1 Killer Librarian (17 page)

“I work for the British Tourist Authority,” he said. “The RHS Chelsea Flower Show is our first big draw in the spring.”

“Well, it’s nice to be able to thank you in person.”

We both laughed, after which a slight silence fell.

“Andrew Chumley,” he introduced himself.

“Karen Nash,” I said, shaking his hand. I looked him over. What I liked about him best was his crooked smile; one side of his mouth lifted up higher, and it gave him a bit of a snarly look.

Up close I could see that Andrew also had the crinkle lines around his eyes that I found attractive. When I was much younger, in my twenties, I did not find older men attractive and I was worried about what I would do when I myself was older. But now when I looked at men in their twenties, they just looked like unformed landscapes to me—their faces were bland, blank, showing no sense of character. I loved to look at older men’s faces.

“Karen, if I may ask, how do you find the show?” he asked.

“Less British than I might have expected. I thought there’d be more formal gardens and then
country gardens. Lots of this is just too modern for me.”

“Ah, a traditionalist,” he surmised.

“Maybe I am. I never thought of it that way.”

“And what brought you to the show?”

“Literally or figuratively?”

“Figuratively,” he acknowledged my question.

“I know someone who is getting an award for a rose they made.”

He tilted his head. “Who is that?”

“Well, he was. He’s not anymore. Howard Worth.”

“Oh, yes. The Rosa ‘Almost Blue Annette,’ stunningly voluptuous. What happened to Mr. Worth?”

“Well, he died recently.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But he was getting on.”

“Not so on. He was only seventy and seemed quite full of energy.”

“He certainly kept busy. I think this is his third new rose in the last five years,” he said.

“Did you know him?”

“Only a bit. I’m a rose man myself.”

“Did you know his wife, Annette?”

“We just met a couple days ago. I guess she’s not much for flowers. They seemed an odd pair to me.”

“How much is this prize that he’s getting for the rose?” I asked, wondering if money could have played a role in his death.

“Oh, the prize money is minimal; it’s the exposure and the market with this new hybrid. Everyone’s been trying to make a blue rose. It’s like the holy grail of the hybridization nutties. Howard maybe has come as close as is possible. Although, if he were still alive, who knows what he might have produced.”

“So it’s worth a lot.”

“You could say.” He fell silent for a moment, then asked, “So what have you done on your trip thus far?”

I told him my list: the National Gallery, the Globe, walking along the Thames, wandering into bookstores.

“Bookshops, we call them here.” He popped himself in the mouth. “Sorry, bad habit of mine, correcting people’s English.”

“Not at all. I love to be corrected. I’m fascinated by the differences in our two languages. My favorite new word is
verge
.”

He laughed. “What do you call the side of the road?”

“The shoulder.”

“I like that, the shoulder, like on a body.”

He looked at his watch. “I fear I must go back to work. But let me ask you one last question. Of all the things you’ve seen, what has impressed you the most about our country?”

“A thing that has impressed me?”

“Yes, we’re working on a new advertising campaign, specifically for the States, and I could use your input. What might we mention about England that would be a draw to intelligent Americans?”

Intelligent Americans. What more does a librarian want to be? I thought about all I had noticed on my trip. “The small shops,” I finally said. “That’s been my favorite thing.”

He reared back. “Small shops?”

“Yes, I have a feeling they’re disappearing here too, but you still have so many more than we do at home. Boutiques that focus on selling a few specific items. Stores that only sell old books, pharmacies that are just that, a shop for candles or soaps. Small boutiques that sell women’s lingerie. Not a department store that sells everything, and certainly not a mall.”

He tapped his finger on his cheek. “I like that. We are not a mall. Although one never wants to use a negative in promotion. Maybe something like, We have what you want, in small bites.”

“That sounds good,” I assured him.

“So what do you have planned next?” he asked.

“Well, speaking of small shops, I’m going to Hay-on-Wye with some friends.”

“Oh, yes, the book place. Never been there, but
heard it’s terrific. You should enjoy that. Books galore.” He asked one last question: “Going with someone special?”

I thought for a moment, then said, “One can only hope.”

TWENTY-SIX

Really Blue Annette

I
n those few minutes, the earth had turned just that tiny little fraction that made me look at everything differently. I was smelling flowers in the Chelsea Flower Show and a handsome gentleman had talked to me. I was off to Hay-on-Wye to look at books to my heart’s content, even if Caldwell was bringing his girlfriend.

I might have set in motion a plot to kill my former boyfriend, which was the only thing standing in my way of utterly enjoying this moment. And I had almost killed myself by smelling a foxglove. Which, of course, made me think of finding out what had happened to Mr. Worth. Being an expert
on flowers, he would never have smelled a foxglove—or would he have? Maybe, if he hadn’t known that was what he was smelling.

And now it was time to go watch Annette Worth accept the President’s Award for her late husband’s rose. I followed the sign to the bandstand, and as I looked over the crowd gathered for the award ceremony, I spotted two Brillo Pad grayheads—the Tweedles. Of course they would be there.

When I walked up behind them I saw that Betty was patting Barb’s shoulder and Barb was leaking tears. I didn’t make my presence known until Barb had calmed down and the tears had been wiped away.

“Hi there,” I said.

“Oh,” they both turned and looked at me as if they had been caught doing something bad.

“Isn’t this exciting?” I asked.

“Yes, but also so unfair,” Betty said.

“Howard should have been . . .” And with these words Barb started leaking again.

Betty whispered to me. “She was very fond of him. You might say they had been engaged. There had even been talk of him naming a rose after her—Barely Blue Barb.”

I held my breath as I took that name in, then I asked, “What happened to their engagement?”

“Well, first there was Caldwell’s Sally, and then Annette. But Barb never gave up hope.”

