by Sofie Kelly
He stared at me, hands jammed in his pockets, his face unreadable. If the guy who’d helped me off the floor was Nice Cop, then this had to be Mean Cop.
“Ms. Paulson,” he said, finally. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you what happens to people who lie?”
“Actually, my mother said, ‘Always tell the truth, because it’s much easier to remember,’” I said.
Detective Gordon said nothing.
“You think he came back?”
A tiny muscle twitched in his cheek.
“No,” I said slowly. “You’re certain he came back. That’s why you won’t let it go.” I looked across the library. One of the heavy sheets of plastic had been taken down. “You picked something up off the floor after we saw those spots of blood. What was it?”
He cleared his throat. “Part of a cuff link.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” I played with my watch. “Easton didn’t come back while I was here. Both Mary and Susan said they didn’t see him, either. And they don’t have any reason to lie.”
“Do you?” the detective asked.
I closed my eyes for a moment and took a couple of deep breaths. “No,” I said.
I held up one finger. “I met Gregor Easton for the first and only time Tuesday night.” I added a second finger. “I did not know Mr. Easton.” Now three fingers. “Mr. Easton and I were not having an affair, a relationship or an encounter of any kind.” Finally, I stuck my arm out and held up four fingers. “And if Mr. Easton came back to the library Tuesday night, I don’t know when or how he did.”
Detective Gordon’s face was still unreadable, except for that tiny, pulsing muscle. He pulled out a piece of paper. “Then why did he have a note from you in his pocket?”
6
Single Whip
“What do you mean, a note from me?”I asked, my heart suddenly thumping in my ears.
He handed me the paper. It was a photocopy of an original, which had been written on library stationery. Meet me at the library at eleven thirty. Kathleen, was all that was on the page. I looked up at him. “I didn’t write this,” I said.
“It’s your name and it’s library stationery.”
I made myself take a couple of deep breaths before I answered. “Yes, but it’s not my handwriting. Mine’s a lot messier. And I didn’t write any note to Gregor Easton.” I pointed. “Look, it’s not addressed to him. It’s not addressed to anyone. And as for the paper, that’s not the library stationery. We found it in the workroom and we’re using it for scratch pads. Look a little closer at the library name.” I handed the sheet of paper back.
The detective squinted at the photocopied page; then he looked up at me. “Mabel Heights Free Public Library?” he said.
I nodded. “Uh-huh. I have one of these pads on my desk. There are a couple in the staff room and there’s a stack of them under the counter at the circulation desk. We all use them. I probably write half a dozen notes a day using that paper, to the staff, to the workmen, to myself, but not to anyone outside the library.” I pointed at the photocopy again. “That’s not even a full sheet of paper. It looks like it’s been torn in half.” I pointed over my head to the second floor. “You can have all the samples of my handwriting you want. I didn’t write that note to Easton. I didn’t lure him back here for a meeting.”
“So you say.” He tucked the paper back in his pocket.
“Why are you so certain he came back?” I said. “It can’t be just that bit of cuff link.” His face didn’t give anything away. “Wait a second. Was it Easton’s blood on the floor?”
“Why do you think it was blood on the floor?”
“Because when I asked you what you’d picked up when we saw the blood, you didn’t correct me.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Mary appeared behind him then. “Sorry to interrupt, Kathleen,” she said. “Will Redfern is on line two for you.”
“Excuse me, Detective,” I said. “I need to take this.” I followed Mary back to the main desk. It was faster than going to my office.
“Good morning, Mr. Redfern,” I said.
“Morning, Miss Paulson. I was calling to make sure the library was open before I send my boys over to work.”
I wondered where he was calling from. There was a hollowness to his voice that made it sound like he was talking to me from a bathroom stall—or the inside of a giant Spam can.
“I heard the police shut the building down yesterday.”
“They did,” I said. “But most of the library is open now, except for the meeting-room area where you were storing your tools.”
“Not a problem. Tools we got.”
“I need an electrician in here today, too,” I said, pulling the phone closer so I could move to the side of the counter, out of Mary’s way.
“An electrician? What for?”
“Because I plugged the vacuum cleaner into one of the old outlets in the computer room and was almost electrocuted.”
“You’re kidding,” he said.
“No, I’m not. All the wiring in that part of the library needs to be checked, and I still need the new outlets for the computers.”
“I can try to get someone there today.” Was he chewing something?
“Thank you.”
“Are you sure the problem wasn’t with the vacuum?” he asked.
I glanced at Mary and shook my head. She smiled in sympathy. I took a deep breath and let it out. It didn’t help. “I’m sure,” I said.
“You know, Miss Paulson, the library’s an old building, and just like an old gal, she’s going to be a bit temperamental. You haven’t been here long enough to know all her little quirks.”
There it was, that slightly condescending tone Will Redfern tended to use with me.
I shut my eyes and imagined all my frustration filling up a big, red balloon coming out of the top of my head. It was a relaxation exercise my mother taught in her acting classes. “So, I can leave the electrician to you?” I said, picturing the balloon getting bigger and bigger and bigger. “Because if it’s a problem, I can call Everett and ask him to recommend someone. I don’t mind.”
