Interlibrary Loan Page 5

  “There’s next to nothing to tell. We sailed slowly at night. I was told that there’s always a danger of ramming something. We had a searchlight and radar, but even so … a big light isn’t the same as daylight, after all.”

  “Didn’t your boat sleep at night?”

  Mrs. Fevre shook her head. “No, never, at least as far as I know. The boat was driving itself all night, just like a groundcar.”

  “I see. Go on.”

  “One night I woke up and the boat was shaking Barry’s bunk. I was in the lower bunk, and Barry in the upper bunk. Perhaps I told you about that?”

  I waved it away.

  “It was shaking his bunk and telling Barry something. I don’t know what—I was half-asleep. Barry got up, climbing down past my bunk, and went out on deck in his pajamas.” She sighed. “It’s painful to say this, but I went back to sleep. All this had happened before, you understand, over and over. Sometimes twice or three times in one night.”

  She fell silent until I said, “Please continue.”

  “When I got up, Barry had gone. I thought he was out on deck, so I got dressed and went outside; we usually ate breakfast together. He wasn’t there. It was so foggy I couldn’t be sure, so I went wandering around the deck in the fog, calling for him. Eventually the boat got my attention and told me he had left. Another boat had come hours before I left our cabin, and Barry had gone aboard.”

  As though she feared that I hadn’t been listening, she added, “Our boat said Barry had gotten into this other boat and sailed away. That was all I could get out of it.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I told the boat I wanted to keep going, I wanted it to follow Barry’s instructions. It wouldn’t listen to that. It said that Barry had given new instructions, telling it to return to Polly’s Cove, and that was what it was doing. Barry had paid it. Barry alone had signed its charter. I—well I tried half a dozen arguments. I’d prefer not tell you what they were.”

  When I did not speak Adah added, “None of them worked.”

  I nodded. “Then don’t tell me.”

  “We went back. The boat wanted the rest of its money, the entire amount, but I didn’t think it deserved it. Its owners got in touch with me and threatened to sue me for it, but—”

  “Before all that, didn’t you question your boat about the one that had taken your husband away?”

  “Oh, yes. I don’t believe it knew a lot, and it had trouble expressing what little it knew. It said the other boat had been a lugger.” Adah Fevre paused. “That’s just another kind of sailboat, as I understand it. There had been several people on it, men and women. It had come close to us and had told our boat to heave to—reverse the engine so as to stop and so on. Barry had gone to the rail and talked to the people on board. After a minute or two he had gone over the side and into the boat … into this lugger. Then they pushed off and sailed away with him. I asked whether Barry had taken a bag, and the boat said it didn’t think so; but one of Barry’s bags was gone.”

  “Just one?”

  She nodded. “There was a big fight with the owners when I got back here. I didn’t want to pay them anything, and they were going to sue. I talked to their lawyer, and we agreed on a certain amount for each day we had been at sea. I paid that—it wasn’t as much as the full fee—and that settled it.”

  “Do you know the name of the boat?”

  Mrs. Fevre tried to remember it for so long that I almost interrupted her with another question. At last she said, “The Third Sister. That was it—or anyway I think it was.”

  I said, “Please tell me about finding this book. The map was already glued in back when you found it?”

  “Yes. Yes, it was. There’s a little hotel here. It’s not even a chain hotel, an independent I suppose you’d call it, the Polly’s Cove Inn. Barry and I had stayed there until Barry found the boat—it had a name, something about women. I’ve been trying to think of it.”

  “The Third Sister? That’s what you said.”

  “I—I don’t think so, Mr. Smith. Your name is Smith, isn’t it? Like that other one?”

  “Yes, with a final E. I take it you went back to the Polly’s Cove Inn after you left the boat?”

  “I did. I stayed there for a week, I think. I kept thinking that I ought to go back to High Plains alone and—and explain about Barry; but I kept hoping he’d come back. Another day. Just one more day … How long has it been now? Year and years. I’m afraid I’ve lost track of time, but I’m still waiting.”

  “Where were you living when Chandra was born?”

