have done so myself. I did, come to think of it, reach to pick up the map book, and was yelled at by Butch for my troubles.
Three: she’d been heard threatening Mr. Uppiton.
And what had she been angry about? Me. Bertie had been trying to defend me.
Bertie was suspected of murder. And it was all my fault.
I closed
The Moonstone
.
Here I was, in my gorgeous lighthouse aerie, living above a library, a classic novel in my hands, the rest of my beloved books only an arm’s reach away. Not to mention a full collection of Jane Austen first editions on my desk. And I couldn’t concentrate.
For once I couldn’t lose myself in the pages of a book and leave all my troubles until another time.
I put the book back on the side table.
If Bertie was in trouble because of me, then it might be up to me to get her out of it.
Chapter 6
T he next thing I knew, a stabbing pain pierced my chest.
I was being murdered in my own bed. The killer had followed me upstairs after all, probably armed with the same weapon he’d used to fell poor Mr. Uppiton.
“Meooooow!”
My eyes flew open. Gigantic round blue orbs stared back at me.
I screamed. The blue eyes blinked and the pain stopped.
Sunlight touched the edges of the drapes, and Charles had been kneading my chest, telling me it was time to rise and shine.
I threw off the covers and sat up. I would rise, but I was certainly not going to shine. Charles made a dash for the food bowl, now empty, on the kitchen floor. I was sure I’d filled that bowl before getting into bed.
I glanced at the bedside clock and almost screameda second time. Nine-thirty! Unpardonably late for work.
Then I remembered. It was unlikely anyone would be worried about what time the library opened today. If the police would even allow it to open.
Some detective I was. I’d fallen asleep in the midst of trying to solve a murder.
I fed Charles, cleaned his litter box, and then showered quickly and pulled on jeans and a loose cotton top and sneakers. Before putting on my librarian uniform, I wanted to see what was happening downstairs. I ran a comb through my hair, stuffed the unruly black curls into a crooked ponytail, and left my apartment.
As I descended the stairs I heard voices below. I stopped and listened. These were spiral stairs; sound traveled straight up, but anything above the second or third twist couldn’t be seen without tilting your head all the way back.
Detective Watson. “What have you got?”
A long pause. He was on the phone, standing by the open door where he could get reception.
“Okay. I need the rest of that info ASAP. Yes, I know. Same old story, always too busy. Give it to me when you can.” The door slammed shut.
“The lab?” Butch said.
“They pulled fingerprints off the bottle. Match the ones we took last night from Bertie James.”
“No surprise there. We saw her holding it.”
“Yeah. There were also a couple of smudges under hers.”
“Could be anyone. The beer was kept in the fridge in the break room. Josie brought bottles out when needed and put them in a cooler that anyone could get into. It was an open bar, no bartender. People sometimes go through the lot, looking for the coldest or another brand. They fetch drinks for friends.”
“Yeah, I know. You know these people, Greenblatt. Tell me about Bertie James. Type to fly off the handle at the slightest provocation, is she?”
I clattered down the stairs. “Morning, gentlemen.”
Butch gave me a smile, but Watson’s eyes narrowed as he wondered how much I’d overheard.
“When can we open the library?”
“Not today,” Watson said. “Tomorrow, maybe. You, and only you because you live here, can use the main floor if you have to, but don’t go up the back stairs.”
“Okay.”
Watson gave me a long stare. “New to town, are you?”
“I arrived last week. Although I’ve been coming here every summer for as long as I can remember.”
“Any murders the summers you were here?” He asked,
Three: she’d been heard threatening Mr. Uppiton.
And what had she been angry about? Me. Bertie had been trying to defend me.
Bertie was suspected of murder. And it was all my fault.
I closed
The Moonstone
.
Here I was, in my gorgeous lighthouse aerie, living above a library, a classic novel in my hands, the rest of my beloved books only an arm’s reach away. Not to mention a full collection of Jane Austen first editions on my desk. And I couldn’t concentrate.
For once I couldn’t lose myself in the pages of a book and leave all my troubles until another time.
I put the book back on the side table.
If Bertie was in trouble because of me, then it might be up to me to get her out of it.
Chapter 6
T he next thing I knew, a stabbing pain pierced my chest.
I was being murdered in my own bed. The killer had followed me upstairs after all, probably armed with the same weapon he’d used to fell poor Mr. Uppiton.
“Meooooow!”
My eyes flew open. Gigantic round blue orbs stared back at me.
I screamed. The blue eyes blinked and the pain stopped.
Sunlight touched the edges of the drapes, and Charles had been kneading my chest, telling me it was time to rise and shine.
I threw off the covers and sat up. I would rise, but I was certainly not going to shine. Charles made a dash for the food bowl, now empty, on the kitchen floor. I was sure I’d filled that bowl before getting into bed.
I glanced at the bedside clock and almost screameda second time. Nine-thirty! Unpardonably late for work.
Then I remembered. It was unlikely anyone would be worried about what time the library opened today. If the police would even allow it to open.
Some detective I was. I’d fallen asleep in the midst of trying to solve a murder.
I fed Charles, cleaned his litter box, and then showered quickly and pulled on jeans and a loose cotton top and sneakers. Before putting on my librarian uniform, I wanted to see what was happening downstairs. I ran a comb through my hair, stuffed the unruly black curls into a crooked ponytail, and left my apartment.
As I descended the stairs I heard voices below. I stopped and listened. These were spiral stairs; sound traveled straight up, but anything above the second or third twist couldn’t be seen without tilting your head all the way back.
Detective Watson. “What have you got?”
A long pause. He was on the phone, standing by the open door where he could get reception.
“Okay. I need the rest of that info ASAP. Yes, I know. Same old story, always too busy. Give it to me when you can.” The door slammed shut.
“The lab?” Butch said.
“They pulled fingerprints off the bottle. Match the ones we took last night from Bertie James.”
“No surprise there. We saw her holding it.”
“Yeah. There were also a couple of smudges under hers.”
“Could be anyone. The beer was kept in the fridge in the break room. Josie brought bottles out when needed and put them in a cooler that anyone could get into. It was an open bar, no bartender. People sometimes go through the lot, looking for the coldest or another brand. They fetch drinks for friends.”
“Yeah, I know. You know these people, Greenblatt. Tell me about Bertie James. Type to fly off the handle at the slightest provocation, is she?”
I clattered down the stairs. “Morning, gentlemen.”
Butch gave me a smile, but Watson’s eyes narrowed as he wondered how much I’d overheard.
“When can we open the library?”
“Not today,” Watson said. “Tomorrow, maybe. You, and only you because you live here, can use the main floor if you have to, but don’t go up the back stairs.”
“Okay.”
Watson gave me a long stare. “New to town, are you?”
“I arrived last week. Although I’ve been coming here every summer for as long as I can remember.”
“Any murders the summers you were here?” He asked,
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