Better Late Than Never

by Jenn McKinlay

“Lindsey, can I talk to you for a second?”

  Lindsey turned to see Paula standing in the doorway. She was holding a book in her hands and looked excited.

  “Sure, what is it?” Lindsey asked as she crossed the room.

  “This book,” Paula said. “It’s my sure thing. It has to be the winner for the category of most overdue item.”

  To keep the staff entertained during the flood of incoming materials, Lindsey had offered up prizes for the staff member who found the most overdue item or the most abused material. The prize was a free pizza because Lindsey had discovered during the past couple of years as director that food was always a motivator for her staff.

  “Really?” Lindsey took the book and glanced at the cover. It was The Catcher in the Rye and it looked to be in good shape. “How overdue is it?”

  “Judging by the slip that was left inside, the book was due on October twenty-third, nineteen ninety-six.” Paula pointed to a yellowed piece of paper. “Twenty years.”

  “No way,” Lindsey said.

  “Way,” Paula said. “So, I’m down for the free pizza from Marco’s Pizzeria, right?”

  Lindsey pointed to the clock. “The contest goes until closing time today, but so far it looks like you’re in the lead.”

  Paula pumped her fist.

  “Did someone say pizza?” Mary asked. She had moved from the soup to the veggie platter but her eyes lit up at the word pizza.

  “Not for you,” Lindsey said. “Go put your name and the book’s name on the leader board, Paula. I’d like to keep the book though.”

  “Will do,” Paula said. She left the room with one more pump of her fist.

  “Wow, twenty years overdue, what ILS were they using back then?” Beth asked.

  “Dynix?” Lindsey guessed. She glanced at the book, which looked to have been well taken care of over the years. “Remember we learned about that integrated library system in grad school? Let’s see, if we calculate the fine at today’s going rate of twenty cents per day for twenty years, we’re looking at . . . help me out, somebody.”

  “About seventy-three dollars per year, which would be fourteen hundred sixty dollars,” Mary said.

  They all looked at her.

  “What?” she asked. “I’m good with numbers.”

  “Impressive,” Nancy said.

  “As opposed to ignominious,” Violet joked.

  “Good thing you’re having an amnesty,” Charlene said. “Can you imagine paying that fine?”

  “We’d never charge more than the cost of the book, but you’re right it’s steep, although not as bad as Keith Richards’s library fines I’ll bet,” Lindsey said.

  “Keith Richards the rock star?” Violet asked.

  “The one and only,” Lindsey said. “Apparently, he was quite the library lover in his youth. In his autobiography, he said the library was the only place he would willingly obey the laws, like silence. And he admitted he was a bookworm who checked out books but never returned them. He has something like fifty years in fines racked up in Dartford, Kent.”

  “Ha! Can you imagine Ms. Cole taking on Keith Richards?” Nancy asked. “I’d pay to see that.”

  “Me, too,” Violet snorted.

  “Who do you suppose had this book checked out for twenty years?” Charlene asked. “And why return it now?”

  “I’ll bet the lemon knows,” Beth said. “She never forgets an overdue book.”

  “She can’t have kept the records that far back, can she?” Lindsey asked.

  Beth pointed her scepter at her. “Only one way to find out.”

  Lindsey shrugged. Holding the book close, she went to find Ms. Cole.

  “Ms. Cole, may I interrupt you for a moment?” Lindsey approached the circulation desk with caution.

  With carts of books all around her, Ms. Cole looked like a military general addressing the troops. She glanced at Lindsey and picked up three books that looked as if they’d exploded. The covers were warped and the pages were yellowed and wrinkled, indicating severe water damage.

  “I think these swam ashore,” Ms. Cole observed. She lowered her reading glasses and looked at Lindsey over the top. It was her I-told-you-so look.

  “They are in less than ideal condition,” Lindsey conceded.

  “Less than ideal? They’re a disaster. And look at this!” Ms. Cole held up a book for Lindsey to see. “This book smells like it smokes a pack a day.”

