"Then why didn't you tell us - me."
"I, well, didn't want to upset you. I mean, you'd just heard about the murder and I didn't want to add to the stress."
Bronwyn had never shown any concern for the welfare of her staff before. She was definitely up to something.
"Any chance the Council will reject this recommendation?"
"You want an honest answer?"
Give it a try. Take a holiday from falsehood. Treat your staff with respect. "Of course."
"I doubt it. I'm afraid that, these days, councils regard bricks-and-mortar libraries as an expensive luxury. Everyone has moved on-line and we're being left behind."
"What about our jobs?"
"They haven't talked to me about that, yet. When we do close, positions might become available in other libraries."
Might. Julia smelt a rat. "What about you - where will you go?"
Bronwyn feigned surprise. "Me?"
"Yes, you."
"Oh, I'll have to look around, I suppose."
Julia bet she kept quiet about the closure to give herself a head start in the job-hunting stakes. She shrugged and put some ice in her tone. "Thanks for keeping me in the loop. I'd better get the library ready for opening."
She went outside, cleaned out the overnight chute and put the books on a trolley. She'd just finished when the heavy front doors creak. Tom Birkett? Her heart fluttered as she pushed the trolley back to the borrowing counter.
No, it was Mr Cheshire, who ghosted past her without even a nod, looking as if storm clouds were brewing overhead.
A couple of minutes later, Tom Birkett did arrive. He wasn't wearing a dress uniformed spattered with medals. However, his black-leather motorcycle jacket and jeans were almost as good. He had a helmet under his arm and pack slung over his shoulder. She'd wondered a few times overnight if she'd over-estimated his hotness. Definitely not. Phwarrr.
Christ, did she say that aloud? If she did, he was too polite to mention it.
He stuffed his gloves into his helmet. "Hi."
"Hi," she said, not trusting herself to say more.
"You OK?"
"Yes, why?"
"You look a bit upset."
"Really? Oh, you gave me a bit of a fright, that's all."
"Sorry." He held up his helmet. "I'll put this in the workroom. Then you can put me to work."
"Has Bronwyn's allocated you a locker?"
He held up a key. "Yep, all sorted out."
She considered mentioning the story in the Voice, but it didn't really concern a temporary employee like him. As he wandered off, her heart thudded the way crap romantic novelists said it should when True Love arrived. To calm herself, she sat in front of a computer and started checking in the pile of returns she'd retrieved from the chute. Her pulse steadied.
The front doors opened again and Gary sauntered into the library. "Hi, you the first here?"
"No, Mr Cheshire and Tom are already here."
He leered. "Tom, huh?"
She flushed. "What's wrong with that? What should I call him - Mr Birkett?"
Crossed arms. "You know, there's something very fishy about that guy. He's even weirder than Mr Cheshire, which says something."
"What's so weird about him?"
"He's too smooth, for a start. And I bet he's never worked in a library before."
"Why do you say that?"
"Yesterday, someone asked him for an autobiography and he started looking in the .500s. Even I know they're in the .900s."
"He fell into your trap, huh?"
"Fell into his own trap. So the big question is: what the hell's going on? First some old git gets murdered and then Tom Cruise turns up and pretends to be a librarian. All very odd. You know what I reckon?"
"What?"
"He's a police undercover agent."
She'd heard lots of rubbish spew from Gary's mouth; now, he'd outdone himself. He sounded jealous of Tom, though she couldn't work out why. "Don't be ridiculous."
"No, think about it: there's been a murder, right?"
"Yes."
"Maybe the police suspect someone in this library and sent someone in undercover."
"That's silly."
"No it's not. Someone gets murdered, then Brad Pitt arrives and calls himself a librarian."
"You said he looks like Tom Cruise."
A shrug. "They look the same to me."
"Stop being dumb. He is a librarian."
"No, he's not. He's way too good to be true."
"Don't be silly. We were looking for a temp librarian before the murder. And if they sent an undercover agent, they'd have made sure he was more librarian-looking. You read too many crime novels."
