarah Bernhardt was not tall and willowy but short and curvaceous—really resembling me more than her—and that the esteemed actress was certainly never languid.

Sarah continued, “I’ve been living in Italy for the past few years, but I’m thinking of coming back home.”

She gave me a sharp look. I wasn’t sure why.

I poured her a cup of tea and offered the milk and sugar, but she shook her head and held out her hand. This was when I first noticed her bright red nail polish, a color very few women should wear. I wasn’t sure she was one of them. I poured myself a cup and added just enough milk to slightly lighten the tea. I couldn’t help but compare her nails to my fingernails, which were unvarnished and slightly dirty from dusting all the books.

We sipped in silence for a few minutes.

“How’s Caldwell?” she asked.

This question made me smile. I was sure he had never been happier in his life—or that’s what he told me every day. “I would say he’s doing quite well.”

“That’s good. Caldwell has always been such an amiable sort. I’ve missed him quite a bit.”

“Yes,
amiable
is a good word to describe him.” In French the word means “lovable,” and I certainly found him that.

“I can’t wait to see him,” she said.

I wondered how well she did know him. She seemed to act like they were old friends, and yet I had never heard Caldwell mention her. Not that he talked a lot about all the guests he had hosted over the years.

Just then I heard the front door open. I knew it was Caldwell as soon as I heard him walking down the hall. He clomped a bit, in a way I loved.

“We’re here in the garden room having some tea,” I said as he got closer.

“Great,” he said as he entered the room, looking first at me and then at Sarah.

As I watched, his eyes grew, his mouth opened, the books in his arms fell to the floor. He just couldn’t resist buying more books. He took a deep breath and said in a voice that bespoke horror, “Sally, whatever are you doing here?”

In that instant, everything she had said so far made horrible sense: how she had missed him a bit, and wondering where Brenda was. I knew this was his old love, the woman who had deserted him, left him with the B and B to run.

Sally looked up with a slight smile playing on her lips. “Why, Caldwell, I’ve come back to claim all that was mine.”

C
aldwell didn’t have a chance to ask Sally what she meant because the doorbell rang again. He walked down the hallway to answer it and left me alone with his ex-girlfriend.

“He hasn’t changed,” Sally said.

“Did you expect him to?” I asked.

“Well, it’s been a long time. I thought he’d look older, but he looks good. And he seems happy. Funny how time goes so fast. But I have missed this place. And, of course, Caldwell.”

I hated hearing her say that, but didn’t know how to claim Caldwell as my own. “Who’s Alfredo?” I thought to ask her.

She waved her hand as a tall, dark, younger man entered the room followed by Caldwell. “Here he is. Alfredo Remulado, who claims descendancy from the House of Savoy. This is Caldwell, of whom I have told you so much. And this is Katy, and I’m not sure what she’s doing here.”

“Karen,” Caldwell spit out. “Her name is Karen, and she is my . . .”

I waited to hear what he would call me.

He continued, “. . . dear friend, who I’m hoping will also become my partner.”

I couldn’t help but be a little disappointed that he hadn’t declared his love for me, but then he wasn’t like that, nor was I.

“Partner in what?” Sally asked. “In crime?”

“In books,” he said. “We’re going to sell the B and B and open a bookshop. We’ve got it all planned.”

“Oh, I see. Her being a librarian and all, that makes good sense.”

During all of this time Alfredo stood at attention, focused on Sally. When there was a pause, he turned to me and finally spoke. “Hello, charmed to meet you,” he said with a fairly heavy Italian accent.

He did ooze charm—from his dark swath of hair that fell just so over his forehead, to his full lips, to his suitably wrinkled but excellently cut linen jacket. He too was wearing elegant shoes. It appeared to be true what they say
about Italian shoes—that they are the best in the world.

“Tea?” I offered.

Caldwell plunked down in a chair and said, “Yes, please.” I could tell he was terribly thrown by Sally’s presence because, as I’ve said, normally he would insist on making it himself.

Alfredo looked around the room. “I wouldn’t mind an aperitif. It is almost the hour.”

I poured Caldwell a cup of tea with a splash of milk, which is how he likes it. Sally held out her empty cup. Reluctantly, I poured her a refill, while I thought of dumping the tea into her lap.

Caldwell went to the cabinet in the corner and pulled out a bottle of vermouth. He poured a small glassful and handed it to Alfredo. Then he walked around the table and sat next to me.

When we were all seated, Caldwell finally asked, “Sally, what in God’s name are you doing here?”

“I told you, Caldwell darling. I’m here to claim what I left behind. You didn’t think I had gone away forever?”

“I had only hoped,” he mumbled, then said more clearly, “And what exactly do you think you can claim? My recollection is, after you took the money, you left everything remaining to me, for better or worse.”

“Oh, that was just temporary.”

“Seven years is temporary?” he asked.

“Yes, in the scheme of things it is.”

He fell silent. I wanted to step in and fight for him but knew he had to do it on his own.

Steps sounded coming down the stairs.

Caldwell lifted his eyes up with a fighting gleam in them and said to Sally, “Well, I have a surprise for you too. Guess who’s here.”

We had only two other guests—Bruce, the book collector, and Penelope Winters, who had arrived late last night, after I went to bed. All Caldwell had said about her was she was an old friend. I hadn’t thought to ask him any more.