Twelve Angry Librarians

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.”