"Actually, I don't read any: I'm a sci-fi guy - you know that."
"Anyway, they'd only send in an undercover agent if someone working at this library murdered the old guy, and that's rubbish."
"Is it?"
"Yes, unless there's something you haven't told me."
"What do you mean?"
"Only two people in this library could have murdered the old guy: you and Mr Cheshire."
"What about you and Bronwyn?"
"We're not strong enough to strangle anyone."
"Why not?"
"We're women, you idiot."
He grinned. "That's sexist. I reckon you're a lot stronger than me."
"Oh, stop being so fucking annoying."
He shrugged. "Alright, but when the excrement hits the air-circulation apparatus, or whatever, don't pretend it's all a big shock. Now, I've got to lockerise my stuff."
"OK. But, before you go, did you look in the Bradfield Village Voice this morning?"
"No, what about it?"
"It says the Council's library committee has voted to recommend this library be closed."
"Shit no?"
"Shit yes."
"What does Bronwyn say?"
"She says it's true."
"Why didn't she tell her loyal troops?"
"She probably didn't want us to block her escape route."
"Hah, that sounds right." A big shrug. "Lucky I don't give a shit about this job."
"Well, I do. This is my profession and it's disappearing down the toilet."
He reddened. "Sorry, that was thoughtless."
Why was he displaying his sensitivity? "Sure was."
"I'd better leave you alone then." He wandered off to the workroom.
A few minutes later, at nine o'clock, Julia opened the big front doors and allowed the handful of people waiting outside to enter.
Back at the borrowing counter, she found Tom Birkett sitting on a stool, waiting for her.
He said: "What do you want me to do?"
He'd be shocked if she told the truth. "Stay here and I'll give you a bit more training on the computer system."
She spent the next hour training him on the system while dealing with any patrons who fronted up with annoying questions. Didn't they understand that she wanted no distractions while she worked with him? Gary reckoned Tom hadn't worked in a library before. But he had a solid grasp of how library computer systems worked, even if he hadn't operated this particular type before. He was certainly very bright and easy to instruct.
She waited an excruciatingly long time before gently prying into his private life. "How long does it take you to get here in the morning?"
"Not long, I live in Rozelle," he said, nominating a suburb about two kilometres away.
"By yourself?"
"No, I share a terrace."
Share, not live with. "Oh? Then you're not married?" Jesus, that was a bit direct. She tried not to wince.
He smiled. "No, I share with a couple of guys."
A couple of guys. He was handsome, slim, well-mannered and lived with a couple of guys. She bet he never missed a Mardi Gras. He didn't act camp, but that meant nothing these days.
After emitting a long inner sigh, she decided it was best to assume he was gay and unattainable. That way, she could lust
after him while wearing a parachute.
She'd already spent far too much time mooning over him. Time to shelve a few books. "You think you can handle the counter by yourself?"
"Yes."
"Good. If you have any trouble, yell."
She pushed a trolley over to the reference shelves, and had just shelved a couple of books when Mr Woodward wandered into the library with his dog on a lead. Both were old, gaunt, grumpy and smelly. Julia had told Mr Woodward several times that he wasn't allowed to bring the dog into the library, only to be ignored. The last time she demanded he remove it and he told her to "fuck off". They left twenty minutes later and the smell of dog urine lingered for two days.
As Mr Woodward led his dog up to the borrowing counter, she slipped behind a bookshelf and peered through a gap.
Mr Woodward said something to Tom, who looked down at the dog, frowned, said something in reply and pointed at the entrance. The old guy shook his head, spoke abruptly and tightened his grip on the leash. His cur growled.
Tom leaned over the counter, grabbed a lapel, dragged the old man close and yelled: "Take the dog outside, now!"
"You can't talk to me like that."
Tom twisted the lapel to bring Mr Woodward even closer. Their faces almost touched and he spoke in a low voice she couldn't hear. Then he released the lapel.
Mr Woodward stumbled back and squealed. "How dare you."
