A Fugitive Truth: An Emma Fielding Mystery - By Dana Cameron Page 0,1

but I had no way of knowing. From this distance, it all seemed as bleak as the cliffs, as scrubby and weather-worn as the firs I saw by the riverbank. I pulled my coat closer and got back into my car. I was surprised that the view should have had that dismal effect on me, but I chalked it up to a too-hectic schedule and fatigue.

Driving another twenty minutes brought me to Monroe, the town closest to the library, and the source of the Shrewsbury family’s wealth. At least I could see signs of life here—cars filled the main street, shops were open and busy—and that cheered me again.

The Shrewsbury Foundation was located a short distance outside of Monroe, a tall wrought-iron fence surrounding its grounds. From what I could see of the house from the breaks in the trees along the road—one of the hazards of creating a view for yourself is that it also tends to put you on display—the fence suited the place, all Victorian gothic and curlicues. The real blot on the landscape was this foolish, imposing, and totally inappropriate guardhouse at the main entrance, complete with an orange-and-white-striped hinge barrier—nothing could have been more obvious or obnoxious a bar to the outside world. When I pulled up to it, its occupant was watching a monitor carefully.

That had been nearly two minutes ago. Perhaps he’d forgotten about me, turning into a paper-cut popsicle in the still-cold March air.

I tried again. “Hello there!”

The window slid open slowly, and a blast of warm air rushed out of the house toward me. I only noticed it because, even with the Civic’s heater chugging away, I was still wondering about the possibility of hypothermia.

The man—a guard presumably—wasn’t wearing a uniform, but a smartly tailored suit and regimental-style tie. There was a posh-looking overcoat hung up at the back of the booth. His iron gray hair was expensively cut and blow-dried in the vertically puffy style that Brian would have derisively described as “’possum head,” and he was clean shaven with a tan that bespoke beach vacations or trips to a tanning booth. The whole impact was one of self-indulgence and image consciousness.

When I’d explained who I was, he’d snatched my letter from me—resulting in the paper cut—and then studied the paper like it was a fragment of the Dead Sea Scrolls. When I called out again, he took his time sticking his head out the window, moving with the lassitude of a reptile in a cold climate.

“Is there some problem?” I shouted over my engine. “I was told it was all right to move into the house today, even if it is Sunday.”

The guard looked at me with a disapproving frown, then cast a glance at a clipboard with dark, heavy-lidded eyes. “We were expecting you over two hours ago.” He finally handed my letter back to me slowly, but then made no move to wave me through.

“Got a late start,” I explained, smiling. “Sorry.”

“Can I see your license please? Some form of picture identification?”

Usually, this was the part I loved, where I got to say “Open sesame” and enter the secret cavern. I would be initiated into the rites of another institution, become part of another community. When I’d handed over my acceptance letter at his request, I’d at least expected some recognition that, for a while in any case, I was one of them, one of the privileged few who would be allowed to handle the treasures that were kept in the library. Maybe a smile of welcome, even if my credentials didn’t impress him the way I thought they should. But this guy was doing his level best to act the literal part of a gatekeeper and was obviously relishing it.

“No one had said a thing about needing extra I.D.,” I said, trying to restrain my annoyance; of course they had to be careful around here. He was just being a stickler and for good reason: Shrewsbury held one of the most valuable print collections of Americana in the world. “Here you go.”

The man made a real show of comparing me with my license picture. If I had suspected him of having the least sense of humor or a working knowledge of Shakespeare, I would have given him my version of Olivia’s inventory: two eyes, indifferent hazel; hair, not so red as to be called carrot but neither so brown as a sparrow; one nose, inoffensive and called by some attractive; one mouth, ditto, etc. The guard