Death In The Stacks
An Elinor & Dot library mystery
By Linda S. Bingham
© 2016
For my sister Betty Cargill
Characters
Elinor Woodward, nee Perry, Village librarian; retired English teacher
Dot Hardwick, library volunteer, retired math teacher
Libby Jonson, library volunteer, Libby’s Flower Shop
Kate Jacks, Elinor’s niece, real estate agent JV Properties
Shelby Jacks, Kate’s husband, rancher, city council member
The little Jacks, Stevie, Gary and Enid
DeWayne Ratliff, Chief of Police, Johns Valley, Oklahoma
Claire Holmes, pastor New Community Church
Eula Wyckham, rural home health nurse
Martin Deaver, her patient
Buck Weathers, rancher, Thunderbird Ranch
Judith, his wife
Betty Blanton, lawyer
Alice Simms, her secretary
Rexie Roberts, fitness instructor
Patrick Allen Childers, mayor Johns Valley
Lucy, his wife
Bethany, his daughter
Mathew Calender, industrial arts teacher, Johns Valley Schools
Janie, his wife, church secretary
Sara, their daughter
Jeffrey, their son
Guy Pettibone, mechanic, Guy’s Garage
Chapter 1
SATURDAY, July 1
A flashing icon on the dashboard drew Eula Wyckham’s eyes away from the unpaved mountain road her car labored to climb and touched off an immediate wave of panic not unfamiliar to women traveling alone. What did that mean? Check engine. “Oh, botheration,” she said. Could the warning be ignored till she got back to town? Ahead, through a thicket of post oak, she could just see the rooftop of the Deaver place. The old man was her last patient of the day. She hated to have to come back.
At least the trip back to town would be downhill. She came to rest in a yard of emerald uncut grass, crisscrossed with red welts from earlier tire treads. The front acreage was both carpark and a graveyard for rusted-out farm machinery and trucks in various stages of disintegration. Three dogs came out from under the porch, stretching and half-heartedly announcing her presence. They were used to seeing her and quickly turned their attention to her tires, hiking legs to add their own message. The lead dog importantly roughed up the grass with his claws.
Nurse Wyckham turned off the ignition and reached for her black canvas tote in the floorboard. Would the car start again when she was ready to leave? A practical person, she decided to get her business done first and worry about the car if and when it became necessary.
“Okay, Napoleon, get down! You’ve had your sniff. Get back!”
Above her, a little stooped woman with gray hair and a bib apron came out on the porch and bawled at the dogs. “You, there! Get back under the house! Git!” Ears lowered and wagging conciliatory tails, the dogs circled around to the backside of Eula Wyckham’s car.
“Come on in here, Miz Eula,” cried the older woman. “He’s doing better this week. Still don’t remember diddly-squat.”
“To be expected at this stage,” Nurse Wyckham said.
“Mighty warm today, isn’t it?” Mrs. Deaver flapped her apron to cool her face. “I’ve been making pickles. Trying to get my cucumbers in before the dadgum chickens get ‘em.”
Screened doors let in the heat and kept out the flies. The air smelled pleasantly of vinegar and pickling spices. The home health nurse went in to see her patient.
*****
The last fifteen minutes of the day were always busy on the circulation desk, this Saturday more so than usual as Johns Valley Public Library attempted to close down for the long weekend. The Fourth fell on a Tuesday that year, an awkward time to close businesses and give public employees their customary time off. Head librarian Elinor Woodward had to call Dot Hardwick away early from Story Time to help with the crush of patrons seemingly unable to get through four days without murder mysteries, paperback romances, exercise videos, and a particular news item from the Johns Valley Sun about a line of Hereford cattle. Libby Jonson, who preferred working with flowers—she owned the local flower shop—pitched in to help clear the crush.
“Somewhere around 1963,” Buck Weathers added unhelpfully.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Buck!” Dot cried. “Do you really need that right this minute?”
