Lending a Paw(50)

“But you’re so good at listening!” Smiling, she nodded, apparently reassured by my seeming confidence.

Unfortunately, she was the only one.

• • •

“Thank you so much for meeting with me, Mrs. Grice.”

“Caroline, please.” The older woman smiled. She wasn’t showy or even glamorous, but the simple lines of her white shirt spoke of a tailoring that was designed to flatter without being revealing, to complement without drawing attention to itself.

Not to mention the fact that her shirt was whiter than I’d ever been able to get my own shirts.

“Thank you,” she said, “for giving our artists a more public audience.” She tipped her head at the gallery around us, a head that didn’t have a hair out of place. I had a hunch I was looking at a hundred-dollar hairstylist’s creation.

Not that I begrudged Caroline her money. And I liked to work. Work was worthwhile. If I didn’t work, what would I do with myself? Of course, I could always volunteer. Maybe at hospitals. In, say, Charlevoix, where there was a new doctor who—

“If we can,” Caroline was saying, “I’d like to represent every single one of our artists at the library. All have work that is deserving of purchase, and, to be honest”—she gave a wry smile—“all of them could use the money.”

That was another thing that separated the wealthy from the rest of us. They could afford to purchase original art.

“I’ve talked to the artists, and to a soul, they would be glad to be displayed in the library.” She smiled at the walls. “If you see anything in particular you’d like displayed, please let me know.”

Since my knowledge of art didn’t go much beyond the Mona Lisa, I made a positive yet noncommittal noise. “Have you thought about a schedule?” I asked. “We’ll want to advertise and the sooner the better.”

“Of course.”

She opened her leather-bound planner, and I pulled out my phone. We agreed that a mid-July date would give us enough time to plan yet leave enough time in the season to catch the summer visitors.

We were working so well and so efficiently that I’d lost track of the underlying reason behind the whole thing. It wasn’t until Caroline said, “I hear you’re the librarian on the bookmobile” that I jerked back to my somewhat sneaky plan.

I suddenly wondered why I’d gone through all this subterfuge. Caroline was a gracious woman; if I’d simply told her I’d like to talk about Stan, surely she would have agreed.

“Yes,” I said. “It’s great how it’s attracting so much attention. The patrons are already calling me the bookmobile lady.” And Eddie was the bookmobile cat, but I wasn’t going to spread that fun fact around.

“The newspaper.”

She didn’t say anything else, and I looked at her questioningly. “I’m sorry?”

“Yes.” She laid her fingertips across her upper lip and coughed delicately. “Excuse me. A little tickle. I’m told the newspaper reported that the bookmobile librarian found Stan Larabee.”

I had no idea what to say, so I went with the simplest possible response. “Yes. That was me.” She didn’t say anything, so I expanded. “It was a huge shock. See, I knew Stan. He’s the one who donated the money for the bookmobile.” Still no response. “He was an amazing man,” I added quietly. “I’ll miss him very much.”

“Did he . . . was he . . . ?” She blinked rapidly. “He didn’t . . . ?” A great shining tear spilled down her cheek. “Oh, goodness, I’m so sorry. Excuse me.” She stood abruptly and hurried to the office.

The door shut softly and I was left alone.

No sound of weeping came through the walls or snuck out from under the door. Maybe all she needed was a minute to compose herself.

A minute went by. No Caroline emerged.

Two minutes.

Three.

When five minutes had ticked past, I got up and went to the door. I knocked softly. No reply. I tried again. I hesitated, then turned the knob and walked in.

The elegant and patrician Caroline Grice was sitting on an office chair, shoes kicked off, heels on the edge of the chair seat, arms wrapped around her knees, shoulders shuddering with silent sobs.

I swallowed the sodden lump in my throat and went to her. Knelt on the floor, wrapped my arms around her shaking body, and put my head against her bowed one. She clutched at my arms. Held me tight.

We were like that for some time.

After the tears slowed, I gave her shoulders a few rubbing pats, then sat back on my heels and waited. It didn’t take long.

“I didn’t even know Stan Larabee socially until this last New Year’s Eve,” she said. “He attended my party with a mutual acquaintance and I’m afraid I neglected a number of my guests for the sheer pleasure of talking to him. I’d known who he was, of course, but we’d rarely spoken until that evening. I had so many preconceived notions about him.”