The Broken Spine

by Dorothy St. James

  They nodded in shocked unison and walked to separate ends of the counter. The fact that they’d stopped shouting was progress enough for me.

  “Girlfriend.” Flossie rolled up to me and swatted my leg. “I’ve never seen you have so much fire in your belly. What’s got you so riled up?”

  “Anne suggested that Mrs. Farnsworth was too old and needed to retire.” But that wasn’t the only thing bothering me.

  It was Sissy.

  It was Charlie.

  It was Tori.

  It was Jace making me feel all gushy whenever he brought presents for Dewey.

  It was that this murder had made me distrust everyone around me.

  I hated it all, and it made me want to lash out at everyone. And yes, that wasn’t like me. Lashing out felt as unnatural as creasing a page instead of using a bookmark.

  Tears sprang to my eyes. “I hate it when people turn down corners of pages instead of using bookmarks.”

  “Oh, honey. I have no idea what you’re talking about. But don’t you apologize for taking charge just now. You are powerful and wonderful, and you’re finally showing it.”

  Then why did I feel so helpless? “Mrs. Farnsworth isn’t here. I don’t know where she went.”

  “She went to the police station,” Flossie said, her voice soft and soothing.

  Mr. Talbot, who was sitting at a nearby table, looked up from the tablet he’d been squinting at. “The mayor showed up. He told us that he’d offered to drive her there himself. But she refused. He said she insisted on going there on her own.”

  “The mayor?” Was he putting pressure on Mrs. Farnsworth to change her story? Was this his plan to clear his son from the murder charge?

  Mr. Talbot rubbed the space between his eyes. “The mayor came in here with a smile that bared all his teeth. The man does that only when he’s about to take down an opponent. Gets a charge from playing the political game.”

  I looked at Flossie. She shrugged. “I didn’t see him. I was”—she cleared her throat—“elsewhere.” Which I took to mean she was downstairs in the secret bookroom.

  She reached into the colorful batik printed bag hanging from her wheelchair and retrieved a biography of Thomas Jefferson. “Is this what you were looking for?” she asked Mr. Talbot as she handed him the book.

  “What . . . where did you?” he stammered.

  “I’m magic.” She grinned. “I’m not giving you the book, mind you. Just letting you borrow it. I’ll expect it back in my hands within a few weeks.”

  He opened the book and thumbed through its pages. “Gracious.” A smile crept onto his rather stern face. “Gracious. I didn’t think I could read this book on that contraption. Kept going cross-eyed.”

  Flossie snatched up the tablet and squinted at the screen. “Well, here’s the problem.” She tapped the screen like she was born using those things. “You had the font set too small.”

  She tried to hand it back to him. He refused to even look at it. Refused to touch it. “I’m happier with this.” He held the book as if it were his firstborn child. “Much happier.”

  “We aim to please,” Flossie said with a wink.

  Mr. Talbot moved his chair closer to Flossie. “You know, we really haven’t had a chance to talk in a while.” His stern voice softened even further. “Have you decided on a color to paint your bedroom? I seem to remember the last time we spoke, you were vacillating between sage green and pale peach.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Flossie teased.

  Mr. Talbot’s expression suddenly turned serious again. “Actually, I would.”

  Was he flirting? With my Flossie?

  I think he was.

  And it didn’t look as if Flossie minded.

  I walked away, giving the two of them some privacy. That’s when I noticed Charlie had entered the café.

  Today he wore a light gray suit. He had his coat flung over one arm and the sleeves of his crisply pressed dark purple dress shirt were again rolled up to his elbows.

  His gaze met mine. He then nodded toward one of the small recording studio rooms. It happened to be the same one where Luke had been attacked. Did he know it was the same room? Had he chosen it as some kind of warning?

  There was only one way to find out. I followed him into the room, but I didn’t let him close the door. I stood on the threshold with my arms folded over my chest.

  “Let me see your legs,” I said.

  “My, my, Ms. Becket.” He gave me a wry look. “My legs are some of my best assets, but I doubt your best friend would want to share.”

  “That’s not why I want to see them. I know you took Dewey. And returned him. The fact that you returned him is the only thing that’s keeping me from doing something rash. Like scratching you myself. But he came home with a ripped dark blue wool material that looked like the blue pants you were wearing yesterday.”

  His eyes darkened. He took a step toward me. “I did not take your cat.”

  “Then you shouldn’t mind if I take a look at your legs. I doubt Dewey tore your pants without leaving a mark.”

  “He didn’t tear my pants.” The look he gave me made the muscles in my legs wobble.

  “Prove it,” I said, holding my own against his efforts to intimidate me.

  “No.” He pulled my lost water bottle out of his bag and thrust it at me. “Here. I should have given this to you yesterday, but your bringing that cop with you to meet me and then your accusations of breaking into your home derailed everything, now didn’t they?”

  “What?” I hugged the water bottle to my chest. “I should have met with you alone? Is that what you had wanted? Well, I’m not that stupid.”

  “No, I didn’t expect you to be alone. And I don’t think you’re stupid. I simply didn’t expect you’d bring that detective. What I wanted to tell you, I didn’t want to say in front of the police.” He’d lowered his voice. “I was thinking of you and what you’re doing here at the library.”

