Claws For Concern

FIVE

For a moment I couldn’t respond. Why is this man interested in my address?

“Can you read it okay?” the man asked. “I had a little trouble myself, the print being so small the way it is.”

I cleared my throat. “Yes, I can read it. It’s not far from the library.” I hesitated, worried that my next words might offend him. “Maybe a little far to walk on a hot day, though. May I ask why you’re interested in this particular address?” I stepped back, and he closed the phone book, one finger inserted to hold his place.

He regarded me briefly, then his gaze dropped when he began to speak. “My mother used to know Mr. Collins a long, long time ago. I reckon he must have passed on or else sold his house because I had to look in an old book to find his name.” He tapped the cover of the phone book, and I saw that it was dated eight years ago.

Aunt Dottie was still living when that issue was published. Even though Uncle Del had died more than twenty years ago, the listing in the phone book remained in her husband’s name. That was the custom, of course, and Aunt Dottie had never changed her entry.

“Yes, I’m afraid Mr. Collins has been gone a long time now,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I never introduced myself. I’m Charlie Harris.” I was hoping he would tell me his name now.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Harris,” the man said. “Bill Delaney.” He stuck out his free hand, and I shook it.

“Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Delaney.”

“Is Mrs. Collins still living?” Delaney asked, his gaze once again lowered.

Was he really that shy, I wondered, that he didn’t want to look directly at me? Or was he afraid I would read his thoughts?

I shook my head. “No, she passed away about seven years ago.”

“Did they ever have any children?” Delaney asked. “Would you happen to know?”

He seemed overly interested, at least to me, in Uncle Del and Aunt Dottie. I decided I wasn’t going to reveal my connection to them—and to the house—until I knew more about Delaney and the reasons for his interest.

“No, they didn’t,” I said. That wasn’t completely accurate, because they had had one child, a daughter named Veronica, who died in childhood, but I didn’t see any point in revealing that to a stranger.

“That’s too bad,” Delaney said. “Sure would’ve been nice to talk to Mr. Collins about my mother. When you get to be my age, you know, there just ain’t that many folk around who knew your parents in the old days.”

“I know what you mean.” My parents would have been in their late eighties by now, and most of their friends in Athena were gone.

“Well, I reckon that’s that.” Delaney shrugged. “Thanks again, Mr. Harris, for helping with the phone books.”

“You’re welcome,” I replied.

He nodded and walked away. Obscurely troubled, I stood there for a moment and watched his retreating back. I couldn’t explain it, but I had a feeling there was more behind Delaney’s interest than simply wanting to find someone who had once known his mother. But I had no idea what that more could be.

Back at the desk I found Bronwyn engaged in a conversation with one of the regular patrons, an anxious-looking young mother with twins about seven years old tugging at her blouse. Bronwyn flashed me a grin as she left the desk to assist the mother. I noticed that Diesel was under the desk, well away from any questing hands. He remembered the twin boys and had obviously decided that retreat was the order of the day. I didn’t blame him. They appeared to me to be even more energetic than usual this morning.

“It’s okay,” I told him in a low voice. “They’re gone now.”

Diesel meowed, and I nodded. He emerged from beneath the desk and resumed his usual spot by the chair. He stretched out and relaxed.

For the next two hours, I helped a number of people find the resources they needed. I also helped a youngish couple, new in town, with information about obtaining their library cards. I pointed them to the circulation desk where one of the part-time assistants stood.

“This young lady will take care of it for you,” I told them.

During a brief lull after that, with the thought of library cards in my mind, I wondered whether Bill Delaney had registered for a card. I logged into the circulation module and did a quick check.

I found him right away, although there were several other Delaneys in the database. I looked at his address and frowned. I recognized it. He lived in a small apartment complex with only a few units in a run-down section of Athena. From what I could recall, the complex appeared not to be well-maintained.

I closed out the circulation module. I really shouldn’t have been prying into the man’s business, but Bill Delaney had aroused my curiosity—and now my sympathy as well. He must be on a severely limited income if his address was any indication.

Bronwyn appeared at the desk while I was wrapped in thought and startled me.

“Easy, Charlie,” she said. “Didn’t mean to make you jerk like that.”

“No problem,” I said. “My fault for woolgathering on the job.”

“Would you like to have lunch now? It’s a few minutes after noon,” Bronwyn said.

Diesel had already perked up with Bronwyn so close, but at the word lunch he warbled.

I laughed. “I guess Diesel’s ready, at any rate. Yes, we’ll go ahead and eat now. Give me a holler, though, if you need me.” I pushed back the chair. “Come on, boy. Snack time.”

Diesel knew where we were headed, and he loped in front of me into the staff area. I found him in the small kitchen staring hopefully at the refrigerator.

