Death In The Stacks: An Elinor & Dot library mystery

by Linda S. Bingham

  Another person getting her just desserts was Judith’s sister Harriet. If not for Harriet’s meddling, Judith might’ve ignored the growing evidence that Buck’s affections had seriously strayed. A fling now and then, her sister advised, was one thing, but what if he convinced himself he was in love? What if he wanted a divorce? Judith had to find out who it was before it was too late. And so they had devised their little plan. She would announce a trip, let Buck think he had three days to himself, but she would come back early. She was relieved to get home and find a tranquil domestic scene. Duncan had come home the night before and wandered in looking for breakfast. Judith fixed them waffles. False alarm, she thought. All is well. And suddenly those words came out of her son’s mouth. Who owns that little yellow car I saw in the driveway last night?

  There had been scenes before, screaming matches, slammed doors, broken china. Theirs had always been a tumultuous marriage, held together by the realization of what they would give up if they parted, not just a house, but everything it stood for. They were the Weathers of Thunderbird Ranch. It wasn’t just another roll in the hay for Buck. This time he was willing to lose everything. How could a girl like Rexie Roberts mean that much to him?

  Yet, over the summer, Judith had proved his baffling constancy with her own cell phone photos. Well, good for him! She hoped the skinny little tart made him do sit-ups.

  Tomorrow her interfering sister would begin paying her share of the penalty for dreaming up the scheme that blew up a marriage. A life sentence, likely, for how could Judith, who had lived so large, be content to live small again?

  Feeling sorry for herself, Judith poured another glass of chardonnay and took it out to the patio. The pool shimmered, invited. The sun had dropped below the treetops, but it was still like an inferno here on the west side of the house. Maybe it would’ve been smarter to locate the terracing on the east side. She returned to the dry frigid indoors and made her way to the master bedroom suite. She flicked on the TV and muted the evening news. What did she care what was going on in the world?

  Two tickets to a benefit being held that evening lay on the table beside her, reminding her that this night was supposed to have been so different. She had pictured herself sweeping into the church hall this evening as a patron, a benefactor. Underwriter, is how the little do-gooder had described the person writing the largest check. Well, noblese oblige! Judith saluted the ghost of Judith past. The social life that awaited her in Dallas would include bingo at the VFW.

  Draining her wineglass, Judith got to her feet and went to the kitchen for a refill. Might as well take the bottle with her. It was dark now in the house. She stumbled over a box that wasn’t supposed to be there, swore, and groped her way back to the light in the bedroom. She felt wounded, as if she had actually been stabbed, like that woman in the library. She might die of this injury. Tears wet her cheeks and she didn’t bother to wipe them.

  Buck wouldn’t mind living small again, moving back into his childhood home, currently occupied by their foreman. And it would be a step-up for the bimbo. Rexie Roberts aspired to nothing grander than a mud hut.

  *****

  Claire Holmes stood at the door of New Community Church fellowship hall greeting late arrivals. Elinor paid for her ticket and was given an empty plate to take with her to the serving line.

  “Save me a spot and I’ll come eat with you,” Claire called after her.

  “Little Rays of Sunshine” had originally referred to the church’s youngest Sunday School class, but had grown to become a community-wide effort to raise funds for a constellation of youth services. Tonight, the namesake group was performing on a platform at one end of fellowship hall. Mothers beamed support from the audience, miming the words they had, perforce, learned along with their child. Dinner had been prepared in the high school’s large stainless-steel kitchen and brought to the church hall in foil-encased throw-away serving trays. Elinor gave the spicy wings a wide berth and chose the less risky dish, King Ranch Chicken. She found two chairs at a table for eight and waited for Claire Holmes to fill the other one.

  Looking around her, Elinor realized that she didn’t know many of these people, families with young children. Dot would know them because of her pet project, Story Time. Like Elinor, Dot had taught the upper grades and was surprised to find that she relished donning her absurd turban, with gold earrings sewn right on, to become the Gypsy Lady who introduced young readers to books written especially for them.

