Clint just glared. They all knew he was a vegetarian when he shifted.
The youngest of the Milhouse boys, red-headed Weston, chimed in. “I hear she’s pretty. Is that why you want her to stay?”
Eve, who’d been standing at the far end of the room observing the commotion instead of participating in it, called out, “I like her.”
Her sister said, in a sour voice, “I don’t.”
“You didn’t even talk to her,” Eve argued. “I think we should give her a chance. It’s not like we don’t know how to deal with her if she becomes a problem.”
A few hardliners agreed. Most did not.
Yes, they could deal with her, if it became necessary. Amnesia punch and a ride to the edge of town, or a big slice of Frannie’s funeral cake?
Luke entered the parlor. He was late, too, but had obviously been listening. “You all know what I do. When you need something, I know it before you do. You come into my store and I have whatever you need waiting for you. Maybe it’s a screwdriver, or a replacement battery, or a plunger for a toilet that’s going to need one in a day or two. This is different, and I understand there are some of you who won’t agree with me, but…”
“But what?” Ivy snapped when he hesitated.
“Mystic Springs needs the librarian.”
Clint breathed a sigh of relief. Even the hardliners listened to Luke. If he had them on his side…
Donnie Milhouse spoke up again. “Maybe we do and maybe we don’t. Until I know for sure, I’d feel better if someone kept a close eye on her.”
Several Springers nodded in agreement. A number of names, hardliners all, were shouted out and shouted down. Most of them would be more of a danger to Marnie than an asset. They’d keep an eye on her until she did something they didn’t like, and then all bets would be off.
“Eve and Ivy are right across the street from the library,” Clint began, but a gruff voice interrupted.
“I live right next door.”
Clint stared at James Garvin, a too-quiet man who was one of the worst of the Springers. For good reason, perhaps. His wife had been dead for close to twenty years. His sons had left town not long after. Neither of them had returned to visit their widowed father, not even for a day. James managed to find a way to blame everyone and everything for his wife’s death and his sons’ desertion. He blamed everyone but himself.
A long-time resident of The Egg shouted out, “Clint Maxwell, you had dinner with her at Harry’s bar, and you fixed her damn tire. You welcomed her to town, when you should have been running her off.”
They’d been talking about Marnie long before this meeting had gotten underway. It was difficult to keep secrets here.
“I nominate Maxwell as babysitter for the librarian,” the older man continued, raising his bushy eyebrows. And then he smiled. “Until we decide what to do with her.”
Chapter 5
Marnie had an early breakfast — oatmeal again — and rushed out her front door and down the steps more than an hour before the library was scheduled to open. Not that it was likely to be any busier than it had been yesterday, but she’d been seen around town so maybe a few would drop by. Maybe. She’d be ready for whatever the day might bring.
Last night, after dark — and after double checking that all doors and windows were locked — she’d settled on the sofa in her parlor, opened up her laptop, and started her search. Bigfoot. She found a lot of information, but for the most part the internet was a million miles wide and a quarter of an inch deep. After an hour and a half, she gave up the search. There was too much information, and none of it struck her as being reliable.
Yes, she was looking for reliable information on a mythical creature. A supposedly mythical creature she’d seen just beyond her own back yard fence. She needed books. Research books on Bigfoot. Yeti. Sasquatch. Whatever you wanted to call him. Him or it? Again, whatever.
There were a handful of people on the street this morning, a couple of them headed to Ivy’s, others down the street near the grocery store. Yesterday the bakery had been dark, but this morning the purple OPEN sign was lit. Marnie waved, not at anyone in particular but in the general direction of Ivy’s. No one waved back, though they had to have seen her. She wouldn’t allow them to completely ignore her. She waved again, more vigorously this time, and smiled widely. That led to a number of people deciding to stare down at the sidewalk.
At least she knew she’d been seen.
There was someone new on the street; someone Marnie didn’t notice until she reached the library door. A little girl, maybe eleven or twelve years old she’d guess, stepped onto the main street from a side road. She skipped, and blonde pigtails danced. The child wore baggy shorts and a pale green t-shirt, as well as white tennis shoes. Dressed for a lazy summer day, the girl smiled as if everything was right with the world. For her, maybe it was.
Marnie paused a minute and watched. There was such joy on the little girl’s face.
As if she knew she was being watched, the child looked at Marnie and — hallelujah — she waved before darting past an older couple and slipping into the bakery.
Surely the child got a better reception there than Marnie had.
She was disappointed — but not surprised — to find that the library only had a handful of books on Bigfoot. All but one was at least twenty years old. Of course there weren’t a lot of books on the subject. There weren’t many on unicorns, either, or mermaids. She decided to start with the oldest book first and move forward, saving the newest book for last. It was less than three years old, and a real find.
Last night she’d been tempted to email a couple of friends in Birmingham and tell them about Bigfoot, but in the end she had not. They’d think she’d lost her mind, that losing her job and the breakup with Jay had combined to unhinge her. Never mind that the split with Jay had been her idea and that she’d found this job right away. No, she needed proof first. A photo, maybe. A hair, so she could check the DNA? Ha, no. She did not intend to get close enough to pluck out a long Bigfoot hair.