  “Here. Not in the Inn. Here, in this house. I remember bringing her home. I was thinking—I kept thinking over and over that there was no one I could show her to, but I was wrong. Mrs. Heuse was waiting for us. Standing there in the doorway, waiting for us. I showed her Chandra, and I was so proud. So proud and happy! I thought—I still tried to believe that Barry would come back any day, and then I would show her to him. Tell him he had a daughter. Only…” Adah sighed.

  “Yes?”

  “He never came back. He will, though. I’m quite certain of that, Mr. Smithe. He’ll come back when he can. Just as soon as he can.”

  I said, “You must have left the Polly’s Cove Inn and bought this house.”

  Mrs. Fevre’s head moved slowly from side to side. “I rented it. I rent it still—it’s very cheap. I have an eephone, and Chandra calls the people for me. I authorize a withdrawal. I sold our house in High Plains. I had to, and it brought a great deal of money.… Homes are so costly there.”

  “Because of the university, I suppose.”

  “We had a very nice house. It wasn’t as large as this one, though. This one has a great many rooms; I’ve never counted them. They’re empty. Most of the rooms are almost empty. This is my furniture. I bought it.… I’m sure I bought it. Nearly certain…”

  I said, “I’m tiring you, I know. You must have opened your husband’s bags, the two he had left on the boat. Was this book in one of them?”

  “Yes. The Third Sister. That was the name of our boat. The Third Sister.”

  I asked another question but received no reply. Adah Fevre was asleep.

  5

  A COLD TEA PARTY

  Chandra was waiting in the hall when I opened the door. I cleared my throat and told her, “I see you were listening. I thought you might be.” If it sounded grown-up and not at all friendly, well, I tried.

  She nodded silently and would not meet my eyes. There wasn’t the ghost of a grin.

  “I’m going to the kitchen now, and you might as well come along.” She was a good kid, so I tried to make it kind, adding, “That will be more dignified, and I’ll be glad to have you along.”

  We found Mrs. Heuse sitting on a three-legged stool at the little kitchen table and looking thoughtful. I knew, or at least I thought I knew, as soon as I got a good look at her face; when I had gotten settled in the rickety old ponticwood chair across the table from her and had a chance to study her face, I knew for certain: she was a reclone, like me. Some people say there are tiny facial flaws that get fixed before birth for fully human kids but not for us; still, people seldom notice ours consciously. Maybe that’s the truth, but whether it’s true or not I don’t consciously notice the flaws most of the time. In case you ever need to know for certain and can’t find any flaws, here’s a surefire test: if the left side of the face mirrors the right side perfectly, that’s a fully human. Guaranteed.

  Trying to make it friendly, I said, “I imagine you’re mulling over what to make for lunch.”

  Looking up, she shook her head. “No, sir. Are you a guest here? A guest of Mrs. Fevre’s? Lunch is already in the steamer, but if you have special needs I’ll be happy to see what I can do.”

  I shook my head. “I’m a reclone, Mrs. Heuse. Mrs. Fevre sent Chandra to borrow me from the Polly’s Cove Public Library. I have no special requirements, and you wouldn’t be obliged to satisfy them if I did. Do you by any chance know Mill
ie Baumgartner? The woman who wrote so many cookbooks? I’m a friend of hers.”

  Chandra stepped in. “He’s all right, Mrs. Heuse. I’m pretty sure we can trust him.”

  “I know about Millicent Baumgartner’s books.…” Mrs. Heuse hesitated, wanting to call me sir but knowing I was no better than an equal. “I have two of them, and from time to time Chandra brings me others from the library. Her book on pastries is really wonderful, the best I’ve ever seen.”

  “There’s a copy of Millie herself in the library now. Not permanently, but on interlibrary loan. I thought you might have requested her.”

  Mrs. Heuse shook her head, and Chandra said, “I didn’t, either.”

  I said, “Technically, she’s a reclone. A moment ago I told you I’m one. You are aware of that, I’m sure.”

  The answer came slowly. “Yes. I surely am.”

  “Chandra would have called for you, presumably, saying that her mother wanted you. She could pick Millie up in the same way, I imagine.”

  Chandra nodded.

