Checked Out

by Elizabeth Spann Craig

  “I’ll just open the crate doors and use my flash,” I said. I snapped a picture with my phone and then looked at the results. “Ugh.” I tried again. “All right, this one is a bit better. Regardless, if the pictures don’t find her a good home, then she can stay here at the library while she heals up and I’m sure someone will want her.”

  Wilson carried one of the carriers and the vet the other and they trundled off to the parking lot while I picked up the towels and put them in a trash bag to take home with me to wash later. Then I printed out flyers with the cats’ pictures and ‘found’ on them and posted them several places in the library. After that, since my feet were still sloshing in my shoes, I retreated again to the breakroom.

  Wilson came back in a few moments and quietly regarded me as I took off my shoes and dabbed fruitlessly at them with paper towels.

  “I think you’re forgetting something,” he said.

  Those words made me catch my breath. If there was one thing I hated, it was being late for something. “What is it?” I asked. “Don’t tell me we have some sort of bedtime storytime tonight for the kids.”

  “You have that blind date tonight,” Wilson said with a chuckle. “You asked to leave here early, remember? Don’t you want to slip out of here and head home to change clothes?”

  “Noooo. Ugh, I’d totally forgotten.” One thing about being single in your early thirties was that there were gobs of well-meaning patrons dying to set you up with someone. It was both touching and incredibly frustrating. “I have an extra outfit here in case of emergency,” I answered automatically.

  Wilson said, “I know how organized you are and I don’t doubt it. But, and forgive me for bringing it up, your hair and makeup leave something to be desired. It’s doubtful they’re appropriate for a date. It’s even debatable whether they’re appropriate for working in a library.”

  I craned to see myself in the mirror over the breakroom sink. Wilson was absolutely right. My shoulder-length black hair was stuck to my head, and the ends were still dripping tiny rivulets of rainwater down my soaked black blouse and khaki pants. My mascara and eyeliner had run, giving me raccoon eyes. There was also the fact I had muddy paw prints and cat fur all over me.

  I grinned at Wilson. “Actually, this is perfect. Now I can scare him off and not have a second date.”

  Wilson snorted and shook his head at me. “You’re being silly, Ann. For all you know, this guy could end up being someone you could have a real relationship with.”

  “It’s a blind date. Nothing good ever comes out of a blind date. Believe me, I know. I could likely write a book on them I’ve had so many. It’s been pouring all day and all I want to do is get home and get in my pjs and cuddle in my bed with a book. Besides, I’m not really in the mood to give a relationship a go right now. Things are busy at the library,” I said.

  Wilson said, “Things are always busy at the library. If you’re waiting for that to change, you’re going to be single a long time. And you’re in your early 30s now. I’ve known you to go on dates, but never second dates. Not that it’s a bad thing being picky, of course. It’s just sometimes it feels as if you’re burying yourself in the library instead of venturing out to find someone to spend your life with.”

  I quirked an eyebrow at him. “You’re starting to sound like some of our elderly female patrons. Or the guys in the library film club.”

  He ignored this. “Besides, that patron was being sweet to set you up on a date, wasn’t she?”

  I sighed. “Emily is always sweet. She can’t help it. But I have the feeling she’s thinking more of her great-nephew than she is me. This evening has disaster written all over it. But you’re right—maybe I’m subconsciously trying to sabotage it.”

  “As your director, I’m urging you to go home and get ready.” He paused and then continued in a rare show of kindness, “We have plenty of help here today. We’ll manage just fine. And tomorrow, we have our new children’s librarian coming in, so we’ll have even more help,” said Wilson.

  I smiled at him. “Got it. Okay, I’ll go ahead and head on back. I’m taking the wet beach towels with me to wash. And you’re right—tomorrow will be fantastic with a new librarian here.”

  “Of course, you’ve done well filling in for the various storytimes,” he said stiffly. I hid a smile. I didn’t quite believe him.