“You don’t have to do that,” he said quickly. “I’ll find someone.”
“Thank you.” I reached above my head and flicked away the imaginary balloon with my thumb and middle finger.
“The boys will be there in about an hour,” Will continued. “And I’ll get an electrician there before the end of the day. Call me if you have any other problems.”
“Thank you,” I said again, but I was talking to nothing. I hung up the phone and pushed it across the countertop to Mary.
“Is Will planning on getting some work done here today?” she asked.
“Let’s hope so.” I turned to see Detective Gordon standing by the entrance. I walked over to him. “Are we finished?”
“For now,” he said, pulling his keys out of his pocket.
“Thank you for your help back there.”
“You’re welcome.” I almost got a smile then. “I’ll be in touch.” He pointed toward the taped-off section of the library. “We should be finished in another day.”
I nodded. “Aren’t you going to tell me not to leave town?” I said.
His lips twitched. He wanted to smile. “Are you going somewhere?” he asked.
“No.”
“Then I don’t see a problem.” He turned and walked away.
I went back to the computer room. Susan was coiling the vacuum cleaner cord around the handle. “I’ll stick this upstairs in the closet,” she said.
I nodded. “Thanks. When Harry comes to mow again I’ll ask him if he can fix it.” I looked at the blackened section of wall above the outlet, hearing the bang, seeing the sparks, feeling the muscles in my hand and arm clench into twisted, painful knots.
“Does your arm hurt?” Susan asked.
I looked down and saw that I was rubbing my wrist without even realizing it. “No, it’s just a bit sore—like I used it too
much.” Like I used it to pitch nine innings of baseball, I thought, but didn’t say. “Will Redfern is sending over an electrician,” I said, partly to change the subject.
“That doesn’t fill me with confidence.” Susan pointed at the wall. “You could have been electrocuted. And remember when they were taking out the radiators? You were burned by that shutoff valve.”
I sucked in a breath, remembering the blast of steam that had just missed the side of my face.
“This is probably going to sound crazy,” Susan began, “but have you noticed that every time something goes wrong here, you’re the one who gets hurt?”
“Not every time,” I said.
She made a face at me.
“Oh, Susan, c’mon,” I said. “You think what? That Will Redfern is trying to sabotage the library renovation? Why? Does he have something against books? Or reading?”
“Well, when you say it like that it just sounds silly,” Susan admitted.
I nodded. “Uh-huh. Will’s just . . . disorganized. He’s trying to do twelve things at once.” And he’s sexist and way too cocky, I added silently. “If he doesn’t get an electrician in here today I’ll get one myself,” I said.
“Good.” Susan picked up the vacuum with one hand and the hose with the other. She looked around the almost-deserted library. “What did the detective want?”
I didn’t see any reason not to tell her. “He still thinks Easton came back to the library Tuesday night.”
“No way,” Susan exclaimed, so vehemently her glasses slid down her nose. “He didn’t come back, Kathleen. I would have seen him.”
“That’s what I told Detective Gordon.” Just then a pretty redhead with two curly-haired toddlers, each clutching one of her hands, approached us. “Excuse me,” she said. “Could you tell me where the board books are?”
I smiled. “They’re in our new children’s section,” I said. “Let me show you.” I pointed them to the far end of the library, looked back at Susan and mouthed, Don’t worry. She rolled her eyes at me.
Will Redfern’s “boys” showed up about half an hour later and started working right away on the new circulation desk. About twenty minutes after that, the electrician walked into the building, just as I was coming down from my office. He looked like a slightly younger, much blonder version of Harry Taylor, who took care of the library grounds. He offered his hand. “Ms. Paulson? I’m Larry Taylor. Taylor Electric.”
“Please call me Kathleen,” I said. He had Harry’s green eyes. “Are you related to Harry?” I asked.
“Yep. Old Harry is my dad. Young Harry is my older brother. Harry, Harry and Larry—that’s us.” He grinned and I relaxed.
I explained briefly about the vacuum, the sparks and me flying backward through the air. Then I took him over to see the blackened outlet. He crouched down for a closer look. “I’ll have to have a look at the panel,” he said.
“It’s in the basement,” I said. “I’ll show you.”
He held up a hand. “It’s okay. I know where to find it.”
“Go ahead, then.”
I walked over to Susan, who was shelving reference books again. “Tell me that was Larry Taylor,” she said. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, dress tucked around her knees, slotting books onto a bottom shelf.
“It was.”
“Good. He’s like all the Taylors. He doesn’t know how to do a half-ass job at anything.”
“That’s a catchy slogan,” I said, handing her an oversized atlas. “I wonder if he has it on his business card.”
She made a face at me. I grinned back at her. “Could you help me carry a table over to the children’s department?”
“Sure thing.” She stood up and brushed her hands on her skirt.
We managed to get the table I’d put together across the library without banging into anything. Susan went back to shelving while I dragged the new table into place and set four chairs around it. Larry Taylor appeared just as I was putting a basket of foam puzzles in the middle of the table.
