1 Killer Librarian (19 page)

Toward the back, standing upright as soldiers, was a patch of foxglove, at nearly five feet tall, hard to miss. The purple blooms looked like the finger pads we librarians wore to get through a sheaf of papers fast. I walked as close as I could get to them on the path, then eased my way through the flowers to stand right by them, making sure to hold my breath.

Toward the top of the plant, right under the blooms, it looked like leaves had been taken off of a couple of the plants. Could have been bugs, could have been wind, but I was guessing it was hands that had gathered the toxic leaves. What was I to do about it? Who could I tell? The coroner had declared Howard Worth’s death the result of an accidental overdose; why would I suggest otherwise?

I heard Caldwell calling me from the front of the house, so I scurried out of the flowers, quickly slipped through the door, and went back to the sitting room. It was eight o’clock sharp, just when he’d said we would depart.

I went out front and found that Caldwell had pulled his car up to the front of the house. I climbed into the front seat. Caldwell had warned me that we would probably encounter rain, so I’d dressed for it. I had on my Burberry raincoat and my lime-green walking shoes, which were also waterproof. I’d come to think of them as frog shoes.

Not knowing what to do with my hair in this weather, I had pulled it back in a couple barrettes, which oddly made me look younger than usual, like a schoolgirl. Since my coat had a hood, I wouldn’t be needing a hat.

Caldwell gave me the once-over, then nodded. “Very appropriate. You look like you’re ready to go hunting.”

I thought of the hunt I had just done and of the discovery I had made, but pushed it out of my mind. I would think of it all later. Today I would enjoy myself. “Maybe we should call it ‘booking.’”

He laughed harder than my very small joke demanded, but in such a pleasant way that I didn’t think less of him for it. I could tell he, like myself, was all keyed up about this trip.

Caldwell looked every inch the English countryman. He was wearing one of those amazing waxed cotton coats that makes a great crackling noise
when you move in them, like the sound of a million blackbird wings.

I so didn’t want to think that he had anything to do with Howard’s death, but I had to ask a few questions. “Your garden is so lovely right now,” I said.

“Thanks. I wish I could take more of the credit. I have a bloke who comes and fusses with it every few weeks. It doesn’t look as good as it used to when Sally—” He broke off.

“Is that foxglove I see toward the back?” I asked.

“Might be. I haven’t a clue. Ask Barb or Betty. They’re sure to know.”

His nonchalance about my questions would seem hard to manage unless one were a very good actor. Caldwell was good at so many things, but I doubted that.

He had brought a thermos of tea and he poured us each a cup. I wasn’t sure why we weren’t having our tea inside, but then I just figured it was part of the adventure. As we sipped, we waited for Francine.

Finally I had to ask, “Why are we sitting out here? I mean, it’s quite pleasant, but will Francine know we’re out here?” I was enjoying the intimacy of the small car, the shared tea.

“She doesn’t like to get up in the morning,” he explained. “She’s less apt to dilly-dally if she’s knows we’re waiting for her in the car. I shouted this information through her door. I did hear her moving around in her room, which was a good sign. Also, I told her we were leaving in ten minutes with or without her.”

“We wouldn’t leave without her, would we?”

“We won’t have to. Francine is very good with deadlines.”

“I had trouble getting to sleep last night, so I sat up in bed and made a shopping list,” I said.

“Oh, may I see it?” He reached into one of the many pockets on his coat and pulled out a long list of his own.

We exchanged lists. I was happy to see there weren’t too many duplicates, so we wouldn’t be in serious competition with each other. As I checked over his list, I was happy to see that nearly half of the authors on it were women, many Americans too: Marilyn Robinson, Jane Smiley, Ruth Hamilton, Louise Erdrich. Not just American, but Midwesterners. I wondered if his selection had been compiled for my benefit. If so, it was a sweet gesture and appreciated.

Caldwell was murmuring over my list. Finally he looked up. “Good,” he said. “Yes, very nice indeed.”

“You approve?” I asked, laughing.

“Not that you need my approval, but it’s an interesting list, revealing of your character.”

“Oh, I see. Some people read palms, others analyze Rorschach blots, you are able to know an individual by what books they buy?”

“Something like that,” he said, a little embarrassed.

“So what do you now know about me?”

“You have good taste, evidenced by the Harding. A vast spectrum of interest, ranging from the noir books of Highsmith to poems of Wordsworth. You know your books. John Cowper Powys is pretty esoteric, and you like to have fun—Barbara Pym. You are kind, but with a slight edge, that comes through with the Gerald Durrell, and his brother Lawrence. Also a little old-fashioned, as there are not many contemporary writers on your list.”

“That’s amazing. You see all that in my list?”

“Well, I must admit it takes some extrapolating.” He slapped the list in his hand. “But the odd thing is that these are all British writers.”

“When in Britain . . . ,” I started, knowing I didn’t need to finish.

When he handed my list back, our hands brushed, and I felt a small jolt. He looked up suddenly and his eyes opened wider, really taking me
in. I wondered if he had felt the electricity too. I would miss him when I went home.

Before either of us could say anything, I heard a tapping on my car window. Francine stood in the street, not looking her best. Her makeup was blurry and her hair seemed cattywampus. She was dressed in some sort of poncho over a tight skirt with high-heeled boots. I wondered where she thought she was going. Then I wondered how much of the sherry had remained in the bottle last night.

“I must sit there.” She opened my door and pointed at my seat. “Otherwise, I will have a terrible badness in my head from the movement of the car. It would not be pleasant for anyone.”

She stepped back as I climbed out of the car and lifted up the seat to crawl into the back. Even though I wasn’t that big, I felt like I was cramming into the small backseat. It was so tight that I wasn’t sure two people could even fit. Caldwell had stuffed several book bags with various shop names on them in the back, I assumed for us to carry our haul home in.