The tables were turned from the days when Buck Weathers occupied a desk in Dot’s 10th grade algebra class. He had inherited from his father and grandfather before him, Thunderbird Ranch, making him one of the area’s wealthiest men. He glared at her, and Dot, still dressed in her Story Time costume, a gypsy turban with large gold spangles at the ears, stomped off to look up the relevant decade of microfiche.
“My grandfather brought the Line One to this part of Oklahoma!” he yelled after her retreating back.
“Tuh, Mr. Weathers,” Elinor remarked. “It’s just a busy time to be asking for a special reference item. Why don’t you have a seat over there and we’ll get that right out for you.”
He was holding up the line, but a man of his importance wouldn’t care about that. Reluctantly, he gave way to the next patron.
“Oh, Your Honor! Didn’t see you there.” Elinor blushed at her faux pas. Their mayor, Patrick Allen Childers, was more than a little vertically challenged. Elinor, who had played basketball in high school and was on the tall side, could easily see over him to the next person in line, Janie Calender, waiting to pay for copies. Patrick was used to his stature and seemed more embarrassed to be checking out The Collected Speeches of Abraham Lincoln, from which he would pull a few choice phrases for his own oration on Tuesday, Elinor surmised.
“Guess you’ll be riding on Kate’s float Tuesday?” he said. “I understand Shelby’s put in some long hours on that thing.”
“The children will be onboard,” Elinor said. “We can only hope they tie Gary to something so he can’t jump off and break his other leg.” Enid, Steven, and Gary were her niece Kate’s children. Gary, the adventurous middle sibling, courted danger every waking moment and scoffed at the possibility of injury.
Kate’s entry in the Fourth of July parade had already stirred a good deal of interest, taking shape, as it was, on the Jacks’ front lawn in plain view of people driving by on High Street. A new agent with Johns Valley Properties, Kate had volunteered to head up the float committee this year. She had designed, and was having hubby Shelby build, a miniature “property” with a real sod lawn and to-scale For Sale sign in the front yard. After the Fourth, the little house would take up residence in their backyard for Enid to play in.
But Patrick Allen Childers’ attention had strayed to the cell phone in his hand, an urgent text apparently, one that required an immediate reply. Behind him, Janie Calender rolled her eyes.
“I’m sure you’re right,” Childers said vaguely, accepting his scanned volume and turning to leave.
Janie Calender counted out payment for her copies. “There, I think that’s right. Seven-fifty. They’re in my bag if you need to count them.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Must be for the church cookbook,” Elinor said.
“Our machine at the church is on the fritz again.” Janie Calender leaned forward as if to impart a great secret. “Little Rays of Sunshine tickets are almost sold out. Shall I hold back a pair for you?”
“Yes, of course. But just one please. Look, dear, DeWayne’s trying to lock up now. I’ll pay at the door if you don’t mind.”
Indeed, Chief Ratliff, jingling keys
and glaring impatiently, had already twice appeared at the glass door to the foyer the library shared with his department. Police telephones were probably already turned over to the after-hours dispatcher. DeWayne himself had popped in earlier that afternoon to fortify himself with reading material. Mostly true-crime, though he was not above the occasional hard-boiled.
Libby Jonson returned from the archives triumphant. “I found it! That piece about your father’s semen.” Seeing the startled look this announcement caused, Libby thrust the copied article into Dot’s hand and let her handle collecting for it.
“Here you go, Buck. Ten cents for the copy.”
Next up was Rexie Roberts, a fitness instructor who had recently introduced hot yoga to the ladies of Johns Valley. “I don’t believe in exercise,” Dot said, scanning the barcodes of a handful of rumba DVDs Rexie wanted and handing them back to her.
Rexie gave her a withering look. “What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.” She dropped the discs into a large gym bag slung over her shoulder. She was wearing leopard print tights and a shimmery, clingy tank top. All male eyes followed her to the door.
Finally, the last borrower exited the library. “Quick, Dot!” Elinor cried. “Lock the back door and let’s get out of here before anyone else comes in. We’re coming, DeWayne.” She grabbed her purse from under the counter. Libby Jonson was already heading toward a pickup parked in front of Betty Blanton’s law office.