The problem was an old panel and even older wiring. “And that wall outlet?” Larry said. “I don’t know why you haven’t had a fire before now.”
“Can you—will you—do the job?” I asked.
He thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “For Everett, for the library, yes.”
My shoulders sagged as the tension drained out of them. “Could you put together an estimate for me?” I asked. “So I have some kind of idea of what it’s going to cost.”
“Sure.” He pulled a pencil from behind his ear and wrote something on a small pad he had in his shirt pocket. “It’ll be tomorrow afternoon before I can get started.”
“That’s fine. Drop off the estimate whenever you can. And send your bill directly here.”
He nodded and stuck the pencil behind his ear again. “I’ve disconnected all the plugs and one set of lights in that area, so no one gets hurt.”
“Thank you so much,” I said.
“I’ll drop an estimate back before the end of the day, and I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”
We shook hands and he left.
When you start the day almost being electrocuted, there’s nowhere to go but up. Larry dropped off his estimate at about four thirty, just as Oren was arriving to start putting together the computer carrels and chairs. Will Redfern’s crew had almost finished the circulation desk.
When I explained what had happened that morning, Oren’s jaw tightened, but aside from asking if I was all right, he didn’t say anything. I told him Larry was going to be fixing the wiring and he nodded his approval. That was all the recommendation I needed.
Hercules was sitting on the porch bench, looking out the window, when I got home. I unlocked the door, set down my bag and picked him up. “You little sneak,” I said. “I didn’t see you come out here behind me this morning. How did you do that?”
He didn’t answer. He was too busy purring as I scratched his chin. I kept fresh water—a bowl for each cat, because they wouldn’t share—and some dry cat food in the porch, along with a litter box, because they often snuck into the porch before I left. Hercules had even figured out how to push open the screen door so he could get out into the yard.
I unlocked the back door, set the cat down on the kitchen floor and went back into the porch to get my bag. When I stepped into the kitchen again Owen was sitting next to his brother.
“Hello,” I said to him. “How was your day?” I bent to scratch the top of his head. His eyes narrowed in pleasure.
The cats followed me upstairs, waiting by the bed while I changed, then came back down to watch me get supper. I gave them both a little of the crabmeat from my pasta salad before starting to eat.
There were two brownies left from last night. I put one on my plate and left the other covered so I could pretend for a few minutes more that I wasn’t going to eat both of them. I cut the brownie in front of me into four pieces and ate the first one. Owen looked expectantly at me as I picked up the second bite. “Forget it,” I said. “Brownies are not good for cats.” He glared at me, and for a second it looked like he’d crossed his eyes at me. I popped the bite of chocolate in my mouth, then stretched my arms behind the chair back. My right arm still ached a little and my mind was going around in circles, trying to make sense out of Gregor Easton’s last hours.
“Why would Easton have come back to the library?” I asked the cats. Hercules was washing his face. He paused, paw behind an ear, to look blankly at me. “I know; it doesn’t make sense,” I said.
I looked over at Owen. “He didn’t come back while we were there.” Owen meowed his agreement and continued washing his tail. “Susan said she didn’t see him, and neither did Mary. Why would they lie?”
Neither cat felt that thought was worth commenting on.
I reached for the last brownie and took a big bite. “So either he didn’t come back, or he snuck into the building. If he didn’t come back, how did the broken cuff link get there? And
if he did sneak in, what the heck was he doing?”
Owen burped. It was as good an answer as any.
The phone rang then. I went into the living room to answer it.
“Hello, Katydid,” the voice on the other end said.
My mother.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, dropping into the leather chair beside the table that held the phone. I snagged the footstool with one foot and pulled it closer.
“How are you?” she asked.
For all that my mother could be incredibly self-absorbed, she also seemed to have some kind of mother radar that told her when something wasn’t right with one of us.
“I’m fine.” Because really, I was, except for a sore arm and a detective who had the idea I may have killed someone.
“I know you found that composer’s body,” she said flatly.
I slid down in the chair and propped my feet on the footstool. “How did you know?”
“I’m not a dinosaur, Katydid. I have a computer and I read the Mayville Heights Chronicle online every morning.”
So it wasn’t mother radar that had caught me; it was the Internet. “You read the Mayville paper every day?”
“Of course.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. “I like to know what’s going on where you are.”
“Well . . . that’s . . . nice,” I said.
“Are you all right? Really?”
My throat tightened and I felt that lump of homesickness in my chest again. “I am. Really.” I cleared my throat and tried to swallow down the lump.
“He was a randy old goat, you know,” Mom said.
“You knew Gregor Easton?” I probably shouldn’t have been surprised. My mother knew a lot of people in the arts. She’d been working in the theater since she started doing summer stock when she was sixteen.
“Just by reputation,” she said. “Not that it was a good one.”
“What do you mean?”
She sighed. “Mostly it was whispers and stories—you understand. I heard he couldn’t keep his hands—and other body parts—to himself.”
“Anything else?”
