See Also Deception (24 page)

“Is there somewhere private we can talk for a moment?” he asked her.

Delia looked over her shoulder to the office. I held my breath. I really needed to call Richard Rothstein. Time was ticking away, but something told me she would deny my request even under the best circumstances.

“Outside, maybe?” she said to Nils.

He nodded and I held my place, trying my best to blend into the crowd until they both exited the library.

CHAPTER 39

I closed the office door behind me as easily and quietly as I could, stepped over to the side, and rested my back against the wall. I tried to blend in, disappear like a sagebrush sheep moth seeking refuge from a hungry blackbird. Big sagebrush (
Artemisia tridentate
), of course, was one of the common plants in North Dakota, a subject that had been, and remained, at the forefront of my mind. The plant was a host to the moth; its larvae fed on it, making it vital for the moth's survival. Once the moth lit on the sagebrush, it was almost invisible and mostly safe from predators. All of its troubles were over—for that moment. Unlike mine, which still hinged on facing a frothing Richard Rothstein over a late index. I would've rather stared down the blackbird.

But it was more than hiding from Delia Finch and the lingering crowd in the library that had brought my back to the wall. My heart raced a mile a minute because I was sneaking around, going into a sacred place without permission; it was a curious, desperately rebellious act that was as uncommon to me as a blooming red rose was on the winter prairie. My world was orderly, dictated by a strict style guide—the seasons—and a dose of old-world morality that constantly butted up against the modern, present world. Stepping outside of my known behavior was uncommon to me, at least to this degree. I was essentially trespassing with the intention of stealing, even though I would pay for the long-distance call one way or another. I would admit to my crime after engaging in it.

The truth was, I'd wanted to see for myself where Calla had died all along, if only to make sense of it all, or to convince myself that it was true, that she was really dead—I constantly needed to be reminded of that fact because I'd always thought that Calla would outlive me. Even now, I expected her to barge through the door at any second, demanding that we go smoke and talk about the latest book I was indexing or that she was reading. Her death was a shock, and I still couldn't resolve my struggle with mortality.

I needed to hide, and I needed to be propped up. Two seconds in the room and I already regretted being there.

There was still a heavy smell of bleach in the room. A odor of a cleaning agent and disinfectant of some kind mixed with the bleach that had washed away the blood and whatever else. It was as if the murder had never existed, like it all had just been another nightmare. But it wasn't. Bleach and pine-scented disinfectant were as much the fragrances of reality as funeral bouquets were. My eyes immediately began to fill, even though I thought I had used up all of my tears.

I bit my lip.
Get ahold of yourself, Marjorie
. I blinked and stiffened my back at the same time.

The office looked normal, all put back together, nothing out of place other than an accoutrement of Delia Finch's; an orange and brown striped, fake leather purse sat in the middle of Calla's desk. It didn't belong there, was as out of place as I was.

I wondered if Herbert had been the one to clean up the aftermath of the deed. A lot had fallen to him, including the specter of guilt. If he
had
murdered Calla, then there was no lack of irony in his duties. But what if he hadn't? I still wasn't convinced of it, and though it seemed as impossible as it was improbable, I wanted to ask him myself. I would know for sure then. When I'd sat with Herbert at the Wild Pony he hadn't seemed nervous or like a man afraid of being caught. He was stunned just like I was, entering the first phase of mourning: Denial.

My speculation had to wait, unfortunately, for the law and the courts to do their jobs. Until then, Herbert was innocent until proven guilty. I knew that as well as I knew much of anything else. Herbert's fate was out of my hands.

The back wall of the office was lined with nothing but bookshelves filled with the forbidden books—
Lady Chatterley's Lover
,
The Price of Salt
,
Tropic of Cancer
, and a host of how-to nonfiction books that broached worldly, carnal subjects that I could barely imagine but was sure Calla had read every word of. A patron had to request each of those books before it could be checked out of the library, and only then after a long moment of scrutiny from Calla. I knew exactly what Betty Walsh had meant when I'd asked her what people around town had thought of Calla. “
She could be snobby about the books that you checked out, even though it wasn't any of her business.
” It was, according to Calla, her job, her responsibility and duty to society and the community, to know what was inside every book that came into the library so she would know what was going out of it. She had lived most all of her life inside of books. I was sure of it. And for what?

I listened for a second and then decided that I either had to make the call to Richard Rothstein or sneak back out of the office—flutter my moth wings away from the sagebrush and take my chances.

The disinfectant made my stomach turn. It would have been easy to run straight to the hospital without another thought. Some days it would have been easier to just be a farmer's wife. Not have the worry or pressure of writing a usable, professionally produced index and turning it in on time. But I wasn't just a simple farmer's wife. Not anymore. I was a farmer's wife caregiver. And the farm was collapsing all around me. If I gave up indexing, I would have no way to feed Hank and me. Other than sell the farm. And I wasn't going to do that. Not now. Not ever. Those acres and that house were as much a part of me as my heart and bones.

I heard nothing. I feared the possibility of Delia Finch rushing into the office and catching me there. Instead, there was a low rumble of respectful voices, evidence of a crowd in a quiet place.

I made my way to the desk, focused my mind on the task at hand, not on what once was or what could be, and picked up the phone—Calla's phone—my connection to the wider world. I had to face Richard Rothstein and get past that. Hank was waiting for me. I could feel his loneliness and need for me in every breath I took.

I dialed zero.

“Operator. How may I help you?” It was a voice I didn't recognize, thankfully. Perhaps I had clicked into the Bell switch offices in Bismarck.

“Long distance, please.”

“Phone number?”

“212-555-0408.” I knew the phone number to H.P. Howard and Sons by heart.

