Bait and Witch

by Angela M. Sanders

  “What, kitten?”

  He padded to the head of the bed and rubbed his nose on the bedside table. There, next to the lamp, was one of my favorite novels, Pride and Prejudice. Who was leaving books out for me? I’d ask Roz in the morning. She didn’t have to go to this trouble.

  I slipped under the covers. Jane Austen had seen me through many a crisis. Her stories held no more surprises—I could recite some passages by heart—but the soothing story of friendship, family, threatened love, and, finally, justice was better than a massage and a hot bath for restoring my equilibrium.

  I snuggled in, smoothing the quilt over my chest, and opened the book two-thirds through, looking for the part where Elizabeth’s aunt and uncle take her to Pemberley. Rodney settled next to my shoulder and purred. Loudly. So loudly that I placed a finger on the page and closed the book.

  “I’m going to have to get earplugs, if you keep this up.”

  Rodney raised his chin, and for a split second, colors flattened. I had the bizarre sensation of staring at the ceiling, up where Rodney’s gaze was. My body gently vibrated. As if I were purring. In a flash, everything was normal again. I caught my breath. What had just happened? The day’s stress had clearly been too much for me. I shut my eyes and opened them. My vision was fine. Weird.

  Rodney inhaled, boosting his purr another few decibels, and rolled to his back, exposing a luscious belly—and his birthmark. I knew better than to fall for the furry booby trap of a cat’s belly, but I examined the birthmark more closely. It was a star, like mine, with the top point stretched further than the four other points. Also just like mine.

  I rubbed my eyes and returned to my book. Elizabeth and her aunt and uncle’s carriage was pulling into Pemberley, and Elizabeth remembered her difficult last words with Darcy. She longed to see him, yet dreaded running into him. I turned the page.

  The words were gobbledygook. They might have been the fake language designers use to fill pages in sample brochures. I flipped ahead. All the book’s pages were the same. What was this? Some kind of freaky printing error?

  I closed the book and stared, perplexed, at the twining morning glories on the wallpaper. I’d been a librarian in one capacity or another for a full five years. Tens of thousands of books had crossed my desk, especially at the Library of Congress, where I’d catalogued scores of them every day. In all that time, I’d never seen this sort of printing calamity. I was surprised one of the former librarians hadn’t noticed it earlier and pulled the novel out of circulation.

  The hum of the two floors of books below me sweetened into a lullaby. “Come choose something else,” they seemed to say. “Come find another story.”

  Rodney jumped from the bed and stood at the door.

  “Oh, all right.” I threw back the covers and reached for my bathrobe. What was one bad book? Worlds of them lay sleeping below me.

  * * *

  I stood in the hall and leaned over the railing to take in the dark library below. The building was entirely silent. Even the murmuring books had shushed. Libraries were supposed to be quiet, but during a working day, layers of sound filled them, and that’s how I liked it. Patrons asked for recommendations and flipped through books. Computer keys clacked. Librarians delivered information on how to nurse foster kittens or what the average winter snowfall is in Duluth or, more often, where to find the restrooms. Libraries were hives of activity, and as so, they were noisy.

  Not the Wilfred library tonight. Moonlight splashed through the skylight and cast diamond-shaped shadows on the parquet floor. Besides the occasional whoosh of a breeze through the trees, and the creak of old timber, I couldn’t hear a thing. I reminded myself that I didn’t need to worry. Sheriff Dolby had posted someone at the top of the road. No one would be able to drive up or even take the path from town without being stopped.

  I pulled my robe closer and took the stairs to the ground floor. Literature was in the old drawing room, I remembered. There was enough moonlight that I didn’t need to turn on an overhead lamp. I’d easily be able to find a thriller or maybe a good family saga to ease me to sleep.

  Or another Jane Austen, a voice seemed to say. Persuasion.

  I did adore Persuasion. Poor Anne, in love with Captain Wentworth, yet he ignored her, until that delicious scene in the drawing room in Bath. Austen. She’d be shelved at the end, near the fireplace. I crossed the wood floor until I reached the Persian carpet—strange as it was to have oriental carpets in a library, I liked it. I passed the shelves and let a hand run along books’ spines, and my fingers tingled as the volumes vibrated with story.

