Twelve Angry Librarians

Thoughts of Laura and Frank led in turn to the decision that I had to make by Monday morning. I kept going back and forth, from no one minute to yes the next. That was ridiculous, I thought. Surely a man my age ought to know his own mind better at this stage in life.

But I didn’t. My emotions were too wrapped up, I realized, in the outcome of my children’s decision. Until I knew what Laura and Frank were going to do, I wouldn’t be able to make up my own mind completely.

That thought brought a small measure of relief to my overtired brain. Diesel ambled into the bedroom and hopped up on the bed beside me. I removed his harness, and he rubbed his head against my arm. Then he stretched out on his side of the bed, his head on the pillow.

I followed his example and soon, despite my state of mind, drifted into sleep.

When Diesel and I walked into the kitchen the next morning, we found Stewart and Haskell finishing breakfast. Haskell wore his uniform, while Stewart was in pajamas. Dante bounced forward, barking to greet Diesel. The cat meowed, and when he headed for the utility room, Dante trotted alongside him.

After an exchange of greetings, I said to Haskell, “You’re on duty today?”

He nodded. “Got called in because of the homicide at the Farrington House yesterday.”

Stewart set down his coffee cup. “What do you know about this murder, Charlie? I figure you must know something about it. Were you there when it happened?”

I poured coffee for myself while I answered. “Yes, I was there. Near the ballroom doors and well away from the action.” I took my usual seat at the table and sipped at my coffee.

“Did you know the victim?” Stewart asked.

I nodded. “Yes, I did. The guy I told you about, the one I knocked down the other day.”

Haskell checked his watch. “Sorry, got to get going. Have to meet Kanesha for a briefing in about fifteen minutes.” He rose from the table, and so did Stewart.

“I’ll be back in a minute, Charlie.” Stewart followed Haskell into the hall, and a minute or so later I heard the front door open and close.

Stewart walked back into the kitchen. “So, this guy you didn’t like was killed.”

I nodded. “I admit I loathed him, but I’m sorry he died like that.”

“I’m sorry you had to sit there and see it happen,” Stewart said. “I’m sure it wasn’t pleasant.”

“No, it wasn’t,” I said. “I’m thankful, though, that I wasn’t anywhere near to see, well, you know.”

Stewart nodded. “That part would have been ugly.”

“I’m figuring it was cyanide,” I said. “But I can’t figure out how someone would have gotten hold of it. It’s a regulated substance, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it certainly is,” Stewart said. “A person can’t simply walk into the neighborhood drugstore and ask for it over the counter. There are chemical supply houses—that’s how we obtain the cyanide we use in the labs at work. But an ordinary person can’t order it.” He got up from the table to refill his coffee. “The killer could have stolen it from a lab, I suppose, but that wouldn’t be easy.”

“Is there any other way you can think of?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Online.”

SEVENTEEN

I nearly dropped my coffee cup at Stewart’s answer. “Online? You mean you can order poison over the Internet?”

“Not in this country,” Stewart said as he resumed his seat at the table. “You know that people buy drugs from overseas online, right?” When I nodded, he continued. “Well, there are disreputable firms in other parts of the world that sell chemicals illegally, too, without regulation.”

“Good heavens.” I felt slightly nauseated.

“Pretty frightening, I know,” Stewart said. “Another way to get it would be from a college chemistry lab, although it would be a really slipshod lab if they let dangerous chemicals get taken.”

“Do you have it in the chemistry labs at Athena?” I asked.

“Yes,” Stewart said. “We keep careful control over it as we do all our chemicals, and access to them is limited.”

“That’s good to know,” I said. “Still, the killer got hold of it somehow.”

“Do you know for sure that the killer used cyanide?” Stewart asked.

“No.” I felt sheepish when I continued. “I’m basing it solely on how quickly it happened, how he behaved before he fell out of sight, and on reading many mysteries over the years that had cyanide as the murder weapon.”

Stewart chuckled. “I know it’s not funny, but hearing you say that makes me think of Agatha Christie.”

“Exactly,” I said. “She worked in a hospital dispensary and became quite knowledgeable about poisons.”

“I think I read that somewhere,” Stewart said. “Tell me what you saw.”

I related the scene as I recalled it, and Stewart nodded when I finished. “That sounds like cyanide poisoning,” he said. “Tasteless, soluble in water, and he probably drank so fast he had no idea what he’d swallowed.”

How vulnerable we are. That thought gave me the shivers.

“The toxicology report could take several weeks, even longer,” Stewart said. “In the meantime, cyanide seems likely to me.”