Tamma pick the phone back up. “Shannon Harcher was shot today at Beta’s house. Junebug and I found her. She’s in critical condition at the hospital. They’ve arrested Eula Mae,” I said. Adam wheezed and Tamma was silent. “Why Eula Mae?” “I don’t want to get into that, but apparently I was right. Beta was profiting from her involvement in your church’s activities, like your rummage sale. Just thought you’d like to know. You might want to be a little more choosy with your volunteers.” I hung up, not wanting to further my conversation with those two. I called Candace, told her what all had happened during the course of the afternoon (including Eula Mae’s confession-I trusted Candace to keep a secret to the grave), and asked her to open up the library. I asked her if she’d mind working late so folks could use the library a bit longer than usual, since it’d been closed for two days.
She didn’t mind a whit and kept inquiring as to my well-being. I told her I’d see her shortly. I finished eating and told Sister I’d be home later than usual. We went upstairs and checked with Mark. He’d laid in a big supply of borrowed videos and wasn’t averse to taking care of Mama. I put the VCR on pause and told him about Shannon. Mark’s dark eyes grew wide. “Can we go down to the hospital to see her?” I shook my head. “Not now. She’s in intensive care, I’m sure. Maybe later.”
“Is she going to die? Was it gross? Do you think she’s in a lot of pain?” “I don’t know, Mark, and yes, it was gross.” I glanced at the videotapes he’d borrowed from friends, every one a bloodbath. “I don’t think I’ll ever want to see one of those movies again myself.” Mark looked at the collected Arnolds and Dirty Harrys with new eyes. He pushed the off button and the VCR fell quiet. “Maybe not these, tonight. Maybe I’ll just read a book for a change.” I went to the police station and made my statement. It was fairly short and simple.
Billy Ray wasn’t around to taunt me this time; he was too busy arguing with Eula Mae and the lawyer from Bavary I’d hired. Apparently she and her lawyer were getting along just fine; they could both yell you deaf. I nearly felt sorry for Junebug. I picked up my notes on the case and shuffled through them. I thought a lot of questions were still unanswered by Eula Mae’s arrest. I stuck my notebook under my arm and headed out. I parked in front of the library. It was nearly four and we usually closed at six on Thursdays. I suppose it was hardly worth opening for two remaining hours, but I figured Candace and I could wrap up any loose ends from having been closed for a while. Plus, we might stay open a bit later, let the curiosity seekers get it out of their systems. Going in was a little harder than I thought it would be. My hand froze as I reached for the door. Beta’s bludgeoned face, eyes wide open in death, wasn’t waiting in there for me this time. But I couldn’t erase her easily from my thoughts. I made a concerted effort and instead of Beta’s battered head, I saw Shannon’s bloodied face. My fingertips massaged my eyes. Too much death, too much suffering for one little town. I heard the door open and Candace was there, wrapping her arms around me. “You okay?” she breathed against my chest. “Yeah. God, what a week,” I said, then chortled nervously. My own laughter sounded tinny in my ears. We put arms around each other and walked into the library together. The air had the same dense quality about it that Beta Harcher’s house had. I told myself that it was just from the library being shut up for two days, not death lingering in the air like some foul fog. The old air- conditioning system sputtered and cranked away, but it hadn’t yet dispelled the foreboding, pressing atmosphere. She’d brewed coffee, in the only brewer we had-back in the room where Beta’s body had lain. I set my notebook on the counter and I went back there. The tape outline was still down, etching where she fell. I didn’t know if I was yet allowed to pull the tape up, but I did, yanking it up violently. I wasn’t about to velvet-rope this section of the library and charge a quarter a peek. I felt mad-mad that Beta had hurt people, mad at what I’d been through, mad that Shannon was lying near death, even mad that little Josh Schneider got an awful early introduction to what death meant. Candace watched me, waiting for me to talk. “If Eula Mae killed her,” I finally said, “that means Beta died for $10,000. I never thought of a life in monetary terms.” I realized I was lying as soon as I said it. I’d thought of how much money Mama would need to live her limbo existence over the next twenty years. I closed my eyes, feeling more anger and shame. I got up, poured coffee, and went back to my tiny office. I sat down and Candace sat across from me. She was watching me with a concern that made me uneasy. I wondered-not for the first time-what it would be like to kiss her. Instead I coughed. “I suppose we should reshelve and check in books in the drop slip,” I said, attempting to sound professional. “Doesn’t look like we’re going to get any takers today.” Candace shook her head. “’Fraid so. I felt creepy when I got here, and I didn’t know how long you’d be at the station. So I called some of the regulars. Old Man Renfro and Gaston Leach both said they’d be over shortly.” “Followed, undoubtedly, by the town curious who’ll want to tour the death scene. Shall you be the docent or shall I?” I said. I sipped at my coffee. I kept thinking about Eula Mae, in jail and accused of murder and attempted murder.
