1 Killer Librarian by Mary Lou Kirwin

good the dark brew tasted. The other night I hadn’t really noticed much about the beer—but then it had been after eating spicy Indian food and being overwhelmed by everything around me. This beer tasted fuller in flavor than any I had tasted in America.
    As I was getting ready to ask the bartender about Guy, he disappeared. When he came back through what I assumed was the kitchen door, he was carrying a plate filled with white and brown food. As he approached, I could see that it was a pile of mashed potatoes, the “mash,” and two thick round sausages, the “bangers.” Quite stolid food for the middle of the day, but I was famished. I had decided that I would in no way be on a diet for this trip.
    “Mustard?” the bartender asked.
    “Please.”
    I tasted the mash. Quite good. Very mashy, witha hint of cream. Then a bite of the banger. The sausage was oily and bland, but not bad. The tang of the mustard would serve it well.
    The bartender set the mustard down. “All right, luv?”
    I waved my fork at him, wanting him to stay long enough for me to swallow a bite of banger. “I was wondering,” I started, but wasn’t quite sure how to describe Guy.
    “There was a gentleman in here two nights ago,” I went on.
    “Yes, I think I was working that night.”
    “He sat over there,” I pointed to the corner.
    “Go on.”
    “About your height, blond hair, maybe mid-thirties. Wore a suit coat. Looked rather professional. His first name is Guy.”
    “What did he drink?”
    I wondered if he was serious. “I think he was having a glass of red wine.”
    “Oh, him. Sits over in the corner. Yeah, he comes by now and again. Not exactly what you would call a regular. Don’t know much more than that about him, but I know who you mean.”
    “You don’t by any chance know his full name?”
    “Not really.”
    “Do you know what he does?”
    The bartender leaned over the counter and lowered his voice. “Odd you should ask. I’ve wondered that myself. He looks quite clean and on the up-and-up but you should see some of the people he meets here. Not our usual clientele, I’ll tell you that. I’ve heard rumor that he’s involved in some fairly shady business. Why? Did he do something to you?”
    “Oh, no. Nothing like that. No. We had an exchange and I asked him about something and I was wondering if he had checked it out. I wanted to get in touch with him. When does he tend to come here?”
    “It’s hard to say. It’s a bit one-and-off. He’ll be here right steady for a while and then might not see him for a fortnight.”
    “Oh,” I said, very disappointed.
    “He wasn’t here last night. Like I said, it’s hard to know when he’ll show up again.”
    “Yes, I see.” I wouldn’t be able to visit to the pub that night, as I was going to Macbeth with Caldwell. Although maybe afterward.
    The bartender leaned forward, trying to help me out. “Would you like to leave a message for him?”
    “That would be great.” I reached into my purse for a pen and tore a piece of paper from the notebook I always carried with me.
    “Don’t let your food get cold now.”
    “No, I won’t.” I cut off a hunk of banger and dipped it in the mustard while I thought of what to write. Nothing incriminating, but something that would give him the right message.
    “From the woman whose ex-boyfriend was a plumber,” I wrote and then reread the sentence. How pathetic that definition seemed. How had that happened to me? I continued, “Please forget about what we talked about. I’m feeling much better about everything. Thanks for listening.” I signed my name and wrote down my cell phone number, in case he had any questions.
    *   *   *
    Feeling relieved, I walked back toward Caldwell’s house full of meat and potatoes and beer. A nice combination. In no hurry, I ambled, looking in all the shopwindows, browsing as I went. Somehow even pots and pans looked more interesting in England. Every single object seemed to have