Death Overdue (Librarian Mysteries) (12 page)

“What’s your fault?” I asked in my calmest voice. I hoped Brenda would parrot me in answering.

“Them finding those fingerprints, it’s all my fault,” she said as if that explained something.

“How so?” I said, handing around the cups of tea.

“I must not have dusted that room as good as I should have.”

“Well, no one could have expected you to take care and dust the hook or the back of the bookcase,” I said, trying to comfort her.

“I should have done a better job. Wiped down everything in that room, then Caldwell wouldn’t be going to jail. I still think it’s all my fault.”

“That’s bonkers,” I said, my voice rising slightly. “What can they be thinking? If Caldwell had pushed the bookcase over, he would have worn gloves. Or done something to obliterate the prints. He’s a very smart man. But the most important thing is he absolutely didn’t do it. No way.”

Penelope spoke up. “I agree with you. But the police don’t know him like we do. So many murderers are so sloppy these days.”

I was surprised to hear her talk like this.

She continued. “There’s really very few clever killings anymore. Or maybe there were never many, except the ones you read about in good mystery books. Most murderers are stupid and drunk. And almost always the murderer is related to the victim in some way.”

“How do you know all this?” I asked, suddenly very curious about Penelope’s background.

“I worked for the police as a secretary. Husbands beating
on their wives while they were drunk was the usual way it went. Stupid bugger often didn’t even know he had killed her until the police showed up. Then he was ever so sorry.” Penelope took a sip of tea and said “Ta” to Brenda for the refreshment.

“Alfredo seems to fit that description of the typical murderer to a T,” Brenda piped in. “Drunk and not so smart and related to Sally by means of being her boyfriend. He’s probably who did it.”

“He is too smart—in his own way, a rather Italian way, I’d say,” Penelope argued. “He just doesn’t speak English that well yet. And he doesn’t drink that much, not compared to other Italians.”

“But he was drinking that night,” I observed. “By the way, where is he right now? Is Alfredo still here?”

“Not at the moment. He went out to buy something to wear to the funeral,” Penelope said. “But I don’t think he had anything to do with my sister’s death. He’s too nice, and besides, he liked her. He had no reason to want her dead.”

“What about her will? Do you know who will inherit Sally’s estate, such as it is?” I asked.

“Last I heard, it was to be split between Mum and me. But possibly Sally had changed that. When I asked him, Alfredo didn’t seem to know anything about it, and didn’t seem to really care. He owns acres of land in Italy.”

“Land doesn’t necessarily translate into money,” I pointed out. “Often keeping up land requires money.”

Penelope seemed to be getting upset about the possibility that Alfredo might be responsible for her sister’s death, which intrigued me.

She started to say, “Alfredo . . .”

Just at that moment, he walked into the room with a suit wrapped in plastic hanging over his arm. “I do the best I can for the suit. I’m not used to buying this from the rack. Usually my tailor makes them for me.”

Penelope looked up and smiled. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

“Caldwell has been arrested. They suspect that he murdered Sally,” I said, wanting to see Alfredo’s reaction to this news. However, in saying these words, I found myself close to tears.

“No, this is not possible. Sally says he is a very nice man. I think so too. This is very crazy.”

I was glad to hear Alfredo so confident that Caldwell wouldn’t have done it; and I found myself agreeing that this country, which in the past I had always thought of as one of the sanest in the world, the absolute bastion of civility, had gone a little nuts to think for a second that Caldwell might have killed anyone. He would be capable of dumping a cup of tea in someone’s lap, possibly, but push a bookcase over he wouldn’t do, not in a million years.

I stood up. “It simply can’t be Caldwell. He would never have risked damaging any of his books that way.”

Brenda nodded agreement and dabbed at her eyes; Penelope said, “You’re so right”; and Alfredo shrugged his shoulders and said, “Sally says he loves those books very much always.”

“Alfredo, I know you’ve been asked this before, but do you have any idea why Sally got up in the middle of the night and went into the library?”