DeWayne locked the outer glass doors and, giving them a curt nod, tore off in his black-and-white cruiser as if on urgent police business. Spaces in front of the Fordyce Chandler Civic Center were reserved for the police. Elinor, Dot, and other library volunteers parked on High Street to leave the shady west lot for patrons. Almost no one used the dismal little lot in the rear of the building.
There were few businesses at this end of High Street, only Betty Blanton, a dentist, Cranston Funeral Home, and the occasional commercial enterprise that popped up in an old red brick storefront and, just as quickly, went out of business. At the moment, the building was vacant. Village idiots had spray-painted the plate-glass window with runes meaningful to their own tribe, perhaps, but enigmatic to everybody else.
Elinor unlocked her car and stood by to let the heat escape. “Probably won’t see you till Tuesday, Dot. I’m canning the last of my peaches. Shall I pick you up for the parade? We can watch it from Kate’s front porch.”
“Too close to the start, Elinor. The band won’t even be in step by then. Let’s just park behind the library and walk up to Main.”
“You know it’s forecast to hit a hundred on Tuesday.”
“Probably child abuse to march those kids in wool uniforms.”
“I thought the committee voted for polyester.”
“That’s another thing retirement spared us from—committees.” This remark was a continuation of an on-going exultation over the chores, routines, and expectations to which they were no longer subject by virtue of being retired from the classroom.
Elinor sighed. “Yes, but it’s not as if we’re using our time to plan exotic vacations or take young lovers. You realize, Dot, that we’re basically still shuffling paper around.”
“What’s wrong with that? We don’t have some nincompoop principal half our age trying to tell us how to do our jobs. We can run the library any way we like.”
Elinor looked more cheerful. “And we don’t have to wear pantyhose to do it.”
“Joe Jeff Kelly would’ve fired me over that teacher dress code if he could find anybody else to teach calculus.”
Elinor had taught English down the hall from Dot at Johns Valley High School, where, half a century earlier, they had been students themselves. Dot had retired more recently than Elinor, who resigned rather than ban a popular but controversial novel from her senior reading list. She had moved to Houston expecting to continue her teaching career. Instead, she had married retired oil executive Bill Woodward. Widowed now, she had come back to Johns Valley to be close to the only family she had, her niece Kate. Dot had never married, never lived anywhere but Johns Valley, and had no family left. The friendship had never been on firmer ground.
“I do love a good homemade peach preserve,” Dot hinted, smacking her lips.
“I’ll bring you a couple of jars Tuesday.”
*****
SUNDAY, July 2
Claire Holmes, pastor of New Community Church, was pleased with how well their patriotic service had gone, prayers for overseas troops defending liberty, a homily on true patriotism that respected other forms of worship no matter how foreign they might seem, hymns from the special holidays section of New Ecumenical Songs of Praise. And now, as the choir led the congregation through God Bless America, Claire made her way down the center aisle to station herself just outside the outer doors for the “grip and greet.”
Having arrived late, Mayor Patrick Allen Childers and wife Lucy were first to leave, looking in their Sunday finery like a diminutive couple making their escape from the top of a wedding cake. Usually, when His Honor visited their church, he claimed a seat in the front pew. Claire Holmes disliked attributing base motives to other people’s behavior, but one did have to wonder if the front pew wasn’t chosen to maximize exposure to voters. Childers was running for re-election.
“So glad you could join us today, Mayor. Good morning, Lucy. Love those shoes!”
“Oh, thank you. They’re crushing my little toes, but, ah, vanity.”
Claire Holmes’s eyes slid past them to the next family emerging into the brilliant July sunshine, the Calenders. “Janie. Mathew. Good to see you both.” Janie Calender was church secretary, so her remark was mostly aimed at Mathew Calender who was away fishing or hunting most weekends. “My, how these two are growing!”
