Do Unto Others

According to what I’d heard, he’d attacked the shelves methodically, moving through the Dewey decimal system as if it were a grocery list and devouring every book. His real name was Willie, but every one called him Old Man Renfro. Gaston Leach was what every kid in high school aspired not to be. He was a gawky youth that might one day, the charitable among us said, turn from ugly duckling to swan. We could only pray he’d develop some social skills to go along with any external improvements. He had a mind I’d have killed for and a face I’d have committed suicide over. His parents apparently had little concern for Gaston’s ability to interact with others, because they sent him out in tacky clothing the dead wouldn’t wear and bought him eyeglasses with lenses that could double as drink coasters. Not to mention the pairing of his first name with his last. His thick mop of black hair fell in a bad cut across his forehead. Today he was resplendent in too-long gray trousers that hung low on his bony hips and a shirt with a nauseating orange plaid. Never failing to accessorize incorrectly, he held up his pants with a western-style brown belt and wore black shoes. He’d missed being cool by several feet today. “Glad to see y’all are back open,” Old Man Renfro proclaimed. “Well, Miss Harcher did manage to close the library for a while, but not in the way she thought she would.” Gaston was less philosophical. “The new McCaffrey come in while y’all were closed?” he demanded, turning those powerful lenses on the new-arrivals bin. “No, Gaston,” I said, having no idea. I hadn’t checked our mail drop, but I didn’t want to get into another long discussion with Gaston about the relative merits of the science-fiction selection at the Mirabeau Public Library. “Oh,” Gaston muttered, high-beaming reproachfully at Candace. She must’ve bribed him to come over. Apparently the idea of being supportive of folks he saw every day was an alien concept. That couldn’t be right, I thought. Gaston explored alien concepts every day, what with his reading list. Old Man Renfro took Gaston by the elbow and steered him to a chair in the periodicals section. Candace and I followed. “Candace says that there’s been a shooting, and that Eula Mae has been arrested for that crime and for Miss Harcher’s murder,” Old Man Renfro said. His voice was a carefully modulated tenor. He was one of those gentlemen who is very careful about how he speaks, because he’d grown up in a house where it hadn’t mattered and he’d made a conscious decision to be correct. If his voice was any deeper he could’ve subbed for James Earl Jones. I nodded. “So I guess I’m not under suspicion any more. But I can’t believe that Eula Mae is some calculating plotter.” “Having read her books, neither can I,” Old Man Renfro agreed with a tad of asperity. “Yes, Eula Mae’s strong suit has always been characters,” I retorted. I didn’t feel picking on Eula Mae’s writing skills was helpful at this critical time. “Her character hasn’t always been above reproach,” Old Man Renfro said, turning his own wordplay, “but I find it hard to believe Eula Mae would willingly hurt another person, much less a young woman she didn’t know.”