See Also Deception (7 page)

I shifted my weight, unprepared for an attack of any kind. “I have no idea who that woman was, and I am fully aware of the rules and policies that govern this library. I have been coming here since I was a child. I'm sure you have the name of the borrower. You can take up the violation with her, not me.”

“Well . . .” the woman said, snapping her head back. She wore glasses, not unlike Calla's really—black plastic, pointed at the tips, with a gold chain that attached at the shafts. The chain dangled loosely, and the glasses threatened to fall away.

I said nothing more. I just stood there staring at the woman, numb to my toes, sadder than I had been in months because I wasn't talking to Calla.

There didn't seem to be anyone else in the library but the two of us. I had seen hide nor hair of Herbert Frakes.

There was no other sound—except for the persistent wind outside, but no one heard that noise unless it wasn't there. It was cool inside, just a little warmer than a tomb, and the comforting smell of books and paper wafted about casually, expectedly. Only I found no comfort in anything about being inside the library. It was the first time that had ever happened to me.

“Do you have a name?” I finally asked.

“You may call me Miss Finch,” the woman snapped. “I am Delia Finch.”

“I don't know any Finches around here.”

“I suppose you don't. My family hails from Minnesota. I'm on loan from Bismarck for the foreseeable future.”

“Because of Calla.”

Delia Finch lowered her head and for the first time showed a modicum of humanity. “Yes, because of the unfortunate circumstances this facility has found itself in.”

For the first time since I had arrived, I looked past the woman, Miss Finch, to the closed door that led into Calla's office. It had a frosted glass window marked LIBRARIAN, and it was easy to tell that the room was dark. I imagined that the door was locked, but there was no outward sign of that or that it was blocked off by the police for any reason. Everything looked normal.

Miss Finch caught my gaze. “May I help you? Or did you just come in here to return these books you say you found?”

I didn't know how to answer her. Tears welled up in my eyes as the reality of Calla's death became more and more apparent. The tips of my fingers trembled, and I suddenly felt like I was standing out in an open wheat field in the middle of January.

“I had a question,” I whispered, as a tear escaped my right eye and trailed down my cheek.
So much for keeping a stiff upper lip
.

“Oh, dear,” Miss Finch said. She leaned down and almost magically produced a box of paper tissues. There wasn't an annoyed look on her face, but it was obvious that she was uncomfortable with such a show of emotion.

I took the tissue she offered and blotted away the tears the best I could. “I'm sorry,” I said. “I'm usually not like this.”

Miss Finch stared at me like she didn't believe me, but said nothing. I wondered if she'd always been so rigid.

“Calla was my friend,” I continued. “I just can't imagine what made her do what she did. It's unthinkable. She never indicated that she was unhappy or capable of doing such a thing.”

Capable of doing such a thing
 . . . echoed inside my mind and in the empty library at the same time. The words flew away from me on wings of disbelief. I couldn't bring myself to accept that Calla Eltmore had killed herself. Especially not at the library, on hallowed ground. It would be the last place I would have expected her to taint with the memory of a desperate, final act. I shook my head and said nothing else. I was tempted to turn around and walk out of the library and never come back. It was such an unimaginable impulse that my feet hesitated and failed to react to what my mind and my heart wanted to do. I was frozen in place, as lifeless as a fence post.

Miss Finch cleared her throat, then said, “It is a difficult day for the library, ma'am. As you would think it would be, but it is business as usual. The calendar was not marked for this tragedy, and the doors must remain open. Now, what was your question?” Her humanity fell away almost as quickly as it had appeared.

“I'm sorry?” I couldn't believe the callous tone emitting from the woman's tight lips. She was moving me along. It was almost like she was tired of my presence and wanted me to leave.

“Your question, the one that brought you here.” Miss Finch paused, then said, “You could have called.”

“I guess I had to see for myself that Calla really wasn't here.”

