1 Killer Librarian (10 page)

I wasn’t sure how to answer that statement so I said, “You’re looking much better today.”

She blushed slightly and slid her hands down her sweater. “Thank you. It’s all show. Inside I’m torn up. But I have to go to this Chelsea Flower Show and make the rounds for Howard. A friend of Howard’s is going to help me with everything. Tony. I don’t know what I’d do without him. I have to accept some kind of award on Howard’s behalf. He would have wanted that.”

“I’m sure.” I decided I might as well ask her a couple questions since she seemed open to chatting. “I heard that the doctor called with a toxicology report. They think he took too much digitalis?”

She shook her head and then said, “I know they think that, but it doesn’t seem possible.”

“How so?”

“Well, I’m a nurse and I give Howard all his medications. I know exactly what he was taking and when he was taking it. I gave him his usual dose right at nine o’clock, like I always do.”

“He couldn’t have taken an extra one himself?”

“I’m in charge of his medications. They’re in my
bags. The only way he could have taken an extra dose of digitalis was to sneak into the room after I had fallen asleep and take another pill. But why would he have done that?”

“Might he have wanted something else, like a sleeping pill, and taken the digitalis by accident?”

A horrified look pulled at her face. “I never thought of that. He was complaining that he couldn’t go to sleep. That’s why he stayed up so late reading.”

Why, indeed, I wondered. “Is there any other explanation?”

“I’ve been afraid to think about it,” she confessed. “It’s occurred to me that someone might have poisoned him.”

“But who and why? Not to mention how?”

She looked up at me and her eyes grew round. “Oh, many people were jealous of Howard. He had enemies in the flower world because of his new rose. He named it after me: Almost Blue Annette. It was the closest anyone had ever come to creating a blue rose. That was his hope, his desire, to hybridize a blue rose.”

“And you think someone might have killed him over a flower? Sounds a bit extreme.”

“You don’t know this flower world. They are ruthless when it comes to their plants.”

“But how would they have given him the digitalis? There was no one here that night but you, me, Caldwell, and the Tweedles.”

“The Tweedles?” she asked.

“I’m sorry. I meant Barb and Betty.”

“Yes,” she said, tapping her lips. “Betty and Barb.”

“But surely they’re harmless?”

“Oh, I’m not suggesting anything. But one of them—I can never keep them apart—was in love with Howard before I came along.”

SIXTEEN

Bangers and Mash

A
t 11:00
A.M
., I was standing at the door of the Cock and Bull when the pub owner unlocked it and walked outside with a sign that said open. The place was empty, as I had hoped.

After my filling breakfast at Caldwell’s, I had gone for a long walk along the Thames, the kind of walk I had dreamed of for years, moseying in and out of narrow winding streets, staring at house after house of brick and stone with flowerpots on balconies, and wooden benches facing the river. The day was clear and warm. I went farther than I had intended,
but didn’t get lost because the river was always there, guiding me.

By the time I got back to Caldwell’s neighborhood and found the pub, I had been walking for a couple of hours. My feet were blistered, my legs were aching, and I was absolutely famished.

“Love, have a seat. You look knackered,” the bartender said, wiping the counter in front of me.

I pulled up a stool and sat at the bar. I thought of the word
knackered
—a term usually employed for putting a horse down for dog food. Maybe one could also use it for taking an old man out as he sat reading. Not a very nice word.

“What can I get for you?”

“I’d love a half-pint of beer, but I really need something to eat.”

“The menu’s up there.” He pointed to a small sign at the rear of the bar scrawled in a hard-to-read hand.

I squinted my eyes and tried to make it out, but the words were nearly unintelligible and even when I deciphered them, I wasn’t sure what they meant. Finally I asked, “What’s good?”

“Bangers and mash.”

I nodded. While I had often heard of this dish, I had never tasted it. The name alone made me curious, and, as I had come this far, I might as well try it.

“What would you like to drink?”

Another decision. I remembered Caldwell explaining to me that each pub was licensed by a particular brewery. “Whatever you recommend.”

After some consideration, the bartender came to a decision and drew me a half-pint. I had learned my lesson and this one small beer was going to be my limit. If I had more I would nap all afternoon. But I was on vacation.

When I took my first sip, I was surprised how good the dark brew tasted. The other night I hadn’t really noticed much about the beer—but then it had been after eating spicy Indian food and being overwhelmed by everything around me. This beer tasted fuller in flavor than any I had tasted in America.

As I was getting ready to ask the bartender about Guy, he disappeared. When he came back through what I assumed was the kitchen door, he was carrying a plate filled with white and brown food. As he approached, I could see that it was a pile of mashed potatoes, the “mash,” and two thick round sausages, the “bangers.” Quite stolid food for the middle of the day, but I was famished. I had decided that I would in no way be on a diet for this trip.

“Mustard?” the bartender asked.

“Please.”

I tasted the mash. Quite good. Very mashy, with
a hint of cream. Then a bite of the banger. The sausage was oily and bland, but not bad. The tang of the mustard would serve it well.

The bartender set the mustard down. “All right, luv?”

I waved my fork at him, wanting him to stay long enough for me to swallow a bite of banger. “I was wondering,” I started, but wasn’t quite sure how to describe Guy.

“There was a gentleman in here two nights ago,” I went on.

“Yes, I think I was working that night.”

“He sat over there,” I pointed to the corner.

“Go on.”

