Bait and Witch

by Angela M. Sanders

  “I’ll think it over.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  We were back at the library’s kitchen, and Roz, supposedly my assistant, was laying down the law.

  “I only work mornings, Tuesday through Saturday. Afternoons, you’re on your own. Dylan comes in twice a week. He’s our intern from the high school. Once a year the knitting club helps with a top-to-bottom cleaning, but otherwise you’re responsible for tidying up. I don’t vacuum or do windows. Lyndon takes care of maintenance.”

  If I’d known I was staying, I’d have made some motion toward taking charge, but it wasn’t worth the fight. Not now.

  “Why didn’t you apply for the head librarian job?” I asked when she paused for breath.

  “I don’t have time. I have my projects.”

  Saying she had urgent business, Roz left me to explore my office on my own. “I’ll come find you in an hour or so and give you a tour of the library.”

  I stood in the doorway of my office—the house’s old pantry just off the kitchen—and processed the news that the library might be scrap lumber before Thanksgiving. Where could I go from here? Returning home was impossible.

  A wooden desk filled the wall under a casement window that opened toward the river. Along the opposite wall were filing cabinets, a low bookshelf, and a leather armchair with a side table and ginger jar lamp.

  I dropped into the armchair. What a morning. My office door nudged open, and the black cat I’d seen last night slipped through. The tip of one ear was missing, and a pinkish scar shone through the black fur on its edge. He fixed me with eyes the color of rye whiskey.

  “Hello, kitty.” I dropped a hand for him to smell. “Did I do wrong by answering that ad in the Library Gazette? I’m not needed here, but I can’t go home.”

  The cat pawed at the bookshelf, pulling a flyer to the floor. I reached down to put it back and saw it was a schedule of the month’s events. The library hosted weekly classes in English as a second language. Probably helpful for the field workers. Thursdays were organ lessons—the library had an organ?—and once a month, the knitting club met in the conservatory. I’d just missed an afternoon tea with “Original poems by Wilfred resident Helen Garlington.” The library was a community center, it seemed. I set the flyer on the desk.

  “Okay, so they do need me—as an events coordinator, at the least. And they probably need help cataloguing and packing up the books for storage once the library is history. Then I’ll be homeless, like you.”

  The cat pointed his head toward the kitchen, where two ceramic bowls on the floor caught my eyes. “Rodney” was painted on one. Apparently the cat belonged to the library.

  “Funny little guy. I almost believe you understand me.”

  The cat stretched, reaching out one paw then the other, and leapt onto the chair’s arm. He bumped my shoulder with his head.

  In the past twelve hours, everything had changed. I’d fled across the country to a nonexistent town and taken a job in a library that would soon be bulldozed. I was dreaming again, remembering my childhood. And now I’d turned into Dr. Dolittle.

  “What’s happening to me, Rodney?”

  The cat, still purring, rolled to his back. On his lower belly where the fur was thin was a star-shaped birthmark, clear and dark and sharp. Just like mine.

  * * *

  I needed a dose of something normal. Dumping the cat from my lap, I grabbed the desk telephone and dialed Mom, first blocking my number. She answered on the first ring.

  “Where are you?” she said after my greeting. “I thought you were in New York.”

  “I am,” I said. “Let me tell you, it’s been some vacation.”

  “How come your phone number doesn’t show?”

  “It doesn’t? That’s strange.” I focused on keeping my voice indifferent. Mom was unusually adept at sussing out a fib. As a kid, I could never get away with playing with my friends instead of studying for a spelling test. I’d sneak in the back door to get my jump rope and find Mom holding my English notebook and a pencil. “How are things? I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too, honey. Your father’s giving a lecture on Madame Récamier at the junior college next week. He’s in the den working on his presentation.”

  The vision of Dad hunched over his desk with a mug of cold coffee and a dozen open history books strewn around him calmed me. Things were still normal somewhere, at least.

  “How’s Jean?” I said, asking about my younger sister, Eugénie.

  “The same, I expect. She emailed me an article on energy healing. Said it might help your father’s knee problem.”

