Classified As Murder

I didn’t know how to respond. For a moment I had the feeling he had forgotten I was there. His eyes appeared fixed on some distant prospect as he gazed over my shoulder.

He blinked at me, as if he suddenly recalled my presence. “Pardon an old man’s woolgathering, please.” A faint, self-deprecating smile flitted across his face.

I nodded, with a gentle smile in return, and waited.

Mr. Delacorte glanced around, perhaps to see whether anyone was close enough to overhear our conversation. “I understand that you work for the college library. You are in charge of the rare book collection.”

“Yes, sir. I work there three days a week.” This was the first time I could recall his ever making any kind of personal inquiry of me.

“Very good,” he said. “I would like to call on you there, if I might, to discuss something. I would prefer to do it in a more private setting.” Again, he surveyed the area, but no one was close enough to overhear. Lizzie had stepped away from the desk for a moment, and Diesel was gone, too.

“I’d be delighted,” I said. “Normally I’d be there next week, but it’s spring break. I’m afraid I won’t be in the office until the week after. Would you like to meet then?”

Mr. Delacorte frowned. “It is a matter of some urgency to me, but I suppose a week’s delay won’t matter.”

I felt that I was somehow letting him down. He did seem, for the first time in my acquaintance with him, uneasy about something. “How about tomorrow morning?” I said. “Say nine o’clock?”

“That is most kind of you,” Mr. Delacorte replied. “If you are sure I would not be imposing on you.”

“Not at all,” I said. Meeting with Mr. Delacorte would certainly be more interesting than weeding the front yard—my previous plan for tomorrow morning. “I’ll meet you at the front door of the building at nine.”

“Very good. I appreciate this deeply, Mr. Harris.” Mr. Delacorte nodded, offered a brief smile, then turned and headed for the stacks to track down his choices. He carried the battered leather dispatch case I never saw him without.

I wondered what he wanted to talk to me about. Something to do with rare books, no doubt. Perhaps he wanted to make a donation to the college, either money or books. I knew very little about the man, but I would have to wait until tomorrow morning to satisfy my curiosity.

Lizzie and Diesel were back. Lizzie resumed her seat on the stool, and Diesel came over to sit by mine. I reached down and rubbed his head and was rewarded with a couple of chirps.

By now it was a few minutes after two, and the person scheduled to take over for me was late as usual. Anita Milhaus—if you took her word for it—was a gifted, dedicated reference librarian who could find the answer to any question posed to her.

The problem was getting her to sit at the desk and actually answer questions when patrons approached her. Only the bravest of them dared to. Her acerbic manner was bad enough, but Anita’s obvious contempt for anything she considered a stupid question was notorious.

After my first encounter with her several years ago, I immediately approached the head librarian, Ann Manscoe, to lodge a complaint. In my years as a library manager, I never allowed an employee to behave as Anita did. Mrs. Manscoe agreed with me but explained, with a weary tone in her voice, that Anita’s family contributed a significant amount of money every year to various civic causes. Any attempts to fire her would mean a withdrawal of much-needed monies by the Milhaus clan.

So the library was stuck with Anita. That dismayed me, but I understood. In a small town like Athena, there were few options—other than pushing Anita in front of a big truck.

To my surprise, Anita walked out of the stacks just then. She was usually in the staff lounge napping when she was supposed to be at the desk. She came around the counter and frowned the moment she spotted Diesel.

She had at least given up complaining about his presence, since my time at the reference desk meant she could goof off even more.

She didn’t speak, nor did I, as we traded places. She plopped down on the stool and leaned on the counter. She held up her right wrist and wiggled the diamond bracelet it sported. The diamonds flashed as they caught the light, and Anita stared at the bracelet with evident pleasure.

“That’s beautiful,” I said. “Is it new?”

“Yes, it is. My gentleman friend gave it to me.” Anita bestowed on me what was probably meant to be a coy glance but looked more like a constipated bovine attempting to relieve herself.

“How nice,” I said as she continued to gaze with rapture at her bracelet. As I turned to leave, she spoke.

“Here, you left something in the printer.”

I turned back to see her brandishing a sheet of paper. I took it from her and glanced down at it. It was the last page of the citations on the Alcotts. “It’s for Mr. Delacorte. I didn’t realize there was another page.” I looked up at her. “Thanks. I’ll go give it to him.”