“About your height, blond hair, maybe mid-thirties. Wore a suit coat. Looked rather professional. His first name is Guy.”

“What did he drink?”

I wondered if he was serious. “I think he was having a glass of red wine.”

“Oh, him. Sits over in the corner. Yeah, he comes by now and again. Not exactly what you would call a regular. Don’t know much more than that about him, but I know who you mean.”

“You don’t by any chance know his full name?”

“Not really.”

“Do you know what he does?”

The bartender leaned over the counter and lowered his voice. “Odd you should ask. I’ve wondered that myself. He looks quite clean and on the up-and-up but you should see some of the people he meets here. Not our usual clientele, I’ll tell you that. I’ve heard rumor that he’s involved in some fairly shady business. Why? Did he do something to you?”

“Oh, no. Nothing like that. No. We had an exchange and I asked him about something and I was wondering if he had checked it out. I wanted to get in touch with him. When does he tend to come here?”

“It’s hard to say. It’s a bit one-and-off. He’ll be here right steady for a while and then might not see him for a fortnight.”

“Oh,” I said, very disappointed.

“He wasn’t here last night. Like I said, it’s hard to know when he’ll show up again.”

“Yes, I see.” I wouldn’t be able to visit to the pub that night, as I was going to
Macbeth
with Caldwell. Although maybe afterward.

The bartender leaned forward, trying to help me out. “Would you like to leave a message for him?”

“That would be great.” I reached into my purse for a pen and tore a piece of paper from the notebook I always carried with me.

“Don’t let your food get cold now.”

“No, I won’t.” I cut off a hunk of banger and dipped it in the mustard while I thought of what to write. Nothing incriminating, but something that would give him the right message.

“From the woman whose ex-boyfriend was a plumber,” I wrote and then reread the sentence. How pathetic that definition seemed. How had that happened to me? I continued, “Please forget about what we talked about. I’m feeling much better about everything. Thanks for listening.” I signed my name and wrote down my cell phone number, in case he had any questions.

*   *   *

Feeling relieved, I walked back toward Caldwell’s house full of meat and potatoes and beer. A nice combination. In no hurry, I ambled, looking in all the shopwindows, browsing as I went. Somehow even pots and pans looked more interesting in England. Every single object seemed to have more style.

A few blocks away from the B and B, I came across a clothing store and walked into the Chic Boutique. At home, shopping for clothes wasn’t my favorite pastime, but having a new dress or, as they called it, a new “frock” from London might be very smart.

The shop was barely big enough to turn around in, but brimming with clothes: racks of dresses and
tops. Shelves to the ceiling packed with scarves and sweaters. I looked at a few garments, but all the clothes looked way too young for me. Too small, too bright, too fussy.

As I was ready to walk out, a young woman with bright red hair, brighter red lips, and an immense smile popped up from behind the counter. “Hello, hello,” she sang out.

“Hi,” I said, startled into being a stodgy American.

“Looking for something special?” she asked and came around the counter. She was wearing tight, slashed jeans, and an orange top that clashed with all her redness but somehow still managed to look very good on her.

“Oh, not really. Just looking,” I mumbled, quite overcome by her vibrancy.

Orangina, as I named her in my mind, walked around in front of me, getting between me and the door. “Hmmm, we have some new colors in that would suit you perfectly.”

I looked down at the clothes I was wearing: brown walking shoes, jeans, gray sweater. Orangina didn’t seem at all impressed that the warm gray color of the sweater I was wearing complemented my eyes.

“You’d look lovely in a dark red. Are you going anyplace special?”

“I’m going to the theater tonight.”

“Perfect. Wait till you see what I have for you. Came in not a moment ago.” She ran through a door behind the register, rummaged around, and came back out carrying a package.

In a dramatic gesture, she unwrapped the package and swirled out the garment. A lacy-knit shawl.

I fell in love the moment I saw it. It was a deep burgundy, the color of overripe cherries, and so soft looking you just wanted to touch it, stroke it. I reached out for it, then pulled my hand back.

“But I don’t wear shawls,” I blurted out.

“Why ever not? They’re perfect for you. Elegant, but casual. Simple. That’s your style. But you could get more richness in your wardrobe. Some people think that you must give up style for comfort. You can have both.” As she was saying all this she had walked forward and was wrapping me in the shawl, swaddling me in it.

She turned me to face the full-length mirror.

I have always loved makeovers. One of my guilty pleasures. A plain or even unattractive woman who gets a new haircut, puts on some makeup, takes off her glasses, smiles, and becomes a beauty. I find them hopeful and fascinating. But I had never known it could be done so quickly and so easily.

When I looked into the mirror, I saw a new person.
The shawl had transformed me. My hair had turned darker, my eyes deeper, my skin rosier. I felt as if I had even grown an inch or two. I looked like I knew something secret and divine.

I had changed into Glam Librarian.

There was no question about buying the shawl. I didn’t even look at the price tag, something I had never not done before in my life. I didn’t care what it cost. I just handed her my card. That luscious burgundy wrap was going home with me.

In fact, it was hard for me to take the shawl off. But finally I handed it over to Orangina and she wrapped it in tissue paper and put it in a box.

“Ciao,” she said to me as I left the shop with the shawl tucked safely under my arm.

I couldn’t help peeking at the receipt as I walked away. What I saw made me swallow hard—nearly a week’s salary. I couldn’t believe what I had done.

I hoped Caldwell would like it.

SEVENTEEN