Claws For Concern

FOUR

Diesel and I arrived at the public library the next morning promptly at eight forty-five. Bronwyn Forster admitted us and then locked the front door behind us.

“Good morning, Charlie, Diesel,” Bronwyn said. “Thank you again for helping out like this. I’m so glad you’ll both be here today.” She scratched Diesel’s head, and he rewarded her with a happy warble.

“Our pleasure.” I indicated the container of cat litter I was carrying. “Let me just stow this away and clean out his box, and I’ll be back to help you get ready to open.”

“While you do that, Diesel and I will finish turning on the lights and making sure the computers are ready.” Bronwyn smiled. “Come on, Diesel, you can help me.”

Chirping and meowing, the cat followed Bronwyn while I took care of Diesel’s litter box in a small storage closet in the staff area at the back of the library. When I returned from completing that chore, the librarian and the cat awaited me near the reference desk. While Bronwyn and I discussed sharing duties at the desk during the day, Diesel stretched out nearby and commenced cleaning his front paws.

“We’ll have two assistants today,” Bronwyn said, “so they should be able to handle the circulation desk and any shelving that needs doing.” She smiled. “We’ll be busy enough answering questions and helping people with the computers.”

“Nothing like a busy Saturday at the public library,” I said, remembering hectic past days at my branch in Houston.

“It’s supposed to be near a hundred degrees today,” Bronwyn said, “so I imagine we’ll have a full house by midafternoon.”

“I’m sure we will.” I would love to win the lottery just so I could afford to pay for adequate air-conditioning and heating for all the families and the elderly in Athena who needed it. And feed them as well.

Bronwyn checked her wristwatch. “Time to open the gates.” She flashed another smile before she headed to unlock the front door.

I joined Diesel behind the reference desk and watched as a dozen or so people streamed through the door. Among the group were the two library assistants, a couple of teenage girls, who went to clock in before starting work.

Upon seeing me at the desk three children immediately asked if Diesel were with me. Hearing his name, the cat came out of his relaxed state and walked around the desk to greet his young admirers. After a couple minutes of feline adoration, the children let Diesel go, and he returned to my side. This scene would replay itself throughout the day, with both children and adults. Diesel was a popular attraction whenever we worked at the library.

After I answered three questions and pointed one of the questioners to a particular database, I had time to look up Jack Pemberton in the library’s online catalog. I wanted to see whether the library held any of his books. If one was available I figured I might as well read it to help me with my decision. If Pemberton’s work turned out to be cheap sensationalism, I wanted no part of it.

A quick search revealed that the library did have one of his books, published a couple of years ago. The title was Hell Has No Fury. I wondered if the title referred to the old adage “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” That, in turn, was a misquoted version of a line from a play by the English poet and playwright William Congreve. I concentrated for a moment, trying to remember the original. When the words failed to come, I resorted to the Internet and found them in a few seconds.

Ah, yes, from the play The Mourning Bride. The original read: “Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.” I congratulated myself on at least remembering the Congreve connection.

Then I had to laugh at myself a little. I had quickly wandered from my original purpose. Not unusual behavior for me. I went back to the online catalog to the record for Pemberton’s book. There was no summary but the subject headings told me that the murder took place in Mississippi. Unfortunately for me, however, the book was checked out. I debated whether to place a hold on it, but the book wasn’t due for another ten days and I couldn’t count on its being turned in on time. I needed to make a decision before then.

I had another thought. Our local independent bookstore, the Athenaeum, opened at ten. I would call there later and ask whether they had any of Pemberton’s books in stock. If by chance they did, I could run by after Diesel and I left the library at five and pick one up. The bookstore stayed open until seven on Saturdays.

For the next half hour we had a slow trickle of patrons in and out of the library, mostly to return books and movies and to check out more of the same. I checked my watch and noted that there was still a quarter of an hour before I could call the bookstore. When I glanced toward the door a moment later I saw the older man I had noticed yesterday entering the library.

He hesitated a few steps inside the door before he turned to approach the reference desk. Once again I had that vague feeling of familiarity as I regarded his face. I wished I could figure out who it was that he reminded me of, but I still couldn’t quite grasp it.

“Good morning,” I said when he reached the desk. “How may I help you?”

He flashed a brief but nervous-looking smile, then cleared his throat. “Good morning, sir.” His voice was soft, his tone diffident. “Sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you could tell me if you’ve got any old phone books for the town.”

“It’s not a bother at all,” I told him cheerfully. “That’s what I’m here for. We do have old phone books. Let me show you where they are.”