  “Thinking of me? You’re just full of altruistic behavior. Is that what you were doing at Duggar’s house? Helping out a poor dead man in need?”

  He spread his hands. “I was trying to help.”

  “Help a killer? Help yourself? Or is that one and the same?”

  “You think I killed . . . ?” His brows dipped.

  “You tell me. All I know is that I’m starting to feel awfully guilty about not telling the police that you were at the library at the time of Duggar’s murder. I think it’s time that I come clean about what I was doing in the library and exactly who was there.” I closed my eyes for a moment before continuing. “Even if it means I lose everything.”

  Instead of looking angry or upset, Charlie suddenly looked relieved. “Thank goodness we’re on the same page.”

  “I don’t—”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about yesterday. But you brought that detective with you. I didn’t want to say anything in front of him that would get you in trouble. I’m a man of honor, which is why I’m going to talk to the police. I’m going to let them know what I know. I’m going to tell them that they have the wrong man in custody.”

  “You mean Luke?”

  Charlie nodded. “I cannot let him take the blame for a crime he didn’t commit.”

  “You’re going to confess?” I felt relieved to hear it, even if it meant he’d have to expose the town’s secret bookroom in the process.

  “Confess?” He jerked back in surprise. “Why would you think I would kill a town manager I’d never even met?”

  “Why else go to the police if not to turn yourself in?” I asked.

  “Scores of reasons come to mind. On the morning of the murder, I skirted around both Luke and Mayor Goodvale when I was carrying down boxes Tori had packed. Mayor Goodvale was in the children’s and young adult section. And Luke w
as in the reference section. They weren’t together.”

  “I think that’s probably what Mrs. Farnsworth has already told the police. She’s the reason why Luke no longer has an alibi. She’s the reason he was arrested.”

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s true, but the police are wrong. That’s why I need to go talk to that detective friend of yours—”

  “He’s not my friend,” I blurted.

  “Well, whatever he is, I need to talk with him.”

  “Why? Why would telling him the same thing Mrs. Farnsworth has already said change anything? Are you sure you’re not doing this because you’re angry I accused you of petnapping Dewey?”

  His jaw tightened. “I am still upset about that. I didn’t break into your house and I didn’t take your cat.”

  “And yet you won’t let me look at your leg.”

  “Your detective already looked at it,” he said tightly. “And let me tell you, I didn’t appreciate being treated like a common criminal.”

  “Because you’re an uncommon one?” I couldn’t stop myself from saying.

  “I’m not a criminal.” He formed the words slowly. “If not for my affection for Tori, I wouldn’t be here right now telling you what I’m going to tell the police. If you don’t want to hear me out, fine. I’ll go.”

  He pushed past me to leave the small room.

  I touched his arm. “Wait. I want to hear what you have to say.”

  He gave a sharp nod. “I saw Luke in the reference section of the library. He couldn’t have killed Duggar. I wish I saw who did. But I do know this—Luke was on the opposite side of the library at the time of the murder. And so was I. That is what I need to tell the police. And in the process, I’m going to have to tell them about your illicit bookroom.” He shook his head. “For such a small town, this one is surprisingly filled to its borders with secrets. And it feels like I’ve unwittingly become keeper of all of them. It’s a burden.”

  “But because you’re an honorable man, you’ve been keeping silent?”

  He nodded. The movement was a stiff, unhappy jerk.

  “Just tell me one thing.” He owed me at least that much. “What were you doing at Duggar’s house with Grandle yesterday?”

  “Sorry, Tru. Those darn secrets keep throwing themselves at me.”

  I wasn’t ready to let up. “Were you breaking the law?”

  “I wasn’t.” A weasel of an answer if I’d ever heard one.

  “You weren’t? But Grandle was?”

  “I cannot—”

  “Yes, yes. I get it. You’ve become our community secret-keeper. Well, let me tell you something. Your bookish clue hasn’t been at all helpful.” That wasn’t precisely true, was it? I’d called my father last night and had confirmed with him what my mother had told me. It was a first edition and worth a considerable amount of money. “Do you care to spit out what it is you want me to know?”

  “I can’t.” He walked away. “I am sorry, Tru.”

  “Sorry?” My head started to throb. If it wasn’t Luke—and it wasn’t Charlie—who pushed over the heavy shelf? Who killed Duggar?

  His clue did nothing to help me prove Anne’s guilt. Anne wasn’t interested in selling the old books.

  “What about your promise to protect the secret bookroom?” I couldn’t stop myself from calling out. “If you’re so good at keeping secrets, why is it so easy to break your word to me?”

  He stopped and turned back to me. “I’m not breaking my word. I’m here providing you with fair warning. And you and I both know that going to the police is the right thing to do.”

  I bit my lower lip. I knew that.

  “I don’t mean to cause you trouble. Honest.”

  “You do what you need to do. I can handle it,” I said tightly.

  “You might be charged with obstruction of justice or withholding evidence,” he warned.

  Not to mention how I’d lose my position at the library and the books I’d saved. “If that’s what you saw, it’s what has to be done,” I said because it was true.