  I turned the corner and stopped cold. In the armchair between the fireplace and the window was a man. I stepped back and grasped the edge of the bookshelf. The man was still, and his eyes were shut. I held my breath until I saw the gentle rise of his chest. He was sleeping. But he wasn’t one of the sheriff’s deputies, was he?

  He didn’t look it. He might have been a ghost. He wore the type of simple wool pants and rag wool sweater that have been in fashion for a hundred years. His loafers were tumbled next to the chair, leaving him in socks, one of which had a hole at the toe. He was probably seven or eight years older than I with soft brown hair that receded from his temples. Three volumes of Hardy Boys novels rested on the chair’s arm, and The Clue of the Screeching Owl lay open over a knee.

  All at once, his eyes snapped open. I grabbed the spine of a fat Anthony Trollope novel and held it like a cudgel. We stared at each other, neither of us moving.

  His lips turned downward slightly, but when he spoke, his voice was rich with warmth. “You must be the new librarian.”

  “Who are you?” I said, barely letting him finish his sentence.

  “Thurston Wilfred.”

  My grip on the novel tightened. “That’s a good one. He’s dead.”

  “The fifth. Thurston Wilfred the fifth. They call me Sam. I’m your neighbor, at Big House. You can put down the book. It’s okay.”

  I became conscious of the disaster of red curls fluffing over my shoulders and my bathrobe with its kitschy pink chenille flowers. I stood straighter. “How do I know you’re who you say you are?”

  “I guess you don’t know.”

  “And even if you are, what gives you the right to come barging in here after hours? There’s a sheriff’s deputy outside, you know. I could have you arrested.”

  “I know. I talked to him when I arrived.”

  The Trollope novel—The Eustace Diamonds, I noted, one of my favorites—almost seemed to slip back into the shelf by itself.

  Sam let out his breath. “I’m sorry to frighten you. The deputy told me about this morning. That must have been a shock.”

  “Finding a dead woman? Yeah, I’d say so.”

  He ignored my sarcasm. “If it helps, nothing like this has happened before in Wilfred. At least, not as far as I know. You’ll be safe.”

  It occurred to me that although I’d found the body, it was only a stone’s throw from the Big House. “Do you have any idea who she was or how she got there?”

  “Me? No.” Strangely, he almost smiled. At least, his mouth did.

  “I guess we’re both a little edgy,” I conceded.

  “When I got back into town this afternoon, I couldn’t help coming here. The library has always been one of my favorite places. I loved being surrounded by books. Auntie Lyn used to let me come in when it closed and eat cookies and read. Right here.”

  He wore a slight frown, but his voice was warm and his eyes soft. If not for the downward turn of his lips, I’d have thought he was happy. Unexpectedly so. I looked at him a moment longer. I told myself it was because the light was so dim. He looked at me, too.

  Then he sneezed. Rodney rubbed against the toe peeking from his sock. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m allergic to cats.”

  I returned to full attention and put a hand on a chenille-draped hip. “Yes, I’m the new librarian. Josephine Way. If you don’t mind, the library is closed after hours to a
nyone except staff. How did you get in, anyway?”

  He held out a key. “We’ve always kept a key. You know, as part of the family.”

  I snatched it from his palm and slipped it into my bathrobe’s pocket. “The library is closed.”

  He rose, and I backed out of his way. “I understand,” he said.

  “I appreciate that you’re comfortable here, but we can’t have patrons coming and going whenever they feel like it.”

  “Understood.”

  “The library opens at ten tomorrow morning,” I added.

  “It’s nice to meet you. We’ll undoubtedly be seeing each other again. Good night.”

  I let him out the front and bolted the door. Something momentous had happened, but I didn’t know what it was.

  I leaned against the door frame. One thing was curious, though. I’d seen a light at Big House last night, late. Yet he’d said he’d arrived just this afternoon.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I awoke the next morning feeling both apprehension and excitement. This was it. For the first time, I’d be running my own library. I saw myself as a combination administrator and matchmaker, bringing people and books together for what might be long, happy relationships. What could be better than that?