“I sure would appreciate it,” the man said.

I nodded as I moved from behind the desk to escort him to the room where we kept the objects of his request. Diesel stirred from his latest nap and followed me. As he emerged from behind the desk, I could see the man’s expression change. He took a step backward, as if in fear.

“It’s okay, he won’t bite or scratch you,” I said. “Will you, Diesel?”

Right on cue, Diesel warbled, sounding indignant, if that were possible.

The man looked uncertainly at my cat but he didn’t step any farther away. “What kind of cat is that? I never did see one that big, except a bobcat once.”

“He’s a Maine Coon. They’re the largest breed of American domestic cats. He is much larger than average, though. Most male Maine Coons are around twenty-five pounds at maturity, but he’s close to forty.”

Diesel watched the man intently for a moment before he moved closer. He stopped and looked up at him. He meowed as if to reassure the stranger. The man tensed briefly, then relaxed. He stretched out a tentative hand and touched Diesel’s head.

“He’s very friendly,” I said. “Maine Coons are laid back and sociable. He enjoys coming to the library with me because he can get extra attention. The children love him.”

“I reckon I can see why.” The man stroked Diesel’s head gently several times. Diesel rewarded him by purring. “Goodness, he sounds like a truck engine.”

“That’s how he got his name, Diesel,” I said.

The man chuckled. “Nice to meet you, Diesel.”

The cat chirped for him in response.

“He acts like he knows what I’m saying.”

I grinned. “I think most of the time he does. He’s a smart kitty, believe me. Now, let me show you those phone books.”

The man nodded and followed as I led him to the area where the phone books resided. I explained that they were shelved in chronological order and that there were gaps, unfortunately, but the collection covered most of the last five decades.

“That should do me just fine,” he said. “Thank you again.”

“My pleasure. Let me know if you have any other questions.” I looked down at my cat. “Come along, Diesel, back to the desk.”

Diesel glanced between me and the stranger a couple of times. Did he want to stay with the man? After a moment, though, he decided to come with me.

Back at the desk I found two women waiting. I answered their questions in turn, suggesting the resources they might try in order to find what they were seeking. I offered to assist them, but each declined.

By now it was a few minutes past ten, and as Bronwyn approached the desk, I asked whether she would mind taking my place for a few minutes. I explained that I wanted to make a phone call, and she waved me away with a smile. Diesel, happy to see his friend, remained with her.

I walked into the staff area of the library and pulled out my cell phone. I had the bookstore in my contacts list, and moments later I was speaking with the owner, Jordan Thompson.

“Hi, Charlie,” she said. “Any chance you’re coming by today? I have a few books here for you to look over.”

“You always do.” I chuckled. “Actually, yes, I am planning to come by, especially if you have books by a certain writer in stock. I know you have a small true crime section. Have anything by Jack Pemberton?”

“Let me check,” Jordan said. “The name rings a bell. I don’t read true crime myself, but we have some customers who buy hardly anything else.”

I waited while she tapped at the keyboard. I could hear the clicking over the phone.

“We do stock his books,” Jordan said. “I remember who he is now. He’s from Tullahoma, I think, so he’s practically a local writer. Let me see.” She paused a moment. “I have two in stock, according to the computer. Hell Has No Fury and Murder at Dawn. Would you like me to add one of them to your stack?”

“Yes, I’ll take Hell Has No Fury,” I said. “According to our online catalog it’s about a murder in Mississippi. I’m working at the public library today until five, but Diesel and I will swing by on the way home.”

“Great,” Jordan said. “I’ll see you then.”

Briefly I wondered how many books Jordan had set aside for me. Probably anywhere from three to a dozen or more. She knew my favorite authors and always set aside their books for me, plus she often suggested new writers she thought I might like. I appreciated the level of customer service she and her staff provided, and I enjoyed visiting the store and browsing the shelves.

I pocketed my phone and headed back to the desk. A few paces out of the staff area, I heard an “excuse me, sir.” I turned to see the man I’d helped with the phone books approaching. I stepped toward him, noting that he held one of the phone books in his right hand. The book was open, and he had a finger of his left hand on a page.

“How can I help?” I asked when I reached him.

He moved to stand beside me. “Can you tell me how to find this address?” He held out the book, his finger pointed at an entry.

I bent closer to read the small print. When I saw the name and the address, I felt a shock. It was my address, and the name, Delbert Collins, was that of my late aunt Dottie’s husband.