The Violence Beat

by JoAnna Carl

  Rhonda, I knew, was a local. As a resort town, Warner Pier has three classes of society: tourists, summer people, and locals. Locals, like Rhonda and me, live here year-round; tourists stay only a few days, and summer people own or lease property and spend longer periods of time here, but vote elsewhere. Dr. Cornwall represented a new and growing class—summer people who have retired to Warner Pier. They’re not quite local; it takes several winters before they move beyond their summer resident status. But they’re becoming a force in the town.

  Rhonda had inherited a half-dozen lakeshore tourist cottages, and she and her husband rented them out each summer, so they were part of the Warner Pier business community. Their cottages and their home were about a mile from where Joe and I lived, south along the shore of Lake Michigan.

  “Oh, hi, Lee,” she said. “I heard that you’re to replace Abigail on the board.”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “You should take the job. There’s nothing to it but one meeting a month.”

  “I would have thought you’d have been quite busy for the past year, what with the planning and construction of the new building.”

  “The director—the former director, Catherine Smith—took care of nearly everything. We’re a rubberstamp body, I’m afraid.” Was her tone a bit on the dry side? Or was that my imagination?”

  Rhonda sat down and produced a notebook and pen from her tote bag. She laid these on the table, then she took out a large piece of knitting.

  Before I could question her about the board, a tall, slender young woman came in. She had long, brown hair and carried a baby in a sling. At the door to the room she turned back and spoke firmly. “Geraldine, you’re to keep an eye on Hal. Stay strictly in the chidren’s section. Any problems, come and get me.”

  I recognized her, too. Gwen Swain. She was the wife of an engineer who worked at a power plant south of us. Lindy called her “the earth mother.” I knew from Lindy that Gwen home-schooled her oldest child and had been known to nurse her baby while browsing the produce at the Superette. For the moment the baby was napping.

  Gwen gave me a vigorous handshake and sat down next to Dr. Cornwall.

  Hard on her heels, Carol Turley stomped in with her usual awkward gait. She carried a fancy red leather folder, a sort of miniature briefcase.

  Gwen spoke to her. “Oh, hi, Carol. Is that the case you were telling me about?”

  “Yes,” she said, and smiled a rather nervous smile. But she blinked her eyes so rapidly I thought she was trying not to cry. “Yes, Brian gave it to me last week. For my birthday.”

  “That was a sweet thing to do,” Gwen said.

  Carol blinked harder. “Yes, my husband really is a sweetie.”

  Maybe so, I thought, but he’s not real romantic. I mean, a leather folder isn’t a diamond ring or even a dozen roses. But I guess it was something Carol would use all the time.

  Carol dropped the folder on the table, and it made quite a thud. Dr. Cornwall jumped and opened his eyes. Luckily, his chair did not go over.

  Carol was the kind of person who is never noticed in a crowd. She was about my age and short, with dirty blond hair. But I couldn’t call Carol plain; her big brown eyes were too expressive. She shut them tightly, then popped them open. After taking a deep breath, she spoke to me. Her voice had its usual whine. “I see you’ve decided to join us.”

  “Actually, this is an exploratory visit,” I said.

  “Well, there’s nothing to it,” Carol said. She twisted her hands together nervously. “Between the library director and the city engineer we have strong guidance. There’s never any question of how to vote.”

  “But you’re getting a new library director,” I said. “He may expect more participation from the board.”

  “Why?” Now Carol’s voice was not only loud, but incredulous. “We just stand back and stay out of the way. Unless he pulls some dumb stunt.”

  “And I’ll try not to do that.”

  A bass voice sounded from the doorway, and we all turned to look at a person who was designed by nature to be called “Butch.” He was tall—maybe six-three—rough-hewn, with a large, blocky build—and he had a friendly grin. But the most eye-catching thing about him was a gorgeous streak of gray at each temple. He looked like an ad for men’s hair color. If I owned such a company I would have made him our official spokesman on the spot.

  “I’m sure you’ve all figured out that I’m Butch Cassidy,” he said. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me who you are.”

  He walked around the table and shook hands with each of us.

  I was the final person he greeted, so I had a minute to take him in.

  Sexy. He was sexy. My innards noticed that right away.

  By the time he reached my side of the table, sexy was definitely the word I’d picked to describe him. It wasn’t that he was particularly handsome; Joe was a lot better looking. Butch just seemed to broadcast sex appeal.

  All the women seemed to grow more feminine as he spoke to them. The prim Rhonda Ringer-Riley almost simpered. Gwen looked more Earth Mother-ish. Carol Turley even managed not to say anything else rude. “I’m Carol Turley,” she said. “I’m secretary-treasurer.” Then she sat down abruptly, almost missing her chair.

  But the stupid comment was left for me. I extended my hand to the new director and said, “I’m Lee McKinney. I mean, Woodwind. I mean, Woodyard. Lee Woodyard. And I’m not a member of the body. Board.”

