“How does it fit, Jane?”
Jane flipped open the notebook she always seemed to have with her. “Cordelia Botkin lived in San Francisco. She became the mistress of the Associated Press bureau chief, John Dunning. He’d left a wife back in…” Jane scanned her notes, “…Dover, Delaware. Botkin mailed the wife several anonymous letters first, did your mother get any?”
I nodded. With a very stiff upper lip, Mother had told Lynn Liggett something she’d never thought significant enough to tell me: she’d gotten an incomprehensible and largely nasty anonymous letter in the mail a few days before the candy came. She’d thought the incident so ugly and meaningless that she hadn’t wanted to “upset” me with it. She had thrown it away, of course, but it had been typed.
I was willing to bet it had been typed on the same machine that had typed the mailing label on the package.
“Anyway,” Jane continued after checking her notes, “Cordelia finally decided Dunning was going back to his wife, so she poisoned some bonbons and mailed them to Dunning’s wife. The wife and a friend of hers died.”
“Died,” I said slowly.
Jane nodded, tactfully keeping her eyes on her notes. “Your father is still in newspapers, isn’t he, Roe?”
“Yes, he’s not a reporter, but he’s head of the advertising department.”
“And he’s living with his new wife, which could be said to represent ‘another woman.’”
“Well, yes.”
“So obviously the murderer saw the outline was roughly the same and seized the opportunity.”
“Did you tell Arthur Smith about this?”
“I thought I had better,” Jane said, with a wise nod of her head.
“What did he say?” I asked.
“He wanted to know which book I’d gotten my information from, wrote that down, thanked me, looked harassed, and told me goodbye. I got the impression he’s having trouble convincing his superiors about the significance of these murders. What was in the candy, do you know yet?”
“No, they took the box to the state lab for analysis. Arthur warned us that some of the tests take quite a while.”
Lillian was moving closer and looking curious, a chronic state with Lillian. But all my co-workers were regarding me with more than normal interest. A quiet librarian finds a body at the meeting of a pretty odd club on Friday night, gets a box of doctored chocolates in the mail on Saturday, turns up dressed in all new and uncharacteristic clothes on Monday, has a whispered conference with an excited woman on Tuesday.
“I’d better go. I’m disturbing you at work,” Jane whispered. She knew Lillian quite well. “But I was so excited when I tracked down the pattern, I just had to run down here and tell you. Of course, the Communist man’s murder was patterned after the Marat assassination. Poor Benjamin Greer! He found the body, the newscast said.”
“Jane, I appreciate your researching this for me,” I hissed back. “I’ll take you out to lunch next week to thank you.” The last thing I wanted to talk about was Morrison Pettigrue’s murder.
“Oh, my goodness, that’s not necessary. You gave me something to do for a while. Substituting at the school and filling in here are interesting, but nothing has been as much fun in a long time as tracking down the right murder. However, I suspect I will have to get a new hobby. All these deaths, all this fear. This is getting too close to the bone for me.” And Jane sighed, though whether over the deaths of Mamie Wright and Morrison Pettigrue, or because she had to find a new hobby, I could not tell.
I was on the second floor of the library, which is a large gallery running around three walls and overlooking the ground floor, where the children’s books, periodicals, and circulation desk are located. I was watching Jane stride out the front door and thinking about Cordelia Botkin when I recognized someone else who was exiting. It was Detective Lynn Liggett. The library director, Sam Clerrick, seemed to be walking her to the door. This struck me unpleasantly. I could only suppose that Lynn Liggett had been at the library asking questions about me. Maybe she had wanted to know my work hours? More about my character? How long I had been at work that day?
Filled with uneasy speculation, I rounded the corner of the next stack. I began shelving books automatically, still brooding over Detective Liggett’s visit to the library. There was nothing bad Sam Clerrick could tell her about me, I reasoned. I was a conscientious employee. I was always on time, and I almost never got sick. I had never yelled at a member of the public, no matter how I’d been tempted—especially by parents who dumped their children at the library in the summer with instructions to amuse themselves for a couple of hours while mommy and daddy went shopping.