  Rodney jumped from the bed and stretched on the chair by the window before vigorously cleaning his face. All night he’d slept cuddled against my shoulder, as if to give me comfort and courage.

  As I prepared for the day, I was still dizzy from dreaming. Where had it all come from? I’d always been a decent sleeper. When Anton had come in to work with a double espresso and complained of insomnia, I listened patiently, but without understanding. For me, going to bed was easy. Bath, a few chapters of something from my pile of vintage mystery novels, then a stretch of unbroken sleep.

  Since I’d been in Wilfred, all that had changed. Not only was I dreaming, it was as if every dream I’d been meant to have over the years were lined up and coming at me triple-time. I’d awake from one dream, Rodney purring next to my ear, then fall asleep into another.

  The dream that stayed with me through all of this was the one I’d also had the night before, of standing in my grandmother’s moonlit garden in my nightgown, holding a glass of pungent liquid, feeling dread and resignation.

  At last, dressed and fortified with a hot breakfast of poached eggs and toast, I went downstairs. Rodney followed me and took a right to the kitchen and his cat door to the garden.

  A second after the cat door flapped, the kitchen door opened to Roz. She shed her coat and checked that the coffeepot was burbling. “Dylan’s coming right behind me on his bicycle.”

  “The intern, right?” I said.

  A moment later, a freckled blond dressed in too-short stovepipe trousers with a matching vest and wingtip shoes joined us. His cheeks were ruddy from pedaling up the hill. He set his bicycle helmet on the counter.

  “Dylan Tohler, ma’am.” He thrust out a hand.

  “You can call me Josie.” I pointed to the carnation in his buttonhole. “I like your style.”

  “My grandpa left me these clothes. I figure they suit the setting.”

  “Ready for your debut?” Roz asked me.

  “I guess so,” I said.

  “You’d better be, because there’s a line waiting to get in. Everyone wants to see the new librarian and finder of dead bodies.”

  I’d known Roz less than three days, but something about her already felt like family. “Then let’s do it.” I stepped ahead of Roz to cross the atrium and propped open the foyer’s inner door. At the front, I threw open the bolt and heaved the brass handle.

  Half a dozen people waited outside in the drizzly fall morning, and another few were coming up the path from town. My breath quickened. I couldn’t wait to get started. Despite the gesture to enter, the patrons waited in the foyer to be introduced.

  “You must be the new librarian.” A woman with short gray hair and binoculars dangling around her neck beamed at me. Her T-shirt read BIRDERS DO IT IN THE BUSH. “Ruth Littlewood. Lifelong Wilfredian and library devotee.”

  “It’s nice to meet you. I bet you have great suggestions for our natural history collection.”

  The next patron introduced himself and, as if to stretch conversation, asked about books on gardening.

  “Growing Vegetables in Cascadia is one you might want to check out.” A jolt went through me. Where had that title come from? As far as I knew, I’d never even heard of the book. I must have seen it, and its title had stuck in my mind. Then, surprising me further, I said, “Upstairs, back bedroom. You’ll find it on the shelf nearest the closet.”

  “I hear your welcome in Wilfred wasn’t as, um, friendly as it might have been,” he added.

  “Hmm?” I was still stunned at my sudden knowledge of local gardening.

  “He means the dead girl in the bushes,” the man behind him said. He stuck out a hand. “Craig Burdock.” He craned his head. “I haven’t been to the library in ages. Nice digs.” He drew a strand of his long hair behind his ears, and his eyes grazed my figure. “If I’d have known how attractive it was in here, I’d have come sooner.”

  Although I hated to make generalizations about readers, Craig Burdock didn’t look like he spent a lot of time with books. He had shaggy hair and tight jeans and, curiously, wore moccasins without socks, despite the crisp morning. Two books titles leapt to mind: a biography of Al Capone and Studies in Juvenile Delinquency.

  “Can I help you?” I asked in my most professional voice.

  “Yeah, you sure could.”

  “With a book?” I added.

  “I’m looking for love poetry.”

