Twelve Angry Librarians

THIRTEEN

The violence of Bob Coben’s tone startled me, as did his action in striking the sofa cushion.

Harlan Crais appeared uneasy. “You’d better not talk like that.” He glanced around, and I shifted my gaze to my feet. When Crais spoke again, he lowered his voice so that I could barely hear him. “You don’t know who could be listening.”

I leaned back in my chair, eyes shut, and rested my head. I wanted the two men to think I wasn’t paying any attention to their conversation.

“So what?” Coben said, his tone defiant. “I didn’t kill him, Harlan, and you’d better not be going around telling people I did.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Crais snapped back. “I’m not going to tell anyone anything. If you get into any trouble over this, it will be your own fault.”

I opened my eyelids a fraction, in time to see Coben jump to his feet. He stared down at Crais, who shrank back against the sofa. “I’ll keep my nose clean,” Coben said. “You’d better be worrying about your own.” He turned and walked swiftly away.

I closed my eyes a moment, in case Harlan Crais chanced to look my way. Then I opened them, yawned, and sat up. Crais was on his feet. He didn’t appear to notice me. Instead he seemed absorbed by his thoughts as he wandered away, hitching his canvas bag up on his shoulder.

You do not want to get involved in another murder investigation, I told myself.

But, my self argued back, you just overheard things that could be useful to Kanesha. You have to tell her what you heard.

I sighed. At the moment I felt too tired to make the effort, but before long I knew I would either call or e-mail Kanesha to share the fruits of my eavesdropping. I didn’t care for feeling like a tattletale, but needs must when the devil drives, as the old saying went.

Bob Coben had come up to me after the incident with Gavin yesterday, I remembered, and offered to serve as a witness if Gavin tried to make a fuss or sue me. Evidently he had personal reasons for loathing Gavin—no surprise there—but I didn’t want to see him in trouble if he hadn’t killed Gavin. He had said he didn’t, but naturally the killer would lie about it.

I decided I would e-mail Kanesha when I got home. My dinner with Marisue and Randi was scheduled for tonight, and I planned to take them to Helen Louise’s place. I wanted to get out of my suit and into more comfortable clothes before I came back to the hotel to escort them to the bistro.

After a quick glance at the conference program, I decided I might as well go home now. None of the last group of panels that started at three forty-five interested me. I had no great need to go back to the office on a Friday afternoon. Melba would have called or texted me if anything important had cropped up.

On the brief drive home I tried to force my mind away from the subject of murder. I had no doubt Marisue and Randi would want to talk about nothing else tonight. Instead, I tried to concentrate on the job offer I’d received this morning.

Being considered competent for the job was a boost to the ego. Part of me felt elated simply to be asked. Another part—and perhaps the larger part—dreaded the thought of going back into the nine-to-five world. I hadn’t worked full-time for nearly five years before I stepped in as interim director. I had come to relish the time I had as a semi-retiree, time to piddle around, reading, napping, volunteering, and so on. That would go away if I agreed to take the job.

When I pulled my car into the garage, I had yet to come to any firm conclusion. I knew I had to let my subconscious stew over it for a while longer before I was ready to make up my mind.

Diesel met me right inside the kitchen door. His loud chorus of trills and warbles made for a happy welcome home. Unlike some felines, Diesel rarely sat with his back to me to let me feel the cold of his displeasure over being abandoned. He was usually too happy to see me after even a brief absence to indulge in such a ploy.

“You home early, Mr. Charlie.” Azalea sniffed. “Wasn’t expecting you for another hour or more. You feeling all right?”

“Other than being tired after a long week, I feel fine.” I decided not to tell Azalea about the murder right now. “Since we’re eating out tonight, why don’t you go on home early?”

“I think I will.” Azalea untied her apron, folded it, and retrieved her purse from the kitchen cabinet that was its second home. She tucked the apron in her purse, then turned to me to give me a brief list of dishes in the freezer and the fridge that she prepared for the weekend.

“Thank you.” I smiled. “We certainly won’t go hungry.”

She nodded, the barest hint of a smile hovering around her lips, then she departed through the kitchen door.

“Come on, boy,” I said. “Let’s go upstairs so I can change out of these clothes.”

Diesel kept up a running commentary throughout our progress from kitchen to bedroom. I felt sure he was telling me all about his day with Azalea. When we reached the bedroom, the meowing and trilling stopped, and he hopped on the bed to stretch out. He watched while I stripped out of the suit and slipped into a pair of comfortable shorts and an old tee shirt. I decided to stretch out on the bed for a few minutes, and before long I drifted into sleep beside the napping cat.

After a nap troubled by odd dreams, I woke in time to freshen up and dress for dinner. The dreams faded quickly from my memory, though I still had a vague feeling of disquiet from them. Dinner with friends at Helen Louise’s place would help me shake off that feeling. I put Diesel into his harness, loaded him in the car, and set off once more for the Farrington House.

Marisue and Randi awaited us in the lobby, I was pleased to see. Marisue had always been a stickler for punctuality, a quality I appreciated. Randi tended to be a dawdler when Marisue wasn’t around to chivvy her along. I doubted she had changed much since our grad school days.

