Reading Up a Storm (26 page)

“I'm sure you will,” I said. I smiled at my aunt.

“Let me finish introducing Lucy,” Ellen said to Bertie. “You have your guests to see to.”

“True. Although I'd prefer to spend my time with you two.” Bertie straightened her shoulders and waded into the crowd.

“So, you're the new one, are you? Let's have a look at you.”

“Excuse me?” I blinked. A woman was standing much too close, intruding into my private space, staring boldly into my face, her eyes dark with hostility. I'd never seen her before. The amount of product in her hair, teased and sprayed into a stiff helmet in a shade of red not known to nature, competed with her perfume. Her fingernails were the color of the wine in the glass she gripped in her right hand. Her dress was lower cut than suited her turkey-neck throat and chest and she tottered on stiletto sandals with straps the thickness of dental floss. She had to be well into her sixties, and not going into old age gracefully. She
exhaled alcoholic fumes into my face. The party was just getting under way. She must have had a couple of drinks before arriving.

“Diane, I don't think . . .” Aunt Ellen said.

“I don't care what you think. A
librarian
. A
young
librarian. Just what we need in this town. Another one of
them
.” She spoke as if “librarian” were another word for “ax murderer.” I had absolutely no idea what she was going on about. I was quite proud to be a librarian.

“At least,” Diane said, with a snort, “she's not very
pretty
.”

That hit a sore spot. I might not be a beauty like my cousin Josie, but I didn't consider myself to be a total dog, either.

“I can't imagine where she got that dress. Her mother's closet, perhaps?”

Another direct hit. I'd bought this dress especially for this party. It cost considerably more than I could afford, but I wanted to make an impression. Apparently I had. But not the impression I was hoping for. The dress was new, but the clerk in the store told me the vintage look was back in style. It was pale yellow, with a square-cut neckline, close-fitting bodice, tightly cinched patent leather black belt above a flaring skirt, and a stiff petticoat that ended sharply at the knees. The shoes were also new, of the same color and material as the belt, and turning out to have been a mistake. My aching feet were reminding me that I should stick to ballet flats and sports sandals.

“Diane, you're creating a scene.” Mr. Uppiton, the chair of the library board, took the woman's arm.

She shook him off. She took a hefty swig of her wine. “No, Jonathan, you're the one who made a scene. You think the whole town isn't talking about you? About how this place, this library, is more important to you than our marriage of thirty years?”

All around us the buzz of polite conversation died as people turned to look. Diane Uppiton's face was turning as red as her hair and nails. Her eyes filled with water that threatened to spill over and ruin her heavily applied makeup.

In the sudden silence, I could hear a ghost screaming from the depths of a castle dungeon. Or it might have been Charles the cat, expressing his opinion at being locked in the closet.

“Our marriage,” Mr. Uppiton said, with a sniff, “was a mistake from the beginning. I finally came to realize that. I decided to take the blame for its demise myself, to allow you to leave with some medium of dignity. Dignity that you, my dear, clearly have forsaken.”

Stuck-up jerk. He was speaking louder than he needed to, and although he was trying to look concerned, the corners of his mouth were in danger of curling upward. He, I realized, was playing to the audience, and thoroughly enjoying every minute of it. My sympathy shifted and I felt very sorry for Mrs. Uppiton.

“Our marriage”—the tears began to flow—“was my world. I gave you my youth, my beauty. My life. But you, nothing mattered to you more than this cursed library. Nothing.”

“In a library, at least, one can have silence,” Mr. Uppiton said, with the exaggerated sigh of a martyr. A few people tittered, more in embarrassment than in
enjoyment of the joke. But Mr. Uppiton looked pleased with himself indeed.

“Come along, honey.” Bertie plucked the wineglass from Mrs. Uppiton's fingers and passed it to the closest person. Me.

Unfortunately that had the result of turning Mrs. Uppiton's attention back to me. “You.” She stabbed one of those potentially lethal nails in my direction. “Stay away from my husband.”

“That's soon-to-be-ex-husband, I'll remind you,” he sniffed.

She ignored him. “Do you hear me? I know your kind.”

I refrained from mentioning that about the last person I'd ever want to get close to (shudder) was Mr. Uppiton. The crotchety old jerk, he'd made it plain to everyone who'd listen—and many who didn't want to—that he didn't like me and didn't want me in the job. I was, according to him, a flighty debutante. I figured he meant “dilettante,” but wasn't about to point out the difference.

“And you,” she said, spraying spittle all over her husband's face, “you'll get what's coming to you. See if you don't. I'll dance on your grave yet.”

“Come along now,” Bertie cooed. “Let's dry those tears.”

“Really, my dear,” Mr. Uppiton sniffed as his sobbing wife was escorted to the ladies' room. “Credit me with a medium of taste.” I suspect he meant “modicum.” Again, I declined to correct him.

Since starting work here, I'd come to realize that Bertie had eyes in the back of her head. As she led
Diane away, without even glancing over her shoulder she shouted, “Charlene, don't you dare touch that CD player!”

The reference librarian leapt away from the machine, a look of total innocence on her face.

Charles reminded us he was still trapped in the closet.

Eva Gates
is the author of the national bestselling Lighthouse Library Mysteries, including
Booked for Trouble
and
By Book or by Crook
. She began her writing career as a Sunday writer: a single mother of three high-spirited daughters, with a full-time job as a computer programmer. Now she has more than ten novels under her belt in the mystery genre, published under the name Vicki Delany. She lives in Ontario.

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