“One moment please.”

All I had was a moment. That and a lifetime of worry and sadness. At least that's what it felt like as I ran my hand over the top of Calla's desk. It felt cold, impartial. I couldn't sense her at all there, and I desperately wanted to. I needed her to urge me on, and it was a realization that at first was uncomfortable, then a relief. I had needed Calla in my life for a long time. I hoped she had known how much she meant to me.

The phone clicked, then a second of silence, then a ring. The magic of technology never ceased to amaze me. Somewhere in a New York skyscraper, a harried editor was being summoned to the phone from the middle of the country, from a farmer's wife standing, sweating, in a chilly librarian's office.

“Richard Rothstein's office,” a fast-talking receptionist answered.

My spine stiffened, and my voice cracked as it exited my lips. “This is Marjorie Trumaine, returning Mr. Rothstein's call.”

“One moment.”

Silence. The line hissed distantly as she transferred the call. At least I didn't have to worry about Burlene Standish listening in. This was a dedicated line, not a party line.

“Miss Trumaine,” Richard Rothstein snarled.

He always did that. Called me miss. I had corrected him a few times, told him I was a missus, but obviously he had not noticed—or refused to be corrected.

“Yes, I'm sorry . . .”

“There is no excuse for being late.” He interrupted me. I was ready for that and pursed my lips together. It didn't matter what I had to say. My job was to listen. I was a subordinate, at his mercy, that had been made clear over and over in our dealings. Hank hated to hear the name Richard Rothstein. I was certain more than once that, if he'd been able, Hank would have stood up, walked out the door, caught the first airplane to New York, and boxed Mr. Rothstein's ears for the way he talked to me. That was not the kind of trouble we needed, so I suppose there was even a reason to be grateful for paralysis.

“We had an agreement, Miss Trumaine. The index for
The
Last Tower of Rome
was to be on my desk two days ago. I have to say I am extremely disappointed . . .”

I did not hesitate to interrupt
him
. “I beg your pardon, but what title did you say?”

“
The Last Tower of Rome
.”

I said nothing. I had, of course, never heard of that book.

“Miss Trumaine? Are you there? Are you aware of the severity of this situation? This is a very important book for us.”

Not so important that you know who the indexer is
, I wanted to say, but I didn't. I said nothing. It was the first time he had made such a mistake, but I couldn't imagine that it would be difficult, juggling as many books to be published as he did.

“Are you still there, Miss Trumaine? You have done acceptable work for us in the past. I am amazed at your lack of concern.” His New York accent was difficult to decipher, but I'd had some practice. And honestly, I had never had a conversation with anyone who spoke so fast as Richard Rothstein. I could barely keep up.

“I've never heard of that book,” I finally said.

I swear I could hear him suck in air like he had been punched in the gut from a thousand miles away.
That one was for you, Hank.

“Oh. Are you certain?” he said.

“Absolutely.”

“Let me look.” Silence, though I was tempted to tap my fingers on Calla's desk. “Oh, dear,” he said. “That book is assigned to Prudence Wilkins. You're on the
Common Plants of the Western Plains: North Dakota
book and it's due . . .”

“In five days, if my calendar is correct.”

“It is. Hum. I suppose I will have to call Miss Wilkins. Good day, Miss Trumaine.” Then the phone went dead. No apology, no goodbye, no nothing. Just a click. It was all over. The end, that's it. I'm finished with you. On with the next thing. I suppose that was how publishing worked, but I would never get used to it.

CHAPTER 40

I didn't hesitate, didn't set the receiver down. I tapped the switch posts in the cradle of the telephone and spun the hospital's number as fast as the rotary dial would turn. I knew that number by heart.

Olga Olafson picked up on the second ring. “St. Joseph's Hospital. How may I help you?”

As much as I found Olga irritating, I was glad to hear her voice, encounter a semblance of normalcy. “Hello, Olga, it's . . .”

She cut me off. “Oh, hey there, Marjorie. How are you doing?” She sounded casual.

“I'm fine. I called to check on Hank.” I hushed my voice so Delia, or anyone else out in the foyer of the library, wouldn't hear me.

Olga didn't hesitate with her answer. “Oh, he's just fine, other than he's gettin' anxious to go home. Poor man can't fidget a lick.”

The word “other” sounded like
udder
, just like my father used to say it. Olga's North Dakotan accent gave me another moment of comfort, and I smiled slightly.

She went on without missing a beat. “Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be impolite about Hank's condition.”

“It's okay, Olga. It's the truth of things, I know what you mean.”

I heard an audible sigh, a release of momentary shame. The silence between us only lasted for a brief second. “You all right yourself, then, Marjorie? I can barely hear you,” Olga said, restored.

“I'm at the library. There are a lot of people here.”

“I'd imagine there are. Who would've thought that poor, simple Herbert Frakes could ever do something like that? I always thought he and Calla were . . .”

I cut in this time. “You're sure Hank's all right?”

Olga let out a slight harrumph. I pictured her nose sailing straight to the ceiling in one swift, offended move. “Yes,” she answered. “Doc said he could go home this evening once he makes his last rounds and makes sure Hank himself is fit to make the trip out to your place. I told you that.”

“All right, I'll be there shortly. Can you tell him?”

“You betcha, but there's no hurry. Doc's got his hands full with one thing or another. He won't sign the release papers till he sees Hank again. You know how Doc is, slower'n Christmas but just as certain to show up.”

I nodded. “Thanks, Olga.”

“Sure is a shame about Herbert,” she said, wanting to go on about the arrest.

I wasn't interested in discussing Herbert's fate any more than I had to. I'd seen and heard enough. “I have to go, Olga. Goodbye.”