"Out."
The nape of Mr Woodward's neck grew ruddy. "No."
Tom moved from behind the counter and Julia felt a primal desire to see him beat the bejeezus out of Mr Woodward before tossing the old fool out of the library. Unfortunately, Mr Woodward scurried back several steps, taking his dog with him, and straightened up. "I'll complain about this."
"Out." Tom kept advancing.
Mr Woodward turned and half-scurried towards the door, dog trailing behind.
Tom returned behind the counter and Julia strolled up to him. "You don't like dogs?"
A relaxed smile. "I love them, but not inside libraries. What a cheek."
"He does it all the time, you know, because we always complain and then fold."
Another smile. "Now he knows there's a new sheriff in town. But I can catch him and apologise, if you want."
"Don't bother. What did you say that made him so upset?"
"Oh, I told him that, if he didn't take the dog outside, I'd wrap the leash around his neck and make his eyes pop out."
She giggled. "That was pretty direct."
He shrugged. "He gave me no choice."
Was he being serious or droll? Most male librarians would put their hand in a fire to avoid a confrontation. She wondered if Gary was right when he claimed Tom Birkett had never worked as a librarian before. If so, why had Tom washed up in their library?
She has just resumed shelving books when Bronwyn appeared at her shoulder and eyed her actions like an anthropologist observing a strange tribal custom.
Bronwyn said: "How's our new librarian shaping up?"
Julia squeezed a book into place. "I think he'll be fine."
An eye-roll. "Isn't he divine? I'd love to trap him between some bookshelves. Maybe I should offer him a permanent job."
"Already? He's only been here one day."
"My instincts are usually good. And, my God, he's handsome. I'd given up hope of ever seeing a good-looking male librarian. They're like unicorns." She sighed. "I wish I could sit with him at the borrowing counter. You don't know how lucky you are."
Julia cleanse her tone of sarcasm. "You could give it a try?"
"Can't - too risky. If I catch a bug and it puts me out of action, we'll be terribly short-staffed." Bronwyn shifted on her feet the way she did when about to lighten her responsibilities and increase Julia's. "Listen pet, I've got a favour to ask …"
"What?"
"You know we're holding an Author Talk this evening?"
The library regularly held gatherings at which a guest author spoke about his work. That evening, the guest was a successful thriller writer called Tex McMillan, who lived in Bradfield. His fictional protagonist was a former SAS colonel-turned-priest-turned-ancient historian called Troy Heckman who raced around the globe hunting for rare manuscripts which contain information more dangerous than a thermo-nuclear device. In the process, he ran a gauntlet of terrifying secret religious orders, crazed religious leaders, unscrupulous rival historians, brutal criminal gangs and over-sexed escapees from convents.
Julia enjoyed low-brow fiction if it had some wit and style. However, the one time she dipped into a McMillan novel she discovered turgid prose, wooden characters and a ridiculous plot, and didn't even bother skipping to the end. She had read a book review in which he was described as "… Dan Brown-lite" - as if Dan Brown could afford to lose weight - and "… the literary equivalent of bad breath".
However, despite his shortcomings - or probably because of them - he'd sold millions of books around the world and the copies held at the library usually jumped off the shelves. She'd even read media speculation that a Hollywood studio was going to make a Heckman movie, with a major heart-throb in the starring role.
Julia knew where Bronwyn was heading. "What about it?"
"I can't make it: got a hairdressing appointment which, of course, is a top priority. Will you be a dear and fill in? You'll get overtime, of course, and I know you like books and authors a lot more than me."
"What about Mr Cheshire?"
A puzzled stare. "What about him?"
"He could do it."
"You kidding? He's not exactly a people person, is he?" She giggled. "People would run out screaming."
Julia had already hosted several Author Talks after Bronwyn dropped out. At first, she was shy and nervous about speaking in public, but she had grown in confidence and did, as Bronwyn said, like books and authors. She just wished Bronwyn gave her more notice. A shrug. "No probs, I'll do it."
