A Murder for the Books

by Victoria Gilbert

  A Murder for the Books

  A BLUE RIDGE LIBRARY MYSTERY

  Victoria Gilbert

  NEW YORK

  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Vicki L. Weavil

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.

  ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-68331-439-4

  ISBN (ePub): 978-1-68331-440-0

  ISBN (ePDF): 978-1-68331-441-7

  Cover illustration by Cheryl Martucci

  www.crookedlanebooks.com

  Crooked Lane Books

  34 West 27th St., 10th Floor

  New York, NY 10001

  First Edition: December 2017

  For my mother,

  Barbara King Lemp

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Anyone who claims there are no stupid questions has never worked in a public library.

  “So what do you think? Hemlock or cyanide?”

  I allowed this query to bounce around my mind, recalling what little I knew about poisons. Cyanide would be quicker, but there was a certain philosophical charm associated with hemlock . . .

  I shook my head to silence this amusing diversion. It really didn’t matter. My answer would be ignored. The woman blocking my passage through one of the library aisles had been writing a mystery—and asking similar questions—for the last ten years.

  Not that I’d known her that long. I’d only started work at the Taylorsford Public Library a year ago, but fortunately my predecessor, Ralph Harrison, now living happily patron-free with his family in Georgia, had left behind a list detailing the eccentricities of the library “regulars.” I’d thought this in poor taste when I’d found it stuffed in a file, but I soon realized that he’d bequeathed me a great treasure. Without those notes, I would have undoubtedly done something extremely foolish. Something even worse than asking the mayor if he had a local address. Of course he did. He couldn’t be the mayor if he didn’t live in town. In fact, without Ralph Harrison’s list, I probably would’ve been dismissed from this job months ago.

  Although keeping my position as library director was still touch and go as far as I was concerned.

  The patron wagged her finger at me. “Excuse me, Ms. Webber, I asked you a question. Cyanide or hemlock?”

  “You can call me Amy, and I think that depends on the effect you’re trying to achieve.” I flipped a fallen volume upright on the shelf. “If you want, I can show you some books that discuss . . .”

  The patron flapped her hands. “No, no, I’ve read all that stuff. I just want your opinion.”

  “You know I can’t give you that. Librarians can help you find information or provide books that might assist you, but we can’t make decisions for you.”

  The woman snorted. “You’re just as useless as the last one, making me do all the work. I need an answer, not a scavenger hunt. Do they teach you those tactics in library school?”

  “Actually, they do. Watch your step, by the way.” I pointed at a strategically placed bucket, one of many that were collecting drips from the leaky roof. At least the brightly colored pails weren’t as unattractive as the blue plastic tarps that were draped over the top of some of the bookstacks, ready to be deployed to cover an entire range of shelves during heavy downpours. Unfortunately, both were a necessity despite looking distinctly out of place in the historic building.

  The Taylorsford Public Library, with its thick fieldstone walls, deep windowsills, and vaulted ceiling, exuded an air of elegance only slightly undercut by the modern addition housing the children’s room. It was a Carnegie library, built in 1919 with a grant from industrialist Andrew Carnegie. I appreciated its historical significance while bemoaning its disintegrating roof and the rivers of wiring hidden beneath rubber conduits. Although they certainly had known how to build beautiful libraries, no one in 1919 had envisioned the current demand for network cabling.

  As if echoing my thoughts, the lights flickered. One of the volunteers must have heated something in the break-room microwave. I sighed and made a mental note to speak to the town council, once again, about upgrading the wiring throughout the library.

  “Guess I’ll just have to manage on my own.” The patron flounced off in the direction of the reading room, a collection of sturdy wooden tables and chairs separated from the bookstacks by a decorative mahogany arch.

  One more person dissatisfied with my job performance. What had convinced me that academic library experience would translate to the public library sphere? If only I could’ve stayed in my university job . . . but Charles had made that impossible. As long as he remained on the faculty at Clarion University, I could never work there again.

  I flushed, recalling our final encounter. It had been at a formal reception following the debut of Charles’s new music group, the Alma Viva Trio. I’d stumbled over Charles and his violinist, Marlis Dupre, in a back room and had discovered my boyfriend’s fingers caressing Marlis instead of the ivories. Chasing them into the reception hall, I’d thrown a glass of champagne—aiming for Charles but hitting the dean of music instead.

  Don’t worry. Librarians are in demand, my friends had said when I’d given my two weeks’ notice and fled, unwilling to face the constant looks of disapproval from the administration and faculty. But sadly, Clarion was the only college or university within commuting distance of Taylorsford. In fact, it was the only university in this part of Virginia. Although I was thirty-three and single and possessed enough library experience to work elsewhere, moving was out of the question. I couldn’t leave Aunt Lydia alone, especially after her recent fall.

