Bait and Witch

by Angela M. Sanders

  “I’ll call.” Roz stood, tucking her laptop under an arm. “Darla’s not a texter. I’ll see if she’s willing to get in touch with the judge’s office.”

  Around me, the library seemed to sigh with relief, but maybe it was the autumn wind. While Roz called Darla, I grabbed my coffee cup and stepped out the kitchen’s side door, handily protected by an overhang, to watch the rain melt into the lawn. I couldn’t help checking Big House for lights. Sam. I hugged my cardigan closer. I couldn’t believe he’d voted to demolish the library.

  Roz was soon standing next to me. “A cold rain means curtains to the garden. I bet we have frost soon. You can kiss the dahlias good-bye.”

  Count on Roz for the cheerful outlook. “Maybe your hot flashes won’t bother you so much in the cold.”

  “Ha. As if. Anyway, Darla says she’ll call the judge’s office as soon as they open.”

  “Fingers crossed,” I said.

  * * *

  By noon, I was elbow-deep in papers, with a box near the door rapidly filling with recycling.

  “What happened here?” Roz asked. We’d agreed she would handle the patrons this morning while I pulled together information to support the library.

  “Except for the trustees’ reports”—I patted a stack of binders—“the files are a mess. There’s a lot of good information, but it’s randomly filed. I thought I’d do some organizing. What kind of librarians did you guys hire?” I said. “This is so not librarian. Our code is all about organization.”

  From the bottom of one filing cabinet’s drawer I lifted a pair of used pantyhose in orange-brown and dropped it into the trash. Its package had probably labeled it “suntan.” No sun I knew could make that kind of tan.

  “Strictly speaking, the two hired over the past year weren’t proper librarians. I think Trudy studied hairstyling, but she was waiting for a chair to free up at her cousin’s salon. I don’t know what Justin’s story was. I never saw him much, to tell the truth. You were the first one we found through the Library Gazette. Darla’s idea.”

  “I’m not surprised.” My thoughts turned to the card catalogue. I hadn’t even had the chance to dig into that yet. I had to wonder if it even kept to alphabetical order.

  “Can I have this?” Roz lifted from the pile a keychain featuring a hula dancer in a grass skirt.

  “Take it.”

  “What are you looking for, anyway?” Roz said.

  “The library’s bylaws. You said there was a copy in my office.”

  “Right here.” Roz pulled a yellowed file folder from the stack at the desk’s far rear. “That’s it. Marilyn’s will should be with it. Dylan’s coming in at one. Stay with the report.”

  The tap of Roz’s footsteps disappeared into the hall as I settled in with the folder. I started with Marilyn Wilfred’s will.

  Given the old-fashioned state of the library, I’d half-expected a vellum document dripping with fountain pen ink, but her will was neatly printed and notarized. I glanced at its date. She would have been ninety when the will was drawn up.

  After a few minutes of scanning, I understood the will’s main provisions. Marilyn Wilfred had left her house—long since converted into a library—to the town of Wilfred, along with a trust to maintain it. Lyndon, as long as he lived, received a salary and use of the caretaker’s cottage to maintain the house and grounds. He would have been a young man when Marilyn drew up the will. She’d chosen well.

  That was pretty much it. A provision in the will referred to the library’s bylaws. If those were violated without correction within three months, the library and trust would be liquidated and dispersed to Marilyn’s living relations.

  Including Sam, I thought. Interesting.

  Next, the library’s bylaws. The pages were carbon copies faded in spots. I ran my fingers over the ridges of the notary’s seal.

  The bylaws were older than Marilyn Wilfred’s will. They’d been drawn up in the early 1950s and amended when her will was written. Two full pages described the library and its grounds, including the caretaker’s cottage. Another page listed the library’s assets, including “Thurston Wilfred’s original desk” and of course, books. As Roz had told me, the bylaws mandated five trustees, including a member of the Wilfred family and a representative of the caretaker.

