Patricia had been making notes in her neat, squared-off handwriting that covered almost two pages. Finally, she looked up at me and smiled. “I’ll get back to you with a plan by the end of the week.”
Knowing Patricia, she’d get back to me long before Friday.
I walked her downstairs and as we got to the bottom of the steps she looked up at the beautiful carved sun Oren Kenyon had created hanging over the main entrance. It was reminiscent of the carved sun over the entrance to the first Carnegie library in Dunfermline, Scotland, with the same motto, “Let there be light,” below.
“I never tire of seeing that,” Patricia said. “Oren did beautiful work.”
I nodded. “You’re right. He’s very talented.”
She looked in the direction of our computer room. “How on earth did you manage to reset that clock?”
The vintage timepiece she was talking about was close to two feet wide with a heavy black circular frame and black Roman numerals on its face. I knew the clock had been in the library for at least fifty years, maybe more, although by the time the renovations began the hands had been stuck at quarter to four for several years. Although the inner workings had had to be replaced it had been important to me to keep that connection to the library’s history.
“I confess that I didn’t,” I said, feeling my cheeks get pink. “Harry Taylor came in about an hour ago and did it for me.”
“I always prepare for the time change by adjusting my sleeping patterns in the days before the change and by resetting my clocks early,” Patricia said, with just a touch of reproach in her voice.
“I’m sure we all would benefit from doing that,” I replied.
Patricia reminded me again that she would be in touch and left. I joined Mary at the checkout desk.
“Do you really think we’d all benefit from adjusting our sleeping patterns before a time change?” she asked. Her tone suggested she didn’t think so.
“My alarm clock was a cat with sardine breath,” I said. “I’m not exactly the best judge of that.”
“You know, Patricia might benefit from learning to dance,” Mary said, a sly gleam in her eyes. “Black satin and feathers flatter everyone.”
Melanie Davis called midmorning. I was looking at the latest issue with our book drop. It looked like someone had hit it with a hammer or something similar. There were a couple of small dents on the top. “Remind me to show Harry,” I said to Susan. “He’ll be back this afternoon.”
I headed up to my office to take Melanie’s call, dropping onto the edge of the desk as I reached for the phone. “How are you and how are things at the hotel?” I asked.
“Truthfully, I’m still a little shaken,” she said.
“That’s understandable,” I said. “Finding a dead body is unsettling.”
“I don’t understand what Lew was doing in that meeting room. He hadn’t signed up for the workshop. And the door was locked. How did he get inside?” I could hear an edge of worry in her voice.
“Maybe he was looking for you. To catch up.” I picked a bit of cat hair off my sleeve. “You said you used to work together.”
“We weren’t exactly friends,” Melanie said. “We worked together for a very short time. And anyone on staff here could have told him where to find my office.” She hesitated.
I waited, not rushing to fill the silence.
Melanie sighed softly. “Back when I worked with him, Lew had a problem with insomnia. He’d be tired when he got to work because he was wandering around in the middle of the night. He told me once that his coach back in college made him go to some kind of sleep disorders clinic, but maybe he still has . . . had the problem.”
I remembered what I’d read online, how Wallace had blamed his chronic insomnia for being late for football practice.
“So Mr. Wallace was a guest at the St. James?”
“Yes, he was,” Melanie said. “The police still have his guest room and the meeting room sealed off.” She sighed. “Several people have checked out and several more reservations have been canceled.” She paused for a moment. “And I know it’s selfish of me to be thinking about business when a man is dead.”
“It’s not,” I reassured her. “You still have a job to do. It’s not wrong for you to do it.”
“Thank you,” she said. She cleared her throat. “The reason I called was not to complain to you. I wanted to thank you for your e-mail. And I have the answer to two of your questions.”
We took a few minutes to settle a few details and agreed to reconnect hopefully later in the week.
I got a text from Ethan at about four thirty telling me that he was cooking supper. That wasn’t a bad thing, but it wasn’t a completely good thing, either. Ethan tended to cook more the way Maggie did, and I hoped my kitchen would survive.
When I got home Ethan was listening to one of his favorite drummers, Elvin Jones, and wearing a dishtowel tucked in at his waist as a kind of apron. The kitchen was a lot cleaner than I had expected, probably because Milo was at the sink doing dishes. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, “but mess bugs me.”
“No, you can’t trade me for him,” Ethan said from the stove. His anger at me from the night before seemed to be gone, at least for now.
I smiled at Milo. “We’ll talk later,” I said in a stage whisper.
Hercules and Owen were at the table, each sitting on a chair, carefully watching Ethan’s every move.
I hung up my coat and bag and pulled off my boots. The kitchen smelled wonderful.
Derek wandered in from the living room. He was wearing headphones, listening to something on his phone. He set a coffee mug on the counter next to Milo, raised one hand in hello to me and left again.
“Are you making lo mein?” I asked Ethan.
“I am,” he said.
I went over to the stove and kissed the back of his head. “My favorite,” I said.
Ethan held up both hands. “I live to serve.”
And to suck up. He’d changed tactics, I realized. Ethan was trying to convince me to look into Lewis Wallace’s death by getting on my good side. It wasn’t going to work but I wasn’t going to say that until I’d had a bowl of that lo mein. Or maybe two.
Ethan’s cooking tasted even better than it smelled.
“I’ve got the dishes,” Milo said. He gave me a sly grin. “And it’s not up for discussion, although I will arm-wrestle you if you don’t agree.”
I flexed my wrist a couple of times. “If my old book-checking-out injury hadn’t flared up today I think I could take you,” I teased.
“How about coffee?” Ethan asked.
“Yes, if you make decaf,” I said, stretching my arms up over my head. I saw Ethan send Derek a look.
“I’ll make it,” Derek said, getting to his feet. He gestured at the cupboard where I kept the sardine crackers and tipped his head in the direction of Owen and Hercules. “Okay if I give them each a couple?”
Two furry heads swiveled to look at me.
“Go ahead,” I said. I pulled one leg up underneath me, shifting sideways in my chair. Ethan was watching me. “What?” I asked.
“Do you ever think about coming home?” he asked.
“You mean Boston.”
He nodded. As usual his fingers were drumming a rhythm on the tabletop.
“Sometimes,” I said. “But this is home, too. I have friends. I have a job I really like. I have those two furballs. I have Marcus. I have a life here now and I don’t want to just walk away from it.”
“But you have a family in Boston.” His expression was serious. He wasn’t teasing the way he usually did about living in the middle of nowhere with Bigfoot for a neighbor. Rebecca had laughed until tears came when I’d told her about that comment.
Ethan’s visit had reminded me just how much I missed him and Sara and Mom and Dad. My stomach tied itself into a knot as I thought about how difficult it was going to be to say good-bye to him. But that didn’t mean I wanted to leave behind the life I’d built in Mayville Heights. I blinked hard a couple of times. “I miss you, too,” I said.