So why was I worried? I lectured myself. I was just seeing the down side of being involved in a criminal investigation. It was practically my civic duty not to mind being the object of police scrutiny.
I wondered if I could reasonably be considered a suspect in Mamie’s murder. I could have done it, of course. I’d been home unobserved for at least an hour or more before I left for the meeting. Maybe one of the other tenants could vouch for my car being in its accustomed place, though that wouldn’t be conclusive proof. And I supposed if I could have found a place that sold Mrs. See’s, I could have mailed myself the candy. I could have typed the label on one of the library typewriters. Maybe Detective Liggett had been getting typing samples from all the machines! Though if the samples did match the label, it wouldn’t be proof that I typed it myself. And if the sample didn’t match, I could have used another machine—maybe one in my mother’s office?
Now the murder of Morrison Pettigrue was another kettle of fish entirely. I had never met Mr. Pettigrue, and now never would. I hadn’t known where he lived until one of the other librarians had told me, but I couldn’t prove either of those things, now that I came to think about it. Ignorance is hard to prove. Besides, if he’d been killed late Sunday night after the abortive last meeting of Real Murders, I had no alibi at all. I’d been home alone feeling sorry for myself.
However, if by some miracle the killing could be proved to have occurred during the hour we were all together, we’d all be cleared! That would be too good to be true.
I was so busy trying to imagine all the pros and cons of arresting me that I bumped into Sally Allison, literally. She was looking at the books on needlework, of which the library had scores, Lawrenceton being a hell of a town for needlework.
I murmured an apology. Sally murmured back, “Don’t think about it,” but then she stayed glued to her spot, her eyes all too pointedly on the titles in front of her. The past couple of months, Sally has been a frequent patron of the library, even during what I supposed were her working hours. I didn’t think she came to check out books, though she did leave with some every time. I was convinced she was checking on Perry. I wasn’t surprised after what Amina had told me. Sometimes Sally didn’t even speak to her son, I’d noticed, but eyed him from a distance, as if watching for some sign of trouble.
“How’s your mother, Roe?” Sally asked.
“Just fine, thank you.”
“Gotten over your scare about the candy? I didn’t get to ask you last night.”
Sally had called both Mother and me for an interview when she’d read the police blotter after the candy incident. Mother and I separately had been as brief as was congruent with courtesy, we discovered later when we compared notes. I thought my name had been in the paper enough recently, and Mother thought the whole incident too sordid to discuss. (Mother also, in her career-woman mode, thought an attempted poisoning would be bad for business.)
“Sally, I wasn’t scared, because I didn’t know then and I don’t know now that someone was actually trying to hurt me or my mother. I’m going to say frankly, Sally, that you’re my friend and you’re a reporter, and I’m not sure recently just who I’m talking to.”
Sally turned to face me. She was not angry, but she was determined. “Being a reporter on a small newspaper doesn’t mean I’m not a real reporte
r, Roe. You’re a Teagarden, so what happens to you is doubly news. Your mother is a very prominent woman in this town, and your father is a well-known man. The owner of our newspaper will not keep this police gag order agreement much longer. Does that answer your question? Lillian’s coming. Have you read this book on bargello?”
I blinked and recovered. “Now, Sally, I can’t sew on a button. You’d have to ask Mother if you want to know about needlework. Or Lillian,” I added brilliantly, as my co-worker wheeled her own cart past the other end of the stack.
Lillian, whose ears are as fine-tuned as a bat’s, heard her own name and turned in, and right away she and Sally were embroiled in an incomprehensible conversation about French knots and candlewicking. A little sadly, I returned to my shelving. When I was no longer news, I wondered whether Sally would decide she was just a friend again.
