The Stargazey (10 page)

“Well, I do once in a while.” She turned round and called to Dick. “Dick, just read that little bit of horoscope under Aquarius, would you?”

“Glad to,” said Dick, happy to be called on to perform. He snapped the paper straight and stood with the authority of a jury foreman to read:

“
We all know that Aquarians are true individualists! What is less well known is their extremely charitable nature. This will be demonstrated—
”

Trueblood interrupted. “Charitable nature? Well, it's less well known because I haven't bloody got one.”

Diane shushed him. “Dick, go on.”

“Right.” Dick cleared his throat.

“
—will be demonstrated this very week as the Moon passes through one of the rings of Saturn and you take delivery on a number of objets d'art—
”

“Wait a minute! Whoa!” Trueblood declared. “Are you referring to delivery of that possibly Ming-dynasty urn you're slobbering after? You think you'll get it on the cheap, then? Ha! Not a bloody chance, Diane.”

“Good heavens, Marshall, horoscopes can't be
that
specific, or else how can one appeal to the masses?”

“And just how many masses are taking delivery on objets d'art today?”

Unruffled, Diane ran a hand over her dark hair, to smooth what was already as smooth as glass and black as her heart, and said, “What I really meant was not exactly
d'art
but more like goods and furniture. For instance, there's Ada Crisp, right over there.” She pointed her cigarette holder toward the window. “And there's Theo, don't forget.”

There was a lorry sitting outside of the Wrenn's Nest. “Those are books, not art.”

Diane said, “Speak of the devil.”

“I'm not sure the devil would thank you,” said Trueblood, observing Browne across the street on the pavement with the lorry driver. “Bring me another Campari, Mr. Scroggs, and a glass of ice water to pour over my head.”

Theo Wrenn Browne swept across the street with his tie over his shoulder (arranged there, Melrose was certain, by his hand and not the wind), looking both ways as if heavy traffic on the High Street was synchronized to get him from both directions. All Melrose saw was a boy on a bicycle. But Theo wanted everybody to think he lived on the edge.

He came in, barked his drink order to Dick Scroggs, and walked over to their table. Lately, he'd been shaving only two or three times a week because he thought the days-old stubble made him look as if he'd just been modeling shirts for
Elle.
All the two-day growth made him look like was as if he'd been sleeping rough.

As he sat down, Diane said, “We were just talking about this crazy idea of yours to shut down the library.” Diane took her arguments wherever she could get them.

“Crazy? There's nothing crazy about it, I assure you. Don't forget it's
our
money that pays the Twine woman's salary.”

“Twinny,” said Trueblood. “If you're going to ruin her life, at least get her name right.”

“You're so dramatic,” said Browne. “The woman's on the verge of retirement anyway.”

“She wouldn't be if you weren't acting as lending library for twenty p per day.”

“If people are willing to pay it—”

“You've an advantage over the library,” Trueblood went on, “because you get the best-sellers straight off the printing press and Una Twinny has to wait until whatever she gets goes through channels and clears the Sidbury library and the Northants library system. So by the time Una gets these books, you've already rented them to half of Long Piddleton and taken away her business.”

Theo nodded to Dick as Dick set down his single malt whisky and Trueblood's Campari and ice water. “I'm performing a public service—”

“Oh, bosh,” said Melrose. “I could understand it if you were competing with another bookshop. But you don't have a Dillon's or a Water-stone's next door.”

“Just what's in this for you, Theo, old sweat?” asked Trueblood. “Why this agitation to close the poor two-room library and lose Una Twinny's job for her?”

“Absolutely nothing. I'm merely trying to save the taxpayers money.”

“Completely altruistic motive, is it?”

Theo, never popular in the first place, realized his popularity was taking a further plunge. He tossed his remaining whisky down his throat and rose. “I'm taking delivery on some books. Got to go.” He wheeled out as he'd wheeled in.

“We could privatize; that's the direction the country's going anyway,” said Melrose.

“There's got to be some marketing, some PR. Get Twinny to sell lottery tickets? Rent videos? . . . Drink?” Trueblood asked Diane.