There were quite a few photos that had been taken over the years, out of focus, blurry, indistinct photographs. Most had been deemed fake. But were they?
What she’d seen last night had not been fake. She could not blame the sighting on heat exhaustion or stress or the discomfort of a sweaty bra, not this time.
There was little in this world that Marnie liked better than research. She had her books, a notebook with a pretty cover, and three pens, in case one or two dried out as she took notes. She did keep an eye on the time, though. She shouldn’t be late unlocking the doors on her second day. At two minutes to nine, she set her research books aside and walked to the door, key in hand. Yesterday she’d waited all day for patrons. Today she kind of hoped no one came in, so she could continue her research uninterrupted.
When she had more details, she’d go back to the internet and restart that search with more information in hand. That would guide her to where she needed to be. Books would set her on the right path. They always did.
At five after nine, well before she could get back into her book, the door opened. She expected it might be Susan again, but when she caught a glimpse of red hair, she was certain it was Eve.
A sour expression and a purple apron — did she ever take it off? — told her it was Ivy. The baker who’d closed up shop on Marnie last night. The pretty woman with the impressive scowl.
Ivy sighed as she approached. It was a long-suffering type of sigh, accompanied by a disapproving frown. “I’ve been told to give you a chance. Here.” She plopped a smallish wicker basket on the counter. The contents were covered with a lavender napkin.
What was in that basket? Cookies or snakes? Maybe a poisonous spider or two. Maybe all three.
Marnie very cautiously lifted one corner of the napkin and peeked inside. Muffins, cinnamon judging by the scent. Cookies. Chocolate chip, her favorite. Some sort of chocolate covered ball. Candy, maybe, or a fancy kind of cookie. It all
looked delicious. But were these goodies safe to eat?
As if she’d read her mind, Ivy reached into the basket without looking and grabbed a cookie. She took a big bite, and again she sighed. “I’m a good baker. If I was going to poison you it would not be through one of my own creations. I’d put something in your coffee or slip a nasty drug into a dish my sister served you.”
“Great,” Marnie mumbled.
“You’re safe, for now.” Ivy waited, obviously wanting Marnie to eat something from the basket. Since she wasn’t really hungry, she went for one of the smallish balls. What the hell? Why not?
She popped the ball into her mouth and bit down.
The sensation was similar to the one she’d experienced last night, as she’d eaten Eve’s stew. The burst of flavor was outrageous. Raspberry and dark chocolate, her favorite dessert combination. Mostly the chocolate, but with the raspberry combined… Yum. She reached into the basket for another.
“I am going to gain so much weight with you right across the street,” she said as she ate another.
For the first time, at least that she’d seen, Ivy smiled. “No, you won’t. My treats come without calories.”
Marnie laughed. Maybe Ivy wasn’t so bad after all. At least she had a sense of humor. Some people took time to warm up to strangers, to make friends, to smile. Or at least not glare. Was it at all possible that Ivy might one day actually be a friend? It definitely seemed like a long shot.
As casually as she could manage, Marnie said, “I tried to stop by last night, but I missed you. When is your bakery open?”
“When I feel like it.”
That was not helpful, not at all. Marnie had a feeling the answer hadn’t been meant to be helpful.
Ivy turned on her heel and headed for the exit. Okay, she wasn’t as friendly as her sister. She might be a complete psycho. It was too early to tell.
But damn, she could cook.
“Thanks!” Marnie called out. Ivy didn’t respond.
When she was alone again Marnie ate another of the treats, a cookie this time, and in the process almost forgot about her research.
Almost.
Clint hadn’t had a house phone for years. He’d kept it for a while after his parents had passed, but service had always been unreliable. Any calls that had managed to come through on that number had been telemarketers or out and out scams. If someone in town could come up with a spell to block those calls, they’d make a fortune. Everyone used his cell, and that way he could be reached no matter where he was. He occasionally traveled for research and was sometimes away for days at a time.
When his cell rang, his immediate response was annoyance. The book he was working on was overdue. Not by a lot, but he hated to be late. With this book, he was definitely late.
Ivy’s name popped up on the screen, so he answered. She wouldn’t stop calling; she hated to be ignored.
“Yup,” he said into the phone.
“She’s investigating you,” Ivy said, her voice cool and clipped.
He didn’t have to ask who. “What makes you say that?”
“I was trying to be nice, like everyone said I should. Give her a chance. She’s not so bad. Get to know her.” Ivy’s voice was apparently meant to be a whiny impression of her sister, who in all honesty sounded exactly like her so no change in tone was necessary. “I took her a welcome basket of treats.”
“You’re not trying to poison her, are you?”
“No. Why does everyone think that? Sheesh. Poison one person, and from that day forward everyone assumes…” She sighed. “I really am trying, I swear. For now. Look, the cutesy librarian was sitting at the front desk with a stack of books. I couldn’t see the titles of all, but at least two were about you.”
Not JC Maxwell, author, he knew. That sort of research wouldn’t be cause for alarm. “She saw me,” he confessed. Twice. “She’ll poke around and find nothing, and then she’ll move on. Sooner or later something else will grab her attention.”