“Jeffrey, sweetie, don’t slump,” Janie reminded. Jeffrey, fourteen, mumbled something. A mouthful of metal did not render him any more intelligible. The son was already taller than his father but not filled out yet. Sixteen-year-old Sara was more than filled out. Entering that dangerous stretch, Claire Holmes thought. Intent on her phone, Sara bumped into her mother who had turned back for another word with their pastor: “Claire, has Eula Wyckham come out yet? I wanted to remind her where to park for the Little Rays of Sunshine banquet.”
“If I see her, I’ll let her know we use the school parking lot for evening events.”
Patrick Allen Childers had taken up a position just past Claire, as if he and Lucy were part of the recessional. Lucy was uncomfortable in the role of campaigner and tried to edge away, but he locked on to her elbow and forced her to stay at his side. He was annoyed with her for making them late, at the last minute running back in the house to change shoes. He couldn’t recall a word of Pastor Holmes’s sermon, not that he attended Sunday morning worship service to be sermonized. That morning he had spent the period of forced inactivity honing his mental skills, calculating the number of Sundays between now and election day without resorting to his phone where he kept his calendar. His Honor liked to spread himself around, visit different congregations. He and Lucy were purposely vague about their own true spiritual leanings, which happened to be Lutheran on his side, Catholic on hers.
Going to church was just something you did when you ran for office, he had explained to Lucy. You also kept up with who voted for you, whether and how much they donated to your campaign, and any other bits of information that came your way. You never knew what might prove useful. If nothing else, his database helped him with names. It was a point of pride for him to know every voter by name, their children, horses, and dogs, too.
Today, the job of putting names to faces was made easier by the fact that Claire Holmes preceded him in the greeting line. He, too, shook hands with every member of the Calender family, reciting a factoid about each to make them feel he really knew them.
“Sara, I hear you’re going out for cheerleader!” Sara blinked at him. “Jeffrey! Fine fellow! I look forward to seeing you in that new band uniform Tuesday tootin
g away on your trombone. Janie, we got our tickets to the Little Rays of Sunshine banquet. Thanks for dropping them by.” He didn’t add that because candidates were not allowed to speak at the annual youth benefit, his ticket purchase was a donation.
Janie Calender was seldom eclipsed by more out-going personalities, but in this encounter she was bested, barely getting out a bubbly hello before Patrick reached past her to grab her husband’s hand. Mathew Calender taught industrial arts at the high school. “I’ll bet you can hardly wait for bow season, my man!” He made it sound as if he could hardly wait either, though nothing could be further from the truth.
Mathew Calender, as sometimes happens, had married his polar opposite on the friendly index. Stoic, impenetrable, his adam’s apple bobbed, but no sound emerged.
As Patrick worked the crowd, pretending to introduce his wife to people she had known for years, Lucy’s smile congealed into a grimace. They were probably getting sunburned standing out in the midday sun like complete idiots. She shifted her weight to the other foot to ease the pain in her little toe. She made a mental note to add corn plasters to her grocery list.
*****
At the height of the most recent real estate boom, Kiamichi Lodge and Casino had sprouted on the summit of Big Bear Mountain. The State of Oklahoma, thirty-eight federally recognized Indian tribes, and private developers had contrived ever since to keep the Lodge filled and lure citizens of adjoining states to its gaming tables and slot machines. Madison Avenue ad campaigns touted Oklahoma’s natural wonders, its lakes and wilderness areas, as well as its adult entertainment, the casinos and golf courses. There were now more casinos in Oklahoma than oxbow lakes—70 to 62. The typical Oklahoman lives less than an hour from Las Vegas-style gambling.
But it wasn’t the gambling that brought Buck Weathers to the Kiamichi Lodge. His people were Baptists and, although there were fornicators and backsliders on the family tree, not one of them had been a drunk or a gambler. No, it was divorce that brought Buck to the luxurious extreme of rented rooms at the Lodge. If those rooms had been situated on the south side of the building, his view would include the house he was about to lose. All that stood in the way of finalizing the thing was for Judith to accept that, thanks to a pair of gas wells, they had been living beyond their means, so high on the hog that neither of them could afford to buy the other out.
Death In The Stacks: An Elinor & Dot library mystery Page 1