“You can't dispense alcohol in a library,” said Diane. “Unfortunately.”

“No, no, old girl. I'm asking, Do you want another drink?”

Melrose brought his fist down on the table and jumped his glass. “That's it! I've got it! A coffee bar: espresso, cappuccino. Like they do in those great big bookstores in the States. I'm surprised Browne hasn't come up with that for
his
place.”

Trueblood, his refill forgotten, turned this over in his mind while firing up a jade-green Sobranie. “You know, that's rather interesting, old
sweat. I say, it just might work. There's that second room Una Twinny uses for storage, but there's not much to store so it might just accommodate the coffee bar. I could get my hands on one of those espresso machines. Then there's a fridge; that'd be easy. Furnishings—counter, stools, tables, and chairs, which, in all of the sales I come across, would be easily found. I can bear the cost of a lot of it; it'll be dirt cheap. You bear the cost of the supplies—coffee, milk, biscuits. And I'd bet anything Betty Ball would contribute scones, croissants, whatever. Una Twinny is a good friend of Betty's.”

“But who'd run it? Who'd do the coffees? Miss Twinny wouldn't have time.”

“The library is only open three days a week.” Trueblood waved the difficulty away. “Someone in the village could do it. . . . ” He looked at Diane.

Who looked back.

Trueblood went on. “Well, someone will. Of course! Vivian, she's just the person!”

“She's in Venice,” said Melrose.

“
Now
she is. But she'll be back soon.”

“If they're not out dragging the Grand Canal for her.” This was Diane's happy thought. “I tried to tell her before she left not to go. Neptune's transiting her solar house.”

“That's bad?” asked Melrose.

“Dreadful. Anyway,” Diane went on, brushing a bit of ash from her white sleeve, “if nothing happens she'll be back next week. Friday or Saturday.”

“Her horoscope says?”

Diane rolled her eyes at Melrose's obtuseness. “No, that's what
she
said. The stars can't track every little detail, after all.”

“No?” said Trueblood. “They're certainly tracking my objets d'art. Now: our coffee bar. We'll need a cat or a dog.”

“A cat? Why in hell do we need a cat or a dog? To make the cappuccino?”

“Every library has something four-legged, old sweat. They're to lie around and look content.” Trueblood sucked a piece of ice. “We could
just borrow one from the village. What about Desperado?” The Broad-stairs cat was always mauling the other village cats.

“Desperado? Are you joking?” said Melrose. “He'd eat everything in sight, besides wrestling us to the ground doing it. He'll check out all the weight-lifting books.”

Trueblood said, “Anyway, that's just a detail.”

“What if it's against the law or something? I mean, don't library systems have rules about what their branches can do?”

Trueblood wedged down in his chair, shot out his legs, looked at the ceiling. “You know, I might just have to go back to the law if something stupid like that comes up.”

Diane rolled her eyes. “Oh,
please
don't go on about that again. Listening to both of you is exhausting me. Dick!” She waved her stemmed and rink-sized martini glass in Scroggs's direction.

He was bent over his paper again and didn't look up. “Sorry, Miss Demorney. We're out of vodka.”

Diane wheeled round in her chair. “Out of luck,” “out on a limb,” “out of time,” “out of countenance,” “out of her mind”: These were all concepts she could relate to. “Out of vodka” was not one of them. She started taking things from her big leather purse: lipstick, compact, receipts, pen, small velvet bag—

“What's in there?” Melrose asked, pushing at the velvet with his forefinger.

“My pearls.”

—notebook, leather gloves, three key rings,
smack
down on the table. “Why are you carrying them around? Do they need to be mended or what?”

Her head bent over the bag, she said, “No. Because they're very valuable and I don't want to leave them at home.” The items went on: nail polish, two handkerchiefs, gun, silver pencil—

Trueblood lurched forward. “Good lord, Diane. That's a gun!”

She said nothing but continued to plunder the seemingly bottomless purse. Another lipstick, a book of stamps—

“Well?
Well
?” Melrose insisted. “Why are you packing a gun around?”

