1 Killer Librarian (2 page)

TWO

What Now?

I
was an efficient and organized packer. Of course I’d made a list of all I’d need, but the most important thing was figuring out what books to bring. I had been planning this trip for six months, saving books as they came along: Josephine Tey, Dorothy Sayers, even some Agatha Christie. Then came the winnowing them down to six, one for every two days of the trip. I knew they had books in England, but I just didn’t want to be caught out.

I should say
we
had been planning this trip—Dave and I. Dave, the love of my midlife.

I’d been with other men. I was even married for two years and four months in my early twenties. Roger Lundgren had been my best friend in library school. When we both graduated it seemed natural that we should marry. However, when he realized that he liked boys better than girls, our parting was sad, but very civil. We had really enjoyed each other and had been such good companions. We still send each other Christmas cards.

After that I was wary with men. Plus, the opportunities did not present themselves very often—certainly not in my line of work. After all, most librarians are women: 84.6 percent, to be exact.

Dave and I met in our forties when he fixed my toilet. I was so happy to have found a man who could fix things—unlike the usual type I went out with, who didn’t even know what a hammer looked like—that I felt we were meant to be together through the hardships of life. I ignored the fact that all he read was the business section of the paper and books on golfing—even though he didn’t golf.

A year ago, Dave had been trying to design a new toilet. With the green movement coming on strong, he wanted to cash in on it. I suggested he figure out a way to create a holding tank where the effluence could be stored and flushed only once or twice a
day, thus saving many gallons of water. I even gave him the name: the Flush Budget.

Dave patented the idea and sold it for a large chunk of change. He put my name on the patent and offered me half of the royalties, but I demurred. After all, I figured that soon our finances would be commingling. To celebrate, he suggested this trip to England.

When he told me he had bought airline tickets for London, I was so excited I snapped the pencil I was holding right in half.

I had the trip all planned out—what bed-and-breakfast we would stay at, what plays we would see, what museums we would visit. The one tour I had to strike off the list was a trip to Hay-on-Wye, a town in Wales with more bookstores than any other in the British Isles. Dave would have died of boredom.

*   *   *

Even though our plane wouldn’t leave for hours, I was already dressed in my new outfit—a pair of beige knit pants and matching Eileen Fisher hoodie—bought especially for the trip.

As I primped in front of the mirror I took a good hard look at myself, cataloguing my attributes. Forty-six years old; five foot two; dark brown hair with a few threads of gray, cut in a stylish bob, blue
eyes, an okay figure. I needed reading glasses—a badge of honor in my profession. One of my best features was my feet, but I didn’t often get to show them off. I needed to lose twelve pounds and I knew exactly which ones they were.

I had all my accoutrements for traveling set right by the front door—the current issue of
Vogue
(always my little treat when I fly), the
New York Times
tucked into my carry-on bag so I could do the crossword puzzle, oatmeal cookies, binoculars, and a few choice books.

We had four and a half hours before our flight, but I was ready to leave as soon as Dave arrived. All I had to do was put on my lipstick.

I was picking out the perfect color when the phone rang.

I checked caller ID. It was Dave.

Dave had not come over last night as he usually did. It was my idea, really. I thought it would be more romantic, build up the tension. He had been busy for the past two nights, so we hadn’t seen each other for a few days.

“Hey, Dave,” I said.

I had decided not to try out my British accent on him yet. I wanted it to be a surprise. Like the black negligee I had rolled up in my flannel nightgown and tucked deep into my suitcase. I had been
watching BBC television shows—“Are You Being Served?” and all the many versions of the Jane Austen novels produced by PBS—trying to perfect my accent.

“Yeah, listen, Karen.”

“I can hardly believe we’re really going,” I said. “Can you believe it? I hope you’re packed. Really, I could have helped you, Dave. Do you have your raincoat? When are you coming to get me? Let’s leave on the early side.”

“That’s what I called about.” He sounded all business. “I don’t think this is going to work.”

I felt my shoulders tighten, my throat turn to dust. But I managed to sound calm when I asked, “What isn’t going to work? Is there something wrong with your car? We can take a cab. That might be easier.”

“No, that isn’t what I mean. I mean this whole thing.”

“What whole thing?” My voice was rising. I couldn’t help it. Tension did that to my vocal cords.

“Us. This trip,” Dave answered.

“This trip! Now you’re scaring me.”

He cleared his throat. Not a good sign. He only did that when he had bad news to deliver. Like when he told me my burgundy 1950s-era toilet would have to be replaced. “Well, I’ve been thinking. I don’t think we’re right for each other.”

I could hardly breathe, but I managed to spit out, “What are you trying to say?”

“Karen, you’re great, but . . . it’s over. It isn’t anything you did. It’s me.”

“What about the trip?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Karen. No trip. I’ve changed my mind. I can’t go to England with you.”

“But I have my passport.”

“I know, but I think it’s better this way.”

“Dave?” I had to talk sense to him. The last time I’d seen him everything had been fine. He had loved my meatballs. Later, in bed, he had loved me.

He hung up.

“Dave?” I couldn’t believe it. This simply could not be happening. I let go of the phone. It fell to the floor and lay there like a dead mouse.

I slid down onto the floor next to it. The walls of the room rushed in toward me and I had a hard time breathing.

