Maid of Murder

Chapter Thirty-Two

The next morning, I was back at the library. “I could never be a librarian; it’s too much like work,” Nasia complained.

I wondered if Lasha would be sad to hear that her daughter would not be following in her footsteps. Probably not.

Andy, a lanky student worker at the library, raised one eyebrow at her. “What would you like to be?”

The fourteen-year-old thought for a minute. “A professional snorkeler.”

“A professional snorkeler,” Andy teased. “There’s no such job.”

“Yes, there is.” Nasia countered with heat. “Like when people snorkel, they need someone to show them how. That’s what I’m going to do.”

“Where are you going to snorkel? Lake Erie? The Cuyahoga River? You know the river caught on fire once.”

“Obviously,” Nasia said, with a look that indicated she was talking to the mentally deficient. “I’d have to move to Tahiti.”

Erin interrupted their banter. “Why am I the only one working?” She held a pile of reference books that began at her belt buckle and ended at the tip of her eyebrows. I followed Erin with an equally large stack.

Andy, who had an irrepressible crush on Erin, quickly took the stack from her and placed it on the carpet. Nasia and the two student workers were helping me shift the reference collection. Books can become overcrowded on the shelves with new purchases, and shifting is a method to make more room on tight shelves. Unfortunately, it causes almost every book in the collection to move, creating quite a job, which is why I put it off until the last minute. After one full bookshelf, Nasia had demoted herself from active participant to head cheerleader.

I hoped the physical activity of shifting five hundred heavy reference books would keep my mind off the fast-approaching afternoon and Olivia’s funeral. It wasn’t working.

Our progress was slow, and a third of the way in, the recruits were already waving their white flags.

Nasia picked up a microbiology tome that weighed more than she did. “Who cares about this stuff?”

“Maybe a microbiology major,” Andy said.

“Hey,” Erin said. “Don’t get those out of order. I organized that entire stack.”

“Chill,” Nasia replied.

“Okay, guys.” I relented. “Let’s take a break.”

Andy slumped onto the floor, limbs flung out. “Thank God.”

When I reached my post at the reference desk, Nasia had fled the scene and Erin and Andy had planted themselves behind the checkout desk. Andy tried to strike up a conversation with Erin, leaning his elbows and back against the counter. She grunted in reply. I laughed to myself and didn’t notice Bobby and Bree enter the library until they stood directly in front of me. I suppose they were wearing what could be classified as funeral chic: dark colors, sedate, well cut, and understated.

Clever as ever, I said, “Oh, hi.” I really needed to sharpen my greetings; my speech continually regresses to that of a fifteen-year-old—and not an especially bright one.

“Hello, India,” Bree spoke mournfully.

Bobby nodded; we hadn’t spoken since I had accosted Bree in the parking lot on Monday afternoon.

“India, I’m so sorry. I promised to tell you when Olivia’s funeral service would be. When I didn’t see you at the visitation hours yesterday, I remembered I hadn’t told you,” Bree said.

“No need to apologize, Bree.” I said.

Bree licked her glossed lips. “I’m so sorry about the position you’re in. We all know that you’re not responsible for your brother’s actions.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. Unable to speak, I forced a snarl into a sad smile.

“We’ll look for you at the funeral,” Bree promised.

“India, can I have a word?” Bobby asked.

“Why not?” I said, but my tone was sharp.

Bobby grimaced. “Bree, I’ll meet you in the car.”

If Bobby’s dismissal surprised her, she didn’t show it.

“Shoot,” I said after she disappeared.

“Not here.” Bobby motioned to the stacks.

I sat at the reference desk longer than necessary to make my point and then followed him. Bobby led me to the farthest corner of the library’s main floor by the microfilm machines. To see an undergraduate this deep into the recesses of the library would be like seeing snow fall in Miami.

I brushed dust off the end of the microfilm reader, leaned against it, and crossed my arms. “You couldn’t speak to me at the reference desk because . . .”

“Please, India, don’t be a brat,” Bobby said.

“A brat? You heard what she said. She thinks Mark did it.”

“Bree doesn’t know Mark, okay? She’s making a decision that she can understand from the information she has, and from what the Blockens have told her.”

“Have you told her otherwise?”

Bobby played with the collar of his hundred-percent-cotton dress shirt. I had my answer.

“We don’t really talk about it,” he conceded.

“What do you talk about?”

“Other things. Give her a break. Her mother’s ill.”

“What’s wrong with her mother?” My tone was more civil.

“Multiple sclerosis.”

“Oh,” I said, subdued.

“Yeah. Her mom’s only fifty-eight. She’s in a nursing home somewhere in Virginia, and not a very good one either. Bree’s having a tough time, being away from her.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, mollified.

Bobby patted me on the shoulder, accepting the weak apology. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Is Bree still staying at the Cookery Inn?” I asked as we trekked back through the labyrinth of shelving to the reference desk.

“For now.” He gave me a sidelong glance.

“Oh,” I replied, wondering what for now meant. I promised myself to study the thesaurus during my late shift. I recovered. “You know, she’s a perfect heroine for one of your stories.”

Bobby laughed. “I think so, too.”

“I’m not copyediting that one,” I said.

“We’ll see you at the funeral?” Bobby asked.

I nodded, although the thought of going to the funeral and seeing Mrs. Blocken again made my stomach clench. I slid into my seat behind the desk.

He winked and walked over to Bree who was sitting on one of the couches by the new bookshelf. She looked very prim with her legs crossed and her hands folded on her lap. She was a much better bridesmaid candidate than I ever would be. Not that either of us were bridesmaids anymore.