“Because I'm carrying my pearls and for protection. Ah, here.” Out came two miniature bottles of vodka, which she set side by side, smiled at, and called to Dick to come and get.

“Since when have you had a gun, Diane?” Melrose poked at it tentatively. It was small, probably a two-two, and pearl-handled.

She plugged another cigarette into her holder and waggled it towards them, one or the other, to light.

“Protection? Since when do we villagers need protection?” asked Trueblood. “You mean you know how to fire the damned thing?”

“Obviously. I've taken to carrying it round with me since I got into journalism. That and my pager.” She waggled a small black object. “You know, reporting can be dangerous.”

“You write
horoscopes,
for God's sake!”

“Not the ones people want to hear. Light?” she asked, pointing to her cigarette.

Trueblood fired up a match. “Why in hell do you need a pager?”

“So people can get in
touch,
obviously. Emergencies, that sort of thing.”

Melrose looked at the ceiling. “A zodiac emergency. I've heard of those.”

“She's not going to marry him,” said Diane.

“Who?” Melrose frowned.

“Vivian. Isn't that who we were talking about?”

“Count Dracula?” said Trueblood. “Do vampires have star signs?”

I
f Long Piddleton had tracks, Melrose Plant knew that Plague Alley would be on the wrong side of them. Or perhaps the “wrong side” would be the row of almshouses inhabited by the Withersby clan. Almshouses in these times were considered “quaint” and snapped up by Londoners to throw money at in costly renovations. But Northampton was not in the Chelsea belt, so Long Piddleton's almshouses were allowed to go to rack and ruin. The Preservation Society would be deeply pleased to know the houses were pretty much still put to their original use.

It was in Plague Alley that Agatha lived, in a darkling cottage that also might be called quaint, as it met most of the criteria. The windows were small, leaded, and obscured by the overhanging thatch, which had loosened from the roof. Light was thrifty here; the parlor was steeped in darkness. Melrose called it the Twilight Zone.

He was employing himself (while his aunt made tea) by picking out objects; from his ability to do so, or not, he could conclude whether he needed his glasses changed. Over there on a rusty floor stand meant for a birdcage sat the stuffed owl whose burning copper eyes were enhanced by the darkness. He had often wondered how E. A. Poe would have fared if the owl had been the poet's inspiration. Indeed, Poe might have found Agatha's cottage on the whole quite to his liking. There were the items sitting on the mantel over the fireplace: candlesticks, a pair of pottery
shepherdesses, a Limoges knockoff—no, wait, perhaps not an imitation but the real thing, one of the Countess of Caverness's real Limoges figurines. The Countess, Lady Marjorie, his mother. Melrose had discovered quite a few of the Ardry End collection here in Plague Alley. He could go to the mantel and look, but he did not feel like prying his way out of the overstuffed chair he was wedged into.

He heard rattlings and clangings going on in the kitchen—Agatha organizing the tea. Her brute of a cat swayed in, an odd-looking creature that always seemed to have something wrong with one or more of its limbs. It sidled up to Melrose, stood there staring, then jumped up on one of the chairs and lay down. It had the queerest, most colorless eyes, which glowed like silver discs in the dark. Trueblood might consider him a candidate for the coffee bar, if worst came to worst.

“Melrose!”

“Yes?” He had always disliked the practice of people shouting through rooms.

“Oh, never mind.” The exasperated tone suggested Agatha had been beseeching him for hours to do something, only to meet with his cold refusal.

“All right, I won't.”

She came, stoutly lugging a tea service that could also have been the Countess's. The unreadable, intertwined initials could have stood for anything: Marjorie, Countess of Caverness; Lady Agatha Ardry; Dead Mouse in Pot.

“Here, permit me to help you, dear Aunt.”

“Never mind.” She muscled him out of the way. “You always do it wrong.”

Could one pour tea
wrong
?

She clattered cups and saucers and cake plate around, stopping to inspect the silver creamer and complain that Mrs. Oilings hadn't polished it properly. “I don't know why I bother with that woman. She's not worth half what I pay her.”