“The street has been full of traffic this morning. Curiosity seekers, I suppose, driving past, hoping to see something awful. It is just unnerving,” she said, pointing toward the window.

I nodded. I'd had some experience with increased traffic, with gawkers, slowing by the house after the Knudsen tragedy a few months back. I didn't like it then, either, being the object of focused attention and speculation.

“It's morbid and rude, if you ask me,” Miss Finch continued, staring directly into my eyes. “They should all receive a traffic ticket for driving too slow.”

What a hateful woman.
I gripped the tissue in my hand tight. “People are just afraid,” I said.

“Your question?” she said again, tapping her fingers on the counter.

Right, my question. It took me back to my reality, to the task I had to face once I left here. I had an index to finish, and I had completely detached from that prospect. The work seemed distant, impossible to approach, but I knew I had no choice but to continue on. “Is musk thistle a perennial plant or a biennial plant?” I said.

“I wasn't expecting that,” Miss Finch said.

“I'm an indexer,” I said, feeling the need to explain myself for some reason.

“A what?”

“I write back-of-the-book indexes. Calla has a shelf of all of the books that have my indexes in them.”

“A star is among us.”

“Hardly,” I said.

“Well, I've never met an indexer any more than I've met a real writer. I'm impressed.” Miss Finch's tone had changed, and she was suddenly leaning toward me, almost half over the counter. “Tell me, do you make real money at this job, at writing indexes for books?”

I stepped back unconsciously. It was rude to ask about money. I wasn't accustomed to such a thing. “My question,” I stuttered, trying to deflect the query.

“Well, then, how does one become an indexer?” Miss Finch persisted.

“I took a course, then sent off some letters to New York. I've been very lucky to find steady work,” I said. “I have an index that's due soon, and I need to answer this question so I can move on. Of course,
I did try to call
. So, if you could please . . .”

Delia Finch nodded and smiled slightly. She spoke without taking a visible breath. “Musk thistle.
Carduus nutans
. A native of North Africa and brought to this country in the early nineteenth century. It is a biennial plant here in North Dakota, though in warmer climates it can germinate and flower in a single year,” Miss Finch said, standing back to her original position. A haughty look settled on her face just as she crossed her arms across her chest, proud of her dissertation.

I did not like this woman. “I need a source,” I said. “I can't just take your word for it.” I
was
mildly impressed by her hair-trigger knowledge, but it would be a cold day when I showed it.

Miss Finch started to say something, then spun around and exited from behind the counter as if her heels had been lit on fire. I just stood there and watched, reasonably satisfied that I had annoyed her as much as she had annoyed me. Her footsteps echoed throughout the library, hard taps on tile floor that almost sounded like a war drum being pounded over and over again.

I stood patiently, hoping for sight of Herbert Frakes, but fearing the worst for him, that he'd gone off on a bender again. Losing Calla would be impossible for him to bear. I was certain of it. Just as I was certain in my hope that Miss Delia Finch was only the temporary librarian and not a permanent replacement for Calla Eltmore. If that were the case, my indexing life would be miserable for the foreseeable future.

Miss Finch returned quickly with a small field guide open in her hands. A satisfied look had replaced her earlier disdain, and I was certain her makeup was going to melt right off her face. She thrust the book toward me and said, “As I said, it
is
a biennial plant. See for yourself if you must.”

“I must.” I glanced down to the little print, strained my eyes, and read what she wanted me to. She was right, but I really had not doubted that she would be. “Thank you, that will help,” I said, offering a feigned smile.

Miss Finch withdrew the book and set it on the counter. “This indexing course you took, did you take it at the local college?”

“No,” I said. “The extension agent brought it out. It's a correspondence course facilitated by the USDA.”

“The United States Department of Agriculture?”

“Yes, the very one,” I said. I had encountered enough academic snobbery since I started indexing to know it when I heard it, so I didn't restrain myself in my own defense. I had nothing to be ashamed of, and I damn well knew it. I was an experienced indexer and proud of it.

