Page 45 of Witch and Tell

“I did. A huge shock. I didn’t expect to see him in construction, but it’s Byron, all right. I’d been safe for so many years. I never expected to see him again.”

“Where did you go?” Wilfred was tiny. If he’d have stayed here, Tyrone-slash-Byron would have seen him.

“Forest Grove. One of the professors at the university had died and left a huge book collection, and I’d agreed to help catalog it, get it ready to sell. When I saw Byron, I told them I’d start right away. I left a quick voicemail for Lalena and took a taxi within the hour.”

I looked around. Ian’s home was tranquil and pleasantly cluttered, as I imagined a rare books vendor’s home would be. He had a strong arms and torso—he needed them to propel himself in his chair all day—but I didn’t sense violence. He’d fled Baltimore instead of fighting his boss. He wasn’t a killer.

As I prepared my next words, I prayed I was right. “You didn’t murder him?”

Ian started. “Absolutely not. I don’t want him to know I still exist, let alone confront him. No way.” He squinted. “You say he’s dead? Are you sure?”

“I think so. A man’s body was found in the woods. There’s a strong chance it’s him, and, if you’re right, he was here under a pseudonym. Tyrone Beaudrie. He wasn’t at the guest house last night, and he hasn’t shown up for work.”

“The guest house, huh?” Ian shook his head in disbelief. “He’s dead?” His puzzlement morphed into a wide smile, then dimmed. “Someone killed him.”

“From what you say, I imagine he has his enemies.” I remembered Tyrone’s seductive grace, his sly doubletalk. If not a gang boss, his murderer might well have been a jealous ex-girlfriend.

“You were arrested for murder.Hismurder, not mine,” Ian said.

“And you heard about it somehow.”

He shrugged. “The windows were open. Someone outside was talking about how I was dead, and you’d been arrested for killing me. I knew I’d better make it known I was alive—at least to the sheriff’s office. I didn’t understand at the time, but now it’s starting to come together.” He shook his head. “Wow.” Then, “I need to see Lalena. It’s safe now that Byron is dead.”

Indeed, a sense of calm seemed to have settled over Ian. I rose.

“I hope she’ll understand why I had to vanish like that.” He looked at me with a question in his gaze.

“If you’re as honest with her as you’ve been with me, I predict she’ll forgive all.”

My words were upbeat, but my mood was not. I had a lot to figure out, and it was becoming increasingly clear that my life depended on it.

Chapter Twenty-four

That night the library was noisy with Wilfredians gathered for the trustees’ meeting. The atrium looked as it always had: the Eastlake table with its vase of dahlias lovingly arranged by Lyndon adorned the center; the cupola’s stained glass sparkled like jewels under the moonlight; bookshelves full of happy books lined the former mansion’s rooms.

The big difference was that trustees’ meetings didn’t usually even draw the full complement of trustees, let alone most of Wilfred. Tonight’s was not one of those meetings.

Ruth Littlewood banged her gavel on the lectern. “May I have your attention, please? Quiet, everyone.”

As Wilfredians usually did when Ruth spoke, they obeyed.

“We’re going to bypass our usual agenda of budgetary review, etcetera, and go straight to a subject vital to the health of our community: cats.”

The crowd grumbled, but I did hear a fewhuzzahs.

“Cats are a menace to society.” Ruth cleared her voice, and her words picked up power. “They are an enemy to birds, and many people are allergic to them. They appear cuddly, but in fact have deadly sharp claws. In short, the house cat is a greatly underestimated threat.”

I raised my hand, and Ruth nodded. I wasn’t sure if we were following Robert’s Rules of Order, but I intended to take part in this discussion. “Perhaps you’d like to be more specific. This meeting isn’t about cats, but about the suitability of having books featuring cats in the library’s children’s section.”

“Corrected,” Ruth said.

Wanda harrumphed from her front-row seat. She clutched a sheaf of papers, and an overhead projector sat on the front table. This could be a long night.

Mona tapped my shoulder. “May I sit behind you?” She held a small bottle and a bundle wrapped in a towel, most likely her latest foster charge.

“Sure,” I said. “We’re just getting started.”

Mona unwrapped the bundle to reveal a tabby kitten. Not helpful. I turned again to the front of the room and tried to make my back as wide as possible to hide the kitten.