Something broke inside of me.

That was the first time I thought of killing him.

I couldn’t believe how fast my love, my deep abiding love for this man who had saved me from the emptiness of the middle of my life, could change into bottomless hate. I was a walking hate machine.

Hate, however, was a better feeling than the flood of despair that was pushing behind it.

What about
England
?

I had taken two weeks off from my job.

What would I tell Rosie and Nancy, the other librarian? And everyone else I had bragged to about this wonderful trip.

I was all packed.

Everything was in order.

Sitting on the floor, staring at the kitchen cabinets—angry beyond despair—I became very clear.

Nothing was going to stop me.

With or without him, I was going to England.

THREE

Mohammed Ali

A
fter that first tsunami of hate washed over me, I tried to call Dave back. I’m not sure if I was calling him to berate him or to beg him to give me another chance.

No answer. I tried his home number, his cell number, I sent him an e-mail, I called his office. I left no messages until the second time I called his cell. He slept with his cell. I knew this because I had been in bed with both of them.

“Dave, we need to talk. If you’re unhappy about some things, we could work them out on the trip.
I know I can be rather rigid, but I would like to change.” I stayed calm, but by the word
trip
my mouth was quivering. I hung up before I cried.

What followed was a flood of tears, a tornado of wailing. I’d rather not go into too much detail here, but suffice it to say that it was both painful and pathetic. Afterward, I washed my face and reapplied my lipstick.

I stared at my watch. Our plane was leaving in three hours and thirty-three minutes. I was going to be on that plane if it killed me.

I called the airline and asked if there was any way I could get on that flight. That was the one thing I had Dave take care of—the plane tickets. “We’ve had some cancellations,” the woman told me.

I tried to ignore the cost of a last-minute booking. How appropriate that I might be getting my own ticket back—at twice the price. I booked the flight, gave her my frequent-flier number, even though I was really an infrequent flier, and I was confirmed on the flight.

When the phone rang a few minutes later, I jumped for it so fast that I didn’t even check caller ID. I was disappointed to hear Rosie’s squeaky voice on the other end.

Her voice always reminded me of a mouse trying to talk like a human. “Karen, sorry to bother you,
but that guy Richard came in again and returned his books and took out two others. He didn’t use the speedy checkout, but brought them to me. Do you think that means something?”

“Possibly,” I replied, not wanting to get her hopes up.

“I know you’re leaving on your trip, but I didn’t know who else to talk to.”

“I am getting ready to leave.” I hated to say my news out loud. Saying it to someone would make it all the more real. But I couldn’t keep it from Rosie. “But not with Dave.”

Stunned silence, then her thin voice yelped, “Oh, no. What happened? Is he okay? Did he have a heart attack?”

“No such luck.” My voice cracked and I swallowed down tears. “He just broke up with me.”

“What about the trip?”

“I’m going anyway.”

“Wow, Karen, that’s brave.”

“I know.” I tightened my top lip. I didn’t feel brave. I felt a deep loneliness and wretched anger that the man who had been in my life for several years didn’t have the guts to sit down face-to-face and tell me what was going on.

Even though I was the last person in the world who should have been giving advice to the lovelorn,
I wanted to help Rosie with Richard. I told her, “Maybe ask your guy a question.”

“About what?”

“One of the books he’s taking out.”

“Yeah, I like that. I’ll ask him if it’s any good.”

“But he won’t have read it yet.”

“That’s right. I’ll ask him why he’s taking it out.”

“Good plan.”

“Dave wasn’t good enough for you, Karen. I never liked his nose. Made him look like a toad.”

“Thanks, Rosie.” I had always liked his squat, turned-up nose. Not handsome, but neither was Dave. Because of that nose, I’d thought I could trust him.

I had to leave one thing behind. I opened my suitcase, unrolled my flannel nightie, and removed the black negligee. I wouldn’t be wanting it now. I found a pair of scissors and was on the verge of slashing it to bits, when I thought again. Why rule it out? I do like to be ready for anything, and who knew what my future might bring? I folded it and put it back in the suitcase.

*   *   *

Cabdriver Mohammed Ali picked me up shortly before noon. He helped me put my one suitcase in the trunk. When I got into the backseat, I stared at his photograph and name, memorizing them just in case.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“I’m going to England. My first time. I’ve never been before.” I was babbling. Not a good sign. But if I talked I couldn’t think about Dave, which would keep me from crying in the taxi.

“That’s good, but I mean, what airline?”

“Oh.” I told him.

“What time is your flight?”

I told him.

“You’re plenty early,” he said.

“I know. I don’t like to rush.”

“I lived in England,” he said after we had pulled onto the freeway. “Before I come to America.”

“Oh.” I didn’t feel much like hearing his life story.

“America’s better. More room. Bigger cars.”

“Yes, I suppose.”

Halfway to the airport, Mohammed said, “Would you mind if I pull over for a few minutes?”

I wasn’t really in a hurry. I assumed he needed to get gas. “No. That’s fine.”

He pulled off the freeway, turned onto a service road, and stopped on the shoulder. When he reached down under the seat, I started to worry. What was he doing? Was I getting kidnapped by a taxi driver? I touched my cell phone in my purse, in case I might want to use it.