I retrieved the food and drink I had brought and took everything into the small lounge next to the kitchen. Diesel parked himself by my chair, and one large paw rested against my thigh seconds after I took my seat. He chirped.

“Yes, there’s something for you.” I unwrapped a few pieces of boiled chicken from the foil I’d used and pinched off a large bite of breast meat. He grabbed it and moved under the table to eat while I unwrapped my own meal, two ham-and-cheese sandwiches with lettuce and tomato on wheat bread. While we ate, I looked at my phone, checking for messages and e-mails, but found nothing.

I set the phone aside. I found my thoughts returning to Bill Delaney. That nagging sense of familiarity simply wouldn’t go away but the puzzle refused to resolve itself. The more I worried at it, I thought, the more elusive the answer became.

Feeling too fidgety to take the full time allotted me for lunch, I cleaned up the detritus of our meals. I had to assure Diesel twice that there was no more before he would stop meowing at me. While I washed my hands and prepared to return to work, he sought out his litter box.

He joined me at the reference desk briefly, but when he realized Bronwyn intended to go eat her lunch, he trotted off after her. I had asked her before not to feed him, but unless I stood over them, I had no way of knowing whether she would honor my request. Diesel could look pitiful when he wanted to, like all cats determined to con food out of a human. Bronwyn was no doubt every bit as susceptible as I was.

We saw a steady parade of patrons through the doors that afternoon. One of the numerous book clubs around town that gathered in the library’s public meeting room came in for their monthly meeting. I knew most of the members from my volunteer work there, and I greeted them as they passed by the reference desk. I bade them good-bye a couple of hours later when they began to trickle out. By that time it was after four, and the Saturday regulars who had spent most of the day with us began to pack up their things.

Among those leaving I spotted Bill Delaney. I hadn’t had another opportunity to talk to him. I wasn’t sure what I would say to him, however, if I did. I simply couldn’t help being curious about his interest in my uncle Del. Aunt Dottie had often told me, when I was a child, that I had enough curiosity for seventeen cats. I didn’t think I had changed much in that respect in the last four or five decades.

Diesel and I helped Bronwyn prepare the library for closing, and soon after Bronwyn locked the doors, Diesel and I headed toward the town square where the bookstore was located. Though the square was busy with traffic, I managed to find a parking spot in front of the store.

Jordan Thompson, a tall redhead, glanced up as the cat and I walked through the door. A smile split her lovely face, and she came from behind the counter to greet Diesel with a few rubs of the head. He rewarded her with a mixture of chirps and trills. Two other customers, hearing the cat, looked at us to discern the source of the odd noises. They both smiled in our direction before they resumed their browsing.

“I’m glad you could come by today, Charlie.” Jordan walked back behind the counter and pulled a stack of books from a shelf. She set the books on the counter for me to examine. I was happy to see among them new books by Ellery Adams and Julia Buckley, the latter author being a recent discovery. I set those two aside as definite yeses. Jordan talked to Diesel while I delved further into the stack.

The next book I picked up was Hell Has No Fury by Jack Pemberton. I began to thumb through it. He had dedicated the book to his wife, Wanda Nell. That was a Southern name if ever I heard one, I thought with a smile. After the dedication page came a page of acknowledgments, and that I skipped. On the next page, there was a quotation, the line from Congreve’s The Mournful Bride, the source of the book’s title. I took that as an encouraging sign. The man was obviously literate if he was quoting Congreve. I sampled the first couple of pages and decided I liked Pemberton’s style.

I held up the book with the title facing Jordan. “Have you met the author?”

Jordan nodded. “Yes, he’s been here twice to sign books. Really nice guy. He teaches high school English in Tullahoma.”

An English teacher. That explained the Congreve quotation.

“Why this sudden interest in true crime?” Jordan asked. “I don’t think you’ve ever bought any from me before.”

I didn’t want to share the real reason for my interest with her. Time enough for that later, if I decided to cooperate with Pemberton on his book idea. So I prevaricated. “His name came up in conversation recently, and I was curious.”

“Let me know what you think,” Jordan said.

“I will,” I replied. I examined the three other books she had set aside. I passed on two of them but the third I decided to give a try.

Jordan rang me up, and a few minutes later Diesel and I headed home. Jordan had managed to slip him a few of the cat treats she kept on hand for his visits, and he was a happy kitty. I would have said spoiled, but that was redundant, of course.

After a full day at the library I was ready to get home and relax. Dinner and maybe a glass or two of wine, then I’d settle down with Pemberton’s book and read until bedtime and my regular Saturday late-night phone call with Helen Louise.

We were half a block from home when I noticed a man walking down the sidewalk, his back to the car, in front of the house. He glanced at the house for a moment but continued on his way.

By the time I reached the driveway the man had reached the corner and began to cross the intersection. From the back he seemed familiar, but I didn’t realize who he was until I pulled into the garage.

It was Bill Delaney.