  Mom’s words soothed me more than a tranquilizer might have. I closed my eyes and pictured Sunday dinner, with Toni, Toni’s husband, and my baby niece, Letitia, taking over the right side of the table. Mom’s hand would be resting on the tray of Letty’s high chair. Jean, probably wearing yoga pants straight from work or a 1970s flowered dress, would sit across from them, pointing out the possibility of GMOs in the green beans. My empty seat would be next to hers. Twenty years ago, when Jean was in the same high chair, my grandmother was at the table, too.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about Grandma lately.”

  “You have?” Her voice was wary.

  “Remember how we used to go out to her cottage during the summer? Whatever happened to her place?”

  “Why are you wasting your time on ancient history? You’re on vacation, Josie. Go to a show or something.”

  “Do you have any photos? It would be fun to see what it looked like again. Remember how she had all those cats? And the garden?”

  “That place was a fire hazard. After Mom died, we sold the land. I think they built a housing tract on it. But, like I said, it’s your vacation. Get out and enjoy yourself.” She paused a moment. “You really are in New York, right?”

  “Sure. Of course.”

  “I just wondered. It seems strange—”

  “Thanks, Mom. I’d better go. I have a ticket to a show at the Met.” If she had two more minutes, she’d squeeze the truth out of me, and I didn’t want her to worry. “I’ll check in again soon.”

  Returning the heavy receiver to its cradle, I felt better. I’d always been told I had an active imagination and was a little too curious for my mother’s taste. Roz had said the library’s fate wasn’t a done deal. I shouldn’t jump to conclusions until I heard what the judge had to say. As for the cat, Rodney, he was simply sociable, and his birthmark was a fluke.

  I leaned back and knocked a book to the floor. Folk Witch. This again? Irritation jabbed at me. Was Roz in on some kind of joke at my expense? When I was a girl, other kids used to call me “witch” because of my messy red hair, and I’d hated it. They’d poked me with stick “magic wands” and made up rhyming spells to taunt me.

  Rodney eyed me from the kitchen. With purpose, he dove through his cat door, as if daring me to follow.

  Why not? A plaid wool jacket hung behind my office door. It was a few sizes too large, but I slipped the book into its pocket and pushed the sleeves up my forearms. I still had a while before Roz planned to take me through the library.

  The air outside smelled of river and cottonwoods. My grandmother used to call them “bam trees,” short for “balsam” and their sweet, soft fragrance. Instinctively, I moved to the path behind the library, where I could look down on the town, so close, yet removed.

  There was Darla’s tavern, its parking lot filling with early lunchers. Across the road was a white wooden church with a square steeple next to the old post office that Roz had told me was now a grocery store. Next to that, a shop. Patty’s This-N-That, I think Roz called it.

  Behind the tavern stretched a dozen or so mobile homes in tidy rows, many of them lushly gardened. I wondered which trailer was Roz’s home.

  Rodney turned his head toward me and trotted down the path toward the woods. He seemed to want me to follow him. Was this some kind of game? We’d never had pets when I was growing up. Grandma had kept c
ats, though. She’d always had an orange tabby named Sir Thomas. She must have had a succession of them, come to think of it. No one cat could live that long.

  I followed Rodney along the path, just beyond the library, where we stopped. Rodney’s tail flicked in the breeze. Here it was, the perfect spot. I yanked Folk Witch from my pocket and hurled it into the air. It circled like a Frisbee and disappeared into the brush. Take that.

  Rodney meowed from the path’s edge. His meow was pure and bell-like, not the husky growl I would have expected. He plunged off the trail after the book. The tall grass turned to blackberry vines before sloping to the river. He jumped onto a stump, and a low grumble bordering on a howl escaped him.

  “Rodney? Come, kitty. Don’t worry about that silly book. I’ll order a new one.”

  Then I saw it. A bit of black emerged from the underbrush. Fabric. Perhaps an old jacket? A chill prickled my arms.

  Attached to the black was a hand. And attached to the hand was a woman’s body.

  They’d found me.

  * * *

  I lifted a palm to my chest, trying to slow my pounding heart from the outside in. I waded into the brambles with my eyes half-shuttered, as if not seeing the body completely would somehow null its existence.

