getting by. But when the father of her son died, she spent over sixty dollars calling public libraries. I doubt she was trying to hunt down a book.”
Pete shrugged. “Okay. Go on.”
“The calls were to libraries up and down the state,” I said, “but they started with Crescent City-which is not far from the Oregon border. Crescent City is the same place the flyer comes from. Briana didn’t have a car, but even if she did, I doubt she would have driven seven or eight hundred miles to see a storyteller. So why would she have a flyer from a distant library for a children’s event?”
“You call this library yet?” Pete asked.
“Pete,” Rachel said with exasperation, “we left the house at six o’clock in the morning. You think the average public library was open for business by then?”
He shrugged, and took out a stick of cinnamon gum. The only time I ever see Pete chewing gum is before he gets on a plane.
“Yeah,” he said, “I’ve got the pills. But it isn’t really air sickness that bothers me, you know?”
From that point on, there was a concerted effort to distract him from his fear of flying.
It was probably a good strategy where Frank and I were concerned as well. Distracting Pete kept our thoughts away from the last time Frank had gone to interview a witness. That time, he ended up a hostage. This trip was coming too soon after that ordeal. Neither of us had been able to sleep well-his nightmare had awakened both of us at about three in the morning. Knowing the alarm would be going off in a couple of hours, we lay there in a too- tired-and-too-wired state, worried minds continually snatching our weary bodies back from the brink of sleep.
At the airport we behaved in a perfectly respectable fashion, focusing our efforts on having a pleasant conversation until the flight was called. Frank gave me a brief hug, a kiss and a smile, then said, “I’ll call you tonight,” in the same way anybody else might have said it to a spouse. Said it as if he were going to Idaho to talk someone into buying a copier rather than to convince some weasel-faced, scared-ass, hiding-out known associate of a criminal to admit under oath that he had seen said associate kill a man in cold blood.
I understood, took my cues and ignored the knot in my stomach. It would be an ordinary day with an ordinary good-bye, and no one would question anyone’s ability to face it, no one would say aloud that there were damned good reasons for nightmares that woke everybody up, that there was no shame in it, that it was too soon, too soon-because that would be akin to saying the aftermath of his captivity still had legs to run on. Which it did. Trauma runs the marathon, not the fifty-yard dash.
I thought he might go all the way down the jetway bantering with Pete, might get on the plane without glancing back, so I relaxed my guard and failed to have the correct devil-may-care expression on my face when he looked over his shoulder. But he wasn’t wearing a smile either, not until I tried to come up with one. I hoped mine didn’t look as forced as his did, and raised my hand to wave-or beckon him back, I’m not certain-but he didn’t see the gesture, because Pete said something to him just then. They took another step and were past the point where Rachel and I could watch them.
Rachel didn’t object when, instead of leaving the nearly empty waiting area, I moved to the wall of tall windows, squinting in the bright morning sun, watching until the plane was pushed back from the gate. There was nothing to be done now, I told myself. Once again, being on my best behavior had proved damned unsatisfying.
I turned in my story on campaign contributions and left the office. I had a council meeting to cover that night, so I took a few hours off in the early afternoon. I went home and spent some time with Cody and the dogs, then stretched the phone out onto the back patio. It was a warm day, bright and breezy. Frank’s garden lay before me, the dogs plopped down at my feet, and Cody settled on my lap and purred his approval of the arrangements.
I opened my notebook and resumed my search for my cousin.
I decided to make my first calls to the El Cajon, Mission Viejo and Lake Arrowhead libraries, the ones Briana has spoken to on her longer calls. I tried Mission Viejo first, since it was the closest to Las Piernas. I thumbed through my notes while waiting for the call to go through, and found the name of the children’s librarian.
“Sophia Longworth, please,” I said, and was transferred to her desk.
At the risk of being immediately identified as someone as cheerfully annoying as a gnat in a nostril, I told her my name and reminded her of my previous call.
“Oh, yes,” she said, but nothing more.
“I have more information now. Do you know anything about a storyteller named Cosmo?”
“Yes, yes, of course! He was here about three weeks ago.”
“Ms. Longworth, did a woman call to talk to you about him at about that same time?”
There was a brief pause. “Oh! So this is what you were asking about. Well, I’m not sure I should go into this with you. It was a personal call.”
If it was a personal call, I decided, Cosmo and Travis were likely one and the same. “The woman who called said she was Cosmo’s mother, right? Trying to leave a message for him at your library.”
There was a little more hesitation, then, “As I said-”
“I’m his cousin. It was my aunt who called. She probably just asked him to call her”-I thought of the phrase my mother might have used- “on an urgent family matter.”
“Yes,” she admitted. “Yes, that was the call. His mother. But I’m sure she can tell you why she was calling. I think that would be best, so-”
“Wait,” I said, sensing that she was about to hang up. “Ms. Longworth, I can’t ask my aunt. She-she passed away recently.”
“Oh!”
“Yes. Now you know why I want to reach my cousin.”
“Oh, yes, of course! Oh, I’m so sorry. I wonder if-your aunt seemed quite distraught, but she didn’t mention that she was ill…”
I didn’t say anything to dispel that notion. “I guess she had a hard time reaching him,” I said.
“Yes. Cosmo-your cousin-travels constantly.”
“Did he receive the message my aunt left for him?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Did he call her back?”
“Immediately? No, but he was about to give a performance. I’m sure he must have called her later.”
“Exactly what is it he does?”
“Oh, he’s wonderful!” she said. “I’m surprised your aunt didn’t brag on him to you.”
I didn’t answer.
“He tells stories,” she went on, a little less enthusiastically. “The kids love him. He doesn’t just entertain them, he encourages them to read. And as you know, he’s bilingual-he can tell stories in Spanish and English.”
I didn’t know any such thing, but I said, “Any idea where he is now?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“Do you have an address for him?”
“No,” she said. “I’m not sure he has a permanent address-”
“Would someone in your accounting office have one for him?”
“Accounting? Why?”
“Surely someone will be mailing a check to him?”
“Didn’t your aunt tell you? He donates his time. It’s so good of him. In libraries that are facing severe budget cutbacks-and most California libraries are-children’s programs often suffer. He helps us to keep the kids interested in reading without sacrificing book budgets. We’re very grateful to him.”
While trying to absorb that piece of information, I pressed on. “Ms. Longworth, as you’ve probably figured out, my cousin and I haven’t been in touch lately.” I paused. Lately. The past quarter century or so. I shook that off. “I just want to let him know what has happened to his mother. How did the library get in touch with him?”
“Well, I was going to suggest this a moment ago. Are you on-line?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Then you could send him e-mail.”
“He’s on the Internet?”
“Yes. That’s how we put in our request and verified all the arrangements. Let me look it up.” I heard her
