See Also Deception by Larry D. Sweazy Page B

hoping to see something awful. It is just unnerving,” she said, pointing toward the window.
    I nodded. I’d had some experience with increased traffic, with gawkers, slowing by the house after the Knudsen tragedy a few months back. I didn’t like it then, either, being the object of focused attention and speculation.
    â€œIt’s morbid and rude, if you ask me,” Miss Finch continued, staring directly into my eyes. “They should all receive a traffic ticket for driving too slow.”
    What a hateful woman. I gripped the tissue in my hand tight. “People are just afraid,” I said.
    â€œYour question?” she said again, tapping her fingers on the counter.
    Right, my question. It took me back to my reality, to the task I had to face once I left here. I had an index to finish, and I had completely detached from that prospect. The work seemed distant, impossible to approach, but I knew I had no choice but to continue on. “Is musk thistle a perennial plant or a biennial plant?” I said.
    â€œI wasn’t expecting that,” Miss Finch said.
    â€œI’m an indexer,” I said, feeling the need to explain myself for some reason.
    â€œA what?”
    â€œI write back-of-the-book indexes. Calla has a shelf of all of the books that have my indexes in them.”
    â€œA star is among us.”
    â€œHardly,” I said.
    â€œWell, I’ve never met an indexer any more than I’ve met a real writer. I’m impressed.” Miss Finch’s tone had changed, and she was suddenly leaning toward me, almost half over the counter. “Tell me, do you make real money at this job, at writing indexes for books?”
    I stepped back unconsciously. It was rude to ask about money. I wasn’t accustomed to such a thing. “My question,” I stuttered, trying to deflect the query.
    â€œWell, then, how does one become an indexer?” Miss Finch persisted.
    â€œI took a course, then sent off some letters to New York. I’ve been very lucky to find steady work,” I said. “I have an index that’s due soon, and I need to answer this question so I can move on. Of course, I did try to call . So, if you could please . . .”
    Delia Finch nodded and smiled slightly. She spoke without taking a visible breath. “Musk thistle. Carduus nutans . A native of North Africa and brought to this country in the early nineteenth century. It is a biennial plant here in North Dakota, though in warmer climates it can germinate and flower in a single year,” Miss Finch said, standing back to her original position. A haughty look settled on her face just as she crossed her arms across her chest, proud of her dissertation.
    I did not like this woman. “I need a source,” I said. “I can’t just take your word for it.” I was mildly impressed by her hair-trigger knowledge, but it would be a cold day when I showed it.
    Miss Finch started to say something, then spun around and exited from behind the counter as if her heels had been lit on fire. I just stood there and watched, reasonably satisfied that I had annoyed her as much as she had annoyed me. Her footsteps echoed throughout the library, hard taps on tile floor that almost sounded like a war drum being pounded over and over again.
    I stood patiently, hoping for sight of Herbert Frakes, but fearing the worst for him, that he’d gone off on a bender again. Losing Calla would be impossible for him to bear. I was certain of it. Just as I was certain in my hope that Miss Delia Finch was only the temporary librarian and not a permanent replacement for Calla Eltmore. If that were the case, my indexing life would be miserable for the foreseeable future.
    Miss Finch returned quickly with a small field guide open in her hands. A satisfied look had replaced her earlier disdain, and I was certain her makeup was going to melt right off her face. She thrust the book toward me and said,