The Blackstone Chronicles - By John Saul Page 0,102

ashes for a minute or so on the off chance that he might stumble upon it.

He hadn’t.

Now, at precisely five minutes before the library was due to close, he jogged up the steps and pushed through the double set of doors. As usual, Germaine Wagner glanced up as Oliver entered her domain; also as usual, her expression hardened into a thin-lipped grimace as she recognized him. Since Rebecca had moved into the Wagners’ house, Oliver had decided, Germaine’s disapproval of him had grown stronger than ever. When a quick glance around didn’t reveal Rebecca, he forced himself to give Germaine a friendly smile and approached the counter.

“Is Rebecca around?” he asked, hoping to seem casual, though he did not feel at all nonchalant.

“No,” Germaine replied. For a moment there was an impasse as the editor and the librarian gazed at each other, neither of them willing to impart any more information than absolutely necessary.

Oliver broke first. “She isn’t sick, is she? Did she come to work?”

Germaine Wagner seemed to weigh the possibility of getting him to leave without pressing her with endless questions but quickly decided the chances were close to nil. “Rebecca’s fine,” she reported. “She simply left early today. There were some chores at home she needed to complete.”

Needed to complete? She made it sound as though Rebecca was late with her homework, Oliver thought. He wondered if Germaine used the same patronizing tone when she talked directly to Rebecca as she invariably did when she talked about her, and whether it annoyed Rebecca as much as it did him. But of course it wouldn’t—it was exactly the sort of trait Rebecca always managed not to notice in people, let alone find offensive.

Not for the first time, Oliver reflected that if Martha Ward had really been as interested in saints as she claimed to be, she should have been able to recognize that she had one living in her own house. Martha Ward, though, had been just as condescending to Rebecca as Germaine Wagner was.

“Well, maybe I’ll just stop over and say hello,” he said, deliberately keeping his gaze steadily on Germaine, waiting to see if she would object. This time it was she who broke, turning brusquely back to her work, but gripping her pencil so hard Oliver could see her knuckles turning white.

As he left the library, Oliver wondered once again exactly what Germaine Wagner’s problem really was. Was it him? Rebecca? Both of them? But as he emerged back into the warmth of the late afternoon, he decided he didn’t really care—it was far too nice an April day to waste much energy on worrying about Germaine Wagner.

Walking up Princeton Street, he crossed Maple, then turned right on Elm. It was just a few minutes after five o’clock when he raised the knocker on the front door of Clara Wagner’s house. Rapping it twice, he waited a moment, then pressed the button next to the door. Before the chimes had quite died away, Rebecca opened the door. The questioning look in her eyes as she pulled the door open instantly gave way to a warm smile. The smile disappeared as quickly as it had come, as Clara Wagner’s voice called down from above.

“Rebecca? Who is it? Who’s at the door?”

Rebecca glanced anxiously over her shoulder. As she hesitated, it occurred to Oliver that she was going to close the door in his face. But then she opened it farther, quickly pulled him inside, and, maneuvering around him, shut the door.

“It’s Oliver, Miss Clara,” she called to the upper reaches of the house. “Oliver Metcalf!”

Oliver stepped farther into the foyer. From this vantage point he could see Germaine’s mother. Sitting in her wheelchair, a shawl clutched tightly around her shoulders, she was glaring down from the mezzanine.

“What does he want? And don’t shout, Rebecca. I’m not deaf, you know!”

“Hello, Mrs. Wagner,” Oliver said, nodding to her. “Isn’t it a lovely day?”

It was as if he hadn’t spoken. “I’m going to need more firewood, Rebecca,” Clara Wagner said. “My room is no warmer than it was an hour ago!” Turning her chair away from the balustrade, she wheeled herself back into her room. Oliver and Rebecca heard her door close with an angry thud.

“Is she always that charming?” Oliver asked.

Rebecca’s eyes clouded slightly. “She’s old, and she doesn’t get out very much, and—”

“And she can still be polite,” Oliver cut in, but as Rebecca flinched at his words, he wished he could take them back. “I’m sorry,”