“Or else she’ll leave, which would be even better. I don’t care what Luke says, we don’t need her. We don’t need any outsiders.”
He didn’t try to argue with her. It would be a waste of breath. Ivy had had a bad experience with a Non-Springer. Four years had passed, but she didn’t seem to be anywhere near letting it go. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to scare her out of town, but judging by the way you defended her last night, that’s not going to happen. If she was twenty years older and not so pretty, I bet you’d be glad to scare her off. The least you can do is keep an eye on her, as you’ve been instructed to do.”
“She can research all she wants, she won’t find anything.”
Ivy gave into one of her long-suffering sighs, which was plenty loud enough for Clint to hear. As she’d certainly intended. “It would be best if her attentions were elsewhere. I have to go. My cookies are going to burn. Dammit!”
With that Ivy ended the call. Clint cursed as he set his phone aside. Mystic Springs’ baker never burned anything.
The call had completely pulled him out of the chapter he’d been working on. The idea for the scene had vanished, which meant it had probably been crap to begin with. What the hell? He could use a little distraction, and the new librarian would definitely make a pleasant diversion. He grabbed a book and headed for the front door.
The walk from his house — an eighteen hundred square foot upscale cabin in the woods just south of Mystic Springs proper — to town was just under two miles, and was a nice enough walk most of the year. In the worst heat of summer, which had not yet arrived, those two miles could be miserable, even for him. During those hellish days of summer he drove, taking the dirt road from the back of his cabin to the edge of town, down a side road to Main Street. Today the air was warm, but nowhere near miserable. The thick trees that lined the path kept the temps cool enough. He was tempted to strip down here and now and go for a run. A wild and free run in his natural state. But he didn’t.
It had taken a long while — years — but unlike his father, Clint had complete control of his abilities. He could feel the shift coming on; he could experience that tickle down his spine, acknowledge it, and then push the urge back. He was in control; there was power in taking command of such a powerful gift.
When he was away from Mystic Springs that command faded, over a period of a few days or even a couple of weeks. The drive to embrace the beast became stronger, which necessitated that he plan his public appearances carefully. He had to be able to get away at a moment’s notice.
If he stayed away long enough, his ability to shift would disappear entirely. He was never away from home any longer than he had to be.
Bigfoot. Yeti. Sasquatch. He and his kind had been called a lot of names over the years. So far no one outside a small circle realized that like a werewolf, or any were animal, Bigfoot was a shifter. Some of them, at least.
His control had improved significantly since high school, when the change had come more frequently, quicker, and often without warning. The nicknames the other kids had stuck him with in those years… the way the girls had laughed… those were not pleasant memories.
It wasn’t like he was the only shifter in Mystic Springs. The Milhouses were werewolves, but for some reason that was seen as being cooler than Clint’s own gift. Their shift was tied to the moon, they changed on a damn schedule, so they’d never embarrassed themselves in high school. They hadn’t been laughed at.
He’d had little control, those first couple of years, which had led to a handful of embarrassing high school moments. Sprouting hair during a stressful test, or growling in answer to a teacher’s question had not gone over well. By the time he was a senior things had been better, but it wasn’t as if the others didn’t remember, as if they didn’t know what he was.
He’d thought his high school girlfriend — and eventually wife — Jenna was different, but discovering that she’d made it her life’s purpose to change him had rocked his world,
for a while. He could thank her for that, in a twisted way. Until he’d found out Jenna wanted to take away that part of him, he hadn’t realized how important it was.
It was true. His ex-wife was a real witch.
There were many names for what he — and his father and grandfather and great-grandfather — was. Every culture had a Bigfoot legend, which made him wonder how many like him there were in the world. Were they truly like him, or were they always in their animal form? He had no way of knowing.
His father had preferred to call himself and his son Dyn Gwallt, rather than Bigfoot. Clint had always thought that sounded much more exotic than any of the other names he’d heard, until he’d found out Dyn Gwallt was simply Welsh for Hairy Man. Given that it was Welsh, his father — and he — had probably been mispronouncing the words, but Clint had no desire to amend that. Butchered as it was, Dyn Gwallt was his father’s word, and now was his. What difference did it make if it was mis-pronounced? He was likely the last of his kind, at least in this line of Maxwells. He didn’t see children in his future, especially not with the health of Mystic Springs itself in danger.
Those shifters who’d left Mystic Springs would’ve eventually lost their abilities. He imagined raising a seemingly normal child in a normal world would be easier than the isolation being a Springer required. Maybe subsequent generations didn’t even know what they were, or rather what they would be if they were here. If they were home.
He considered himself lucky. His father had never found any control. Had never particularly wanted control. With him the shift had always come without warning. They could be eating dinner, and his dad would begin to sprout long hairs on his face. A grunt and a curse word later, Terrence Maxwell was out the door, stripping off his clothes as he went.
Clint’s mother, a Springer herself and a cousin to Eve and Ivy’s mother, had been blessed with the patience of a saint.
His parents had been gone just over four years. A car wreck had killed them both. They never should’ve left Mystic Springs, not even for a day.
Bigfoot and the Librarian Page 5