When I looked at my watch and discovered it was four o’clock and I was due to get off at six, I realized I’d better think about what I was going to wear to the Carriage House with Robin. He had mentioned picking me up at seven, which gave me a scant hour to get home, shower, redo my makeup, and dress. Reservations had been no problem; Tuesday was not a heavy night at the Carriage House, and I’d told them 7:15. Now I had to decide what to wear. My dark blue silk was back from the cleaner’s. Had I ever taken the matching sandals to be repaired after I noticed the strap coming loose? Desperately I wished I had bought the black heels I’d seen at Amina’s mom’s shop that morning. They’d had bows on the back of the heel, and I’d thought they were ravishing. Would I have time to run by and get them?
Gradually I became aware that someone was humming on the other side of my stack with a droning, bee-like monotony. It could only be Lillian. Sure enough, when I pulled out a veterinarian’s “humorous look at life with animals in and out of the house” which had been thrown in with the 364’s, Lillian’s round face was visible through the gap.
“I think we should be earning more money,” Lillian said sulkily, “and I think we should be asked before being scheduled to work nights, and I think they should never have hired that new head librarian.”
“Sam Clerrick? Nights?” I said foolishly, not knowing where to begin with my questions. Lillian had been a big Sam Clerrick fan before this moment, to the best of my knowledge. Mr. Clerrick seemed intelligent and tough to me, but I was reserving judgment on his ability to manage people.
“Oh, you haven’t heard,” Lillian said with pleasure. “What with all the excitement in your life lately, I guess you haven’t had too much time to pay attention to ordinary everyday stuff.”
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. “Lillian, what?”
Lillian wriggled her heavy shoulders in anticipation. “You know, the Board of Trustees met two nights ago? Of course, Sam Clerrick was there, and he told them that in his view staying open at night hadn’t been tried sufficiently four years ago, when it was such a flop—you remember? He wants to reinstate it for a time, with the present staff. So instead of being open one night a week we’ll be open three, for a four-month trial.”
Four years ago Lawrenceton had been a smaller town, and remaining open more than one night a week past six o’clock had only resulted in a higher electric bill and some bored librarians. Our one late night was a token bow to people who worked odd hours and couldn’t get to the library any other time. Business had been picking up on that night, I thought fairly, and in view of Lawrenceton’s recent population boom, another try at night opening was reasonable. Still, I felt mildly perturbed at the change in my schedule.
On the other hand, it was hard to regard my job as the most important thing in my life lately.
“How’s he going to do it without increasing staff?” I asked without much interest.
“Instead of being on two librarians at a time, we’ll be on in terms of librarian and volunteer on an open night.”
The volunteers were a mixed bunch. Mostly they tended to be older men and middle-aged to elderly women who really enjoyed books and felt at home in a library. Once they’d been trained, they were a godsend, except the very small percentage who’d taken the job to see their friends and gossip. That small percentage soon got bored and quit the program, anyway.
“I’m game,” I told Lillian.
“We’re going to find out more about it officially today,” Lillian went on, looking disappointed at my mild reaction. “There’s a staff meeting at 5:30, so Perry Allison’s going to relieve you at the circulation desk. Hey,” and Lillian looked at her watch obviously, “isn’t it time for you to get down there now?”
“Yes, Lillian, I see that it is,” I said with elaborate patience, “and I am going.” We took turns on circulation as we did on almost every job, since the staff was too small for much specialization but definitely full of individuals who didn’t hesitate to make their preferences known. I was darned if I was going to scurry downstairs because Lillian had looked at her watch, so I continued, “I’m willing to give night hours another shot. More time off during the day might be nice, too.” Since my night social calendar is not exactly crowded, but I didn’t feel it necessary to share that thought with Lillian.
I was relieved that the meeting wasn’t going to be after the official library closing at 6:00. I suddenly recalled for sure that the sandals that went with the blue silk dress had a broken strap. “Crumbs,” I muttered, shelving the last book on my cart with such force that one on the opposite side shot out and landed on the floor.
