The detective stared intently at me. Did he think maybe I’d break and admit that I’d been having a torrid affair with Gregor Easton and that he’d died while we were having wild monkey sex on the piano?
“When I realized he was dead, I came back outside and called nine-one-one,” I said.
He glanced back at the theater. “Did you touch anything?” he asked. He’d missed a tiny patch of stubble on the left side of his jawline when he’d shaved.
I thought for a moment. “The stage door,” I said. “The curtain. And I touched Mr. Easton’s arm.”
“That’s it?”
“I think so,” I said. The silver charm was in my pocket. I pulled it out and handed it to him. “I almost stepped on this,” I said. “And there was something spilled on the floor in the hallway. I think I may have gotten it on my shoes.”
I grabbed the back of the bench and held up my right foot. He leaned over to look at the sole of my shoe.
“I’m going to need your shoes, Ms. Paulson.”
I put my foot down carefully. “I have a pair at my office at the library. May I go get them?”
“I’m also going to need your fingerprints,” he said. “Officer Craig will take you to your office and then he’ll take you to the station to be fingerprinted—if that’s all right with you?”
It was the kind of question you didn’t say no to. So I didn’t.
Officer Craig was the patrolman. He looked to be about twenty, with his close-cropped boot-camp haircut. He drove to the library and stayed with me while I got my tai chi shoes from my office. He took a bag out of his trunk, sealed my running shoes inside and actually gave me a receipt for them. Then we drove to the police station, where I had my fingerprints taken.
Officer Craig drove me back to the library. I went into the staff room and put on a pot of coffee. Even though I’d already washed my hands with some sort of industrial-strength Day-Glo orange cleaner at the police station, I washed them again.
I was worried about Oren. He didn’t have a cell phone. If something had happened to him . . . I’d just poured a cup of coffee when I heard a tapping on the main doors. I could see Detective Gordon through the glass. I unlatched the metal gate and unlocked the door.
“Ms. Paulson, I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “I have a few more questions.”
I opened the door wider. “Come in,” I said. Maybe I could get him to look for Oren. I locked the door behind him but left the gate open.
“You don’t have an alarm system?” he asked, eyeing the metal barricade with its spiderweb design. The gates were almost as old as the building.
I smiled. “No. Up till now the only thing in this building has been books. It’s not like someone was going to break in to read.”
He smiled at that. He had a nice smile, with even white teeth and a strong jawline.
“We can talk in the staff room,” I said, leading the way up to the second level.
My coffee cup was on the table. I saw him look at it.
“Detective Gordon, would you like a cup of coffee?” I asked. “I just made it.”
“Thank you. I would,” he said. “Black with two sugars, if you have it.”
I did. I handed him a steaming mug. He wrapped both hands around it and drank, then looked at me. “It’s good. Thanks.”
I remembered the muffins then. I’d carried them around for a while, but they were wrapped in wax paper inside the bag and they hadn’t been dropped or sat on. The bag was by the sink. I put two muffins on a plate and set it and a napkin in front of him.
My palms were sweaty. I wiped them on my capris and sat down opposite the detective. This time he pulled out a small notebook and a pen.
“Ms. Paulson, you said you were looking for Oren Kenyon this morning. Did you have an appointment?”
“No. But as I told you at the theater, I know he starts work early and I wanted to talk to him.”
“What about?”
“The computer room here at the library. The contractor is behind schedule. I was hoping Oren could get some of the chairs and carrels put together so I could at least get one computer set up and connected.” It didn’t seem like a good idea to tell him my cats had suggested it.
He scribbled something on his pad.
“Did Oren show up?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” Detective Gordon said. He put down his pen and took one of the muffins from the plate. “Ms. Paulson, you said you met Mr. Easton for the first time yesterday?” He broke the muffin in half and took a bite.
I nodded. “He came in to the library. There was something wrong with his BlackBerry and he needed Internet access.”
“But your computer room isn’t set up.”
“No, it’s not.” I traced the inside of the mug handle with my finger. “But according to the visitors’ guide Mr. Easton had, it was.”
