Death Overdue (Librarian Mysteries) Read online

  When she checks in, someone always checks out. . . .

  KILLER LIBRARIAN

  Praise for the first novel in Mary Lou Kirwin’s mystery series featuring transatlantic librarian-sleuth Karen Nash

  “How can you not buy this cozy debut with its catchy title? Mary Lou Kirwin succeeds at creating a winning heroine whose amateur sleuthing efforts make for a fun, gentle puzzler with a touch of love.”

  —Library Journal

  “Literary allusions, from Winnie the Pooh to Ian McEwan, distinguish Kirwin’s captivating debut from the common run of cozies.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “This engaging cozy has it all—English bookshops, flower shows, dotty sisters, plenty of surprises—along with an engaging premise for a continuing series.”

  —Booklist

  “A charming debut for Mary Lou Kirwin. . . . I hope this author has more books coming, and soon.”

  —Suspense Magazine

  “Kirwin weaves literary gems into the story that will keep the reader jumping to keep up. Add a new love interest to mix into the stew and there is something for everyone in this book.”

  —Single Titles

  Thank you for downloading this Gallery Books eBook.

  * * *

  Join our mailing list and get updates on new releases, deals, bonus content and other great books from Gallery Books and Simon & Schuster.

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  or visit us online to sign up at

  eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

  I’d like to dedicate this book to all the librarians who have shown me the right book at the right time. Many thanks.

  The books were arranged rationally, thematically, alphabetically, and dust-free: this last was the only sign of housekeeping in that austere place.

  A. S. Byatt, Possession

  “When I used to read fairy tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one!”

  Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

  One never knows when the blow may fall.

  Graham Greene, The Third Man

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to Janet Cox for vetting my take on the Brits and Pete Hautman for his hugs and help always.

  ONE

  Arranging the Books

  Sitting on the floor surrounded by books, I realized I had never been happier in my life.

  The sun streamed in the open window of Caldwell’s library, which had been a bedroom in his B and B at one time but was now filled with floor-to-ceiling bookcases holding row upon row of amazing books. Not in perfect order. Not in terrifically bad order, but I wanted to organize them to my satisfaction. I’m a librarian, and I know how these things should be handled.

  Caldwell was running errands, and I was glad to have both some meaningful work to do and time to myself to think over the last few months of my life—how things had changed. Caldwell and I had fallen in love under rather dire circumstances and, for both of us, we needed some time to just be together and see if what we were feeling for each other had legs, as they say.

  There were inherent problems in our relationship: he lived in London, I lived in Sunshine Valley, Minnesota. The plane trip took a good eight hours if you were lucky and then there was the jet lag. Neither of us was a spring chicken; rather we were in the prime of our forties. My previous boyfriend had dumped me and then died rather tragically. Caldwell had started the B and B with his previous girlfriend, who had later run out on him, leaving him to fend for himself and make breakfast for the guests. But that was quite a few years ago. We were both recovering from these upsetting and unreliable relationships.

  I hadn’t thought I would retire from my job as a librarian for some years yet, but Caldwell was ready to jump with both feet into running a bookstore (or as he was constantly reminding me in British English, a “bookshop”) here in London. He wanted it to be called Nash and Perkins, our two last names; therefore, he wanted me to be involved in the running of said shop. He felt we would make very good partners. He had hinted at wanting to make us more than simply business partners. I had the same thoughts, but was being cautious.

  I had come over to London about a week ago to try this new lifestyle on for size. Over the years I had accumulated many weeks of vacation time, having taken them so infrequently. I had asked for two months off to help Caldwell get his life and his books organized and to see if we wanted to take these next steps together.

  Since Caldwell had been scouting around for the perfect shop, word had gotten out of his intentions and was already stirring up interest in his collection. While he collected a great variety of books, he was specializing in children’s books. One of our guests was a well-known book collector, Bruce W. Hogsworth. Bruce wanted desperately to see Caldwell’s library, but so far Caldwell had put him off—just not ready to let go of any of his books.

  At the moment, I was trying to decide how to arrange Caldwell’s nonfiction, whether to stick with strict library methodology or to be more loose, more intuitive about what books to put next to each other. For example, Caldwell puts all the books about Canterbury, England, together even if they should be shelved apart because some are about its geography and others are about its history.

  This can grate on me. By nature, I am not intuitive. I believe everything has its proper place. But along with thinking of making a major change in my life—like moving to England and opening a store and living with a man I love—I was trying to be a little more relaxed about all things.

  For instance, I was learning to eat dinner later. I was used to eating promptly at six. That’s when Caldwell might start thinking about dinner. We went out to eat more than I was used to.

  And he often bought books because they were handsome, while I tended to focus on their monetary worth.

  When I arrived, Caldwell had told me that he had found a wonderful first edition in very good condition. “I’m still checking out whether I’m right about this book. If I am, it alone could finance the start-up of our business.”

  “Will you be able to sell it?” I asked, knowing that he could get quite attached to certain books.

