“Here to strong-arm me about some overdue Dickens?”
Okay, she didn’t really say that. It was so stuck in my head I was almost willing her to say it just so we could get it over with.
What she said wasn’t much better.
This was already going well.
She switched eyes. The door opened another eighth-inch and I caught a glimpse of a polyester floral print, and a cast-iron permanent. There were probably scratches on the inside of the door where her hair ravaged it.
“Anybody could say they’re from the library. How do I know? Got any ID?”
What was she looking for, a library card? I tried to keep my mouth shut, since looking like a landed carp wouldn’t help my professional appearance any.
“Um, no, nothing officially from the library. I’m here to ask about the, er—” I scrambled in my inside coat pocket for the list. “It says Marjorie Millhone, eight low-light cameras with DVR.”
“It’s mill hone.”
Pieces of my brain broke loose and floated off into space.
“Excuse me?” Now you’re repeating yourself, fool.
“The name is pronounced ‘MILL-hone,’ not ‘mull-OWN.’”