Daisy was at the Library of Congress the next morning when the doors to the Jefferson Building opened. She deposited her tote bag at the coat check, put all her belongings in a clear plastic bag, and headed for the microfilm room armed with the piece of paper containing the call numbers of Harold Henderson’s other stories.
The librarians in the microfilm room were just as helpful as those in the Rare Book Reading Room. After an absence of only ten minutes, one of them returned to Daisy’s side with two rolls of film. He made sure Daisy knew how to run a microfilm machine, which she had done many times in pursuit of her degrees, then left her alone to read.
The placement of Harold Henderson’s stories in the front of the books suggested to Daisy that he might be a rather prolific writer. She wasn’t sure, but Daisy assumed the more popular writers in the early twentieth century might have stories placed more prominently in the dime novels. Though it took a couple hours, Daisy read every word of the two stories.
She was disappointed when she found nothing to suggest a connection between the author and anyone in Nebraska, New York, or anywhere else. The stories were well-written and fun, but dealt with topics of Victorian romance and coquetry. There was also a gruesome story about hereditary violence that read more like it came from the pen of Edgar Allan Poe than Harold Henderson. Daisy took notes while she read, but only out of habit. By lunchtime she returned the microfilm to the librarian who had assisted her earlier and thanked him for his help.
She called Helena to see if she wanted to meet for lunch and Helena agreed eagerly. She had news for Daisy. “We’ve made plans to go away together!” she squealed. Daisy smiled.
“First, I assume ‘we’ means you and Bennett. And second, I assume ‘go away together’ means you’re going somewhere on vacation, not eloping.”
Helena grinned. “Right on both counts. We’re going to Aruba!”
“I hear that’s nice this time of year,” Daisy joked.
“I’d invite you and Grover along, but this is such a great chance for me and Bennett to get to know each other better,” Helena said, her eyes twinkling.
“Me and Grover? Ha! What would you need with two platonic chaperones? I’m glad you two are getting away together,” Daisy said with a smile.
Helena gave Daisy a knowing look. “I think you and Grover are perfect for each other.”
“Oh, please. Not this again. We’re both workaholics.”
“Okay, okay. I won’t harp on it,” Helena said. She proceeded to tell Daisy all about the hotel where she and Bennett were planning to stay, along with the activities they had booked and the places she wanted to visit in Aruba. By the time Helena had to go back to work, Daisy felt like she could use a piña colada and a massage. Helena was a bundle of energy.
Daisy returned to her office, shut her door, and sat down at the computer.
Despite her vast knowledge of research methods and sources, this time Daisy headed to Google to find the answers she sought. She typed in the name “Harold Henderson” and waited to see what would pop up. After just a couple seconds she had a several-pages-long list of possible clues to the identity of the person who wrote the dime novel Brian had given her.
But the list was disappointing. All the Google hits seemed to point toward living people; and in particular, sites offering to find the address, criminal background, and property value of every Harold Henderson in the United States. Daisy sat back and sighed. She erased that search and started another, this time typing in the words “dime novel” and “Henderson.”
And there, at the top of the list of Google hits, was something about an author named H. Henderson and a connection to dime novels. Daisy clicked on the link and it took her to a page from a website belonging to a small private university in New York State. The page was one of several on the website that were apparently dedicated to the history of the dime novel and the writers who brought the popular stories to the masses around the turn of the twentieth century. Specifically, it focused on writers from New York who contributed to the phenomenon. The name of the person who had composed the list, Mary Browning, was on the bottom of the third page, next to a notation which indicated the list had been compiled two years previously.
Daisy kept that tab open on the computer and opened another tab for the university’s home page. She found the main number for the campus library and before she had even formulated a list of questions, she called the number. When she was finally connected with a real person, she asked to speak to Ms. Browning. And there Daisy hit another snag.
“Ms. Browning retired last year,” the librarian said.
“Can you give me her contact information?” Daisy asked, knowing that it was highly unlikely.
“No, I’m afraid I can’t do that. Maybe I can help you?”
Daisy explained that she was looking for information about the author Harold Henderson. The librarian couldn’t offer any guidance, but knew of the list Daisy had found online.
“Mary had a keen interest in dime novels,” the librarian said. “I’ll tell you what. Leave me your contact information and I’ll get in touch with Mary. I’ll give her your name and number and if she wants to, she can call you back.”
“That would be great,” Daisy replied, leaning forward in her desk chair. She gave the librarian her work phone, home phone, cell phone, and email address. She didn’t want to take a chance that she might miss a call from Mary Browning. When she got off the phone, she tried to settle down to start work on a project Mark John had given her, but she found that her mind was spinning too fast to focus. She went for a walk to clear her head and returned to the office ready to sit down and get to work.
But she was waylaid by Jude as she walked past the conference room.
“Hi, Daisy,” Jude called. Daisy peeked into the conference room, where Jude was sitting at her laptop.
“What are you doing in here? Why aren’t you in your office?”
“My phone kept ringing and I needed to get some work done in peace. It’s Mark John. I just can’t talk to him right now.”
“Why not? And why is he calling you? Isn’t he in his office?”
“No, he stayed home today because he had to be home for a plumber or an electrician or someone.”
“Oh. So why don’t you answer the phone and tell him you’re trying to work?”
“He’s just been in such a bad mood lately. I don’t want to make him angrier.”
“Ignoring his calls may not be the best way to go about that.”
Jude seemed to consider that, as if she hadn’t thought of it before. “You’re right. Maybe I should just answer the phone and tell him I’m busy.”
“That’s what I would do.” Daisy turned around to leave, but Jude seemed to want to keep talking.
“I’m thinking maybe Mark John was right. Maybe we should take a break from seeing each other.”
Daisy didn’t really feel like being dragged into the middle of another of Jude’s angst-ridden battles of indecision. “I guess that’s something you’ll have to decide,” she said, then turned toward the door again.
“The thing is, I was so unhappy when he suggested it, but now that he’s so miserable all the time, I’m thinking it might be the right thing to do.”
“Maybe it is,” Daisy said, pointedly looking at her watch.
“But what if he’s depressed and unhappy and it’s a secret cry for help? What if he needs me and this is just his way of showing me?”
Daisy shot Jude a dubious look, but Jude was staring intently at something off in the distance, out the conference room window. “Are you asking me what I think? Because I don’t know what to think,” Daisy said. “I don’t know Mark John well enough to know if this is a cry for help or just a phase or something else. I wish I could help.”
“You already did,” Jude replied. “You made me see this from a different angle. I’m going back to my office and take his next call so we can talk. Thanks, Daisy.” She closed her laptop with a swift click and stood up to leave, walking out of the room in front of Daisy. Daisy watched her go, bewildered, then shook her head. This office romance was too much of a distraction.