“Please call him Caleb, we’re all friends here,” Annabelle said encouragingly, signaling the chief without Caleb seeing her even as she gave Caleb’s hand a crushing squeeze.
“Oh, right, yes, we are friends, sure,” the chief said awkwardly. “But what does this have to do with my department?”
“My plan is to let Caleb watch the tapes of the reading room, people coming and going from the vault, everything normal, everything as it should be, as a way to empower him to navigate this difficult period and turn the reading room and the vault back into purely a positive experience for him.”
“Well, I don’t know about letting you see the tapes,” the chief said. “It’s a highly unusual request.”
Caleb started to get up in defeat, but a scathing look from Annabelle caused him to freeze in midrise. She said, “Well, it’s an
“Well, sure, but—”
“So would now be a good time to see the tapes?” She shot a furious glance at Caleb, who was still halfway out of his chair. “I mean, you can see that he’s desperate.”
Caleb slumped in his chair, his head hanging between his knees.
Annabelle looked back at the chief and eyed his name tag. “Dale, I can call you Dale, can’t I?”
“Well, sure. Okay.”
“Dale, do you see the clothes I have on?”
Dale looked at her attractive figure and said sheepishly, “Yeah, I noticed.”
“You see that my skirt color is red. That’s an empowering, positive color, Dale. But my jacket is black, a negative vibe, and my blouse is beige, a neutral color. This represents that I’m halfway through my goal of helping this man back to a normal, healthy life. But I need your help, Dale, to finish the job. I want to be able to wear all red for Caleb. And I’m sure you want me to as well. I say let’s finish the job, Dale. Let’s just do it.” She ran an appraising eye over him. “I can tell, you’re with me, aren’t you?”
Dale looked at the miserable Caleb and said, “Well, okay, I’ll get the tapes for you.”
After he had left the room, Caleb said, “You handled yourself very professionally.”
“Thank you,” she said tersely.
When she said nothing further, Caleb added, “And I think I did reasonably well.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “Do you really?”
Hours later Annabelle and Caleb sat back after watching the comings and goings in the reading room before and after DeHaven’s murder.
“It’s just the typical flow of traffic,” Caleb said. “There’s nothing there.”
Annabelle ran a tape over again. “Who’s that?”
“Kevin Philips. He’s the acting director after Jonathan died. He came down to ask me about Jonathan’s death. And there’s Oliver dressed as a German scholar.”
“Nice,” Annabelle said admiringly. “He carries it off very well.”
They looked through some more footage. Caleb pointed at one scene. “That’s when I got the notice about becoming Jonathan’s literary executor.” He stared at the screen more closely. “Am I really that chubby?” He pressed a hand to his stomach.
“Who gave you the notice?”
“Kevin Philips.”
Annabelle watched on the tape as Caleb stumbled and broke his glasses.
He said, “I’m not usually that clumsy. I wouldn’t have been able to read the damn thing if Jewell English hadn’t lent me her glasses.”
“Yeah, but why did she do a switch on you?”
“What?”
“She switched out the glasses she was wearing with another pair in her bag.” Annabelle rewound the tape. “See? It’s a pretty first-rate move, actually. She’d make a good mechanic . . . I mean, she’s very nimble- fingered.”
Caleb watched in surprise as Jewell English palmed the glasses she was wearing and drew out another pair from her bag. It was this pair she gave to Caleb.
“I don’t know, maybe that was a special pair. The ones she gave me worked well enough. I could read the message.”
“Who is this Jewell English?”
“Just an elderly lady who’s a book fanatic and reading room regular.”
“And she has hand moves like a Vegas blackjack dealer,” Annabelle pointed out. “I wonder why that is,” she added thoughtfully.
CHAPTER 50
STONE WAS SITTING IN HIS COTtage thinking about his conversation with Marilyn Behan. If she was telling the truth, and he had no reason to think that the bitter woman wasn’t, then Stone had been wrong. Cornelius Behan hadn’t killed Jonathan DeHaven or Bob Bradley. However, he’d apparently stumbled on the method used to kill the unfortunate librarian and, in doing so, had prompted others to murder him. So who else benefited from DeHaven’s death? Or Bradley’s, for that matter? He desperately needed something to connect the dots.