“I did give up hope,” Barb said. “I gave it up many times. But then I’d see Howard again and it would come rushing back.”

“This must be very hard for you,” I said.

Barb nodded.

“She should be standing up there, not that nitwit Annette,” Betty spit out between tight teeth. “I wish she’d get rose-thorn disease. That can happen, you know.”

Her vehemence surprised me and I didn’t know what to say so I turned my attention to the stage. A tall, thin, handsome man was calling us to order. A rather wilted-looking Annette was standing off to the side of the stage. She was wearing a black dress with a dark purple rose pinned to her chest. The rose looked slightly wilted too.

“In honor of this marvelous hybridization of the Almost Blue Annette, I would like to present Howard Worth with the President’s Award. As many of you know, Mr. Worth passed away recently and we are so sorry for this loss to his family, his many friends, and of course the world of rose culture. Here to accept the award is his lovely widow, Annette Worth.”

Annette came forward and accepted the statue,
which was a gilded rose on a stem. Then the announcer led her to the microphone. I noticed he held her hand and didn’t let go as she stood there, looking at the microphone. She stared at it as if it were some kind of flower she couldn’t identify. Finally she lifted her head and gazed out at the gathered crowd. My heart went out to her. She did not want to be there and I could tell she was on the verge of tears.

She swallowed and said, “Howard would be so pleased. Roses were his life. Flowers gave him such great joy. I know he will be missed. Thank you.”

She stumbled as she stepped down from the podium, but the announcer caught her arm and steadied her. Then, with what seemed like affection, he wrapped a protective arm around her.

Betty sniffed. “Not bad.”

I felt compelled to speak in Annette’s defense. “Short and sweet. I found it moving.”

Barb blurted, “But what about all his hard work. How he managed to do this. She said nothing about what actually went into this accomplishment.”

“She didn’t know,” said Betty.

“She did her best,” I murmured.

“It wasn’t good enough,” Barb barked and started to walk away.

“It should have been Barb up there,” Betty said. “She would have known what to say.”

“Who was the man who announced her?” I asked.

“Oh him. Lionel Warner-Morehead. Goes by Lion. Pretentious. He’s some sort of donor, very important. A follower of Howard’s,” Barb said.

“And of Annette’s,” Betty added.

TWENTY-SEVEN

In the Gloaming

A
fter the flower show I decided to go to the Victoria and Albert Museum, where I could have pitched a tent and lived for a few weeks going through the amazing collections of needlework and swords and tiles and other ceramics and costumes and paintings. The list is longer than endless. When the museum closed, I stopped at a cozy street-side café and had a rather greasy meal of fish and chips, then caught the tube back to the B and B.

When I let myself in, the house was so quiet I thought I was alone. I walked back to the sitting
room to see how the garden looked in the gloaming and found Caldwell cozily ensconced in his chair with a book in his lap and a bottle of sherry. However, he wasn’t reading. He was staring out at the falling dark, but lifted his head and smiled when I entered the room.

“I was hoping you might turn up,” he said. “No one else is here yet.”

Caldwell wore an old gray sweater, fawn-colored corduroy pants, and worn leather slippers. He looked comfortable and familiar. I thought nothing could be better than talking to him and sharing a glass of sherry. The sight of him there in the fading light made my heart lighter—there were men who knew how to live easily in the world and enjoy it.

Without asking if he should, he poured me some sherry in a delicate, etched glass and handed it over to me.

“How was your day?” he asked.

I didn’t want to tell him about being ass-canned in the Holiday Inn. “I just spent a few hours at the Victoria and Albert,” I said. “This country is just so old. There are such a lot of accumulated artifacts here. And I’m one who loves all such old things—”

“Old things?”

“All the things we need around us to live, all the objects we cherish and like to look at every day:
books, rugs, shawls, pillows, stools, figurines, toys, bowls. You know, things we hold in our hands and touch and love. Seems to me we live better if we’re surrounded by beautiful things.”

He nodded, looking right at me. “I love it too. Your so-called stuff.”

I took a sip of the sherry and then looked at the glass it was delivered in. “Speaking of good stuff, these are beautiful glasses.”

“Passed down in my father’s family. I only have two left.” He held his out and I carefully touched it with mine. “I believe they are George III.”

“And speaking of him—George III, not your father,” I said, “I thought of Capability Brown because I went to the Chelsea Flower Show.”

“I didn’t know you were interested in flowers too. You did hear about our arum lily coming into bloom, didn’t you?”

When the first titan arum bloomed in the late 1990s, I had checked online every day to see how the stinking, enormous flower was coming along, entranced both by the size of the flower—the biggest blossom in the world at over three feet tall—and the descriptions of its awful scent. “Yes, how exciting. Did you get a chance to see it? I guess maybe I should say smell it?”

“I did. I stood in a queue for what seemed forever
until finally I was allowed to walk into the greenhouse and smell the foul odor of a thousand rotting pig carcasses. But it was worth it.”

“I bet.”

“They’re hoping for another blossoming this autumn.”

“I would love to see that.” I took another sip of sherry. Had my taste buds come to life? This sherry tasted better than any I had ever had. “Wow, this is good.”

“Glad you like it.”

“I saw Barb and Betty at the flower show, and, of course, Annette.”

“How was she managing?”

“She’s not here, is she?” I didn’t want to say anything if she could hear me.

“No, not yet. She had to make some arrangements for the body to be shipped home. I think some friend was helping her and then was going to take her out to dinner, whether she wanted to go or not.”

“Lionel?”

“That might have been the one.”

“I thought she did fine. Certainly out of her depth, but understandably. But Betty and Barb were not so kind. Did you know there was something going on between Howard Worth and Barb?”