Миранда Джеймс - Twelve Angry Librarians

I walked over to the bar and found a can of diet soda in a large basin full of ice and drinks. I found a napkin on the bar to wipe excess moisture from the can, and then Diesel and I walked over to one of the armchairs. He stretched out near my feet while I opened the can and took a sip.

I knew I should be more sociable and join Lisa and the women with her, but at the moment I wanted to sit and think, at least while the room was still relatively quiet. I needed to consider what I had learned from my conversation with Marisue and Randi.

Bob Coben had suddenly emerged, at least in my mind, as the chief suspect in the murders. That bothered me, because he had stepped forward quickly after the altercation I had with Gavin on Thursday, offering to support me if Gavin tried to sue or cause any other unpleasantness. The next day, however, after Gavin’s shocking death, I had overheard Coben in conversation with Harlan Crais. From that I’d gathered that Coben thought Gavin had kept him from getting a better job. Given what I’d learned about Coben’s plans for a PhD and the need for money to pay for that degree, I figured he must have been deeply angry with Gavin.

Angry enough to kill him? That I didn’t know, but I wondered how tempted Coben might have been, working in the chemistry lab, knowing that one solution to his desire for revenge lay so close within his reach. The means was there, but did he avail himself of it?

That lay in Kanesha’s province, not mine. Working with the Mississippi Bureau of Investigation, she could contact its equivalent in Alabama, I reckoned, and ask for their cooperation. That might take a time to arrange, but it would no doubt happen.

Mitch Handler, the librarian-turned-writer, had a degree in organic chemistry and worked as liaison with the chemistry department. What kind of access did he have to dangerous chemicals? Perhaps he had a crony in one of the labs who would help him out, maybe turn a blind eye and cover it up if Handler helped himself to a pinch or two of cyanide.

Sources of cyanide were always easier in Golden Age English detective stories. Everyone had cyanide on hand in the potting shed to get rid of rats and wasps and other unwelcome intruders. Or they had connections with an industrial concern where cyanide was used in various processes. This case wasn’t that simple.

Lisa and the other two women interrupted my cogitations on cyanide and murder, and I stood while Lisa performed the introductions. Both women made charming remarks about Diesel, and he, the ham, ate it up. They patted his head and stroked his back, and he adored it. We chatted for a few moments longer, and then the two excused themselves and left the room.

Lisa, Diesel, and I were alone for perhaps three minutes after that. More people began to arrive, and among them, I was pleased to see, were Cathleen Matera and Nancy Dunlap. They made a beeline for the bar and helped themselves to wine. Then Nancy Dunlap spotted Diesel, and she came immediately over with Cathleen Matera.

I suggested that they take seats on the sofa that stood at a right angle to the chair I’d been occupying. They made themselves comfortable, and I resumed my seat. Diesel, happy with more attention, sat on the floor at their feet and meowed at them while they told him how handsome he was, and so on.

After a couple of minutes of attention to the cat, though, both women focused their attention on me.

“We’ve been hearing some interesting stories about you, Mr. Harris.” Cathleen Matera smiled. “Apparently you’re quite the amateur detective.”

Nancy Dunlap nodded. “We heard about what happened recently at Athena, with the murder in the library.”

I winced inwardly. I really didn’t like talking with people I barely knew about the murders that I’d had the misfortune to encounter. I had to be polite, however. “Call me Charlie, please. And, yes, I suppose I’ve had more experience with murder than most people. Not something I like to talk about much, frankly.”

Nancy Dunlap laughed. “No, I imagine not. Don’t worry, we’re not going to press you for the lurid details. I prefer my murders to be fictional. Are you a mystery reader?”

“Yes, since childhood,” I said. “What about you, Cathleen?”

She shook her head. “Occasionally I’ll read one, but most of the time I like fantasy and science fiction.”

We chatted for a few minutes about favorite authors, and I discovered that Nancy and I had similar tastes. She was a big fan of two Mississippi writers, Carolyn Haines and Charlaine Harris. Cathleen agreed that she loved Charlaine’s work as well. When I mentioned a couple of historical mystery writers I particularly enjoyed, Nancy dove into her purse, pulled out a small notepad and a pen, and started jotting down names.

All the while we discussed books, I wondered how I could introduce the subject of Gavin and do a bit of discreet probing. Finally, I figured out a way, taking a lead from Cathleen’s mention of two of her favorite writers. Nancy and I had hardly given her time to talk before.

“Their work does sound interesting,” I said. “I discovered that one of the librarians at the conference writes science fiction. Mitch Handler, that’s his name, but I think he uses a different name for his novels.”

“Berger Mitchell,” Cathleen said promptly. “I’ve read a couple of his novels. He’s really good, and he writes women characters who are real women, not like the caricatures you find in some male writers’ books.”

“I’ll have to give him a try,” I said. “I do occasionally read science fiction. I think somebody told me he once worked with Gavin, too. Have either of you ever worked with him?”

Nancy and Cathleen exchanged a glance, then Nancy spoke. “With Mitch, you mean?” At my nod Nancy continued. “No, I’ve not worked with him, and I don’t believe Cathleen has, either.”

Cathleen shook her head.

Nancy smiled briefly. “Look, Charlie, I know you’re wanting to ask us something about Mitch and Gavin, so why not come right out with it?”

I could all too easily imagine my sheepish expression when I responded. “You’re right. Okay, here it is. Gavin had a habit of doing nasty things to people he worked with when they tried to move on to other jobs. Does that ring any bells?”

Both women were obviously startled. “How do you know about that?” Cathleen asked, then immediately appeared to regret it.

“Two friends who worked with Gavin before told me,” I said. “One of them said she’d heard Gavin had done something nasty to Handler, but she couldn’t remember.”

Nancy’s eyes widened as she seemed to be looking over my shoulder. She opened her mouth to speak, but she was interrupted before she could say anything. At the same time Cathleen shrank back and stared down at her wineglass.

A deep voice spoke from somewhere near my shoulder. “I can tell you myself. Although why it’s any business of yours, I don’t have any idea.”

Startled, I turned in my chair to see Mitch Handler frowning down at me.

THIRTY

That’s what you get for sitting with your back to the door, you nitwit . The snide voice in my head made me want to squirm. What an idiot I was sometimes.

Repressing a sigh, I stood, being careful not to trod on Diesel. “I’m truly sorry, Mr. Handler. My curiosity gets the better of me sometimes.”

Handler’s response to that was a stony gaze. Behind me, I heard Nancy and Cathleen getting to their feet.

“Nice talking to you, Charlie,” Nancy said, and Cathleen nodded. “See you later, Mitch.”

I envied them their quick escape. At the moment I wished I could crawl under the sofa. I looked back at Handler with what I hoped was a suitably hangdog expression.