  “Tori is going to flay me alive when she finds out what I’ve done to you.”

  I snorted an unhappy laugh. “She will.”

  He blanched. “Look, I’ll wait an hour before I spill my guts to the police. Maybe you should use that time to call that detective of yours and give him a head’s up about me. It might make less trouble for you.”

  It might. But somehow, I doubted it.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  I had an hour (less than an hour, really) to prove Anne guilty of murder. It was the only way I could think of to stop Charlie from going to the police. The only way to save the books.

  I followed Charlie out of the small recording studio. He turned right toward the front of the library. I turned left toward the steps leading down to the basement.

  “It has to be Anne,” I said like a mantra as I entered the secret bookroom. Dewey meowed a happy greeting and rubbed against my leg. “It has to be Anne,” I told him. I didn’t notice that Delanie was standing next to Flossie at the battered old checkout desk, or that the older woman’s jaw had dropped open with a look of shock. “We have an hour to prove it.” I glanced at my watch. “Make that fifty minutes.”

  “Slow down there,” Flossie said. She glanced over at Delanie and gave a tense laugh. “Tru is always such a kidder. Aren’t you, Tru?”

  “No, she’s not.” Delanie straightened. “I won’t let you hurt my niece.”

  “She’s not going to hurt anyone, are you, Tru?” Flossie said evenly. She had her phone out on her lap. She tapped frantically on the screen.

  “I’m out to uncover the truth,” I said.

  “About—?” Delanie prompted.

  I glanced at my watch again. Time was slipping away. “Duggar’s murder.”

  “I won’t let you hurt my niece. She’s a good girl.”

  The other patrons of the secret bookroom were starting to take notice of the drama brewing near the door. A few of them had moved toward us. I was beginning to understand why Mrs. Farnsworth ruled the library with an iron fist.

  “What are you going to do to stop me? Expose this place?” I’d lowered my voice to a whisper.

  “Perhaps I should,” Delanie snapped. “Perhaps I should tell everyone about what you’re doing down here. We’ll see how long you keep your job. We’ll see what actions Police Chief Fisher will take when he learns you’ve been keeping information that might be vital to a murder investigation from them.”

  “Delanie Messervey, don’t you dare!” one of the patrons shouted.

  “This place is a godsend,” cried another.

  “We won’t let you ruin what Ms. Becket has selflessly worked so hard to give back to us!” yelled yet another.

  “Shhhhh . . .” I hissed like a snake with a leak. “We’ll expose ourselves if we keep shouting.”

  “You’re smiling.” Delanie wagged her finger at me. “You’re enjoying causing me pain.”

  I touched a finger to the smile on my lips.

  “Don’t be daft,” Flossie said. “She’s smiling because of them. Librarians aren’t used to hearing praise. Complaints, aplenty. Queries, all the time. It’d be unnatural if our girl Tru didn’t enjoy a few accolades sent her way.”

  Flossie was wrong. Plenty of Cypress’s patrons thanked me. I was smiling because their praise helped lessen the guilt I’d been feeling about setting up this bookroom. I’d broken the rules, rules I’d spent a lifetime following. And yes, not a day went by that I didn’t question if I’d made a horrible mistake.

  I was about to explain that when Tori burst through the heavy vaulted doors like a raging hurricane. She grabbed my arm and swung me away from where I stood toe-to-toe with Delanie. “Let’s take this discussion somewhere private.”

  Flossie propped a cardboard sign onto the des
k that read “Back in 5” and wheeled after us.

  Delanie tried to follow, but Flossie blocked her with her wheelchair. “We’re on a quest for the truth. If you believe in Anne as fervently as you profess, then you have nothing to worry about.”

  Delanie harrumphed, but when she saw the determined looks on the faces of the other patrons watching her, she took a step away from us.

  “There’s a table in the far corner where we can talk,” Tori said.

  “That works for me,” I said. “It’s near the filing cabinet where the local documents are filed. We might need to do some research there.”

  As soon as we’d all settled in around the round table, I filled Tori and Flossie in on what Charlie had told me.

  Tori jumped up from her chair. “He can’t do that. I’ll not let him. He might be good at . . . well, everything, but you’re my bestie. I’m not going to let him hurt you.”

  I put a hand on her arm, stopping her from stomping off in search of her handsome bookseller.

  “He’s doing what he thinks is right,” I said.

  “You believe him?” Tori demanded. “Just yesterday you believed him guilty of murder.”

  “Um . . .” She was right. How had he changed my mind so easily?

  “He must have charmed her out of that notion,” Flossie said. “We can’t take him off our suspect list, despite how good he is at . . . well, everything.”

  “If he were guilty, why would he go to the police?” I asked, my mind finally working again. “Why would he want to place himself at the scene of the crime? That’s why I believe him. He doesn’t want to see Luke prosecuted for a crime he didn’t commit. I want the same thing.”

  “But he only gave you an hour to find the killer,” Tori said. “That’s cruel.”

  “I don’t think he’s expecting us to take this up on our own,” I pointed out.

  “But we are.” Flossie checked her watch. “And we only have forty-five minutes now. Tori, sit down. We need to get started.”