The Body in the Bookmobile

by Connie B Dowell

  “Graham, I need the highest gravity beer you got,” Adam bellowed. “I am sick to death of Martin Day.”

  This time it was Flor’s turn to whisper. “Martin is a retired librarian. You’ll probably meet him tomorrow.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Graham’s voice held a tone of surprise. “He always seemed like a nice enough guy to me.”

  “Me too,” said Adam, “at first. He’s nice enough to me, but he’s stirring up trouble that I have to deal with. I thought he was on the up and up, but that farmer neighbor of his, Frank something, keeps hounding me. He came right into the kitchen this afternoon, marched himself in, no phone call, no respect for employees-only signs. All to complain about Martin Day.”

  Abby whispered again. “I bet it’s about the cell towers. The whole town’s been up in arms over the proposed towers for months now. Though I think it’s about time they joined the twenty-first century.”

  Adam’s booming voice carried over the crowded pub. “That Frank is a piece of work, too. You know when he said?” He didn’t wait for Graham to reply. “He said he was so mad at Martin he was going to kill him.”

  Millie took a long sip of her hefeweizen. Well, well, well. It looked like the county folks had even worse tempers than Millie did herself.

  2

  Chapter 2

  Millie stepped out into the cool air of morning, travel mug of coffee in hand and descended the stairs. The cooing sound startled her as she reached the bottom. Todd again. He was absent from the steps when she returned the night before, so she’d forgotten all about him until she almost stepped on him.

  “I guess I should remember to bring you some breadcrumbs or something next time.”

  Todd merely blinked his pigeon eyes at her.

  “Out of the way, please.”

  Todd blinked again and finally fluttered away when Millie nudged him with her foot.

  Millie yawned as she strode down the sidewalk. The dusty, old futon Peter’s previous roommate had left wasn’t as uncomfortable as it had looked, but she was still getting used to the sounds of the new place. Being downtown, this apartment was a little noisier than what she was used to. She woke a few times during the night to hear people talking on the sidewalk below and, at one point, a poorly played accordion from somewhere nearby. At another point, she heard two very drunk men having an argument about who loved the other more, complete with ridiculous comparison. They started out with the usual: “I love you, man. You’re like a brother to me.” But then it progressed, and eventually one of them claimed he loved the other more than cauliflower, to which the other responded that, no, his love was greater because: “I love you more than eggplant!”

  Millie took a sip of her coffee as she walked and it was all she could do not to spit it out. It had been very kind of Peter to set the coffee maker’s delay brew function for her. He must have done it when he got in the night before. She wasn’t sure because Peter finished work so late. She shrugged. She would take a nice roommate with crummy coffee any day. She’d just have to find a tactful way to take over the coffee brewing process or visit one of the many lovely-smelling coffee shops she was passing on her walk to work. She sniffed the aroma, wishing she’d left herself a little extra time to stop on her way.

  She took another swig of the awful coffee. This would be a good life. A real fresh start. No punching anyone, no ex-boyfriend asking what she was honestly going to do with her life. She would make friends. She would keep her cool. Everything would be perfect. If Millie believed that, really believed that, how could it fail to come true?

  Millie entered the library parking lot just in time to see Flor climbing out of her red pickup.

  “Good. You’re bright and early. Lots to do before we get going.”

  First, they loaded up some boxes for the van. Flor explained the bookmobile had a standing collection and some stock from the main library that was rotated out every six weeks. They didn’t need to do that for another few weeks, but there were a number of hold books to be delivered on this morning’s route. They had to put those in carefully organized boxes. There were also some patrons who had entire boxes full of books. Some homebound or nursing home patrons could read dozens of books a week, so Flor and the previous bookmobile driver set aside boxes of paperbacks that had been donated to the library just for these folks who had such a voracious reading appetite that the biweekly bookmobile visits would never be enough. They could have all they wanted from these donated paperbacks in popular genres, without having to deal with the red tape of checking out dozens and dozens of books at a time.