  She waved it under Lindsey’s nose. The pungent smell of stale tobacco smoke curled Lindsey’s nose hair.

  “Discard pile,” she said. “But on the upside, you’re in the lead for most damaged item.”

  “Thrill me,” Ms. Cole said.

  Lindsey wanted to wave her hand in front of her face to dispel the stink of the damaged book but she resisted, knowing it would only please Ms. Cole to prove her point that amnesty day was a bad idea because now damaged materials were being turned in without penalty and patrons would not be billed for replacements.

  Lindsey happened to think it was worth it to clear people’s records and allow them to borrow again instead of holding them hostage for overdue materials and replacement costs. She and Ms. Cole were just going to have to agree to disagree, but the lemon wasn’t quite there yet.

  “Look at it this way,” Lindsey said. “We are clearing up old records and gathering a list for replacements—”

  “That will have to come out of our existing budget,” Ms. Cole argued.

  Lindsey sighed. They’d been on this merry-go-round since Lindsey had announced her plan to have an amnesty day. As far as Ms. Cole was concerned there was no brass ring. Lindsey knew there was no way she was ever going to convince the lemon that the one-day return forgiveness with no questions asked was a good idea. Fine. Time to move on.

  “We did get a return that might interest you,” Lindsey said. She held up the copy of J. D. Salinger’s book, which was in excellent condition. “Twenty years overdue judging by the due slip inside and still in excellent condition.”

  Ms. Cole gave her a suspicious look. She dumped the smoke-saturated book into a plastic tub for discards and held out her hand for the copy of The Catcher in the Rye. She turned the book over to examine it and thumbed through the pages. Then she looked at the due-date slip. Her lips compressed into a thin line and she turned and strode away from the desk leaving Lindsey to follow or not. Lindsey followed.

  Ms. Cole tucked the book under her arm and led the way through the stacks to the storage room in the back of the library. This was where the library kept its odds and ends, holiday decorations, old wooden trucks that weren’t broken but were heavy to push, extra step stools, vintage equipment like old library-card punchers that weren’t in demand anymore but were still functional. It was also where the library kept files of old records. Or more accurately, it was where Ms. Cole kept her files of old overdue notices.

  The lemon always wore her key to the back rooms of the library on a red spiral rubber cord around her wrist. It was the only fashion accessory that she ever wore besides the beaded cord for her reading glasses and her wristwatch.

  She used her key to open the door and flipped on the light switch. The lone overhead fluorescent light sputtered to life and did its best to beat back the gloom in the windowless room. It didn’t reach into the far corners and Lindsey had to suppress a shiver. She blamed Dean Koontz and his Odd Thomas series. Deep, dark shadows always gave her a jump scare thanks to him.

  Ms. Cole strode through the room to the back, where the file cabinets lined the far wall. This was her domain, where she kept the old records sorted by due date. They went back a good thirty-five years, essentially, when Ms. Cole was given control of circulation. She opened the drawer that covered the mid–nineteen nineties and flipped through the half sheets of paper held together in bunches by paperclips.

  She peered through
her reading glasses while she searched, finally extracting a small stack of paper. She read through the stack until she found her match. She moved back under the light with the paper in hand. Lindsey watched her, wondering if she was ever planning to share.

  Ms. Cole looked at the book and then at the papers. Her face drained of all color and she staggered to the side, clutching an old wooden cart to keep herself from falling over.

  “Oh, goodness no,” she said. When she glanced at Lindsey her face was stricken with shock and grief. “It was hers.”

  The book and the papers fell from her fingers and Ms. Cole listed to the side as if she didn’t have the strength to remain upright. Lindsey jumped forward to grab her before she keeled over on the spot.

  “Ms. Cole, what is it?” Lindsey asked. “What did you find?”

  The lemon shook her head as if she couldn’t put voice to the horror of what she’d just discovered. Lindsey put her arm around her and helped her sit on an old padded chair that had been surplused from the office when someone had spilled a cup of coffee on it, staining the upholstery beyond repair.