  “Thanks. But somehow, I don’t think working with children is exactly my gift,” I said. I was definitely enthusiastic about the children’s lit. I loved everything from Babar, the Elephant to Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus. But somehow, the kids always seemed especially squirmy when I was in charge of storytime . . . which I had been for several months while Wilson struggled to fill the children’s librarian position.

  I lugged the trash bag of wet beach towels to my aging Subaru and drove home. Fortunately, home was only a few minutes away, not that anything was very far away in Whitby. It’s a beautiful mountain village with lots of old buildings and even older trees. It’s the kind of place families vacation in to escape the city and to see fall leaves change on the Blue Ridge Parkway. There was also a quiet lake nearby, perfect for fishing and lazy afternoons on the water.

  My house was admittedly more of a cottage, although I loved the place. After my mother died when I was little, my great-aunt took me in and raised me there. When she passed away five years ago, she left the cottage to me. The outside was a riot of rose bushes, gardenias, and azaleas. Flowering vines ran up the stone exterior and the entire effect was one of something out of a storybook. Which, as a librarian, suited me perfectly.

  For the most part, I loved my neighborhood. It was a street of older homes, but the kinds of older homes with lots of character. A couple of them were old Craftsman houses, which I thought was really cool. Everyone tried to keep up with their yards, with varying degrees of success.

  I was lucky in that my aunt had planted an amazing garden and I was only tasked with keeping it up. What’s more, every time I saw the garden, I thought of her. It used to be the memories gave me a sharp pang in my chest from missing her quick wit, but now they finally made me smile . . . it had taken a while.

  Most weeks I can spend some time maintaining the yard, even if I didn’t really know at first what I was doing. I did a lot better with it after I’d checked out a few books and magazines from the library—and even better when I’d invited our county extension office to give a talk about caring for local shrubs and flowers. I still had plans to plant a vegetable garden in the backyard someday like my aunt had done yearly. After an honest assessment of the amount of free time I had, though, I reluctantly shelved this idea for later.

  There were only two people on my street who made me uncomfortable, and in different ways. One of them was Zelda Smith, an older woman with henna-colored red hair who chain-smoked constantly.

  The other person on my street who could easily throw me for a loop was a guy who’d just moved in down the street. He seemed cheerful, witty, and handsome and somehow turned me into jelly when he glanced my way. As yet, I hadn’t even spoken to him, but I’d seen him interact with other neighbors.

  It looked like my challenge today was going to be Zelda. I was getting my mail at the end of my driveway and she suddenly materialized from the other side of a bush.

  “There you are!” she said with her gravelly voice. I jumped.

  “Ms. Smith!” I said in an accusatory voice. “You scared the living daylights out of me.”

  “Sorry,” she said, although the glint in her eyes told me she was anything but. “I have a really tough time catching you at home.”

  “That’s because I’m rarely here,” I said, trying to keep my tone light. “Usually, I’m at the library. I’ve mentioned this before. You’re more than welcome to find me at work if you need to.”

  Zelda made a face. “I don’t read.”

  I said politely, “There are many other reasons to come to the library. We have great study areas. And you can also check out musi
c or stream movies from our website. Or even take a class. We have some interesting options coming up. I’d be happy to sit down with you and show you all the different ways you can use the library. There are some fantastic services.”

  I could never seem to help myself from being an evangelist for the library. I could tell, though, my propaganda was not having the desired result. In fact, Zelda now appeared even less inclined to visit.

  “I’m all right, but thanks,” she said in a completely disinterested voice. “What I really wanted to talk to you about was the homeowner association.”

  Apparently, Zelda’s entire mission in life was to pressure me to be on the neighborhood homeowner association board.

  This, however, was not in line with my own plans. If I didn’t even have time to plant a vegetable garden, I certainly didn’t have time to serve on our homeowner board. Plus, I’d had several neighbors complain to me about the board and their intrusive policies.

