The Suspect - L R Wright (6 page)

At seven that evening she was in the library, and at
seven thirty George Wilcox came in, a bunch of irises in his hand.
"Cassandra," he said, presenting her with the flowers. "I
like saying your name. Never known another girl with that name."

"
I'm not fond of it, actually," she said,
smiling at him. "I'd have preferred being called something more
ordinary."

"
It's got a nice lilt to it," said George,
"you've got to admit that. How would you like to have a name
like mine, now? George. In your case it would be Georgina, or
Georgette, or some damn thing. It sounds like your mouth's full of
porridge, George does."

"But it's what it means that's important,”
said, Cassandra.

"Not what it sounds like. " She put down
the irises and whisked a dictionary out from under the counter. "Mine
means the unheeded bearer of bad tidings, that's what it comes down
to. But yours—” She looked it up. "Earthworker,” she
announced, triumphantly.

"Farmer,” said George.

"Or gardener,” said Cassandra. She closed the
dictionary with a snap and stuffed it back under the counter. "It
suits you.”

"
Maybe,” said George, grudgingly, and he
wandered off among the books.

When the library had moved two years ago from its
old, cramped, musty quarters in the basement of a church to the new
building, Cassandra, eyeing the six wide floor-to-ceiling windows,
had gone off immediately to buy several large plants. Included in the
order were three Ficus benjamina, five or six feet tall, shivery and
graceful. Two days after they were set in place, they let loose a
shower of leaves. George Wilcox was waiting at the front door when
she arrived to open the library that day and was witness to her
dismay.

"They don't like being moved, that's all,"
he told her. "Just leave them alone. Mist them a lot—squirt
them with water. They'll be all right."

And they were. Cassandra took to consulting him
whenever she had worries about the plants, which she considered a far
weightier responsibility than the books, since she knew nothing about
them.

George Wilcox was one of her more regular customers.
His preference among books was biographies, while hers was novels.
Eventually, casual conversation as he checked out his books led to
her reading some that he recommended and to his trying an occasional
work of fiction.

He had started bringing her things a year ago:
flowers from his garden, interesting shells from his beach, sometimes
small potted plants which he told her sternly were for her house, not
the library. When his wife became ill in November, Cassandra helped
him choose books for her. And when she died, in March, Cassandra
appeared at his door with a chicken casserole, feeling stupid and
helpless, and in his kitchen she wept with him, and he patted her
shoulder and made her coffee.

She wondered now, putting the irises in water, what
he would think if he knew about her ad in the paper. They had had few
personal conversations—although he had once told her, uneasy but
determined to speak his mind, that he was sure her mother would
survive quite happily in Sechelt without her. Cassandra, shocked to
find he had read her situation so accurately, didn't reply, and he
hadn't mentioned it since. She put the vase of flowers on the counter
and went to hunt up three romance novels for Mrs. Wainwright, whose
husband would stop by later to pick them up for her. Mrs. Wainwright,
a bustling, large-boned woman of fifty, was a practical nurse whose
hours seldom allowed her to visit the library in person. Cassandra
found George Wilcox scanning the shelves of mysteries and was
surprised.

"
It's that business with Carlyle," he said,
by way of explanation. "It's turned my mind to crime." He
jabbed his finger toward the shelves. "Who's good, here?"

She picked out a book by Julian Symons and another by
Ruth Rendell and handed them to him.

"They're both English,” he said, studying the
jackets. "Doesn't surprise me. All those bizarre murders they
get over there. Ever noticed that? You see a headline in the
paper—'Eviscerated corpse found in bog,' say—and you know right
away they're talking about England.”

She walked with him back to the checkout counter. "I
heard about Mr. Burke. It's terrible. So much more awful than if he'd
died of an illness."

"Quicker, though," said George, getting his
library card from his wallet. "He probably never knew what hit
him."

"
Do the police know yet?" said Cassandra.
"What hit him, I mean?”

"Who knows? It only happened yesterday. And
they're going to be vague about it, even if they do know something. A
secretive bunch, those Mounties."

She pushed the books across the counter to him. "He
must have surprised a robber, or something."

He loaded the books, the two mysteries and a
biography of Mozart, into a crumpled plastic grocery bag which he'd
pulled from his pocket. "He wasn't robbed. That's what they
say.”

He shrugged. "Somebody must have had it in for
the old bugger. That's all I can figure. " He grinned at
Cassandra,. "You didn't notice. I haven't brought my last ones
back."

"
That's all right. You've only had them for a
couple of days.”

He leaned over the counter. "The police have
them now. They're scene-of-the-crime evidence, your books."

"
Good heavens,” said Cassandra, mildly.

"I dropped them." He pointed to the floor.
"Right next to the body, I was.”

"
Good heavens,” said Cassandra, weakly.

"
Not to worry, " said George. "They
flang themselves in the other direction."

Cassandra saw that there was sweat on his forehead.
She thought his eyes looked feverish. Only his white hair, sweeping
in flamboyant waves out from the sides of his head, appeared
unaffected by his experience. His neck suddenly looked too thin and
scrawny to hold his large, well-shaped head erect. He had to look up
at her; Cassandra wondered if, in the physical prime of his life, he
had been taller. "It must have been dreadful for you,” she
said softly, "Finding him like that."

He looked out the window. "It wasn't so bad. No
more than I deserve." He turned back to her. "And don't
waste your sympathy on him, either. He was one first-class Grade A
son-of-a-bitch, was Carlyle. He got exactly what was coming to him.”
He started for the door, his back straight, his legs in baggy
trousers slightly bowed.

Cassandra was astounded. "You don't mean that,"
she said. "You can't mean that."