  He hesitated before saying, “I think so.”

  He hadn’t told me what book it was or shown it to me yet. I trusted him. He would reveal it to me when he was ready. I knew it could well be secreted away in the very room I was sitting in, but I wasn’t going to search for it. I was content to let things unfold as they would.

  I wanted to share this lovely, quiet moment with someone, and so I called Rosie, who worked with me as a librarian and who, even though she was a couple decades younger than me, was my best friend. In Minneapolis, it was early in the afternoon. She would be home unless her new beau, Richard, had taken her out to see an early movie.

  “Hey,” she said when she answered the phone.

  “Hey, yourself. How are things in Sunshine Valley?” I was feeling so good I nearly sang this question to the tune of “How Are Things in Glocca Morra?” and I don’t even like the song.

  “The usual. Nancy, our favorite librarian, griped all day long about how much work you’ve left us with and how your replacement shouldn’t be allowed to pump gas, let alone touch a book.”

  Nancy was the head librarian and took her work very seriously. Not that Rosie and I didn’t, but we tried to have fun too. “I’m glad to hear nothing has changed.”

  “But you’ve changed. You sound positively glowing.”

  “You can tell that over the phone?” I asked.

  “Yes, your voice is all full of bubbles.”

  “Well, it feels good to be here,” I admitted.

  “With Caldwell,” sh
e added.

  “Yes, with Caldwell. Guess what I’m doing.”

  “Sitting in the back garden eating some crumpets.”

  “No, I’m sitting on the floor of the library, which is really just this room that used to be a bedroom that Caldwell has filled with shelves, and I’m organizing his books.”

  “That’s enough to make any librarian happy.”

  “And sometimes I’m not even putting them according to the Dewey decimal system.”

  “Oh, you are a wild thing. So things are going pretty good. Are we going to lose you to this Svengali?”

  “Maybe. I’m just taking it a day at a time, until I have to decide.”

  “Which is in seven weeks,” she reminded me. “Oh, there’s the doorbell.”

  “What movie are you seeing tonight?” I asked. Seeing movies was about all she did with Richard—but they both loved it.

  “We’re staying in tonight and watching Casablanca.”

  Which made me want to sing “A kiss is just a kiss.” “Toodles,” I said.

  “Ta-ta.” Rose signed off.

  The only fly in the ointment of my utterly perfect moment and heavenly day was the decision I had to make—did it make sense for me to completely give up my life and step so deeply into Caldwell’s? How well did I really know the man? Why did I have to lose so much to gain him?

  I was trying hard to pay attention to what felt right to me. After Dave’s horrible and untimely death, I had seen a therapist for a few months. At first, when she would ask me how something made me feel, I literally didn’t know what to say. I hardly knew what she meant. Cold and hot I could distinguish, but how I felt emotionally about an event was a real struggle for me to ascertain. I had a few episodes of sobbing and laughing hysterically in the therapist’s office. I guess you call those breakthroughs although at the time they felt more like breakdowns.

  As I sat in front of a wall of books, trying to decide whether to put so-and-so’s book on British history in the historical books, where it belonged, or in the section on royalty, next to a book on Princess Diana, where it might also find readers, I was also working on simply feeling happy, letting this emotion wash over me in waves.

  How odd to have to practice feeling happy.

  Just at the moment when I thought I had nailed it—when happiness flooded over me like a warm and powerful rain shower—the doorbell rang. Little did I know that answering it would completely blow my happy world apart.

  TWO

  Knock, Knock

  When I opened the door, I saw the back of a tall, blond-haired woman, who was wearing the loveliest fawn suede shoes I have ever laid eyes on. Shoes that one wanted to reach out and pet. I refrained.

  The woman turned, and she was equally good-looking from the front. She was not young, but she was elegant and willowy and very well kept up. She looked at me like I was a marmot, and a hoary one at that. I’m not even exactly sure what a marmot looks like, but that was how I felt, especially in comparison to her.

  The tall, blond woman twisted her lovely lips, then undid them and asked, “Who are you?”

  Assuming that she was a guest who had been expecting Caldwell to answer the door, I told her, “Oh, this is Perkins B and B, I’m just the . . .” What exactly was I? Girlfriend didn’t sound like quite enough, but I certainly wasn’t his fiancée yet. I didn’t work for him, but then I did, by choice. I continued, “I’m just helping out.”

  “Doesn’t Brenda still do that?” she asked.

  Brenda was Caldwell’s housekeeper-assistant, who had recently moved into a small room on the first floor. She had been with him forever, but only worked part-time. This woman must be a regular guest to know of Brenda—she worked odd hours and didn’t make her presence known much.

  “Yes, Brenda is still here, but not at the moment. I’m helping Caldwell with other things.” I was being circumspect because Caldwell and I had decided to keep mum about the possibility of the bookshop. We didn’t want to scare the current or future guests away.

