McNally's Caper Read Online Free PDF

“The only problem I anticipate is locating books borrowed by family members and staffers and not returned to the library.”
    I was thinking of that missing first edition of Edgar Allan Poe.
    I thought Geraldine blushed slightly but I wasn’t certain.
    “I assure you,” she said stiffly, “I shall immediately return all the books I have borrowed and finished reading. And I’ll leave you a note of those still in my possession.”
    “Thank you for your kind cooperation,” I said politely.
    She stared at me, looking for sarcasm and not finding it. Little did she know that she was facing the King of Dissemblers. She started to move away, then turned back to stare again.
    “I have a feeling I’ve seen you before,” she said, and it was almost an accusation.
    “That’s possible,” I replied. “I’ve lived in Palm Beach most of my adult life, and the town isn’t all that big.”
    “Are you a member of the Pelican Club?” she asked suddenly.
    I admitted I was.
    “That’s where I saw you,” she decided. “I went there once. No, twice. It’s a dreadful place. So vulgar.”
    I smiled. “We prefer to think of it as unpretentious, Miss Forsythe.”
    “Vulgar,” she insisted, paused, then said, “If you’d care to invite me there some evening I’d like to confirm my first impressions.”
    Shocked? My flabber was gasted. I mean we had been clawing at each other’s throat for the past several minutes—in a civilized manner, of course—and now the lady was asking for a date. Connie had been right; Geraldine was a strange one.
    “It would be a pleasure,” I said gravely. “This evening?”
    She gave that a moment’s serious thought as if she had other social engagements that required her presence.
    “Very well,” she said finally, “but not for dinner. Later, and only for a drink or two.”
    “Excellent,” I said. “Suppose I stop by around nine o’clock.”
    “That will be satisfactory,” she said in a schoolmarmish fashion. “I assume informal dress will be suitable?”
    “Perfectly,” I assured her.
    She gave me a chilly nod and stalked from the room. She left me, I must admit, shaken and bewildered. I couldn’t even begin to fathom her mercurial temperament nor understand her motives for wanting to revisit a saloon she had decried as vulgar. One possibility, I mournfully concluded, was that Geraldine Forsythe’s elevator didn’t go to the top floor. More evidence of the basic nuttiness of human behavior.
    I actually worked as a cataloger for more than an hour. I started separate pages for each of the north, east, south, and west walls of the library. I then counted the number of bookshelves on each wall and made a note of that. I assigned a key number to each shelf—N-l, E-2, S-3, W-4, and so on—and began counting the number of volumes on each shelf.
    I was busily engaged in this donkeywork when my labors were interrupted by the entrance of a stocky woman clad in twill jodhpurs and a khaki riding jacket. She was carrying a crop and brought with her the easily identifiable scent of a stable, but not so strong as to be offensive. I rose to my feet and shook the strong hand she offered.
    “Constance Forsythe,” she said. “The older Mrs. Forsythe, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. And you’re Archibald McNally?”
    “Yes, ma’am. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. I hope my presence here won’t be an inconvenience.”
    “Not to me,” she said with a short laugh. “I’m out at the barn almost every day. Do you ride?”
    “No, ma’am, I do not. Horses and I have an agreement: I don’t ride them and they don’t bite me.”
    “That’s smart,” she said. “They can give you a nasty chew if you’re not careful. Listing my husband’s books, are you?”
    She said “my husband’s books” not “our books.”
    “Yes, I’m preparing a catalog,” I told her. “I’ve just started.”
    “I don’t know why Griswold wants a catalog,” she said. “Insurance, I suppose,