“That’s it?”
“I think so,” I said. The silver charm was in my pocket. I pulled it out and handed it to him. “I almost stepped on this,” I said. “And there was something spilled on the floor in the hallway. I think I may have gotten it on my shoes.”
I grabbed the back of the bench and held up my right foot. He leaned over to look at the sole of my shoe.
“I’m going to need your shoes, Ms. Paulson.”
I put my foot down carefully. “I have a pair at my office at the library. May I go get them?”
“I’m also going to need your fingerprints,” he said. “Officer Craig will take you to your office and then he’ll take you to the station to be fingerprinted—if that’s all right with you?”
It was the kind of question you didn’t say no to. So I didn’t.
Officer Craig was the patrolman. He looked to be about twenty, with his close-cropped boot-camp haircut. He drove to the library and stayed with me while I got my tai chi shoes from my office. He took a bag out of his trunk, sealed my running shoes inside and actually gave me a receipt for them. Then we drove to the police station, where I had my fingerprints taken.
Officer Craig drove me back to the library. I went into the staff room and put on a pot of coffee. Even though I’d already washed my hands with some sort of industrial-strength Day-Glo orange cleaner at the police station, I washed them again.
I was worried about Oren. He didn’t have a cell phone. If something had happened to him . . . I’d just poured a cup of coffee when I heard a tapping on the main doors. I could see Detective Gordon through the glass. I unlatched the metal gate and unlocked the door.
“Ms. Paulson, I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “I have a few more questions.”
I opened the door wider. “Come in,” I said. Maybe I could get him to look for Oren. I locked the door behind him but left the gate open.
“You don’t have an alarm system?” he asked, eyeing the metal barricade with its spiderweb design. The gates were almost as old as the building.
I smiled. “No. Up till now the only thing in this building has been books. It’s not like someone was going to break in to read.”
He smiled at that. He had a nice smile, with even white teeth and a strong jawline.
“We can talk in the staff room,” I said, leading the way up to the second level.
My coffee cup was on the table. I saw him look at it.
“Detective Gordon, would you like a cup of coffee?” I asked. “I just made it.”
“Thank you. I would,” he said. “Black with two sugars, if you have it.”
I did. I handed him a steaming mug. He wrapped both hands around it and drank, then looked at me. “It’s good. Thanks.”
I remembered the muffins then. I’d carried them around for a while, but they were wrapped in wax paper inside the bag and they hadn’t been dropped or sat on. The bag was by the sink. I put two muffins on a plate and set it and a napkin in front of him.
My palms were sweaty. I wiped them on my capris and sat down opposite the detective. This time he pulled out a small notebook and a pen.
“Ms. Paulson, you said you were looking for Oren Kenyon this morning. Did you have an appointment?”
“No. But as I told you at the theater, I know he starts work early and I wanted to talk to him.”
“What about?”
“The computer room here at the library. The contractor is behind schedule. I was hoping Oren could get some of the chairs and carrels put together so I could at least get one computer set up and connected.” It didn’t seem like a good idea to tell him my cats had suggested it.
He scribbled something on his pad.
“Did Oren show up?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” Detective Gordon said. He put down his pen and took one of the muffins from the plate. “Ms. Paulson, you said you met Mr. Easton for the first time yesterday?” He broke the muffin in half and took a bite.
I nodded. “He came in to the library. There was something wrong with his BlackBerry and he needed Internet access.”
“But your computer room isn’t set up.”
“No, it’s not.” I traced the inside of the mug handle with my finger. “But according to the visitors’ guide Mr. Easton had, it was.”
The detective broke the remaining half of muffin into three pieces and immediately ate one piece. “How did Mr. Easton react?”
“He wasn’t happy.”
He leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers. Not only were his hands large, but he also had long fingers, what my mother would call piano-player fingers.
“So you didn’t arrange to meet Mr. Easton this morning?”
I let out a frustrated breath. “No. I didn’t arrange to meet Mr. Easton. I wasn’t having an affair with Mr. Easton. He was older than my father. Before last night I’d never even met the man.” Before he could say anything I held up my hand. “I did order breakfast to be sent to his suite this morning—from Eric’s Place—as an apology. Breakfast for one.” I wondered if it was too late to call Eric and cancel.
“Do you buy breakfast for everyone who comes in to the library, looking for an Internet connection?”
I resisted the impulse to point out that I was basically giving him breakfast right now. “Of course I don’t,” I said. I took a sip of coffee. It was cold. I got up and moved behind him to get to the coffeemaker, poured another cup and leaned against the counter. How was I going to explain this?
He turned to look at me.
“My, uh, cat had accidentally ended up here at the library yesterday. And . . . he—the cat—jumped on Mr. Easton . . . Mr. Easton’s head.”
The detective’s lips twitched. “His head?”
I nodded. He looked at me without saying anything. I felt myself flush.
He drained his cup and stood up. “Ms. Paulson, do you mind if I look around?”
I wondered what he thought he’d find. “It’s a public building, Detective,” I said, setting my own mug on the counter. “You don’t need my permission to look around. But it’s all right with me.”
I smiled to show I was a good sport; then I led him across to my office and stood in the doorway while he poked around. After that, I took him to the main part of the library. He walked through the stacks and around the magazine shelves without saying anything. I showed him the temporary circulation desk and the area where the permanent desk would be.
“Where is the computer area?” he asked.
I took him to the back section of the library. The sky was gray and cloudy outside the bank of windows.
He pointed to the stacks of cartons. “What’s in the boxes?”
“Computers, monitors, a printer. Would you like me to open one?” I asked.
He shook his head and bent to look at a couple of shrink-wrapped chairs. “That’s not necessary,” he said. He straightened, looked around and then gestured across the library. “What’s over there?” I had to walk around a couple of shelving units to see where he was pointing. A huge sheet of plastic was draped over one corner of the wall.
“Oh, that’s where the meeting room will be,” I said. “Right now it’s where the contractor is keeping his tools and things.”
“Can I see it?”
“Sure.” I led the way and pulled the plastic aside. Since the library was locked at night, the door wasn’t even closed.
We both saw the splotches at the same time, dark blotches on the brown paper protecting the tile floor.
My mouth went dry. “Is that dried blood?” I said, taking a step forward.
The detective’s arm shot out, stopping me from going any farther into the room. “Wait outside please, Ms. Paulson,” he said, pulling another pair of disposable gloves from his pocket.
I moved back to the edge of the plastic. “Is that blood?” I asked again.
“Outside, Ms. Paulson,” he snapped, pulling on a glove. “Please wait outside the building.”
The detective bent forward and picked something up as I stepped back and let the plastic drop. That was blood on the floor. What was it doing in my library?