  Everyone was fine with many of their rules: rolling the trash and recycling bins back after collection and not allowing the yards to get too out of hand. But they also ruled on homeowner construction . . . whether they were allowed to put up a deck or a porch or even a backyard treehouse. That seemed to rile up my neighbors and was another reason why I didn’t want to have a spot on the board.

  “I think we’ve already discussed it, Ms. Smith. I appreciate all the work the board does, but it deserves to have a member who has the time to do a really excellent job. I simply don’t have that kind of time. I’m frequently working both at night and on the weekends. And I don’t take on anything unless I know I’ll do a great job.”

  Zelda Smith narrowed her eyes. “It’s your turn, Ann. Your late aunt, God bless her soul, was a legend on the board. Such a gift she had! I know she would want you to take a turn.”

  The mention of my aunt was something of a low blow. “I don’t think she’d have wanted me to lose all of my meager free time, Ms. Smith. I wish I could talk longer about this, but I’m afraid I need to go.” I hesitated. As a librarian, my single focus was always helping people. It was very, very hard for someone to ask for help with something and me not provide it. I said slowly, “There’s a new neighbor on our street. I don’t know his name, but maybe he’d be interested in being on the board.”

  “That young man?” Zelda’s expression indicated what she thought of youth in general. It also showed she didn’t really consider me as being part of that group, although I was pretty sure he and I were about the same age. “Someone told me he was a radio DJ.” She spat out the words as if music was potentially poisonous.

  “I don’t know him,” I added quickly. “I only thought perhaps he was worth contacting.” I pulled out my key and headed to my front door with determination. “See you soon, Ms. Smith.”

  I unlocked the front door and pushed it open with a relieved sigh, turning on a few lights as I came in. The cheerful interior never ceased to make me smile with its overstuffed gingham chairs and sofa, the multicolored scatter rugs, and the book-lined walls.

  I opted for a quick shower, mostly to feel warm again finally after being out in the rain and drain water for so long. I put on a pair of black slacks and a gray three-quarter sleeve top. I pulled my black hair back into a loose ponytail, put in some small silver hoop earrings, and put on the gold locket I always wore. It looked like I was about to head back to work, but I wanted to wear something conservative for this date my patron had set me up on. I wasn’t planning on being encouraging, despite Wilson’s reminders to keep an open mind. At least there was one good thing; the rain had finally stopped.

  I couldn’t help but sigh as I climbed back into my car. It would have been so nice to stay at home, pull on loose-fitting yoga clothes, warm up some leftovers from last night, and finish reading The Alchemist, which somehow, I’d never gotten around to reading. Then I told myself to get a grip. It was one date and it would make Emily very happy. Besides, my date was probably just as reluctant as I was. Maybe it would be something he and I would even laugh over. I tried to remember his name. Roger. Roger Walton. I said it under my breath a couple of times to make sure it set in my brain.

  One thing I thought was odd was that he’d invited me over to his house for supper. In my long and disaster-ridden dating experience, I’d definitely learned one thing: meeting for coffee or lunch was safest. It was quick enough that you didn’t feel trapped, but long enough to give you some sort of impression of the person you were with. This made me wonder if Roger hadn’t been part of the dating scene for very long. Maybe he was recently divorced or had just ended a long-term relationship. His great-aunt Emily definitely hadn’t provided many clues.

  I pulled up in front of a large house with a manicured yard. It looked like one of those lots where they put a huge house on top of two small lots. The sun was trying to peek out from the clouds, and I could see purples and pinks of an approaching sunset over the mountain peaks. I got out of the car, smoothing down my clothes and the wayward hairs from my ponytail. I sighed as I walked down the front walk. Emily had meant well, and it was really sweet that she’d wanted to set the two of us up. But I could never figure out why everyone was so determined to force single people into pairs. Taking a deep breath, I rang the doorbell, a few butterflies in my stomach. And waited.

  After a minute had passed, I hesitantly rang the bell again. I didn’t want to sound frantic to get in and start this date, but it was the appointed time we’d agreed on. Wasn’t it? I frowned and checked my phone to re-read the text thread in case I’d lost my mind. But there it was . . . six o’clock. At his house.

