Agnes and I discussed some titles and I told her I’d see her in a few hours. Hopefully, she’d still be coherent. I collected her DVDs and returned to the desk. The library was quiet. In spite of the busyness of the day, its contented hum had not returned. The only sounds from the building itself were the tired sighs of old wood settling, and the irritated squeak of floorboards as a page pushed a heavy book cart through the room. I was tired and irritated, too.
I looked at the notes I’d scribbled while talking to Agnes. Peril at End House had something in common with The Chinese Shawl, the Patricia Wentworth novel I’d finished last night. A similar device, a colorful shawl, used differently by each author. Nothing was as it first seemed. The same was true of At Bertram’s Hotel, where no one was who or what you thought you knew. Sort of like Raven Hill. My three suspects—Vince, Felicity, and Millicent—might be exactly what they seemed. Or not. Their motives were uncertain, especially Millicent’s, and their whereabouts at the time of the murder were unknown. At least to me.
I glanced at the pile of videos, meeting the kindly yet shrewd gaze of Miss Marple. What would Jane do? She had a decidedly different M.O. than Trixie Belden. I leaned back in my chair. Miss Marple would wander around St. Mary Mead, or whatever little village or genteel hotel she found herself in, and exchange gossip with the locals, or park herself and her knitting bag in some public place, observing and eavesdropping. She could even play the dithery old lady card if she needed to. None of these options were open to me. I was neither dithery nor local. As a newcomer, I couldn’t wander around town and start chatting with people I rarely spoke to.
I looked toward the Circ desk. Dory was local, and she gathered bits of information like a magpie collecting shiny objects, her bright eyes missing nothing and her ears attuned to any hint of scandal. She even had a knitting bag, which against all library protocol, had appeared on the chair next to her, a few bright skeins poking out the top. Dory often pushed boundaries like this. She figured if her work was done and there were no patrons to attend to, she might as well use her time productively. I drew the line at the curling iron, no matter how overdue she was for a perm, but I let the knitting slide. She was still able to keep an eye on things, and answer the phone, and indulging her on this won her cooperation elsewhere.
She saw me look over and glanced down. She must have had her needles just out of sight. She looked up again and I nodded toward the knitting bag, mouthing “pretty color.” She smiled her thanks and turned her attention back to her work.
I studied Dory for a moment longer, trying to see her in the role of Raven Hill’s Miss Marple. No. She had the yarn, but not the brains. What she did have was information, lots of it. And I had the brains.
I grabbed the stack of DVDs and headed over to Circ.
“What’s that going to be when it’s done?” I asked.
“Scarf. I’m trying to get a head start on the grandkids’ Christmas gifts. Are those for Agnes Jenner?”
“Yes,” I said, not surprised Dory had managed to listen to my conversation while carrying on one of her own. “She’s still not completely recovered from her knee surgery.”
“You’re nice to do that, Greer. Most people ran out of patience with Agnes a long time ago.”
“I run out of patience, too. But this is my job.”
Dory sniffed. “Well, I must say you turned out to be much better than I expected when I heard our new librarian was from New York City. I thought you’d be real snooty, but you’re not so bad. You do get impatient sometimes, but you don’t talk down to people if they didn’t go to college or if they maybe drink too much.” Dory shot a scornful glance at the group photo of the board hanging above the Circ desk. Anita was front and center.
No love lost there. I could leverage that.
“Neither of my parents went to college, and my dad owns a pub. So, I’m used to dealing with the Agnes Jenners of the world.”
“Still, not everyone takes the time to be kind. You fit in here better than I figured. Though you do still keep to yourself.”
A note of disapproval crept into her voice. Even a hint of aloofness constituted a cardinal sin in Dory’s eyes.
“It’s easier to be kind than not.” I had always found this to be true. I also always found it to be useful, as you never knew when you might need that kindness returned in some fashion. Like now.
“As for keeping to myself, I’m still trying to find my way around. It’s a small community, and I don’t want to give offense.”
Dory considered this for a moment, and then nodded. “Well, I must say that’s real thoughtful, Greer. It’s what I’d call a delicate approach. Now if only Joanna Goodhue had thought like you, she might be alive today.
Which could mean Dory knew of something in particular Joanna had handled indelicately. Or it could be general disapproval of her approach. Either way, it gave me an opening.
“Joanna was really very nice, and certainly well-meaning, but I know she rubbed some people the wrong way. Do you think someone killed her over some village disagreement? You know absolutely everyone, Dory.”
Dory looked at me over her knitting. It was a sympathetic look. She had caught the note of desperation in my voice, as the fear that I was out of my league floated to the surface. Like it or not, I needed whatever help she could give.
“I know you girls were friends, but you went about things differently.