  At a nearby table, Elinor recognized Mathew Calender, flanked by two teenagers she assumed were his children. She didn’t see his wife. Elinor thought it brave of the family to face public scrutiny so soon after the raid that had swept up a teenaged girl in the same net that snared a murderous mechanic. Had they secluded themselves, curiosity about Sara would only have intensified. The girl’s bored expression did not fool Elinor, who had taught girls that age and knew that a haughty demeanor often hid a crushing insecurity. If young Sara had not considered before how her liaison with an older man would arouse prurient interest among her peers and the community at large, she was surely thinking about it now.

  Finally, Claire Holmes was able to get away from the greeting line to join her.

  “I see you opted for the wings,” Elinor said. “Any significance in that?”

  “Very funny, Elinor. The King Ranch Chicken was all gone. I’ll be up at two with the bicarb.”

  “I almost didn’t come tonight. Shelby is speaking to the Elks and I thought I might be asked to sit with the children. I’m glad to see that competition hasn’t hurt attendance.”

  “We have this conflict with the Elks every year, but it actually works to our advantage. Dozens of ticket purchases wind up being donations.”

  “I don’t see Janie here tonight.”

  “Suffering nervous exhaustion, poor woman. I feel terrible that while she was knocking herself out for us—” Claire Holmes left the sentence unfinished. “I’m glad to see that Mathew brought the children. So, how are things at the library?”

  “I was hoping to talk to you about that, Claire. I think we need an event, a program of some sort, to help us recover and get past what happened. Perhaps a rededication. It would have to be non-religious, of course. I might ask some of our regulars to say a few words about how they use the library’s materials and resources.”

  “I’d be glad to help. Just let me know.”

  “I’ll give you a call.”

  “Now don’t consider this quid pro quo, Elinor, but I’m wondering when you’re going to move your church letter to New Community and become part of our church family?”

  “Out of loyalty to my dear father, who was their longest-serving pastor, my letter shall remain with the Presbyterians. But I think you know whose sermons I prefer.”

  “So kind of you.”

  Elinor finished her meal and pushed her chair away from the table. “And now I shall leave the washing up to others. Good evening, all.”

  A chorus of good wishes sent Elinor into the night.

  *****

  Buck Weathers seldom got his dander up. Judith was the volatile one. Even when she was throwing things at him, some part of him remained disengaged. She had names for that, unflattering names, psychological terms she picked up from her women’s magazines. The truth was, the less riled he got, the madder it made her. It was an old trick he learned from roping things as a boy. Some animals fought the rope, others just got still.

  He had accidentally roped a doe once, tossing his loop down from a branch and surprising them both. He was sorry the minute the rope tightened around her neck. He figured she would take off and die a slow, tangled, starved death. But that’s not what happened. As soon as the deer figured out she couldn’t escape, she folded herself up nice as you please and awaited her fate. He eased down from the tree and slipped the noose off. She didn’t move, didn’t fight, didn’t offer the slightest resistance. And that’s how it was with Betty Blanton.

  Betty was one of those wild
things he didn’t actually mean to capture. They were in Oklahoma City, the two of them, on separate business. He probably hadn’t spoken to her more than a time or two back home. She hadn’t lived there long. He spotted her striding across an expanse of figured carpeting in a Marriott Hotel, wearing essentially the same rugged style of clothing he was wearing. She was a woman who would look right handsome on horseback, he thought.

  He hadn’t seen anybody he knew in three days, so maybe he was a little too insistent they go into the bar and have a snort. She agreed. They got to talking. Neither one of them were big drinkers, but they turned out to have so dern much to talk about that drinks turned into dinner. She wanted to know about his boyhood growing up on Thunderbird Ranch. Lots of women asked you questions but weren’t really interested in the answers. It wasn’t like that with Betty. She was a lawyer and had a good mind. She was genuinely interested in ranch life, said it had always been her dream to live in the country. As soon as she could afford to, she left the city and hung out her shingle in a small town. Rural life hadn’t really materialized for her, though, because it seemed like she spent all her time behind a desk, in court, or bailing out some drunk.