The sky was overcast and as we left the city, it started to rain, a gentle patter. I found it soothing, but Francine was fussing.

“Zut, my coiffure,” she said, patting at her hair.

I found myself staring at the back of Caldwell’s head, noticing how nicely shaped it was. When I
leaned forward to hear their conversation, I would get a whiff of his smell—a hint of smokiness, a delicate scent of the binding of old books, and some gentle sweetness like early violets.

What was happening to me, I wondered. Was I noticing what a fine man Caldwell was because Francine had laid claim to him? Or was it because I had really let go of Dave? Or was it possibly because Andrew had noticed me yesterday and I realized that I deserved to have a nice man in my life?

I leaned back into my small nest of a seat and watched Francine talk. Her hands flew about the car like a flock of sparrows and her voice, while I couldn’t catch all the words, sounded like a squeaky wheel, slightly raspy but not completely unpleasant. I could see why Caldwell liked her. She brought so much energy and life with her even when she wasn’t at her best. I stood no chance against such an elegant, vivacious woman and I tried to feel happy for Caldwell, but it was hard.

TWENTY-NINE

The Right Book

M
y first glimpse of Hay-on-Wye was over the Wye River, the town covered in a misty rain, and the old ruins of Hay castle standing stout in the gloom, solid and stony. The atmosphere was muted and brooding—it could not have been a more perfect day to poke around in bookstores.

Caldwell parked by a pub called the Old Black Lion, pointed at it, and said we should all meet there for lunch in two hours. I already knew the bookstore I wanted to start at—the Sensible Bookshop. The name alone was intriguing. I was very
clear that I did not want to be a tagalong with Francine and Caldwell. Talk about being a third wheel.

I stepped out of the car, didn’t wait for them to make any suggestions about where to go. I had my bearings from a map I had printed out from the Internet and tucked into one of my guidebooks. I waved good-bye and left them.

When I was a block away, I saw that Francine had still only put one foot out of the car and that Caldwell was leaning over, talking to her, and holding her hand as if ready to help her out of the car. I had seen enough. In two hours I could get some serious shopping done.

*   *   *

With only a half an hour to go until lunch, I was sitting on the floor of the third bookstore I had gone into, this one specializing in older scientific books. I was looking for a book on flowers for Rosie, preferably with nice illustrations of roses. Her birthday was coming up.

I glanced over a couple of rows and a book title caught my eye:
A Manual of Technical Plumbing and Sanitary Science.
Dave would have loved that. It had been my habit to buy old plumbing books for him and he had quite a library. When I had first met him, he’d had only a few paperback books in his house. But it was like I always said to Rosie: You can make anyone a reader if you match them up with the right book.

But as I sat and pondered that statement, I saw it might also be true with people—that the match had to be right.

I had tried to make Dave into a man I could love. We had both tried to find ways of being together, of connecting with each other, but we had ultimately been very different. He liked to watch sports and drink a good brew; I preferred listening to classical music, sipping a rich merlot, and reading.

I actually saw reading as a shared activity, having grown up with a best friend who would read next to me on her family’s couch while we ate cinnamon toast and drank hot chocolate. My whole family read together in our living room, flopped in various positions on chairs, couches, and floors. I thought everyone read together.

But Dave saw my reading as a defense against him. He hated it when I read in bed. How had I thought I could marry such a man?

A sadness at the time we had both wasted swept over me and I started to cry. Not a fierce sobbing, but, more like the constant rain outside, a gentle, nurturing cry that ended with a few sniffles and a good nose-blowing, leaving me feeling cleansed and oddly hopeful.

I looked around and realized I was right where I wanted to be—sitting on the floor of a cold and grubby bookstore in Wales, looking at the tattered
covers of old books while it rained outside. Even though I was alone, I was happy. I was in a world I knew and loved, the world of books.

Turning back to the shelf that held botanical books, I found a turn-of-the-last-century book with delicate line drawings of roses and other flowers. As I paged through it I noticed that some of the roses had been colored in with notations on the side of those pages, a date, a place. A previous owner had recorded her life with roses. I knew I had found the right book for Rosie.

I turned to the listing on foxgloves,
Digitalis purpurea;
otherwise known as Lion’s Mouth, Fairy Fingers, and then I saw,
Deadman’s Bells.
Not Balls.

I stifled a gasp as the significance of Howard’s message sank in, then read on: “The leaves have a slight characteristic odor and a strong nauseous bitter taste. Only the second year’s growth of leaves are used medicinally. They yield the well-known drug digitalin. . . . These leaves, however, are very powerful and poisonous and should only be employed by skilled physicians. They are too dangerous for domestic use or self-medication.”

I bent my head over the book and pondered. What did it all mean? What was I to do? Why had Howard written those words in
Winnie-the-Pooh?
Had he known what was happening to him?

I had a slight flush of sadness as I thought about Howard. Poor man. What could I do for him now?

*   *   *

“I think I figured something out.”

“I hope you’re talking about Dave,” Rosie said.

“That too. But listen, I found out that foxglove is called Deadman’s Bells.”

“Oh, that is fascinating,” Rosie said, then waited for me to explain.

I was sitting on the floor, leaning against a shelf of books, tucked in the back of a bookstore where I hoped no one could hear me talking on my cell phone. I slowly went through it all: finding Howard, Winnie-the-Pooh, Deadman’s Balls, deadly foxglove, digitalis, and realizing I had misread what Howard had written—his last words, possibly.

I cleared my throat. “Now I just have to figure out what to do next.”

“You sound funny. Have you been crying?”

“Why do you ask?”