  “Something I love about the bookmobile service and some of the smaller branch libraries,” said Flor, “is that you can really get to know our patrons in a way that can be hard at the bigger main library. For example, a lot of these homebound folks have trouble browsing the shelves, so you really get to be a reader’s advisor, getting to know their tastes and bringing them a lot of options. It’s a personal kind of service that’s hard to find nowadays.”

  They loaded the boxes, and Millie got her first good look at the bookmobile itself. It was a massive van. Millie was a little nervous about how she would do, driving it all on her own. The outside was painted with the logo of the Westin County Library system as well as a landscape scene, a view of hills and valleys in bright green and yellow with a few vineyards visible, against the backdrop of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Except they weren’t mountains but books spines arranged in that shape. Inside was a tight space, simply packed with books. Shelves lined both exterior walls, with space for Millie and Flor to stow the crates containing all the hold books underneath.

  “Do the books ever go flying off while you’re driving?” asked Millie.

  Flor laughed. “Once or twice they have. But mostly they stay put. See the lips on the shelving.” She pointed. Indeed, each shelf had a little upward curve at the edge to keep the books in place.

  “All right,” said Flor, as they slid the last box in place. “We’re loaded. Let’s gas up and hit the road.”

  Millie climbed into the passenger seat, and Flor sat in the driver’s seat. Just as Flor started the engine, they spotted Abby walking through the parking lot on her way into the employee entrance of the library. She waved to them, and Flor rolled the window down.

  “Have a great morning in the children’s department,” called Flor.

  “Y’all have a good morning too. And watch out for those Wild Wanderers folks,” she added with a half laugh. “The Wild Wanderers, that’s what we call our outdoors club, Millie, are having a board meeting today at The Ridge Road Hotel.”

  Flor smiled. “We’ll be on the lookout for retirees in hiking boots.”

  Abby headed inside and Flor pulled out of the parking space.

  It was a short drive through city streets until they were on the highway, the small city of Sorrelville disappearing behind them.

  “So first we will hit up Winding Creek,” said Flor. “We’ll park in the center of town, just across from the Ridge Road Hotel. Then, we will move on to a nursing home not far from town. Finally, we’ll stop at the community center that’s kind of on the outskirts of Sorrelville as we head back to the main library.”

  “Sounds good.” They were turning off the highway onto country roads now, the roadsides dotted with late summer bachelor’s buttons.

  “One thing I love about going to little out-of-the-way places like Winding Creek is all the history you can find there, just from talking to folks. Did you know, for example, that the winding creek for which the town was named was the site of not only a Civil War battle but a Revolutionary War battle as well?” Flor asked.

  Millie, being new to town, did not know. As they drove, Flor filled her in on the battles, information she had gotten not just by studying local historical records but talking to actual descendants of soldiers in each of those wars.

  “Oh, you’ll love these folks. They’re a hoot! This one lady, she’s got to be ninety if she’s a day, and she r
emembers every moment of those ninety years. All the history that was ever passed down. All the gossip too.” Flor winked. “I hear you’re a bit feisty yourself—a punch to the nose, eh?”

  Millie’s blood ran cold. “H-how… You know about that?”

  Every day for a month, anti-LGBTQ+ protesters—more like harrassers—had marched around the campus of Millie’s law school. One of them began stopping students routinely to lecture them about the “danger of the gay agenda.” And one afternoon, he picked Millie to stop. As a proud bisexual person, and more importantly as a person with a conscience who didn’t like seeing others oppressed, she wasn’t too happy about that. The lecture turned into an argument, which escalated to a punch on the nose.

  Millie’s law school grades already had her on thin ice. It just… didn’t seem to be her thing. She was lucky enough that the guy ran off instead of calling the cops and pressing charges. But the news was out. The dean sat her down and didn’t kick her out, but strongly encouraged her to rethink her career plan.