The detective broke the remaining half of muffin into three pieces and immediately ate one piece. “How did Mr. Easton react?”
“He wasn’t happy.”
He leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers. Not only were his hands large, but he also had long fingers, what my mother would call piano-player fingers.
“So you didn’t arrange to meet Mr. Easton this morning?”
I let out a frustrated breath. “No. I didn’t arrange to meet Mr. Easton. I wasn’t having an affair with Mr. Easton. He was older than my father. Before last night I’d never even met the man.” Before he could say anything I held up my hand. “I did order breakfast to be sent to his suite this morning—from Eric’s Place—as an apology. Breakfast for one.” I wondered if it was too late to call Eric and cancel.
“Do you buy breakfast for everyone who comes in to the library, looking for an Internet connection?”
I resisted the impulse to point out that I was basically giving
him
breakfast right now. “Of course I don’t,” I said. I took a sip of coffee. It was cold. I got up and moved behind him to get to the coffeemaker, poured another cup and leaned against the counter. How was I going to explain this?
He turned to look at me.
“My, uh, cat had accidentally ended up here at the library yesterday. And . . . he—the cat—jumped on Mr. Easton . . . Mr. Easton’s head.”
The detective’s lips twitched. “His head?”
I nodded. He looked at me without saying anything. I felt myself flush.
He drained his cup and stood up. “Ms. Paulson, do you mind if I look around?”
I wondered what he thought he’d find. “It’s a public building, Detective,” I said, setting my own mug on the counter. “You don’t need my permission to look around. But it’s all right with me.”
I smiled to show I was a good sport; then I led him across to my office and stood in the doorway while he poked around. After that, I took him to the main part of the library. He walked through the stacks and around the magazine shelves without saying anything. I showed him the temporary circulation desk and the area where the permanent desk would be.
“Where is the computer area?” he asked.
I took him to the back section of the library. The sky was gray and cloudy outside the bank of windows.
He pointed to the stacks of cartons. “What’s in the boxes?”
“Computers, monitors, a printer. Would you like me to open one?” I asked.
He shook his head and bent to look at a couple of shrink-wrapped chairs. “That’s not necessary,” he said. He straightened, looked around and then gestured across the library. “What’s over there?” I had to walk around a couple of shelving units to see where he was pointing. A huge sheet of plastic was draped over one corner of the wall.
“Oh, that’s where the meeting room will be,” I said. “Right now it’s where the contractor is keeping his tools and things.”
“Can I see it?”
“Sure.” I led the way and pulled the plastic aside. Since the library was locked at night, the door wasn’t even closed.
We both saw the splotches at the same time, dark blotches on the brown paper protecting the tile floor.
My mouth went dry. “Is that dried blood?” I said, taking a step forward.
The detective’s arm shot out, stopping me from going any farther into the room. “Wait outside please, Ms. Paulson,” he said, pulling another pair of disposable gloves from his pocket.
I moved back to the edge of the plastic. “Is that blood?” I asked again.
“Outside, Ms. Paulson,” he snapped, pulling on a glove. “Please wait outside the building.”
The detective bent forward and picked something up as I stepped back and let the plastic drop. That was blood on the floor. What was it doing in my library?
4
Repulse Monkey
B
lood in the library and Gregor Easton’s body at the Stratton. It wasn’t a coincidence. I wanted it to be, but it wasn’t.
I could see Detective Gordon’s blurry shape moving on the other side of the heavy plastic. Any minute now he was going to come out and tell me again that I had to leave the building. I hurried up to my office and collected my bag, sweater and laptop, because it seemed pretty clear I wouldn’t be getting any work done there, and locked the door.
I headed for the front entrance. The sky had darkened and spits of rain hit the glass. Now what? I didn’t want to walk home in the rain. I had an umbrella in my office. Then I remembered. No, I didn’t. I’d used it the last time I’d been caught at the library in the rain.
I stood in the entryway and looked through the wavy glass in the old wooden doors. The wind was pushing heavy gray clouds across the sky. It was probably only going to be a shower. I could wait here, out of Detective Gordon’s way, until the rain stopped, and then go.
