Death Overdue (Librarian Mysteries) (19 page)

“That is interesting. Who had the opportunity to put it on the stairs and then replace it in the kitchen?”

Caldwell stopped walking, and so I stopped too. He
thought, then shook his head. “I’m afraid everyone. Except me. I was totally focused on you, so I wasn’t watching what anyone else was doing.”

“And the kitchen is so close to the stairs it wouldn’t have been hard for anyone to put the rolling pin back.”

“It might have been an accident. Both your fall and that the rolling pin was in the wrong drawer,” Caldwell said, and I could tell he was trying to convince himself of this possibility because the alternative was so unpleasant. We started walking again, holding hands.

“Yes,” I said. “But I rather doubt it.”

He sighed. “Why would anyone want to hurt you? You might have been . . .” Again, he stopped as he thought of what might have happened. “Why, Karen, you might have been killed.”

“Yes, I know.”

“What is going on?”

“Someone is very angry about something.”

“But what do you have to do with that?” he asked.

“Maybe they don’t like it that I’m nosing around. Maybe they think if I was put out of action by a fall, you would end up taking the blame for Sally’s death and they would be safe.”

“Yes, that must be it.” He grabbed my arm even tighter than before and we continued walking.

“Or,” I said, “maybe someone just doesn’t like me.”

T
he shop wasn’t on Caldwell’s list of the best booksellers in London, but it was small and quaint, and struck me as a good model for the shop we were thinking of starting. A sign that read
FUDGEWINKLE’S FOLLY
hung above the door and made me like it already.

When we walked in three things happened: a tinkling bell rang; a large, orange-colored cat, stretched out in a spot of sun, raised its head; and an older, thin man sitting behind a desk looked up from the book he was reading. All of which I took for good signs.

Also, my hip was feeling better. The walk and Caldwell’s concern had more than improved my spirits.

“Good day,” the thin man said.

We both answered that it was a good day. The thin man, I saw as we got closer, was not as old as I’d thought he might be. He just dressed old—wearing a bow tie and a ratty cardigan sweater. While his clothes spoke of someone in his eighties, his smooth face and dark hair said thirties.

I couldn’t help myself. I had to ask. “Are you Fudgewinkle?”

The thin man smiled. “No, that’s Fudgewinkle.” He pointed at the cat, who was now in the process of cleaning an outstretched leg. “This, however,” he said, moving an arm to encompass the shop, “is the folly.”

“And a wonderful folly it is,” said Caldwell, and he stepped forward to shake the thin man’s hand. “Poppy, this is my friend, Karen Nash, from America. Karen, this is Poppy Stoneheart, bookseller extraordinaire.” The thin man then shook my hand.

“Anything new come in that I might be interested in? You know my taste,” Caldwell said.

“As in something I might tempt you with?” Poppy asked. “I had the extreme good fortune recently to buy up the entire library of an old estate—a marvelous collection although not in the best shape. I just finished putting the books where they belong, so you’ll have to look around to find them.”

I noticed that there were signs above most of the shelves
categorizing the books. Most helpful. I found the shelf of mysteries and decided I would start there. As I stood in front of the rows of books, reaching too far above my head, I felt like I was back with my own people: Josephine Tey, Dorothy Sayers, Ngaio Marsh, the older vanguard of British women mystery writers. I loved them dearly and was always on the lookout for a new addition to my library.

I had to remind myself that I should really be shopping for our store, and then caught myself as I thought the word
our
. After all, I hadn’t yet made a decision on my involvement with said store. But I found it hard to think of Caldwell starting the store without me. I made note of that. Maybe I was closer to a decision than I knew. How odd to be surprised by oneself.

The books were shelved in very good order—simple, just alphabetical by author’s name, but often, like with Agatha Christie, they were also alphabetical by title. This was a touch that made my librarian’s heart sing.

Suddenly I saw a book I had never seen but only read about—
Ten Little Niggers
by Agatha Christie—the first British edition, published in 1939 by the Collins Crime Club.

When it came out in the United States the next year, the title, because it was so politically incorrect (even though that phrase hadn’t been coined yet), was changed to
And Then There Were None.
The book became Christie’s bestselling novel and the bestselling mystery of all time.

I wanted it. For me.

The price was six thousand dollars. Way out of my range. But probably worth it—the dust jacket was in very good condition, featuring ten small black men dancing on a disk with a hand coming down to pick one of them up.

As I held the book out in front of me, I foresaw a problem with buying books for the store—would I want them all for myself ? I needed to learn how to shop for the general public, and that meant learning the prices on books and what was a deal, what we could make money on.

I made myself put the book back on the shelf and pulled down another of Agatha Christie’s books, a lovely original edition of
Appointment with Death
.

I always loved the books of hers that included a scene where Hercule Poirot meets with all the suspects and, to the amazement of the police, explains how and why the murders were done. There was something about this clarity that so pleased my library mind—a place for everything and everything in its place.

I closed my eyes, held the book to my chest, and savored it. What a genius Agatha Christie was. She wrote book after book, murder after unusual murder, then solved each one with some nice neat little package of a treatise.

