Library Cat Magical Mysteries Box Set (Books 1-3), page 25
“So what’s your idea?” he asked me. “It have anything to do with that gift basket in your hand?”
I didn’t trust myself to think straight, let alone form coherent sentences. I imagined Sophie at breakfast, giggling behind her bowl of cereal. She thought it was funny because I was apparently too old for swooning and knee-buckling and butterflies. I was an object of absurdity.
That gave me the resolve I needed to pull myself together. This was serious business, Sophie. Matters of the heart always were.
“Maybe,” I finally said.
“As long as your secret plan doesn’t involve me wearing a dress, wig and lipstick and pretending to talk to Patrice while we get our nails done.”
“Nothing like that,” I said. “Actually, I don’t even need you at all for the actual plan.”
“Then what am I, your hired muscle?” He struck a bodybuilder pose and flexed his biceps.
“Actually, yes,” I said. “She could be a killer, after all. I’m not so stupid that I’m going to talk to a murderer all alone. Not when asking questions might tip her off that I suspect her.”
“That’s smart and all,” he said. “But if you tipped her off, she could always kill you later. Poison your food. Set your house on fire. Cut the brakes on your car. Put marbles on the top step of the library’s staircase.”
“You have quite the imagination,” I said. “Are you sure you don’t want to write fiction instead of newspaper articles?”
“Nope,” he said. “Fiction doesn’t do it for me. It’s all fake. What’s the point?”
“Speaking of nonfiction,” I said. His comment horrified me, but I needed to ask him about the memoir writing class. “Since you are a celebrated nonfiction author, how would you like to accept the position of assistant professor of the Saguaro Estates memoir writing seminar?”
“Assistant professor, you say?” he said. “How much does this position pay?”
“You get paid in experience,” I said. “And the rich feeling of satisfaction of exposing a generation of writers to the craft of nonfiction narratives.”
“That was some purple prose,” he said. “Why don’t you teach the class?”
“Because I’ve never written anything longer than a shopping list,” I said.
“Memoir writing is a good idea,” he said. “But I wouldn’t know where to start. I’d need to wear a necktie and make a PowerPoint presentation. That’s not my style, sorry. Why don’t you ask Romulo Holt? He’s always tooling around on his word processor.”
The sun was becoming too much, so we went inside. I paid my respects to the Quill by offering it a fresh square of blotter paper.
“What’s that, a piece of toilet paper?” the Quill asked. “Just what I, an inanimate object, always wanted.”
“It’s a sheet of blotter paper,” I said.
“Great, I hope it will blot out this horrible encounter from my memory,” it said. “I see you have a gift basket—and it’s not for me. Just a square of paper. I’ll be singing Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah the rest of the day, I’m so overjoyed.”
“I’m glad to see you in a good mood,” I said.
“Not everyone can be out painting the town red with their true love,” it said, spinning around in the inkpot to point at Fintan.
“He’s just my bodyguard,” I said.
“Him?” it said. “Oh, sorry, I thought I was looking at the hat rack.”
“I got plenty of muscle,” Fintan said.
“Yeah, sure you do, and I came off the backside of Donald Duck,” it said.
“You’re in a mood,” Fintan said.
“Well, you would be too,” the Quill said.
Fintan looked at me and I shrugged my shoulders. The Quill wasn’t known for his sunny disposition, but something seemed to be wrong.
We went up to Patrice’s room. She’d moved to a different room after her husband’s unfortunate demise. I knocked on the door and waited.
“Who is it?” she asked from behind the door. I could barely hear her.
“Francie Vespertine, from the library,” I said.
“What do you want?”
“To not shout in the hallway,” Fintan muttered.
“Can you open the door, please?”
The deadbolt twisted and she opened the door a few inches while keeping the chain engaged.
“What is it?” she asked again. She wore another sharp skirt and blazer combo. Her hair was twisted and swirled into a perfect coif and the red lipstick on her lips shined in the low light. I guessed everyone handled grief differently, but it seemed strange that she was dressed this fancy. I had been expecting her to be in a bathrobe with her hair sticking straight up in all directions.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I said.
“Everyone’s sorry,” she said.
“I wanted to give you a token of our appreciation. Your husband’s books made so many of us happy.”
“He was a regular Mother Teresa,” she said. Again, not what I’d expect a grieving wife to say.
“At any rate,” I said. “Here you go.” I held up the gift basket.
“How kind,” she said. “A summer sausage and sesame crackers is the perfect pick-me-up for a time like this. Just leave it in the hall.”
This was not working out according to plan. My plan was that she’d invite me in and I could rummage around the hotel room.
Okay, planning isn’t my strong suit.
“I also needed to get the keycard for Saguaro Estates,” I said. “Resident safety is top priority.”
“What about the safety of visiting authors?” she said spitefully.
“I’m very sorry,” I said. “Do you have any idea who could have done it? Did anyone in town threaten him or say anything suspicious?”
“You might as well come in, if you’re going to give me the third-degree,” she said. She unchained the door and let us inside. “I don’t want you shouting in the hallway.”