  I should have laughed, but there was something riveting about his velvety brown eyes. This guy had deadly charisma. “You might like Lord Byron. Poetry’s back there.” I waved toward the house’s old drawing room.

  “Craig?” A woman in a bathrobe stood frozen inside the door. She had a purple towel in one hand and a basket holding a bar of soap and a loofah sponge in the other. Trailing her on a dirty satin ribbon was a blond terrier mutt.

  Craig Burdock’s expression wavered before settling on a smile. “Hey, Lalena. Maybe I’ll see you later?”

  “Maybe you’ll see me in hell.” She turned to me, purposefully ignoring Burdock, who slouched off to poetry. “Welcome to Wilfred. I’m Lalena Dolby.”

  “Josie Way,” I said, extending a hand.

  “I’m here for a bath. I hope that’s okay. Some of us from the trailer park come up sometimes. Did Bert tell you about me?”

  “You mean Sheriff Dolby?”

  “My brother. Well, my half brother. My mom named us after Donovan songs. Bert was named after ‘Bert’s Blues.’ ‘Lalena’ for me. Obviously.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Later she was on to Neil Diamond. I might have been named ‘Sweet Caroline.’ Who knows?”

  “Or ‘Cracklin’ Rosie,’” I said, dredging the title up from Dad’s collection of LPs. “Bert’s quite a bit older than you, isn’t he?”

  “Fifteen years. Like a father, in some ways. It didn’t surprise me at all when he went to work for the county sheriff. Dad was a sheriff, too, and so was Grandpa. It’s the family business.” She continued toward the stairs, then stopped and turned. “You don’t have a departed loved one, do you?”

  “What?” I stepped back.

  “You know, a loved one I can connect you to.”

  “No. I mean, none I need to chat with,” I said, thinking of the body in the bushes.

  “I do tarot, palm readings, and communication with the dead. Come see me, if you want, but not before ten in the morning.”

  “Okay.” I felt a little discombobulated.

  For almost an hour I stood just inside the door greeting patrons. After shaking my hand, a few Wilfredians said things like, “Sorry about your experience. We’re a good town, and I hope you’ll enjoy it here,” giving me meaningful looks. Roz kept passing through the hall and waving her ha
nds as if to say, “Busy!”

  Only one person asked specifically about the body, a ten-year-old who probably plagued her teacher with off-topic questions. She paused chewing her gum long enough to say, “Someone plugged a stranger out back, huh?” I directed her toward the children’s section and Harriet the Spy.

  In fact, I was a well of book recommendations, and I loved it. Patrons probably more interested in checking out the new librarian approached me and asked something offhand, like where War and Peace was shelved. I’d find myself jotting down the name of another novel for them, and, in one case, recommending a do-it-yourself manual on installing brake shoes.

  Where did it come from? It was like I was plugged in to a cosmic book catalogue, and each of my suggestions was an arrow striking a bull’s-eye. It was exhilarating. This was what I was meant to do. This was why I loved books so much.

  At last, the stream of looky-loos abated, and, almost giddy, I made my way back to my office.

  “I haven’t checked out so many books in—well, ever. Murder sure boosts circulation,” Roz said.

  Lyndon came through the back door with an armload of dahlias. Roz swiveled to watch him, and he seemed to feel the need to say something. “Flowers. For the atrium.”

  “Did you arrange the branches there now? They’re beautiful,” I said.

  He grunted and filled a vase from the kitchen faucet.

  “Lyndon is very talented with plants and flowers,” Roz said with pride.

  Without looking at her, Lyndon passed through to the library.

  Roz sighed. “I’ll get the circulation desk. I only work half a day, so you might want to eat lunch now.”

  “Good idea.” I turned toward my desk, then caught Roz just as she left. “Oh, in this morning’s craziness, I forgot to tell you that I left a copy of Pride and Prejudice on your desk last night. Could you pull it from circulation? There’s some kind of printing error with the last half, and it’s completely unintelligible.”

  “Figures,” Roz said. I prepared myself for her inevitable downer statement. “I suppose we’ll have to go over every single book that comes in.”