  Buck figured, her being a dyke, that’s why she was so easy to talk to, like talking to a buddy. It didn’t cross his mind to try to bed this filly. Finally, they looked around and noticed they were the only ones left in the restaurant. The staff was beginning to shove the sweeper under tables. Betty seemed no more eager than he to call it a night.

  “Hey, don’t make nothing out of this, okay?” he said. “But do you want to go to my room and watch a movie or something? I’m about talked out, but I’m damned if I want to let you go.”

  “That’s mighty flattering, Mr. Weathers. What would your wife say about that?”

  “She’d probably figure I was safe with you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Well, you’re not, Mister. So think about it before you start something you can’t handle.”

  “My god, Betty. Just give me the chance.”

  Buck rented a small house up in the Kiamichis where they met as often as they could, rarely for a whole weekend. Those were sweet times. They would cook and eat and talk and take naps and baths. Buck would drive away with such complicated regret. What would it be like to have Betty Blanton full-time? Would it ruin everything? Maybe it was the secrecy that made it so good , the feeling that even as they said hello, the minutes they had together were ticking by.

  Judith figured he had a sweetie stashed away somewhere, and he came up with the damn stupid idea of siccing her on poor little Rexie. He never thought it would be Betty who got caught up in his snarl of baling wire. But Judith wanted the best divorce lawyer in town and who else fit the bill? He couldn’t talk her out of it. And what was Betty supposed to say? I can’t represent you because I’m the one your old man is fooling around with.

  Red flags waved everywhere. Another attorney might advise Judith to hire a detective, or slow things down just to jack up the bill. Still, Betty could’ve sent her elsewhere and she broke rules by not doing so. They would play it cool, they decided, take it one step at a time. Betty would give Judith the best legal advice she could and they would just lay low and see how things developed. It was like crawling over landmines. Betty pushed her client toward a settlement that any judge would approve, but she wouldn’t let Judith take advantage of him. Fair was fair. She hated that, in effect, he was giving up the ranch to be with her. He said he didn’t care as long as he kept the boyhood home and a few acres.

  And now Judith had signed the settlement. Maybe it was the sheer relief of getting through the long ordeal that made them careless. Why today, of all days, did he want barbecue? Insist they step out in public for the first time since Oklahoma City? As a hunter, Buck had waited to get off a clean shot, alert for the smallest movement. It happened like that this time. He saw Patrick Allen Childers out of the corner of his eye, saw him register their presence there in the back booth. Buck’s eyes never left Betty’s face, but he saw Patrick raise his cell phone and take their picture.

  He had been so close to breaking free he could feel the rope slipping off his neck, and then Patrick Allen Childers had walked into that barbecue joint and snapped the photo Judith had been trying all summer to get. He knew where that photo would end up and what it would cost him. Betty had done all the heavy-lifting till now. He would take care of it this time.

  *****

  Lucy Childers was in the middle of an ambitious project to reorganize her closet when the phone rang. She untangled herself from a mass of plastic wrap and answered it in the bedroom. It was her daughter Bethany, who had arranged to go to the Little Rays banquet with a friend. Now she wanted to know if she could spend the night afterward. Lucy felt a tremor of dread, thinking about that other teenaged girl and the excuses she might have come up with to destroy her life.

  “Oh, Bethany! I wish you would ask Daddy,” Lucy cried. “I don’t know why he’s not home yet. He’s bringing ribs.” Her daughter pointed out, reasonably, that she could hardly ask him if he wasn’t there, and, before Lucy could put up any more objections, the girl said they were calling her and she had to run.

  Lucy returned to her task. She had bought a new label-maker that printed out long strings of perfect lettering on sticky-backed paper. What would they think of next? “Celery Med Pumps” she typed, and out came a tidy strip to peel and stick on one of twenty matching plastic shoe boxes she had bought for her newest footwear. “Gray Wedge Sandals” she typed next. It was going to be so pretty!