  I spied a book sticking out at an odd angle and plucked it off the shelf to examine the call numbers on its spine. As I suspected, it had been shelved in the wrong location. Clutching the book to my chest, I marched up behind the walnut circulation desk.

  “Looks like the Nightingale’s been busy.”

  “Again?” Sunshine Fields, better known as “Sunny,” was the library’s only other paid employee. As she shoved her long blonde hair behind her shoulders, Sunny’s stack of metal bracelets jangled from her wrist to her elbow. Raised on an organic farm by her grandparents, whom she affectionately called “the grands,” Sunny was my best friend in Taylorsford. We’d met when I had starte
d spending summers with my aunt at age fifteen. Sunny and I had been two of the few participants in a teen reading program at the library and had bonded over our mutual love of books.

  “You didn’t see her?”

  “No, but she’s a sneaky little thing.” Sunny waved the book under the barcode reader before handing it back to me. “Not checked out. So at least she hasn’t been raiding the book drop again.”

  The Nightingale—named in honor of the famous nurse—was another regular, whose attempts to be “helpful” included reshelving books. Unfortunately, she had no concept of the cataloging system and shoved car-repair manuals between young adult titles.

  “Thank heavens for small blessings.” I flipped through the book before placing it on the shelving cart. “And she didn’t leave any notes about the dangers of reading fiction. Amazing.”

  Sunny lowered her head, causing her long hair to spill forward. “Oh, speaking of regulars, you missed all the excitement earlier.”

  “Something happened while I was leading story hour?” I wasn’t surprised that I’d missed any commotion since I’d been reading Where the Wild Things Are to a bunch of preschoolers who’d demanded sound effects and contributed their own when my efforts didn’t meet their expectations.

  “Yeah.” Sunny shuffled some flyers on the desk. “I caught Doris Virts cowering in the workroom, muttering about being followed.”

  I stared at Sunny’s veiled profile. “I thought the family hired someone to accompany her when she left the house.”

  “They did, but Doris is apparently pretty good at giving the caregiver the slip.” Sunny brushed back her hair. “Anyway, you may not know this, but Doris was a library volunteer until a year or so ago. I think she gets confused and still believes she should be working behind the desk or something.”

  “So where was her companion while all this was going on?”

  “Just looking for some books that Doris requested.” Sunny readjusted the placement of the bell on the desk. She was fidgeting, which meant something more had happened, but I decided to wait for the full story. “Doris can be quite clever when she wants. Anyway, she left the workroom meekly enough.”

  “She thinks she’s being followed? Her paranoia must be working overtime these days.”

  “Yeah, it’s gotten worse. Every time she visits the library, she claims someone’s after her.”

  “Well, the caregiver has to trail her everywhere. I bet Doris doesn’t really remember who she is sometimes. That could cause her delusion.”

  “Probably.” Sunny frowned. “I sure hope the grands don’t suffer anything like that. Poor Bethany, having to keep track of her mom and try to manage her diner at the same time. Don’t know how she does it.”

  “With great difficulty, I imagine.” A lot tougher than your situation, I reminded myself. Aunt Lydia might have a few physical problems, but her mind was still sharp. I knew Bethany Virts didn’t like leaving her mom in the care of others, but she couldn’t afford to give up the diner, which was her only source of income.

  Sunny glanced at me. “Doris didn’t mess with anything in the workroom as far as I can tell, but you should probably check it later. I only gave it a quick once-over ’cause there were patrons lined up at the desk.”

  “Sure, I’ll do that.”

  “And”—Sunny shot me a concerned glance—“keep an eye out for Doris. Seems she escaped her caregiver again right after they left the library. Got a frantic call from Bethany and then another one from the aide. They’re out looking for her now.”

  “Well, crap, that’s awful.” I pulled an upside-down picture book from the cart and immediately dropped it when my fingers stuck to the cover. Someone had decided to smear their bubblegum across the face of a purple dinosaur. Great. I calculated how much it would cost to replace the book if it couldn’t be properly cleaned. “Did they call the sheriff’s office?”

  “No, Bethany doesn’t want to involve them if she doesn’t have to. It’s happened before, you know. She said they usually find Doris in the old Lutheran cemetery across the street, where her family’s buried.” Sunny’s bracelets jingled as she lifted a stack of books from the inside drop box. “But I told Bethany we’d call immediately if Doris came back into the library, so if you see her . . .”

  “I’ll definitely give a call,” I replied, yanking down the hem of my scoop-necked top. Every time I lifted my arms, the stupid blouse rumpled up to my waist. To be honest, if I were thin like Sunny, clothes wouldn’t have been such a bother. But I was far too curvy for tops to fit smoothly.

  “Curvy” was what Sunny and Aunt Lydia told me to say. Not plump—curvy.

  Yeah, right. Tell that to the designers who create clothes for toothpicks.

  I gave my top a final tug. A tearing sound was followed by a flap of material popping loose and hanging below the hem, frayed threads dangling.