  “Do I have to say it?” Once again, sir almost popped out.

  I wanted to sigh. “I see. You’re overdue, and afraid I’ll blow the whistle. I won’t. Not now, and not if I ever get back to my shelf.”

  Chandra said, “She’s been here for almost two years. Mother told me to say we’d lost her, so I did. Then Mother had to pay up—surrender her deposit is what they call it. So she did. So now Mrs. Heuse belongs to us. We like it that way, and so does she.”

  “They’ll never burn me here,” Mrs. Heuse told me. “Mrs. Fevre has promised me that, and she’s a good woman. She’ll keep her promise.”

  Of course I agreed, even though I felt a whole lot less certain than I sounded. Certainty and sincerity can be awfully hard to fake, but now and then I manage.

  “They’ll reclaim me if they find me in the library, sir.” (She had given up the fight.) “You must know what kind of people they are down there.”

  I admitted I didn’t, and tried to explain that I was on interlibrary loan and had only just arrived.

  “They will. That Ms. Prentice would brand me noncirculating and give back Mrs. Fevre’s money, and there would be nothing Mrs. Fevre could do short of suing.”

  “Which she wouldn’t undertake.” I nodded. “I get it. Mrs. Heuse, I’m looking into several matters at Mrs. Fevre’s request.”

  “I know that, sir.”

  “You can help me with one of them easily and quickly, and I feel quite certain that you will. When the lights go out, something black gets into Mrs. Fevre’s bedchamber—how, I don’t know. It flattens itself on the floor and crawls toward Mrs. Fevre, crying—or at least Chandra calls it crying. Since she’s heard it, I believe at least twice, I think it wise to trust her terminology. Whimpering, whining, and sobbing, I believe. Speaking a few short words. I know you know more about it than she and I do, and I want you to tell us now. Tell us, and I’ll guarantee that you won’t be punished for whatever you may have done.”

  Mrs. Heuse stared, her lower lip trembling. Chandra hugged her and tried to comfort her, motioning urgently for me to leave.

  I nodded and said, “Explain that I’m not going to harm your mother’s dog.” Soon after that, I walked back to the library alone.

  Lunch was over by the time I got there, and it would be hours before dinner. When I’d finished looking at maps on one of the screens, I stood up, rubbed my eyes, and thought things over. I was hungry, but then I was always hungry, just as somebody had told me once. I knew that reading cookbooks would make me even hungrier, but duty is duty; so I trudged off to page through a dozen, mostly on a screen but a few on yellowing paper.

  Elizabeth Heuse had written One Hour Company Dinners, Luncheon for Two in Fifteen Minutes, and Fifty-four Truly Delicious Snacks Your Family Has Never Tasted. I was just starting on a chapter of that last one when Millie caught up with me.

  “Don’t tell me you’re taking up cooking, Ern!” She made it mock-serious.

  “Nope,” I told her, “I’ve taken up starving. Some of this stuff looks wonderful.”

  “Quite a few of them really are if you can find the ingredients. That book has a habit of calling for cheeses most nutrition services have never heard of.”

  “I see. What was she like in person, Millie? You must have known her.”

  “Not very well.” Millie paused thoughtfully. “Are you going to tell me why you want to find out about her?”

  I shook my head. “Please don’t try to guess.”

  “I already have, but I won’t fuss and stamp to make you tell me whether I’m right. She seemed withdrawn and a little bit sad when I knew her. Have you noticed how rarely she mentions beef and chicken?”

  I shook my head again.

  “Eating fish doesn’t seem to trouble her, but birds and animals? Those did, both of them.”

  “Birds and mammals.”

  Millie’s shoulders rose and fell. “I stand corrected. She was an animal lover. I was in the audience one time when some man asked her how to roast a dog. He was trying to be funny, but she froze. Absolutely froze. Finally the woman who’d introduced her stepped in and told the man how to grill a hot dog. After that somebody else announced a ten-minute break. The stage went dark and just about all the audience filed out, I think mostly to the restrooms. Fifteen or twenty minutes later, when almost everybody had come back, Betty Heuse was in control of herself again. Do you want to hear more about that?”

