Mulch ado about nothing

have both hands busy with the crutches? Were you planning to walk around with the plate on your head?”

Eleven

    The three women came back to the table with Y their first course of appetizers. Jane had loaded up on crab Rangoon, Shelley on egg rolls, and Miss Winstead on a single spring roll, which she ate with generous dollops of hot mustard that didn’t even cause her eyes to water the slightest bit. The first time Jane had tried this restaurant’s mustard, she’d wept, and choked, nearly fainted, and couldn’t taste anything for three days afterward.
    Since she was the first to finish, Miss Winstead went on with her story. “Edwina was the perfect wife for Stewart for a couple years. He wasn’t the perfect husband, though. She desperately wanted children. He told her they couldn’t afford to raise a family on his meager teaching salary while he was getting his advanced degrees. After four or five years, he had his doctorate and was near the top of his field.
    “In the academic world, this meant lots of politicking. Buttering up his betters, entertaining lavishly, and intellectually shining. And Edwina ceased to be of any use to him. She didn’t speak the same language as the faculty wives. Her interests were baking and cleaning, not social climbing and back-biting. She was sweet, but rather dim, I have to admit.“
    “Poor girl,“ Jane said. “How did she cope?“
    “She didn’t have to,“ Miss Winstead said with a catch in her voice. “I don’t think she ever realized he considered her a liability instead of an asset. She became ill with ovarian cancer. A death sentence in those days. Stewart delivered the divorce papers to her while she was still dopey after the surgery.”
    Jane nearly spit out her food with outrage. “NO!”
    Several other diners turned to look at them.
    “Yes,“ Miss Winstead said softly. “She lasted only a week longer. She’d simply lost her entire will to live.“
    “How can you bear to be around the man?“ Shelley asked.
    “It’s revenge, I’m afraid. I turn up every time he speaks anywhere in the area. I take notes and hunt down errors to correct the next time he speaks. I owe it to Edwina, poor dear girl, to avenge her. I remind him of her and his cruel treatment every time I show up. Merely by showing up. You must think I’m a real old harridan.“
    “Not at all. If something like that happened to someone I loved, I’d hope I have the wit and ability to remind them for the rest of their miserable life,“ Shelley said passionately.
    Miss Winstead brightened up and said, “Let’s get the rest of our food.”
    When they were seated again, Shelley asked, “Do you know about the others in the class as well?“
    “Some of them. Librarians often see only one side of patrons. The side that shows their private interests or their business needs. Ursula Appledorn is a frequent visitor. She apparently doesn’t have a very good computer at home, or doesn’t want to pay for a provider. She comes to the library to use ours and prints a lot of stuff out. Overall, it’s more expensive for her to do it that way.“
    “Conspiracy stuff?“ Jane asked. “Has she told you about the Denver airport?“
    “Endlessly,“ Miss Winstead said. “It’s her favorite one. The actual books she takes out on loan are usually about herbal cures, gardening, or dogs, and for fiction, she reads romances.“
    “Romances? That doesn’t seem in character, somehow.”
    Miss Winstead shrugged. “Few people are really as one-sided as you think on slight acquaintance, I guess.“
    “What does she live on?“ Shelley asked. “Does she have a job?“
    “I have no idea,“ Miss Winstead said.
    “Maybe she still baby-sits the elderly,“ Jane contributed. “And she said something about one of her old ladies leaving her a legacy. Maybe it was a really big one.“
    “What about Arnold Waring?“ Shelley moved down the list.
    “I don’t know much about him. His wife was a dear, helpless little woman who came to the library at least once a week. She read practically every mystery story that came in. She especially liked anything to do with firefighters.“
    “Why?“
    “Her husband had been one before he retired. They had no children, she said, and really appeared to live for each other. He’d drive her every week, would carry her books she was returning, and stand by the door to wait, and carry the new ones out. As if she were a delicate flower who couldn’t carry them herself.