  Already she had sorted the hanging garments according to a new scheme based on function, with sub-sets organized by color. Matching accessories were stored above or below the garment they went with, making it easy to put together color-coordinated ensembles. If Patrick had three events in a single day, if she were just allowed to run home between events, she could wear a different outfit to each one.

  “Goodness! I didn’t realize I was hungry,” she said to herself. She pushed back her hair and went into the master bath to wash her hands. Organizing closets was dirty work.

  “Nearly nine,” she noted, walking through the bedroom and catching sight of the digital readout on the bedside alarm. “Where is he?” She headed to the stairs. Maybe he had come in and she hadn’t heard him. Sometimes Patrick was so preoccupied with whatever was on his mind that he went straight into his study without a word to anyone. But tonight his door was closed, locked, no light showing beneath. She and Bethany weren’t allowed in that room. Patrick was afraid she might take it into her head to reorganize or clean.

  He was so clever with electronics, her husband, tapping away at his phone when they were out, rushing into the house the minute they pulled into the carport to clatter on his keyboard in the little office at the end of the kitchen. Many’s the time, as she worked on dinner, she could see his profile through the open doorway, focused on a text-filled screen.

  How could anyone occupy their mind for hours on end with something so insubstantial? Something that could vanish in an instant, as it often did if she stuck her head in the door. She could only lose herself in activities that existed in actual space and time, like turning the master closet into a marvel of order and efficiency. He had bought her a cell phone, but she only took it with her when she went out, in case of car trouble.

  Because of the conversation she had just had with her daughter—and because the Calendars had that week been blindsided by their daughter’s unexpected behavior—it now occurred to Lucy Childers to wonder if Patrick’s secrecy was fully innocent. Could he be hiding something? A porn collection? An affair? He called the records he kept his “database,” claiming that it was about politics, city business. He had allies and enemies. Often he spent hours on the phone having animated conversations with constituents and members of council. Lucy found it all tedious.

  She didn’t like having these thoughts, dark imaginings. But where could he be? Her husband was usually so punctual, predictable. It w
as nine o’clock and she was seriously hungry.

  Lucy went back through her day. Was she confused about his schedule? Was she supposed to meet him at New Community Church tonight? It was almost inconceivable they weren’t going to one of the biggest social events of the year. She had even seen a pair of tickets at one time… Had she gotten so wrapped up in her closet project that she forgot to meet him somewhere? But, no, she was positive Patrick had said he was bringing barbecue home tonight. She hadn’t put on dinner because of that.

  She was beginning to feel weak and trembly from not eating. She decided to go upstairs and lie down until he got home. She swallowed an anxiety tablet and lay across the bed. She kept seeing Patrick at his desk, hearing the tap-tap-tap of his keyboard. Why lock the study door against her and Bethany if he wasn’t doing something he was ashamed of? Was it another woman? Was he involved in one of those on-line flings you heard about? Chat rooms, or something? Middle-aged men were always getting into that kind of trouble. You read about it in headlines your eyes couldn’t avoid in the check-out line. Was he addicted to something? To sex, gambling, some modern vice she didn’t know about?

  They were used to his divided attention, she and Bethany. No matter what else was going on, part of Patrick’s mind kept up with life on his small screen. Even when he was watching the big screen, he clutched the remote in one hand and his cell phone in the other. His left eye had developed a twitch, and he was always popping his neck, which made him seem spastic. Yet, for all his fanatical record-keeping, her husband had grown amazingly absent-minded. Understandable, considering that only half his brain was ever fully engaged.

  Tonight, the drug did little to ease Lucy’s fears, though it may have contributed to a surge of inspiration and bravery. She had an idea. Back downstairs, she went through the kitchen utility drawer where they kept extra keys. Some time ago she had discovered that the storage room in the garage was keyed the same as the door to Patrick’s study. She had never been tempted to use that knowledge before, but she did so now. She had to know if there was another woman. Was he with her now?