  “Shit,” I said.

  “Hello,” said a deep male voice.

  Although the man standing before me was of average height, his posture made him appear taller. I opened my mouth and shut it again as Sunny leaned over the desk and flashed a brilliant smile at the stranger.

  “Can we help you?”

  “I hope so.” The man’s gaze lingered on my body just long enough to make me question my choice of the low-necked top. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”

  I shook my head. “Doubt it. I only moved here a year ago. Well, I’ve spent some summers and weekends here in the past, but I wasn’t a full-time resident. I’m Amy Webber, the library director. And this is Sunshine Fields, my assistant.”

  The man cast Sunny an appreciative look, as most men did, but then turned his focus back on me. “Wait, did you ever work at the Clarion University library?”

  I took a deep breath. There was no way to escape this question without lying. “Yes, up until about a year ago.”

  “Okay, that must be where I’ve seen you. I’ve only worked summers up to now, but . . .” He narrowed his gray eyes. “Of course it was in the library. I had to grab a few scores for my accompanist, and you were helping some conductor. I remember because I was impressed with how well you handled him. He was being a total jerk, demanding everything at the top of his lungs. I would’ve slugged him, but you were very patient.”

  “Was I?” As I examined the man’s decidedly attractive face, a memory surfaced. Once, when we had been first dating, Charles had taken me to a contemporary dance recital. Part of his campaign to “sophisticate” me, I supposed. He had always been trying to do that, claiming that my knowledge of art and literature was adequate but my performing arts palate needed refinement.

  Yeah, and you let him say that, Amy. What were you thinking?

  I hadn’t been thinking, of course. I’d been dazzled by his looks, talent, and fame.

  Something about this guy recalled that date with Charles. It took only a second before I remembered that although the recital had featured students from the university’s summer programs, one of their instructors had also performed a solo. It had been this man, whose breathtaking grace had been matched by his physical perfection. According to the program, he’d made quite a name for himself as a dancer and choreographer.

  Another artistic guy. No, definitely not going there. I smiled coolly as I stepped around the desk to face him. “Oh, wait. I remember you from Clarion. You’re Richard something, right?”

  “Richard Muir. Dancer, choreographer, and instructor. Now primarily the latter, since I accepted a full-time teaching job this fall.”

  He smiled. Sunny grabbed a library brochure and fluttered it like a fan.

  “I left Clarion to take the job here. I live with my aunt, you see, and she had a fall that injured her leg.” I toyed with the loose edge of my shirt hem. Richard Muir seemed unaware of my real reasons for leaving my previous job, and I hoped I could keep it that way.

  “Guess I can’t count on your assistance at the university library, but I do need some historical information related to Taylo
rsford. Maybe you can help with that?” Richard Muir moved closer.

  I stepped back. He was about to invade my personal space, and I was having none of that. He could keep his perfect body to himself. I’d had enough of handsome, artistic men.

  “So what brings you to Taylorsford, Mr. Muir?” Sunny slid her tongue over her bottom lip.

  I fought the desire to roll my eyes. It was Sunny’s nature to flirt. She meant no harm.

  “Actually, I’ve moved here. You know the old Cooper place?”

  Sunny fluttered her golden lashes. “Of course. It’s right next to Amy’s house. Well, her aunt’s place. The Litton house—the beautiful Queen Anne revival with the wraparound porch.”

  Richard Muir’s gray eyes swept over me again. “You’re my neighbor? I heard Lydia Talbot had a niece living with her, but I’ve never seen . . . no, wait—do you work in the garden in a floppy straw hat?”

  I grabbed the picture book and stared at the damaged cover, keeping my head down to hide the flush rising in my face. Yes, I worked in my Aunt Lydia’s garden—in shorts, a tattered T-shirt, and that stupid hat. If Richard Muir had spied me from his house, he undoubtedly had also garnered a lovely view of my backside as I bent over to weed the flowerbeds.

  “Sometimes,” I muttered, flipping the book over and studying it as if I’d never seen the damaged cover before. “It’s a big garden, and my aunt can’t get around so well these days.”

  “I have seen her out walking with a cane. Sorry I haven’t come by to say hello, but I’ve been traveling until now. Choreography gigs here and there. Of course, I’ve stopped in to check on the renovations, but I only officially moved in a month ago.”

  “Oh, no problem.” I laid the picture book on the counter, gum side up, and lifted my chin to meet his intense gaze. “Besides, my aunt and I should visit you first. That’s how things are done, or so she tells me.”

  Richard raised his eyebrows. “Are those the town rules? You might have to help me with that. Been a city boy all my life.”

  Sunny leaned across the desk, causing her loose peasant blouse to slide off one shoulder. Slender as she was, she didn’t have to wear a bra, something I envied even more than her lovely blue eyes. “So you’re the brave soul who restored the Cooper place, Mr. Muir?”