  Maybe the doorbell wasn’t working. I rapped at the door a minute or two later, shifting uncomfortably on my feet and starting to feel foolish standing at his door for so long.

  Then I sniffed the air. Did I smell charcoal? Maybe Roger was planning a cookout and had neglected to tell me simply to walk around to the backyard. At any rate, he definitely wasn’t answering the door, so I decided to try the backyard.

  When I circled around to the back, squelching through the muddy lawn, I saw a barbeque grill smoking . . . and the body of my date on the ground beside it, a skewer through his neck.

  Chapter Two

  FOR A SECOND, I STARED at him, frozen. Then I rushed forward to make sure Roger wasn’t still breathing and needed help. Finding no pulse and seeing that his eyes were open and unfocused, I took a deep breath, found my phone with shaking hands, and called the police as I carefully made my way back to the front yard again.

  What must have been two minutes later, I could already hear a distant siren. And then another. And then another. In a town like Whitby, emergency personnel didn’t have as much to do on a regular basis—and then all showed up in concert for a big event like this.

  Another couple of minutes later, a police car, an ambulance, and a fire truck pulled up in front of the house, sirens wailing and lights flashing. And seconds after they arrived, every neighbor on the street was standing in their front yard, anxiously staring at the commotion. If I’d had any illusions that my blind date was going to be kept under wraps, they were now completely shattered.

  I pointed to the side of the house as the policeman jogged toward me. “Around the back,” I said, deciding not to tell him there was no need to run. I shivered and then felt my legs go a little wobbly. One of the medics noticed. “Sit down,” he said firmly as he disappeared around the corner of the house.

  I did as I was told. The tension of the blind date coupled with the shock of the discovery made me a lot more unsteady than I’d have thought. Working with the public as I did, I’d definitely had my experience in dealing with people who were ill and I’d considered myself someone who wasn’t easy to faze. Apparently, though, this did not extend to finding dates murdered.

  I sat on the curb as the first responders did their work in the back. I saw their pace slow as they realized it wasn’t an emergency. The tone of their voices was grim.

  A minute later, one of th
e medics came back to check on me.

  “I’m fine,” I said, feeling embarrassed. “I was just woozy for a second or two.”

  The medic left me to return to the backyard. The firemen left a few minutes later, and I waited for the policeman to speak to me. He was the chief, as I recalled. I tried to remember what I knew about him, including his name. He’d only been on the job for the last month and had moved here from another state, according to a story I’d read in the paper. He was a big middle-aged man, tall and solid with a steady gaze and a receding hairline.

  I remembered when he’d moved in, he’d hosted ‘coffee with a cop’ as an opportunity to meet members of the community and to find out their thoughts on the town and safety issues. I’d thought it was a smart move, considering small towns can be insular and it can be tough to meet people as something of an outsider.

  A few minutes later, he reappeared, looking serious. Spotting me still sitting on the curb, he came over and plopped heavily down next to me.

  “You okay?” he asked, peering at me with concern.

  “Yes. Sorry, I was just a little unsteady for a moment and one of the medics told me to take a seat. I can follow you somewhere else if you need me to?” I asked.

  He started to shake his head and then glanced down the street at the neighbors still staring at us.

  “Small towns,” I said with a little laugh.

  He nodded and said, “Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to sit elsewhere. It’s kind of distracting having an audience. Do you think they’d freak out too much if you were to sit in the police cruiser?”

  I shook my head. “Not as long as you didn’t put handcuffs on me and shove me in the back seat.”

  He chuckled. “Don’t think there’s any danger of that, at least not right now. Murderers don’t usually call their crimes in. Although I’ll be sure to keep my eye on you.”

  We settled into the cruiser and he turned on the car to let the air conditioning run. He was definitely running too hot, with the exertion of running to the backyard and the stress of what he’d found. He cranked up the A/C all the way.