  “Don’t worry,” said Flor. She was smiling. “I knew back when I interviewed you. To be honest, I’d have been tempted to slug him too. I’m happy to have someone on board with a strong moral compass. Just so long as you don’t deck anybody else.”

  “I’ll remember that.” Millie slumped in her seat with a sigh of relief.

  Then they turned down a bumpy road. Soon the trees began to thin out and they passed some buildings, cute old-fashioned houses, a little downtown area, a large Queen Anne style building with a painted sign that read: The Ridge Road Hotel and Café: Best in Town Since 1933.

  “Here we are,” Flor announced, “the cell phone-hating town of Winding Creek.”

  3

  Chapter 3

  The August morning dawned clear and bright as Martin Day stepped onto his white painted porch and locked the four locks. First, he turned the key in the main lock on the doorknob. Next, he locked the deadbolt. Then, he pushed the button arming the security system that everyone could see.

  A voice called from somewhere behind. “Hey there, Marty!”

  Martin turned around. He smiled and waved at Ricky, an acquaintance from The Wild Wanderers hiking group.

  “Got your new security system set up there?” called Ricky from the sidewalk below.

  Martin nodded. “Sure do. Can’t be too careful.”

  “You need any help with it?” asked Ricky.

  “No, no. My grandson helped me figure it out.”

  “Alrighty, then. See you at the meeting.” He waved and went on his way.

  Martin took his time ambling down the porch steps. When Ricky was safely out of sight, he bent down as though to tie a shoelace, but in fact he lifted one of the rocks that lined the walking path from the steps to the sidewalk. There, underneath the rock, he pressed the button to arm the security system that no one was supposed to see.

  People like Ricky always assumed that Martin was technologically illiterate. Perhaps it was his cloud of white hair. But Martin had been a librarian, and what people who don’t go to libraries don’t realize is that libraries are centers for technological access. Martin was slightly annoyed at the perception of libraries as dusty, old homes for dead technology. It couldn’t be further from the truth. But he was less inclined to object to the assessment of himself. If people wanted to believe he was a harmless, doddering, bookish, old man who enjoyed gentle walks through the woods, so much the better for him.

  Martin replaced the rock and stood. Slowly. He was glad he brought his cane. He needed it to get back up out of that position. He’d have to change the point of alarm, so he’d have to rewire. Then he could alarm this system from a different place. If only the Internet worked well out here or if they’d just approve those darn cell towers, he could do this wirelessly with his phone. Oh, well. If everything went to plan, he wouldn’t be out in Winding Creek too much longer.

  Martin ambled up Ridge Road, the broad avenue that served as the tiny town’s main street. He passed some more houses of older residents, like himself. He also passed the town’s sole gas station/general-purpose store and crossed the bridge over the namesake creek itself. A few more storefronts, a restaurant, and antique and used bookstore, and then he arrived at the large Victorian house that had been converted into the Ridge Road Hotel and Café. Martin climbed the front steps and crossed the wide veranda to enter the front doors. Inside the café area was already busy, even for a weekday morning. Chloe, the usual morning server, a young woman of about twenty with shoulder length brown hair always pinned back in slim colorful barrettes, was busy at the espresso machine. Still, she found time to look up and nod as Martin entered.

  “You’re the second one here,” she said. “Everything’s set up outback already.”

  Martin gave her a wave and a smile and picked his way through the dining area to the door that led to the back deck. The Wild Wanderers never met indoors for their board meetings unless it was absolutely pouring rain outside. The members of their hiking club might like the comforts of the café, but they couldn’t bear to be too far separated from nature itself.

  Martin found Ricky already sipping a steaming mug while leaning back in a white wicker chair. Jack, the hotel manager, was placing a silver cream pitcher on one of the glass tables, where empty mugs and several large pots of coffee already waited.

  Jack looked up as he arrived. “Frank gonna be here today?” Jack asked.