Diesel went right up to them, and they both made a fuss over him. I explained that he was welcome at the place where we would dine. “In fact, the owner is my girlfriend.” I used the term a bit self-consciously. “She’s a Paris-trained chef, and I promise you the food and wine will be, as she would say, magnifique.”

“Sounds marvelous,” Randi said. “I’m delighted that we’ll have two handsome gentlemen with us at dinner.” She stroked Diesel’s head.

“Surely having a cat in the restaurant violates the local health code.” Marisue frowned. “It doesn’t bother me, though. I have two cats and a dog back home.”

“Technically, it is a violation,” I said, “but Helen Louise simply tells people that if they have a problem with it, they can go eat elsewhere. Besides,” I grinned, “the health inspector is addicted to her pain au chocolat. If he writes her up, his supply line gets cut off.”

Marisue laughed heartily, and Randi giggled.

“Shall we go, ladies?” I gestured toward the front door. Diesel and I led the way, and I held the door for them.

The evening was pleasantly cool, and the sun still had about a half hour to go before it set. I pointed out a couple of landmarks during our walk to the bistro, including our local independent bookstore, the Athenaeum. “Drop in if you have a chance,” I said. “It’s a great place.”

Randi groaned. “If I do I know I’ll come out with a bag full of books, and I ran out of shelf space at home ages ago.”

“That’s never stopped you before,” Marisue said with a chuckle. “Me, either. I think that would be a good place to visit after lunch tomorrow.”

By now we had reached the bistro, and I opened the door. “You’re such a gentleman, Charlie.” Marisue chuckled as she entered. “I’m not used to it these days.”

Helen Louise was not in evidence when I showed Randi and Marisue to my usual table. Diesel looked around expectantly, and I told him, “She must be in the kitchen.” He warbled in response.

Randi appeared startled, then she laughed. “You were talking to the cat, weren’t you?”

I felt a bit sheepish. “Yes, it’s a habit I got into early on with him. I swear, most of the time he understands what I say to him.”

“I’m not surprised,” Marisue said. “He’s a smart kitty.”

Diesel meowed, and both women chuckled.

“Ah, here’s Helen Louise.” I saw her coming from around the counter toward us. I greeted her with a peck on the cheek, and then I performed the introductions. After that was done, Helen Louise was able to give Diesel the attention he craved.

Once my guests and I were seated, and the cat was out of the way beside my chair, Helen Louise said, “I’m delighted Charlie brought you here, and I trust that you will have a memorable meal. For an appetizer, I can offer a pâté de campagne, or country pâté, and for the main course, Poulet Provençal. That is braised chicken with tomatoes and olives. The wine I suggest is a white Bergerac.”

Randi’s expression turned rapturous, and Marisue’s eyes glazed over. The latter said, “That sounds truly magnifique, as Charlie told us it would be.”

Helen Louise offered them a mischievous smile. “I hope you will feel the same after you’ve tasted it all. I’ll be back in a moment with your wine and the appetizer.”

Marisue, Randi, and I chatted about the bistro, and I told them some of Helen Louise’s history, how she had gone to law school to please her parents, practiced for a few years, then chucked it all to live in Paris and learn everything she could about French cuisine.

“Good for her,” Marisue said. “Takes a lot of guts to ditch a career like that to follow your dream.”

Helen Louise returned to the table in time to hear the last few words. She quirked an eyebrow at me as she efficiently set before us the pâté, bread, and a bottle of the Bergerac. She deftly opened the wine, poured a taste in each glass, and waited. Marisue and Randi each gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up after testing the wine, and Helen Louise poured more.

There was little conversation as my friends and I helped ourselves to the tasty appetizer, along with the freshly made bread. I figured that, at the rate Marisue and Randi were sipping at their wine, we would easily get through a couple of bottles by the end of our meal. I was delighted to see them enjoying themselves so much.

One of Helen Louise’s staff came to clear away the empty plates and gave us another bread basket. Marisue topped off our glasses with the rest of the wine, and I asked the server, Henry, for another bottle. Henry nodded and smiled pleasantly at my guests.

“He’s adorable,” Randi said after Henry walked away. “Young enough to be my son, but adorable nevertheless.” She sighed.

“They’re all old enough to be our children these days.” Marisue’s tart tone amused me.

“No harm in looking,” Randi said.

“No,” Marisue replied. “Just don’t try to sample.”

Randi giggled at that, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

Soon Henry came back with our main course, the braised chicken with tomatoes and olives. He also set a saucer of boiled chicken down by my plate. “Diesel’s treat,” I explained to my friends.

While we savored the delicious dish, we avoided talk of Gavin Fong. I figured that the subject would come up over coffee and dessert. Near the end of the meal, however, Randi glanced across the room toward the door. She stiffened for a moment, then poked Marisue’s arm.

“Look who just walked in,” Randi said.

Harlan Crais stepped toward the counter, and Marisue and Randi exchanged glances.

Marisue leaned toward me and said in an undertone, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he turns out to be Gavin’s killer.”