Read Online 1 Killer Librarian by Mary Lou Kirwin - Free Book Online
Authors: Mary Lou Kirwin
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had brought along. I decided on a Josephine Tey. She was quintessential English, old-school, not too gory. A trip to the past would be the thing to help me forget my worries.
I sank into the tub carefully, holding the book up high, then equally sank into Tiger in the Smoke. I had read it many years ago but had forgotten most of it. The atmosphere was foggy London, and I read until the bath turned cool and my skin was a maze of puckers.
The water drained out of the tub with a gurgle as I toweled off. In this quiet moment, I took in deeply for the first time that I was in England, in London, away from my life. I could be someone completely different.
I was someone completely different: I was a mystery writer doing research, I was a scorned woman who had railed against her old lover to a stranger in a pub, I was a world traveler who ate scones in the National Gallery.
But looking down at my sturdy but curvy body, I was still me. I hurt from Dave’s rejection, yet I was energized from my day in London. I was scared about having run into Guy again, by how one could set something in motion and not know how it wasgoing to end. Having just seen a dead body, I knew how bad things could turn out.
I felt awful about the death of Howard Worth, but more than anything, I was puzzled by it. Something seemed wrong and out of place about it. How could I even say this—but I didn’t think his death was an accident.
I pushed that thought out of my mind. I was not a mystery writer, no matter what Caldwell thought. I was a tired librarian, ready to crawl into bed with a good book by a master storyteller.
Then I heard wailing coming from right beneath me, like an Irish banshee foreshadowing a death. Or mourning a death.
I tied on my new, purchased-for-the-trip, pink flannel bathrobe, checked myself for a moment in the mirror, slipped my feet into a pair of darling satin slippers also bought for the trip, and set off downstairs.
A trio was ensconced in the sitting room—the two broad-boned women I had seen in the middle of the night were crammed into the love seat and Caldwell was across the room in his high-backed chair. He stood up to greet me.
“Oh, Karen,” he said. “I hope we didn’t wake you.”
“Oh, no,” I assured him. “I was relaxing and reading.”
“I’m glad you came down. Fellow travelers need to meet under better circumstances,” Caldwell said. “So sorry about last night for all of you. Not a good way to start a trip, is it?”
He reached out to pull me closer to the group. “Here are some fellow Americans—Betty and Barb, retired schoolteachers. We were just commiserating about Mr. Howard. They were quite good friends of his.”
I turned and got my first good look at the Betty and Barb, and quite a pair they were: matching large women in their late sixties with tightly curled steel-gray hair, blue polyester blazers, tie-on shoes, large wire-rimmed glasses, and, just to be different, one was wearing a red scarf at her neck and the other a yellow one. They were both still crying, but the sound had subsided to a soft burble.
“Hello,” I said. I hadn’t caught which one was Betty and which was Barb, and I wondered if it really mattered. The Tweedles.
“We were so looking forward to spending time with Howard again. Every year we meet here for the Chelsea Flower Show.”
“It’s been ten years now. A kind of anniversary for us. We had so many things planned.”
“You know his wife doesn’t like flowers, so we would have had him all to ourselves.”
“Just like old times.”
“At least we did see him for a moment.”
“When we came in late last night.”
“We popped our heads in and said hello. He was so pleased to see us.”
“But he was reading and we didn’t want to bother him, so we left him there all alone.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t have.”
They both started to weep, as if on cue.
I was trying to keep them separate, but they were blurring together. I was even having trouble
I sank into the tub carefully, holding the book up high, then equally sank into Tiger in the Smoke. I had read it many years ago but had forgotten most of it. The atmosphere was foggy London, and I read until the bath turned cool and my skin was a maze of puckers.
The water drained out of the tub with a gurgle as I toweled off. In this quiet moment, I took in deeply for the first time that I was in England, in London, away from my life. I could be someone completely different.
I was someone completely different: I was a mystery writer doing research, I was a scorned woman who had railed against her old lover to a stranger in a pub, I was a world traveler who ate scones in the National Gallery.
But looking down at my sturdy but curvy body, I was still me. I hurt from Dave’s rejection, yet I was energized from my day in London. I was scared about having run into Guy again, by how one could set something in motion and not know how it wasgoing to end. Having just seen a dead body, I knew how bad things could turn out.
I felt awful about the death of Howard Worth, but more than anything, I was puzzled by it. Something seemed wrong and out of place about it. How could I even say this—but I didn’t think his death was an accident.
I pushed that thought out of my mind. I was not a mystery writer, no matter what Caldwell thought. I was a tired librarian, ready to crawl into bed with a good book by a master storyteller.
Then I heard wailing coming from right beneath me, like an Irish banshee foreshadowing a death. Or mourning a death.
I tied on my new, purchased-for-the-trip, pink flannel bathrobe, checked myself for a moment in the mirror, slipped my feet into a pair of darling satin slippers also bought for the trip, and set off downstairs.
A trio was ensconced in the sitting room—the two broad-boned women I had seen in the middle of the night were crammed into the love seat and Caldwell was across the room in his high-backed chair. He stood up to greet me.
“Oh, Karen,” he said. “I hope we didn’t wake you.”
“Oh, no,” I assured him. “I was relaxing and reading.”
“I’m glad you came down. Fellow travelers need to meet under better circumstances,” Caldwell said. “So sorry about last night for all of you. Not a good way to start a trip, is it?”
He reached out to pull me closer to the group. “Here are some fellow Americans—Betty and Barb, retired schoolteachers. We were just commiserating about Mr. Howard. They were quite good friends of his.”
I turned and got my first good look at the Betty and Barb, and quite a pair they were: matching large women in their late sixties with tightly curled steel-gray hair, blue polyester blazers, tie-on shoes, large wire-rimmed glasses, and, just to be different, one was wearing a red scarf at her neck and the other a yellow one. They were both still crying, but the sound had subsided to a soft burble.
“Hello,” I said. I hadn’t caught which one was Betty and which was Barb, and I wondered if it really mattered. The Tweedles.
“We were so looking forward to spending time with Howard again. Every year we meet here for the Chelsea Flower Show.”
“It’s been ten years now. A kind of anniversary for us. We had so many things planned.”
“You know his wife doesn’t like flowers, so we would have had him all to ourselves.”
“Just like old times.”
“At least we did see him for a moment.”
“When we came in late last night.”
“We popped our heads in and said hello. He was so pleased to see us.”
“But he was reading and we didn’t want to bother him, so we left him there all alone.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t have.”
They both started to weep, as if on cue.
I was trying to keep them separate, but they were blurring together. I was even having trouble
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