I went to sleep. I didn't think I would, on the floor in a strange, empty house. I guess I was living right. It didn't last, though. I was awake again at 2:40 am on my watch. Now why was that? Then I heard it. Noises. The front door knob turning. But it wasn't the knob on the front door of my apartment, it was the one for the second apartment, the one that was bolted.
I froze in my sleeping bag. Making no sound, and having nothing else to do, I thought. Somebody had left that door unbolted so they could enter the house later on without a key. They could turn the knob, but they couldn't open the door. I wondered if they would figure out that someone had bolted the door, and I wondered if they intended to try the windows. They intended to. I saw a shadow try each one of the windows into the room I was in.
Somehow I decided that the shadow was male. I could see his shape in the window against the lights outside. I hope he wouldn't see me inside. I hoped he would just go away. Then I hoped he wouldn't. I wondered who he was, and why he wanted into an absolutely empty house.
Eventually, he did go away. The windows must have all been locked after all. And I went back to sleep.
The next morning, as soon as the morning sun pouring into all the windows made it possible, I set forth to search the house, and this time I mean really search it. I checked the attic through the access hatch in the ceiling of one of the closets. There was a convenient ladder in the shed. My flashlight showed that things had been there, but weren't there any more. I could see that by the patterns in the dust.
Of course, just because something used to be there and isn't now doesn't make the something a low bookshelf stuffed with leather bound books.
Gradually, my feelings of adventure and purpose were being replaced with the old familiar dread of failure. I had run out of places to look. Finally, I had to stop looking. There are no books here. I will go back to the library empty handed. My mind started the defensive familiar maneuvers. What was I going to say to Anthony, what could have happened to the books. How, if I had had more time I could have looked harder, done some checking around.
But Anthony never said how much time I had to do this. In fact, Anthony never suggested that I should come back at all. Nonsense, of course he wants me to come back.
Maybe Anthony knows there are no books, and this is some sort of a joke. No, Anthony won't spend Library money on a joke.
The doorbell rang.
The doorbell rang! Who comes to visit a dead man? Who comes to visit an empty house? Who rings the doorbell when he is coming to visit an empty house. Eventually I answer the door.
"Is that your van?", the woman asked.
"Yes", I responded without thinking. She might have been thinking of what to say next, since it was her turn. I was just numb. The brain wasn't yet forming coherent questions. She seemed to hesitate. Then she said, "My name is Rita. I used to live here."
"My name is John. I don't live here. Or rather, I won't be living here very long. I mean, it isn't my house. I just came for the books. I mean, did you know Mr. Honeycut?
"May I come in?", she asked nicely.
"Yes, of course, I responded automatically. As she was walking through the door the absurdity of the situation filtered in. She had as much right to be here as I did. And what was I going to do now? Continue to play host? Offer her tea and biscuits? A place to sit on the floor?
We waited around for a bit looking at each other. It was my turn to speak, and as the moments went by, I felt the need to explain something anyway. "I have been sent by the University Library to pick up some books that Mr. Honeycut donated to the Library. Do you know anything about that?"
She didn't answer directly. She sat down on the floor with her back to a wall and invited me to do the same. I sat. She seemed to be stalling and I wondered why. Finally she said, "You need to know some things about the situation." She seemed to be warming up to a long story. I didn't mind. She was a lot of fun to look at. So she spoke while I looked.
"I lived with George Honeycut for almost a year here in this house. He offered me an apartment upstairs when I really needed one. I needed someplace safe to stay while I looked for work. I finally got a job, but only part time. During those months, his eyesight began to fail. He didn't want to admit it, but he couldn't take care of himself any more, so we became friends and I took care of him. Neither of us knew anything about that kind of thing, but I learned how to take care of a blind person while he learned how to get along without much vision.
When he died, I had to leave the house, and let me tell you that wasn't much fun and my current situation isn't nearly as nice as it was. They say I am in the will, somehow, so I am staying close by until the lawyers get through with everything. I can sure use whatever he left me.
And besides, he said he was going to leave me something. We talked a lot once he got to where he couldn't go out without help, which he didn't admit for months. He told me a lot of things.
And then he died. Right in this room. Of a stroke, or that's what the doctors and the medical examiner said. I don't think so. I mean, he died, and it was probably a stroke, but it wasn't natural, if you know what I mean."
I nodded. The story seemed strange, somehow. I was listening now. It wasn't that I was tired of looking at her. You don't get tired of looking at anything that beautiful, but you can after a while get used to it. And besides, the best way to keep her talking was to act interested. Was she saying that the old man was murdered? She continued.
"A month or so before Mr. Honeycut's death, I met a guy in a bar. What I really mean is that he met me. He sort of invited himself to have a conversation with me, and for some reason I let him. It wasn't the usual come-on. He acted like he was really interested in my world. Looking back, I wonder why I didn't notice that. Anyway, he wanted to know where I lived, and who Mr. Honeycut was, and ... other things. Things about Mr. Honeycut, I mean. I got the idea he was more interested in Mr. Honeycut than he was in me. I should have been offended, I guess, but I played along.
The guy, Clinton was his name, asked me out a time or two. All very regular, all very proper, walked me to the door and all. I had the idea even then that he had something on his mind other than me. I was curious about that. I never had much feeling for him, but he was spending money on me, and I wanted to see the shows, and he was certainly being polite.
One evening we got out early enough for me to invite him in to meet Mr. Honeycut. He told Mr. Honeycut that he sold insurance, and was in town temporarily meeting possible clients. He even offered to sell Mr. Honeycut life insurance. Mr. Honeycut just laughed at him and said that it was a little late for that, that he had nobody to insure. Somehow that seemed to satisfy Clinton. Clinton told me the same story, and I got the feeling that he wasn't very interested in his job. I mean, I've met insurance salesmen before, and they don't give up that easily. But at the time, I didn't care if he was lying to me or not.
We had coffee together, the three of us, and talked for a while. Clinton asked Mr. Honeycut all about himself, like he had me. It was all very friendly and nice, and after a while it was over and Clinton left.
I finally had it in my head. What was missing. I put it to her directly. "All this is very interesting, and you fascinate me as much as you did Clinton, I'm sure, but what about Mr. Honeycut's book collection?"
I knew there was something missing out of all this story telling. Mr. Honeycut was a book collector. I had come about books. Rita's former or current boyfriends were not important. Mr. Honeycut's blindness was a side issue. And why wasn't she saying anything at all about books?
"Please let me finish", she said. "Mr. Honeycut died suddenly during this time, and it wasn't a natural death, no matter what doctors say it was."
"You said he died of a stroke. That happens rather suddenly, doesn't it? And there isn't any warning of one. They just happen."
"Yes, but there were other strange things going on. Someone was in the house during the funeral. I know this because things in my room were moved. Big things. My dresser was moved over an inch. Things seemed weird when I came home, but I looked down as I was getting into a drawer and saw the depression where the leg of the dresser had been and I knew that I hadn't moved it."
"So was anything missing?" It was the only thing I could think of to say.
"No." She hesitated for a long moment. Then it was as though she had made up her mind about something. "OK, I know all about the books. I know George gave them to the library. Clinton wanted to know all about the books. He was always asking questions about them. Where they were, Were they valuable, could he see them? George put him off, never telling him anything about his collection and asking Clinton how he knew about it in the first place. Clinton told him that I had told him. I had. I had this sick feeling that I shouldn't have. So I hid the books. I told Mr. Honeycut that I had hidden them. He couldn't see well enough to visit his collection any more anyway, so he didn't care. He thought it was funny."
"Ok, my turn," I said, "Where did you hide them?"
"I'm not going to tell you." she said.