The Unkindness of Ravens by M. Hilliard (readera ebook reader .txt) 📗

by sight, and they were usually in uniform. I was roaming around straightening and playing “spot the cop” when the first of the after-school crowd rolled in.

Jimmy and Joey Jovanoski were looking for a follow-up to Thor. They were a little too young for Henry V, even if it was the same director and followed the theme of the golden boy with problems. That brought me back to Matthew Prentiss and his concern about Felicity’s nerves. A high-strung wife was not a political asset. I’d need to look into it. Felicity had been spending a lot of time with Joanna.

I led the boys on a hunt for The Avengers which was checked in but not on the shelf. We paused near one of the strangers I’d been keeping an eye on and compared our favorite characters from the movie.

“I like Loki best,” I confessed. “He’s not really bad, he’s just misunderstood. It’s the bad guys that make things more fun, don’t you think?”

The stranger in question gave me a startled look. I smiled and waved the DVD. He adjusted his ball cap and looked back at his laptop.

Bingo. Plainclothes, I’d put money on it.

“Anything else?” I asked.

“No, thanks,” said Jimmy.

“Yes,” his older brother corrected him, “Mom said we have to get a book or no movies this weekend.”

“Oh, right.” Jimmy looked at me hopefully. “It can be a graphic novel. Do you have any about superheroes?”

“I think you have enough superheroes right there, but I have an idea. Go ask Mrs. Hutchinson to check in Thor, and Joey and I will go find a book.”

I headed for the graphic novel section, Joey trailing along behind me.

“It’s Joe, actually,” said that young man, with all the dignity befitting one who would enter middle school in the fall, “and I like Loki, too.”

“Good,” I said, running my finger along the shelf until I found what I wanted, “then you’ll like this.”

I handed him Trickster: Native American Tales. He took it and flipped through, considering.

“Your mother will approve,” I informed him. “Tell her I said it was really good.”

It was a good book. A collaboration between Native American storytellers and graphic novel professionals, it would make both boys stretch a little, but they’d like it. I sent Joe off to check out, certain I’d made progress in my mission to cultivate a love of good books in my young patrons by whatever underhanded means necessary.

I worked my way back to the reference desk, straightening as I went and surveying my little kingdom. The rush was slowing. The number of unfamiliar faces was down to two, one being my friend in the baseball cap, and he was packing to go. It would get busy again in the half hour before we closed, but meanwhile I could look forward to a lull. My restless night was catching up to me.

The phone rang. Dory had someone at the Circ desk so I answered.

“Oh, Greer, I’m so glad it’s you!”

I groaned. Agnes Jenner, one of our regular patrons. She was in her sixties, widowed, bright, bored, and fond of her cocktails, which she started in on around noon every day. At least once a week she called me looking for some obscure piece of information. She said she didn’t use the Internet, but I thought she might just be lonely. Sometimes it was easy to find the answer for her, sometimes not. I hoped today it would be simple.

“How can I help you?” I asked.

“I need you to solve a mystery.”

I’ll add it to my list, right after “solve murder.”

“What mystery is that?”

“Well, I was watching one of those DVDs you recommended. It was one of the new Marple episodes. There was an actress I’m sure I’ve seen in another one of those mysteries, but I can’t put my finger on it. Now, what was her name? I wrote it down. Give me a second.”

There was the sound of paper rustling. I drummed my fingers. Every British actor alive seemed to have done a turn in one of these mysteries, so without the correct name I’d be looking for a needle in a haystack.

“Polly Walker!” Agnes announced. “I knew I had it!”

“Let me check.” The Internet Movie Database was perfect for this kind of question. I typed in the name and scanned the filmography.

“At Bertram’s Hotel,” I said. “That’s the episode you just watched, isn’t it?”

“That’s right, but I’d swear there’s another one.”

I looked further. Score one for Agnes. There was another one.

“Peril at End House. It’s a Poirot. There’s seventeen years between the two. She must look a lot different. You have a good eye, Agnes.”

“People always said I had a photographic memory, and I guess I still do.”

She also had a house on the only road leading to the manor, a window with a view of that road, and a habit of staying up late. The TV and bar were in the room with a view. I knew because I’d taken her books and videos after she had a knee replacement. She might have seen something unusual Tuesday night, and with luck she might remember it. I suddenly became much more invested in Agnes’s reference needs.

“I’m glad you liked the videos. See? I told you there was life after Joan Hickson. I can find you some more, if you’re through with those.”

“That would be very nice, dear, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to get in to pick them up right away.”

“Is your knee still bothering you? I could drop them off on my way home. It’s only been a couple months since your surgery, so you’re still on my list of homebound patrons.” It had been closer to three months but Agnes still complained of joint pain. She also didn’t drive. Given her drinking, this was a blessing, but it did leave her stranded at times.

“Could you, Greer? I would appreciate it. All this rain has made me so achy.”

“Sure. I’ll check the new ones out to you and bring back the ones