  The blond woman craned her long neck and looked past me into the house. “How nice that he’s been able to keep the place going.”

  Thinking that was a rather odd comment to make, I asked her, “Do you have a reservation?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Remulado. It’s under the name of Alfredo Remulado.”

  She looked like neither a Remulado nor an Alfredo, but I stepped back to let her into the entryway. She left her single suitcase on the steps, and I realized she expected me to serve as bellboy. I reached out for the case and was surprised by how heavy it was. Then I saw that the thing was made of some sort of metal. Thank goodness it was on rollers.

  “When do you expect him back?” she asked as she walked down the hallway toward the garden room.

  I followed, the suitcase trailing me like a robotic dog, squeaking as its little wheels turned. “Shortly,” I said. “But I’m sure your room is ready if you’d like me to show you the way.”

  “Oh, I’d rather sit down here and wait. I want to see his face when he finds out I’m here.”

  As she sank into the couch in a languid movement, I perched the suitcase next to her, in case she might need anything out of it. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  She looked at me as if seeing me for the first time, then said, “Oh, you’re American, aren’t you?”

  The contempt with which she asked this question was unavoidable, and I stepped right smack into it. “Yes,” I answered bravely, then added, “Minnesota.”

  “Wherever that is.”

  I had learned not to try to explain precisely where my home state could be found—people didn’t know where it was because they didn’t care. So I made my usual statement, “Not far from Chicago.”

  “I know Chicago,” she said, then nodded as if that was way enough information. Then she said, “Some tea would be nice. I haven’t had a cuppa in years.”

  Caldwell didn’t usually let me make the tea. He said I hadn’t quite yet perfected the British way of brewing it. I didn’t argue. I liked having him make the tea, and I figured it was such a small thing to disagree about. But I had watched him carefully and now followed his steps. Heat the water in the kettle until it just comes to a boil, rinse the teapot with the hot water, a swirl will do. Then measure a teaspoon for each person consuming the tea and one for the pot. I figured I might as well join her, as I deserved a break from book arranging. I threw in another teaspoon in the hopes that Caldwell would return shortly.

  On a tray I placed not the super-good teacups, but the second best. No need to kowtow to her superiority. A pitcher of milk and a bowl of sugar, two spoons, and I was off.

  Taking care not to spill the tea, I navigated the hallway. When I entered the back room, I found the woman standing and staring out the window at the garden.

  “It’s not quite what it used to be,” she said sadly.

  “So you’ve stayed here often?”

  “You could say that,” she agreed as she sank back down into a chair.

  I didn’t want to serve the tea just yet. Caldwell was very particular about letting it brew five minutes, and it had only been three.

  “Well, let me introduce myself. I’m Karen Nash. A librarian. This is my second visit to England.”

  She smiled. “So I suppose you’re a real booklover?”

  “You could say that,” I responded. My hackles were rising. There was something about this woman that I didn’t care for. She was acting as if she owned the place.

  “My name is Sarah. Like Bernhardt. But everyone calls me Sally. Sally Burroughs.”

  I wanted to tell her that Sarah Bernhardt was not tall and willowy but short and curvaceous—really resembling me more than her—and that the esteemed actress was certainly never languid.

  Sarah continued, “I’ve been living in Italy for the past few years, but I’m thinking of coming back home.”

  She gave me a sharp look. I wasn’t sure why.

  I poured her a
cup of tea and offered the milk and sugar, but she shook her head and held out her hand. This was when I first noticed her bright red nail polish, a color very few women should wear. I wasn’t sure she was one of them. I poured myself a cup and added just enough milk to slightly lighten the tea. I couldn’t help but compare her nails to my fingernails, which were unvarnished and slightly dirty from dusting all the books.

  We sipped in silence for a few minutes.

  “How’s Caldwell?” she asked.

  This question made me smile. I was sure he had never been happier in his life—or that’s what he told me every day. “I would say he’s doing quite well.”

  “That’s good. Caldwell has always been such an amiable sort. I’ve missed him quite a bit.”

  “Yes, amiable is a good word to describe him.” In French the word means “lovable,” and I certainly found him that.

  “I can’t wait to see him,” she said.

  I wondered how well she did know him. She seemed to act like they were old friends, and yet I had never heard Caldwell mention her. Not that he talked a lot about all the guests he had hosted over the years.

  Just then I heard the front door open. I knew it was Caldwell as soon as I heard him walking down the hall. He clomped a bit, in a way I loved.

  “We’re here in the garden room having some tea,” I said as he got closer.

  “Great,” he said as he entered the room, looking first at me and then at Sarah.

  As I watched, his eyes grew, his mouth opened, the books in his arms fell to the floor. He just couldn’t resist buying more books. He took a deep breath and said in a voice that bespoke horror, “Sally, whatever are you doing here?”

  In that instant, everything she had said so far made horrible sense: how she had missed him a bit, and wondering where Brenda was. I knew this was his old love, the woman who had deserted him, left him with the B and B to run.