Something niggled at my mind, something in all this that didn’t fit. I thought of Matt Blalock and simmering hatred. I thought of Ruth Wills, an accusation of poisoning that didn’t stand up. I thought of Hally Schneider, who had been right about a secret connection between Beta and Eula Mae, yet still seemed awfully nervous for an innocent bystander. I thought of Bob Don, who seemed to want to help me and fought violently with Beta less than a week before her death. I thought of the Hufnagels, and how their church wasn’t good enough for Beta’s ambitions. And I thought of my mother, her presence on Beta’s list still unexplained. Billy Ray thought he had his woman now, but I wasn’t convinced. I went over to the local-authors shelf. Eula Mae was currently the only Mirabeau resident with fulfilled literary aspirations, and her collected works sat in a row. I plucked her first novel from the shelf; the copyright was in Eula Mae’s name. I’d thought for a moment that if it was copyrighted under the Jocelyn Lushe pseudonym that Eula Mae would have had an easy out; no one could have necessarily accused her of lying. But it wasn’t so. She’d claimed each book as her own. I replaced The Rose of San Jacinto on the shelf and went back to Candace. “There’s still $25,000 that was in Beta’s savings account that didn’t come from Eula Mae,” I told Candace. “So where the hell did that come from? She embezzle from the Girl Scout cookie fund?” The bells above the front door jangled, and from my office I saw Old Man Renfro and Gaston Leach come into view. I couldn’t have conjured up a more unlikely pair. Old Man Renfro always wore a threadbare suit; he must’ve had a whole armoire of them. Snowy white hair topped his dark, wise face. He was retired from the post office and when he had tired of reading people’s addresses, he’d ended up spending his days at the library. It would not be unreasonable to guess he’d read everything in the library at least once. Even the children’s section, reading them to his several grandchildren.
According to what I’d heard, he’d attacked the shelves methodically, moving through the Dewey decimal system as if it were a grocery list and devouring every book. His real name was Willie, but every one called him Old Man Renfro. Gaston Leach was what every kid in high school aspired not to be. He was a gawky youth that might one day, the charitable among us said, turn from ugly duckling to swan. We could only pray he’d develop some social skills to go along with any external improvements. He had a mind I’d have killed for and a face I’d have committed suicide over. His parents apparently had little concern for Gaston’s ability to interact with others, because they sent him out in tacky clothing the dead wouldn’t wear and bought him eyeglasses with lenses that could double as drink coasters. Not to mention the pairing of his first name with his last. His thick mop of black hair fell in a bad cut across his forehead. Today he was resplendent in too-long gray trousers that hung low on his bony hips and a shirt with a nauseating orange plaid. Never failing to accessorize incorrectly, he held up his pants with a western-style brown belt and wore black shoes. He’d missed being cool by several feet today. “Glad to see y’all are back open,” Old Man Renfro proclaimed. “Well, Miss Harcher did manage to close the library for a while, but not in the way she thought she would.” Gaston was less philosophical. “The new McCaffrey come in while y’all were closed?” he demanded, turning those powerful lenses on the new-arrivals bin. “No, Gaston,” I said, having no idea. I hadn’t checked our mail drop, but I didn’t want to get into another long discussion with Gaston about the relative merits of the science-fiction selection at the Mirabeau Public Library. “Oh,” Gaston muttered, high-beaming reproachfully at Candace. She must’ve bribed him to come over. Apparently the idea of being supportive of folks he saw every day was an alien concept. That couldn’t be right, I thought. Gaston explored alien concepts every day, what with his reading list. Old Man Renfro took Gaston by the elbow and steered him to a chair in the periodicals section. Candace and I followed. “Candace says that there’s been a shooting, and that Eula Mae has been arrested for that crime and for Miss Harcher’s murder,” Old Man Renfro said. His voice was a carefully modulated tenor. He was one of those gentlemen who is very careful about how he speaks, because he’d grown up in a house where it hadn’t mattered and he’d made a conscious decision to be correct. If his voice was any deeper he could’ve subbed for James Earl Jones. I nodded. “So I guess I’m not under suspicion any more. But I can’t believe that Eula Mae is some calculating plotter.” “Having read her books, neither can I,” Old Man Renfro agreed with a tad of asperity. “Yes, Eula Mae’s strong suit has always been characters,” I retorted. I didn’t feel picking on Eula Mae’s writing skills was helpful at this critical time. “Her character hasn’t always been above reproach,” Old Man Renfro said, turning his own wordplay, “but I find it hard to believe Eula Mae would willingly hurt another person, much less a young woman she didn’t know.”
“What’ll happen to Eula Mae’s cats when she’s in jail?” Gaston wondered. “Maybe she’ll donate them to