“Perhaps it is that she could not sleep. Books always make her very sleepy, especially the boring ones.”

I wasn’t convinced, but saw no point in arguing with him. He sat down on the love seat next to Penelope, and a look passed between them that seemed somehow intimate.

I decided then and there to find out who had done Sally in. Caldwell’s abduction was not to be tolerated. I had to get him out of jail, and it seemed like the only way to do that was to determine who did push the bookcase over.

But I also decided not to announce my decision to these three people, as I had a distinct feeling that one of them was the actual killer.

B
ecause Caldwell was incarcerated, the next day I had to attend Sally’s funeral alone. Absolutely everything seemed wrong with this picture: I didn’t know the woman very well, I hadn’t liked her the little I had known her, and, because of her unfortunate death, my darling Caldwell was locked up in jail and might stay there for a good long time.

But I knew that police often go to the funerals—to gather clues, to see who shows up, to possibly show their respect—and since everyone else in the house, except Bruce, was going, I thought it best if I went too. Who knew what I might discover at this event? Plus, it would be good
to do it for Caldwell’s sake—it was what he would have wanted me to do.

I hadn’t had time to have flowers sent, so I stopped off at a florist’s early in the morning and bought a bouquet of white lilies. I knew Sally had loved lilies because there were still so many growing in the garden she had planted at the B and B. White seemed a good color; after all, in many cultures it was the color of mourning.

Penelope had gone out early that morning, but as she was leaving she had told me the service would be at Dratt-Brinkwater and Lyme’s funeral home, and that it would be a humanist service. She also added that this was a little unusual—but it was what Sally had wanted.

“Sally was no religion to speak of, except maybe the worship of Sally,” she said, and didn’t even crack a smile as she said it. In fact, Penelope acted rather sad that the one person who believed in that religion was now gone.

“There will probably only be a small group of us. Mum will come in, and maybe Aunt Doris. Possibly some old friends from school days. I’m not sure.”

Alfredo had gone with Penelope. I wasn’t sure who was supporting whom, but they seemed fine going off together.

For this trip to London, I had packed no black clothing. Black is not one of my colors, my skin tone is a touch too sallow. I need softer, richer tones to perk up my complexion. But I did have a dark blue blouse, and I paired it with some
brown slacks and was glad for the warm weather, which required no jacket.

Just as I was getting ready to set off, I looked in Caldwell’s closet and had to sit down on the floor and cry for a few minutes. I hadn’t slept at all well the night before, and I certainly wasn’t looking forward to this funeral. I had only so many days left here, and I wanted him back with me.

I dug through one of his drawers, found a dark burgundy silk scarf, and tied it around my neck. The scarf looked rather jaunty, and it felt good to have a piece of him with me, and with Sally. I knew Caldwell would have wanted to be at the funeral service. He had rarely spoken badly of Sally, not that she hadn’t dumped him in a cruel way, but he had even seen that in a somewhat positive light, saying sometimes those quick breaks are for the best.

Brenda was nowhere to be found when I was ready to go. I had thought we might go together, but after what she had said at the inquest, it might be better if we went separately. My impression was that she had admired Sally a great deal, so I was sure I would see her at the funeral.

I walked by Caldwell’s smart car parked on the street but knew I could neither attempt to drive it, especially in London traffic, nor ever find my way around aboveground. The tube was for me. I had marked the closest station to the funeral home and was giving myself plenty of time to find it.

Rubbing the silk of Caldwell’s scarf between my fingers, I sighed and set off on my mission.

*

A tall, thin man in a long, black coat opened the door for me at the funeral home. He looked like a grown-up goth. He intoned that he was Dratt-Brinkwater. On hearing the name said aloud, I switched the two first letters around and then did everything I could do not to laugh. He showed me through to the room where the service would be held.