He turned back, hesitated, seemed about to go on, but
when he spoke he said only, "It's time you had another look at
my garden. The roses are grand this year, just grand. Stop by. I'll
give you some lemonade.” He waved at her and was gone.
 

CHAPTER 7

If he had been the first of the men she'd met through
her ad he would have been a disappointment. But her standards had
plummeted, or at least her expectations had.

She was relieved that he was neither too young nor
too old, and not ugly, either. He wasn't what she would call
extremely attractive, but at least he was tall enough, and big,
though not overweight.

His taste in clothes wasn't anything to lift the
spirits. He wore a suit, which in Sechelt was unusual to the point of
being extraordinary—a dark gray one, with a plain white shirt and a
maroon tie that was much too wide.

Cassandra approached him, walking briskly, holding
out her hand and grinning at him. He seemed astonished, possibly by
the wideness of her smile, but rallied enough to smile back as he
rose from the table to greet her.

"The more nervous I am,” she said to him, "the
bigger I grin."
 
"You
must be Cassandra." He shook her hand, then pulled out a chair
for her. "I'm Karl."

"With a K," said Cassandra, sitting down.

"With a K,” he agreed.

He had white-gold hair, not a sign of a wave in it,
and pale blue eyes, and his face was a collection of planes. She
wondered if she would feel any physical attraction for him, by the
time lunch was over.

"You do have an Aryan look about you," she
said.

They were almost alone in the restaurant, which was a
place with overgrown ferns hanging from the ceiling and a view over
the water.

The waitress approached, a petite, curvaceous young
woman with a tumble of wavy auburn hair. "Hi, Cassandra,"
she said with a grin. "How's your life?" Her eyes skittered
to Alberg. 'just fine, thank you, Rosie," said Cassandra
brisledy.

"
You two gonna have a drink? Maybe a bottle of
wine?"

"I was thinking more of coffee," said
Cassandra. "And then maybe some food."

"Oh. Right. I'll go get a couple of menus,
then.”

"Librarians," muttered Cassandra as Rosie
turned away, "can't slink among the stacks smelling of gin."

Alberg was observing with interest Rosie's undulating
progress across the room.

"
She's studying psychology," said
Cassandra.

Alberg looked at her. "I beg your pardon?"

"
Rosie. She's a psychology major. At U.B.C. Her
parents own this place. She works here in the summers."

"
Ah."

Rosie returned with menus. "The clam chowder's
good today. So I'm told."

"
I'll have it," said Cassandra promptly.
"And coffee.”

"
Me too,” said Alberg. He smiled at the
waitress as he handed back the unopened menus, but at least this time
he didn't goggle at her as she walked away.

"I hate this," said Cassandra with passion.

Alberg leaned forward politely. "What do you
hate? Having lunch? Restaurants with ferns? Or meeting strangers?"

"Meeting strangers." She took a drink of
iced water, wishing it were wine.

"I liked your ad," he said after a while.

"Why? What made you like it?"

"
It had a nice, sunny sound to it."

Rosie returned with two bowls of clam chowder and a
basket of rolls and butter. "Have a nice lunch, you two,"
she said sentimentally.

Cassandra stared indignantly at her back.

Alberg laughed. "Hey, look," he said.
"Relax. Enjoy yourself. You never have to see me again, if you
don't want to. Meanwhile"—he waved his spoon at her—"she's
right, it's good clam chowder. You can tell by the smell." He
closed his eyes and leaned over the soup and sniffed, blissfully.

"I'm sorry," said Cassandra, smiling.
"You're right." She began to eat.

"Tell me about yourself," he said.

"I'm a librarian. Here in Sechelt. That's what I
meant in the ad, when I said—”

"'Books are my work, my comfort, and my joy.' ”

She looked at him curiously. "What did you think
of that?”

"I thought you were probably a librarian."
He took a spoonful of soup.

Cassandra laughed. "I could have been a writer.
Or a bookbinder.”

"
You could have been. But it seemed unlikely.
What else?”

"What else? Well, let me see." She broke
open a roll and buttered half of it. Then she put the roll back on
her plate and her hands in her lap and spoke rapidly. "I'm
forty-one years old, financially secure though not much more than
that, never been married, came here from Vancouver almost nine years
ago—God, I can't believe that—I've got a mother who lives in
Golden Arms and a brother who lives in Edmonton, I go back to
Vancouver once a week if I can to remind me that these villages up
and down the coast are not all there is." She picked up her
soupspoon and the buttered roll.

"
Golden Arms? Oh, that senior citizens' place.”

"Yes, that's right. They live there on their
own, but somebody's there to sort of watch over them. Now you. Tell
me about you.”

"
I'm a police officer."

She looked at him blankly. "A police officer. A
cop. Are you a Mountie? Up here, you must be a Mountie."

"
R.C.M. Police. Yeah. I hate 'cop.'”

"A policeman. R.C.M.R" She chewed her roll
thoughtfully. "I use marijuana sometimes. Nothing else, though,
not for a long time. I've had a few speeding tickets, too."

"
This is obviously not going to work out."

She looked up to see him smiling; she hadn't heard a
smile in his voice. The smile altered her entire impression of him.
There might be some exuberance in there, after all.

"What else?" she said. "I mean,
there's got to be more to you than being a policeman."

"Not much."

"Well, what do you like to do,” said Cassandra
patiently, "when you're not on duty?”

"I think I like having lunch with librarians,"
he said. "Or dinner. " It was the first thing he'd said
that sounded awkward. He pushed away his bowl. "Do you mind if I
smoke?" She shook her head, and he lit a cigarette. "I
don't read much. I like to go to the movies, sometimes. I like to
travel. I like to sail.”