  I quit then. I had completely messed up, and I had the sense to know things might get even worse. I’m famous for my twisted tongue, but I’d outdone myself.

  Rhonda looked pained, and Carol Turley giggled. “Well, who are you, Lee?” She giggled again.

  Butch—I was already thinking of him by that name—ignored Carol. “Guests are always welcome,” he said. He sat down next to Rhonda. “We seem to have a quorum, Mrs. Ringer-Riley. Shall we start?”

  Rhonda looked surprised. “Oh. But Miss Vanderklomp isn’t here yet.”

  Butch consulted a paper. “Vanderklomp? Is she a member of the board?”

  “No. No, she’s an honorary member. She always attends. It seems—well, rude to start without her.”

  Butch frowned.

  “And she’s here!”

  Miss Vanderklomp shot into the room as if she’d been propelled by a cannon. “Late, as usual!” Her voice was close to a shout, and, yes, her voice managed to be both nasal and very deep. She was tall, nearly as tall as I am, and I’m close to six feet. Her build was husky, and her silver gray hair was cropped into a thick Dutch bob that stuck out over each ear. She dropped several file folders and a plastic water bottle on the table. She plunked herself into a folding chair with such force I expected the chair to collapse. She reached inside her blouse—first the right shoulder, then the left—and adjusted her bra straps. Then she took a drink from her water bottle. It was the solid kind, so you couldn’t see the color of its contents. It could well have held Pepsi, just as Tony had claimed.

  “Sorry for my dilatory habits,” she boomed.

  I was staring open-mouthed. Tony’s parody of her had been unbelievably life-like. For the first time I fully appreciated his humor.

  But nobody on the library board laughed.

  Instead, Gwen spoke quietly. “Abigail Montgomery isn’t here either.”

  “She’s in the building,” Rhonda said. “I saw her when I came in. She’ll be along. Let the meeting come to order.”

  Apparently no one was concerned about waiting for Abigail, even though Abigail, unlike Miss Vanderklomp, was an official member of the board. In fact, she was the person I had been invited to replace. That seemed rather odd.

  The meeting went on. Abigail didn’t appear. No one seemed to notice.

  The business seemed routine. Minutes, various committees. There was a simple financial report from
Butch Cassidy. This made me ask about Carol’s duties as secretary-treasurer, and Carol explained that the title ‘treasurer’ simply indicated she chaired the financial committee. A library staff member kept any financial records, passing them on to the city treasurer.

  After twenty minutes I had concluded that Carol’s assessment of the board was right; they didn’t do much.

  Actually, there was not much need for them to take action. The staff and building expenses for the library were paid by the Village of Warner Pier. The city council, for example, had officially hired the new director. The board merely advised on programs and operations. They were more citizen representatives than officials.

  Butch Cassidy didn’t suggest any revolutionary changes at his first meeting. His report didn’t draw much reaction until he got to the final item.

  “I found a request for a change in hours among the director’s files,” he said. “I was surprised to learn that the Warner Pier Public Library has never been open on Sundays.”

  “The previous director didn’t recommend that,” Rhonda said.

  “In August a group of students requested that the library be open Sunday afternoons during the school year. This seems to be a reasonable request, and I’ve—”

  “Humph!” The syllable exploded from Miss Vanderklomp’s lips. “Think carefully, Mr. Cassidy! That might be a dangerous precedent!”

  Butch looked surprised. Then he frowned. “But it’s standard practice—”

  He didn’t get to finish his sentence. Before he could say another word, an enormous shriek echoed through the building.

  We all reacted. I jumped up and headed for the door. Gwen’s baby joined the clamor. The front legs of Dr. Cornwall’s chair hit the floor with a crash. Carol yelled out. “What’s that? What! What!”

  I was the first person out, because I’d been nearest the door. The noise was coming from across the main room. Peering between the stacks, I saw Betty Blake, the clerk who’d been checking out books, running toward the front of the building.

  I scurried after her. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?”

  “Help! Call 9-1-1!”

  “What’s happened?”

  “I think it’s Abigail! Abigail Montgomery! She’s in a heap at the bottom of the basement stairs. She’s not breathing!

  She cried out again. “She’s dead! She’s dead! Call someone!”

  Eve K. Sandstrom is the multipublished mystery author of the Nell Matthews mysteries, including The Violence Beat, The Smoking Gun, and The Homicide Report, in addition to the Chocoholic Mysteries, under the pseudonym JoAnna Carl. She spent more than twenty-five years in the newspaper business as a reporter, feature writer, editor, and columnist. She holds a degree in journalism from the University of Oklahoma and also studied in the OU Professional Writing Program. She lives in Oklahoma but summers in Michigan, where the Chocoholic Mystery series is set.