There were already a few people in the room, but no one I knew. After bringing my bouquet up to set with the other floral arrangements, I sat down on a folding chair in the back. I was glad to see that there was no open casket. In fact, I could see no casket anywhere. Just a large teapot sitting on a pedestal. I then remembered that Sally had been cremated. I wondered if the teapot were for serving refreshments after the service, but it looked more decorative.

Penelope came into the room and walked right over to me. She was wearing a simple black dress, and it suited her, showing off her fair hair and traditional British peaches-and-cream complexion.

“What do you think?” she asked me as she swept her hand toward the front of the room.

“Lovely flowers,” I murmured.

“Yes, but the teapot,” she said.

Not being sure what I was asked, I responded as genuinely as I could. “It’s a very handsome teapot.”

“Mum insisted,” Penelope told me.

“Oh, she did,” I said, still not sure what Sally’s sister was telling me.

“Wonderful what they’re doing with cremation urns these days, isn’t it?” she asked, clasping her hands together.

“Yes,” I choked out, finally putting together what the teapot held.

“They even had one that was an exact replica of an old police call box, blue and all. But I thought that would be a little too Doctor Who.”

“Yes, I agree,” I was comfortable saying. I couldn’t help wondering if the ashes could pour out the spout, thus making spreading them that much easier, but I refrained from asking Penelope.

“And here comes Mum. You must meet her. She lives in a nursing home, which is why I’m not staying with her. She’s in quite good health, but her mind wobbles. I think she knows what’s going on, although she had a hard time at first remembering who Sally was, and I’m not sure she has taken in the fact that she has died. However, she loves funerals.”

I stood up and turned around, and for a moment I thought the Queen Mother herself was coming in the door. A short, stout woman, all dressed in black, was wearing a hat that looked like a stovepipe someone had crushed in the
front and then added a veil to it. A powder puff of blue-white hair showed beneath the hat.

She held herself very regally and nodded to people as she walked in. Several people stopped to talk to her and hold her hands. She dabbed at her eyes, but smiled and then came our way.

“Mother dear, this is Karen Nash. Karen, this is my mother, Mrs. Burroughs. Mum, Karen is the woman I told you about who is staying at Caldwell’s.”

“How lovely. And where is that dear man?” she asked.

“I told you, Mum. He couldn’t make it but sends his best regards. You know how close he and Sally were.”

“Yes, but I did so want to see him. It’s been such a long time.”

“I’m sure he’ll come by for a visit.”

Mrs. Burroughs nodded and then looked around with a puzzled expression on her face. “But where is our Sally? She should be here.”

Penelope pointed at the teapot. “Remember, Mum. She’s in the teapot. She died and we had her cremated.”

“Oh, yes, quite right. But I haven’t seen her in such a long time. I was so hoping she’d be here.”

For an incredulous moment I was sure I was in Wonderland at the Mad Hatter’s tea party. Mrs. Burroughs was the Mad Hatter; Penelope, I’m afraid, was Alice; and I was only the March Hare.

Just as I was thinking this, Brenda appeared and we had our dormouse. She had dressed in gray and had pulled her dark hair back tight against her scalp, almost as if she were doing penance. She took Mrs. Burroughs’s hand, and I had the sense that she had to stop herself from dropping a curtsy.

“Mrs. Burroughs, I’m so sorry about Sally. She was just too good, and I can’t believe she’s gone.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Burroughs said, patting Brenda’s hand. “She has been gone for a while now. Italy, I believe.”

Brenda dropped Mrs. Burroughs’s hand and backed away from her.

Alfredo walked up, and Penelope took his arm. “Mother, I’d like you to meet Alfredo Remulado.”

“Oh my. We were just speaking of Italy.
Buon giorno,
” Mrs. Burroughs said.

Ever the Italian, Alfredo didn’t just shake her hand, he fussed over it. He seemed a new man—I guess it was the first time I had seen him neither drunk nor hungover. His eyes were clear, his stature distinguished, and his unbespoke clothes fit him to perfection.