  Lindsey knelt in front of Ms. Cole to study her face. She was deathly pale and beads of sweat dotted her upper lip. Despite the perspiration, she was shivering and looked like she might faint.

  “Are you all right?” Lindsey asked. “Do you want me to call someone?”

  “It’s the book,” Ms. Cole said. She pointed with shaky fingers to the book that was now facedown on the floor. “It was checked out to Candice Whitley.”

  Lindsey glanced at the book. She knelt to pick it up along with the overdue notices that had fallen all around it like scattered leaves on a chilly autumn wind.

  “Candice Whitley,” Lindsey said. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

  Ms. Cole opened her mouth to speak but she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. She was gasping and panting. Lindsey thought she might be choking but that made no sense. Her generous bosom was heaving but she didn’t seem to be getting enough air.

  “Ms. Cole, are you . . . Oh . . . You’re hyperventilating!” Lindsey cried. She dropped the book and the papers on a cart and glanced around the storage room as if there might be something to help the situation. “Here. Put your head between your knees and try to calm down. I’ll be right back.”

  Lindsey helped the lemon to lean forward then she bolted out the door, running through the library to the staff break room where she knew there were some paper lunch sacks. She yanked open the cabinet and grabbed one, sending all the other contents of the cupboard onto the counter with a crash.

  “Lindsey! What’s going on?” Milton Duffy, a library board member and one of Lindsey’s favorite patrons, was standing in the doorway, wearing his usual tracksuit, looking shocked by her behavior.

  “Ms. Cole is hyperventilating!” Lindsey cried. “Follow me!”

  Milton was currently dating Ms. Cole. No one had quite figured out the attraction between the two opposites, but now was not the time to dwell.

  Lindsey had known Ms. Cole for a while and she had never, never seen her come undone like this, not even when there’d been a dead body found in her precious library. The fact that she was hyperventilating made Lindsey feel like she might sympathy hyperventilate, almost like sympathy crying but with a lack of carbon dioxide and potential for passing out instead of tears.

  Lindsey ran back to the storage room with Milton on her heels. The door was open just as she’d left it, with its flickering fluorescent overhead light giving the room a ghoulish glow. Ms. Cole was still in the chair, looking the worse for wear as she was panting and trembling.

  “Eugenia!” Milton cried. He snatched the bag from Lindsey’s hand, snapped it open and held it over Ms. Cole’s nose and mouth. “Easy, my dear. Try to calm your breathing.”

  Ms. Cole nodded and used one hand to grasp his. It was an unusually vulnerable gesture from the unflappable Ms. Cole and Lindsey felt as if she was intruding on the tender moment between the couple, so she turned her back to them to give them some privacy. She gathered the book and the papers from the cart, trying to keep busy sorting them while Ms. Cole regained her equilibrium.

  Finally, Milton removed the bag and Ms. Cole slumped against the back of the chair. She was still pale but not deathly so and she didn’t seem quite as shaky as she had.

  “There,” Milton said. “You’re getting your color back.”

  “Thank you.” Ms. Cole took a slow breath as if to be sure she wasn’t going to start wheezing again.

  “What happened? You two ladies didn’t get into a brawl over library policy, did you?” he asked.

  Lindsey and Ms. Cole gave him reproving looks.

  “We are not that uncivilized,” Ms. Cole said. “We do not scuffle like rabble.”

  “No, of course not, but we all know the amnesty day has been a bone of contention between you two,” Milton said. “Emotions have been running high.”

  “Be that as it may,” Ms. Cole said, “this is much more horrible than encouraging people to continue their bad behavior.”

  Lindsey stopped herself from rolling her eyes. Barely.

  “So what is it? What did you discover?” Lindsey asked. “I don’t understand why you were so upset to see that this book was checked out by—what was her name?—oh, yeah. Candice Whitley.”

