Софи Келли - A Night's Tail

Melanie indicated the open door. “All the stone and concrete in here interfere with my cell phone. I have to keep the door open to get any signal. Sometimes I’m hanging over the front of the desk with the phone, trying to make a call.” She shook her head. “And Murphy’s Law in action I guess, the phone company is running new lines in this part of the building so some days I have a landline and some I don’t. In other words, if you need to get in touch with me, I suggest carrier pigeon.”

“I was thinking I could tie a note to Owen’s leg and send him over,” I said.

Melanie smiled. “That would work, too.” She glanced at her cell phone. “Seriously, if you can’t get me on my cell you can leave a message at the front desk.”

“I will,” I said. I looked around the small room. “What will happen to this space?”

“It’ll most likely be used for storage,” Melanie said. She gestured at the opening in the wall. “And that will be bricked off.”

I felt an involuntary shiver like a cold finger trailing up my spine. I didn’t do well in small spaces.

It didn’t take long for us to go over the last few details for the quilt show. I was glad to be able to cross that off of my to-do list.

“Thanks for fitting me into your schedule, Kathleen,” Melanie said as she walked me back out to the front desk from her office after we finished. She was wearing a deep green blouse and a slim chocolate skirt and she looked like an early promise of spring. “Patricia’s called me three times in the last two days.”

“She’s a very detail-oriented person,” I said.

Melanie smiled. “And you’re very diplomatic.”

We passed the hallway that led to the meeting room where we’d found Lewis Wallace’s body.

“We got both rooms back yesterday,” Melanie said. “I admit I felt a little . . . unsettled walking into that meeting room.”

“That’s understandable,” I said.

“It wasn’t technically my first dead body,” she continued. “I worked in a hotel in Vermont and we had a guest pass away in his sleep, but in that case he was a hundred and two and it just didn’t seem as . . .” She paused. “It was sad, of course, but not as much of a shock as finding the body of someone you”—she cleared her throat—“someone you used to know, someone you didn’t expect to see dead.”

I nodded. “I know what you mean.” We passed a waiter pushing a wheeled food cart. He smiled at both of us. “Did Lewis Wallace have any family?” I asked.

Melanie shook her head. “He was an only child and his parents died when he was just in college.” She bent down to pick up a crumpled gum wrapper from the carpet. “I remember hearing something about a brief marriage when he was playing football in Canada but I don’t know if that was even true. He supposedly made a bunch of money up there.”

We stepped out into the lobby. “Is what happened still affecting business here?” I asked.

Melanie shook her head. “Umm, no. After those first few early checkouts and cancellations things went back to normal. I guess people have short memories.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” I said. “If there’s anything else you need, please let me know.”

She thanked me again and I headed back to the library.

Ruby had convinced all three guys to come talk to the Reading Buddies kids about music and songwriting after school on Wednesday. We set up a couple of big whiteboards and to my surprise they actually managed to write an entire song with the kids’ help. Hearing the guitar music ring through the library—which Ethan said had very good acoustics—when I stepped back inside the building after my meeting made me feel a little homesick remembering all the times over the years that I’d heard Ethan playing at home.

Thursday morning I had a meeting with Patricia Queen and Oren Kenyon to finalize all the details for the displays planned for the library during the quilt show. Oren Kenyon was a jack-of-all-trades. He’d worked on the library renovation and the repairs to the Stratton Theatre. If you could explain what you wanted to Oren he could build it. He was also a very talented musician.

Our meeting was scheduled for ten thirty and Patricia walked into the building at exactly twenty-five minutes after. Oren had already arrived and was standing in the computer area looking up at the ceiling at the system of fine wires and pulleys we had used in the past to display everything from artwork to old photographs to flying ghosts at Halloween.

Patricia had drawn a sketch of the main floor of the library as well as a detailed floor plan to scale. There were quilts to display—new and vintage—as well as books and magazines on the subject and a collection of photos of the group taken over the years. A tiny color-coded key on the side of her floor plan showed where everything should go. She handed the drawing to Oren and he studied it for a moment, nodding slowly as a hint of a smile spread across his face. “This is excellent, Patricia,” he said. He looked at me. “Kathleen, what do you think?”

I pointed at one tiny blue square. “Will this”—I squinted at the key—“quilt be too close to the heating vent?”

Patricia’s head came up and her eyes darted from side to side. “That’s one of our vintage quilts,” she said. “It’s over a hundred years old.” She reminded me of a groundhog coming out of its burrow, looking around trying to decide if we were getting six more weeks of winter.

“I’ll show you the vent Kathleen is talking about,” Oren said. He gestured in the direction of the magazines section and gave me a small smile as he passed in front of me. It occurred to me that if anyone was diplomatic, it was Oren.

Much like his son, Oren’s father, Karl, had been good with his hands. But what he had really wanted to be was an artist. He had created some incredible sculptures. The moment I’d seen them in Oren’s workshop I’d known they deserved to be seen and appreciated. I’d convinced Oren to let me display some of his father’s pieces here at the library. That had been the beginning of several shows and Karl Kenyon had finally gotten the acclaim he should have gotten when he was alive. It had cemented the friendship between Oren and me.

Moving that one quilt turned out to be the only change that was needed to Patricia’s plan. She seemed happy with Oren’s suggestions for suspending the quilts from the ceiling so they could be seen but not handled. “There are just too many grubby little hands in here in the run of a day,” she said. “No offense, Kathleen,” she added.

“None taken,” I said. I felt sure Patricia would have been appalled to see what some of those grubby little hands did to our library books.

“Thank you,” I said to Oren after Patricia left. “We wouldn’t be able to do this without your help. If we couldn’t hang the quilts they wouldn’t be safe from little hands and big ones, too.”

Oren ducked his head. “You’re welcome. I’m happy I can help.”

“Is there anything you need?” I asked.

He looked up at me. “Would you mind if I checked the hooks in the computer area? I noticed one that doesn’t look quite right.”

I smiled. “Go ahead.”

Oren headed to the loading dock to get the tall stepladder.

I picked up my notepad and the folder of papers Patricia had given me and turned around just as Georgia Tepper walked into the building. So she was back in town from her workshop. I wondered if Marcus knew.

Georgia looked around, smiling when she spotted me.

I walked over to join her. “Hi,” I said. “How was the workshop?”

Her smile got even bigger. “It was wonderful. I think I’m still on a sugar high.”

She was holding her cell phone in one hand. I gestured at it. “Any pictures to share?”