  But oh yes, it existed. Lying half-enveloped by a web of blackberry vines was a woman in her midthirties with sleek black hair pulled into a ponytail. Her eyebrows were precisely plucked, and mascara streaked her cheeks. I noted smudged russet lipstick and diamond stud earrings. She was from a big city, had to be. I forced my gaze lower. Blood stained her silk blouse.

  I’d read hundreds of mystery novels—especially golden era detective stories, my favorites—and I’d processed goodness knew how many oral histories dealing with death. None of it prepared me for the smashup of physical calm and emotional freak-out that gripped me.

  Be strong, I told myself. Gingerly, I stepped forward, thorns rasping at my calves. “Forgive me,” I said as I patted the woman’s pockets. Nothing. I unzipped her jacket and reached inside, careful to avoid her wound, and came up dry. No sign of a purse, either.

  I backed away. I swear I couldn’t feel my feet on the ground.

  Whoever this woman was, she wasn’t from Wilfred. Her urban grooming nailed it. I’d seen scores of her type plying the Capitol’s halls, although more often dressed in business suits than black pants and Gucci loafers. They always had an agenda. They always wanted something. This time, the something was me. I knew it.

  A woman had come to kill me, and someone else had gotten to her first. Who? And why?

  A better question was, why was I sticking around to find out? In five minutes I could be on my way to the airport. I’d find the caretaker, feed him the popular line “it didn’t work out,” and hitch a ride out of there. My breathing slowed. Yes. It’s not like they needed me, anyway, since the library was due to be razed. I’d call the sheriff from the airport, and he’d take care of identifying the body. After all, even hit people had mothers.

  Mind made up, I extricated myself from the brambles and turned down the trail to leave. And ran smack into Roz. Her wide eyes were fixed on the body, and her scream sent the cat streaking through the underbrush.

  She flipped open her fan and set it in furious motion. “Oh no. She’s dead, isn’t she?”

  Words stuck in my throat, so I simply nodded.

  She made a noise like a strangled badger and popped open her top blouse buttons to get air. “I knew something bad would happen. I just didn’t know it would be this bad.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  At last, my throat loosened enough to let me speak.

  “Call the police.”

  “On it.” Roz’s voice was sure, but her fingers trembled as she stuffed the fan in one pocket and pulled her phone from the other. “Sheriff Dolby, please.”

  So, that was that. I’d have to tell the sheriff why I’d left D.C., and he’d follow up to confirm it. I’d be outed. I didn’t have the money to hide out without a job. I’d be forced to return home and pray for my safety. If it came down to a crook’s choice between a billion-dollar contract or my life, I knew I should choose the music I wanted played at my funeral and get it over with.

  I pressed my finger to my tingling birthmark and closed my eyes while Roz relayed her message to the sheriff. I opened my eyes to a jarringly peaceful sky and birds chirping.

  “He’s on his way,” Roz said. In a shaky voice, she swore under her breath. “What a freaking disaster. This ruins everything.” She grabbed my arm and led me toward the library’s side entrance. “Come on. Let’s wait inside. We can watch from the window.”

  We had barely settled at the kitchen table, Roz with her head in her hands and me staring wide-eyed out the window, when the sheriff arrived. He was a big man, football-defensive-line quality, as tall and wide as a door. Eyebrows thick and straight as kissing caterpillars laced his forehead. His star-shaped badge read SHERIFF’S OFFICE on top with WASHINGTON COUNTY on the bottom.

  “What’s this about a body, Roz?” he said. “I hope this is a joke.”

  Rodney slinked out from my office and hunkered near the door.

  Roz shook her head. “Outside. Toward the woods, down the bluff. You want me to show you?” Her tone of voice said she wanted the sheriff to say no.

  “I’ll be back in a second. Don’t move.” The sheriff brushed past me with barely a look.

  Roz poured us each a glass of water and slid one across the table. She downed hers in a few nervous gulps. Noticing I was watching her, she said, “What? I was thirsty. You should see me with a gin and tonic.” The joke hung uncomfortably in the air. “Sorry. Bad taste.”

