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The following morning, I drove to the library. I used my administrative access to tap into Gus Proctor’s library usage account. As it turns out two of the books he checked out were your garden variety—no pun intended—landscaping books, and both had sections instructing its readers on the proper way to plant, grow, and maintain Aconitum plants.
Since those sections were one of dozens of sections on the care and feeding of many other types of plants as well, it was hardly conclusive evidence of foul play.
However, what was more interesting were the fiction novels he checked out less than a year ago. One was called, The Wolfbane Killer, the other was called, The Aconitum Murders. The latter was actually published in 1936. If Gus Proctor was guilty of killing Emma Peterson with Aconitum, it was not exactly a new idea.
I saw that both books were currently on the shelf. I decided to check them out.
“What’cha doin’, Fortune?” I heard a pleasant voice call from behind.
It was Roberta, another employee of the library. She was in her early fifties and had been a librarian in New Orleans for over twenty-five years. She had actually been hired as part-time not long after I arrived in Sinful. She had a reputation for being perfectly coiffed at all times; today was no exception. Her hair, clothes, and makeup were chosen and applied to be age-defying and for now, at least, it was working.
“Oh, nothing,” I answered. “Just catching up on a little work.”
“I see you’re looking at Gus Proctor’s account,” she said. “Does he have late fees?”
“Not that I know of,” I said. “Do you know him?”
“Just to say hi and have a little idle chit-chat,” she said. “He’s been in here a lot, lately.”
“Really?” I replied. “Isn’t he from Thibodaux?”
“He is, but he has a lot of work in Sinful. He comes into the library when the weather isn’t cooperative, or when he gets a cancellation. Sometimes he just comes in on his lunch break.”
“I don’t see that many books checked out under this name.”
“He mostly comes in and reads magazines. I also see him using the computer and surfing the web,” she said. “He uses the one in the corner when it’s open.”
I knew the computer she referred to. It sat in the corner and was the only computer in the library that was positioned in such a manner that no one could see the screen over his shoulder. It was very popular for that reason alone.
“How often would you say he comes in?” I asked.
“It used to be once a month or so, but lately, it’s been two to three times a week. Why?”
“Oh, just curious, I just saw him in here yesterday,” I said. “I hadn’t met him before.”
“He is really handsome, but I think he’s a tad old for you,” Roberta said.
“That’s not why I was asking,” I told her.
“Really?” she said, “Because you seem very interested . . .”
“I was just . . .”
“Plus, he seems to have an appetite for the more . . . mature woman,” she said, flashing a wicked smile.
“Is that so?”
She raised her eyebrows and smiled again.
“Oh my god. Are you and he . . .?”
“Oh, heavens no,” she said, “I’ve been happily married for twenty-five years, but it is fun watching him try.”
“He flirts with you?” I asked.
“Oh incessantly,” she said. “And I’m not the only one.”
She nodded toward Agnes, a sixty-five-year-old employee who became a librarian less than five years ago, after retiring from a career in catering. She owned and ran quite a substantial business. The rumor was that she sold her business when she retired and received a hefty sum for it. She was heavier and looked careworn, certainly no raging beauty in the traditional physical sense. She was also known for her stiff personality. Gus Proctor had to be twenty years her junior.
“Agnes?” I said. “What’s the attraction there?”
“No idea,” Roberta said, “but if the rumors are true, Agnes and Gus have already taken their relationship to . . . how do they say it . . . the next level.”
She flashed a naughty grin. I fought back a gag reflex.
“That’s interesting,” I said. “Do you know if Agnes has a garden?”
She shrugged, “I have no idea. I just know she’s been seeing him a lot, lately. Why do you ask?”
“Oh nothing. He’s a gardener, right? I was just wondering. So, Agnes with a much younger man, huh?”
“Good for her, as far as I’m concerned,” Roberta replied. “We live but once. But remember, you didn’t hear that from me.”
She smiled and started to walk away.
“Roberta,” I called.
She turned back around, “Yes?”
“Do you have the number for that I.T. guy the library uses when the server crashes?”
“Eddie McCoy?”
“That’s him,” I said. “Can you text me his number? I have an issue at home I want to ask him about.”
“Will do,” she said.
When I got back into the car, I phoned Ben Harrison, my CIA partner, who has continued to help me remotely from time to time. The call went straight to voicemail. I left a detailed message, asking him if he could check into Gus Proctor’s background. I wondered, in particular, if the gardener had any prior arrests.