I’m guessing that was probably it. She sounded pretty frazzled.”
“And Eric wasn’t at the café this morning. I think Claire said he broke a tooth.”
Abigail winced in sympathy. “I can hold down the fort for a while. Kate will be here soon.” Kate was our work-study student from the high school.
“You have story time.” As well as working part-time at the library, Abigail was also a children’s author. She often read some of her own stories to the kids. I never quite knew what was going to happen at story time—one morning I’d come in to find all the children wearing foil hats with pom-pom antennae—and I liked that.
I glanced at my watch. “I’ll try Mary.”
“Okay,” Abigail said as she went back to checking in books.
I went back up to my office and called Mary at home.
“I can be there in about a half hour,” she said. “Only thing you’re taking me from is a heap of laundry, and it won’t miss me.”
I thanked her, hung up and went back down to tell Abigail that Mary was on her way.
It was nine o’clock. Abigail had turned on the rest of the library lights, and I unlocked the front doors. I started going down a mental list of what needed to be done that morning.
“I’ll get the rest of the books from the book drop,” Abigail said. “Coffee’s ready. Strong, the way you like it.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ve had only one cup this morning.”
“Should we unleash you on an unsuspecting world when you’re down at least two cups?” she asked, struggling to keep a straight face.
I looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. “No,” I said. We both laughed.
Abigail’s face grew serious again. “Kathleen, I didn’t ask you. Is Ruby all right?”
“She was a little shaky,” I said. “She’s working in the store this morning and she decided she still wanted to do it. Maggie went with her.”
“I’m glad she’s okay.”
I thought about Ruby standing there, hunched against the cold at the mouth of the alley, trembling with Maggie’s arm around her. “So am I,” I said.
Abigail brushed off the cover of a big coffee-table book about the Sahara. “It just doesn’t seem fair,” she said again. “I can’t believe Agatha’s dead.”
There was a crash behind me. I jumped and swung around.
Harrison Taylor was standing there, his face ashen, his cane on the floor beside him.
6
“H arry, are you all right?”I said.
It took a second for him to focus on me. “Oh, yes . . . I���m—I’m getting clumsy in my old age.” He started to reach for his cane, but I bent down and picked it up for him.
“Thank you, my dear,” he said. His color still wasn’t good, I noticed as he took the carved, black walking stick from me. He ran a hand over his chin, twisted finger joints pulling at the skin on his hand, which seemed as thin as tissue paper.
“Did I hear you right, Kathleen?” he asked, blue eyes troubled. “Is Agatha Shepherd . . . dead?”
I nodded, putting a hand on his shoulder. I was surprised when he lifted his own hand and put it over mine. “I’m sorry,” I said softly.
“Me, too,” the old man said.
His son came in then. “There you are,” he said, a touch of exasperation in his voice. “I went back to the truck and you weren’t there.”
“That’s because I’m here,” Harrison retorted.
“I can see that,” Harry—the younger—said dryly. “I told you to wait in the truck.”
“Well, I’m not six years old,” Harrison said. “And I didn’t want to sit in the truck.”
Harry opened his mouth to say something else, and then it seemed our expressions or maybe the way we were standing registered with him. “What’s wrong?” he asked, and all the aggravation was gone from his voice.
I glanced at the old man first. He met my gaze for a moment and looked down. “It’s Agatha Shepherd,” I began. I gave Old Harry’s arm a gentle squeeze and then let go. “She’s . . . dead.”
The younger man’s face paled.
“And Eric wasn’t at the café this morning. I think Claire said he broke a tooth.”
Abigail winced in sympathy. “I can hold down the fort for a while. Kate will be here soon.” Kate was our work-study student from the high school.
“You have story time.” As well as working part-time at the library, Abigail was also a children’s author. She often read some of her own stories to the kids. I never quite knew what was going to happen at story time—one morning I’d come in to find all the children wearing foil hats with pom-pom antennae—and I liked that.
I glanced at my watch. “I’ll try Mary.”
“Okay,” Abigail said as she went back to checking in books.
I went back up to my office and called Mary at home.
“I can be there in about a half hour,” she said. “Only thing you’re taking me from is a heap of laundry, and it won’t miss me.”
I thanked her, hung up and went back down to tell Abigail that Mary was on her way.
It was nine o’clock. Abigail had turned on the rest of the library lights, and I unlocked the front doors. I started going down a mental list of what needed to be done that morning.
“I’ll get the rest of the books from the book drop,” Abigail said. “Coffee’s ready. Strong, the way you like it.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ve had only one cup this morning.”
“Should we unleash you on an unsuspecting world when you’re down at least two cups?” she asked, struggling to keep a straight face.
I looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. “No,” I said. We both laughed.
Abigail’s face grew serious again. “Kathleen, I didn’t ask you. Is Ruby all right?”
“She was a little shaky,” I said. “She’s working in the store this morning and she decided she still wanted to do it. Maggie went with her.”
“I’m glad she’s okay.”
I thought about Ruby standing there, hunched against the cold at the mouth of the alley, trembling with Maggie’s arm around her. “So am I,” I said.
Abigail brushed off the cover of a big coffee-table book about the Sahara. “It just doesn’t seem fair,” she said again. “I can’t believe Agatha’s dead.”
There was a crash behind me. I jumped and swung around.
Harrison Taylor was standing there, his face ashen, his cane on the floor beside him.
6
“H arry, are you all right?”I said.
It took a second for him to focus on me. “Oh, yes . . . I���m—I’m getting clumsy in my old age.” He started to reach for his cane, but I bent down and picked it up for him.
“Thank you, my dear,” he said. His color still wasn’t good, I noticed as he took the carved, black walking stick from me. He ran a hand over his chin, twisted finger joints pulling at the skin on his hand, which seemed as thin as tissue paper.
“Did I hear you right, Kathleen?” he asked, blue eyes troubled. “Is Agatha Shepherd . . . dead?”
I nodded, putting a hand on his shoulder. I was surprised when he lifted his own hand and put it over mine. “I’m sorry,” I said softly.
“Me, too,” the old man said.
His son came in then. “There you are,” he said, a touch of exasperation in his voice. “I went back to the truck and you weren’t there.”
“That’s because I’m here,” Harrison retorted.
“I can see that,” Harry—the younger—said dryly. “I told you to wait in the truck.”
“Well, I’m not six years old,” Harrison said. “And I didn’t want to sit in the truck.”
Harry opened his mouth to say something else, and then it seemed our expressions or maybe the way we were standing registered with him. “What’s wrong?” he asked, and all the aggravation was gone from his voice.
I glanced at the old man first. He met my gaze for a moment and looked down. “It’s Agatha Shepherd,” I began. I gave Old Harry’s arm a gentle squeeze and then let go. “She’s . . . dead.”
The younger man’s face paled.
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