"Thanks. Now, just to impress him, we'd better create a display of his books out the front. You know what precious little petals these authors are - love a bit of stroking. Will you organise that?"
"Sure."
"Great. Thank God I can depend on you." She shifted again on her feet. "Which reminds me: I won't be here on Monday. The Australian Librarians' Association is holding a conference at the Casino. The main session is called "The Future of the Public Library". I think we're gonna be told there isn't one. That means you'll be in charge."
Bronwyn loved attending library conferences all over Australia, despite the money she spent putting a big hole in their acquisitions budget.
Julia was happy to be left in charge, but was annoyed she would be paid nothing extra. "Why are you giving me the job? Why not Mr Cheshire?"
"Because I trust you. Anyway, he's got Monday off. Gary will be here and you'll have Tom Birkett to help."
She sighed. "OK."
"Thanks. I won't forget this," Bronwyn said as she fed her gratitude into a mental shredder and headed back to her office.
At twelve-thirty, Julia took an hour off for lunch. As usual, she strolled a couple of hundred metres down the main street to the Spoons Cafe to buy a take-away sandwich at its front counter. While standing in a short queue, waiting to be served, she glanced around the café. It had about a dozen tables for patrons who wanted to eat indoors. Most were occupied. At the furthest table, Mr Cheshire sat across from a man in a tweed coat, coffees between them. She couldn't hear what they were saying. But their scowling and finger-pointing indicated a heated argument.
Now curious, she studied the man in the tweed coat. He was about fifty, with a shock of grey-flecked brown hair, a solid face, swarthy complexion and a scar on his cheek. His expression said he was not to be trifled with. Though he looked familiar, she couldn't remember where she'd seen him before.
The man behind the counter gave her a sandwich in exchange for her money. She was tempted to keep standing there, watching the two men bicker. However, there was a serious danger one would turn and
catch her staring. She left the café, wandered into the small park in front of the Post Office, sat on a bench and ate the sandwich while reading a book.
Back at the library, she decided to set up a display in honour of Tex McMillan. On a green-baize table next to the front entrance, there was already a display commemorating the Worranori tribe, which inhabited the Bradfield area until white settlers wiped them out with guns and disease.
Julia set up a small card table next to it and created a display to commemorating the life and work of Tex McMillan. It was far from impressive: just a couple of promotional posters pinned to the wall and, on the table, a framed photo of the author next to several of his books nervously standing on their spines.
She set up two dozen folding chairs in the main reading room. Then, at the regular closing time of six o'clock, she left the front doors open and let attendees flow in. Many were regular patrons; few were under sixty. By six-thirty, about fifty people were seated in the main reading room, waiting for the author to arrive.
Julia tended to idealise authors. Even while struggling to read Tex McMillan's novel, she imagined him sitting in front of his computer, looking roguishly handsome and sucking on a cigar, while casually dashing off the novel. Sometimes he wore a bomber jacket; sometimes just a T-shirt that revealed huge pecs.
However, in real life, he was a short and chubby, with just enough misty hair to create a hairline. He wore a corduroy jacket over a T-shirt and jeans. She thought he was an audience member, until she realised he was too young for that and she'd seen his face in a touched-up photo on the display table.
She said: "Hi, I'm Julia Schmidt. I'm hosting this evening."
A frown. "Bronwyn isn't coming?"
"She has an important commitment she can't break, I'm afraid."
McMillan noticed the display erected in his honour and took a half-step towards it, then realised it wasn't worth looking at or complimenting and stepped back. "Hmm, I suppose we'd better get started."
"Yes, please follow me."
She led him into the main reading area, where she asked everyone to be quiet. After welcoming them and introducing herself, she said: "Tonight, we are privileged to have the highly successful novelist, Tex McMillan, here to talk about his career and answer your questions. This afternoon, I checked our computer system and saw that, during the last 12 months, we lent out his books more than fifty times. That makes him one of our most popular authors. I'm sure you'll be very interested to hear what he's got to say."
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