Then my thoughts shifted to our own possible murder case. How I would love to turn into Poirot, replete with mustache,
and call the possible suspects—Penelope, Alfredo, Brenda, Bruce, and, yes, Caldwell and myself—to the garden room, where I would then explain how the books came to tumble down on Sally.

Maybe I could do it—if I knew the answers to a few more questions.

W
hen we got home, Caldwell went upstairs to take a nap and I wandered toward the back room to page through my new books. Besides the Agatha Christie I had splurged on a Tey and a Marsh. I was just getting used to the idea that I could spend a little more money on books than I was used to. Again, bless the Flush Budget. Who would have thought so much good could come from a toilet?

I thought it very sweet that Caldwell was comfortable enough with me that he would take a nap if he needed one and not worry about me. The thought of him sleeping was in itself comforting.

When I walked into the garden room, I found two weeping women—Penelope and Brenda—already occupying it. Penelope was using a lovely linen handkerchief to wipe her tears away, while Brenda was using what looked to be a dustrag. I hoped it had not been used earlier for its original purpose.

“I’m sorry,” I said as they looked up at me while wiping their faces.

“Oh, not to worry,” Penelope said. “We’re just having a little cry together. I can’t believe Sally’s gone. It’s like this huge chunk of my life just vanished. Even though she could be difficult, she was my sister.”

“And I didn’t even get to talk to her,” Brenda chimed in. “I’ve been waiting so long to see her again and now I never will. I had always hoped she’d come back and live here again. But it’s all over. Mr. Caldwell is leaving and I’ll be out in the streets. I wish I were dead.”

With those words, both of them burst into tears again.

I sat down in the love seat next to Penelope, poured them each more tea. They’d need liquid to replenish what they were losing through their tears. I waited for the tears to subside.

Finally they blew their noses, snuffled back the end of the tears, and reached for their teas. Brenda, as was her habit, poured a good amount of milk into hers. They both stirred and blew and drank.

The English and their tea. They had made drinking it into as much a ceremony as had the Japanese.

I saw this as my chance to ask the two of them a few more questions that might solidify my thoughts on Sally’s death. “Do either of you have any further ideas on how Sally died?”

Brenda said, “I know for a fact that Mr. Caldwell couldn’t have done it. I’m pretty sure I heard him rattling around down in the kitchen right before I heard the loud thump of the books falling. If you ask me, I think it was an accident. I’m sure of it.” She lowered her head and stared into her cup.

“The hook undone?”

Brenda shook her head, then in a voice with little assurance she said, “Circumstantial evidence. I might have undone the hook myself by accident when I was in there cleaning.”

“I thought you didn’t dust the books,” I reminded her.

“Mostly I don’t. But sometimes I can’t resist, you know, if Caldwell hasn’t been in there for a while.”

“I certainly didn’t do it,” Penelope said, looking right at me, her eyes lightly rimmed with red. “I didn’t even know there was a bookcase in front of that door. I’d never been in the library before.”

“What about Alfredo?” I asked. “After all, he had the most to gain from her death after she changed the will.”

Penelope jumped as if she’d been stuck by a pin. “No. He’s rich. He wouldn’t need the money.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Of course I’m sure. I stayed at his villa,” she said.

“And you know it was his?” I asked.

Penelope’s eyes widened for a moment, then she said, “What are you suggesting? Whose else would it be? He lived there and knew the history of it going way back to the Middle Ages.”

“Neither point proves anything,” I said.

“What’s the matter with you?” Penelope asked. “Why do you keep poking around about this?”

“Because Caldwell might be found guilty of causing Sally’s death. I won’t let that happen.”

“If anyone’s to blame, it’s you.” Brenda stood and continued. “It’s really all your fault. If you hadn’t come along, we’d all have been fine. Sally would still be alive.” She huffed out of the room.

“What’s going on between you and Alfredo?” I asked Penelope. “I couldn’t help noticing that you seem to have gotten awfully chummy since your sister’s death. Are you lovers?”

Penelope slitted her eyes. “Don’t you start anything about that. Alfredo and I were going to tell Sally. We got quite close when I visited them, and now, seeing each other again, we knew it was more than infatuation. We were planning on telling her the next day. But then she died.”

“What would you think if I told you that Alfredo wasn’t
his real name? That he didn’t own the villa but was a tour guide?”

“I’d think you were a stupid woman who didn’t like to see other people happy. And I wouldn’t care what he was. But then, at your age, you probably don’t know a thing about true love.”

“But I’m just trying to help,” I started.

“I don’t need your kind of help. Alfredo and I will help each other.” She flounced out of the room.

I gathered the tea things and picked up the tray. I was starting to make sense of what had happened to Sally. I needed to act on it fast.

Before Caldwell could awaken from his nap and while everyone else had gone up to their rooms, I walked outside with my cell phone, called Inspector Blunderstone, and asked for his presence that night. After quizzing me, he agreed.

I leaned back against the side of the house and sighed. I hoped I was right.