Read Online 1 Killer Librarian by Mary Lou Kirwin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mary Lou Kirwin
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early, he had explained to me. Toilets wait for no one.
Often, in the morning, I figured things out—a better way to check in books, how to organize the new display in the children’s reading room.
This morning I started a list of questions to ask the members of this temporary household about Howard Worth’s last night while waiting for the other inhabitants to come to life.
* * *
Finally I heard someone stirring in the house; a door closed, and gentle steps sounded on the stairs. I was sure it was Caldwell. I had a feeling the Tweedles would be sleeping in late. This was my chance to have a little alone time with him. I doubted it wasAnnette, because I knew the doctor had given her a bottle of sedatives. She would not be up too early.
As I slid out of bed and my feet hit the floor, I felt much more in the world than I had yesterday. Ten hours of sleep minus three pints of beer will do that for one. The weather looked fine outside; clouds scudded across the sky, but they were fluffy and not at all threatening.
I pulled on a pair of jeans and a gray sweater that was a nice neutral. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, put a dab of lipstick on for color and declared myself ready to meet the day.
When I opened my door, I found a tray with a pot of tea, a white mug, and a pitcher of milk on it.
Something in me melted. I knew that Caldwell was only doing for me what he did for all his guests, but it felt good to be taken care of.
I picked up the tray and carefully went down the stairs with it. Caldwell was humming a piece of Mozart in the kitchen as he plunked some bread down in the toaster. The soft sound of his voice lifted me up.
He hadn’t seen me yet, so I stood and watched him, how gracefully he moved around the kitchen, putting the toast in a basket and getting plates out of the cupboards. His light brown curly hair formed a cowl around his head. He was wearing a plainwhite baker’s apron and had a tea towel tucked through the tie. But what I was really noticing was how content he was.
“Very professional,” I said.
He jumped at the sound of my voice, then turned and smiled. “Good morning. What am I professional about?”
I nodded at his outfit.
“This is the way that Jacques says to have one’s towel always at the ready.” He pulled out the towel he had tucked into his apron strings.
“Pepin?” I asked.
“Who else, but the master chef himself.”
“Do you mind if I have my tea down here? With you?”
“Please do. Why don’t you go settle in the sitting room and I’ll bring you something in a moment.” He looked up from what he was doing and gave me a once-over. “My, you look lovely today.”
Again, something inside of me let go—a huge chunk of ice that I had been keeping in the deep freeze sloughed off. I said, as my mother had taught me, “Thank you.”
The windows of the back room faced west, so the sun wasn’t streaming in, but rather the new morning light was tipping the tops of the trees in the garden and they looked as if they’d been gilded. I pouredmyself a cup of Caldwell’s strong tea, topped it off with a healthy dose of full-fat milk, and drank.
Caldwell brought in a basket of toast, a slab of butter, and marmalade. “In case you want a little edge to your sweet,” he said.
Even the smell of the toast satisfied me. “Thank you. This is very nice to be waited on.”
“It’s a pleasure. How are you this fine day?” he asked after he poured himself a cup of tea and sank back contentedly into his high-backed chair. He was holding the cup of tea in both hands close to his face, looking almost as if he was ready to dive into it.
“Isn’t that the chair that Howard died in?” I pointed out.
Caldwell dipped his head. “Yes, but it’s not the chair’s fault. Not that I’m not sorry about the tragedy of Mr. Worth’s death. It must have been terrible for you to find him here.”
“Yes and no. For a moment, I wanted to revive him so badly, but
Often, in the morning, I figured things out—a better way to check in books, how to organize the new display in the children’s reading room.
This morning I started a list of questions to ask the members of this temporary household about Howard Worth’s last night while waiting for the other inhabitants to come to life.
* * *
Finally I heard someone stirring in the house; a door closed, and gentle steps sounded on the stairs. I was sure it was Caldwell. I had a feeling the Tweedles would be sleeping in late. This was my chance to have a little alone time with him. I doubted it wasAnnette, because I knew the doctor had given her a bottle of sedatives. She would not be up too early.
As I slid out of bed and my feet hit the floor, I felt much more in the world than I had yesterday. Ten hours of sleep minus three pints of beer will do that for one. The weather looked fine outside; clouds scudded across the sky, but they were fluffy and not at all threatening.
I pulled on a pair of jeans and a gray sweater that was a nice neutral. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, put a dab of lipstick on for color and declared myself ready to meet the day.
When I opened my door, I found a tray with a pot of tea, a white mug, and a pitcher of milk on it.
Something in me melted. I knew that Caldwell was only doing for me what he did for all his guests, but it felt good to be taken care of.
I picked up the tray and carefully went down the stairs with it. Caldwell was humming a piece of Mozart in the kitchen as he plunked some bread down in the toaster. The soft sound of his voice lifted me up.
He hadn’t seen me yet, so I stood and watched him, how gracefully he moved around the kitchen, putting the toast in a basket and getting plates out of the cupboards. His light brown curly hair formed a cowl around his head. He was wearing a plainwhite baker’s apron and had a tea towel tucked through the tie. But what I was really noticing was how content he was.
“Very professional,” I said.
He jumped at the sound of my voice, then turned and smiled. “Good morning. What am I professional about?”
I nodded at his outfit.
“This is the way that Jacques says to have one’s towel always at the ready.” He pulled out the towel he had tucked into his apron strings.
“Pepin?” I asked.
“Who else, but the master chef himself.”
“Do you mind if I have my tea down here? With you?”
“Please do. Why don’t you go settle in the sitting room and I’ll bring you something in a moment.” He looked up from what he was doing and gave me a once-over. “My, you look lovely today.”
Again, something inside of me let go—a huge chunk of ice that I had been keeping in the deep freeze sloughed off. I said, as my mother had taught me, “Thank you.”
The windows of the back room faced west, so the sun wasn’t streaming in, but rather the new morning light was tipping the tops of the trees in the garden and they looked as if they’d been gilded. I pouredmyself a cup of Caldwell’s strong tea, topped it off with a healthy dose of full-fat milk, and drank.
Caldwell brought in a basket of toast, a slab of butter, and marmalade. “In case you want a little edge to your sweet,” he said.
Even the smell of the toast satisfied me. “Thank you. This is very nice to be waited on.”
“It’s a pleasure. How are you this fine day?” he asked after he poured himself a cup of tea and sank back contentedly into his high-backed chair. He was holding the cup of tea in both hands close to his face, looking almost as if he was ready to dive into it.
“Isn’t that the chair that Howard died in?” I pointed out.
Caldwell dipped his head. “Yes, but it’s not the chair’s fault. Not that I’m not sorry about the tragedy of Mr. Worth’s death. It must have been terrible for you to find him here.”
“Yes and no. For a moment, I wanted to revive him so badly, but
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