Death Overdue (Librarian Mysteries) (21 page)

W
aking up the next morning, I knew what I had to do. If it was still possible. If I wasn’t too late.

Caldwell was already downstairs, making tea and coffee, while I lollygagged. I jumped out of bed, threw on some clean clothes, which were getting harder to find, and ran down the stairs and almost knocked him over as he was carrying tea and toast to the garden room.

“Going somewhere?” he asked after we had kissed good morning.

“Actually, I am,” I said.

“Time for tea?” he asked, continuing down the hall.

“Yes, please, but then I have to run.”

He asked no questions. Another thing I loved about him. He didn’t delve. He let me be. He trusted me to tell him when it was time.

I had some tea, kissed him on the cheek, and went out the door on my errand, still not telling him where I was going. I wanted it to be a surprise—if I could make it happen.

I walked the several blocks to the shop quickly, hoping that what I wanted was still there.

When I entered the store, I looked to where the pile of blankets had been, but there were only two left, and neither was the golden striped blanket that I had coveted. Disappointed, I walked farther into the store, hoping I still might find the special blanket tucked in another pile or draped over a chair. But I didn’t see it anywhere.

The tall shopkeeper came out from behind her screen, her dark hair pulled back and fastened up high with two lacquer chopsticks.

“You’re back,” she said.

Surprised that she remembered me, I said, “Yes, but it looks like I’m too late.”

“No, not quite. Another couple of days and you would have been. That’s when I have to be out of the store. But I put the blanket aside for you.”

“You did? It’s still here?”

“Yes, I thought you might be back. And I decided if you weren’t, I’d keep the blanket for myself.”

She reached down under the counter and brought out the golden blanket with thin red stripes. The fabric was even more beautiful than I remembered it. The shopkeeper ran her hands over the wool.

“They don’t make blankets like this anymore. A shame. For hundreds of years the tradition of weaving was strong in Wales, what with all the sheep. But now there’s not many a mill left in the west.”

“How old do you think this blanket is?”

“Oh, not quite an antique. I’d say mid—twentieth century.”

Once again, I had to remember that what I thought was old was never very old by British standards. But then again, the blanket wasn’t that much older than me. I ran my hand over the soft wool.

“Might I write the sale up for you?” she asked.

“Yes, absolutely. This is so kind of you to keep it for me. Why are you giving up the store?”

She laughed, and I could see how happy she was. “I got a better offer. I’m moving back to Wales to be with my guy. It’s been a good run here, but I’m ready to leave London. I’d guess you’d say I’m retiring. Or traveling into another life. Feels good to be doing this.”

“What’s happening with this space?” I asked.

“I’m not sure. As far as I know, it isn’t leased out yet,”
she said as she folded the blanket and put it in a large bag. “All I know is I will be out of here by the beginning of next month.”

I looked around the brightly lit store. Not too large, about the size of two of Caldwell’s garden rooms with what looked like more storage in the back. Not too small, the ceilings were at least twelve feet high, good for tall bookcases and maybe a rolling ladder. The space might be just right.

“That’ll be eighty-nine pounds. Keep the receipt and you can get the VAT tax back when you leave,” she told me.

I signed the slip she handed me and took the bag from her. “There’s a chance I might not be leaving.”

“Oh,” she said, looking me over. “It would be nice if the blanket stayed in this country. And you too.”

“Yes. Thank you, you’ve been so kind.”

“Not at all. Just helping out a fellow traveler.”

W
hen I tiptoed into Caldwell’s bedroom, I saw him before he saw me. He was sitting in his reading chair, reading. He might not be the man of anyone else’s dreams, but I was sure he was mine. Thoughtful, slightly wrinkled forehead; deep, drooping eyes; long fingers gently turning the pages; totally absorbed in a book.

Could I love him any more than I already did? I meant to find out.

“I bought us a blanket,” I told him when he finally looked up at me.

“Us?” he asked hopefully.

I opened the bag and dumped the golden blanket in his lap. Then I spread it carefully over him. The blanket looked perfect.

“Yes, us,” I said. “I’ve made up my mind. Since neither of us murdered Sally, so we’re not going to jail, and we’re in good health and I love you dearly and I think I might have found the perfect storefront for our shop, I thought all signs point to staying together.”

Having said that, I plunked down on his lap on top of the blanket. He swaddled me in it and kissed me deeply and warmly. When he came up for air, he said, “You found a shop?”

“I think I did. Not far away. And it’s just right—not too big, not too small. Also, it’s where I bought this blanket.”

“When can we see it?”

“Anytime. It will be vacant quite soon.”

“You’re amazing.” Then he said, “Well, I have news for you too. I’ve decided to sell the book to Bruce.”

I took his face in my hands. I knew this must have been a hard decision for him. A once-in-a-lifetime find. “You’re sure? Your bunny book? But how can you part with it?”

“I think Bruce will enjoy it even more than me.”

“It will certainly make him over-the-moon happy.”

“Yes, so I will have the money for a down payment. And Penelope approached me this morning, after you’d left. She wants to buy me out of my share of the B and B. She and Alfredo
are going to run this place together. They will focus on tours of London for people from Italy.”

“What a great idea!” I said.

“And one last thing.” He took my left hand gently in his. “My darling Karen, my librarian extraordinaire, would you marry me?” He held out a slim gold ring with a small diamond set between two even smaller rubies. “It was my mother’s ring.”

I held out my finger and let him slip it on. It fit perfectly.

Gallery Books

A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

New York, NY 10020

www.SimonandSchuster.com

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by Mary Logue All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

First Gallery Books trade paperback edition November 2013

GALLERY BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.