Graydon sat in the spare chair and I sat at my desk. A little role reversal never hurt anything, right? Then, before there was any awkward delay, I jumped right into the big question.
“Why are you and Trent asking so many questions about the library staff?”
“Um.” Graydon looked at the floor. At the walls. At my desk. Finally, he looked back at me. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
My invisible antennae, the ones that everyone has, the ones that detect lies and evasions and off-kilter situations, twanged something fierce. If everything was kosher, if they’d just been asking questions because they were new to town and the library, then he would have said so.
“At lunch the other day,” I said. “You asked me about personnel.” I ticked off the comments I’d heard from others, finishing with Denise. “I’m your assistant director,” I said, trying to keep my shoulders back and chin up instead of my natural inclination, which was to curl up in a ball and howl that the library was changing and I didn’t like it. “If you and Trent are thinking about changes in staffing, I hope that you’ll include me in the conversation.”
“Um,” Graydon said again. Silence descended upon us, a silence so complete that the sound of my breathing was almost embarrassing.
After about a million years, he said, “You’re absolutely right.” He glanced at his watch. “Wow, look at the time. I have to get going. After being downstate I have a lot of e-mail and . . . things . . . to wade through.”
Graydon practically bolted out of the room. I stared after him, and realized that I’d learned two things. One: Something weird was indeed going on. Two: My boss was a horrible liar.
• • •
When noon rolled around, the sun decided to make an appearance. It felt like months since we’d seen blue sky, and despite the sandwich I’d packed, I decided what my psyche really needed was a walk, and since in winter the best-cleaned sidewalks were downtown, clearly it was best to walk those sidewalks, and if I was going to be downtown at lunchtime, it was only reasonable to eat down there, too.
Having thus convinced myself that I was doing the right thing, I kicked my shoes off into their winter home underneath my desk, pulled on my boots and other outerwear, and headed out to the big white and blue world.
Just as I leaned on the front door’s release bar, the door from the lobby to the vestibule clicked open behind me. “Minnie. Headed out for lunch?”
I turned, seeing first only a dark winter coat, then seeing who it was. “Hey, Stewart. That’s right. You?”
Stewart Funston, designer of electronic manufacturing thingies who sometimes telecommuted from the library, possessor of a Maple Staples sugar packet, cousin to Rowan, wearer of a fedora, and on the list of murder suspects, nodded as we walked together.
“Hard to stay inside on a day like this, isn’t it?” He looked up at the sky and pulled in a long, deep breath. “Ahh. I just love winter.”
Smiling, I said, “Days in winter that are sunny and calm, right?”
He chuckled. “Well, these days are a definite bonus. But I’m one of those freaks who actually likes winter. It helps that I don’t have to drive much.” He glanced at me. “How’s the bookmobile in the snow?”
“Not so bad.” I actually thought it was outstanding. Though its weight and long wheelbase made the acceleration sluggish and braking distance long, it handled predictably, which was more than I could say about any other vehicle I’d ever driven in winter.
But I also didn’t want to tempt fate. I had the sneaking suspicion that as soon as I bragged about the bookmobile’s fantastic winter driving capabilities, I’d slide into a great big ditch, a great big tow truck would have to be summoned to haul us out, everyone in town would hear about it, and I’d hear bad jokes for months, if not years. This was a situation to be avoided if at all possible, so I said again, “Not so bad,” and shrugged. “So what’s new with you? Designed anything interesting lately?”
“Yes, and it’s so boring even my coworkers’ eyes glaze over when I talk about it. I’ll spare you the description. Think of it as a gift from me to you.”
“I appreciate that.” Smiling, I really hoped that Stewart had not killed Rowan. Surely someone with that kind of self-awareness couldn’t possibly have ended a life.
“The big news,” he said, “is that my divorce is final.”
Divorce? I hadn’t even realized he and his wife had separated. “Um, should I offer my congratulations or my sympathies?”
“Both.” His voice was light, but something about his diction gave me an uneasy feeling. “Congratulations for the final result,” he said, “and sympathy for having lived with someone almost twenty-five years who was continually lying to me.”
The harshness in his voice now made sense. “I’m sorry. That must be hard.” And I was sorry, even though at bottom I didn’t know Stewart all that well. I’d never met his wife and didn’t even know if they’d had children. Still, I was sorry for any human pain, whether physical or emotional.
He nodded. “Thanks, I appreciate that. Our friends are all taking sides, and it’s turning out I don’t have as many friends as I thought I did.”
“Your real friends will stick with you.”
“That’s what I hear,” he said grimly. “But what else could I do, other than divorce? She’d been stashing all this money away in a secret bank account and never said a word. Who knows what else she was hiding? It could be anything!”
He waved his arms about, and I ducked a little to avoid being thumped.
“Oh, sorry.” He gave a little laugh. “I get carried away. I’ll get over this in time, I’m sure, but I just couldn’t live with someone who lies to me. I just couldn’t.”
I made noises of sympathy and understanding. And I was also very glad I’d come clean to Rafe the night before about my involvement in Rowan’s murder investigation, because hearing Stewart’s anger made me realize, way deep down inside, how Rafe could have interpreted my not telling him as a lie. Which was what Aunt Frances had said.
“She’s smart,” I murmured to myself, and was once again glad I was related to her. And that I should take her advice far more often than I did. Except for any cooking advice. That just wasn’t going to happen.
“What’s that?” Stewart asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “I hope things get better for you soon, that’s all.” I pushed away the fleeting thought that I might be walking down the street with a killer and concentrated on the clear blue sky.
• • •
“Tell me one more time?” I asked.
“Mrr!”
“Okay, you’re absolutely right. You’re more than right. And I agree one hundred percent.”
“Mrr,” Eddie said more quietly.
The two of us had been enjoying a cozy evening in front of the fireplace with popcorn and Netflix when, during an episode of Gilmore Girls, my furry friend had, for no apparent reason, stood on my lap and started yelling at me.
My agreement seemed to appease him, although I had no idea what he was trying to tell me. But he didn’t need to know that. Or . . . did he? Did I need to be completely honest with my cat? There was no way that he understood ninety-nine point nine nine percent of what I was saying, but if I didn’t tell Eddie everything, was I establishing a habit that would transfer to Rafe?
I paused the television and looked deep into my cat’s yellow eyes. “Confession time. I have no idea what you were talking about, but whatever it was, I’m sure you’re right.”
Eddie put his front paws on my chest. “Mrr!!” he yowled, his cat food breath hitting my face. “MRR!!” He gave me a disgusted look, stalked to the other end of the couch, and flopped down.