  I nodded.

  “You never sit down, do you?”

  We went over to a table, where I held her chair until she sat. I took the one next to hers.

  “You do know how to operate these four-legged chair things. I was beginning to wonder.”

  “I wonder about a lot of things,” I told her. “Particularly my patron.”

  “You haven’t been returned?”

  “No. I came back hoping for lunch, but I was too late.”

  “Your patron wasn’t going to feed you?”

  I shook my head. “She was asleep. Her cook was going to feed us—that’s my patron’s daughter and me—but I had upset her and the near future didn’t look good. I came back to have a look at dog books and cookbooks, but I haven’t gotten anywhere with the dog books yet.”

  “You’ve had an interesting time of it, Ern. I’m no detective, but I know the signs.”

  “Yes, I have. Very.”

  Millie glanced around before speaking again. “Talking it over with me might help.”

  “All right, here goes. Do you know a lot about dogs?”

  Silently, she shook her head.

  “Neither do I.” I stopped to think, sort of hoping that Millie would go away. “Once I told a lady I knew more about dogs than I do about kids, and that’s not exactly a lie.”

  “But you still don’t know much.”

  “Correct, because my knowledge is out of date. I looked through a couple of dog books before I started on the cookbooks. They told me that there are at least two dozen breeds I’ve never heard of, and which breeds are the best talkers; but they didn’t tell me the kind of thing I need to find out.”

  “What is it your patron wants you to find out? Maybe I can help.”

  I took a good, deep breath and let go of it in a sigh. “What she really wants is a detective, but why pay a lot of money for one when you can borrow a reclone resource from the library for nothing?”

  “You’re saying that fully human detectives are expensive?”

  I nodded. “The good ones are. Very.”

  “She may not have the money. Besides, I doubt that there are any detectives we could hire here. This is just a village, Ern.”

  “I know. A private investigator might be as ignorant of Polly’s Cove—and the sea—as I am. But the author of Sherlock Holmes might really help, and so might the guys who wrote Ellery Queen, or even the one who wrote about Long John Silver and Jim.…”

  “You’ve hit on something. What is it?”

  “Jim
Hawkins.” I took a good deep breath. “Do you know that book?”

  “Treasure Island? Yes, I do. My father read it to us, and I read it to my grandchildren. It seemed terribly dated to me, but that didn’t bother my grandchildren.” Millie was getting out a handkerchief.

  “This was in your first life, of course.”

  “Y-y-yes. Way, way back. I’ve looked in the screens, Ern, t-trying to find out what became of those children; what their lives had been like and how they died. I’d love to know. This can’t possibly interest you.”

  It did, and I told her so.

  “I remember their names, of course, and the names of their mothers and fathers; but I could never be certain.…”

  “I understand.”

  Millie’s sigh was almost a moan. “Let’s talk about something else. What does your patron want?”

  “It’s complicated. One complication is that I feel I really have two. Legally, Mrs. Fevre checked me out. Her name’s on the record, and she put up the deposit. But her daughter—”

  Millie laid a gentle hand on my arm. “In that case Mrs. Fevre’s your patron, Ern. You know that.”

  “I agree. She was the one who asked the library to borrow me from Spice Grove as well, but she didn’t come to the library to pick me up and take me home. Her daughter Chandra did that. Because she did, I can’t help but feel that Chandra’s morally my patron. Or that she’s my patron too; take your choice.” I shut up for a minute, not wanting to add what I knew I had to say. “Chandra’s still a kid.”

  Millie chuckled softly. “You’d never betray a patron, and you’re too soft-hearted to disappoint a child. No wonder I like you.”

  “All right, if that’s the way you want it. Yes. The patrons have different problems. Those problems may or may not be interrelated; it’s much too soon to tell.” I stopped talking to sweep aside lovely pictures of dogs all bathed and brushed, and food so neat and perfect that I would have been ashamed to eat it.

  “What’s the little girl’s?”

  “A dark—she thinks black—creature that gets into her mother’s bedroom at night and crawls toward her mother crying. By crying she means whining and whimpering, or so I think. Sometimes it talks a little.”