Миранда Джеймс - Claws For Concern

“Thanks.” I picked up the phone and checked the screen. I had missed a call from Teresa Farmer. I listened to her brief message, asking me to return her call at my earliest convenience. She sounded a bit harried, so I called her right away.

“Hi, Teresa, this is Charlie,” I said. “What’s up?”

“Oh, Charlie, thank you for getting back to me so quickly,” Teresa said. “Look, I hate to ask you this, but I’m in a bind over staffing tomorrow. Lizzie has come down with some kind of virus and went home sick about twenty minutes ago. I don’t think she’ll be able to come in tomorrow, and I have to be in Jackson tomorrow for my cousin’s wedding. I’m one of the bridesmaids, and I’d hate to let her down at the last minute.”

Lizzie Hayes was one of the full-time staff, along with Teresa and Bronwyn Forster. All three were librarians. The other workers were all part-time. Having two full-timers out at the same time made staffing difficult.

“Would you like me to come in and help out?” I said. “I’d be happy to. I don’t have anything special planned for tomorrow, so it’s not a problem.”

Her relief was obvious when Teresa replied, “Thank you, Charlie. I hate to impose, but I’d feel so much better if you could be there with Bronwyn. Saturdays can be so hectic in the summer. I know she’ll appreciate it, too.”

“I remember all too well how Saturdays can be,” I said, recalling my own days as a public library branch manager in Houston. “Diesel and I will report for duty at nine tomorrow morning.”

After expressing her gratitude at least three more times, Teresa ended the call. I set aside the phone. “Looks like we’ll be working at the library with Bronwyn tomorrow, boy,” I told Diesel. He chirped in response. He knew he could count on Bronwyn for attention when the patrons weren’t claiming it.

Azalea bade us good night, after reminding me to keep an eye on the casserole. I stood near the oven to make sure I didn’t wander away and get distracted. I didn’t dare let Azalea’s food burn.

Diesel loped off to the utility room, and I heard him scratching around in his litter box. He rejoined me in the kitchen moments after I opened the oven door to take out the casserole. I sniffed appreciatively at the delicious odor, and Diesel did the same. He meowed again, but I told him firmly that he couldn’t have any as I set the dish on a large trivet on the table.

I foraged in the fridge and found some bits of chicken that Azalea had probably set aside just for Diesel. I warmed them in the microwave while I took out the makings for a salad. A few minutes later both cat and human were happily eating their dinners.

I spent many Friday evenings on my own—with Diesel, of course—because Friday evening was a busy time at the bistro. Stewart and Haskell occasionally joined me, but this particular evening, they were in Memphis visiting friends for the weekend.

During the meal, aside from occasional remarks in response to more muttering from Diesel, I thought about the letter from Jack Pemberton. I didn’t want to respond until I had a chance to talk in person with his reference, Miss Carpenter. I also wanted to discuss the subject with Helen Louise, but that would have to wait until Sunday.

I hadn’t sought the limelight in the aftermath of the various murder investigations I’d been party to, and luckily for me the local paper hadn’t played up my role—for the most part—outrageously. I was happy for Kanesha to get the credit. After all, she was the professional. I was content with being an advisor of a sort.

As I continued to think about the idea of a book about my experiences, I felt increasingly uneasy. I suspected that, were I to cooperate and give the writer full details of my sleuthing activities, I would end up regretting it. I didn’t want strangers nosing around in my life.

Struck by the irony of that all of a sudden, I had to laugh. I had certainly nosed around in the lives of other people the past few years. Had karma decided this book project would be my comeuppance for playing amateur detective when I probably should have been minding my own business instead?

FOUR

Diesel and I arrived at the public library the next morning promptly at eight forty-five. Bronwyn Forster admitted us and then locked the front door behind us.

“Good morning, Charlie, Diesel,” Bronwyn said. “Thank you again for helping out like this. I’m so glad you’ll both be here today.” She scratched Diesel’s head, and he rewarded her with a happy warble.

“Our pleasure.” I indicated the container of cat litter I was carrying. “Let me just stow this away and clean out his box, and I’ll be back to help you get ready to open.”

“While you do that, Diesel and I will finish turning on the lights and making sure the computers are ready.” Bronwyn smiled. “Come on, Diesel, you can help me.”

Chirping and meowing, the cat followed Bronwyn while I took care of Diesel’s litter box in a small storage closet in the staff area at the back of the library. When I returned from completing that chore, the librarian and the cat awaited me near the reference desk. While Bronwyn and I discussed sharing duties at the desk during the day, Diesel stretched out nearby and commenced cleaning his front paws.

“We’ll have two assistants today,” Bronwyn said, “so they should be able to handle the circulation desk and any shelving that needs doing.” She smiled. “We’ll be busy enough answering questions and helping people with the computers.”

“Nothing like a busy Saturday at the public library,” I said, remembering hectic past days at my branch in Houston.

“It’s supposed to be near a hundred degrees today,” Bronwyn said, “so I imagine we’ll have a full house by midafternoon.”

“I’m sure we will.” I would love to win the lottery just so I could afford to pay for adequate air-conditioning and heating for all the families and the elderly in Athena who needed it. And feed them as well.

Bronwyn checked her wristwatch. “Time to open the gates.” She flashed another smile before she headed to unlock the front door.

I joined Diesel behind the reference desk and watched as a dozen or so people streamed through the door. Among the group were the two library assistants, a couple of teenage girls, who went to clock in before starting work.

Upon seeing me at the desk three children immediately asked if Diesel were with me. Hearing his name, the cat came out of his relaxed state and walked around the desk to greet his young admirers. After a couple minutes of feline adoration, the children let Diesel go, and he returned to my side. This scene would replay itself throughout the day, with both children and adults. Diesel was a popular attraction whenever we worked at the library.

After I answered three questions and pointed one of the questioners to a particular database, I had time to look up Jack Pemberton in the library’s online catalog. I wanted to see whether the library held any of his books. If one was available I figured I might as well read it to help me with my decision. If Pemberton’s work turned out to be cheap sensationalism, I wanted no part of it.

A quick search revealed that the library did have one of his books, published a couple of years ago. The title was Hell Has No Fury . I wondered if the title referred to the old adage “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” That, in turn, was a misquoted version of a line from a play by the English poet and playwright William Congreve. I concentrated for a moment, trying to remember the original. When the words failed to come, I resorted to the Internet and found them in a few seconds.

Ah, yes, from the play The Mourning Bride . The original read: “Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.” I congratulated myself on at least remembering the Congreve connection.