  As promised, the sheriff returned a few minutes later, pocketing his phone. “I’m Bert Dolby,” he said and proffered a hand. “You must be the new librarian. You found the body?”

  “Josephine Way.” I shook his hand. “Yes, I was taking a walk, waiting for Roz.” Answer his questions, but tell him no more, I reminded myself.

  “When was this?”

  “Ten minutes ago. Or so.” Ten of the longest minutes in my life.

  He looked at me, as if expecting me to say more. When I didn’t, he prompted, “I’ll get a full statement from you later. Right now, let’s hit the highlights. The crime scene investigators won’t be here for at least twenty minutes. You got in last night, right?” He nodded at Roz. “You wait outside. We’ll talk later.” She left.

  I nodded and squeezed my hands together. “Lyndon, the caretaker—”

  “I know Lyndon,” the sheriff said.

  “He picked me up at the airport and brought me here. About midnight. I called home”—they’d be able to trace that, so I might as well bring it up—“then went straight to bed.”

  “How about this morning?”

  The sheriff wasn’t so bad. Despite his bearlike size, he had a friendly way about him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he coached high school sports and had turned a few kids’ lives around over the years.

  “I came downstairs just before nine, and Roz and Darla—you know Darla, right?”

  He nodded. “Of course.”

  “Roz and Darla were in the kitchen. Here,” I said, releasing a hand to wave it over the table. “Darla got called back to her diner, and Roz and I followed a few minutes later. We had breakfast, then returned to the library. I decided to take a walk.”

  “Okay. Now, slow down, and let’s take this step by step. What door did you leave from?”

  “That one.” I pointed to the kitchen door. “I went toward the river. I wanted to look out over the town.”

  “Did you hear anything, see anything?”

  “Nothing unusual. The cat came with me.” As if understanding me, Rodney bumped against my legs. I reached a hand under the table to slide over his soft back.

  “And then?”

  “After I took in the view for a minute, I noticed the path to the left. Roz and I had already gone the other way, toward the bridge, to the diner.
”

  “So you took the path to the woods.”

  “Right. I didn’t get too far when I saw it.” I swallowed. “I mean, her. That’s when I saw her hand.”

  “Go on.” His voice softened with encouragement.

  “I couldn’t believe it was a person. So I waded into the brambles a bit.” I met his gaze. “She’d been shot.” My throat tightened. I wasn’t sure I could choke out another word.

  The sheriff seemed to sense it. He leaned back. “That’s enough for now. We’ll talk more later. Roz?”

  “Hmm?” She must have been lingering just beyond the door.

  “Ms. Way has had a rough morning. You two keep yourselves company in here while the team and I take care of business outside. The library won’t be open today, of course.”

  “No. It’s closed anyway.”

  “We’ll need to talk to you, too. Don’t go far.” He headed for the kitchen door.

  Roz snorted. “As if,” she said to his retreating back. She turned to stare at me. “I think this has to be it.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Possibly the worst first day of work in history.”

  I laughed louder than the comment deserved, then cut it off when it threatened to devolve into tears. “You have no idea.”

  “I might,” she said. She seemed to consider telling me something, then changed her mind. “Come on. While we wait, I’ll show you the library.”

  * * *

  “First, let’s pay homage to our benefactor.”

  Roz and I stood in the library’s atrium next to the round table I’d seen from the third floor, my apartment. In front of us, a double door with stained-glass windows closed off the foyer. Behind us rose a wide staircase with newel posts carved from golden oak. Four arched doorways led off the atrium.

  “That’s her.” Roz pointed to a life-sized oil portrait of a woman hanging over the double doors. “Marilyn Wilfred.”

  As if a portal to a different time, the portrait was of a young woman standing in the atrium in which we now stood. Except instead of shelves of books, a velvet chair and a stained-glass lampshade showed from the open arch beyond her. Marilyn Wilfred wore a ruby-toned flapper gown and a cloche hat. A gloved hand rested on a round table—the same table we stood next to now. In the portrait, the table held a crystal paperweight and a vase of clematis. Today, a taller vase held branches of oak leaves vivid with the oranges and golds of autumn.