Her room was immaculate, completely unlike every time I’ve ever stayed in a hotel room. I’d always just thrown all my clothes everywhere and left my pocket contents, loose change, receipts, toiletries, everything all over the place. Something about not being in your usual environment throws your brain for a loop and you revert to a primal state.
I set the basket on the dresser next to a few condolence bouquets and cards. A clipboard caught my eye. She’d been making notes on it when we were at Saguaro Estates.
“Ma’am,” Fintan said in his best aw shucks voice. Oh no, please don’t say you’re a writer. I’m not the best people-person but I know that this woman will lose it if she thinks I snuck a journalist into her room. “I work at the donut shop and want to extend my heartfelt apology. We’re cooperating fully with law enforcement to find the killer.”
“I should certainly hope so,” she said. “Maple-bacon donut. Who ever thought of such a thing? Does your degeneracy know no bounds?”
“I’m afraid not,” he said and looked at his boots.
“I feel terrible,” I said. “I invited your husband here. It’s my fault.”
“Now that you’ve gone and said it, yes, this is your fault,” she said. “But I don’t blame you. I knew the type of man my husband was when I married him. He could rub people the wrong way. He must have rubbed the wrong person.” She looked up for a brief moment, so the tear would not fall down her cheek and smudge her makeup.
“I hate the idea of a murderer in town,” I said. “If there’s anything you can think of…”
“That I didn’t already tell the trained professionals?” she said. “The librarian and the baker are going to solve the case?” She apparently didn’t read cozy mysteries, because in those books, the baker or librarian always solve the case.
“It’s a small town,” I said. “Regular residents hear and see things that law enforcement doesn’t. But I understand if you don’t want to talk about it.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. We showed up at the retirement home. He stomped about, making a buffoon of himself. You drove us here to the hotel. I left to do some shopping and when I came back, the building was swarming with werewolves. That’s it. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll try to find that key, so you can leave.”
Bingo. She turned her back to me and started looking through her suitcase and purse. I inched over to the clipboard. Her writing was atrocious and I couldn’t read it this far away. I got a little closer and flipped the first page over.
Hello now. What was this?
Greyson Investigations Page 4/5. January 14.
Subject seen driving to the residence of one (REDACTED) an unmarried female age 22 years old, blonde hair, blue eyes, approximately five feet four inches. The subject approached the front door of the domicile and rapped five times in quick succession. The female resident then opened the door at which point the subject
There was no more.
I had to get this paper. I walked my fingers to the metal clip and pushed it down. Using my other hand, I dragged the paper down until—
“I can’t find any keycard,” she said, hunched over her suitcase. She stood up and I quickly retracted my hands and crammed them into my pockets. I hoped I didn’t look as guilty as I felt. “I’m sorry. I’m sure they can recode the lock. Now, I must ask you to leave.” She ushered us out the door before either of us could speak.
It locked behind us.
“What was that paper you were looking at?” Fintan whispered. I pulled him down the hallway some, in case she was looking at us through the peephole.
“It was a page from a private detective’s report. Something about the subject visiting a woman’s house.”
“Who? Walter?”
“Didn’t say. The woman’s name was redacted and the person going to her house was called The Subject. You think Walter was having an affair?”
“Who knows,” Fintan said. “I wish there was a way to—”
Just then, three kobolds rounded the corner, pushing a little cart of clean linen. They were small, only about two feet tall, with mischievous faces and bulbous noses. Kobolds are household sprites who help with chores, but are quick to take offense and will repay any imagined slight by stealing or hiding your things.
You ever lose one sock? Or find your car keys somewhere that you know you didn’t leave them? Probably a kobold.
That was when I got an idea.
“Hey, excuse me, noble sirs,” I said.
“We’re females!” the one in front said.
“That’s what I said, excuse me, noble hers,” I said lamely. “Might I ask you, please clean Mrs. Patrice Crabtree’s room again. I was just visiting my friend, and she said that whoever cleaned it must have had raisins for eyeballs because they left the place filthy.”
The kobolds began chattering angrily. They spoke fast with many words in their native tongue, so I couldn’t understand everything, but I could understand that they were plotting revenge.
“And please don’t touch her clipboard by the flowers. It has important information written on it. Thanks!”
Fintan and I walked down the hall and around the corner. I peeked my head out and watched as the kobolds approached the widow’s door and used their key to go inside.
“That was pretty good,” Fintan said. “All we gotta do is wait for them to do the dirty work for us.”
“Shh,” I said. “They're coming back.” We walked as fast as possible towards their cleaning cart. If they went inside another guest room, I’d have to sort through that much more garbage to find the clipboard. As they were fumbling with the key, we passed the kobolds on the left and I dipped my hand in the trashcan and plucked out the clipboard.
“Since when was Evil Genius part of the job description for the town librarian?” Fintan asked.
“Let’s go before she notices it’s gone,” I said.
“You can keep your westerns and science fiction,” Fintan said. “Private detective reports—now that’s my type of reading material.”
It shocked me to agree with him.
And what could be better than a date where we spent a quiet night inside, reading together?