  Here was the section that provided for the library’s existence as long as it was for the “betterment of Wilfredians.” The bylaws didn’t define what “betterment” meant, leaving lots of latitude for the trustees. Perhaps too much. The arguments I’d already heard flitted through my mind. The library was a community center, an anchor of Wilfred’s history, a source of information and training. Yet, if the library were demolished, the retreat center that replaced it could recharge the town’s economy.

  I set down the folder. When it came to heart or wallet, which was more important? All around me, the library’s walls whispered for their survival. Yes, a community had to bend with the times, but it shouldn’t leave its past behind. Of course I had personal reasons for defending the library’s survival.

  Back to the documents. In another clause, the bylaws laid out that if the library were destroyed through “fire or other means,” any monetary proceeds, plus the trust, would be applied toward the establishment of a new library. This must be what Darla was referring to when she said a new library would be built if this one sold. Where and when was anyone’s guess. Odds were high that Ilona would find a way to profit from that, too.

  Twenty minutes in, I found the provision I was looking for. “Trustees shall serve with the welfare of Wilfred’s residents as their primary concern. At no point shall a trustee direct the library’s policies or resources for personal gain.” Then, further down, “Violations of these provisions will result in the trustee’s removal.”

  That was it, then. Ilona could argue that selling the library would benefit Wilfred, as long as another library was planned. If she—or another trustee—were desperate enough for the library’s sale to break the law, the project was not for Wilfred’s benefit. It was personal. And if I could prove that, the trustees’ decision could be overturned.

  As for the argument that the library’s grounds had become a draw for troublemakers—and worse—hopefully the sheriff’s investigation would prove differently.

  It was a beginning.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Midday, Roz stuck her head into my office, where I was sorting circulation records. Apparently no one had ever bothered to collect fines for overdue books, even though the library’s policy asked a modest five cents a day.

  I closed the laptop. “Have you heard anything from Darla yet about whether the judge will accept our report?”

  “Not yet. I’m sure he has a full docket. Crime is so bad around here. The Wilkinsons’ tractor was stolen, graffiti at the high school—”

  “A corpse in the bushes.”

  “Oh yeah,” Roz said, her voice dropping. “There’s that.”

  We both let that one sit a moment.

  “I’m knocking off work,” Roz said finally. “I’ll be in the conservatory for a few hours working on my project—”

  There was the mysterious project again.

  “—then I’ll stop by my place for dinner. I’ll be back for the knitting club at six.” She leaned against the door frame. “I can introduce you around.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “Stay home. I can handle a few knitters.”

  “Ha. That’s what the last librarian said. These knitters shouldn’t be carrying pointy steel objects. You’ll see.” Her phone chimed. “Darla.”

  I waited impatiently while Roz answered with a series of grunts, then, “You’re kidding.”

  The second she pressed OFF, I said, “Was it about the judge? What did he say?”

  “Not the judge. The murder. The word at the diner is that the sheriff arrested someone.”

  My hands flew to my armrests, knocking a pen from the desk. Rodney appeared from nowhere to bat it toward the corner
. “You’re kidding.”

  “No. He just took in Craig Burdock.”

  “Burdock?” I said. “I remember him. Tight jeans, shaggy hair, nineteenth-century poets?” I squinted. “He didn’t look like a murderer.”

  “They never do,” Roz said in her typical downer tone. “You know, ‘he kept to himself, a quiet guy.’ Although I guess no one would say that about Craig.”

  “I mean, I could see him pocketing cigarettes and breaking hearts, but killing someone?”

  “Yeah,” Roz agreed. “Sheriff Dolby takes his position seriously, though. He doesn’t mess around. If he arrested Craig, he had good reason for it.”

  As clearly as though I were holding the book in my hand, I saw the cover of Joseph Conrad’s The Secret Agent. Someone was still after me. It was still possible the murderer had thought the victim was me. Should I have told the sheriff my story?

  “Sheriff Dolby can’t have investigated a lot of murder cases, not in Wilfred,” I said.

  “It’s family honor with him. He’s not the type to be impulsive about making an arrest. Some folks might say he’s too slow, in fact. One year, we had a terrible problem with graffiti and everyone knew the kid who did it. Bert wouldn’t lay one finger on him until Patty had photographs of the kid tagging her store.” She shook her head. “No, if he arrested Craig, he has solid evidence.”