“My goodness,” said Lillian triumphantly as she bent to retrieve it. “What’s put us in such a snit, huh?”
I said something besides “crumbs,” but I only moved my lips.
I usually enjoyed my tour in Circulation. I got to stand at the big desk to one side of the main entrance. I answered questions and accepted the books, taking the fines if the books were overdue, sliding their cards back in and putting them on book carts for transportation back to their shelves. Or I checked the books out. If there was a lot of traffic, I got a helper.
Today was a slow day, which was good since my mind wouldn’t stay on my work but meandered down its own path. How close my mother had come to eating a piece of that candy. How Mamie’s head had looked from the back. How glad I was I hadn’t seen the front. Whether the importance of being the finder of the body had given Benjamin a new lease on life after the death of his political ambitions. How pleased I was about going out with Robin that night. How exciting I found Arthur Smith’s blue eyes.
I yanked my thoughts away from this half-pleasant half-frightening stream of thought to exchange desultory conversation with the volunteer sitting with me at the checkout desk: Lizanne Buckley’s father Arnie, a 66-year-old white-haired retiree with a mind like a steel trap. Once Mr. Buckley grew interested in a subject, he read everything he could find about it, and he forgot precious little of what he read. When he was through with that subject, he was through for good, but he remained a semi-authority on it. Mr. Buckley confessed on this warmish sleepy afternoon that he was beginning to find it difficult to find a new subject to research. I asked him how he’s found them before, and he said it had always happened naturally.
“For example, I see a bee on my roses. I say to myself, Gee! Isn’t that bee smaller than the one over on that rose? Are they the same kind of bee? Does this kind only get pollen from roses? Why aren’t there more roses growing wild if bees carry rose pollen all over? So I read up on bees, and maybe roses. But lately, I don’t know, nothing seems to jump out and grab me.”
I sympathized and suggested now that warmer weather would permit him to take more walks, a new subject would present itself.
“In view of what’s been happening in this town recently,” Mr. Buckley commented, “I thought it might be interesting to research murderers.”
I looked at him sharply, but he wasn’t trying to hint about the involvement of Real Murders members in the series of crimes.
“Why don’t you do that?” I asked after a minute.
�
��The books are all checked out,” he said.
“What?”
“Almost all the nonfiction books about murder and murderers are out,” he elaborated patiently.
That wasn’t so startling, once I had time to mull it over. All the members of Real Murders—all the former members of Real Murders—were undoubtedly boning up and preparing themselves however they could for what might happen.
But someone might be boning up to make the happening occur.
That was sickening. I looked it in the face for a second, then had to turn away. I could not visualize, did not dare to visualize, someone I knew poring over books, trying to select what old murder to imitate next, what terrible act to re-create on the body of someone he knew.
Perry came to the desk to relieve me so I could attend the meeting, which seemed so irrelevant I almost picked up my sweater and walked out the front door instead. I had a date tonight, too. Suddenly my pleasure in that date was ashes in my mouth. At least part of my bleak mood could be written up to Perry; he was definitely in the throes of one of his downswings. His lips were set in a sullen line, the parentheses from nose to mouth deeper.
I felt sorry for Perry suddenly, and said, “Hi, see you later,” as warmly as I could as I passed him on my way to the conference room. I regretted the warmth as he smiled in return. I wished he had stayed sullen. His smile was as vicious and meaningless as a shark’s. I could imagine Perry as the Victorian poseur Neal Cream, giving prostitutes poison pills and then hanging around, hoping to watch them swallow.
“Go along to the meeting now,” he said nastily.
I gladly left as Arnie Buckley began the uphill battle of making conversation with Perry.
With no enthusiasm at all, I slumped in a dreadful metal chair in the library conference room and heard the news that was already stale. Mr. Clerrick, with his usual efficiency and lack of knowledge of the human race, had already prepared the new duty charts and he distributed them on the spot, instead of giving everyone the chance to digest and discuss the new schedule.
(1T) Real murders Page 9