  Milton gasped. He glanced at Ms. Cole in shock and she nodded. Lindsey noted the matching looks of horror on their faces but for the life of her she couldn’t figure out what the significance was about Candice Whitley.

  “You’re not going to start hyperventilating now, are you?” she asked Milton.

  “No,” he said. “Just give me a second.”

  He stood up straight in what Lindsey recognized as Mountain Pose. Milton was a longtime yogi, who frequently practiced in the library. She and Ms. Cole waited while he meditated through his upset.

  “All right,” he said. He relaxed into a casual stance and looked at Ms. Cole. “Are you sure it was checked out to her?”

  “Yes, and it gets worse,” she said. She reached out and gripped his hand in hers. “I counted the days back three weeks from the due date and I am quite sure it was checked out to her on the day she was murdered.”

  “Murdered?” Lindsey asked.

  “I’m afraid so,” Milton said. He looked a little shaky and Lindsey grabbed a chair for him to sit down beside Ms. Cole.

  “Wait,” Lindsey said. She began to pace. Now she remembered the name. Candice Whitley. “She was the high school English teacher who was strangled and left for dead under the football stadium bleachers at the high school back in the nineties, right?”

  Ms. Cole nodded. Her black attire seemed suddenly apt given the expression of grief on her face. Lindsey wondered how well Ms. Cole had known Candice Whitley, as she seemed to be awfully rattled by the subject of her death. Then again, it was murder, and that could shake the stoutest heart.

  “And you’re certain she checked out this book on the day she died?” Lindsey asked.

  Again, Ms. Cole nodded, then she took a deep breath as if willing the words to come to her.

  “The book was due Wednesday, October twenty-third, which, given our three-week lending policy, means it was checked out on October second, which was the day Candice was murdered,” she said. Her voice was wobbly and Milton put his arm around her and drew her close.

  Lindsey looked at the book in her hands and felt the hair on the back of her neck prickle with unease. She looked at Milton and Ms. Cole and knew they were thinking the same thing she was.

  “So, it could be that someone found the book in their belongings and decided to return it,” she said.

  Milton ran a hand over his bald head and then stroked his neatly trimmed goatee. He looked as unsettled as Lindsey had ever seen him. She knew he was thinking the same thing she was.

  “Or it could be that th
e person who returned the book . . .” Lindsey paused. The idea was so awful she wasn’t sure she could say it out loud.

  Ms. Cole’s voice was very soft when she whispered, “Was Candice Whitley’s murderer.”

  Lindsey felt her knees go wobbly, as if they had withstood enough of the scary stuff and were going to give out now. She stiffened her legs. She was not going to buckle on mere speculation even if it did seem bad, really bad.

  She glanced at the papers in her hand and looked for the one that belonged with the book. There was no doubt that this was a very uncomfortable situation. She didn’t like it, mostly, because she had come to realize over the past few years that unlikely coincidences usually weren’t coincidences at all. She had to do something with this book and its overdue notice. Give them to the police. Something.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  She let Milton and Ms. Cole lead the way out of the room and then switched off the light and locked the door behind them. Together they walked back to the main part of the library.

  “Paula just found this book with the slip in it. Maybe someone checked it out after Candice,” she said. “Do we have any access to the old circulation records?”

  Ms. Cole shook her head. “No. While I do keep a hard copy of overdue notices, mostly for people who think they can argue with me, I purge the database records for lost items and expired library cards every two years. We’ve upgraded to new systems three times since this book was checked out. It appears this book has not circulated in a very long time.”

  “Is there any way to tell when it was returned today?” Milton asked.

  “Since it’s no longer in the computer system, there’d be no record for it,” Lindsey said. “If Paula just found it, do we know if the books she was sorting were recently returned?”

  “No, she was working on the huge pile that was shoved into the book drop last night. It could have been returned any time since we emptied the drop at closing yesterday, which was sixteen hours ago,” Ms. Cole said.

  Lindsey glanced at Milton and Ms. Cole. They both looked wiped out, as if they’d been caught in an unexpected storm.