  Doubt niggled at me. “We still don’t know who the victim was.”

  “Not yet. We’ll hear the whole story before long.”

  Roz wandered off. I emerged from my office and stretched. The library’s records—such as they were—were now sorted into piles, and I had a good idea of the information I had to work with. I made my way to the circulation desk in the house’s old sitting room. The library wasn’t as busy as yesterday, but Roz’s grumbling about the “freak show” in popular fiction told me it had been busier than usual.

  A young woman with a toddler on her hip dropped a paperback into the returns box. “Thank you for your recommendation. I devoured it cover to cover last night after I put Kimberley to bed.” She patted the little girl, who was sucking two fingers. “What else should I read?”

  There had been so many patrons the day before, I hardly remembered what I’d recommended. I edged to the returns box and caught sight of a bare-chested man in a kilt. Romance. The woman and now her daughter looked at me expectantly.

  “You might enjoy Eliza Chatterley Windsor’s work,” I said. My eyes widened. I’d never even heard that name, but there it came, straight out of my mouth. How was I doing this?

  Roz was instantly at my side. “No, you wouldn’t.”

  “I thought you were in the conservatory.”

  “I came back to get my sweater.” Then, to the patron, “Wouldn’t you rather read something more literary?”

  The patron looked from Roz to me and back to Roz. “Why? Josie was spot-on with yesterday’s suggestion. I want the Eliza Whatever-Her-Name-Is.”

  “Chatterley Windsor,” Roz said. “Eliza Chatterley Windsor. Unfortunately, they’re all checked out at the moment. Let me show you where James Joyce is shelved. You—”

  “Eliza Chatterley Windsor is right here.” I cast Roz a what’s your deal? look and pulled a fat paperback from the new releases shelf. “Her latest. The Billionaire’s Babe.” How I was coming up with all this, I had no idea, but I liked it.

  Roz stuck out her lower lip, a real feat given her slight overbite. “Fine.” Then, to me, “You have another customer.”

  It was the man I’d recommended the gardening book to. “I just want to thank you. I’m returning this, because I’m buying my own copy. I was up half the night planning a vegetable garden and most of the morning getting the rototiller in working order.”

  “I’m glad you found it useful.”

  “Useful? I’ll tell you how useful it’s been. If things go well, I’ll have enough spring greens to sell my overflow to the grocery. Maybe even take them to the farmer’s market in Forest Grove. My wife says she hasn’t seen me so happy in years.”

  This was astonishing. Maybe a job at the Library of Congress had prestige, but this? This was a thousand times better. I didn’t know why I’d ever doubted myself. Watching people mosey from room to room in the old mansion, plucking a book here and there from the shelves and dropping into armchairs to read a chapter—well, this was heaven. I swear, even the books seemed satisfied to share their stories and give up their information.

  Then I remembered. My days here were numbered—the same number as the days left to the library. I almost heard the volumes near me sigh. The Oxford Dictionary on the stand in the corner let out a gentlemanly moan.

  * * *

  I was headed to literature to check on Dylan when Lalena stopped me. She had her dog with her, trotting on his satin ribbon, but this time she’d left her bathrobe and towel at home.

  “Hi, Josie. The Eiffel Tower history was fascinating. I came back to see if you have any novels set there. Maybe a mystery?”

  Secret of the Blue Lily. I was getting used to my book matchmaking skills now. “I can recommend a great one about a perfume shop in Paris. Let me show you.”

  The last time I’d seen Lalena, she’d practically run up the stairs to get away from Craig Burdock. Murder suspect Craig Burdock, I amended. Lalena followed me to popular fiction. The book I was looking for nearly glowed from the shelf. I handed it to her. Other than Dylan sorting novels on the other side of the room, we were alone.

  “I heard about your brother arresting Craig Burdock for murder.”

  She halted. “Craig? Bert arrested Craig?”