I heard the murmur of his voice then. I leaned sideways, just far enough to look through the ironwork gate. He was standing by the temporary circulation desk, back to me, talking on his cell phone. His voice seemed to bounce off the library’s high ceiling all the way across to where I was standing.
I couldn’t help hearing what he was saying. Well, maybe I could have, but I would have had to stuff my fingers in my ears and start humming the “Battle Hymn of the Republic” to do it, and I was trying to stay unobtrusive. After all, Detective Gordon had asked me to leave the building and he already seemed to think I was mixed up in all of this. It was better if I just waited quietly until the rain stopped, and then left.
“. . . found the primary crime scene,” I heard him say into his phone. He listened. “No. Now would be better . . . Fine.” He snapped his cell shut, and I stepped back out of his line of sight.
Which didn’t do me any good, because instead of going back to his “primary crime scene” he walked across to the entrance. I stood to one side of the heavy doors and tried to look as though I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Which, really, I wasn’t.
“Ms. Paulson, why are you still here?” he said.
I gestured at the glass. “It’s raining.”
“I see that. You can’t make it from here to the parking lot?”
“I don’t have a car.” And this was the first time I’d regretted that since I’d arrived in Mayville. “I don’t have an umbrella, either,” I added.
Just then a young man came dashing across the grass, holding a giant golf umbrella—alternating red, green, and blue sections—and a large black case. Detective Gordon unlocked the door for him. The man shook his umbrella, stepped inside and handed it to the detective, who immediately handed it to me.
“Now you have an umbrella,” he said.
It looked like a circus umbrella, or, more accurately, like a circus tent. There was a logo for spiced Jamaican rum on one panel. The other police officer opened his mouth, looked from me to Detective Gordon and closed it again. “I’ll make sure you get this back,” I told him. I pulled my key ring out of my pocket and unsnapped the library keys from the rest. “Silver one is for this door,” I said, holding them out to the detective. “Brass one is for the security gate. The other key is the master for all the inside locks.”
“Thank you,” he said. He leaned in front of me to open the door.
I ducked under his arm, then turned on the top step. “There are two more muffins and half a pot of coffee in the staff room. Please help yourself.” I popped open the umbrella and headed down the steps, waggling it at the bottom to let him know that I’d heard his surprised thank-you.
The rain stopped about halfway up Mountain Road, and by the time I was walking up the driveway I could see a patch of blue sky over the left corner of Rebecca’s house. I left my wet shoes and socks and the dripping umbrella on the porch and stepped into the kitchen.
Owen was sprawled on one side by the table, chewing on something. He looked up, startled, with a
What are you doing home?
expression on his furry gray face.
“What are you eating?” I asked, and I swear he put both paws on top of whatever it was he’d been gnawing on. “Oh, like that’s going to work,” I said, crossing the kitchen floor. “Let me see.”
The cat looked up at me with big golden eyes. “Let me see,” I said again.
He dropped his head and lifted one paw. A mangled piece of what had to be part of a Fred the Funky Chicken carcass lay on the floor.
“Owen! Where did you get that?” I said.
He made a rumbling
merow
sound.
“Do you have Fred the Funky Chicken parts stashed all over the house?”
Nothing.
I crouched down next to the cat. “Owen, look at me,” I said.
He slowly lifted his head. If a cat could look guilty, he did.
He leaned forward and gave me a head butt. Sighing, I scratched behind his left ear and Owen began to purr. “You are such a suck-up,” I told him.
Hercules came in from the living room and stopped when he saw us. He tipped his head to one side and looked up at me.
“Yes, I know I’m not supposed to be home.” I gave Owen one last scratch. “I need more coffee,” I told the cats. “And I have to make a couple of phone calls.”
I started the coffeemaker, and while it did its thing I called Mary, who was one of my full-time staff members, to tell her not to come to work. Luckily, her husband answered the phone, so I didn’t have to get into any details on the why. I left a message for Jason, our summer student, on his voice mail. Then I called Everett Henderson’s office and briefly explained what was going on to his secretary, Lita.