“I should have known,” she said.

“You can contact Curtis Henderson, the extension agent for information if you'd like.” I shook my head, squared my shoulders, and prepared to leave. I opened my purse to put the tissue in and I saw the woman's glasses that I had picked up. “By any chance can you tell me the woman's name who checked out the books I brought in?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I was just wondering . . .” I said, staring at the glasses. Returning them seemed the right thing to do.

“That is private information. I cannot give out that name for any reason.” Miss Finch had raised her voice. It was as loud as a bank vault slamming shut. Calla would not have done that; at least with me . . .

My immediate instinct was to shush her, but I thought better of it. “I'm sorry, you're right, of course.” I dropped the tissue in my purse and closed it. “Thank you for your time. I hope the coming days are easier for you.” And with that, I turned and hurried out of the library, glad to be free of Miss Delia Finch's presence, satisfied that I had obtained what I'd come for. I was past ready to be home with my dog and my husband where I belonged.

CHAPTER 12

I had to drive right past the Wild Pony tavern on my way out of town. I could have bypassed it, gone around the block and avoided it altogether, but I couldn't bring myself to do that. Instead, I slowed as the building came into view, nearly as curious and intentional as the gawkers that I had come to loath.

The Wild Pony was a single-level, brick-front building that had been in business for as long as I could remember. I wasn't sure that the building had always been a tavern; the memory of it was mostly a blur, coming and going to and from town.

Small bungalows populated the cottonwood-lined street and beyond; small, simple well-kept houses that were the most common in Dickinson. I suppose a man could have gotten himself more than drunk and still found his way home if he had been inclined. I was not one for liquor, but a tavern was just as important to some folks as a library was to me. We all needed a place to go, there was no denying that. The luxuries of town-life weren't lost on me. But I wasn't looking for just any man. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of Herbert Frakes.

Like most men of his generation, Herbert had served overseas in World War II and had never been the same since he'd returned home. It was easy to tell that he'd been shattered by the experience of combat, even twenty years later. I feared what the shock of Calla's death had done to him. Previous stresses had sent Herbert straight to the Wild Pony, and my suspicion was that his pattern of behavior hadn't changed.

A few unattended cars sat in front of the Wild Pony. There was no one to be seen milling about. Even though it was late morning, a red neon OPEN sign buzzed brightly in the window next to the door. All the windows, including the door, were blacked out from the inside. It was a dark place even on a sunny day. There was no way I was going to catch a glimpse of Herbert Frakes unless I went inside.

I glanced down at my watch, fully aware that if I stopped I was going to be away from Hank longer than I should be, but I couldn't keep a growing thought from overtaking my mind:
Calla would want you to check on Herbert
.

And then, as I steered the Studebaker over to the curb to park, I felt the first hint of anger erupt in the deepest part of my stomach. “If that were true, she wouldn't have killed herself. Calla would still be here to look after Herbert like she always had,” I said aloud to no one but myself.

I let my angry words dissipate inside the cab of the truck as I brought it to a halt, put it in park, and shut off the engine. The engine shimmied and protested like it had developed a cold, but I knew better. The Studebaker needed its points and plugs changed. I was behind on everything.

I sighed and suddenly felt ashamed of my anger toward Calla. But I was angry with her. If she had just ended her life without reaching out for help, without calling me, then I had a right to be angry. At least I thought I did. I didn't even know if she'd left a note explaining her reasons, what had led her down the path to do such a thing. No one—no one being Delia Finch, the only person I'd talked to who might know such a thing—had said whether she'd communicated anything. And I hadn't asked. That woman had left me unnerved.

Regardless of Calla's unknown wishes, I needed to see if Herbert was inside the Wild Pony. If he was, maybe he'd have some information that would make sense of everything. Maybe he knew why Calla Eltmore had killed herself. If anyone knew, it would be Herbert.