  “You didn’t know? I’m sorry, I—”

  “Don’t apologize.” She looked dazed.

  “That’s what the grapevine says, anyway.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “He didn’t do it. Impossible.”

  “Is that something you know, or information you’re getting from the beyond?”

  “I know Craig. He’s not that kind of person. We were lovers.” She dropped to an armchair. Her dog jumped in her lap, and she absently rested a hand on his head. “Craig? Really?”

  “I could be wrong,” I said. “It’s secondhand info. Maybe third hand.”

  “No. It couldn’t be him. I mean . . .” Her voice softened, and she stared somewhere in the distance beyond me. “He was so kind. When Aunt Ginny died, he helped me sort through her stuff before I moved into the trailer. We spent three solid days working, and he never complained a moment. Sure, he took a few things to sell, but I told him it was okay.”

  “You aren’t still going out with him, are you?”

  She grimaced. “No. He was playing around with some dental assistant in Forest Grove. He might not be reliable in the boyfriend department, but that doesn’t mean he’s a murderer.”

  “Your brother wouldn’t have arrested him without evidence,” I said. “Roz says he’s a good sheriff.”

  “He is,” she said quickly.

  “Then there must—”

  “He’s a good sheriff and a good brother.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” That he arrests men for murder if they cheat on his sister?

  “No. No, it couldn’t be Craig. He was so loving with Sailor. He’d never kill someone. It’s not part of his code.”

  “His code?”

  “Hmm,” she said without answering my question. She stood. “Well, I’d better get home. I have an appointment to contact Patty’s dead mother at two.” She picked up the dog’s ribbon-leash. “Come on, Sailor.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  That evening, five women, a man, and a boy took seats in the library’s conservatory. Each toted bundles bursting with yarn, and each eyed me suspiciously. The rain had stopped, and night draped the room’s glass walls like black velvet, absorbing light from the table lamps dotted among the orchids and banana trees. Say what you want about Lyndon’s demeanor, he was a kick-butt gardener.

  I took a second look at the man. Wasn’t he one of th
e library’s trustees? I’d only seen him at Darla’s, from the rear, but his Tweedledum figure was hard to miss.

  “Duke McConway,” he said. “Trustee. Pleased to meet you at last, Josie.”

  “And a knitter,” I said.

  Duke’s thinning hair was brilliantined into a modified pompadour. He gave me a shrewd smile.

  “I keep myself busy. In the telephone booth repair business, I got good with my fingers.”

  “So, you’re the new librarian, eh?” a plump woman in a purple velour tracksuit said.

  “Not for long,” said another woman, older, sorting a tangle of oatmeal yarn. “If you ask me, they had no business hiring another librarian. I suppose they didn’t even tell you the library was history?”

  “Good riddance, too,” a third woman added. She’d claimed the seat closest to the radiator. “This town needs the jobs.”

  “Who cares? I’m moving to New York,” the boy said. His bag was especially large and bulged with gold-threaded yarn.

  “I’m glad to see you’re enjoying the library now,” I couldn’t help but point out. “It’s a great meeting place for groups like yours.”

  “When the library shuts down, we can meet in the back room of Patty’s This-N-That,” the woman in purple said.

  “Not me,” oatmeal yarn woman said. “I poked my head back there last week, and it was full of scissors. Little copper ones, some with brass handles, strange iron scissors—”

  “Patty sells whatever she likes,” Roz told me. “It changes according to her mood. The only thing they have in common is that they’re useless.”

  “Scissors are useful,” the oatmeal yarn woman said, using hers to cut a snarl from her skein.

  “Remember when Patty was into bells?” Duke said. “She hung them out front. Within a week, folks had petitioned Darla to demand she take them down. No one could sleep, thanks to the racket.”

  I’d read a lot of novels, and whoever said that “truth is stranger than fiction” might have spent time in Wilfred.

  “Well, whatever,” the woman in purple said. “It’s pleasant meeting here, no doubt, but it will be even more pleasant to see this town prosperous again. Get the kids staying here to work for a change.” She sighed. “I miss Preston Jr.”