  “He never misses,” said Ricky.

  Jack sighed. “I guess it’ll be a lively discussion, then.”

  Martin strode to the table and poured himself a cup of coffee. “You know it.”

  Jack nodded and returned to the café dining room.

  Lively discussion indeed. Those blasted cell towers. If there was any issue that could rile up the residents of Winding Creek more, Martin didn’t know what it was.

  Martin settled into a wicker chair with his coffee. He spent a while examining a drooping sunflower leaning over the railing on the opposite side of the deck, while Ricky excused himself to use the restroom. Martin breathed in the crisp, mountain air and the warm, comforting smell of the brew in his mug. Then, the sound of stomping boots on the deck steps brought him back to reality. Frank Fowler had bypassed the café dining room and cut through the garden to get to the deck from the street. While the cell towers were the most divisive issue in town, there was one thing that Martin knew was irritating Frank even more than the possibility of entering the twenty-first century.

  Frank leaned hard on Martin’s table, his elbows making a loud thud on the glass top. He shoved his greasy nose as close to Martin’s face as he could get. “I know what you and your grandson have been up to on my land,” he whispered.

  Martin barely blinked. He’d been expecting this for some time. He leaned back a little further in his chair, giving himself enough distance between his face and Frank’s oily nose to lift his cup and leisurely take another step. “I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about, Frank. Perhaps you better have your morning coffee before we start any discussions.”

  In response, Frank scooted himself closer, edging around the table so he was standing over Martin’s shoulder. His eyes burned with rage. “You’re lucky I’m not throwing my morning coffee right in your face.” He still whispered, but each syllable was punctuated with spittle. “I know it was you.”

  Martin did not miss a beat. “You know it was us who did what?” Even he was impressed with how well he could feign ignorance. It was all he could do not to smile.

  Frank fumed, muttering something incomprehensible. Finally, a few words came out. “I know it. You owe me.”

  “Owe you for what?” came Martin’s airy reply. “Besides which, even if we had done something worth owing you over, do you have any proof?”

  Frank turned so red that if Ricky hadn’t emerged onto the deck at that moment, Martin was quite sure Frank would have punched him in the face. Which was a risk that Martin had been willing to take. In fact, if Mar
tin was honest with himself, he had been goading Frank into doing it. If Frank attacked him, it would only hurt Frank’s case and help Martin’s. In any case, it didn’t need to come to blows. Frank stomped off to the coffee and poured a mug with shaking hands. Ricky gave Martin a quizzical look as he settled back into his seat. Martin replied with a shrug, and Ricky seemed to take that as an answer.

  Martin’s grandson Sam was the next to arrive. He poured a mug and sat at Martin’s table. Ricky flashed him a smile, but Frank ignored Sam. Perhaps he trusted that Martin would pass on the message, or perhaps he was just unwilling to make any kind of communication in front of Ricky. Martin watched as the remaining two board members filed in. First came Pauline, a woman in her early sixties with flaming red hair that couldn’t possibly be natural any longer. Finally, Sadie entered.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here today,” Martin said.

  Sadie tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder. “I got lucky. The school is on a teacher workday. I have meetings later, but I was able to pop by for at least part of the time.”

  Martin nodded. A weekday morning was rather an inconvenient time for a board meeting, but it had been Frank’s insistence that it happen then. He didn’t seem to care that it was difficult for anyone who wasn’t retired or, like Sam, self-employed. Ricky usually managed to make the meetings, because he was high enough on the managerial staff at the local assisted-living facility that he could usually arrange his schedule to accommodate, but Sadie—being a teacher—had a much more rigid schedule. She frequently missed board meetings, something that Frank continually brought up as a reason to remove her from the board, even though it was his schedule that prevented her from attending.

  Pauline, the board president, rapped her knuckles on the glass table before her to open the meeting. “Let’s get down to it. The minutes?” She looked to Sam.