Chapter 7
Everyone gets up early at Saguaro Estates. I rarely open the archives until nine in the morning, so getting to the retirement home at seven to set up for an eight o’clock class was a feat of strength. Especially since I’d been up last night talking to Fintan on the phone until after ten.
It had been two days since we got Patrice’s clipboard, and he’d been hard at work trying to track down the private detective. We were, sadly, no closer to getting usable information. All we knew was that she’d hired a private detective to investigate ‘the subject’ who had visited a young woman’s house. We had no information on what city it was or who the people were.
In theory, she could have hired a detective to investigate anyone—a scheming brother, a crooked business partner, an estranged son. I was letting my observations of Walter as a lecherous old man influence my assumptions, and I was trying to keep an open mind. Patrice surely wouldn’t have been the first woman in the world to have poisoned a cheating, rich husband. But was that all there was to the story?
Romulo staggered into the retirement center at seven-thirty, looking hungover. There were dark circles under his eyes and his hair was flat from the pillow on one side and unruly on the other. He was a few years out of the Academy and worked days at his father’s landscaping business. “Work with my hands during the day to keep my creative brain fresh for my real work in the evening,” he’d said when I asked him to teach the memoir writing seminar. He carried his laptop under one arm and a huge bottle of water tucked under the other.
I got the projector set up and hooked up his laptop so he could display his presentation. After seeing all the preparation that had gone into Romulo’s presentation, I changed my mind. He didn’t look hungover. He looked sleep-deprived.
“This is going to be great,” I told him. “Thank you so much for doing this.”
“You know, I got really excited about it. My family tried to get me to get a teaching certificate while I was at the Academy, but I never wanted to be one of those has-been English professors who couldn’t make it with my writing. I thought there was nothing more pathetic. Maybe I’m older now and my perspective is different. Or maybe I’m sick of getting poked by cactus needles in the hundred-degree heat every day. What’s so wrong with sharing your passion with others?”
“Nothing at all,” I said. “That’s why I love my job in the library.”
The residents slowly filed into the rec room, taking their seats at the long folding tables. I’d set up everyone with a pencil, paper, nametag sticker and copies of Romulo’s handouts. We’d planned for him to give a brief lecture, then let the residents have a little while to outline and ask questions. Then when the session ended for the day, he’d give them the homework assignment to start writing.
I watched the residents take their seats, many of them having the foresight to bring along their own seat cushions to make the folding chairs more tolerable. There was one resident in particular I was waiting for. I didn’t watch for her to come from the direction of the dining room or resident rooms, but kept my eye trained down the hallway towards the supply closet. Sure enough, in a puff of smoke (cigarette smoke, of course, not magical smoke), Hortensia appeared, her bathrobe billowing as she strode to the rec room.
“Do you ever wear clothes?” I asked her.
“You’d rather I wear a ball gown?” she asked, pulling her robe over her metallic hand.
“Pants at least,” I said, “would be nice.”
“Pants are for chumps,” she said.
“Can I ask you a question?” I said.
“Why do people bother asking ‘can I ask a question?’ You’re gonna ask no matter what I say.” I ignored her little comment, mostly because she was right.
“Why is it that no one here notices or comments on your metal arm?” I asked.
“Oh, that?” she snorted laughter. “I’ve altered everyone’s memories. But I still like to keep it out of sight. Too much contradictory sensory input weakens the spell. A brief flash of steel now and then? No one notices or remembers it.”
“Is that even possible?” I asked. “Altering memories?”
“It’s possible for me,” she said. “Some high-level witches can do it on a much smaller scale. Erasing a few minutes of someone’s memory and re-narrating a different version of events.”
“Have you ever altered my memory?” I asked. How can I go on now, knowing that Hortensia can mess with my brain with a simple flick of her metal wrist?
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she said. She tipped me a wink and took her seat. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to hear what this fine-looking young man has to say.”
Romulo started his presentation and weathered the barrage of questions and interruptions very well.
“My pencil broke,” the plump old lady named Irenia said.
“How many S’s are there in concupiscent?” Mabel asked.
“What’s another word for ‘pea-brained twerp?’” That one was Hortensia, although at Saguaro Estates she was undercover and went by the name of Clara.
“Was March 28th, 1958, a Tuesday or a Thursday?” an old man asked while using his pinky finger to groom the wiry hairs protruding from his ear.
When they broke for independent work, I paced the room, offering feedback and giving praise when it was due—which was often. Sophie’d had a great idea with this memoir writing seminar, even if it had been fueled by the stereotype that elderly people love to talk about The Good Old Days. As I passed by Hortensia, I lingered behind her until she pushed me away. “I can’t focus with you ogling over my shoulder like that, you loathsome toad.”
“Glad to see you found your synonym,” I said. “You owe me at least a peek at your memoirs.”
“The only thing I owe you is a swift kick in the pants,” she said. “The youth of today. So entitled.”
I smiled as I walked on, knowing that she was so testy because she was feeling vulnerable. She was going to share some of her backstory with me—and she didn’t want to.
